Anshumani Ruddra's Blog

Bad Moon Rising

2010-12-04T13:24:00.002+05:30

The collection is named after a story I've contributed to it. Read more about it here. Available through Flipkart.

Dorje's Stripes

2010-11-29T23:15:00.003+05:30

This is a book I am really proud of. Read more about it here.

A Question of Legacy

2010-10-24T12:23:00.001+05:30

This is the complete version of a piece I wrote for MW's October issue.

Almost a decade ago, in a youthful display of exuberance and nauseating mushiness, I burnt a CD full of romantic songs for a girl. This was a time when CD burners weren’t ubiquitous and blue-ray discs were still stuff of science fiction. The intent was right. The songs were good. Sadly, she wasn’t impressed. Suffice to say, the CD didn’t get me very far.

Bruised ego was eventually healed. Drinks were chugged endlessly and references were made to the availability of other fish in some imaginary pond (or was it ocean?). I never burnt another music CD for a girl or created a colourful sleeve for the cover with an index (did I say nauseating, I meant insulin imbalance causing saccharine trash). But what makes this incident significant in the bigger scheme of things is something that happened a few years later.

Back to the present.

By the time you’d be reading this, gentle reader, I would have added another feather to my birthday cap and turned a year older. Birthdays always make me a little melancholic. They remind me of childhood, of years gone past and of the supposed dawning of wisdom (for someone who has guarded his ignorance with a vengeance, this can be a bit off-putting). The other reason for my sourpuss behaviour around this time has to do with legacy.

For as long as I can remember I have been obsessed with creating a worthwhile and long-lasting legacy – something that will survive me, perhaps for generations to come. Legacy can be in the form of material wealth and riches. It can be in the form of ideas. An artist’s legacy is his work; a gangster’s his street-cred and the urban legends that surround his name. As an author I hope my books are read for years to come (they better immortalise me – I’m looking at you, first draft of new novel). But my concerns here are of a very different kind – a legacy of a more personal nature.

How do people remember us when we are no longer around (we need not have departed to our heavenly abodes, but perhaps moved to a different city)? Do they miss us? Do they remember us fondly? What is it about us that they miss? In short, did we have any impact on their lives? These questions trouble me often.

As we grow old we surround ourselves with people. Some of them fall by the wayside as time goes by – either because we outgrow them or perhaps due to circumstances.

Anyone who has ever lived in a megacity knows that a social group of friends and acquaintances (however close they may be) has a limited shelf life as a collective. The constant churning and flux of the city ensures that old faces disappear and new ones keep appearing.

But there are a few who remain connected to us at a much deeper level, irrespective of the time that has passed or the distance that separates us. These friends and companions are our extended family.

All of us have a few close friends we don’t communicate with on a regular basis – no phone calls, no Twitter replies, no Facebook comments, no emails, not even a new year’s greeting card. But these people are always in our thoughts – at every heartbreak and failure, at every moment of triumph and joy – these are the people we think of. Trivialities like distance and a lack of communication don’t affect such friendships. These friendships are our legacy.

But with friends there is also a legacy of shared experiences that transcends space and time. Take, for example, the unassuming long island iced tea; so unassuming that it doesn’t even have any tea in it. The LIT, however, packs a walloping punch and in terms of its alcoholic content probably provides the best value for money in an upmarket watering hole. But for certain stellar upstanding denizens of Singapore, Bengaluru and Mumbai (friends of yours truly) an LIT would always mean an LIT at the Hard Rock Cafe in the beautiful garden city (aptly housed in what used to be the Bible Society building). Because this was the setting of an evening of raucous and unbridled revelry, a day after a dear friend got married to her sweetheart.

Mention the word LIT to this group and their eyes will glaze over and a soft smile will spread across their lips. This will then give way to an adrenaline rush that is more contagious to the people around them than a medieval bubonic plague.

Every group of friends has such stories, stories that they never get tired of reminiscing about. Stories that are recounted again and again over the years to the chagrin of their loved ones. They usually involve imbibing large amounts of alcohol or puffing on that most magical of purple dragons. Over the years they become bigger and better, taking on a life of their own. This is how legends are born, legacies created.

Now back to the significance of that CD story. A few years after that incident I had become one of the wise old men on my college campus. A fresher was being made fun of by a group of his seniors and peers for having made a birthday greeting card for a girl he fancied. The tenor of comments was mostly mocking and cruel and I could see something break inside the young (relatively speaking) man.

Past images flashed before my eyes. I came to his rescue and whisked him away on the pretext that he had to buy me a lime mint cooler (which he did very gladly and not because he was petrified of me – a senior). And then I did something strange. I told him the CD story. He listened attentively and nodded every now and then. I didn’t really know why I was telling him the story, but felt that it was somehow significant.

I bumped into him yesterday after six years. He thanked me - told me that my coming to his rescue and sharing my personal experience all those years ago meant a lot to him. It helped him keep his naiveté and innocence intact for a bit longer. I was speechless. He now creates greeting cards for a living. This perhaps is also my legacy.

I think the American journalist and critic HL Mencken had the right idea about legacy when he said, “If, after I depart this vale, you ever remember me and have thought to please my ghost, forgive some sinner and wink your eye at some homely girl.”

Anshumani Ruddra is an author who suffers from chronic introspection

Fathers and Sons; Birds and Bees

2010-09-17T17:37:00.001+05:30

This is the first in a series of personalised accounts that I am writing for MW (Man's World) magazine. It was in the May issue (Don't be put off by Shahid Kapoor on the cover. Imagine how I feel - my precious words have gone into that same mag!). Enjoy reading.

It’s been a while since a new TV commercial led to so much speculation, debate and all-round hilarity. A red-bikini-clad diva emerges from the waters, reminding a few classicists amongst us of goddess Venus rising from the sea and the rest of us up-country bumpkins of those memorable days of sun, sand and surf – Baywatch! As she romances the camera with her eyes, a voice-over monkey prattles about trust, faith and uniqueness. And then comes the clincher – it’s an ad for a cement brand.

In eight seconds of sheer brilliance the ad makers have dealt a lethal blow to all advertising purists who harp on about knowing your brand, your product, your demographic, your audience and your paradigm and its eventual shift (purists always talk about paradigms, it’s a powerful word that renders the opponent incapable of a coherent retort).

As I was standing in a large electronic goods store, staring at a vast array of mega-giant television screens which were displaying this work of genius, and chuckling at the audacity of the ad-makers, I noticed something heart-warming and endearing. A family of three – middle-aged father and mother, one gawky teenage son – were also seeing the ad.

The mother’s right hand instinctively shot out, perhaps hoping to distract her son and saving him from the oodles of ample cleavage being displayed all around him. The son didn’t look like he needed any saving. A worn-out war veteran, the expression on his face said - been there, haven’t done that, haven’t done anything really, but seen much better ... most definitely! The father on the other hand looked at the screen and then at his son and sighed deeply – a smile crossing his face. The proverbial baton had been passed. A rite of passage had just taken place. Membership had been extended to the next generation. Welcome to the club, my son.

Similar scenes take place all over the world all the time. Such is the bond of fathers and sons. A man-to-man talk about the facts of life – birds, bees, sex and the dreaded opposite sex – hardly ever take place. A subtle nod, a gentle smile, a pat on the back, sharing a cold beer on a warm afternoon, passing on the prized family barbecue recipe – these are the ways in which fathers acknowledge their sons becoming men.

Indian fathers, especially, are masters of the art of knowingly ignoring. They knew when you stole that cigarette and smoked it with your best friend behind the water tank. They knew why the video cassette of Basic Instinct was returned three days late to the rental guy. They knew when you failed to take the family car for a spin around the block and left it engaged in first gear. And they knew when you tried to sneak in your girlfriend into your bedroom. They always knew. And they always ignored. Just like their fathers, and their fathers before them.

The scene that enfolded at the electronic goods store led me to ask a few friends whether they had ever had a father-son ‘talk’ and if they regretted not having been closer to their fathers and being able to talk about anything and everything on the planet with them.

Most were rather relieved that their fathers had never sat them down and given them a lecture on love, sex aur dhoka. Others remembered advice being doled out on career, handling finances, improving ones forward defence stroke and handling pesky bosses. Many admitted to learning important life lessons by observing their fathers – how they dealt with strangers and loved ones. But almost all the cherished father-son moments were of a subtler, unobtrusive nature – intentionally losing at arm-wrestling for once, giving a driving lesson on an empty highway, overriding mom and allowing one to go on a long school trek, serving a shot of their prized scotch and not interrupting while one was busy chatting up the hottest girl in school after the annual day function.

I probed further. What kind of fathers did we want to become? Unanimous answer – cool ones. A recently married friend wants to be accessible as a father one day. Others want to be more like friends. One extreme - a friend with a four-year-old son wants to present him with an all expense paid week of debauchery and revelry in Amsterdam for his sixteenth birthday. But as years pass we all know that for better or for worse we become more and more like our fathers. Such is the cyclic nature of time.

I can imagine that smile crossing my face as I see my future teenage son gaping at the screen while the red-bikini-clad diva emerges from the waters.

Heaven forbid if he ever asks me to explain the meaning of the ad, though.

Chennai Launch of Banana Republic

2010-06-15T00:10:00.002+05:30

Bombay Launch of Banana Republic

2010-02-24T14:40:00.004+05:30

Storytelling Night

2010-02-18T11:32:00.002+05:30

Dey-jhaa Voo

2010-02-08T18:21:00.002+05:30

My namesake was also into hats!

Banana Republic

2010-02-02T20:50:00.005+05:30

Banana Republic, sequel to The Enemy of My Enemy is now out!

Spooky Stories

2009-10-09T17:32:00.005+05:30

A new anthology of horror stories has been released by Scholastic. It also contains my story - Monsters Above Your Bed. Enjoy! (Click on the images to enlarge)

Reviews and Other News

2009-08-09T12:57:00.003+05:30

DNA's young adult supplement ya! carries a review of The Enemy of My Enemy today. I am finally back in Bombay after an exhausting first leg of the book tour. Since 13th July I have done four book launches and 26 school visits and readings. Am hoping to relax and work on the sequel to the gamebook in the following weeks.

In the meanwhile there is a quiz to be hosted in September and the possibility of promoting the book in Goa. More updates soon.

A Great Example

2009-08-07T08:38:00.002+05:30

... of how a telephone interview should be given (all credit, of course, to the journo for not making me sound like the underside of a stinking warthog): Indian Express.

More coverage of the launch by the New Indian Express (Chennai).

Chennai Book Launch Coverage

2009-08-04T16:56:00.002+05:30

The Hindu had this to say about the launch on the 31st of July.

A great example of how a telephone interview should not be given so that one doesn't sound like a bumbling idiot: Chennai Times.

Media Coverage

2009-08-01T12:16:00.004+05:30

The last few weeks have been a complete blur - school visits, book launches, interviews, Q and A sessions and in between meeting old friends.

The launch of Crickematics in Bangalore was outstanding and meeting another personal hero - Rahul Dravid - was an awesome experience. The stampede in the end was a bit unnerving, but Dravid handled it well.

The launch of The Enemy of My Enemy in Chennai will probably be remembered for the longest Q and A session ever at a book launch. Children and grown-ups alike were rather inquisitive.

The school visits in Bangalore and Pune were entertaining and exhausting and am looking forward to the 15 school visits that have been planned in Chennai over the next one week.

Here are links to some of the articles/ interviews/ coverage of Crickematics and The Enemy of My Enemy:

Interviews in Time Out Mumbai, Deccan Chronicle and Times of India
Coverage of Crickematics on Rediff, The Hindu, Mid Day, Bangalore Mirror and MyBangalore

Chennai Launch of The Enemy of My Enemy

2009-07-31T12:05:00.001+05:30

Venue: Landmark, Chennai Citi Centre
Time: 4:30 PM
Date: 31st July 2009

Book Tour: The Enemy of My Enemy

2009-07-11T12:43:00.003+05:30

Will be on the road for the better part of next month to promote the gamebook.

First stop is a whirlwind tour of Pune where I'll be covering seven schools in three days starting from the 13th of July (Monday).

Then back in Bombay for the book launch at Landmark, Infiniti Mall (Andheri) on the 17th of July at 6 PM.

Then headed to Chennai from the 27th of July to the 8th of August. The launch is on the 31st at Landmark, Citi Centre. Will also be covering a large number of Chennai schools during this time.

In between am headed to Bangalore on the 25th for a very special event. A story I wrote a while back is going to be launched as an audio-book by Karadi Tales. The story has been narrated by Rahul Dravid. Check out the details below and do land up if you happen to be in Bangalore.

Bombay Launch of The Enemy of My Enemy

2009-07-07T13:38:00.002+05:30

The Enemy of My Enemy

2009-06-22T14:57:00.005+05:30

My new children's book is out now in all leading book stores across the country. Book launches and a school tour across various cities starts in July. This is the first of a series of gamebooks that I am planning. More updates soon.

Book Review: The Hotel at the End of the World

2009-05-15T15:21:00.002+05:30

The good people at Tehelka asked me to review a new graphic novel by Parismita Singh. It appears in their latest issue. Do check it out.

Dark Temptations

2009-01-04T10:37:00.003+05:30

I recently wrote an article for the Times of India's special New Year edition. It expressed my love and admiration for the colour black. ToI in the usual ToI fashion forgot the byline. It just said: "The writer is an author and screenwriter who spends his time between Chennai and Mumbai". Wow, so I am that writer!

If I had a penny for every time I heard someone say "Fuschia is the new Black" or "Aquamarine is the new Black", well I will be left with a lot of pennies at a time of financial crisis when the pound-rupee exchange rate is abominable. Growing up I used to incessantly wonder, to everyone's plight, when Black would be the new Black. Mothers, and may God bless their souls, always come through for little brats with too much curiosity and too little patience.

Black is always in. Black is always cool. Black covers you in a veil of mystery and gives you an edge. And when all else fails, black gets you out of trouble. And it has done all this since time began. For what existed before time, the universe or that big bang we keep hearing about in science journals? Black, of course. It is not a colour, but the absence of it. The absence of all light. It exists in the heart of all men and for the sheer contrast it provides to everything else in life, it's presence is necessary, nay, paramount.

And it has left its indelible mark on popular culture. The colour Black has always provided the backdrop, the canvas, on which great art, cinema, music and literature can be freely painted.

Imagine Batman as a caped crusader wearing flashy tights and saving the denizens of West Mambalam (nothing against their lot, but do they really need saving?) while riding the latest offering by hamara Bajaj. Would we ever get to see the monster hit that was The Dark Knight? Here's a movie almost completely set in darkness, that poor detested daughter of the colour black. Its music is ominous; it delves into the darkest corners of the human condition and yet its capacity to entertain is unmatchable.

Imagine Ralph Fiennes's Voldermort meeting Harry for the first time on a bus stand on a warm sunny day. Imagine Darth Vader wearing a green or a blue helmet.

Hitchcock's films were never the same once black and white gave way to colour. Salvador Dali's psychedelic set for Spellbound would never have the same charm, the same aesthetic sensibility in colour. The magicians would lose their ability to create believable illusions.

The complete genre of horror films would disappear without Black's ability to spook us.

But what happens when the medium is not visual but affects our other senses. There is no colour to be seen. And yet its presence can be felt.

Where would metal or grunge be without black. There would be no Black Sabbath and no Metallica. There would be no collectible Black Albums for connoisseurs. And all of Goth culture would just disappear. Where could teenage rebellion find a better companion and guide than in the colour black?

Would musicians go to the crossroads and sell their souls to the devil to be able to write and play better music? Would there be haunting, melancholic lyrics? Would there be head banging with friends in large grounds and auditoriums while listening to divine heavenly music? The answer is a clear no.

All of fantasy literature owes a great debt to Black. The Mines of Moria and the Battle of Helms Deep in Tolkien's Lord of the Rings wouldn't have existed without it. Wizards and witches, dungeons and dragons, folktales and dark and grim fairy tales - they all wouldn't have the same force.

Every mystery novel ever written, every Enid Blyton adventure tale where youngsters explore abandoned light houses - they would vanish into thin air without Black.

Krishna - that most charismatic of characters in our mythology whose skin is the colour of twilight - his raaslila and maya are a direct result of Black. One could even equate sensuousness to this 'colour'.

It's not only the stars but also the deep and dark emptiness of space that has attracted man towards the skies. Black also represents our insignificance in the greater scheme of things. And yet it propels us forward in search of the uncertain, the unknown. And so we get space opera on one side through fiction and films and actual endeavours to cross the barrier of space by diligent scientists and engineers working day and night.

But Black is now tired. We are exhausting it. It is time we made a sincere contribution towards its rejuvenation. Maybe this coming year we round up the usual Page 3 suspects and tell them not to sport Black. Try Fuschia or Aquamarine instead.

Coming to a Festival Near You

2008-11-05T23:51:00.004+05:30

Bookaroo, India's first ever festival of children's literature, is happening on the 22nd and 23rd of November 2008 in New Delhi. On the second day I will be conducting a two-hour long workshop on speculative fiction for children between 12 and 16 years. The festival promises to be a lot of fun and I am particularly thrilled at the chance of meeting Jeff Smith, the creator of Bone.

Am also on a panel discussion on comic books and graphic novels that is happening at Lady Shri Ram College on the 21st of November as part of their literature festival. Will put up more details as they become available.

A judging/ moderating gig at Mood Indigo, IIT Bombay's cultural festival, is also on the horizon this year. Haven't visited their campus in a long time.

My official site ruddra.net should be up and running in 2009. A lot of writing projects are taking shape and coming out of their incubation chambers and am dying to share the details. In time, gentle reader.

Article for Tehelka

2008-09-06T12:21:00.002+05:30

The good people at Tehelka recently asked me to write an article about today's children and their pop-culture influences and how grown-ups can become a part of this world. I wrote an overview article that can be read here. Sampurna Chattarji, Anita Roy and Anand Ramachandran wrote articles focused on books, TV and video games for children. Enjoy!

India Today Article

2008-07-13T15:41:00.002+05:30

I recently wrote an article about Chennai and its bookshops. You can read it here.

Graphic Novels: A Personal History

2008-05-16T16:40:00.001+05:30

An edited version of this appeared in TOI Chennai today.

It was the summer of 1988. I, safely perched atop my father's knees, was doing a dramatised reading of Chacha Chaudhary Aur Raka. By muscling my way through multiple polysyllabic Hindi words I was adding to the joy and pride of my parents.

Years passed, Chaudhary got replaced by hordes from the DC and Marvel universe. In between was a sporadic sprinkling of Amar Chitra Katha and Raj Comics followed by regular heavy doses of Tintin and Asterix. And then there was a summer spent in college reading manga (Japanese comic books) back-to-front and right-to-left.

With age, my fascination with sequential art remained undeterred and I felt myself gravitating towards stories of a higher literary calibre, told with an economy of words and deftness of brush strokes. These were stories that painted a broad canvas of human emotions in a way that I found very different from the more conventional text-only prose.

Definitions abound (a quick search on the internet will show you that), and are often confusing and contradicting. The Americans started calling this medium Graphic Novels and the Japanese Gekiga to differentiate it from comics and manga. It covers fiction as well as non-fiction, but is clearly meant for a mature audience. It's all encompassing when it comes to genres. And its impact on pop-culture cannot be ignored.

Since most graphic novels are printed and published abroad they can leave a sizeable hole in your pocket. Though popular titles are now easily available in bookshops, it is advisable to do some scouting based on your prior tastes and preferences. There are also a handful of Indian graphic novelists out there - Amruta Patil's Kari and Sarnath Banerjee's Corridor would be my recommendations.

But if you are like me, and on a monthly basis spend a large chunk of your hard earned money on books, then give a holler next time you are in a bookshop. I'll most likely be in the graphic novel section ogling at Volume 1 and 2 of Absolute Sandman.

Sandman sits on the thin line separating comic books and graphic novels and is still the only comic book to ever be on the New York Times Bestseller List. Written by master story teller Neil Gaiman it was originally published in 75 issues that were later released in ten volumes. It is now being re-released in four Absolute volumes. The story revolves around Dream of The Endless and weaves characters from mythology, literature and history in genre-bending ways.

One of the most anticipated films in theatres this year is Watchmen, an adaptation of a graphic novel of the same name created by Alan Moore (writer) and Dave Gibbons (illustrator). Included by Time Magazine in its list of "the 100 best English-language novels from 1923 to the present" don't let the fact that this is a story about caped crusaders fool you into thinking that this is another comic book meant for children.

Fans of Tarantino and Rodriguez would love to read Lone Wolf and Cub - a staggering epic created by writer Kazuo Koike and artist Goseki Kojima in the seventies. These 28 volumes of manga (a total of 8700+ pages) are set in Tokugawa era Japan and tell the tale of a master swordsman and his young son. This masterpiece has served as an inspiration for some of the most brilliant moments in world cinema over the last 30 years.

Based on Paul Auster's story City of Glass (from his acclaimed The New York Trilogy), City of Glass: The Graphic Novel serves as a successful example of an adaptation carried out by independent artists of a previously published piece of prose. David Mazzucchelli and Paul Karasik's artwork takes the story to a dimension the original author could have never imagined possible.

And then there is A Contract with God by Will Eisner, the book that cemented the term Graphic Novel into modern lexicon. It is a collection of short stories set in a Depression-era-affected Jewish community of the 1930s.

Other interesting titles for collectors - Blankets by Craig Thompson, Bone by Jeff Smith, The Dark Knight Returns by Frank Miller, Akira by Katsuhiro Otomo, Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi and Maus by Art Spiegelman.

Superhero

2007-06-09T20:49:00.000+05:30

My story Split Infinitive and the Destroyer of Worlds has just come out in a new collection by Scholastic titled Superhero. Soon available in all leading bookstores.

... and Other Unlikely Stories

2007-01-14T00:58:00.000+05:30

My story Sneezed out of Existence has just come out in a new fantasy anthology by Scholastic titled The Moustache Maharishi and Other Unlikely Stories. Check it out at your nearest book store.

A Pregnant Pause

2006-12-27T11:49:00.000+05:30

Nine months away from the blog (ignore the last two blog entries) – shameful for someone who is addicted to writing and the internet. Yours truly can always conjure up a multitude of excuses, but what dear reader would be the point of such a futile exercise? Instead let me elucidate, nay, wax eloquent about my life in general. Forgive me my hubris (and the hoity-toity language), for I have never seen happier times.

Here goes – got published (have more writing projects in the pipeline), acted in two large theatre productions (one more on its way), started doing film reviews, became a creative consultant of sorts, sold my old IIT comp (miss you buddy), finally made the switch to Nokia from Sony Ericsson and …

An eventful and memorable year, which makes me look forward to the next one with greater expectations.

I am not one for resolutions, but am addicted to To-Do Lists.

To-Do in 2007

Blog regularly
Keep track of books and movies seen
Travel extensively
Get back into quizzing
Attend Clarion
Learn to play the guitar
Maintain contact with old friends
Write, write and write
And …

Seven Science Fiction Stories

2006-09-25T10:34:00.000+05:30

Alive

2006-05-03T15:53:00.000+05:30

Visit http://aliveindia.co.in and spread the message

Aargh!

2006-03-24T23:09:00.000+05:30

Every now and then I reach the conclusion that the Universe has nothing left to teach me. Or that whatever else is left, is either useless or redundant. I wallow in the splendid muck of my ignorance. And then the Universe drags me out, gives me a cold shower, cleans me from head to toe and proceeds to give me a whipping which would make any Los Angles dominatrix proud. I hear you loud and clear Universe.

You.
Are.
My.
Daddy.

My faith in humanity is shaken. Aargh!

In other news the US visa system sucks.

8 Count

2006-02-15T08:47:00.000+05:30

from my bed
I watch
3 birds
on a telephone
wire.
one flies
off.
then
another.
one is left,
then
it too
is gone.
my typewriter is
tombstone
still.
and I am
reduced to bird
watching.
just thought I'd
let you
know,
fucker.

Charles Bukowski

The Book of Answers

2006-01-14T18:18:00.000+05:30

* I have been on a break of sorts the last few weeks. Lots of parties, great friends, excessive amounts of booze, no rest, no writing, no sex (grrrrrhh!!), otherworldly ideas, otherworldly confessions, retrograde amnesia, lacunar amnesia, Korsakoff syndrome, no books (uggh!) … Did I mention great friends – they make up for everything. Absolute indulgence!

* I have absolutely no pitch control while singing. This hurts because I think I have a genuinely good speaking voice (even Pacino doesn’t sing, so there).

* Trying to write Science Fiction after a long time. And this is supposed to be for 12+ kids – a very tough crowd. But I feel inspired. Only, I haven’t started writing yet (maybe after this post). Currently going through what I could label a writer’s block of sorts.

* Have put down the following in ‘things to do in life’ – bring back the craze of board games (currently working on an idea). Have put down the following items to buy from my first (already finished that, ok! second) writing pay check – a PS3 or Xbox 360. Get back to video games.

* Found this book called the Book of Answers - essentially a more elaborate magic 8-ball. I have decided to make all crucial decisions for the next three months based on my magic 8-ball. It makes sense to lead life with the following probability distribution – 50% Yes, 25% No and 25% Ambiguous. If one is as strong a believer in the complete inter-connectedness of things as I am then it makes complete sense to trust an icosahedral answering device. The Chinese used I Ching. I could use this. Throw logic completely out of the window and trust a ball. That’s my new motto – trust the ball!

* Went to Goa. Saw a guy getting his ass kicked at Calangute beach. What an awesome sight. I haven’t been in a fight for a long time. I remember the last time I was slugged (though not in a fight). I had to beg a drunk junior to take a swing at me. He obliged. I was left with an inch long gash on the inside of my mouth. What sweet misery. The pain was intoxicating. Someone want to open a real Fight Club?

* Want to spend a full day speaking in free verse. Will ask P. She’ll be game for such an exercise.

* Read the 12 part Crisis on Infinite Earths again after a long time. Somehow I have always preferred Marvel over DC. But this is a classic, though it did lead to more confusion in the DC universe.

* Been doing some research on the anatomical juxtaposition of two orbicualris oris muscles in a state of contraction. Henry Gibbins, Sr. MD (1808-1884) must have been one jobless bugger. Check out some philosophical kisses here (My favourite – a Nietzscheian Kiss).

That Was the Week That Was

2005-12-20T14:25:00.000+05:30

I have condensed the last three weeks into one+. So the Tuesday following the Monday need not be the same good old Tuesday. It never is.

Saturday: Gave the IELTS at the Residency Towers (right opposite Bike and Barrel). Reached the test centre half an hour early. Irresistible urge to down a couple of beers. Resisted. Some how. Test - complete snooze fest. Slept off for ten minutes during the Reading Section. Found the Writing Section tedious. After test drank 2 beers in 5 minutes and left. Saw Sub (don’t know her name) for the fourth time this week. She brushed past smiling.

Sunday: Woke up late. Went for the Speaking Section (interview) at Residency Tower. Talked about neighbours and happiness. Interviewer was this nice middle aged woman. Enjoyed myself for a change. Was generally excited. Wanted a tour of fantasies – so decided to meet the fab-four (they are not a group, different girls). To my amazement saw all of them. Sub at Subway. Usual flirting on the lines of ‘are you stalking me?!’ Much laughter. Exchanged numbers. Decided to meet sometime. Saw N (she looks hot with those spectacles). Met U at gym (realised gym has not been a good socializing place in the past). U has bad habit of flexing and exposing in the men’s area (in retrospect it isn’t a bad habit). Forgot about completing fantasy. Evening went out with good old Ra-to-the-power-2. He’s always good company. Found M at Zara. Was amazed and astonished. Universe has been looking out for me. The fantasy was carried out. Spent night thinking about the complete inter-connectedness of things.

Monday: Wrote a parody of Woody Allen’s The Whore of MENSA. Happy with the result. Evening went for a play reading at house of Ra3. Partied afterwards at the same place. Met some interesting people. One called D was quite enchanting. She left early. Good old Ka, Ra1 and Ra2 (different from Ra-to-the-power-2, have decided to call Ra2 – the artist formerly known as Richard – he was pleased) proved good company as usual. Left at 2 AM.

Tuesday: Slept all day. Realised that I poke people with my big toes when drunk. Use it as a method of communication. Found the reasoning behind this bacchanalian habit interesting. Wrote down these observations for future use. Saw some TV.

Wednesday: I don’t like the middle of the week. A very confusing time. Edited over five thousand words. Don’t remember much else.

Thursday: Met Ra3 at Amethyst. Had lunch and talked. Saw a group of girls on the adjacent table. Memorized one of them. Vivid image. Struck by her eyes. Evening went for King Kong premiere. Peter Jackson is a genius. Andy Serkis should be nominated. The movie should earn $ 2 Billion. Movie has shot straight to my top 5. Decided to stop at Hi-Look for bread-omelette. Met old friends. Felt good. Went home. Wrote all night.

Friday: Bad morning. Felt tired. Had to go judge an event some place. Event was starting late. Had three black coffees. Pain in back started. Event was good. Memory from previous day materialised herself next to me for about two hours. Those eyes. Felt inspired. Felt a fever coming on. Back was in bad shape. Did something foolish. Would regret next day. Still went home and wrote for six hours. Then died. Well almost. Slept for the longest possible time.

Saturday: Slept all day. Evening met the tribe (may we flourish). Told them about Eyes. Told them about foolishness. Was chided and made to feel guilty. ‘Dude! Expected you to act with greater finesse’ So did I. Went home and slept some more.

Sunday: Met the tribe again. Have realised that a good ol’ self destructive streak would be fun. Feel like a stubborn kid who always wants the forbidden candy. A strange evening. Weird confessions from everyone around.

Monday: Wrote a lot. Carpal tunnel syndrome about to strike. Have taken a decision. Need the Universe (as usual) to assist.

Tuesday:

Aced IELTS
Finished Reading:
The Pythons Autobiography by the Pythons
A Book of Illusions – Paul Auster
Freakonomics – Steven D Levitt and Stephen J Dubner

Was there a point to all this. May be!

Fiction: The Kiss

2005-11-29T13:13:00.000+05:30

She had made fun of me the first time we met.

The acerbic words, the colourful and often (more like always) hurtful diatribes I am now known for were missing in my repertoire back then. It was a time, when once I had found out that the female of the species Canis Familiaris is called a ‘bitch’, had found it exceedingly funny and decided to christen everything I met on my way back from school by the same name, my mom had put a little red chilly powder on my tongue and warned me that if I ever called a woman that she’d disown me.

She had made fun of me and I had remained silent.

I was four years old and she was about three years older and four fingers taller than me. She could have easily taken me.

She had made fun of me and I would have done the same if I were in her position.

You see, I still hadn’t mastered the subtle art of tying my shoelaces. I never really understood the whole ‘one little bunny goes over the bridge, hides below the hedge and is then pulled out by the evil witch’ bit. What the hell was a bunny doing on my shoes anyway?

She had made fun of me and then gone ahead and tied my shoelaces.

We had become friends instantly. And we were inseparable. We were together when I lost my first tooth, when she and I learnt to ride a bicycle, when her parents split, when she had her first period (the oddest day of my life so far), when Jurassic Park came to the theatres, when she was asked out on her first date …

And then my parents decided to move to a different city.

We were sitting on top of the water tank on my terrace (our favourite place). We had not spoken for over an hour. We just sat there looking at the houses around us, the play ground where we had learnt to climb trees together and our old school in the distance. We didn’t look at each other. We didn’t want to cry.

My mom called out from the driveway. They were ready to leave. I said I’ll be down in a few minutes.

I looked at her. And did something I had never expected to do. I kissed her, kissed her for the longest possible time. But something was amiss. She wasn’t responding. Her lips weren’t moving. I kissed her harder, pulled her closer to me. Nothing. I only withdrew when I felt her tears on my cheek. Her face was expressionless. She didn’t say anything.

My mom called again. I stood up in a daze. Said goodbye. She still didn’t say anything. I stood there for a moment and then climbed down the stairs.

On the way to the airport I did not speak to anyone. All I could think about was her. Had I done something wrong? Had I destroyed the only friendship which meant anything to me? Had I …

I was fourteen years old. And that was my first kiss.

****************

I was waiting for her on the airport. We hadn’t met or spoken to each other for almost ten years. She had found me through the internet. She was going to be in the city for a few hours.

I was moving around impatiently in the waiting area, the least bit interested in the cricket match coming on the television. A man walked up to me and inquired about the score and then went ahead and gave me a lecture on the importance of the coach and the captain. I nodded and smiled, appreciating his knowledge and depth of the game, while all the time wishing that he’d find a small unassuming puddle of muck and drown himself in it.

Somebody tugged at my sleeve and turned me around. And before I knew it I was being kissed, kissed passionately. It was her. And we were kissing. She drew me closer and we went on kissing. We stopped when we heard a loud applause. It wasn’t for us. India had won the match and people were celebrating. We laughed. The way we used to. I picked up her luggage and arm-in-arm we left the airport.

“That was how I should have kissed you all those years back” she said as we were getting in my car. “I hope I made up for it”

“More than you’d ever know” I replied and smiled.

We spent the next three hours driving around the city remembering the old days and talking about the present. She works for a top NGO. She is happily married. Plans to have a baby in the next few years.

Just now I left her back at the airport. All the guilt that had built up over the last ten years has been swept away. I have regained a good friend. And I can look back fondly and say - that was my first kiss.

Chubichawa Podcast 01

2005-11-24T13:46:00.000+05:30

I finally took some time out of work and decided to record my very first podcast (audio). If all goes well then I’ll probably be able to make it a weekly show. The wonderful people at the Internet Archive are hosting the podcast. Visit my podcast page here. The audio is available in various formats (I recommend the 64 Kbps MP3 recording – 4.4 Mb). I have used this amazing sound editing software called Audacity (open source, hosted by sourceforge.net). This first podcast is a potpourri of some stand-up comedy pieces, old song recordings, a reading of one of my short stories and a review of the new Harry Potter film. It’s just over 9 minutes in length.

I had the sniffles the last few days and had a little trouble breathing so my voice wouldn’t be its usual clear resonant self. I suggest listening to the podcast in the privacy of your room or with headphones on. This stuff is not for the faint of heart or for parents and younger siblings. Comments and feedback regarding the format and suggestions for new material are welcome. I suppose it will only get wackier with time. Prudes offended will by now know where to shove their self-righteousness.

The download link

Time Capsule

2005-11-14T02:10:00.000+05:30

Forbes has come up with an excellent idea for an email time capsule. This is the email I wrote to myself. I shall receive it after 3 years.

Dear Anshu

You know how I (you?) find it extremely difficult to write the first line. Whether it’s a short story, a play, a poem (remember you used to write those free-verse poems in under five minutes – they usually involved a raven and a dead poet … I hope those two have now become your most famous and enduring creations), a text message or a letter like this one, I always struggle with the first few words. So much depends on the beginning; it defines everything which comes before and everything which will come after it. The first line is like a first kiss (and even though we know that things only start looking up after the third kiss – once you have figured your way around the shape, structure and style of the woman’s lips, tongue and the inner sanctum of her beautiful mouth – the first kiss usually seals the fate).

Damn! This is difficult.

Let’s be analytical about this thing and break it up into sections.

This is where your life stands on 14th November 2005

My (Your) Belief System

Just cause you're hung like a moose doesn't mean you gotta do porn.
-- Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle

What’s Up with You?

You are working on another novel (which one got published first?)
You are planning to move to UK.
You are single and ready to mingle but not actively mingling.
There are too many mosquitoes in your room.
You only hate one person with all your being (did you ever forgive that evil frigid cow?)

Recent Happenings

You realised you are not always right about others (you can also get emotionally hurt in a gym – oh! And you have recently figured out that you can get emotionally hurt).
Your already weak faith in arranged marriages is completely shaken.
You judged dramatics in IIT.
Babe (also known as Death and in certain quarters Piggy) has published his first research paper. It’s an elegant review of Strain Field Calculations in Embedded Quantum Dots and Wires. You brag about it to anyone who’d lend you their ears willingly (or unwillingly) and you are so proud of your boy that your heart might explode any minute now.
Vintage Suds just duped his prof and packed his MS thesis project and joined a job.
The Hawk is working his arse off (ok he is just working) in Houston.

Your Short/ Long Term Aims

Publish! Publish! Publish!

What Were You Thinking Before Writing This

You were thinking about the word Anonymous. You were remembering how in kindergarten a teacher told you that Anon was a famous poet who wrote a lot of poems. Dad then told you the correct meaning of the word and you had blasted the living intellectual lights out of the teacher’s head. Even today you are an egoistic bastard and you are proud of it (for your sake I hope you are; I warn you I’ll go medieval on your arse if you are not).

Then you were thinking that you had recently come across a blog (by accident) which seemed to belong to the anonymous poetry lover (Anon1) who left beautiful comments on your blog. You are 93.7% certain, but since you want to maintain the veil of mystery that surrounds your interaction with Anon1 you have decided not to revisit her blog.

There is also an Anon2 (who doesn’t like you by the way). You are not entirely certain whether Anon1 and Anon2 are different people. Anon2 likes to leave scathing personal remarks about you. She also brings out the one quality in you that you hate as well as crave the most. Your anger (an outcome of your tickled ego – it cannot really be hurt, your ego that is) results in such an amazing outpour of words (which are very caustic in nature, mind you) that they destroy everything in their way. There is however the stamp of ingenuity on them, the mark of superiority, which you want all your words to carry. It’s a shame that anger is your greatest creative catalyst.

You were also thinking about ZZ. She hasn’t mailed you in a long time and you don’t really expect her to. You don’t really expect anything from her. But you would like an occasional line or a reason for her withdrawal.

You were also extremely hungry and were about to have a midnight snack.

I hope your life is chaotic and you don’t dream too often. That’ll happen only if you fall asleep when you are dead tired or when her (the tall, slim, 34 D hot intellectual’s) embrace is irresistible.

Cheers
Anshu

Life Aquatic with Long Legs Obsessed Man

2005-11-10T01:22:00.000+05:30

* Life came full circle when I was invited to judge the inter-hostel dramatics competition in my alma mater IIT. The last time I was on that stage I was taking my clothes off in front of a capacity crowd and the audience was admiring the chequered boxer-shorts I had specially purchased for that play. Needless to say that was the most fun I have ever had performing. This time around a fully-clothed-me was up on stage describing how I used relative grading (the curse of my IIT life) to decide the winners. All the eight plays were extremely entertaining and overall standards were very high. They actually used lights and sound effects!

* Three crazy weeks of writing and reading. Writing output has reached new heights. And reading – ah! Been reading some wonderful stuff –

Anansi Boys – Neil Gaiman
Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell – Susanna Clarke
Neverwhere – Neil Gaiman
The 13 ½ Lives of Captain Bluebear – Walter Moers
One Night @ the Call Center – Chetan Bhagat
The Divine Comedy (Inferno, Purgatorio, Paradiso) – Dante Alighieri
The No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency – Alexander McCall Smith
The London Pigeon Wars – Patrick Neate
Marvel 1602 – Neil Gaiman and others
City of Glass (graphic novel version) – Paul Auster
Most of Will Eisner stuff
Most of Sin City by Frank Miller
The Far Side (7 volumes) – Gary Larson
The Dark Knight Returns – Frank Miller and others
Tons of other graphic novels

Finally the backlog of books to read is reducing. Another ten days and I’ll be out of the red (read?!).

Social life – zero, zilch, non-existent!!

* Paid a visit to the newly relocated Odyssey. And then went to Landmark. The Universe was in a mischievous mood today. First I bumped into a young lovey-dovey couple who were busy necking in the Sci-Fi/ Fantasy section. Personally I believe libraries and bookshops are highly romantic places. And I am all for public display of affection. So I gave them a little space and moved away. But why, why did the chap have to go ahead and crack that dialogue to his girl – “Relax... A hickey from Kenickie is like a Hallmark card”?

Grease?! You dolt, you are in a bookshop for crying out loud. You are surrounded by beautiful love inspiring words. And you come up with Grease. I shot a glance at the girl which conveyed both my disappointment and commiseration.

I moved over to the graphic novel and comic book section. I was looking through Bone – Jeff Smith’s hilarious 1300 page collection of the adventures of Fone Bone, Phoney Bone and Smiley Bone. Two girls were standing near me looking at the Indian Writing section. Even though I had my back (they could probably see my profile) towards them I could feel one of them boring through me with her eyes. It felt like ants were crawling down my back. So I turned around and faced them.

A short scrawny 18-something girl was standing with a tall (very) stunning enchantress. Contempt, hatred and loathing for my very being were tightly packed together in an unwavering look from the short one. I have drawn some sharp reactions from people in the past but this was the oddest of them all. And from a stranger who I could have squashed under my foot? Never!

Now I should have been thinking about an appropriate expression for my face. But somewhere the Tall Girl Alert had been activated in my brain and all thought processes had ceased. Instead of looking at the little one I was staring at the tall one. After a few seconds I realised I wasn’t blinking. Luckily she spoke and reactivated my brain.

What book is that?

It’s called Bone. It’s a graphic novel.

What is that?

I told her. For the next 10 minutes I introduced her to Frank Miller, Neil Gaiman and Japanese Manga. She decided to purchase Bone. And then the little one pulled her away and I got a call from a friend. She waved and left. Damn! I didn’t even ask her name or take a number. And she had long slender legs which seemed to go on and on. Cruel, cruel world! Gave me a taste of forbidden ambrosia and then snatched it away. Sniff!

* Read on someone’s blog that they were having a bad hair week. It seems like I have been having a bad hair year. It’s because of the frequent haircuts. I should go back to the 3 cuts a year policy. Life was so simple back then.

Fiction: The Thrill of the Chase

2005-10-17T15:58:00.000+05:30

Winning a woman’s heart is like a conquest. Once she has fallen in love with you she is no better than a trophy hanging on a wall above the fireplace – a fond reminder of a successful kill. The thrill of romance is in the chase - approaching her, breaking the ice, getting her to agree for the first date, wining and dining her, slowly making her fall in love with you – that is the chase. Every time she looks into your eyes she sees the future, she sees what she can become because of you. Promises are made, which in the heat of the moment come from the bottom of your heart. You leave no stone unturned in winning her. You make her feel special. Each meeting is an improvement on the previous one. Finally the relationship becomes a series of dates – fantastic but meaningless. Were you just trying to tame a wild beast, trying to prove to yourself that you still got it? You wonder.

The realization slowly sinks in. You don’t love her, never did. You loved what she represented – a big fat kill – a challenge that you accepted and won. You call her. Tell her ‘We have to talk’. You make excuses.

It’s not you, it’s me.
I have fallen out of love.
You deserve someone better.

Your mind is concocting stories, coming up with lies faster than you can think. She just sits there dumbfounded, hardly able to believe what she’s listening. You walk away, leaving her behind in tears. You are oddly relieved, even a little happy. You justify your every action to yourself. It was for the best, you say. But guilt slowly creeps its way into your heart. You need a break. You cut yourself from the rest of the world, immerse yourself completely in work. A month goes by. Your conscience is now clear.

You are out partying with your friends. You spot someone dancing. You like what you see. Her every move is irresistible. Your eyes regain that lost spark. Your friends catch you eying her. They spur you on – go for it dude! They make jibes – she’s out of your league! ‘Want to make a small wager out of it’ you tell your friends.

You walk over to her table. Make a witty remark about the music. She and her friends laugh. You ask her for a dance then make fun of your own dancing abilities. You stumble. She laughs. She helps you out with a few moves. You are a fast learner. Now you show her a couple of your moves. She is amazed. She claps. ‘You tricked me, you are a great dancer.’ You laugh your easy laugh, the one which makes everyone around you comfortable. The two of you keep dancing – your bodies getting closer with every passing minute.

You bring her back to your table. Introduce her to your friends. They salute you – their way of accepting defeat. Her friends also join your group. Everyone seems happy, smiles all around. You are the master of your domain. You are the focus of everyone’s attention. She notices it. She has a twinkle in her eyes. She looks at her friends. Nods, smiles, pinches, winks all indicate –

We love him!
He’s a catch.

She takes your hand in hers. You look at the hands and then you look into her eyes. Both of you smile. When no one is looking you steal a kiss. She is shocked, but feels an exhilaration she has never felt before. She clasps your hand tighter.

You look up. A new group of girls is entering the pub. They look familiar. You knew them once, used to hang out with them. It dawns on you. It’s her. The fat one enters first, followed by the talkative one being badgered by the smartass and then her.

Did someone turn the music off? There is silence everywhere. You look around. Everyone’s lips are moving. You can see a flurry of activity around you - the pitcher of beer falling on the neighbouring table, the waiters running towards it, the girl next to you talking to her friend, her hand still wrapped in yours. But you can’t hear a word. The silence around you is deafening. ‘What is wrong with me?’

You snap out of it. All your senses come back. You excuse yourself – make a joke about going to the little boys’ room. They all laugh. Why do they always laugh at that one? You wonder. You walk out. You see her and her friends being escorted to a table on the other side of the room. They haven’t noticed you.

She is smiling. But it looks forced. She hasn’t been out in a while. Her friends are trying to cheer her up. She is still not over you. She is still not over you? You walk out of the pub, head towards the men’s room and splash some water on your face.

You know what has to be done. You walk out, enter the elevator and push the button for the terrace. There are people all around you. They are dancing to some loud music. You walk over to the parapet wall and sit on it with your feet dangling outwards. You feel the wind in your face. You breathe in. You apologize – apologize for every heart you have ever broken. You close your eyes. You are calm. And then it happens.

Actually a number of things happen simultaneously – 37 to be precise. That particular spot on the parapet wall is actually a worm-hole, a gateway (more like a back door entry) to the rest of the universes. Oh yes! And there are 37 of them. You fall into all these 37 universes at the same time. But the outcome is different in all the cases. Here are some of them:

- You decide to jump. You are smashed to a pulp after falling twelve floors.

- You decide not to jump. As you are about to get off the wall some idiot bumps into you and you are smashed to a pulp after falling twelve floors.

- You walk back to the pub and apologize to the first girl. Then you go back to your table and live happily ever after with the second girl who loves holding your hand.

- You finally come out of the closet.

So what happens to you?

55 Fiction

2005-10-10T13:24:00.000+05:30

Here are my humble attempts at 55 Fiction. Read this for details on this art form.

-------------

Tom, the Deviant, in Heaven

Voyeur! You are calling me a voyeur. You blinded me for something you have been doing all your life – invading people’s privacy!

Taxes! It wasn’t the taxes.
She likes horses, likes riding them all over the city – naked. Stark naked! She is a freaking nudist. And you punished me. Blighter!

--------------

A 6-year-old girl, Emily Kent, darted into traffic in Fort Myers, Florida, to save a turtle and was killed when she was hit by a car on Sunday, officials said.

I was taking a shortcut. The hare had been winning the race for so many years.

I wanted to win just once. I’m sorry Emily.

Monkey on a Wire

2005-10-06T13:24:00.000+05:30

The first girl I ever loved (more like one-sided devotion in the beginning, cherry popping for both in the middle, ‘We’d live happily ever after’ near the end and ‘goodbye and thanks for all the amazing mind-boggling sex’ eventually) is getting married next year to her boyfriend of three years. I didn’t get the news straight from the horse’s mouth (oh and what a heavenly horse she was), but from the horse’s chuddy-buddy (who has finally blossomed in her 20s, Seabiscuit indeed). Melancholy is hiding somewhere in the deep recesses of my heart waiting to ambush the I-don’t-care-I’ll-get-someone-better-than-her bravado which lurks in my mind.

The affair started at a time when the first sign of manhood was sprouting all over my face and slowly morphing into a thick dark stubble. O what a stubble! I never wanted to shave, just wanted to grow really old and have a long flowing white beard in which bread-crumbs would get stuck. I wanted to be like Gandalf the Grey – chasing dragons and working with dwarfs to find a hidden treasure.

This was a time when I had never heard of the word humility. I was arrogant as hell and drunk on my intellectual prowess. I was ambitious and aggressive and a complete orifice in the posterior.

She changed all that – changed me for the better. And I changed her. It was like ‘Taming of the Shrew’ where we each took turns playing Katherine. Two years it lasted and then fizzled away. I finally understood what Eliot meant in The Hollow Men –

This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper

The news of her getting hitched made me take a long hard look at all my affairs (of the heart and of the skin). And boy there are a lot of them! I realised that she was the only one ever who truly anchored me to reality. With a fertile mind like mine I had always preferred the world of my imagination over reality. But she proved to me that there were things even Chubby (her nickname for my mind - the size of a football field) couldn’t imagine. And she was right, as usual. But she left. And Chubby came back to haunt me.

Since then I have been trying to find other anchors. Maybe I found better anchors, but let them slip away as they didn’t live up to my expectations, which thanks to Chubby are very high. I realised that I was suffering from the Archie complex. The Betty Coopers of the world have been around me, but I have been desperately trying to find my Veronica Lodge.

I realised what true love is all about. It’s about mutual co-dependence. When each other’s presence in our lives is as crucial as the air we breathe, then we are in love. As usual the truth dawns, but a little too late.

Ah! Enough mush for a day. Need to go indulge in some bacchanalian revelry. This is a picture some IITian took. Found it in some old folders so decided to put it up.

From Across the Room

2005-09-30T13:10:00.000+05:30

Ben stood in a corner, drink in hand, leaning against the wall. As he slowly took the room and its occupants in with his eyes they revealed their deepest most intimate secrets.

From across the room Tess was trying to uncover his secrets. His eyes seemed to be hopping around the room like a bird, settling down for a moment and then flitting away. Those eyes – there was something about them. They would light up with the child-like excitement of discovery and then surge with the sadness of a bleeding heart. Guilt from betrayal would creep into them and then get pushed aside by the promise of love. But were they his emotions or simply reflections upon the stories he was gathering with those wandering eyes?

Ben could feel her eyes on him. They were searching for something. They needed an answer. He looked straight into them and replied.

Now they both knew.
They understood.
They felt.
Love.

It was late. The party was coming to an end.

He left alone.
She left with her husband of nine years.

The Truth about Adam and Eve

2005-09-23T16:58:00.000+05:30

Any generic statements towards/for a group should be read as a statistical fact (anomalies in the form of exceptions always exist). The truth behind many such statements exists at a subconscious level.

* I am a firm believer in evolution. Civilization has so far failed to extract the animal out of us. Most of our thinking and decision making stems from our primal instincts. Human physiology also has a part to play. Think about it – there are species where the female is larger than the male (the black widow comes to mind) – yet the human female is shorter than the male. Check yourself (if you are a man) the next time you are in close proximity to a woman. You will find yourself taking a whiff from her hair. A very primal reaction (similar to dogs sniffing each other) – you are trying to detect the pheromones being released from the woman’s head. Scientists agree that this is the reason why women are shorter than men. An ancient biochemical mating sign – the pheromone. We have largely lost our ability to detect it, but the next time you find a house pet making its way towards your crotch – remember that’s another place where pheromones are released.

The point I am trying to make is this – most animal behaviour is dictated by survival in the form of procreation – finding the perfect mate. And I believe that all, yes all, human behaviour is also dictated by this very need. So next time you are confused about why your girlfriend/boyfriend acted the way she/he did – it’s the animal instinct.

* Women believe that a man’s ability on the dance floor directly corresponds to his prowess in bed. Dancing lessons are the key – tango, mambo and salsa – the passport to relationships. When you dance well with a woman, you not only make an impression on her, but on every other woman on the dance floor. Take it from me – in a club or a disc – they are all looking out for the one who can dance.

* In a crowded place (like a bar) never approach a woman who is not dressed for the occasion. The only reason she isn’t made up is because she doesn’t want to be asked out (‘What is she doing there then?’ you will ask. Eating a table full of food alone is the answer. Believe me, I have seen it). Forget all the crap about ‘one should wear good clothes to make one feel good inside’. Women dress up so that everyone (men and women) sit up and take notice.

* What about cleavage? Jerry Seinfeld warns us that looking at cleavage is like looking at the sun; you look for a moment and then look away. Stare too long, and you’ll be blinded. There are only two reasons why a woman would wear a revealing dress – she has no sense of fashion (bless the universe for that) or she wants you to assess her assets. Take a good long peek – down the periscope. Don’t be shy. But be discrete. Somewhere subconsciously she either loves it or thinks that you are a complete freak. Another Seinfeld brain nugget – Men like breasts, women like shoes.

* Most surveys say that a good sense of humour in a man is the top quality in every woman’s wish list. More crap! The real list goes something like this – big broad shoulders, firm ass, money/plastic in the wallet. And then comes the sense of humour we all have been trying to cultivate since the day we were born.

* Chivalry is not dead. At least women don’t want it to be dead (well not completely). They might insist on sharing the bill, but they’d still like you to open the door for them and give them a helping hand without their asking for it.

* Most women don’t like metrosexuals. Allah be praised! Kill the bloody metrosexuals!! Any man who can spend 5 hours in front of the mirror doesn’t deserve to live. So yeah, take care of your health, look good, wear clean clothes, but please, for crying out loud – no makeup. Being sensitive is one thing, being able to listen to a woman jabber on and on is one thing, but knowing more brands of cosmetics than your girlfriend – not cool.

* One would think that everyone would like to be in love. Not true.

* Stay away from women who worked for a poorly printed newspaper (you know the one … I’ll give a hint – Indian Express) and changed over to a news channel notorious for cooking up news items (all of them do that – but it’s Aaj Tak). If you ever see her in public make the sign of the cross with your fingers and run for your life shouting ‘The evil bitch is here! The evil bitch is here!’ Then go home and pray that she and her entire family rot in hell after having drowned in a small unassuming puddle of muck.

Passion

2005-09-20T11:24:00.000+05:30

This post is the result of a comment someone left on my blog a long time back. Miss your comments Unknown.

As we grow old we tend to lose interest in things which earlier meant a lot to us. Interests change, priorities change and some of us tend to become more focused (others like me continue existing in a chaotic mode, aiming for a gazillion goals at once). This post is a form of therapy for me, a kind of an internal review.

Passions Past:

Programming, Gadgets, the Works – I started programming when I was 8 years old. And I wrote code regularly till the age of 21. One of my most enduring friendships is a result of my shared interest in computers with my friend Rahul. I loved the anticipation just before a program was getting compiled. The ‘error free’ status was almost orgasmic. Though I have written code in most of the popular languages, C and Perl will always have a special place in my heart. I fondly remember the good old high school days, the long nights writing thousands of lines of code. I was a nerd and I am proud of it.

But somewhere down the line I got tired of it all. I haven’t done any coding in almost two years. Miss the smooth motion of my fingertips on the keyboard sometimes. 13 years is long enough. Computers were my first love, my first mistress. Maybe I still am a nerd.

Passions in Hibernation

Women! Women!! Women!!! Women!!!!
Need I say anything else?

Quizzing

Enduring Passions:

Writing
Theatre
Films
Reading
Italians

On the Verge of being Passions:

Cooking
Dance
Travelling
Women (I am incorrigible)

Will keep adding to this list and keep it as a reference.

Three Burly Men, a Secretary and a Gutless Father

2005-08-29T12:03:00.000+05:30

Just when your life is in a bit of a slump and you are hoping something good is just around the corner – bang – you are smacked on your face and told to rest your sweet old ass on the freaking oven in hell.

I have never felt so humiliated in my entire life. This has to be the Mariana Trench of sick stuff that should never happen to any self-respecting human being. What is wrong with some people? Why are people so bad at communicating what they really feel inside?

I have just been accused of harassing a girl and stalking her (OK exaggeration – the word used was ‘irritating’). Me? Of all the people in this world! And that to not by the girl herself, but by three thugs (short, ugly illiterate men with big paunches) and a rather polite secretary (male) of the girl’s father (the gutless character). This is disgraceful. I demand justice and retribution. I am pissed off. I have reached the lowest point of my existence and I don’t think life could show me anything lower. Yeah, so the matter was sorted out within minutes. But the cheek of it, it just infuriates me.

Is it so hard for someone to tell it to your face that they don’t like you? I have done it so many times, to so many people, at so many different occasions. Why is it difficult?

Aaaaarrgggghh! Disgusting! Shameful! Bring me a wall, anyone, please.

My dad seems to think there is a lesson somewhere in this. Yeah dad, there is. I just don’t know it yet. I’ll let all of you know when I find out. For now I need to go and dig my own grave.

***

What’s the best thing to do when you feel like breaking your fist into the wall – read Fight Club for the third time. It is like manna from the heavens. ‘Therapeutic’ that’s the word. Chuck Palahniuk is one of my favourite writers. So let me spread the mirth.

‘Guts’ is a short story by Chuck. People have been known to pass out and puke after reading this story. Read it here and enjoy. The grossest short story ever – a modern masterpiece.

***

On a happier note, Inu Yasha’s new episodes are coming on Animax again. Life is just about bearable. Or is it?

Who's Your Daddy?

2005-08-04T15:01:00.000+05:30

From a 1939 Kane and Finger Batman story.

Chicken!

2005-07-31T16:00:00.000+05:30

The Advantages of being a Non-Vegetarian
Or
Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?
Or
What Came First - the Egg or the Chicken?

Hen
Laid golden eggs

Greedy man
Cut it up, found nothing.

Moral of story
Today’s special: Butter Chicken Masala

(c) Anshumani Ruddra, 2005

The Gospel According to Saint Ruddra

2005-06-20T13:00:00.000+05:30

* Have you ever been in the presence of a woman, who is so beautiful, it hurts every time you look at her. And when words start pouring out of her mouth, every other sound in this world becomes part of a rich background musical theme which is being composed real-time (by Mozart, Alan Silvestri and John Williams all together) just for the two of you. When she walks into a room, every heart skips a beat and your heart actually stops working. You are dead even before your body hits the ground. But there is a smile on your face – the smile of contentment. You just died a very happy man – having seen the most enchanting creature on the face of this magnificent earth. Instant Nirvana!

Now you are thinking – ‘Next he is going to tell us about this woman. He is going to brag about how he sees her everyday, dies and comes back to life to see her all over again’

Naah! Suckers!

I am going to tell you this – I know two such women and I see both of them almost everyday. And each time I see them I worry about my heart – erratic heart-rate would lead to my death one of these days. There are days when I meet both of them. It hurts! It hurts! It hurts!

Between these two women, I think I have understood the entire gamut of feminine emotions and thinking patterns (at least of the ones who make your jaw drop to the floor and your tongue to roll out like a red carpet). Though both of them have the same effect on me (and when I say me, I mean my heart), they are poles apart and screw with my mind in completely different ways. But before I expound further on this matter here is the greatest pain-in-the-arse bitch-slapping who’s-your-daddy truth about life –

All the really really hot girls are dating complete losers-morons-mean-sons-of-warthogs who should drown themselves in small unassuming puddles of muck. And if they are not, that means they just broke up with one such guy and are waiting for another one of them to come along.

You beg to differ, do you? You know some really amazing woman who is not dating some, for the lack of a more appropriate word, chutiya. Then my dear friend, you have just witnessed a miracle of celestial proportions. Birds have crapped on me more than a dozen times, two coconuts have fallen on my back, a rock the size of a football has missed my face by a few inches on the Himalayas, and yet I have never witnessed this miracle.

Ok! I give up. I lied! I have witnessed it a few times (Hell! Some amazing women have dated me in the past), but it should be happening all the time. These women deserve much better men. Do you know why they never get them – because all us mature-brain-the-size-of-a-football-field-sensitive-caring types never approach them. We are either shy or lack confidence or have bad timing or are just plain old unlucky (like yours truly). And the scum of our kind approaches these women and whisks them away while we sit in front of computer screens and rant about it ceaselessly.

Back to the two women in my life (Ah! How I wish one of them actually was in my life). Though both are equally gorgeous, one knows it and the other doesn’t. The first one, let me call her Aphrodite, has probably dated a lot of losers. She is single now, but hurt and vulnerable. So she puts on a strong front and avoids all advances. She doesn’t want to get hurt again. She knows men look at her and fantasize. So she plays with them, tries to get her back. The foolish child wants to be in love but hates everyone who wants to be in love with her. I can understand what dear old Keats was thinking when he wrote – La belle dame sans merci – a beautiful woman with no mercy. I worry about her – engrossed all the time in work, no personal life. I have tried breaking her defences but failed.

The second one, I’ll call her Venus, does not yet know how beautiful she is. She is a little naïve and is still dating a loser who treats her miserably. She wants to break free but can’t. She can’t face the insecurity of not being in a relationship. As time will go by she’ll keep getting hurt, eventually becoming Aphrodite. I shed a tear each time I think of that.

I am trying to be a good friend to both of them – though Aphrodite keeps me at bay, where as Venus loves spending time with me. And I have a policy (a strange one, but I have adhered by it for a long time) – I never date buddies - too complicated; destroys friendships. My head hurts when I think of the whole situation. Even I don’t have the answers to everything.

Was there a point to all this – I am afraid not.

* In a few days time I’ll turn 23 (a prime number I like a lot; favourite of course is the greatest of all primes – 37). Between these two primes is a life I have yet to discover. This blog turned two (the first prime) a few days back. Around 50 posts, 40,000 words and over 25,000 hits. One of these days I should sit and read all the previous posts – see how my life has changed.

The Unusually Usual Report

2005-05-16T22:49:00.000+05:30

* They are all leaving, going away to that far off country – where the people are so dumb that George Bush got elected twice. We are all chasing our dreams, or in certain cases are being chased by our dreams (like yours truly). The Red-haired one left a few days back. The last Horror will soon leave. The final vestiges of any relationship with IIT will soon vanish. ‘Depressing’ is an understatement. But hey! As the cliché goes – life must go on. Adding salt to the wounds is the fact that I am finding it really difficult to make new friends – I am trying, but it simply isn’t working. Everyone likes me, or at least they used to. Now I just get on everyone’s nerves. Perhaps I am growing old and whatever charm I had is slowly fading away. The thought of not being surrounded by friends is painful. Then again, I can always turn to my dreams; it’s just that I don’t want to any more.

* I simply don’t know when to give up. I should learn to take a hint. Never been given a cold shoulder before (it’s happened once earlier, but that was just pathetic). The weird thing is, I don’t feel hurt – I just feel odd. Pride and arrogance tell me that there is no possible reason for anyone to ignore me. Or is there?

This is my punishment for being so easily amused and cheerful all the time – a good solid dose of depression. It’s definitely not helping the cause of writing. Neither is continuously thinking about the gorgeous older brunette.

* Star Wars Episode III - Revenge of the Sith is releasing this Friday. I am so excited that I keep humming John Williams' background score after every five minutes. I am looking forward to the light-saber duels and the star-ship dogfights. And Yoda will fight again! Yippee!

Depression and excitement can go together – I am a stinking potpourri of emotions these days. I make myself sick.

Butter Chicken for the Allergic Soul

2005-04-24T13:53:00.000+05:30

* I love chicken. I can eat it thirty-two times a day and still have space for some more. But my love for blood, murder, predatory appetite and primal savagery only extends to chicken. I cannot take pork, beef, lamb and I hate (that’s an understatement) sea food. Just think about this for a minute - where do fish crap? - In the water. Where do they live? - In the same freaking water. How can you eat something which lives along with its own crap? Ok! Ok! I know I am being biased, but I have a reason.

The reason, for one, is my ignorance and two, the following - Any of various marine cephalopod mollusks of the genus Loligo and related genera, having a usually elongated body, ten arms surrounding the mouth, a vestigial internal shell, and a pair of triangular or rounded fins.

If you are still guessing, here is a picture:

Even the fungus growing under the flower-pot in my balcony could have told me that I should stay away from anything which looks like that, has ten arms surrounding its mouth and is called SQUID. Yeah! You heard it - I ate squid and those Italians whom I love so much tricked me. How you ask? They couldn’t call the dish they prepared from this freak of nature - ‘Stay Quarantined Until It Disappears’. No! They had to call it bloody Calamari - such a harmless sounding name - people would have said in Hindi - ‘Kiski Mari! Calamari! Kiski Mari! Calamari!’ Well now they can shout out loud -‘Kiski Mari! Anshu Ki Mari! Kiski Mari! Anshu Ki Mari!’

I spent the third most uncomfortable night of my life after eating that crap. My face and body were so badly swollen that it looked like somebody with a real grudge had used a sledge-hammer on me.

Can’t you write on the menu that this dish is prepared from an organism which can grow anywhere between 5 centimetre and 18 metre (Yeah! Go check the encyclopaedia). Had you told me, I would have run so freaking fast that Forrest would have been proud of me (Little girl - Run Forrest! Run!).

Resolution: Stay away from sea food.

Observation: Yahoo! I finally have an allergy! I am so proud of myself! (You freak!)

* She doesn’t like movies! The moment I heard this, it felt as if the entire weight of the Himalayas had fallen on me. The world stood still and the next one second took a thousand years to pass. I, Anshumani Ruddra, had fallen for someone who doesn’t like movies. Disaster! Irony! The universe mocked me! My entire life flashed in front of my eyes.

And then, she smiled. Ah! That smile.

Who cares about the movies? It is the occupation of the bloody bourgeoisie. People have other hobbies. You will survive. She has so many more interesting things to say. She is so beautiful. She is so spirited. You are a pathetic sell-out. So what? When she laughs gravity disappears - you believe you are a bird - better still, you believe you are a Lockheed Martin SR - 71 Blackbird.

Hmmm ... Just because she dislikes motion pictures doesn’t mean you have to stop watching them. It’s just that your favourite topic of discussion no longer exists. You have other interesting things to say. There is more to you than just movies (Is there? Let me think - I am choking! * Al Pacino voice* - When the shit hits the fan, some people run and some people watch movies. Oh shut up!)

Final Analysis: The world doesn’t revolve around film aficionados. There still exist interesting people in this world who don’t like movies (from Ridley’s Believe It Or Not).

* I love poetry. I love reading it out loud. I love performing it. I love quoting it to others. I even like writing it. But here comes the problem - I suck at writing poetry. But hey, this is my blog! I can put up whatever I want. Read and weep, suckers!

This was written in 2 minutes 44 seconds in an on the spot writing exercise. The theme was - ‘One Way Ticket’

The Poet finally decided to call it quits.
His patience after all had been tested to the hilt.

He could not take this sundry life no more,
The whole bloody thing was such a bore.

The poison and the railway track did not work,
So he kissed the village nurse who was a complete dork.

He died of common cold the next day
Thus buying a one way ticket to hell, oh yay!

A Question of Age

2005-04-09T18:21:00.000+05:30

It’s happening all around me. I think about it in great detail and then try and forget about the whole shebang. But it comes back. What is ‘It’? ‘It’ is this sudden urge in guys I know to fall in love with women who are older than them. My position on this issue till a few weeks back was that of indifferent neutrality; not any more.

Let me quickly put down the few arguments which people give against this age disparity in love. Women mature faster both physically and mentally than men. Women start looking older much earlier than men as time progresses. These are the two most common arguments given by wiser, older and more experienced people in favour of the woman being a few years younger than the man in a relationship. Though the arguments are highly generalized they do make a lot of sense at a certain level and probably apply to the lowest common denominator in our species. But what if we are dealing with above average, well rounded and mature men and women? Age suddenly becomes irrelevant.

The rule-followers will now argue that a few months here and there may be alright but not more than that. So what age gap is acceptable? Few months, one year, less than three years, five years, ten years? Frankly, I don’t know. It depends on the guy and the girl in question. The only chink in the armour I can see is this – Companionship is about experiencing life together as a journey. A much older woman, (man single, 25; woman divorced, mother of one, 32) would have already completed a part of this ‘Journey’ and learnt valuable lessons from it. Agreed that every relationship is unique in itself, but still the joy of experiencing new things together is lost if one partner has already gone down that road before (sex is just a trivial issue here you perverts, ok it’s important but not that important).

I was recently responsible for convincing the parents of the 25 year old to marry him to the 32 year old. Guess what argument I used – They both really love each other, your son is a useless chap whereas she is a highly paid executive in a MNC, and your son is most probably impotent and will never be able to have children – this way you get a readymade grandson who will love you oldies a lot and if the couple is lucky you might be blessed with another grandchild. My powers of persuasion were probably at their best because they bought the whole thing.

It’s easier to argue for or against when one is an uninvolved observer. But what if one is involved? What if I, an intelligent, creative, mature and level-headed 22 year old writer, have a crush on a beautiful (read hot), talented and spirited 24 year old journalist? Now that, would be interesting!

Closer

2005-04-07T18:24:00.000+05:30

I am going to discuss the movie ‘Closer’ in detail, so all those who haven’t yet seen the movie and would like to see it, please avoid reading the following blog post. The movie raised a lot of questions in my mind. I tried searching the net for some answers but that wasn’t very helpful. I have tried to answer some of those questions here on my own.

What I understood of the movie:

The Characters:

Dan (Jude Law)

Beginning: Has a girlfriend called Ruth who is not shown throughout the film. Writes the obituary page in the newspaper and hates his work. Wants to become a writer but doesn’t know what to write about.
Middle: Writes a book called ‘The Aquarium’ which fails. The book is inspired by the life of Alice but according to Alice it is not the complete truth.
End: Becomes editor of the obituary page after the death of the editor. The editor is most probably his own father. In the beginning he says his mom died when he was a kid and his dad is just hanging on to dear life. In the end he says he sat next to the editor in the hospital for many days before he died. So I am guessing the editor was his father.

Anna (Julia Roberts)
Beginning: Married to someone but unhappy. She is a professional photographer who has read the manuscript of Dan’s book.
Middle: Becomes a successful photographer with her most famous work being the picture of Alice – London girl.
End: Is married to Larry and is probably happy. But we don’t know how long this happiness will last.

Larry (Clive Owen)
Beginning: Dermatologist working in a hospital.
Middle: Meets Alice and is the only character to whom she tells her real identity but he doesn’t believe it.
End: Has a private practice and is married to Anna. Has sex outside of marriage and still gets away with it because Anna cannot complain.

Alice (Natalie Portman)
Beginning: Stripper from New York who comes to London and changes her identity.
Middle: Goes back to her original identity and works in a club.
End: Goes back to New York but again changes herself.

The Plot Details:

The real Alice: Her real name is Jane Rachel Jones as shown on her passport. She tells Dan that he can never see her passport because then he’ll know her true identity. When Larry asks for her real name repeatedly in the strip joint she tells him the truth each time. When Dan leaves her the first time and asks her what she will do, she says she will disappear. She takes the name Alice Ayers from the porcelain plaque when she and Dan walk through Postman’s Park in the beginning of the movie. The plaque says the following –

“Alice Ayers. Daughter of a bricklayer's labourer who by intrepid conduct saved 3 children from a burning house in Union Street Borough at the cost of her own young life. April 24 1885."

This is exactly what Alice does in the movie. She is compared again and again to an angel by Dan and Larry. She is responsible for saving the other three characters in some way or the other. At the end they are all in a better state then what they were in the beginning of the movie. In the original play on which this movie is based, Alice dies in the end. In the movie the ending is more open – she might meet another stranger in New York, fall in love with him and be completely devoted to him or she may die. I would like to believe that she lives.

Larry the Caveman: For someone who talks about being a caveman and not being very refined, Larry is really smart and a good observer of human nature. He manipulates Dan twice. Even though both the women prefer Dan in bed, Anna still ends up with him. Larry likes to dominate women and treat them like whores. In Anna he has found a woman who likes to be dominated and because of her inherent inability to be happy she will keep coming back to him. He makes Anna tell him all the details about Dan. Anna’s indiscretion is very puzzling and she is perhaps the quintessential bitch.

Art: Alice’s description of art is an amazing statement and is almost a reflection of the movie itself. Anna’s photographs have captured the sadness of people and yet are beautiful. But this beauty itself will bring joy to others and hence the art is justified. Dan’s book on the other hand was also about Alice but failed to capture the truth (her sadness). This is perhaps why the book failed. The movie is about four sad and emotionally challenged characters and yet it is made beautifully.

Dan and Anna’s search for something better: Alice unconditionally loves Dan. Still Dan falls for Anna simply because he feels Alice is dependant on him and Anna is an independent woman. In reality, Anna likes to be dominated by others. Why else would she go out with a creep like Larry, who chats on sex sites and only has sex on his mind 24/7. Dan and Anna will never be happy because happiness freaks them out and they run away from it. Somehow they remind me of Sisyphus – that guy who used to push a boulder up a hill and then it would fall back and he’ll do it all over again.

Why I am freaked out after watching Closer:

Some bits here are redundant because I wrote this before the previous part.
There are some works of fiction (books/movies) which leave a deep impression on us. This has happened a number of times to me with books but not too often with movies (probably because I see so many of them). The last time I spent many sleepless nights because of a movie was when I saw ‘Requiem for a Dream’. Yesterday I saw ‘Closer’, twice, and I don’t think I’ll be sleeping for the next few days.

They say reality starts following fiction after a while. I believe that, is always the case. Yet, I have never identified myself to such a large extent with any one particular character in a book or a movie (not the way every Tom, Dick and Harry thinks that Howard Roark’s life is their own or Salinger was telling their story). Not until I saw Jude Law’s character - Dan yesterday in Closer.

Dan is an obituary writer. I have been secretly obsessed with obituaries for ages. The guy wants to be a writer at the beginning of the movie and eventually becomes a failed writer by the end. I am an optimist, so that probably wouldn’t happen to me but I am currently writing about a character who is trying to write the perfect obituary for himself. Creepy!

Dan asks Anna (Julia Roberts) to lie to him because he is frustrated with the truth and thinks lies make life so much easier. Dan also is a proficient liar himself with an imagination working on overdrive (he goes on a sex site and pretends to be Anna and chats with Larry (Clive Owen), I haven’t done that but I am very much capable of doing it – it’s just that I hate chatting on the net). Yet, he contradicts himself in the end by asking Alice (Natalie Portman) to tell him the truth and stresses the importance of truth. His selfishness and failure to recognize love is all too familiar. I better go out and party a little or I’ll go crazy.

Listening to:

Closer Soundtrack – The Blower’s Daughter Artist: Damien Rice

Did I say that I loathe you?
Did I say that I want to
Leave it all behind?

I can't take my mind off of you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off of you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind...
My mind...my mind...
'Til I find somebody new

Sex, Mike and Brassiere Measurements

2005-03-29T17:56:00.000+05:30

* Disclaimer for female readers: Relax! I am not trying to objectify the female form. I think being a woman is a tough thing and I respect women a lot. Whew!

Creating new characters for my books is a lot of fun. But sometimes it can be a pain in the buttocks. Currently my protagonist is an eight-month-pregnant woman. To flesh out her character in greater details I have been doing a lot of research on pregnancy. My mind is reeling under pressure with 10 centimetre dilations, water breaking, swelling of mammary glands, etcetera etcetera. No wonder my attention span has reduced to 300 milliseconds. Man! There is a lot of stuff out there about pregnancy.

Information overload!

All systems down!

Luckily this character works for a fashion house which makes lingerie (India’s equivalent of Victoria’s Secret). So I have been happy digging facts about lingerie. I am astounded by the simplicity yet effectiveness of bras sizing. Here is a small primer for all patrons on all those terms we never understood – 36 D, 34 C (As a kid I used to think they were bus numbers, serious!). I am attempting to go where a lot of men have gone before and failed miserably (did you know that there are almost a dozen different ways in which bras are hooked – back, front, sides, neck …). They should have taught us all these things in school.

There are two variables which need to be calculated to determine the bras size - Band size and cup size. The band size is always an even number (according to international standards). The cup size is an alphabet like A, B, C, etc. So a typical bras size would look like - 34 C or 36 D.

Measurement of band size: A tape measure (inch) is used to measure around the rib cage directly under the breasts. The number 5 is then added to this number and it is rounded off to the nearest even number.

Measurement of cup size: The next measurement goes around the chest over and including the fullest part of the bust (usually at the level of the nipples). The band size is then subtracted from this measurement. The cup size is then determined using the following table -

Half inch AA
One inch A
Two inches B
Three inches C
Four inches D
Five inches DD or E
Six inches DDD or F
Seven inches G

Example - Suppose the measurement below the breasts is 30 inches. Adding 5 to that we get 35. Rounding it to the nearest even number we get 36. So the band size is 36. Now suppose the measurement over the breasts is 40 inches. 40 - 36 = 4 inches. So cup size from the table is D. Therefore, the bras size is 36 D.

* A few days back I was discussing with some fellow writers how Indian writers are pathetic at writing convincing love making scenes. All of us are working on a collaborative project and most of the stories have couples in them. Yet, very few of us wanted to go down that path where we would have to write about the couple making out. As a challenge I have decided to include a hot and steamy sex scene in my story. The first draft will be put up here for everyone’s inspection in a few days.

* Fans of PhD Comics the world over are waiting with bated breaths as Mike Slackenerny prepares for his thesis defence. Will he finally earn his PhD? Only time will tell. The man who has been rumoured to be around the Stanford campus since the 70s (parents of some recent grad students were students along with him) has been a source of inspiration for graduate students the world over. Procrastinator extraordinaire, Mike is adored by the Horrors for his love of food and sleep. If Mike gets a PhD I hope he joins the faculty at Stanford. Phdcomics wouldn’t be same without him. I can already see Babe (also known as Death and Research Boy in certain quarters) getting his doctorate in a few years. My boy is all grown up. Sniff sniff.

* Back to watching 10 movies and reading 3 books a week. Life is bliss. Saw ‘Finding Neverland’ yesterday and am still lost in the beauty of the film. Magical!!

* Thinking about –

I think there's too much burden placed on the orgasm, you know, to make up for empty areas in life.

- Woody Allen in Annie Hall

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

2005-03-15T16:37:00.000+05:30

It’s happened to all of us. Well at least it’s happened to those of us who don’t have anonymous blogs. How do you write about someone who reads your blog and knows you well? How do you write about your secret desires when you know they would no longer remain secret once they are published here?

I firmly believe that every thought, which remains trapped in the deep recesses of the mind, dies a premature death. Every thought has a life cycle – it is born, it grows up and then it dies. But its purpose is only fulfilled if it gives birth to another thought. A nascent thought needs to be translated into words (written or spoken) for it to mature. It dies if it isn’t heard or read. Yet there are things whose beauty lies in their being not spoken and kept a mystery. But if they are not projected outwards, they start haunting you (especially when you have an over active imagination like mine). This blog has always helped me exorcise those ghosts. But it fails when these thoughts are about real people who are close to me or know of me. I could cover those thoughts in a veil of fiction and write them here as I have done on a number of occasions in the past. But sometimes you wish to retain their purity. You store them away safely, to look at them when you are feeling low and need inspiration. They haunt you though – night and day – when you least expect. You might have a brain the size of a football field, but your referees cannot control every player on it. Life would have been bliss if you were born a vegetable. Then again, maybe not!

If you are wondering what the title has to do with this post – I saw the movie a few weeks back and loved it.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;

- From the poem ‘Eloisa to Abelard’ by Alexander Pope

A Day in the Life of the Poet and the Raven

2005-03-01T11:44:00.000+05:30

The Raven and the Poet had been in the depths of Valhalla for more than an eon now. After an initial period of strife and animosity they both realised that in this place they had no one else for company and hence it would be better to forge a friendship. And as time went by these two became inseparable – the Raven teaching the Poet the fine art of warfare and the Poet teaching the Raven the intricacies of poetry.

Then arrived Phantasos (the worthy son of Somnus and brother of Morpheus; an exchange student from Olympus) and the three together formed an organisation which was to cause a major stir in the world of the Gods as well as us puny humans. This was the Dream Poets Inc., headquartered in Valhalla. But why talk of the Future when the Present is trying to scuttle past us.

Here we find the Poet - lost in the space-time continuum, thinking of his past sins - generally feeling like scum. The Raven on the other hand is smitten with the 5-7-5 syllable simplicity of the haiku and is composing his epic - Haikus from Eden.

R:
Said Adam one day -
No apple for me today,
Eve has a headache.

So, my friend, what do you think of my masterpiece?

P:
Hmmm. Hmmm. Mumble mumble grumble grumble. You have the structure, but where is the mention of the season and the two contrasting thoughts related to the same subject. My dear friend! You must follow the rules of poetry. Otherwise, the critics will slam your work as being pretentious and uninspired.

R:
Critics!? What critics? I am writing these haikus for my own pleasure not for some blasted critic. Counting the syllables and maintaining the symmetry of the haikus has a soothing effect on my nerves. I don’t care if no one ever reads my work, except you, of course.

P:
Ah! But what is writing, if it isn’t read. The triumph of the writer is in extracting a response from the reader – doesn’t matter whether they love it or hate it. You are right about the critics though. I hate them in equal, if not more, measure. But you must write as if your work is going to be read by millions. We both know there is no one else here other than the two of us. But one never knows.

Little did the Poet and the Raven know that in the next few years with the help of Phantasos (whose work it is to create all the inanimate objects in dreams) they would be able to broadcast their work all over the world in people’s dreams.

R:
You are probably right my friend. Tell me, why you look so morose? Has someone broken your heart?

P:
Ah! It would have been so much better had that happened. The pain of heartbreak is like manna for my soul. What I suffer from is guilt, my brother. All those broken hearts I left behind as I moved from shore to shore in search of fulfilment are tearing at my conscience. So many times have I been loved – deeply and unquestionably – and I have thrown it all away for my own selfish motives. And what have I achieved? I rot here, in this Scandinavian hell, for eternity.

R:
Hmmm! But you have me for company!

P:
True! True! So let’s hear some more haikus.

R:
What is for dinner?
- Said Adam one day to Eve.
Apple pie and tea!

An apple a day
Keeps eve a little away.
Now for the doctor …

Of Hypothetical Situations and Escalators

2005-02-20T14:01:00.000+05:30

* Hypothetical situation – you are sitting in a plane. The following conversation happens between you and the gentleman sitting next to you.

Gentleman: Great day today for flying!
You: Yeah.
Gentleman: I am Stanley by the way.
You: Hmmm.
|
|
|
|
[Two hours later]
Stanley: Nice talking to you. Here’s my card. Drop in sometime.
You: Huh!

Now suppose two months later you found the visiting card again inside your bag and read the name on top of it - Stanley Kubrick.

This is the point where I’ll try to drown myself in a small unassuming puddle of muck. Now I didn’t bump into Kubrick (he’s been long dead) but I did bump into someone whom I have admired as an actor and who has worked with the likes of Satyajit Ray on a number of occasions. And I just didn’t bump into him. I worked along with him for a whole week on a dramatized poetry reading organized by a friend where I was helping out as stage manager. And we became mighty friendly - talking on first name basis, cracking jokes and stuff. Even after knowing his full name it took me more than a month to realize who he was. This was Dhritiman Chatterjee, the protagonist of Ray’s 1972 classic Pratidwandi. He can now be seen in the much acclaimed film Black as Rani Mukherjee’s father. There is a slight possibility that I might be acting along side him in the near future in a play. I have my fingers crossed.

* The first time I used an escalator was in 1988 in the Delhi international airport. These moving staircases impressed me like no other wonder of science had ever done before. I had already been on an airplane a month before but somehow the experience of riding an escalator overshadowed that experience. Throughout my brief stay in London (summer 1988) I did what kids all over the world have done at some time or the other (most snipers in movies also make their escape the same way) – going down an escalator which is moving upwards or vice versa. I spent endless hours trying to find the perfect speed with my small legs to counter the upwards movement of the escalator. What resulted was something akin to suspended animation (I always liked the coyote more than the roadrunner). Somehow running at top speed and still not moving a meter forward has its own charm (I find treadmills interesting for the same reason).

Structured Procrastination

2005-01-31T15:29:00.000+05:30

You know you have hit rock bottom when you have to put up someone else’s writing on your blog.

Structured Procrastination
By John Perry
Version of April 25, 1995

I have been intending to write this essay for months. Why am I finally doing it? Because I finally found some uncommitted time? Wrong. I have papers to grade, textbook orders to fill out, an NSF proposal to referee, dissertation drafts to read. I am working on this essay as a way of not doing all of those things. This is the essence of what I call structured procrastination, an amazing strategy I have discovered that converts procrastinators into effective human beings, respected and admired for all that they can accomplish and the good use they make of time. All procrastinators put off things they have to do. Structured procrastination is the art of making this bad trait work for you. The key idea is that procrastinating does not mean doing absolutely nothing. Procrastinators seldom do absolutely nothing; they do marginally useful things, like gardening or sharpening pencils or making a diagram of how they will reorganize their files when they get around to it. Why does the procrastinator do these things? Because they are a way of not doing something more important. If all the procrastinator had left to do was to sharpen some pencils, no force on earth could get him do it. However, the procrastinator can be motivated to do difficult, timely and important tasks, as long as these tasks are a way of not doing something more important.

Structured procrastination means shaping the structure of the tasks one has to do in a way that exploits this fact. The list of tasks one has in mind will be ordered by importance. Tasks that seem most urgent and important are on top. But there are also worthwhile tasks to perform lower down on the list. Doing these tasks becomes a way of not doing the things higher up on the list. With this sort of appropriate task structure, the procrastinator becomes a useful citizen. Indeed, the procrastinator can even acquire, as I have, a reputation for getting a lot done.

The most perfect situation for structured procrastination that I ever had was when my wife and I served as Resident Fellows in Soto House, a Stanford dormitory. In the evening, faced with papers to grade, lectures to prepare, committee work to be done, I would leave our cottage next to the dorm and go over to the lounge and play ping-pong with the residents, or talk over things with them in their rooms, or just sit there and read the paper. I got a reputation for being a terrific Resident Fellow, and one of the rare profs on campus who spent time with undergraduates and got to know them. What a set up: play ping pong as a way of not doing more important things, and get a reputation as Mr. Chips.

Procrastinators often follow exactly the wrong tack. They try to minimize their commitments, assuming that if they have only a few things to do, they will quit procrastinating and get them done. But this goes contrary to the basic nature of the procrastinator and destroys his most important source of motivation. The few tasks on his list will be by definition the most important, and the only way to avoid doing them will be to do nothing. This is a way to become a couch potato, not an effective human being. At this point you may be asking, "How about the important tasks at the top of the list, that one never does?" Admittedly, there is a potential problem here.

The trick is to pick the right sorts of projects for the top of the list. The ideal sorts of things have two characteristics, First, they seem to have clear deadlines (but really don't). Second, they seem awfully important (but really aren't). Luckily, life abounds with such tasks. In universities the vast majority of tasks fall into this category, and I'm sure the same is true for most other large institutions. Take for example the item right at the top of my list right now. This is finishing an essay for a volume in the philosophy of language. It was supposed to be done eleven months ago. I have accomplished an enormous number of important things as a way of not working on it. A couple of months ago, bothered by guilt, I wrote a letter to the editor saying how sorry I was to be so late and expressing my good intentions to get to work. Writing the letter was, of course, a way of not working on the article. It turned out that I really wasn't much further behind schedule than anyone else. And how important is this article anyway? Not so important that at some point something that seems more important won't come along. Then I'll get to work on it.

Another example is book order forms. I write this in June. In October, I will teach a class on Epistemology. The book order forms are already overdue at the book store. It is easy to take this as an important task with a pressing deadline (for you non-procrastinators, I will observe that deadlines really start to press a week or two after they pass.) I get almost daily reminders from the department secretary, students sometimes ask me what we will be reading, and the unfilled order form sits right in the middle of my desk, right under the wrapping from the sandwich I ate last Wednesday. This task is near the top of my list; it bothers me, and motivates me to do other useful but superficially less important things. But in fact, the book store is plenty busy with forms already filed by non-procrastinators. I can get mine in mid-Summer and things will be fine. I just need to order popular well-known books from efficient publishers. I will accept some other, apparently more important, task sometime between now and, say, August 1st. Then my psyche will feel comfortable about filling out the order forms as a way of not doing this new task.

The observant reader may feel at this point that structured procrastination requires a certain amount of self-deception, since one is in effect constantly perpetrating a pyramid scheme on oneself. Exactly. One needs to be able to recognize and commit oneself to tasks with inflated importance and unreal deadlines, while making oneself feel that they are important and urgent. This is not a problem, because virtually all procrastinators have excellent self-deceptive skills also. And what could be more noble than using one character flaw to offset the bad effects of another?

Le Moron

2004-12-25T17:40:00.000+05:30

Thinking about:

* “O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?”

This is perhaps the most misinterpreted line on stage. Juliet looks out of her balcony, her eyes searching far and wide for the pilgrim who purged his sins by her lips. And she calls out – Where are you Romeo?

No. Absolutely not! She is not asking him for his whereabouts. What she really means is – Why are you Romeo?

I didn’t know this till a few days back. But now that I know, I am haunted by it - not by the Bard or his tragedy but by the provider of this piece of knowledge.

* Obese dogs springing off with a ‘boing boing’ sound after crash landing on someone’s tummy.

* Red eyes. I wish I had them permanently. It’s not the looks. I never bother about them. Mine is the face which sank a thousand ships. It’s all about the devil and Al.

* Humility and the lack thereof in yours truly.

* Percy Sledge and how right he was.

* Finding a small unassuming puddle of muck and drowning myself in it. ‘Dumb ass moron’, say the voices. I agree completely.

* Spiky and Duck. I am so happy for the two of you.

* New Year Resolution – find a wall, turn towards it, start running, gather speed and smash into it. In case the brain survives, repeat. If destroyed, repeat anyway. If I am still a moron, then repeat (this is going to be an infinite loop)

* Fork ( ) command and unrestricted processes and how I once brought the Vanavil network down. Will you shut up for crying out loud?

* Pretentious pseudo-intellectuals and the genuine gems of intellect. I know a handful of both. I would like to tear apart the former and invite the latter to a book slam.

* The fly, the raven and the dead poet. Need to get back to writing. But first, practice for the resolution.

Ok my head hurts and there is a big bump on it and I still can’t stop thinking about the first few (top two actually) points. Sleeping pills or booze or driving with my eyes closed?

Down the River Styx

2004-12-16T18:58:00.000+05:30

Over the last two years I have gone to Bang-a-whore (ahmm, old jokes cease to be funny - Bangalore) over a dozen times for both work and pleasure (who am I kidding? Always for pleasure, just this once also did some work on the side). I always had a thing for the city despite the fact that my time there was spent entirely on the triangle of MG, Brigade and Residency roads.

The first few journeys were limited to Pecos (that beacon of light for all children of Bacchus), Purple Haze (gone down the drain over the years), the Bunker (still enjoy their UV lights) and Corner House (hmmm, this place sells the best ice cream in the world. At one time I tried to persuade the manager to change the name of their best-seller ‘Death by Chocolate’ to ‘Life by Chocolate’ citing the fact that chocolate is an aphrodisiac and helps the process of procreation).

But preferences change over the years – now Styx (best rock in town) is in, Cosmo Village’s voluptuous bartenders beckon and Zero G’s dance floor is inviting as always. Spinz (I don’t think I got the name right, whatever) sucks – it’s a crappy place best suited for all ye wannabe yuppies out there. The L-Squares at IIMB rock and the people there will be in my heart forever.

The reason I just took off to Bangalore was quite simple – needed to get some perspective back in life (really?! That’s not what you said earlier in bed darling).

I wanted to go there for two things – to take another look at the world I have left far behind (the world of corporate jobs, formal clothes, presentations and working 50 hours without a break) and to list out the things which would complete my fragmented life and calm the voices in my head. Bangalore gave me a taste of both these worlds at the same time.

The world I have left – I could have kicked the corporate asses to kingdom come. I always gave the best presentations in class and no one looks more killer than me in formal clothes. This world called out to me like a wailing siren (waiting to devour the wonder-struck sailor) but I survived. Been there, done that – I am at peace with what I am doing with my life – writing it is, writing it shall remain. No second thoughts.

The world I want – I already know what was missing in my life. Bangalore just manifested her and put her in my arms – albeit for a very short time. ‘Silence’, command the voices in unison. Silence it shall be.

While in Styx with some old cronies, remembered spilling beer over a close friend a couple of months back and got a little sentimental. I immediately ordered a Bull Frog (vodka based cocktail) to remember BluePuss and the other Horrors. Man we guys rocked. I realized that life was good because I have the best friends in the world (wherever they are and however they may be connected). Remembering the advice a friend gave a few days back –

When the day is long and the night, the night is yours alone,
When you’re sure you’ve had enough of this life, well hang on
Don’t let yourself go, everybody cries and everybody hurts sometimes

Sometimes everything is wrong. now it’s time to sing along
When your day is night alone, (hold on, hold on)
If you feel like letting go, (hold on)
When you think you’ve had too much of this life, well hang on

’cause everybody hurts. take comfort in your friends
Everybody hurts. don’t throw your hand. oh, no. don’t throw your hand
If you feel like you’re alone, no, no, no, you are not alone

REM Everybody Hurts

More Random Ramblings (due to the lack of coherent thought structure)

2004-12-08T23:39:00.000+05:30

* Kids are capable of extreme cruelty. And no, I am not talking about angst-ridden teenagers. O Nay! I am talking about those cute little shits running around as if there is no tomorrow. Yes in my most humble opinion kids can be evil. And I am not talking the ‘Omen’ kind of evil (Anti-Christ reborn and 666). I am talking about your average regular 6 year old.

My mom started teaching again and a few days back I was waiting for her outside her school in my car (I got there about an hour earlier than expected). So I see these little kids playing. They all seemed really excited about something and were huddled together around a boy who was holding something in his hand. Curiosity took the better of me and I got out of my car to take a look at what it was that had spellbound those kids.

In his hand the boy was holding nature’s very own helicopters – dragonflys. Now I absolutely love these creatures for their terrific shape and amazing mobility and for the sheer genius that the universe employed to make them. As a kid I used to run along with them, imagining I had wings to fly. I felt happy that kids were still kids and got excited by the beauty around them. But what happened next left me shell shocked.

The boy proceeded to tear off the wings of the dragonfly one by one and then squashed the remaining body of the creature. And all this was done to a loud chorus of cheers by the other kids. Then a girl standing next to this boy said – lets catch some more and kill them all. The kids started running around frantically in pursuit of those magnificent creatures. In the next ten minutes they went on a murderous spree and killed over a dozen helicopters. I was so outraged at this collective brutal act that I wanted to enter the school compound and butt whack them so hard their next ten generations would have trouble shitting. Some how I controlled my anger and realized that I could squash them the same way they squashed those innocent dragonflies.

In retrospect I realized that what they did would leave no guilt in them. Kids don’t know concepts like guilt and remorse and this very innocence and purity of their cruelty makes them so dangerous. I swear by the universe that I love kids and am still one at heart or at least would like to be one. But what I saw left me puzzled.

Came back home and saw the news for a change. Three rag-pickers (aged 6 to 11) killed a 5 year old boy because they had decided they didn’t like him. And they weren’t affected by this at all even after the police arrested them. They simply failed to understand the seriousness of their actions. I didn’t know what to think of this whole situation. Luckily there was little Ashi (my neighbour’s 5 year old daughter) who restored my faith in little kids. She has been my spiritual guru for some time now and gives the best advice on all aspects of life. When I told her what the little kids in my mom’s school did that afternoon she just laughed about the whole thing. Then she proceeded to chase her little dog around my drawing room and brought a big smile back on my face.

Innocence is not dead. Not yet.

* Spontaneity is so over rated and so misunderstood. All of us admire it and crave it. But there are very few who can wield this powerful weapon. Some call it wit, some call it charm. I call it a practiced art. ‘Hah! Are you listenin' to me, son? I'm givin' ya pearls here.’ Being able to reel off line after line of rib-tickling humour and being able to charm the ladies (or charm the gentlemen depending on your gender and sexual orientation) requires endless hours of practice. To be able to leave a lasting impression and whisk someone off their feet requires deep thinking and introspection. So all ye romantics out there listen carefully – there are no spontaneous people in this world – all us charmers are good actors who pretend to be making this stuff with the back of the toenails of our left foot.

So you! Yeah I am talking to you O Red Haired One. Next time you are setting me up on a chance encounter with such a gorgeous, beautiful, adorable, magnificent, stunning, ravishing, pulchritudinous girl, don’t give me a message at 6:30 pm to tell me I am going to meet her at 7:00 pm. I will be left speechless and stunned (yeah, me - speechless) as I was today. Give me at least two hours because every creature is unique and one has to think about all the things one should say and things one should hold back.

Well at least you tried. It’s a beginning.

* Going to Bangalore this Friday on a much needed vacation - will be there for almost a week. Also need a break from this virtual world. Need to spend some down time and clear up (or maybe clutter up) my head.

* Opus I

This silent call you make,
A silence so raging loud
I fear the world knows its meaning.
If you fill every corner of a room
Where can I look?
If I close my eyes
the silence becomes louder!
There is no escape from you.
The only way out
is in.

- Spike Milligan

The Collective Sigh of a Thousand Vacuum Cleaners

2004-12-04T21:17:00.000+05:30

Easy Clean Dust Buster 5000 was the latest and most sophisticated offering by the UDirtyVClean Corporation (headquartered in Salem, Massachusetts). In fact it had been more or less responsible for resurrecting the fortunes of the almost insolvent Corporation.

The 4000 series with its latest Stick design had failed to fire the collective imagination of the usual suspects who bought the products offered by the Corporation. They complained that it resembled the now obsolete broomstick both in design and functionality. It also didn’t offer any comfort to their sore bottoms, a feature they had deeply craved ever since the High Council had decided to replace broomsticks with vacuum cleaners. This had been done during the harsh winter of the Chinese year of the Green Monkey.

Feeling the heat from its clientele, the Corporation went back to the design board and created the 5000 series. It had a bold upright design with luxurious seating and extra storage space for spells and incantations. They also threw in the brain of a benign logo-phobic (the only one available) to make the new series more user-friendly.

The prototype of the 5000 series, Serial Number H/AL1138 was sold to the head of the High Council. Behind her back, she was known as Her Royal Highness of Prolixity for her ability to stun everyone with an endless barrage of words. This more often than not caused the listeners to drown themselves in a small, unassuming puddle of an anorexic bat’s blood.

Her verbosity meant that in a state of rage she could spew any dangerous spell from her extensive repertoire of dark magic. And this worried the good-natured and humane Easy Clean Dust Buster 5000 Serial Number H/AL1138. Not only was 1138 the official carrier of her royal posterior, it was also the mobile storage unit for all her powerful magic. Countless times it had seen innocent but curious bystanders turn into aardvarks, flamingos, guinea pigs, lion tailed macaques, Caribbean rhinoceros iguanas and even puss and fungus just because they had been interested in listening to the words of an old hag riding a shining brand new vacuum cleaner.

“This had to stop”, thought the simple minded but well meaning 1138 to itself, its one horse power motor making a loud roar - the world must be rid of people who use their lithe tongues and dark words to stupefy others - death to the exploiters of the word. And thus began the great Vacuum Cleaning Revolution in the Chinese year of the Rooster. What had began with a roar ended with the collective sigh of a thousand vacuum cleaners. And only I, the short story writer, am left to tell this horrifying tale of annihilating suction. But no listeners left.

Convocation

2004-12-01T23:53:00.000+05:30

One of the happiest days of my life - 41st Convocation of IIT Madras held on the 30th of July 2004 - here receiving the degree from one of my favourite people on campus, Prof MS Ananth.

Random Ramblings

2004-11-18T01:38:00.000+05:30

* Last week a friend had come down to Chennai so the two of us went around the city with two other friends from IIT and had a blast. It’s weird but these guys had never had booze in the afternoon. So I introduced them to the pleasures of getting drunk in the afternoon, something which I have been doing very regularly of late.

* Saw Ram Gopal Verma’s Naach the same day. I liked the film because it was bold and different but it was really slow. Another problem with the movie was that it was very monotonous and had no comic relief at all. There was not even a single light moment in the movie. It was intense all the way. Of all the pathetic actors we have in Bollywood, Bachchan Jr and Antra Mali are the only promising ones. Here are my two cents on acting for the two of them – stop clenching your jaw muscles when you want to show anger. Doing it over and over again undermines your overall performance. There are many other ways of showing anger. Maintain eye contact with the camera and for crying out loud don’t blink at the wrong moment, it destroys the whole scene. Look at Samuel L Jackson. The guy doesn’t blink at all during a monologue and his stare is so captivating you can’t take your eyes of the screen. Practice looking in the mirror while reading your lines and don’t blink without reason. Our actors are extremely poor with non-verbal communication. Every action, every movement has to have a reason and should convey something.

* I am dying.

Ok I am being over dramatic.

But I am dying to meet you.

Can’t believe you are so near and yet so far.

* Went to the airport today. I love all these places which have a huge mass of humanity – railway stations, bus depots, libraries, etc. I think these places are really romantic. But Chennai airport (and especially the exit) is the single most unromantic place I have ever seen. A graveyard has more romantic potential. I simply cannot imagine a guy, who has just landed, running all the way to meet his babe and give her a kiss and a hug and just take her in his arms for ever and ever. The architects must have been warned in advance about the possibility of something like this happening and designed the exit in such a way that it would be impossible for the couple to do PDA – public display of affection.

* Why do people hate clichés? I love them, period. One day, I am going to write a book on clichés. It will be the most comprehensive study of clichés ever.

* Been watching this cartoon channel called Animax very regularly. It’s a Japanese channel and mostly has animated stuff based on mangas (Japanese comic strips). I simply love this series called Inu Yasha. More on this later.

* I have already told babe about this so I don’t care now about letting the cat out of the bag. These days I am going against everything the Horrors stood for. I joined a gym and have been working out very hard and very regularly. Gained 20 pounds but it doesn’t show yet, maybe in a couple of months when I cross 200 pounds.

* Attended a Beatles celebration concert at the British Council. It was alright, could have been better. They didn’t play ‘When I’m 64’ so I was disappointed.

* Been missing my IIT buddies a lot these days. A lot of stuff has been happening with them and it hurts that I can’t be a part of their life any longer. I mean of course I am a part of their lives. But it’s not the same. Babe called the other night and it’s the happiest 20 minutes I have spent in the last 4 months. I am turning into a softy. We homies got to keep it real.

* Been listening to Alice in Chains – Jar of Flies (also Rooster from the album Dirt) non stop for the last three days. I love this group. Thanks Shravan for introducing me to them. Reminded me of my fifth semester when I went through a depression for nearly six months. Broke all the cardinal rules of boozing back then – drank when I was alone, drank when I was sad and drank with people I didn’t trust. I never thought that a mature level headed guy like me would stoop so low and make mince meat of my so called self esteem. When you are in love with the idea of a person rather than being in love with the person, expect a kick in your balls. Punters call it a crush. I call it stupidity. Your mind plays games with you and makes an ordinary (down right pathetic) human being seem like an angel. I am not being vindictive (dude remember you said this to me) but it’s the truth. I am glad I got that out of my system, even though it’s been ages and life has become so much better.

* Been trying to sing like Louis Armstrong – What a Wonderful World – almost matched his voice.

* I have nothing left to talk about with my parents. I mean I love them and everything but I can no longer relate to them on any subject – the only draw back of coming to IIT. It has made me too independent. I think I need to get out of Chennai for a few days and take a break from life. Bangalore has great weather these days – cold – exactly the way I feel these days.

* Enrique’s ‘Don’t turn Off the Laaaaeeeeghts’ just started playing. Hate these random jumps in Winamp. Aha – Strangers in the Night – Frank Sinatra is amazing. Been singing Strangers before every performance to clear my throat and get myself high, works each time.

* Met the girl with the ear piercings again today. She is such a sweetheart. Just feel like cuddling her.

* Clairvoyance – the supposed ability to perceive things that are not in sight or that cannot be seen. This word has been on my mind for a long time. So has Nonchalant.

The 8150 Days of Me

2004-11-05T13:09:00.000+05:30

I remember this rather dull night, at the peak of north Indian winter, some six years back. I had been trying to solve a particularly tricky problem of mechanics from Irodov for nearly four hours. The solution was quite elusive and required a very subtle trick which my tired mind was unable to comprehend. So I kept the problem aside and decided to approach it with a fresh mind the next morning. I was also distracted because of this particular book I had acquired a couple of days before that – The 120 Day of Sodom (or the School of Freedoms or the School of Libertines) by Marquis de Sade. The book tells the story of a bunch of old men who enslave a group of teenagers and perform various sexual perversions on them and eventually kill them. All this is done while listening to stories told by old prostitutes.

Bored with my physics problems and unable to sleep I decided to read this book. Back then I had this principle of not leaving a novel unfinished and so I read this gruesome book throughout the night. When I finished reading, in the early hours of the morning, my mind had gone numb and an all pervading feeling of disgust settled over me. I didn’t eat anything the whole day because of fear of remembering the details of the coprophilia described in the book.

Fast forward to the present – I finished seeing Pier Paolo Pasolini’s film Salo: The 120 Days of Sodom based on original text by Sade but set in the Fascist Republic of Salo in 1944. Here is how the film is described on the back cover of the DVD I viewed (released by the British Film Institute):

Banned, censored and reviled the world over since its first release in 1975, Salò has rarely been shown in its complete form in Britain and did not receive BBFVC certification until late 2000, when it was passed uncut. In 1994 its US video release prompted the prosecution of a bookshop, and in Australia the ban on Salò was lifted in 1993, only to be reinstated in 1998 after questions were raised in their national parliament.

The film Salò is based on the Marquis de Sade's novel 120 Days of Sodom, with the setting transposed to an empty Lake Garda mansion in Mussolini's miniature Fascist Republic of Salò, Italy in 1944. Four wealthy and powerful libertines gather in a palazzo to organise a gluttonous, theatrical series of sexual tortures to be inflicted upon a terrified collection of subjugated young men and women.

The film's content and imagery is extreme, and it retains the power to shock, repel and distress a quarter of a century on. Pasolini was murdered shortly before the film's release, when a casual sex encounter on a beach outside Rome went tragically wrong. The reaction to the murder ensured that the public perception of Salò was tainted by the score-settling indulged in by his enemies on both the Left and the Right. Yet it remains a cinematic milestone - culturally significant, politically vital and visually stunning. The DVD release features a poster gallery, an on-screen director's biography and a director's foreword read by actor Nickolas Grace.

The film was even more gruesome and graphic in its presentation of violence then the way I had visualized it after reading the book. Nothing shocks me these days, but this movie was like a thunderbolt, waking me from a reverie like nothing else has ever done. Why did Pasolini make this movie? More importantly how did he accomplish the task of making such a harrowing movie?

As disgusted and revolted as I am after having seen the contents of the movie, there is still only one word which I can use to describe the movie – beautiful. It is sheer genius – the light work gives a very surreal detached feeling, colours are used brilliantly and direction – the best I have ever seen. I highly recommend the movie to every film aficionado, but don’t watch the movie on a full stomach and if you can’t take the violence – stop immediately. The weak of heart should not watch this film.

Bacchanalian Revelry and Masochistic Pleasures

2004-10-25T15:48:00.000+05:30

At a meeting the other day I saw this beautiful exotic-looking specimen of the fairer sex. Though I was instantly attracted towards her, something about her appearance revolted me. It took me some time to understand this dichotomy of my reaction towards her appearance. This girl was wearing a diamond nose ring and she had each of her ears pierced in six places. She was wearing beautiful ear rings (12 of them) and was looking very ethnic in her cotton salwar.

Now I have no problem with people using their bodies as a medium of self-expression through various kinds of body art – tattoos, piercing, etc. In fact I think a tattoo or a piercing at the right place looks extremely sexy. And I thought this particular girl looked very hot because of the piercing. However, I cringed at the thought of her or anybody else inflicting such pain on their bodies. Friends inform me that the process is not at all painful and it’s just like getting injected with a big needle. The process is also very swift because these days they use a device which resembles a nail gun (a shudder just ran down my spine while writing those two words). I remember accompanying a four year old cousin to her first ear piercing some ten years back. I also remember her laughing all the way back home and me having an expression of sheer terror on my face. It had taken me a month to get over the barbaric ritual I saw that day. The scene still haunts me sometimes in my dreams (I need a drink to calm my nerves).

I am back.

Now I am certainly no chicken. As a kid, doctors never had a problem injecting me. I never even winced at the sight of a large injection (and oh boy! I got many of those, me being a clumsy dolt as a kid). I have even received two pairs of stitches on the back of my head and I still have the marks to prove it (though now they have been covered by a good growth of hair). And yet I would never have the courage to get a tattoo or a piercing (not that I want one). Something about this whole piercing business smells of masochism. I understand how creating an image for oneself (through the clothes we wear, brands we sport, etc.) is so important these days when the first impression means everything (I would have never called the girl exotic, sexy or hot sans her piercing) and yet how far are we ready to go with this. It has to be a certain pleasure we derive from inflicting pain on ourselves which warrants such extreme (think nail gun) measures.

Personally, I am big fan of pain. Pain can do a lot of good. Its power to inspire is unmatched, and till my search for a muse remains fruitless, pain remains the acting-muse. Not that I have to go looking for someone to pain me, but there have been instances when under the effect of Bacchus’ greatest gift to mankind I have asked a few inspiring pugilists to land the real McCoy bang on my face. One chap actually obliged me and I was left with a cut an inch long inside my mouth which made eating anything impossible for the next one week. I will always remember that chap because it turned out to be a very fruitful week in which I wrote feverishly. But never would I condone the act of piercing.

Trudi: You know how they use that gun to pierce your ears? They don't use that when they pierce your nipples, do they?

Jody: Forget that gun. That gun goes against the entire idea behind piercing. All of my piercings, sixteen places on my body, all of them done with a needle. Five in each ear, one through the nipple on my left breast, one through my right nostril, one through my left eyebrow, one in my lip, one in my clit... and I wear a stud in my tongue.

Vincent: Excuse me, but I was just wondering... why do you wear a stud in your tongue?

Jody: It's a sex thing. It helps fellatio.

Lance: Don Vincenzo. Step into my office?

[Later]

Lance: Hey, whattya think about Trudi? She ain't got a boyfriend. You wanna hang out, get high?

Vincent: Which one's Trudi? The one with all the shit in her face?

Lance: No, that's Jody. That's my wife.

… Pulp Fiction

I Lost to my Voices

2004-10-22T10:34:00.000+05:30

The voices in my head just told me -
You are never coming back

We spent some good times together
You and me, me and you.

But the voices drove you crazy
And so you went far away.

Far away into the void of nothingness
Where your own imagination

Does not revolt and bite you in the ass.
Where the phantoms of your dead neurons

Don’t trouble you in the middle of night
While you are fighting the minions

Of the ancient gods of Valhalla.
Damn! Damn these voices.

I should have drowned them long back
In a small puddle of creative fungus

Which is now so cheaply available,
In large cans made of tin at the mart.

I should have gone away with you
And left this comfortable numbness behind.

No one would have wept
I assure you, except a few

They would have written an obituary,
Not for me, but for those wretched voices.

You were the only one, who knew me,
Who had peeled all the lairs and found me

Buried deep within myself. My own voice
Muffled by those who wanted to reign supreme.

You were the only one who heard me and my voices.
But you have now gone far away,

I remember everything about you
But will never see you awake.

Only in the land of dreams
Did you appear before me.

I remember your every curve
But I know you are not coming back

The voices drove you away
They wanted me for themselves.

They have won,
And we have lost.

Song to be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children

2004-10-21T13:38:00.000+05:30

I figured out something when I was twelve years old. I was a bright, precocious brat with a simple view of the world. I figured that elders (anyone who was older than me) had nothing to offer me as far as knowledge was concerned. Considering I was so young, this notion might look childish, but today I can add the weight of a decade of experience behind it. In my humble opinion elders have not been responsible for a single bit of knowledge in my head – either it was already there and I just needed to discover it or else I was smart enough to figure things out on my own. Elders may have played the role of a guide in some of the discoveries but given enough time I would have stumbled upon those hidden springs of knowledge on my own. A very egomaniacal thought but I stand by it.

However, it is a completely different ballgame when it comes to learning from younger people. I firmly believe that we grow dim-witted as we grow older. Our thoughts start following a fixed pattern and we lose the gift of being amazed and excited by life around us. No wonder even our imagination takes a big beating at the hands of age. And creativity, don’t get me started about that. As children we have so much potential and we lose it as we grow older.

Any new thought/idea/knowledge that has entered my brain has been through people younger than me. And so I had the other great revelation at the age of thirteen. I needed a younger sibling – a little baby girl who would enlighten me about the truths of life. Never thought about having a younger brother because I expected he’d turn out like me and the world couldn’t handle two of us. The sad part was that if my theory of transfer of knowledge from younger to older brains was true even for others than I would contribute zilch to the mental growth of a younger sister. At least I would be able to play the protective elder brother who beats up any punk that comes close to his little princess. I imagined I would make a very cool elder brother. As fate would have it I remain the only child of my doting parents.

And hence I come to the next more crucial point. My mental growth is now almost stagnant; it has remained so for the last couple of years. I have come across younger men and women who have contributed to my intellectual growth but it has happened in small bursts spread sporadically over time.

That little baby girl is very elusive. Someday she will wake me from my intellectual dormancy. Till then ...

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise, my blood runs cold
When little boys go by.
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry.
No matter how they tarry,
Eventually they marry.
And, swine among the pearls,
They marry little girls.

Ogden Nash

Hoping for a Sinusoidal Life

2004-10-20T10:05:00.000+05:30

Wonder of wonders! I have been making money doing things I absolutely love and through which I never intended to make any dough. Yeah, so it’s not a lot of money. But it’s enough to treat friends to a good dinner and a movie and maybe some booze this weekend. I can see the gleaming eyes on the other side of the world, eyes which didn’t get to see the ‘chickhhheen’. But let me assure the owners of these eyes – I missed you all. Go ahead treat yourself to the ‘Horror $120 Lola and Nicky’ package. It is highly recommended by one of our kind in Texas.

Yesterday I was part of this reading which was organized to give the audience a flavour of the six books which were nominated for the Booker Prize this year. The reading went well. I read excerpts from Bitter Fruit and Cloud Atlas. I was thinking Cloud Atlas would win. But these judging panels never cease to amaze me. The award went to The Line of Beauty, a book which is so pedestrian it makes Sidney Sheldon novels look like literature. Let’s hope that David Mitchell (who wrote Cloud Atlas and was nominated for the second time) is third time lucky.

Life is going on at a steady pace, which can be a good thing, but I prefer a sinusoidal curve. I some how feel that inertia has set in and I am waiting for something big and drastic to happen (ok I have a vague notion of the kind of thing I’ll call drastic, so it wouldn’t be a bolt from the blues). For now my fingers are crossed and double crossed. It is ironic but even a steady and assured upward-looking future is sending me into a depression. Carpe diem, that’s what a friend said. How?

Right now I feel what Rembrandt would feel if he ever saw this (lucky him, he’s dead).

How-To: Literary Poetry

2004-09-28T15:43:00.000+05:30

“Love inevitably leads to sadness”
Now had the great poet known this

He would have become a poet,
A messiah of lost causes and hearts

At a tender age of eleven and three-quarts.
But it took another eleven years

And a bunch of pathetic failures
To drive-in and make him realize

That love is a deadly wiper that bites,
And no amount of wisdom and sagacity

Can be a fitting substitute for audacity.
And all this while the wicked raven,

With his usual propensity for planning
And propinquity with the fairer sex

And with his prolix verbosity, set out
On the preposterous task to bring an end

To the sad and miserable existence
Of the great un-rhyming poet:

Who had judiciously won the bet,
Of having used propensity, propinquity,

Prolix and preposterous in the same breath.
Little did he know that his own end was near

All he had to do was ask the poet to find
A small unassuming puddle of muddy water

And drown himself in it. Oh! The shame
Had the raven known the poet’s shame

Brought about by those to whom the raven
Had been very close (see propinquity),

His task would have been so much easier.
Now they rot together in hell till the end of eternity.

Only, the poet’s pain is more.

Going Cuckoo

2004-09-28T14:21:00.000+05:30

I am extremely mad at myself. I am so mad, that I feel crazier than usual. At times like these I wish there was someone who could whack me and straighten that convoluted head of mine.

I solemnly pledge that in the future I’ll do everything according to the Rule of the Horrors. It is a simple theory, this Rule of the Horrors – before doing something which any self respecting Horror wouldn’t do (but which has to be done because of the inherent weakness of the heart and mind) think about what you would have said had someone else done that thing. If the reply is – ‘Dude! That is so gay.’ or ‘Man! That is so corny.’- don’t do it.

But everything is doomed and it is too late now. And to make matters worse I went ahead and got the worst haircut in the history of haircuts. My poor long hair is all gone now. Anguish, extreme anguish!

Other than that life is pretty good: lots of work, lots of sleep and good friends to give company. If only …

Vintery, mintery, cutery, corn,
Apple seed and apple thorn;
Wire, briar, limber lock,
Three geese in a flock.
One flew east,
And one flew west,
And one flew over the cuckoo's nest.

Death of the Great Poet

2004-09-21T13:48:00.000+05:30

The day was dull
New thoughts entered his skull.

He took out his Deus-Ex-Machina,
Went down to the old cave of McKenna.

This is as far as he rhymed
His whole life now turned into grime.

The raven plummeted from the sky,
It was his prescribed day to die.

Out of the weird shades of blues
A lightning bolt was hurled by Zeus.

Struck by the mighty thunder
The poet was broken asunder.

He landed on a woman’s promiscuity
Apologized, and went away in a scurry.

The raven fell on his head
The claws formed a nice little Zed.

I am Zorro said the raven,
I’ll have your head shaven.

Spare my long dark hair,
Reconsider, be a little fair.

You are the mighty bird of the west
At least give me sometime to rest.

And so the poet went on and on
The poor raven grew very forlorn.

He couldn’t take this jabbering no more,
Decided that his wretched life was such a bore.

And so the raven committed suicide
Having considerably hurt the poet’s pride.

The poet died a few days later of common cold,
It had taken a toll on the poor blighter’s soul.

Now he rusts in peace in the depths of Valhalla,
Royalties from the poems, raking in the moolah.

Requiem for an Un-rhyming Poet in Less than Five Minutes

2004-09-17T13:23:00.000+05:30

The problem with this world is that it doesn’t change,
The only thing that history has taught us is

That history repeats itself again and again.
Why is that? I have asked and will ask again.

Quite simple you see – the world does not change.
I look back with my mouth wide open

A fly enters and finding nothing interesting inside
Buzzes back outside to the never changing world.

But how can it be – I have seen the world change
In front of my eyes, eyes which have changed with

Your so called never changing world.
Aha!! It is only your eyes which have changed my friend

The rest of the world around you remains the same.
Haven’t your eyes changed along with mine –

I say to this condescending friend of mine
Oh yes they have changed but the world hasn’t.

And who is responsible for all this un-change
For that I’ll give you an answer you’ll hate:

It is the poets who do not rhyme that are the
Cause of all this misery, all this pain

They refuse to rhyme and be coherent
And make our lives more prosaic than

They ought to be. Death to these poets
I say – death, hang them by their

Toe nails and set the raven upon them.
Which raven, I ask, the one whose existence

Is familiar, matter-of-fact, pointless,
Prosy, unembellished, uninteresting,

I see you have acquired a new thesaurus.
Ah!! The very best there is – Roget’s.

Raven, Raven up in the sky
Why the hell don’t you die die die

Take this un-rhyming poet along with you
And burn in the depths of hell till you smell

Raven, Poet die die die
Go to hell and fry fry fry.

Rotting in hell – Anshumani Ruddra © 2004

An Evening with the Alphabets

2004-09-09T01:11:00.000+05:30

I have made two new friends recently. For the sake of convenience and anonymity I shall call them Alice and Bob. Now Alice is seventeen and Bob is eighteen and they have just started going to college. In a very short time both of them have endeared themselves to me and I look upon them with brotherly affection. They are quite naïve (probably because they are young) and have a lot to learn about the ways of the world and for some odd reason they think I am some kind of a wise old man (just shows how naïve they are).They are also madly in love with each other and for some odd reason I end up becoming the moderator in all their fights (and they fight a lot – perhaps it explains the ‘madly’ part of their love).

Some days back we were all sitting around in the bar of a very up town hotel with a number of other friends. Alice and Bob were on my left. A rather beautiful specimen of the fairer sex, Clarice, was sitting on my right and was jabbering away to glory with Dick (wonder why I gave him that name, maybe because he is one). Every now and then she would turn around, touch my hand and ask me whether I agreed with what she was saying. Since I wasn’t paying any particular attention to what she was saying (because I was busy checking out the butt of an Eleanor standing near the bar counter) I always replied in the affirmative. Watching Eleanor’s butt and answering yes-you-are-absolutely-right to Clarice was soon interrupted by the chipmunks on my left.

Alice was beating the shit out of Bob for having called her a bra-burning-feminist. Now I have been caught in this situation before where a girl was protesting that she was not a feminist. I also happen to know a thing or two about feminism.

The word has been degraded over the decades to a man-hating-children-hating-housewife-hating woman. This is probably due to the negative impact of the second wave feminism of the late sixties when some misguided women decided that the root of all inequality and all evil were men and women who wanted just to be mothers and housewives. But so strong was this movement (still is) that it overshadowed the feminists who were just asking for equal rights for women in all spheres of life. Sadly all feminists (even the ones who still like men and want to have families) are considered to be a part of the misguided feminists.

Some feminists are so deluded that they do not even accept the physical differences between men and women and want to engineer a society where everyone is the same. Thus, a few stories recently have been about schools removing urinals from the boy's bathrooms, and telling the boys they should piss sitting down, like the girls. This is to eliminate the sense of power that boys supposedly have in using their penises to direct urine where they wish. These Americans are absolutely crazy.

So I explained to the two chipmunks that ‘feminism’ wasn’t a profanity and the bra-burning never really happened (it’s an urban legend). Then I went back to admiring Eleanor’s butt and touching Clarice’s hand (by this time I had already downed a number of beers and was in full flow). I also noticed that Dick had lost his perpendicularity (if there is a word like that) to the ground. He was snoring peacefully in one corner.

Now the topic somehow shifted to mythology which happens to be home territory for me. Clarice wanted to know about Pandora. I was feeling quite high by now and was about to achieve one of those rare moments of absolute clarity. My thoughts were being coherently translated to words which were smoothly flowing out of my lips and I was getting higher because I had everyone’s rapt attention.

What followed was my usual comparison of all mythology (Greek, Roman, Indian and Biblical) and how there was this underlying theme running in all of them, that women were the cause of all misery on earth. Though we Indians worship women and consider them (Shakti) superior to even the trinity of Brahma, Vishnu and Mahesh we do have instances in our mythology where women caused strife. Kunti (mother of all Pandavs) for example could have stopped the Mahabharata had she told her sons that Karna was their elder brother. Yudhishthira when told the truth after the war cursed all womanhood with the inability to keep a secret - hence all the gossip. Helen a mere woman caused the Trojan war, Pandora opened the box given to her by the gods and released sorrow, disease and conflict and Eve decided to eat the forbidden fruit (essentially had sex) and got Adam and herself thrown out of the Garden of Eden. Humanity was also cursed with procreation (which isn’t really a curse) and women had to undergo labour pains as a result.

Now there were a lot of women in our group so I went ahead and said something on the lines of – but what are men without women, which brought a smile on Clarice’s face (I hadn’t noticed before, she had a dimple on her left cheek). Bob however was very excited about this whole women-being-the-cause-of-all-misery thing and was also a little drunk. So he went around and told every woman in our group that they deserved labour pains. Most of them forgave him for being young and foolish, but Alice went ahead and knocked the daylights (nightlights, maybe) out of him.

The evening went on like this and we all finally decided to call it a day around one AM. Clarice asked me if I could drop her at her house. I was more then happy to oblige and was looking forward to a long romantic drive in my car. Yeah but these things never really happen, do they. Alice and Bob had come to this party with me and I had to leave them as well. Both of them had sorted out their differences by now and were in a very lovey-dovey mood. They were also considerably drunk and couldn’t stand properly. So I dragged the two of them to my car and shoved them in the back seat. Clarice sat with me on the front seat and we started out.

The talk revolved around men and our apparent immaturity. Alice and Clarice were putting on a good offence and I was busy driving and Bob, well he was being himself and was shouting at the top of his voice that he was all grown up and was very mature. Suddenly Alice quipped that Bob hadn’t even bought his first pack of condoms. Now this was hitting below the belt and hurt Bob deeply. “Find a chemist, find a pharmacy immediately and I’ll show her that I can buy a pack of condoms”, shouted Bob.

Perhaps it was the booze; perhaps it was the fact that Clarice was looking at me with those pretty eyes and luscious lips; perhaps it was that by helping Bob I wanted to make a stand for the weaker sex (men, of course). So we went around the city, at that god forsaken hour, on a wild goose chase (rather a wild condom chase) in search for an open drugstore. It was wild; it was fun; it was extremely stupid.

We finally found one open. So Bob stepped out of the car to prove his manhood and fell down. I had to get out and carry him to the front door of the drugstore. “Wouldn’t you come in with me”, said Bob. I could imagine the Horrorz (Ravi, Suds and Nijith) saying –man that is sooo gay, two guys buying condoms. Gay or not I had to help Bob in picking up the last remaining shreds of his manhood. So we went in, me holding Bob, and stood there for sometime. Bob tried. He definitely did. “Can I ... err… can I … ahmmm … can I have some Chlormints.”

“Dumb ass”, I thought and gave him another chance. This was getting out of hand. The girls were sounding the car horn as if proclaiming their victory. Something had to be done. So I turned my back towards the car and told the chemist to forget about the chlormints and give me a pack of Kamasutra. This guy didn’t even bat an eyelid, as if this happened to him daily (it probably did). “Pack of 3 or 10”, he said. “Ten”, exclaimed Bob out of nowhere and looked up at me. I was getting very angry by now so I took the pack of 10, shoved it in Bob’s hand, handed over a 50 and didn’t even take the four bucks change the chemist owed me.

We went back to the car. Bob was now showing off to Alice: “Naaa na naaa na naaa, I got the condoms, I got the condoms”. Alice seemed very proud of him and they again went back to their lovey-dovey mood and before long I could see that they had dozed off. They looked very cute, like a pair of chipmunks. I laughed to myself. Clarice just said, “You are my hero” and gave me a peck (Dictionary – to kiss briefly and casually) on the cheek. We needed a drink and so decided to hit the bar again. That was one long memorable night. For the perverts - all I have is a peck on the cheek to remember the evening by, more on Clarice later.

Roots

2004-09-02T14:14:00.000+05:30

I have no roots. This never bothered me before, but it is something which has been weighing me down lately. I was never a religious person and thoroughly believe that religion is just opium for the masses - a way to channel their faith and give them something to believe in. I have also never been able to identify myself with any group based on region and language, which is probably a great thing but at times is disadvantageous. So I am trying to run a thought experiment in my head and elucidate this subject of roots.

I was born into a Brahmin family in the city of Bhopal (MP). Both my parents have Kashmiri roots but their families have been living in Punjab for generations. So for all practical purposes they are Punjabis. But because of my dad’s job they have lived away from the northern part of our country for majority of their married life. Hence we always speak Hindi/English at home and though I can understand a bit of Punjabi I have a hard time speaking it. Because of dad’s job we changed places regularly because in a bank each promotion is usually accompanied by a transfer. So over the course of my first eighteen years on this third rock from the sun, I changed eight schools.

The chain of places I have lived in is something like this: 1982–83 Bhopal, 1983-84 Itarsi, 1984-1988 Bhopal, 1988-89 London, 1989-1991 Bombay, 1991-1993 Mhow, 1993-1996 Bhopal, 1996-2000 Chandigarh, 2000-2002 Mumbai, 2002-2004 Hyderabad/Mumbai and 2000-present Chennai. The last four years while I have been living in Chennai and studying at IIT Madras my folks have moved a number of times.

Now I live in Chennai. Though I have spent a lot of time in Bhopal during three brief stints and have a lot of fond memories of the city and my schools, I have a hard time calling it home. I loved my brief stay in Hyderabad and thought that I could finally call some place home. That didn’t happen. Chennai is one city I truly love probably because IIT is here. I love my alma mater and it is perhaps the only place I can call home.

But the real problem is that though I have enjoyed living in so many cities and making so many friends, I have been unable to keep in touch with my old acquaintances. There are some people who I have luckily found because of the internet but there are hundreds of others who I’ll never see. Most of my IIT friends have gone abroad or have taken up jobs. They will eventually get over IIT because they will make new friends and their new life will keep them busy. I on the other hand decided to become a writer and continued to stay here in Chennai. Although I have lots of friends here, I have had a tough time getting over my IIT friends. But well that is a different story.

At a very young age I started liking English and soon it became the language in which I thought. Even my dreams now are in English. It is the only language in which I am able to express myself (and IIT lingo of course). In some ways this lack of roots and any kind of lasting association with a region has made me the person I am. I remember writing in my CV that I have excellent interpersonal skills and I am as extrovert as they get. This is quite true. I am able to make friends with anyone I want to and am not hindered by language/region. But on the other hand I don’t have the qualities (good/bad) which an archetypal north Indian or south Indian would have. Hence I have never been able to identify myself with any such group. I am a misfit in more ways than one. But I have been lucky enough to meet people who liked me for what I was and accepted me into their lives. To all those friends – thank you. Home is where your friends are.

Ars Gratis Artis

2004-08-31T20:00:00.000+05:30

I have finally acquired my own set of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, a trilogy in five parts written by Douglas Adams (known as DNA to his countless fans throughout the galaxy and perhaps the most popular man now at the restaurant at the end of the universe – Elvis comes a close second). I read the five books around three years back and kept reading them again and again even though it meant bunking all my classes (which I did very gladly anyway). Our world lost a truly unique man on 11^th May 2001. May his towel come in handy.

After reading a recent entry on Pracci’s blog and following the ongoing battle of wits and slandering in her comments section I decided to investigate this need to be a member of one cult group or another. Why is it that we feel the need to identify ourselves as ‘Metallica’ fans, ‘Harry Potter’ zealots and ‘Stanley Kubrick’ aficionados? Before going any further let me clear my own stance on this subject. I am a die hard buff of the following people and their work:

Note – A list of favourite films, books, TV sitcoms, performers, etc. would be endless and require a Herculean effort to prepare from my side (maybe I will do it). These are the people I worship

Al Pacino
Charlie Chaplin
Douglas Adams
Hobbes (not the philosopher because he was a materialist)
Homer
Ingrid Bergman
Jim Carrey
JRR Tolkien
Mel Blanc
Oscar Wilde
Ovid
Quentin Tarantino
Roger McGough
Stanley Kubrick
Vivien Leigh
Yoda (I know he isn’t real, but that is the greatest tragedy of this world)

These are the names that come to my mind at this moment. There may be others but more on that later. The point of this list was to show that I am inclined in a rather extreme way to follow other people and their work and worship it. I also spend a lot of time discussing the philosophy behind a particular work.

A friend (Blue pussy I think) once said that the reason people become admirers is because of peer pressure, they like Lord of the Rings because every other person claims to be a fan. I completely disagree. Yes, there are those who could claim to be adherents of a particular film/book/actor because all their other friends are claiming the same thing. But I don’t think a 20 something guy/girl would claim to be a Harry Potter fan until and unless they really adore the books (I like the books but Rowling has a lot to learn about fantasy writing). The reason why you love something is quite hard to explain. Often the reason turns out to be quite trivial. Take for example Tarantino. All his movies are pointless, lack any coherent story and yet are so entertaining and visually stunning that he is regarded by many as a master director and story writer.

But recently I have seen another trend. Most people would claim to hate an otherwise popular book/movie just to appear different and stand out. Some of them haven’t even taken the effort to go through the books which they claim to hate so much. These are the people who are in a cult of their own – the cult of the We-Don’t-Like-Cults.

But wait. There was something else that I had in mind. The real question (three of them actually) in my mind was the following – does the creator of fiction (writer/director/actor/painter) always put his own personal philosophy forward through the medium of his work? Should the receiver (reader/viewer) really be forming his own personal philosophy based on somebody else’s work? Is it necessary for art to have a meaning, a message?

The answer to all the questions according to me is no. Great books which changed the way people thought or which were at least aimed at trying to change people are few in number. And yet I believe that a work of art is not necessarily a projection of the creator’s philosophy. It could be, but not always. A writer for example chooses a particular set of principles for his book. They could be similar to his beliefs but could also be their exact opposite. His integrity, and therefore the book’s integrity, lies in his staying true to the set of principles he has selected for his book, not in his following his own personal philosophy (which could be a superset of the book’s principles).

Example – Thomas Harris has created perhaps the greatest villain of our times – Hannibal Lecter. Hannibal loves human flesh and has killed many. Yet for some reason we find ourselves attracted towards him and are rooting for him when he is going on a killing spree. That is called integrity. Harris has remained true to his character even though he himself might be disgusted at the idea of killing and eating another human being. He has succeeded in creating a character we fear and love at the same time. There is never a sudden change of heart where Lecter is himself disgusted with his habits. A part of him is evil and is convinced of its own superiority and its right to kill and eat the ones who don’t deserve to live. Lecter is the law. He punishes. Does that mean that it is Harris’ belief that a man should take the law into his own hands and go about killing people who end up on his wrong side? I think not.

A better example would me Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita. Humbert Humbert is a pervert and ruins the life of Dolores Haze (Lolita) and yet the reader feels his pain and the reader’s heart goes out to him. Yeah so he did some regrettable things and fell in love with such a young girl. But Humbert has our sympathies. Nabokov’s descriptions of Humbert’s fantasy at first shock us but slowly we get involved with it because of Nabokov’s beautiful word play. Now that is integrity. The writer does not approve of child molesters and perverts and yet he has created a very endearing character that does such abominable things. The reader can actually feel himself giving advice to Humbert – don’t do it man, it isn’t worth it, she isn’t worth it. Your sympathies don’t go out to the nymphet Lolita, which in retrospect seems strange.

Douglas Adams loved science and believed in it. He knew its limitations and yet believed in its greatness. Still in his work we only see him bashing science and just showing its extreme limitations. His books are covered from page to page with eastern philosophy’s simple rules - there is no coincidence (which perhaps makes all science useless), things happen for a reason, all things in this universe are completely interconnected. And though these are parts of his personal philosophy some aspects of his books are contrary to his otherwise western ideas.

On the question whether art should have a meaning, I believe meaning is overrated. There is no need that a book should have a message. It could be plain old Pulp Fiction. It is in no way the creator’s responsibility to give a message to his audience. I believe in the aesthetic movement – art for art’s sake – ars gratis artis. Ars gratis hominis doesn’t make sense because I don’t think that the artist is answerable to, nor has an obligation towards the audience. It could have a message and the audience is free to interpret it any which way they want. So I give my thumbs up to David Lynch’s latest movies (his old stuff like the Elephant man is pure gold but his latest stuff is just his self-expression and nothing more). This brings me to the second question.

If the art does have meaning/message, is it necessary for us to intellectualize about it? Yes. But do we form our own philosophy based on it? No. Any form of art even if it rambles on for thousands of pages cannot be kept as a basis for a complete set of human principles. Rand’s and Salinger’s characters are too idyllic for the real world and wouldn’t survive in it. One could appreciate their traits but could not live their life by them. A man/woman who does not compromise would never enjoy his existence because he/she would never find love. And what is life without love. And though Roark found love, it was only in fiction. He would not continue to be in love if he doesn’t compromise.

So read/watch books/movies, have fun interpreting them and worshipping their creators, but don’t lead your life by their support. Books/movies make great companions but if they are your only companions then you are in trouble. So I am in trouble. I need to get out and get some fresh air. Maybe I should go out with some friends for a movie.

The Life of Stanley Vacant (continued)

2004-08-22T16:05:00.000+05:30

The story so far: Stanley Vacant, a middle aged voice artist by profession, has joined the local gym after having endured some stinging remarks about his appearance from his girlfriend Tricia.

The girl on the reception desk had a sweet smile and a good pair of knockers. That is what she is being paid for, I mean the smile. She asked me to fill out a form with some personal details while she called my personal trainer Ricky.

Ricky, sounded like a hoodlum who had spent his late teenage years in prison, where unquestionably he had felt the need to bulk up. I could easily picture a guy six feet four inches tall, weighing 205 pounds with a motor bike tattooed on his left shoulder. The description turned out to be quite accurate except for the tattoo. It had ‘I love my mom’ engraved on a valentine heart. I did not trouble myself in trying to understand the underlying currents of the statement. So he loved his mom. Good for him. We need more people who care about their parents.

Ricky stepped forward and shook my hand. “You got a firm hand shake there Stanley. I can see you going all the way. Just work with me on this regularly and within 12 weeks you’ll be giving Brad Pitt a run for his money.” I smiled weakly back at him and proceeded to finish the form which then I handed over to the girl with the great knockers. Sorry, I mean the girl with the sweet smile.

Ricky explained how on this first day he would take me around the gym and give me a thorough tour of all their facilities. “I am going to check your endurance and strength today, Stanley.” I nodded my approval and entered the inner sanctum of this commercial temple of physical beauty. Like Aphrodite’s oracle, Ricky proceeded to tell me what the function of each machine was and how this enterprise was totally dedicated towards combining cutting-edge-state-of-the-art technology with good training practices.

Now around me I could see a lot of people sweating profusely and working out real hard. Young and old, fat and thin men and women were trying to improve their health and their looks by working out to some fast paced rhythmic music. The only good looking people with perfect bodies were the trainers who were moving around the whole place, smiling a broad smile and giving little nuggets of advice to anyone who would listen.

Ricky asked me to try out a machine which had a lot of complicated gears and weights. I had to sit on a seat and pull a bar of steel with both my hands towards the back of my head. This bar was connected to different weights. There I was sitting on this complicated looking machine trying to do an exercise I had never done before and also trying not to hurt myself in any irreparable way, when my eyes landed on the most beautiful, the most exquisite women I had ever seen in walking daylight.

She was exercising on a similar machine directly opposite and was facing me. A small bead of perspiration rolled down her forehead, onto the side of her cheek, down her neck and disappeared into the valley of her round and firm breasts. She looked so athletic, so angel like that I could not hear what Ricky the oracle was saying. In this temple of beauty, I had found Aphrodite.

I had seen her somewhere before but I could not place her. Then I realized that she was the model in the Estee Lauder perfume ad for which I had provided the background voice. She looked far more beautiful now. And what was this. She was staring right back at me, without batting her eyelids. Come on Stanley this is the time when you take destiny by the forelock.

“Yes Stanley you are doing it perfectly. Just bring the bar down a little slower to feel the tension in your muscles.” The oaf was telling me how to use this damn machine correctly while this most beautiful sweating creature was staring right at me. Wait a minute. She was watching me exercise. Come on Stanley be cool now. You are the voice of Baritone Bunny, the most suave and dashing rabbit in the world of animation. Do this exercise properly. Pretend you have been doing it for ages. Listen to the oaf.

“Yes Stanley you are doing great”. I am doing great. Is that a look of admiration I see in the eyes of the Estee Lauder model? Yes it is. I am admiring her and she is admiring me back. He hits, he runs, he scores. Stanley scores? This is a new feeling.

“I’ll increase the weight a bit Stanley to check your endurance.” Go ahead oracle Ricky. Increase any weight you want. Stanley is on a roll here.

But what was this? The bar was stuck in the air and I couldn’t bring it down. Be cool Stanley; bring it down slow and easy. She is watching you man. For the first time since I had started exercising I could feel my forehead perspiring. It took all the strength I had to bring the bar down. “Very good, Stanley. Just nine more times and you are down.” Nine more times. Is the oaf trying to kill me or something? Aha! Jealous is he, Aphrodite’s oracle jealous of her lover Hermes. I wouldn’t give you the pleasure of seeing me lose. Stanley Vacant’s ego had just been challenged and he was ready for it.

With great effort I brought the bar down again. She was still watching me. Oh! How gracefully she was doing her exercise - power hidden below the veil of beauty.

By the sixth repetition I was thoroughly drenched and didn’t have an ounce of strength left. Did I just catch a look of dejection on her face? Her hero had turned out to be a loser. She finished her exercise, stood up and walked away, without looking back. I could take this exercise no longer and let the bar go. It went and hit the pivot with a bang and a few faces turned around to see the culprit. I could see looks of been-there-before-buddy on some of the faces.

“Don’t be disappointed Stanley. It’s just your first day. Within a few weeks this would be a cake walk.” The oaf was gloating over his victory and applying salt to the wounds. “Yeah, I suppose so”, I replied and stood up.

It has been more than an hour now and we have finished the tour of the entire place. I am sitting inside the steam bath. Each and every muscle in my body is screaming out right now. Ricky says the pains would go away in a few days. The muscles are just getting used to the exercising. I got up and took a shower, got dressed and all the while I was thinking about how very different I was from Baritone Bunny. Except for the voice (which is mine anyway, or is it?) we have nothing in common. He is cool. The chicks dig him. He could have done all those exercises single-handedly. He could have won the heart of the Estee Lauder model in a snap. Well at least he can’t speak without me.

I stepped out of the gym with my gym kit (a gift from Tricia) and made my way towards the car. Suddenly I heard a voice from behind “Mr Vacant”. I turned around to see the Estee Lauder model running towards me. “I have been waiting for you outside, for some time now”, she said in that sweet nectar like voice of hers. “You probably don’t know me. I worked in a commercial for which you provided the voice. I am a big fan of yours. I watch Baritone Bunny every week and absolutely love it.” I could not believe my ears. Here I was, fantasizing about this goddess and she turns out to be a fan. “Would you like to come to the recording of next week’s episode of Baritone?” I spoke in the most sophisticated voice I could conjure up. With that I gave her my studio card after having scribbled my home number at its back. She seemed very excited by the prospect and thanked me. “I’ll see you in the gym tomorrow then. And thanks for inviting me to the recording.” I said sure and with that I entered my car.

She was still standing some distance away and talking very excitedly on her mobile. She was telling someone, apparently another girl, about how she had met the voice of Baritone Bunny and how she was going to the studio for the voice recording session. She was as excited as little kids are when they are promised a tour of Disney world. Seeing her in this new light I realized that she was hardly a day over sixteen. Oh my God! What was I doing? I had been fantasizing about a young girl, a girl who was still excited about cartoons, a girl who was young enough to be my daughter. I hung my head in shame. Sophia would be as old as this girl now. I hadn’t seen her for ten years. Her mother had got her custody when we got a divorce and then had moved to Paris. All I had were a few photographs and letters from her. She was going to college this spring. Maybe it was time I met her.

With these thoughts I decided to drive back home to Tricia and tell her that the gym was a bad idea. She wouldn’t be happy. But I can’t take this pain in my muscles. For now Aphrodite and her temple are not meant for me.

The Life of Stanley Vacant

2004-08-21T13:28:00.000+05:30

There is this character in my mind that is yearning to see the light of day in a book. Sadly for him, all spaces are currently occupied and he will have to wait his turn. But the problem doesn’t end there. I wish it would. While I might be his creator in every sense of the word, he also is a resident of the over active world that is my mind. And hence he is a part of me, a part of my being. And he wants to share his adventures, his crusades with the rest of the world.

First I though a brief cameo in my book would be sufficient for him. But then I realized that it would be an absolute waste of a terrific character, which he is, a very likable character who deserves to be the protagonist of his own book. So here is another solution: the blog. From now on Stanley Vacant, who is a middle aged voice artist (provides the background voice for ads and supplies the voice characterizations for over half a dozen animated characters) would make regular appearances on my blog and would hopefully stop bothering me.

It is my firm belief that fitness and health and good looks are overrated. These days everyone seems to be running after a good physique. Every man wants to be like Brad Pitt and every woman wants to be like the latest cover of Cosmopolitan (not like the cover but like the women on the cover). I believe our capitalists have once again succeeded in making absolute fools out of us. First they cut us up into little pieces and then they recommend ten different ways to stitch us back.

While growing up you are coaxed to eat tons of junk food. As a teenage boy you have to hang out at the cool places and eat the cool food or you become an outcast. TV commercials tell you where all the chicks are hanging out. So you go there and what do you do? You eat and eat and eat. And before you know it you are 30 years old and weigh 250 pounds. Even if you are not 250 pounds your wife would constantly nag you about the love handles that you have developed. People will constantly crack jokes at your expense and make your life miserable.

You go in for magnetic radiation therapy which according to Jim from the shopping network helps you lose an astonishing fifteen pounds in just a few hours. You end up buying and hoarding exercise machines which promise to give you chiselled abs and good looks. But nothing works. Out of frustration you just eat more.

On the other hand are girls. Women in our society grow up looking at anorexic super models vouching for the latest fashion products. You see sixteen year old girls dieting and trying out the latest health products from television shopping networks and ending up in the hospital because they haven’t eaten anything in the past one week. Face creams, face packs, fairness creams, oil-free soaps, extra moisturizing soaps, grime removing soaps, dandruff free shampoos, revitalizing shampoos, extra conditioning shampoos and much more can be found in the bathroom cabinet of an average sixteen year old girl.

Women are constantly conscious of their weight. They will not eat that extra piece of cake even if every cell in their body is crying out for it. Sitcoms joke about how every chocolate you eat ends up going to your butt. So you try very hard to retain that knockout figure. It doesn’t work and again out of frustration you eat.

On the other end of the spectrum are people who are naturally thin. Any amount of junk food, chocolate pastries and ice creams has no effect on them. They simply don’t put on any weight. But this doesn’t mean they are happy. Quite the contrary, even they are yearning for those chiselled abs and well toned muscles.

So we live in a society where majority of people are either overweight or underweight or are simply not happy with the way they look. The remaining 0.1% appear on television and in films and make us feel bad about ourselves. We are simply not happy about our appearance and spend both precious time and money in improving it.

Luckily I am very happy with the way I look. Or at least I was happy till a few days back. Tricia and I were watching a film sitting in my nice cosy apartment when she turned towards me and said, “Why don’t you join the gym and put on some muscle?” The question caught me off guard. But I made a quick come back in my smooth Baritone Bunny voice, “Say babe, you not happy with the looks of your lover.” “No”, came the reply and silenced me. I could not think up of a reply in my hundred or more different voices. The voice which enthralled millions of people on television every week was silenced by a very pointed “No”. I got up saying, “… it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.” Tolkien would have been so proud.

But the truth was that her remark really did hurt. I have an average height and an average weight. I never played any physical sports or did anything adventurous. I had average grades in school and was not the most popular guy either. But people liked me. They still do. My voice impersonation of Mrs. Higgins, our seventh grade mathematics teacher, is still the stuff of legend. Nobody ever cared about how I looked. But they loved my voice because it could make them laugh. My voice for the ghost in Hamlet back in college is still considered by many to be a benchmark in voice quality. Every week I make kids laugh with ‘Baritone Bunny and Friends’. I have given the background voice for more than two hundred commercials and have the distinction for providing twenty one different voice characterizations for a single Disney animation. Critics have even compared me to Mel Blanc. How foolish of them. Nobody could be like Mel Blanc. He is a legend and can never be matched.

But something needed to be done. I like Tricia and see a future for the two of us. She is not demanding and makes me very happy. She has a great sense of humour and makes excellent pan cakes. But now she wanted me to be someone I was not. She wanted me to take care of my health, join a gym and build muscles. She had never asked for anything before this so I decided to do this as a gift to her. So here I am standing in my local gym after having taken an annual membership. With all my negative views on people’s obsession with their own looks, I am standing here inside a monument dedicated to commercialism and the victory of capitalism.

Sadly, Disenchantment Equals Truth

2004-07-02T00:40:00.000+05:30

Throughout my life I have been a dreamer. My dreams have been a constant source of images which are sometimes abstract, sometimes detailed; sometimes bizarre, sometimes beautiful; sometimes fear-provoking and sometimes calming, images that have left such an indelible impression on my memory that it is sometimes difficult for me to distinguish them from reality, images that have enriched my senses, all of them, so thoroughly that I remain eternally thankful to the process of sleep and the imperfectness of the human brain which leads to the random firing of weakly associated neurons, hence producing dreams.

I often wondered how exciting it would be if I were able to spend all my time in the land of dreams. Dreams constantly challenged my notion of reality. They provided me sights so colourful, so rich in texture that the real world started looking dull, morbid. They provided me such thrills, such rushes of adrenaline that nothing in my otherwise regular, ‘real’ life could match up to them. I looked forward to sleep, dreams, nightmares, visions with enthusiasm such as I had never felt for anything else. Dreams were my sanctuary, a life away from life which pacified my on the run, over imaginative conscience.

So it seemed like providence when dreams came to my aid, again. Dreams would finally help me realize my ambitions, my dreams.

If a little dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less but to dream more, to dream all the time. [Marcel Proust]

Like all dreamers I confuse disenchantment with truth. [Jean-Paul Sartre]

The Himalayas

2004-06-17T17:54:00.000+05:30

I am back in the civilized world and the only way I can look in retrospect at the events of the past month is fond remembrance. After saying my final goodbyes to IIT Madras and leaving her serene campus I felt the veil of motherly affection that IIT had put on me for the last four years lifting up. Two contradicting emotions, one of happiness and the other of extreme sadness and pain, engulfed my heart. Happiness on finally graduating and starting out afresh in the world and sadness on breaking all ties which had become more important than even blood relations. There is always email, my friends told me, and a phone is never far away. But deep down in my heart I knew that I had lost what had become the most significant, the most vibrant thing in my otherwise colourless existence.

So when a few of us decided to undertake a trekking expedition to the Himalayas my heart jumped at the opportunity. The trek involved going to Yamunotri, Gangotri and Gaumukh (the place from where the Ganges originates), three rather important pilgrimage centers for the Hindus, all situated in the Garhwal region of Uttaranchal. The best part of May went into organizing the trek and on 5th June 2004 five warriors from the Indian Institute of Technology met in Delhi to undertake this arduous and life threatening journey (or so I would like to believe).

From 6th to 11th we braved through harsh weather, difficult (at some places excessively steep and slippery because of horse shit and mud) terrain and back breaking walking paths to cover almost 50 kilometers and visit the three places. A day of walking was followed by an even tougher bus ride in the mountain roads. But it all had its payoff and the memories from this journey will remain with us for the rest of our lives. The view of snow capped mountains and beautiful shimmering water (the Ganges however is very muddy even at its origin because of grey sand which is also a part of the ice crystals in the glacier) filled our hearts with joy.

The journey had its rewards but not without a good dose of danger. Once we were caught in a land slide in a particularly dry mountainous region caused because of some rather stupid mountain antelopes. It felt like being a part of a video game where the villain is throwing small projectiles at you and you are running and jumping as fast as possible to avoid getting hit. The adrenaline rush I felt while crossing this part will be a constant source of inspiration (and maybe perspiration) in the future. The same patch on our return trip was rather calm.

The second bout of danger was self invited, though I will remain eternally thankful to the universe for instilling the spirit of adventure (which I found to be bordering on sheer stupidity at certain occasions) deep in my heart. We were around two hundred meters from the mouth of the cave carved into the giant glacier from which the Ganges originates. Around us were snow covered mountain peaks and the giant glacier right in front of us. We could see huge blocks of ice floating away in the shallow but strong current of the river coming out from the mouth of the cave. However there was no clear path to go towards the mouth of the cave and this troubled me a lot. The message “So close and yet so far” kept echoing in my brain when suddenly I decided to find my own way through the rather rough looking rocks which could slip at any moment and fall into the river. More importantly these rocks were part of the ever changing and melting glacier but my mind was fixed on reaching the cave and I kept on moving forward. Looking back I think I was rather foolish. I had my doubts in the middle but the moment I saw my friends following my footsteps I surged ahead. And finally we had done it. We had come as close to the cave as was humanly possible (without drowning oneself in the river of course).

A sudden calmness took over me once I was there. I realized that I was having one of those rare spiritual moments. I let my mind get completely soaked with this feeling for I knew that it was ephemeral. The beauty of that moment will live with me for ever.

Others joined me shortly on the same spot and all spiritual ecstasy vanished. We saw a huge chunk of ice fall into the river with a loud splash which gave us a scare but we let it pass. It was now time to make our way back. This was when nature decided to tell us that we had been playing with its might like little idiots and we were at its complete mercy. The whole glacier gave way and rocks came tumbling down from all sides and we were dead even before we hit the water. Well not really. What actually happened was that a rock the size of a football (enough to kill a man) decided to land right between two of us. The whole thing happened so suddenly and without a warning that we were shocked. We stood fixed to the spot and stared at each other. Nothing else happened. We reached our base camp safely. Thinking back I feel that the rock was nature’s way of saying goodbye and asking me for something.

I swear to return to the same spot some day when I have accomplished the task set by nature.

The Nintendo Generation

2004-05-03T15:24:00.000+05:30

In 1957 a large object from outer space crashed into Earth's Amazon basin, near ruins of the lost Mayan civilization. Scientists world-wide heralded the incident as a trivial cosmic occurrence, and thus the collision was soon forgotten.

Now, thirty years later, rumours of an evil force have swept into the Pentagon's front office, and tales from frightened villagers of a hideous being with an army of alien henchmen are sending chills down the spines of top military brass.

Unwilling to upset current political stability, an all-out assault on the region has been overruled, and instead, two of America's most cunning, courageous and ruthless soldiers from the Special Forces elite commando squad have been selected to seek out and destroy these alien intruders.

Congratulations, pal, you're one of the chosen. But before you take pride in being the best, be warned.

You're about to come face to face against Red Falcon, the cruellest life-form in the galaxy. He arrived on Earth thirty years ago (that's six months time in an alien's life) to establish a foothold from which he will attempt to conquer our world and then use it as a stepping stone toward his ultimate fiendish goal: domination of the entire universe. Needless to say, playing hero won't be easy. But you have no choice -- you must be a hero. Because if you fail, life as we know it will cease to exist, and the vile Red Falcon will rule forever. If you succeed, well...it doesn't matter, because I doubt you will.

If you haven’t yet guessed which game this is then you are definitely not a part of what is being referred to as the Nintendo Generation by social scientists and anthropologists. Contra was released for the NES by Konami way back in 1988. This game soon became a classic side-scrolling shooter, with a variety of weapons, challenging game-play, and 1 and 2 player-simultaneous modes.

If your age is between 15 and 25, and even if you haven’t played Contra (shame on you for that), you are a member of this Nintendo Generation. We as a generation are unique, especially in India, since we are a part of the ongoing technological and cultural revolution. Most of us can remember a pre-cable-television, pre-western-fast-food-joint (McDonald, etc.) India. Cable TV came in 1993 and Mc only came much later. Heck none of us had an email account six years back and yet we saw Yahoo and Hotmail become billion dollar enterprises offering 4 Mb storage space. And today I have a Gmail account which gives me a 1000 Mb of storage space. Talk about revolution. We saw the rise of IT, the dot com crash and we saw the revival of tech stocks.

We grew up playing our own video games (or even renting them). We were the generation who stopped going to the theatres and preferred watching movies at home on a VCR. And still we saw the revival of the movie theatre experience and the rise of the multiplex. Computers and cars became a necessity while we were growing up. Our generation saw the entire country undergo a change. Children born in the last few years are not a part of this generation. Their generation was born in a tech savvy environment and they learned to say ‘Digital’ before ‘Dada’ and McDonalds’ before ‘Mama’. We on the other hand saw the old traditional India in our childhoods, but still accepted the modern with open arms. As the years roll on, our place in society will become exceedingly important because we are the connecting link between the traditional and the ultra-modern. India as a country and Indians as people have virtues which the western world doesn’t and I am not trying to be patriotic or jingoistic here, but that is the truth. The onus is now on us to prevent the moral degradation of our society similar to what happened to the west. That can only be done by accepting the modern and retaining the traditional and finding the right balance between the two. For now I must get back to playing Contra.

Bitter Sweet Symphony

2004-05-03T15:15:00.000+05:30

As I sit facing my computer screen, listening to the Bitter Sweet Symphony by the Verve, the outside world slowly descends into darkness. The low level stratocumulus clouds are posing a challenge to the mighty sun. I step outside for a glimpse of the sky and feel the first drops of rain on my palms. Just then U2’s Where the Streets Have No Name begins in the background. Nostalgia takes over and lulls me into a deep hypnotic trance. This place, these people will just become memories in a few days. The golden years of my life have just slipped by and all that remains are memories. Vanessa Mae’s rendition of Bach’s Street Prelude has just started in the background and gives me hope, short-lived though it is, it is enough.

It has started raining very heavily now. My friends who were playing football till now have switched over to rugby (or some very weird form of it) in the mud. Half the guys have taken their shirts off to differentiate between the two teams. The game is just an excuse for them. An excuse to remember all the good times spent together. They are just running and passing and tackling and having fun. This is what life is all about: semi nude men playing in the mud? No. Life is about young boys living together and sharing an adventure, a dream and going out into the big world as men. The game of rugby was just an excuse to tell the rest of the world: We are on our way. Get ready.

In a few days it will be time for goodbyes and farewells. I might not see these people again, ever and this thought saddens me. I am too old to make new friends now. I have been doing it for the last 21 years with great ease and have always looked forward to meeting new people and making friends. When you have studied in nine different educational institutions and lived all over the country, making new friends becomes detrimental to your survival. But I was always good at it. Now I am not sure whether I’ll be able to do the whole charade all over again. Judging peoples’ characters, finding the right set of people who are emotionally and mentally compatible with you, I don’t think I can do it now. Perhaps I can still do it, but I don’t have the energy or the inclination to do it. I think I have become a little too secure in my life and don’t want to leave this comfort zone.

Life seems to be following a predetermined course and I feel like a mere spectator, seeing my own life pass by. My reserve of stored optimism is slowly drying out. I just hope that my decision to take a year off will be helpful in the long run. Shocking as it may sound to most of my friends and well wishers, I have never been more convinced about anything in my entire life. There are these very small, trivial things which I want to pursue in this one year. Trivial they may sound, but they are very important to me. I don’t want to turn forty and regret not having done all these things. It’s now or never. Every day I sit and add to this ever growing list of things to be done in the next one year. If I am able to accomplish even half of them, I’ll die a very happy man. Top of my list is getting myself educated: educated in the study of life, something which cannot be taught in any school or college. There is writing, music, books, travel, cooking, French, philosophy, religion and a host of other things in this list. Bungee jumping! How could I forget that?

'Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, this life
Try to make ends meet
Your a slave to money then you die
I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down
You know the one that takes you
to the places where all the things meet yeah

IIT Madras Open Quiz

2004-04-29T22:42:00.000+05:30

On 18th April IIT Madras conducted its first large scale Open Quiz. Students and professionals from Chennai, Bangalore and other cities took part in the quiz. I was one of the four quiz masters. More than 200 teams took part in the quiz. Some of the best quizzers in the country were out there in the finals competing against each other. Arul Mani and Anustup Datta's team came from Bangalore and stood second in the quiz. Dr. Navin Jayakumar who conducts the annual Landmark Quiz in Chennai was there with his team which included Avinash Mudaliar. Samanth Subramanian who has won almost all the quizzes held in IIT in the recent past came with his team QED and won again. I'll always carry very fond memories of that day, especially since my parents were there to see the finals. Enjoy all my questions here: Open Quiz.

The Magic of Films

2004-03-16T21:35:00.000+05:30

The following article is going to appear in my campus magazine "The Fourth Estate".

I love films. I can watch them all day long, one after another, and still not get tired. I can discuss their stories, talk about the techniques used in them, give you the complete biography of each cast member, write about them and still not get tired.

When it comes to films I have no prior reservations. I don’t care whether the director is a multiple Oscar nominee or is a sixteen year old high school drop out who just made his first movie using a camera he borrowed from the local junk store. As long as there is a film to be seen, I will see it. I reserve all my judgements for after the movie. This I do on purpose. Every time we form a view about a film (could be about the actors, directors or the composer) before watching it, we either raise our expectations or are dejected even before we have had a glimpse of the film. So if we were expecting a movie to be trash and it turned out to be real gold we wouldn’t have been in a position to appreciate it and give the film its due credit. On the other hand if we were expecting a movie to be a masterpiece and it turned out to be trash (or even average) then we are overly disappointed.

Suppose we completely forget that we had ever seen the original Matrix. Then maybe, just maybe, we could have appreciated Matrix Reloaded and Matrix Revolutions. It is this baseless need to compare every film (especially if it is a sequel) with its predecessors which spoil the film watching experience. The original Matrix was a master piece, a film whose likes will not be seen for many a decades. It had a great script, capable actors, visionary directors and never seen before special effects.

So when the sequels were announced we assumed that they will have an even better script, greater vision from the directors and SFX which will excite every last atom in our bodies. This is where we made our biggest mistake. Watch the sequels with a fresh mind and maybe, just maybe we will be able to appreciate these two movies. Most of us might still feel that the script sucked big time and the acting was boring to say the least. But all of us will definitely appreciate the effort put into the film, especially the effects. It took them months to come up with the perfect rain drop for the final show down between Neo and Agent Smith. Watch the movie afresh and you will love that raindrop.

Effort is what most of us fail to see. Films are not just about the actors in front of the camera. And while most of us know that there are hundreds of other people behind the scenes, all of us fail to notice their contribution. Of course if the acting is lousy then no one can be blamed for not noticing the wonderful use of light and the great set design. But for people like us who boast to be semi or pseudo intellectuals and who watch tons of movies it should be the whole experience of the movie, starting from its conception, moving towards the script writing, the actual hours and hours of footage and to the final cutting on the editors table, which should excite us and catch our attention.

From whatever little experience I have gathered after watching films, I have classified them into three categories: (a) Popular cinema, (b) Films tending to Cult and (c) Art. Category (b) in most cases is a subset of category (a). Let me explain this classification in detail.

Popular Cinema consists of films which are made for the masses. While some of you may argue that films are always made for the masses, I beg to differ. Most films fall into this category simply because they are made with a motive to earn money for the studios investing in them. The script writers and the directors may have a great vision and might consider themselves artists but the truth of the matter is that they are making these films for profit. And there is nothing wrong in that. Some of the best loved films of all times fall into this category.

These films are based on the traditional models of story telling and most of them have straight forward stories (might be about complex subjects though) with clear narratives. The more popular ones will have good actors doing what they do best - acting. These films are based on the traditional theatre style where the audience was a given, an axiom. The film is based on a simple two way communication between the audience and the characters. If the character is sad and is crying the audience should also get a feeling of sadness. If it is a war film which talks about the horrors of war then the audience should be shocked after seeing the blood and gore and the evil that war brings out in men. We don’t need to strain our minds for understanding and liking these films. As long as the acting is fine you can even watch these films in mute (except a musical of course).

Examples of category (a) - All Indian films (even the parallel cinema), Titanic, Jurassic Park, Star Wars, LOTR, etc, etc. (Basically 97% of all films)

The second category is the one where the director and the screen writer make an effort so that the audience has to exercise its brain cells. These are thought provoking films - films which raise philosophical questions, which serve as a way for intellectual masturbation. A friend of mine likes to compare such films to onions. The director wants you to peel off one layer at a time till you finally reach the core. This can be done by using various techniques like moving backwards and forwards in time, having multiple narratives or by just having a simple story told in a complex manner.

Such films cater to the needs of a small and select crowd who like to think while watching a film. Some of these films go on to become big box office hits because people had to come back a second time to completely understand the film or to appreciate the finer details. Some of these films are disasters when they are first released but slowly become cult classics. You simply cannot watch these movies in mute.

Examples of category (b) - Blade Runner, The Usual Suspects, A Clockwork Orange, Memento etc, etc. (2.99 % of all films)

The third category is the one which has the least number of films but this number is slowly rising. These films are made by directors who are really artists. They don’t make their films for an audience. These films are like works of art. It doesn’t matter if they are hanging in the MET or in some one’s bedroom or in the painter’s studio. They are beautiful and complete in themselves and don’t need an external source to interpret them. They are released in theatres and people do go and watch them. But the director doesn’t really care whether you liked his film or not. It’s a work of art - If you can appreciate it then good for you, otherwise: goodbye and have a nice day. It doesn’t matter if the film is in mute.

Examples of category (c) - All David Lynch films etc, etc.

Films have always been about escapism. Where else can you fight like a Jedi, roam the middle earth and go where no man has gone before? Where else can you feel the pain of a man on a death row, escape from a prison and become lost in translation? Where else can you be the devil’s advocate, tango with Gabrielle Anwar and become the head of a mafia family? Only in films, baby. Only in films.

[The writer is the co-ordinator of IIT Madras Film Society. He is a self confessed movie fanatic and claims that he has seen more films than any other set of three people on this planet.]

The Predictable Life of a Film Buff

2004-03-06T19:50:00.000+05:30

Yesterday I paid my weekly visit to the British Council Library. After spending a few hours in the library (which is being renovated and there is no place to sit) I went to the canteen outside. Even before I could place my order the elderly women on the counter took out a 5 Star chocolate and a Maaza from the fridge and placed it on the counter. I was stunned. OK so I go there very often and I think I always eat the same things, but come on you got to be kidding me. I have become so predictable that this woman could figure out my order before I placed it. My life must be really boring if it so predictable. I think I have fallen into some kind of a vague pattern and must break my way out of it. But for the time being the 5 Star and the Maaza are just fine.

Sean Penn won a well deserved best actor Oscar for Mystic River. Though Bill Murray pulled off an amazing performance in Lost in Translation, the fourth time nominee Penn won the day (If you are wondering then “Yes I have seen both these movies”). I have been reading a lot of criticism of the fact that Lord of the Rings (Return of the King) won 11 Oscars. The Academy awards have always been about popularity and have always been given to audience/media favourites. LOTR was overlooked the last two times because they wanted to make the final instalment a legend. Everyone in the academy wanted to honour the genius of Tolkien and the vision of Peter Jackson and make LOTR-ROTK a legend placing it in the not so august company of Ben-Hur and Titanic (with 11 Oscars each - both technically and cinematically very superior but not really all that great). That the Oscar has always been about popularity can be judged from the fact that Penn did not get an Oscar for his brilliant performances in Dead Man Walking (a performance which will eclipse the rest of his career, he set a very high bench-mark for himself) and I am Sam. That Russell Crowe got an Oscar for Gladiator (a role that any other actor could have pulled off) and not for his superb portrayal of mathematician John Nash in A Beautiful Mind is another proof of the award being easily influenced by media and publicity (the publicity team which had worked really hard to get Julia Roberts an Oscar for Erin Brockovich was also behind Denzel Washington's successful award campaign for Training Day).

The studios which produce these movies are allowed to throw parties for the voting members of the Academy and also send out gifts to them. Academy Awards can be bought like every other thing. But this doesn't mean that the award winners don't deserve their awards. Most winners (not all) would have won their awards even in a perfect world where votes couldn't be bought. No Man's Land would have still won hands down and our Lagaan would still have lost (See No Man's Land and you would realize that a main stream Bollywood movie like Lagaan doesn't even deserve a nomination). Studios do what they can do best (get a good publicity campaign manager) and the actors do what they do best (act). Woody Allen said after winning the best director Oscar for Annie Hall that he did not like awards because then you let yourself get judged by others. You give them the right to say that you were good in a particular film but weren't all that great in the other one. LOTR is an awesome movie and Peter Jackson does not need any Oscars to prove that.

So why am I suddenly writing about movies? Actually why haven't I written about movies for so long? Pick any three people from anywhere in the world and I can bet that I have seen more films than all of them put together. I watch films for a living. It is my bread and butter. Period.

The reason Sean Penn came to my mind was because of his beautiful and talented wife Robin Wright Penn. Very few people remember Robin as the original Kelly from Santa Barbara (the soap which used to come along with Bold and the Beautiful on Star many years back). She is best remembered for her portrayal of Jenny in Forrest Gump. I recently saw a movie of hers called Message in a Bottle (starring Kevin Costner and Paul Newman) and all my childhood memories came screaming back. She was the first serious crush of a twelve year old boy. I had a very large poster of her in my bedroom and never missed an episode of Santa Barbara. Sean Penn doesn’t need an Oscar. He has his own personal angel.

Holi Wars in Pacino-mode

2004-03-06T19:48:00.000+05:30

Twenty people broke into my room. They did this by breaking my door (read broke the wooden panels). My favourite T-Shirt was torn, my favourite pyjama now looks like the revealing dress which Arabian belly dancers wear and my lucky underwear (sob sob) – don’t even ask about it. And then an entire rainbow was painted all over my body. If you are alarmed for my safety, relax. This is exactly the way Holi is played in IIT. This is the way uninterested denizens of the hostel zone are seduced into playing Holi with a vengeance that would have put John McClane (Bruce Willis in Die Hard) to shame. Violence/Anger is a very potent adrenalin booster. Enrage someone and you can make them do the impossible (side effects not withstanding). Thus I became wrath and I played Holi after many years today. After the initial rush I calmed down and actually enjoyed myself. The door got fixed easily. After seeing the torn T-shirt and pyjama I realized that it was time to move on to other things. But my lucky underwear, that damage is irreparable. Oh well! I was never fully convinced that whatever little luck I had was because of that underwear. But now I need to find another candidate from the ranks of my wardrobe (if it can be called that) to replace the Genuine Jockey boxer brief as a good luck charm.

As an afterthought I remembered the reason why I hadn’t played Holi for all those years. Holi has always been a violent festival. People loose their minds playing Holi. Violence brings out anger and anger brings out the best and worst in me (mostly at the same time). No wonder I am always able to pull off angry, contemptuous and conniving roles with ease. Every mono act I write plays on my ability to use all the pent-up anger (I suppose I should call it energy). Though most of us are capable of emoting a whole plethora of emotions, we all have a basic emotion which takes us to a deeper level of consciousness, connecting us with ourselves in a better way. For me this emotion is contempt, contempt of everything around me and a holier-than-thou attitude. This contempt is not real, neither is the holier than thou attitude natural to me. It’s just that when I behave in a contemptuous manner I really have fun. No wonder I am such a big Pacino fan (see The Devil's Advocate and Scent of a Woman and you'll understand). For some people the basic emotion is jealousy and for some it is vanity (more of a sin than an emotion).

But contempt can lead to dire consequences, especially when your friends are involved. That is the sole reason why I never act crazy (the way I was born) when I am sober (was that an oxymoron - crazy when sober). I wish I could but I can't. Alcohol has no effect on me. I can stay completely sober under excessive amounts of booze. But being drunk gives me the opportunity to act contemptuous and still not emotionally hurt anyone. I can always apologize later by saying that I was drunk. I get to be in Pacino-mode and no one minds. Everyone is happy. Period.

The Child is the Father of the Man

2004-03-04T13:32:00.000+05:30

Kids are born every day. They grow up get married and have kids of their own. The cycle continues. So what is the big deal about marriage and parenthood? Everyone does it. People have been getting married and having kids for ever. Why then do we associate so much importance with marriage and children? Answer - Just because people have been getting married and having kids since time immemorial doesn’t make marriage and parenthood simple. In fact both of them are very complex and no two are alike. Never take advice from anyone about your married life or about raising your kids. Everyone’s experience is their own and distinct from the experience of others. What works for some might not work for others (actually it will definitely not work for others). These are deep un-chartered waters but all of us still get ourselves wet in them. We learn as we go along but the lessons we learn are only meant for us. All those books about marriage and parenthood are useless. They do make for some really interesting readings though.

So why am I talking about marriage and parenthood? My dad also asked me the same question a few days back when he was in town and I was picking his brain about his experience as a married man and as a father. He just put the question in a much better way - “You are inviting your mom and me for your marriage. Aren’t you? And when is that kid of yours dew?” “Seven years and three months”, I promptly answered. The discussion which followed gave me a new insight to my dad - his maturing from a boy to a man. He told me how marriage had a calming effect on him and helped him stabilize; how fatherhood turned a Yezdi (an old bike very similar to Enfield, much bigger and noisier) driving guy, who preferred living in the fast lane and on the edge, to become a warm, caring and excessively careful man. How the earlier years of his marriage and parenthood were some of the best times he ever had. How he and mom relived their childhood when I was growing up - learning new tricks (like walking, talking, writing and eventually typing) every day. His eyes were almost misty for a few seconds as he was remembering the old days when he was a young man with a lot of dreams for himself and his family. It dawned upon me at that moment that in those misty eyes could be countless hidden unfulfilled dreams that he and mom had seen when they were young and probably they now see those same dreams for me. Those eyes made a subtle demand on the blood that moves in my veins. A demand which in my heart I decided there and then will have to be fulfilled. I will make my proud parents even prouder and happier. Just how I don’t know? “Just follow your heart instead of your mind”, said my dad smiling at me.

‘The child is father to the man.’
How can he be? The words are wild.
Suck any sense from that who can:
‘The child is father to the man.’
No; what the poet did write ran,
‘The man is father to the child.’
‘The child is father to the man!’
How can he be? The words are wild.

By Gerard Manley Hopkins

Commercialism: The End of Romance

2004-02-13T16:26:00.000+05:30

That time of the year is here again. No I am not talking about Friday the 13th. I am talking about 14th February: Valentines Day (ever wondered why Children’s Day is celebrated exactly 9 months later in our country).

Personally I don’t believe in celebrating such occasions because they are just another way in which the capitalists (read western world) are trying to get the average middle class people to spend their hard earned money on useless gifts. Fathers Day, Mothers Day, Valentines Day, etc, etc are just very smart ways to popularize commercial products and increase sales. I have nothing against buying gifts or showing love and affection to near and dear ones. But do we really need a particular day (Mothers Day) to tell our moms that we are grateful for whatever they have done for us. Why can’t we tell them the same thing every now and then and surprise them with a nice gift? Why do we need a particular day to celebrate love when we can do it through out the year?

I agree that roses and chocolates and mushy movies are all very romantic. But the romantic aspect can be quadrupled if the element of surprise is added to it. And if we fix a day to celebrate love then there is hardly any surprise left in it. Pick up any random day and kindle your passion. That is romance. Now I don’t mean to be a spoil sport and dampen the spirits of some of my friends who are really looking forward to having a blast on the 14th. So here is wishing all of them a happy Valentines Day (Tip for couples who are giving CAT on the 15th of February: Gift a Mock CAT test to your partner on the 14th).

Me and my friends have been listening to this guy called Denis Leary for the last couple of days and I have to say that his wit and humor (MS Word changes all my British spellings to their American counterparts … at times it really bugs me) are both original and spark of deep rooted intelligence. Though Leary is a stand-up comedian, he has also acted in a large number of movies. I bid adieu with these lines from one of Leary’s songs titles ‘A**hole’:

[Spoken]
You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna get myself a 1967 Cadillac El Dorado convertible, hot pink with whale skin hub caps and all leather cow interior and big brown baby seal eyes for headlights, yeah! And I'm gonna drive around in that baby at 115mph getting one mile per gallon, sucking down quarter pounder cheese burgers from McDonald's in the old-fashioned non-biodegradable styrofoam containers and when I'm done sucking down those grease ball burgers, I'm gonna wipe my mouth with the American flag and then I'm gonna toss the styrofoam container right out the side and there ain't a God damned thing anybody can do about it. You know why? Because we got the bombs, that's why.
[Spoken]
Twowords. Nuclear f**king weapons, okay?! Russia, Germany, Romania - they can have all the Democracy they want. They can have a big democracy cake-walk right through the middle of Tiananmen Square and it won't make a lick of difference because we've got the bombs, okay?! John Wayne's not dead - he's frozen. And as soon as we find the cure for cancer we're gonna thaw out the duke and he's gonna be pretty pissed off. You know why? Have you ever taken a cold shower? Well multiple that by 15-million times, that's how pissed off the Duke's gonna be. I'm gonna get the Duke and John Cassavetes...
(Hey)
and Lee Marvin
(Hey)
and Sam Pekinpah
(Hey)
And a case of Whiskey and drive down to Texas...
(Hey, you know you really are an a**hole)
Why don't you just shut-up and sing the song pal!

Epimenides, Caribbean Rhinoceros Iguana and Tall Girls

2004-02-07T21:10:00.000+05:30

I have had this conversation with my parents and some friends on a number of occasions and I think it is about time that I put my thoughts down in proper words with regard to this topic: What are the qualities a man is looking for in a woman? Or to be more precise: what are the qualities I would like the woman of my dreams to have? Before continuing please read the following note of caution/disclaimer or whatever you will like to call it:

* I might be the most undeserving man in this entire world and would probably never get the woman I desire (what the heck, after all the mistakes I have made I might not get a women at all). But then again I might be a very deserving man and should get an even better woman.
* For the love of God let it be clear that in no way do I intend to demean women. I have nothing but the utmost respect for the fairer sex. And inner beauty is always more important than external beauty.
* I am a very level headed guy. But if any comment of mine goes against your system of thoughts and beliefs then please think of me as a goof ball and forget the whole thing. I am a pacifist by choice (an extremist by intellect) and do not usually mouth any extreme views. The only extreme view I have is that all extremists are intellectually challenged (The previous statement is an example of an Epimenides Paradox which can be explained mathematically by Fuzzy Logic).
* This article is written with extreme seriousness.
* Though some views written here can be in general attributed to men at large, I beg you to not make any such generalization. So if I write that men usually like women who have forked tongues similar to a Caribbean Rhinoceros Iguana then read it as Anshumani likes women who have forked tongues similar to a Caribbean Rhinoceros Iguana (actually the iguana does not have a forked tongue, but that’s besides the point).
* If I am an egoist/egotist then this earth is flat.

I promised my mother that I will marry any girl who fulfils even half of the following criteria:

Physical Characteristics:

1) The girl has to be tall and by tall I mean she should have a height of at least 5 feet 6 inches (or 168 cm). I am 6 feet 2 inches tall. There is something about tall girls which totally turns me on (for more information you could ask Suds about what happened in IIMB ;-). Any way after spending time with short girls I start getting these paternal elder brotherly feelings for them. That cannot be good.
2) The girl should either have large black eyes or colored eyes.
3) Dimples look great on a girl.
4) Hair – any length as long as they are black and the girl isn’t bald.
5) She should be either very fair or should have a dusk complexion. No in-betweens.
6) Should have clean and beautiful feet (I have a thing for feet).

Other Characteristics:

1) The girl has to be a bibliophile or a film addict (I suffer from both these diseases; we will have tons to talk about).
2) Should have a distinct sense of style and grace about her. You may call it charisma.
3) Should not be to stressed out and overly ambitious about her career. I would like a woman whose first priority is family. Believe me when I say that my first priority is my family.
4) Should be a dreamer and should believe in fantasy and romance (I am not much of a romantic so she has to make up for the two of us). It would be great if she is a pathological liar like I am (likes to make up stories) and is mischievous and likes to play pranks. (Very few people can appreciate quality number 4)
5) Should take all decisions from her heart rather than her mind (I have a heart of stone and my analytical engineering mind is a useless bag of shit).
6) The girl should love walking because I go everywhere on my two legs.
7) Should be adventurous and ready to try out new things (don’t stretch your imaginations too far).
8) Should like food (eating obviously, cooking would be an added bonus).
9) Should like shopping (which girl doesn’t)
10) Should be a good singer or an excellent dancer. Nothing turns a man on like a diva dancing to salsa.
11) Should be creative (arts/literature/catching butterflies/sneezing non stop/ serial killing/blah/blah/blah).

Now there are perhaps another thousand things which I’ll notice in a girl but the above are more or less the first set of qualities I look for. I might never find a girl with the exact 17 qualities. I might find a girl with the exact opposite qualities and still fall in love with her. Only time will tell. For now my mom is happy that the list has been formally compiled. She has already started looking. I have six and a half more years to find myself a girl or I’ll have to marry the girl she finds for me (that wouldn’t be all that bad … it’s just that I don’t like arranged marriages). For now I am single and ready to mingle. So I take leave with these thoughts:

When two people are under the influence of the most violent, most insane, most delusive, and most transient of passions, they are required to swear that they will remain in that excited, abnormal, and exhausting condition continuously until death do them part.
George Bernard Shaw

Nearly all marriages, even happy ones, are mistakes: in the sense that almost certainly (in a more perfect world or even with a little more care in this imperfect one) both partners might have found more suitable mates. But the real soul-mate is the one you are married to.
J.R.R. Tolkien

To Blog or not to Blog

2004-02-05T11:40:00.000+05:30

Since yesterday I have been questioning my motives for blogging. When I had started blogging the reason was rather simple. Although I have always enjoyed writing there is one form of writing which I detest – writing letters. Some of my closest friends had moved to the states for higher studies or were living in some other city because of their work. They complained constantly that I was a lazy bum and I didn’t reply to their mails frequently. To overcome this problem I started a web log so that my near and dear ones could be kept well informed about my humdrum life. So my blogs became my own news-letter with detailed description of my activities. Life was simple. I blogged about my own life (the title of my blog says ‘Some Random Thoughts on Life’ – and I don’t write about life in general but my own life in particular) and my friends kept sending me mails. It was a neat arrangement: I blog, they mail. As time progressed my blog became a medium to express some of my own personal theories and philosophies. I enjoyed blogging and started looking forward to writing the next one.

Somewhere down the line I realized that complete strangers were frequenting my blog and sharing their views with me. I started receiving mails from people who sometimes agreed with me whole heartedly and sometimes were at loggerheads with me. This was fun. Blogging had suddenly become a means for intellectualization, for debate, for arguments and for agreements. But somewhere around this point things started going wrong. Vanity they say is the Devil’s favorite sin. I started getting a kick out of the fact that my blog was receiving around 100 unique hits daily. Checking the site meter and net traffic records became an obsession. The simple reason for which I had started my blog was lost. I just wanted to share my life, my views and my thoughts with my friends.

But I will not give up blogging. My blog, since it is essentially about my life, might seem like an exercise in ego-feeding to some but to me it is the only way of communication with my friends. So I will continue blogging in the same way I have been for the last 10 months. No site-meter, no net traffic records, just blogging. I have enjoyed the discussions that resulted from my blog and I hope my writing inspires further discussions. Carry on blogging, amigo. May the force be with you!

News Headlines

2004-01-30T17:29:00.000+05:30

All good things must come to an end. Saarang 2004, IIT Madras’s annual cultural festival, was not just a good thing but a great thing. It had to end. Last one month has been one long joy ride for me. No classes, no work, just plain fun.

Took a trip to Bangalore, did the scene from the Devil’s Advocate for the last time, fell in love, attended an all night dance party at IIMB, had a near death experience, came back and attended a Bloggers meet, saw Munnabhai MBBS, Love Actually and Kill Bill Vol. 1 (loved all of them), Saarang began, set up a 50 computer network for e-Serve (the main sponsor for Saarang), missed most of the events on first day of Saarang because of e-Serve, offended all the purists and prudes with my elocution piece, sang Jake the Peg for the last time (girls from a certain Bangalore college now call me Jake the Peg), the judge loved the song as well as the singer, attended a workshop on Salsa and Mambo dancing with complete strangers, acted in two prize winning plays, fell in love again, won mono-acting at Saarang, played the role of a casino card dealer in the Reality Show at Saarang, fell in love once again, doing another book launch with my theatre group on the 11th February at the Park (the book is called the Taj and I am giving the voice for Aurangzeb) and now I am off to Bangalore for attending IIMB’s festival Unmaad – in short I have been having a blast and life has never been better.

For Want of a Better Title: Happy New Year

2003-12-29T15:21:00.000+05:30

Another year is coming to an end. And I am sad. I am sad because I didn’t really make this one count. For that matter I haven’t made the last 21 years count either. Everyday I go to sleep, not because I am tired and exhausted by the day’s work, but because I have nothing better to do. I don’t remember the last time I slept after being completely spent and used; each and every muscle of my body aching for some respite from the hard work. I don’t remember the last time I said out loud, “That is a good day’s work. I need some rest now.” There are no accomplishments since there are no goals. I am just hanging on to one last ray of hope – the confidence that I am on the right path – the path that leads to being satisfied at the end of the day. That is the goal of my otherwise goal-less life: to sleep when I am exhausted because of the day’s work.

Let me start by giving an account of what has happened since 21st November, the last time I blogged. CAT got cancelled and I was disappointed for two reasons: I had done considerably well and now I’ll have to go through the whole charade of giving it again. Theatre Y, my theatre group, finished the poetry reading program ‘Rhyme and Reason’ organized by the British Council in Chennai’s leading schools. We also did a book reading of Raj Kamal Jha’s latest book ‘If You are Afraid of Heights’ as part of the book launch by Picador publishers and British Council. We got excellent reviews in the newspapers (check out what the Hindu Link 1 Link 2 had to say about us). Finally I finished my end semester exams in IIT.

During the first week of December the Park hotel organized a festival called ‘The Other Festival’ - seven days of plays, music and dance performances from artists all over the country and some from abroad. The shows were held in the auditorium of Chinmaya Heritage Center and I must say that it is one of the best auditoriums in Chennai for putting up a play. I attended five performances and I enjoyed the poetry reading by Zohra Sehgal the most. I will abstain from saying anything about the other shows. But more than the shows the most lasting memory from those seven days was the smile of a girl who I saw five times.

I was doing some research and writing an article on Memory Aid Techniques around that time. I was trying to explain to a good friend, the various features in a person’s face which leave a lasting impression. A good smile according to me will register the face instantly. No wonder Julia Roberts is so popular. It is not because she is exceedingly hot or is a great actress. It is all because of that million-dollar smile. The moment I said this, I remembered the face of this girl I had seen the previous day. The same friend had introduced me to her and I saw her again on successive visits to the Other Festival. Even after three weeks her face haunts me. And this hasn’t happened for the first time. It has happened on previous occasions also with other faces. It is my firm belief that this is the Universe’s way of telling me to wake up and do something about my life. Opportunity has knocked on my door a number of times, it has even gatecrashed into my life’s boring party a number of times but I have been too dumb-witted to recognize it. Anthony Hopkins said in ‘Meet Joe Black’: Lightning may strike. And I have been waiting a long time for lightning to strike. But it hasn’t. So its high time that I strike back. 2004 here I come.

Time to make some New Year resolutions. And this could take some time. So I’ll leave you with these thoughts:

The minute a man is convinced that he is interesting, he isn't.

First Set of Musings

2003-11-21T11:28:00.000+05:30

I have a lot to write about, many things have grabbed my attention in the last couple of days. Being a social animal who takes pride in his skills of observing others and finding out the stories behind their faces, it is not only my interest but in some odd way my duty to write and narrate these stories. In writing these stories I use the data gathered from my various faculties as well as employ the power of my imagination. But this is where fact and fiction separate into almost two parallel lines, never touching each other, but always staring at each other from the same fixed distance, ad infinitum. Imagination is the key ingredient which makes fiction different from fact. It adds that little bit of spice which makes reality a little more appetizing. Fiction, standing on the thin line between what is and what could be. Fiction: What dreams may come? That is how I like to think about it. Dreams written on pieces of paper or typed out on a word processor, running on an ancient almost obsolete machine- purchased with other pieces of paper that came out of my father’s pocket or from that little plastic card. After all there are few things that money can’t buy, for everything else there is dad’s credit card.

Musing One
There is this nice little eating place on Cathedral Road where I go quite often. The quality of chat items is amazing and the ambience is really nice. A lot of young college people hang out in this place. One day as I was going about savoring every last piece of my order a big Gujrati business family walked in. There was an old lady who was probably the head of the house hold and accompanying her were her three daughters-in-law with a whole bunch of toddlers.

The old lady was a domineering woman with complete control over the workings of her family. Her sons kept calling her on the four mobiles that each of them were carrying and asking her permission to do this and that. She made the owner of the place take her order even though the place is a self-service restaurant. She sat like an old powerful queen on the chair with her family members sitting all around her trying to please her and elevate themselves in her eyes. I was impressed by this matriarchal display of authority in what seemed to be an otherwise traditional Gujrati Indian family.

But then my eyes fell on the three daughters-in-law. All of them were wearing sarees and their heads were covered with the pallu as a mark of respect towards their mother-in-law (or maybe they had no other choice but to keep their heads covered). None of them looked a day over twenty-five and in fact one of them looked even younger than me. She had a baby in her arms and every now and then she would look at it and give a small, almost invisible and inaudible sigh. All of them had a smile on their face, a very synthetic smile, a very artificial smile which was not in keeping with the great food I was having.

I stopped eating to take a better look at them, to peer through their eyes and see the truth behind those fake smiles. All I could see were broken dreams and crushed ambitions. All around them were young people talking excitedly about their future plans, their careers, the new film in the theatres; and sitting there with their heads covered and listening intently yet uninterestedly to an old queen were these three young women. Marriage and motherhood slapped on their faces.

One could argue that they were happily married and what woman wouldn’t want to be a mother. May be the only ambition they ever nurtured was to become a house wife and raise sons who would grow up and marry more women like them or raise daughters who would be married off into other such families. May be they all enjoyed covering their heads with the pallu and listening to the words of wisdom of the old queen. But why did I hear the faint cry of a dream, a dream which knew its end was inevitable. She looked at the baby and took another sigh. May be a new dream was born.

Musing Two

An Ode and a Stanza went out on a date.
They had a few drinks of Romanticism
And decided to mate.

After a few syllables a poem was conceived.
Ms Ode couldn’t hide it
Such news is hard to conceal.

A few rhymes later the poem was born.
They decided to call it an Epic
Since it smelled like Bourbon.

© Anshumani Ruddra

Musing Three

I think I suffer from Pathetic Fallacy.
I see a human being in a lump of clay.
No cure can be found for my disease
After all I am the protagonist
Of a surreal post-modernist play.

© Anshumani Ruddra

I will end this session of musings with these beautiful words of Spike Milligan:

This evening in the twilight’s gloom
A butterfly flew in my room
O what beauty, O what grace
Who needs visitors from outer space?
- From Spike Milligan’s collected poems Hidden Words.

Am I an A4 Size Sheet of Paper?

2003-10-29T12:07:00.000+05:30

This cannot be happening. I cannot let the month of October go by without blogging even once. This is an offence of the gravest nature: I being a person addicted to writing. It is an unpardonable crime. So I am sentenced to writing a 500 word blogs every two weeks from now on (I might be punishing all of you in the process). Now that everything is set in order I have to decide where to get the remaining 413 words from.

Life in the last one month had become a triangle whose nodes were Theatre Y (my theatre group), Shaastra and CAT (the entrance exam for the IIMs). Shaastra became the largest technical festival in the country, both in terms of the events as well as the contribution of the industry in terms of cash and kind. We also got the much sought after ISO 9001 certification for Shaastra making it the first event in the world to get this certification. My public relations and publicity work left me very satisfied and exhausted. Next stop Saarang (the cultural festival of IIT Madras, to be held from 21st to 26th January 2004)! The theatre workshop progressed further into voice exercises and poetry reading. I started work on another play which I am temporarily calling 'Sane Asylum'. Preparations for CAT are in full flow (finally!!) but with less than a month left I am beginning to panic a little. Diwali was spent with my family and provided much needed change of atmosphere. The finals of the Main Quiz are tomorrow and I am really looking forward to winning it (with my teammate Neela's recent form this should not be a problem).

One thing which has always interested me in a non-obsessive kind of way is astrology. The concept that every twelfth man (roughly) in this world has a similar future has always bewildered me. A newly acquired friend asked me my sun sign. "Cancer" I said. "Oh! You are one of the what-if-people.", came the immediate reply. Another half an hour of questioning and interrogation from my side introduced me to concepts I couldn't have come up with even in my wildest imaginations (and believe me they can get really wild and crazy). My friend went on to attribute all my habits to 'typical Cancerian behaviour'. I was shocked, surprised and horrified at the same moment (I wish I could have looked at my face; these things don't happen to often, it was a Kodak moment). I, Anshumani Ruddra was stereotypical and representative of one-twelfth of humanity. It has taken me two days to snap out of this uselessness. I felt like an A4 size sheet of paper, no two different from each other. I felt like a mass produced piece of equipment. I felt like a grain stored in a container with other thousands of grains. Luckily for me none of the predictions made in Sunday’s newspaper have come true so far. I was supposed to find 'true love' (what ever that means) and start a relationship that was supposed to last for ever ("till death do us apart"). So now I can go back to feeling unique: I am the beautiful poem written on the A4 size paper, not the paper itself; I do not need the paper to survive.

Poetry is the only thing these days which is adding colour to my life. I was recently introduced to the poems of Roger McGough and I can now claim to be one of his biggest fans. McGough is a genius, with absolute command over his words and I have never seen anyone wield the pen with greater poetic power.

Survivor

Everyday,
I think about dying.
About disease, starvation,
violence, terrorism, war,
the end of the world.

It helps
keep my mind off things.

Roger McGough

Could You Introduce Me to Your Lawn Tractor?

2003-09-09T23:01:00.000+05:30

Dave Barry is perhaps one of the most gifted writers I have ever read. His books have inspired countless TV sitcoms and the guy is a living legend. His weekly column is syndicated in over 400 newspapers. Barry won the Pulitzer Prize for commentary and is also the subject of CBS's "Dave's World," based on his irreverent life and times. The following is an article he wrote in the Miami Herald. All men have had similar thoughts at some point or the other but it takes a Dave Barry to say it correctly. This one is for all the women out there.

By DAVE BARRY©(Miami Herald)

So I was at this party, and I wound up at a table where three attractive single women were complaining about -- Surprise! -- men. Specifically, they were complaining about the pickup lines that had been used on them in a bar a few nights earlier.

One woman said: "This guy comes up to me and says, 'Are you a teacher?'I mean, is that supposed to be romantic?''

All three women rolled all six of their eyes.

Another one of them said: "This guy says to me, 'I've been looking at you all night!' So I go, 'Hel-LO, we just GOT here.'''

At this point all three women -- and I want to stress that these are intelligent, nice women -- were laughing. Not me. I was feeling bad for the guys. I realize that there are certain hardships that only females must endure, such as childbirth, waiting in lines for public-restroom stalls, and a crippling, psychotic obsession with shoe color. So I grant that it is not easy being a female. But I contend that nature has given males the heaviest burden of all: the burden of always having to Make the First Move, and thereby risk getting Shot Down. I don't know WHY males get stuck with this burden, but it's true throughout the animal kingdom. If you watch the nature shows on the Discovery Channel, you'll note that whatever species they are talking about -- birds, crabs, spiders, clams -- it is ALWAYS the male who has to take the initiative. It's always the male bird who does the courting dance, making a total moron of himself, while the female bird just stands there, looking aloof, thinking about what she's going to tell her girlfriends. ("And then he hopped around on one foot! Like I'm supposed to be impressed by THAT!''). Male insects have it the worst. The Discovery Channel announcer is always saying things like: "After the mating, the female mantis bites off the male mantis' head, and then she and her girlfriend mantises use it to play a game that looks a lot like Skee Ball.''

Because I live in Florida, my patio is basically a giant singles bar for lizards. On any given day during mating season, I'll see dozens of male lizards out there making their most suave lizard move, which consists of inflating and deflating a red pouch under their chins. They seem to think that female lizards really go for a guy with a big chin pouch, but I have never once, in 14 years of close observation, seen a female respond. They just squat there looking bored, while all around them males are blinking on and off like defective warning lights.

Every now and then you'll see an offbeat TV news story about some animal, usually a moose, that has for some reason fallen in love with, and decided to relentlessly court, something totally inappropriate, such as a lawn tractor. This animal is ALWAYS a male. On the TV, they show it hanging around the lawn tractor with a big, sad, moony look, totally smitten, while the lawn tractor cruelly ignores it.

My point here is that, in matters of the heart, males have the brains of a walnut. No, wait! That is not my point. My point is that perhaps you women could cut us males a little bit of slack in the move-making process, because we are under a lot of stress. I vividly remember when I was in 10th grade, and I wanted to call a girl named Patty and ask her to a dance, and before I picked up the phone, I spent maybe 28 hours rehearsing exactly what I was going to say. So when I actually made the call, I was pretty smooth. "Hello, Dance?'' I said. "This is Patty. Do you want to go to the Dave with me?'' Fortunately Patty grasped the basic thrust of my gist and agreed to go to the dance. This was a good thing, because if she had shot me down, I would have been so humiliated that I would have never have been able to go back to school. I would have dropped out of 10th grade and lied about my age and joined the U.S. armed forces, and as a direct result the Russians would have won the Cold War.

That is the awesome power that you women have over us men. I hope you understand this, and the next time a guy walks up and uses some incredibly lame, boneheaded line on you, I hope that, instead of laughing at him, you will remember that he is under the intense pressure of wanting to impress you enough so that you might want to get to know him better and maybe eventually, perhaps within the next 15 minutes, mate with him, thereby enabling the survival of the human race, which believe me is the only thing that we males are truly concerned about. In conclusion, let me just say to all females everywhere, on behalf of all males everywhere, that you are very beautiful and your eyes are like two shining stars, unless you're a female fly, in which case your eyes are more like 2,038 shining stars. So please give us a chance. And if you're not interested, could you introduce us to your lawn tractor?

We Stink, Therefore We Are

2003-09-05T01:18:00.000+05:30

I have been in the business of PR all my life. I have lived in seven different cities and changed eight schools over the years. IIT is my ninth educational institute and if my mom's wishes come true then double digits aren't too far away. Most people consider the whole business of shifting schools and making new friends a rather painful experience. I on the other hand took this up as a challenge and tried to make a new bunch of friends in the shortest possible time. This helped me to become a good reader of people's character and an expert conversationalist. Those skills are coming in handy now that I am handling PR for both our cultural and technical festivals (namely Saarang and Shaastra): talking to media people, inviting other colleges, coming up with smarter publicity techniques and generally intellectualizing and prophesizing the futures of these events.

Shaastra, our technical festival is going into its fifth edition and this would be the fourth and the final time that I would be a part of the organizing team. I have seen it grow in front of my eyes and have dreamt about its future with my friends. I hope that we have built something that will outlive all of us and though we would be forgotten, this tree that we have planted will grow to give shade to thousands of others. I think I am getting carried away with emotions over here. May Shaastra live on for ever!

So many years of effort in quizzing is finally bearing some fruit. My team qualified for two quizzes in IIT and I surprised a lot of people including myself by qualifying for the elocution finals. The title of this blog also happens to be the name of my team which is self explanatory (we don't really stink; we just make others despise us because we are better than them). I also became a member of a local theatre group called Theatre Y. I am attending a workshop organized by the group which would eventually lead to a production. Though the thrust is on acting, this would also provide a platform for me to write some good plays which might get produced. It is always nice to meet people from different backgrounds, working in varied fields but sharing similar passions and interests. I started writing a parody of 'Waiting for Godot' by Samuel Beckett on an idea given by a friend and also put finishing touches to 'Cupid in Love', a play I had started writing almost an year back. Maybe I'll put up the final draft online. Thoughts are getting converted to words more easily these days and there is a new clarity in my thinking. I leave with these words of wisdom by the master GB Shaw:
Few people think more than two or three times a year; I have made an international reputation for myself by thinking once or twice a week.

Champions at Last

2003-08-12T10:45:00.000+05:30

Some very observant people have pointed out that in my previous blog, about unending failures, I mentioned a Pair of Pathetic Peripatetics © and referred to myself as 'we'. One of the Peripatetics is of course me and the other one is my dear friend, personal philosopher and guide Rahul. There is such a long list of activities in which we have been involved together that it is hard to believe that we have known each other only for a period of three years and our friendship is just two years old. Even our personal and academic lives have been following the same downward spiral. One failure after another, it just kept on going. But we have brought that to an end (and I hope for once and for all). Rahul made himself immortal in IIT history by getting a perfect score (1600/1600) in GRE and yours truly landed a management job with diversified conglomerate Larsen and Toubro after a grueling round of three tests and two interviews spread over a period of two weeks.

Life suddenly seems full of promise and I have again started walking with my head held high. I can almost feel the proverbial spring in my feet. But as our good old friend Al Pacino said in The Devil’s Advocate: Vanity is my (the devil’s) favorite sin. We will not let this success go to our heads because there are more battles to be fought, more castles to be won and a lot of flowers to be deflowered (no offence meant to any one, the devil has taken over me). So now I can put all my energy into making my final year in IIT the most memorable year of my life and give the people something they will not forget for a long time.

Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine and at last you create what you will.
George Bernard Shaw

2003-07-30T13:20:00.000+05:30

Peripatetic, an adjective which, when capitalized, refers to the philosophy or followers of Aristotle, so-called because Aristotle taught while walking in the Lyceum of ancient Athens. Without the initial capital letter, it is used (usually humorously) to describe someone who walks or travels about.

Life has become a series of unending failures over the past couple of years. We have been wandering about trying to find that one great success which will help us to redeem our lost pride. Of course there are a few small things which cheer us up every now and then and make us believe that we achieved something. But what we need is some cataclysmic event (not necessarily a disastrous one but definitely an earth-shaking one) to change the course of our life and bring us back on track. It could be getting a good job (I am keeping my fingers crossed, L&T or bust) or acing GRE. The only thing which helps me to maintain my faith in life is my firm belief that good things happen to good people.

On a Sunday afternoon a couple of weeks back I was thinking about the future. When I die would the world remember me? What would be the legacy I will leave behind? The only thought that entered my mind at that time was the following:

Set up the world's largest book shop with more than one million square feet of space to walk around and browse for books. A place where people will come with their families, to spend the day and enjoy the company of books. Of course there will be amazing coffee and grub available and there will be a playing area for children where I would read out fairy tales and poems to the kids. Books of the highest quality will be available at the cheapest possible price. There will be a reading area also where you can sit and read a book and attend Book Club meetings. Famous writers will give lectures and read their poetry and short stories. Books will not be arranged in a dim-witted fashion (where there is no distinction between science-fiction and fantasy) and they will be kept in parabolic stands so that people don't have to stoop to see the books at the bottom. Books will not be sold by sales people who don't know anything about books; they will be sold by sales people who are absolutely crazy about books. Going to this book shop would be an experience which people will remember for the rest of their lives. People from all over the world will visit it in large numbers. I just hope I have enough money one day to realize my dream.

I got some unusual reactions from my friends on my last blog. The changes in my personality are not very apparent and that is a good thing according to me. But the focus is definitely there and it is there to stay. I have been receiving some flak from women about my obsession with being cute. Raindrops and anonymous want me to get a grip on myself and even others agree with them that girls who refer to a guy as ‘nice’ really mean what they are saying. I sincerely apologize to all the women out there. It was not out of the shallowness of my character that the blog entry came about; it was rather out of my experience with a very limited number of women. I haven’t really met a women so far who has made me think otherwise. It was never my intention to generalize women or demean them in any way. In the future please leave your email ids behind so I can apologize to you personally.

The Beast Within

2003-07-26T12:37:00.000+05:30

Wow! It’s been a long time since I wrote a blog entry. It has actually been a long time since I wrote anything. I am back in IIT and life has slowly slipped itself into the old routine of spending time at my DCF (department computational facility) and sitting and chatting with friends at our usual hangout places. There is one difference though, a big one. This is the last year we will be spending in this glorious place called IIT. There is a look of anticipation and nervousness on everyone’s face. Will we get a good job, will we get an MS in a reputed american university, and will we be able to make it to the IIMs. These are some of the questions on everyone’s mind. Although most of us are looking forward to the new challenges we’ll be facing in the ‘real’ world, all of us are afraid at a certain level about leaving the secure and carefree life that IIT has provided us for the last couple of years. The happy days are going to end soon. But our world will not end with a whimper; it will end with a bang.

For the first time in many years I have achieved the kind of focus I always wanted. I have slowly been feeding the monster of competitiveness which had been lying dormant inside me for the last five years. This is one side of me which most of my friends have never seen and which most of them wouldn’t like. But I have learnt a very valuable secret in the last few years: I have learned how to tame this beast that I can become. However, I am unleashing it now and the world will have to live with this new change and accept me for who I am. This is the only way I can achieve the targets I have set out for myself. I will revert back to the good old me as soon as this personal mission is fulfilled.

My summer training ended on a cheerful note. DRL was happy with me and I was happy with them. The time spent there made me realize that I was an excellent engineer and the time I had spent in the classroom over the last three years hadn’t gone to waste. It however strengthened my conviction of not working in the field of Chemical Engineering.

Life has been worrying me for some days now and my father has been trying to cheer me up. He gave me some advice the other day which can be perfectly summarized by one of Cat Stevens' song. I hope some day I am able to give the same advice to my son.

It's not time to make a change,
Just relax, take it easy.
You're still young, that's your fault,
There's so much you have to know.
Find a girl, settle down,
If you want you can marry.
Look at me, I am old, but I'm happy.

I was once like you are now, and I know that it's not easy,
To be calm when you've found something going on.
But take your time, think a lot,
Why, think of everything you've got.
For you will still be here tomorrow, but your dreams may not.

I would like to end this blog by wishing all my friends the very best of luck with their GREs. Congratulations to all those who got a job in the last week.

10101 and Still Counting but Mr. Nice-Guy No More

2003-06-28T16:56:00.000+05:30

The other day I was walking around in Lifestyle (huge Mall in Hyderabad) and came across a father and son who were trying to buy some computer games. The son wanted to buy everything there was on the shelf and the father was trying to convince him that he would play the games for a few days and then get bored. The son wasn’t going to give up easily and the father too was a hard nut to crack. Six-seven years back that could have been my dad and me. Seeing the patient father talking to his son made me laugh at all the pitiful tricks I used to pull off to get what I wanted when I was young. Yes it’s hard to believe but it is true – I have matured and grown older. The final blow to my juvenile days came when I got bored playing Quake and UT. I could not believe what was happening. Computer games, my love and hobby for the past so many years did not interest me any longer. I decided that the next time I play any game on the computer, it would be with my children.

Tomorrow I turn 21 and that means I can legally vote and get married in any country of the world. I decided long back that I was never going to vote because of my complete lack of faith in the democratic system and my extreme hatred of all politicians. So one of my legal right becomes useless. Getting married on the other hand is always on my mind and I am a firm believer and supporter of the institution of marriage (find me a girl today and I’ll get married tomorrow). Jokes aside I do feel that purely arranged marriages in today’s world are a complete failure. They were successful in the past because of the extreme control of the society even in private matters, which always led to a compromise between the husband and wife. Even when the couples were miserable they pretended to be happily married to keep the rest of the world happy.

The times have changed and couples have stopped compromising. If an arranged marriage ends in a divorce then the couple can blame a lot of people including their parents for the failure of their marriage. But why should others take this responsibility. The best option today is to let kids go ahead and get married. If their marriage fails, tough luck. At least they cannot blame others for their own mistakes. Luckily my parents share my views on this. So I have seven more years to find myself a girl and get married otherwise my parents take over the process. That’s 2555 days or 61320 hours or 3679200 minutes more. The last figure does give me some hope but I can hear the clock ticking inside my head.

Another great thing that happened in Lifestyle that day was the end of the long battle between me being cute and me being nice. I think this battle does deserve a little background (most of my friends would think I have lost my mind for feeling so happy about such a dumb thing).

I am quite sure that I make a good first impression on people (people mean girls from now on). But for some odd reason people always thought that I am a very nice guy. Now there is nothing wrong in being nice but when you find out that there are just three things that people (i.e. girls) say about guys after having met them, you realize that you did not get the best compliment. The ranking of these compliments goes something like this: Uuuggghhh, Nice and Cute. I don’t think I need to explain the first one. The second means exactly how the dictionary defines it:

A city of southeast France on the Mediterranean Sea northeast of Cannes. Controlled by various royal houses after the 13th century, the city was finally ceded to France in 1860. It is the leading resort city of the French Riviera. Population: 342,903.

Sorry! wrong definition:

Pleasing and agreeable in nature, exhibiting courtesy and politeness, of good character and reputation, respectable.

That’s exactly what girls think about you. But there is more. Being nice also means that you are good enough to be their best friend but not good enough to be their boy friend. It means the girls feel protected in your company (like the company of their elder brothers) and see you as a harmless creature. The mother of the girl friend of one our close friend remarked that IITians are harmless and she doesn’t mind her daughter hanging around with us. Though she meant it as a compliment, it is the main reason why so few of us have girl friends. Being called Nice is as bad as being called Gay (although there is nothing wrong in being gay).

The third and the highest form of a compliment is Cute. Not only does the girl like you but she also wouldn’t mind going out with you if she already didn’t have a boyfriend. There have been only two occasions in my life (about which I know) that a good looking girl (yeah looks don’t matter that much but they do) called me cute. But it happened to be the same girl on both the occasions and I did end up going out with her. However I have been called Nice so many times by so many girls that I was beginning to loose faith in the cosmic truth: Good things happen to good people.

But last week in Lifestyle Mr. Cute won the battle over Mr. Nice so triumphantly that there is no chance in hell that Mr. Nice will ever surface again. Four gorgeous (hot) young women (all over the age of 18) found me extremely cute. Only I know what such a thing can do to ones confidence. I felt like farmer Oak in Thomas Hardy’s Far From the Madding Crowd:

When Farmer Oak smiled, the corners of his mouth spread till they were within an unimportant distance of his ears, his eyes were reduced to chinks, and diverging wrinkles appeared round them, extending upon his countenance like the rays in a rudimentary sketch of the rising sun.

I am cute, I am 21 and life is good. What more can a man ask for.

Wordsworth and the Bliss of Solitude

2003-06-24T23:02:00.000+05:30

I have finally found a good Comments adding feature for my blog. Blogextra.com had a preset limit of 400 characters for all comments (they think commenting is like sending a SMS). So I had to search for a new service provider and I am happy that I found Enetation - annotations for your site http://www.enetation.co.uk

Blogging and publishing journals on the web has really caught the frenzy of the web community. More and more developers (luckily most of them followers of the Open Source movement) are developing blogging software that can be run on our web servers and many others are providing online facilities to publish blogs on their sites as well as ftp them to our own sites. Blogging will go a long way in achieving the ‘One world, One people’ motto for which I believe the Internet stands. Blogs are helping people the world over to share their views and thoughts on matters that range from the most trivial to ones that are of immense importance. It gives us a way to share our lives with the rest of humanity. I hope the blogging community increases both in its passion and its importance.

For me blogging has become both a hobby as well as a medium to express my thoughts.

I have been reading a lot of poetry these days and I am deeply moved by the words of Wordsworth. I suppose I am finally experiencing the bliss of solitude.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils.

From William Wordsworth's 'I wandered lonely as a cloud ...'

Serendipity and the Circular Geometry of Relationships

2003-06-14T14:54:00.000+05:30

A couple of days back I saw the movie Serendipity starring John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale. The word ‘serendipity’ was coined by Horace Walpole in the 18th century, from the Persian fairy tale The Three Princes of Serendip (Serendip is an old name for the island now known as Sri Lanka). It means finding something unexpected and useful while searching for something else entirely. The central idea of the movie was that for a few moments the whole universe could just exist to bring two people together. This thought appealed to me. I consider myself a romantic to a certain degree. I do like watching the occasional ‘mushy’ movie. But they make very few good romantic movies these days: movies that have a certain element of fairytale-like magic and yet are realistic and believable. However I believe that unexpected things do happen in our lives. Things that we simply reject as coincidences are often slight hints and indications from the universe that it still remembers us and cares for us.

The late Douglas Adams in his Dirk Gently and Hitchhiker's series stressed on the interconnectedness of everything in this universe. This basic principle leads to some very interesting discoveries. The method of Zen Navigation, which is described in Dirk Gently series, can make for an amazing pass time. All you need is a car and a free afternoon. Just go out on the main road and follow any person who you feel knows where s/he is going. You could end up visiting some very interesting places.

Life does present us with a lot of opportunities but it is up to us to identify these signs and make the best of the situation. From my own personal experience and from the experience of some of my friends I have come up with a theory about the Circle of Life:

Let us consider ourselves the center of a circle and all the people we know (family, friends, girl-friend/s, etc.) to be arcs of different lengths on the circumference. The lengths of these arcs are directly proportional to our love for these people and their size can decrease or increase over time. The radius of this circle is a measure of our age and reaches a constant value around the time we are thirty. The area subtended by an arc at the center is a measure of the hard work and love that has gone into the relationship. Anyone who was ever a part of our life would always be a part of this circle no matter what.

When a child is born its radius is small and its parents take up the entire circumference. As one grows older, friends come into the picture and take their place on the bigger circle. The length of the parents arc is however still of the same length. By the time one reaches the age of 20, family and friends constitute nearly three-quarters of our circle. But a quarter of our circle is still unoccupied. This is a cause of a lot of unhappiness and unrest in our life. We are constantly looking for the person who will come into our lives and fill up this gap. In the case of men we are looking for the right women with whom we can spend the rest of our lives (yeah some men could be looking for other men but that doesn’t really matter). This state of unrest leads to many conquests and journeys. Girl friends come and go. But the gap cannot be filled as long as one-quarter area worth of hard work and love hasn’t gone into the relationship.

Some people are lucky and fall in love with each other instantly (remember it can be love only if both the people involved feel the same way about each other). Others have to work very hard to get the other person to fall in love with them. This process can go on for a long time and passes through various stages. It can be very tough and emotionally draining at times. One has to put his heart and soul into the whole thing and forget everything else. Many poets and writers have achieved greatness because of the work they produced during this period. But all our attempts can fail some times. That however should not stop us from following this path. Perseverance is the only way to survive in the game of love.

The other group of lucky bastards who had it easy in the beginning also have to work very hard in the later stages. Since they by-passed the stages of friendship, trust and commitment, they have to make up for it later. The relationship cannot survive as long as the quota of hardships and heartache is not full. The group, which was lucky initially, is the one that fails more often than the other group.

Some of us try to fill this gap in our life by making more friends and just hanging around with the old ones. This can never complete the circle of our life. I suppose finding the missing arc is the main aim of our life. And once we find that special someone it is up to us to do everything we can possibly do to make the relationship survive. This ordeal could go on for the rest of our life. We have to learn to start enjoying the journey as much as the goal. We have to create an Odyssey of our own.

People come and go. But they always remain a part of our lives. Sometimes we have to say goodbye to our rose as the little prince did in Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s classic book of the same name. The author of this book, which changed my life for the better, happens to share my birth date. Here is an excerpt from the book:

The little prince went away to look again at the roses. 'You are not at all like my rose', he said. 'As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world.' And the roses were very much embarrassed. 'You are beautiful, but you are empty', he went on. 'One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you - the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundred of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose.'