... a telephone. He goes and checks the latest model and plans available. Man goes to the showroom and offers to pay upfront. Man is denied a phone because he does not have a PIN number for the debit card or a "paid utility bill, not older than three months" in his name.
Man goes to bank, demands a PIN for his debit card. Bank says PIN is despatched. Man says he has not received yet. Clerk checks and says it has been despatched to his permanent address in India.
Man wants to go out. It is so damn chilly outside that the very thought of "becoming a penguin" to go out puts him off. Man wants to go out of the city for new year. It rains. Man looks out of the window at 4 in the afternoon and wonders "Whither the sun?"
Man wants to charge his gadgets, but his round plugs won't go into the square holes. Man attempts to find a charger, but none in stock.
Man wishes everyone a happy, fun-filled and a satisfying year ahead and rolls off to sleep under the warmth of his blanket.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
The chilly winds...
... of England seem to have the sharpest bite of them all. A week into the UK and I already feel the woollen I have will hopelessly fail to insulate me – when I am outside, that is. In the inside of the house, the office, and the mall I visit in between walking from one to the other, there are heaters working tirelessly to make the people feel warm and cozy.
The walk to the office is a pleasant one – early in the morning, thanks to a disciplined colleague who works smart – the shops in the mall are just about opening as we walk past them, the heavenly smell of cookies and bread emanates from the brunch shop, a couple of people nod a silent “Good Morning”, as we walk the entire diagonal length of the mall, window shopping the huge stores, brandishing their merchandise at a re-worked price for Christmas.
One desk beside me, the large glass windows (or should I say walls) stretch themselves over the parking lot, and beyond it, one can see a palatial structure with a dome – that’s the Indian restaurant, Jaipur – the closest to authentic Indian food you get around Milton Keynes comes from these kitchens, they say. One can also see the traffic emerging out of the railway station, which is just in front of the office building. The cars, I won’t even talk about them – BMWs are driven as taxis. More land is allotted to the parking lot than the actual office space. The sun, when it shines, bounces off the glass windows, and reflects off the shiny roofs of the cars below.
Outside, the leaves have bid goodbye to the trees, and those which have managed to hold fast have turned a rusty brown. People walk around hugging their dark overcoats tighter around themselves. You can’t make out who is smoking unless you look at their hands and find a cigarette between their fingers. The landscape outside has a touch of wilderness with all the brown and the earth. Even so, the guy next door, scraping frozen dew off his car windows, brings hope that it might be a white Christmas after all.
The walk to the office is a pleasant one – early in the morning, thanks to a disciplined colleague who works smart – the shops in the mall are just about opening as we walk past them, the heavenly smell of cookies and bread emanates from the brunch shop, a couple of people nod a silent “Good Morning”, as we walk the entire diagonal length of the mall, window shopping the huge stores, brandishing their merchandise at a re-worked price for Christmas.
One desk beside me, the large glass windows (or should I say walls) stretch themselves over the parking lot, and beyond it, one can see a palatial structure with a dome – that’s the Indian restaurant, Jaipur – the closest to authentic Indian food you get around Milton Keynes comes from these kitchens, they say. One can also see the traffic emerging out of the railway station, which is just in front of the office building. The cars, I won’t even talk about them – BMWs are driven as taxis. More land is allotted to the parking lot than the actual office space. The sun, when it shines, bounces off the glass windows, and reflects off the shiny roofs of the cars below.
Outside, the leaves have bid goodbye to the trees, and those which have managed to hold fast have turned a rusty brown. People walk around hugging their dark overcoats tighter around themselves. You can’t make out who is smoking unless you look at their hands and find a cigarette between their fingers. The landscape outside has a touch of wilderness with all the brown and the earth. Even so, the guy next door, scraping frozen dew off his car windows, brings hope that it might be a white Christmas after all.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Westward Ho !!!
The lights below were as if someone was holding a mesh of golden beads, shining away in all their glory. Wait, was that the Sayyaji Rao Road meeting Urs Road at KR Circle?
It was indeed one road meeting another at a roundabout, but from 2000 ft above the ground, you would not know for sure. For, the first illuminated aerial view of the city of London reminded me of my own Mysore, decked up for Dasara.
I'm in the UK now, on company assignment. I arrived over the weekend, and have settled well, thank you. Work might not permit me to blog on company time, but I do have unsupervised internet access at home, so Shru, the comments shall freely flow now...
It was indeed one road meeting another at a roundabout, but from 2000 ft above the ground, you would not know for sure. For, the first illuminated aerial view of the city of London reminded me of my own Mysore, decked up for Dasara.
I'm in the UK now, on company assignment. I arrived over the weekend, and have settled well, thank you. Work might not permit me to blog on company time, but I do have unsupervised internet access at home, so Shru, the comments shall freely flow now...
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Firsts list
How many of you have a first-list - the first job, the first bike, the first house, the first kiss...you get the drift? Like Dr.Bhalerao says to Roy in Bluffmaster - tumhe kitne din yaad hain?, I have a mental "to-do" list, which I like to "Mark as Done" with a punch in the air, as and when I reach there. Some of my firsts have been highly fulfilling, like my laptop, which left me on cloud nineteen, or my first big splurge - 16k of hard-earned money on a cellphone. I still remember the feeling when I gingerly gave my card for swiping, wondering whether it was worth it.
Some of them were long overdue, like my bike. My bike was not the first vehicle I rode - I had a second-hand Hero Puch before, and an old family Luna before that, and hand-me-down cycles even before. My bike was not the first vehicle I bought - I bought a Scooty for dad before the bike. And so, the joy that MY bike was bought of my own money was overshadowed by a "Oh, you bought a bike? So what?" feeling. Nevertheless, I celebrate every small acquisition in my long list of "must-haves" I have been listing since college days. Some items on the list have been re-prioritised, some new items have gatecrashed and some items have been obfuscated.
And I remember each of these firsts - the offer letter - which was like a million prayers answered, the first big splurge - with the fear of repayment, the first salary (again, technically, the first salary was Rs.880, for a part-time job as a sales canvasser for Deccan Herald, which was joyfully spent on steaming idli-vada-sambar or set dosas for a whole month), the ride from the bike showroom to the office, the wide-eyed stare into the shining blackness of the laptop screen, the awe at the credit-card sized digital camera, which is smaller than my cellphone, the first of those stolen kisses (ever wondered how the sweetest of kisses are those that are stolen), the first of those innumerable whoops of joy at something finally working out, the first (and all) of those reunions of college friends and many many more....
Some time back, I struck one more entry off my list - I bought my first suit. And while I was it, I made it even more memorable by making it two.
Some of them were long overdue, like my bike. My bike was not the first vehicle I rode - I had a second-hand Hero Puch before, and an old family Luna before that, and hand-me-down cycles even before. My bike was not the first vehicle I bought - I bought a Scooty for dad before the bike. And so, the joy that MY bike was bought of my own money was overshadowed by a "Oh, you bought a bike? So what?" feeling. Nevertheless, I celebrate every small acquisition in my long list of "must-haves" I have been listing since college days. Some items on the list have been re-prioritised, some new items have gatecrashed and some items have been obfuscated.
And I remember each of these firsts - the offer letter - which was like a million prayers answered, the first big splurge - with the fear of repayment, the first salary (again, technically, the first salary was Rs.880, for a part-time job as a sales canvasser for Deccan Herald, which was joyfully spent on steaming idli-vada-sambar or set dosas for a whole month), the ride from the bike showroom to the office, the wide-eyed stare into the shining blackness of the laptop screen, the awe at the credit-card sized digital camera, which is smaller than my cellphone, the first of those stolen kisses (ever wondered how the sweetest of kisses are those that are stolen), the first of those innumerable whoops of joy at something finally working out, the first (and all) of those reunions of college friends and many many more....
Some time back, I struck one more entry off my list - I bought my first suit. And while I was it, I made it even more memorable by making it two.
Friday, November 10, 2006
bewDon ka woh aDDa
You ask me where I was all these days? I tell you I was at the bar. You gawk?
So I was hopping here and there, bored and yawning, and I came across this cozy bar via Adi.
(This takes our score to 2-1 in his favour. How you ask? Like Adi carries my post on Mysore here - Adi 1 - Viky 0, Like I beat him for the GOLD on this post - 1-1)
I'm lucky to generally have some spare time in office, which I book under "Non-project Activity". Much of this is reading blogs, checking out gadget reviews, drawing up comparison sheets to help friends buy some goods, checking my account balance in the hope that some good samaritan may have transferred some money, reading trivia on sports or film stars on Wikipedia - the stuff. I always enjoy posts of Indian students and professionals living abroad - their life, the kind of things they come across, the slight fear of being alone in a distant, unfamiliar environment, the tingling excitement of explaining your native habits and culture - you know, the works. I keep coming back and read them, often discuss anecdotes of the scores of NRI blogs I read, but none were so captivating that I had to reschedule the other NPAs. After Thought Raker and Waiter Rant, this was one blog which beckoned me to keep coming back.
And I'm left with the same feeling which I had after Waiter Rant. It's like finishing a good book. Like one of my trainers said - I'm sad that you have never read Harry Potter, but I'm also happily jealous, because you can experience the joy of reading them for the first time, while I can't. When you finish lapping up all the archived stuff, you are glad, but there is this hunger for more. Hunger, which will not satiate at one post. Which is why I read the waiter once in four-five weeks, when there is enough on my plate. I thought I'd never find anything which would feed my hunger for short-storyesque prose like ThoughtRaker, but I found Waiter Rant. I thought the same about Waiter Rant, but found Sayeshaz.
Which prompted me to tweak Hariharan's ghazal and put it as my debut comment on her bar - "maikade band karein laakh zamane waale, shehar mein kam nahin blogon se pilane waale".
So I was hopping here and there, bored and yawning, and I came across this cozy bar via Adi.
(This takes our score to 2-1 in his favour. How you ask? Like Adi carries my post on Mysore here - Adi 1 - Viky 0, Like I beat him for the GOLD on this post - 1-1)
I'm lucky to generally have some spare time in office, which I book under "Non-project Activity". Much of this is reading blogs, checking out gadget reviews, drawing up comparison sheets to help friends buy some goods, checking my account balance in the hope that some good samaritan may have transferred some money, reading trivia on sports or film stars on Wikipedia - the stuff. I always enjoy posts of Indian students and professionals living abroad - their life, the kind of things they come across, the slight fear of being alone in a distant, unfamiliar environment, the tingling excitement of explaining your native habits and culture - you know, the works. I keep coming back and read them, often discuss anecdotes of the scores of NRI blogs I read, but none were so captivating that I had to reschedule the other NPAs. After Thought Raker and Waiter Rant, this was one blog which beckoned me to keep coming back.
And I'm left with the same feeling which I had after Waiter Rant. It's like finishing a good book. Like one of my trainers said - I'm sad that you have never read Harry Potter, but I'm also happily jealous, because you can experience the joy of reading them for the first time, while I can't. When you finish lapping up all the archived stuff, you are glad, but there is this hunger for more. Hunger, which will not satiate at one post. Which is why I read the waiter once in four-five weeks, when there is enough on my plate. I thought I'd never find anything which would feed my hunger for short-storyesque prose like ThoughtRaker, but I found Waiter Rant. I thought the same about Waiter Rant, but found Sayeshaz.
Which prompted me to tweak Hariharan's ghazal and put it as my debut comment on her bar - "maikade band karein laakh zamane waale, shehar mein kam nahin blogon se pilane waale".
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Trains
When I have written about buses, can trains be left behind?
I always had a special connection with trains, as can be seen in my comment on this post. I have literally woken up to the loud trumpeting horn of the Mysore-Nanjangud train, waiting for its signal to enter the Ashokapuram station. I clearly remember Thatha taking me up to the roof years ago, to show me the trains. Those were cherished moments - every year, a visit to Mysore would mean looking at the trains from Ajji mane mhaaDi. Later, when I came to stay there, and the house underwent a lot of renovation, I was to take my little cousins up the stairs and show them the trains when they acted cranky.
While in school, we would go to play cricket in a place called the "woodyard". On my way back, I would walk along the tracks, wondering how they could stack the stones in neat oblong mounds.
I would walk along until I reached the station, which had a workshop attached to it. This was enough to fuel my curiosity, and I have seen probably all kinds of engines and bogies there were at that point of time.
Later, as dad kept moving around, I got to travel a lot in trains - long distance trains to Gujarat, Rajasthan, Haryana and Delhi. I loved those journeys - the looking up your name on reservation charts, the securing of suitcases under the seats, and wondering who might be in the seat next to you, the removing of shoes and climbing up to the upper berth (I got to see a lot of people who climbed into the upper berth and then put their shoes on top of the fan there. I found it utterly disgusting, but I guess they must have lost more shoes than I have stepped into, so I'll let that be), the slow rocking of the train, the switching off of the lights, and the drifting off to the best sleep ever. I always sleep well on trains. Better than I sleep in buses or aeroplanes, or at home. It must be the rocking, or the heavenly smell of countryside, or maybe, the distinctive smell of the cold metal and rexine.
Sometimes, in late evenings when dinner would be served and wrapped up, and I had finished my book or my batteries, I would go and sit on the footboard. Yes, mom, I know you forbade me to stand there. Which is why I didn't. I just sat. I sat and watched the countryside whizz by. I sat and enjoyed the change of sound as the train went over a bridge. I sat and counted the number of bogies as the train went around a bend. I sat and let the wind mess up my hair, I watched the distant light of a lone house in the dark fields. I watched the headlights of the vehicles lined up to let my train pass, I waved back at the small kids waving me goodbye. I took deep breaths of the night air, and at the first sign of drowsiness, I went back to my berth.
Sometimes, I would wake up early to the first call of "tea-choy", "chaya-chaya" or "ness-coffy sir", and a paper-cup in hand, would watch the dawn break across rural India. Trust me, there is nothing more beautiful or divine than watching the sun rise over the misty horizon, lighting up the hitherto dark countryside. The chill in the air stings your face as you sit on the footboard, sipping the hot tea and feasting your eyes on the emerging greenery. Dawn breaks early in rural areas, or rather, it seems to, and you have to be up really early to catch this. An hour later maybe, all you get is morning squatters on the outside, and people wanting to freshen up on the inside. I always used this time to go back to my berth, recall all the sights and drift back to sleep.
The night is always mysterious and fascinating, you never know how it passes. On a train, it is passing the day that is the more difficult part. Like everyone of us, I always hoped that I would meet (atleast) one interesting person of the opposite sex, who would make the journey interesting - but no !!! It either happens in the movies, or to Chetan Bhagat. My sister got such company once, though, and they ended up talking about a story I had started to write, and made fun of the characters. I sulked and never finished the story.
How could one write about a long distance journey and not mention the eunuchs who came clapping by. First I used to look away - outside the window, or into the newspaper or magazine. Later, a sense of "what the duck" took over, and I used to look them in the eye and ask them to go away. The first time I did this, I was like - Wow, it works!!! Hah!!! It's not that I am against helping or anything, but rather, I subscribe to the view that giving them money would encourage them to do it more. It is like purchasing ivory or leather goods - the more you do it, the more it spreads. The only way of stopping it is to refuse them. The only exception I make is for kids. I can't stand them begging saying they haven't eaten for days. And no, I don't give them money. I make sure that they are fed.
Not just trains, as a kid, I was intrigued by stations as well. The nearest station (the one with the workshop) was in visible distance of our house. As kids, we used to go there often and play hide-and-seek in the bogies there. This catered to just one local line, so there was not much of a station there, in fact. Later, when I began visiting dad, he would explain to me the types of stations - there are stations which make their cities famous - like Wadi, or Guntakal, or Bhusawal - these are crucial junctions for the Railways, and they are, by far, the only claim to fame for these cities. Then there are stations which are famous for the food there - like Agra, for its petha, or Mathura, for its peda. And then there are the cities of the erstwhile Presidencies - Mumbai, Chennai, Kolkata - since the railway stations here were among the earliest ones set up by the British, their main platforms are unidirectional, like airports - the train comes onto the platform, then backs out to the loop line, and then goes to the main line before chugging out.
I remember how I would stand in the queue at the reservation counter, with 2-3 reservation forms in hand along with the student concession form, for the most convenient train, book the ticket, and count days for the journeys. Things have since changed and the last time I booked a ticket, all I did was call an agent from my extension and give him the train number, and the tickets were delivered next day. Trust me, it was no fun at all.
Trains. They are not just a medium of transport in India. They are a way of life. Like The Think says, you shouldn't write any other word in the same line you write "train".
I always had a special connection with trains, as can be seen in my comment on this post. I have literally woken up to the loud trumpeting horn of the Mysore-Nanjangud train, waiting for its signal to enter the Ashokapuram station. I clearly remember Thatha taking me up to the roof years ago, to show me the trains. Those were cherished moments - every year, a visit to Mysore would mean looking at the trains from Ajji mane mhaaDi. Later, when I came to stay there, and the house underwent a lot of renovation, I was to take my little cousins up the stairs and show them the trains when they acted cranky.
While in school, we would go to play cricket in a place called the "woodyard". On my way back, I would walk along the tracks, wondering how they could stack the stones in neat oblong mounds.
I would walk along until I reached the station, which had a workshop attached to it. This was enough to fuel my curiosity, and I have seen probably all kinds of engines and bogies there were at that point of time.
Later, as dad kept moving around, I got to travel a lot in trains - long distance trains to Gujarat, Rajasthan, Haryana and Delhi. I loved those journeys - the looking up your name on reservation charts, the securing of suitcases under the seats, and wondering who might be in the seat next to you, the removing of shoes and climbing up to the upper berth (I got to see a lot of people who climbed into the upper berth and then put their shoes on top of the fan there. I found it utterly disgusting, but I guess they must have lost more shoes than I have stepped into, so I'll let that be), the slow rocking of the train, the switching off of the lights, and the drifting off to the best sleep ever. I always sleep well on trains. Better than I sleep in buses or aeroplanes, or at home. It must be the rocking, or the heavenly smell of countryside, or maybe, the distinctive smell of the cold metal and rexine.
Sometimes, in late evenings when dinner would be served and wrapped up, and I had finished my book or my batteries, I would go and sit on the footboard. Yes, mom, I know you forbade me to stand there. Which is why I didn't. I just sat. I sat and watched the countryside whizz by. I sat and enjoyed the change of sound as the train went over a bridge. I sat and counted the number of bogies as the train went around a bend. I sat and let the wind mess up my hair, I watched the distant light of a lone house in the dark fields. I watched the headlights of the vehicles lined up to let my train pass, I waved back at the small kids waving me goodbye. I took deep breaths of the night air, and at the first sign of drowsiness, I went back to my berth.
Sometimes, I would wake up early to the first call of "tea-choy", "chaya-chaya" or "ness-coffy sir", and a paper-cup in hand, would watch the dawn break across rural India. Trust me, there is nothing more beautiful or divine than watching the sun rise over the misty horizon, lighting up the hitherto dark countryside. The chill in the air stings your face as you sit on the footboard, sipping the hot tea and feasting your eyes on the emerging greenery. Dawn breaks early in rural areas, or rather, it seems to, and you have to be up really early to catch this. An hour later maybe, all you get is morning squatters on the outside, and people wanting to freshen up on the inside. I always used this time to go back to my berth, recall all the sights and drift back to sleep.
The night is always mysterious and fascinating, you never know how it passes. On a train, it is passing the day that is the more difficult part. Like everyone of us, I always hoped that I would meet (atleast) one interesting person of the opposite sex, who would make the journey interesting - but no !!! It either happens in the movies, or to Chetan Bhagat. My sister got such company once, though, and they ended up talking about a story I had started to write, and made fun of the characters. I sulked and never finished the story.
How could one write about a long distance journey and not mention the eunuchs who came clapping by. First I used to look away - outside the window, or into the newspaper or magazine. Later, a sense of "what the duck" took over, and I used to look them in the eye and ask them to go away. The first time I did this, I was like - Wow, it works!!! Hah!!! It's not that I am against helping or anything, but rather, I subscribe to the view that giving them money would encourage them to do it more. It is like purchasing ivory or leather goods - the more you do it, the more it spreads. The only way of stopping it is to refuse them. The only exception I make is for kids. I can't stand them begging saying they haven't eaten for days. And no, I don't give them money. I make sure that they are fed.
Not just trains, as a kid, I was intrigued by stations as well. The nearest station (the one with the workshop) was in visible distance of our house. As kids, we used to go there often and play hide-and-seek in the bogies there. This catered to just one local line, so there was not much of a station there, in fact. Later, when I began visiting dad, he would explain to me the types of stations - there are stations which make their cities famous - like Wadi, or Guntakal, or Bhusawal - these are crucial junctions for the Railways, and they are, by far, the only claim to fame for these cities. Then there are stations which are famous for the food there - like Agra, for its petha, or Mathura, for its peda. And then there are the cities of the erstwhile Presidencies - Mumbai, Chennai, Kolkata - since the railway stations here were among the earliest ones set up by the British, their main platforms are unidirectional, like airports - the train comes onto the platform, then backs out to the loop line, and then goes to the main line before chugging out.
I remember how I would stand in the queue at the reservation counter, with 2-3 reservation forms in hand along with the student concession form, for the most convenient train, book the ticket, and count days for the journeys. Things have since changed and the last time I booked a ticket, all I did was call an agent from my extension and give him the train number, and the tickets were delivered next day. Trust me, it was no fun at all.
Trains. They are not just a medium of transport in India. They are a way of life. Like The Think says, you shouldn't write any other word in the same line you write "train".
Monday, October 30, 2006
The race
There was a race at Mohali yesterday.
The spectators were trying to leave the stadium before Aussies finished the game.
The Aussies were trying to finish the game before the spectators left the stadium.
The Indian team lingered on till both left. Ask them who won.
The spectators were trying to leave the stadium before Aussies finished the game.
The Aussies were trying to finish the game before the spectators left the stadium.
The Indian team lingered on till both left. Ask them who won.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Teachers of a different kind
All through our life we learn from teachers. And then as we stumble along, we get other people from whom we learn - friends, colleagues, mentors, apprentices. Me? I have learnt from room-mates.
The first is a guy who has the cleanest heart and the simplest mind one could have. A thought with an ulterior motive will probably never germinate in his mind. A guy who maintains a birthday calendar and wishes everyone at the stroke of twelve. He can never say NO, and hence is often found doing someone else's dirty work. He sees joy in the smallest of things - a simple meal of rice, a hit Telugu movie, a boundary in a cricket match - almost to the point of being child-like. He is often moody - sometimes revelling in little things of joy, sometimes going into a thinking mode and becoming silent, sometimes thinking about work and related stuff - which has led to us dubbing him senti, but nonetheless, he has great character. Oh, and yes, he is a wonderful cook, and he is insistent on keeping the kitchen clean - a bit Monica-esque.
He is our local interest-free loan bank, he always manages to arrange money when any of us is facing the crunch. From him, I have learnt to save money for a rainy day. From him I have realised that I want to be in a position where I can lend money at short notice. (Oh basically that means I want to have surplus money, and not just make ends meet). I have also learnt to take life seriously, to plan for the family. He does not do anything special - just the things a son would do, or a big brother would do for a kid sister - but for a guy like me who has not stayed with his parents for the last 13 years, it sure seems great.
As much as I have learnt to take life seriously from the first, I have learnt to let go from the second. In all the two years I have been with him, I have seen him lose his temper only once. A miniature version of him would look like the toy in the song - "aaDisi noDu, beeLisi noDu". He even rocks the same way when he laughs, holding his stomach. He takes everything in his stride - the only thing that comes out is a hearty resounding laugh. He is a master of parodising songs - he will twist the lyrics to his whims and fancies, and sings as if the bathroom is soundproofed. He has a strange obsession to puffed rice. He has this knack of conjuring up recipes with puffed rice. He will soak them and use them as a substitute for rice in chitranna. He will chop tomatoes and make tomato-puri in minutes. As a cook, he is second only to the first above (and that's because the rest of us would not be able to tell the difference between saarina-puDi and huLi-puDi)
His best quality is the ability to laugh at himself. He is invariably the butt of our jokes - we create and laugh at a joke on him, in front of him, and all he does is laugh with us. Every waking hour, he is poked fun at. We have poked fun of probably everything he does - his eating, his sleeping, his talking, his clothing and accessories, his hair, his voice - anyone else would perhaps been offended, given us a piece of his mind and changed rooms. But not him. He is a punching bag. He will take all your blows and never hit back. These two qualities of his, I would like to take back with me.
While the second taught me to let go, the third showed me how. Funny to the core, this guy is almost like Chandler, in dishing out one-liners and puns. He finds joy in the antics of Homer and Bart. I will perhaps, take back the most from this guy. Even though I knew him for years before he became my room-mate, I cashed in only in the last couple of years. Coming from a no-cable, no-loud-music background which, like the typical Indian Middle Class, favoured marks over runs or goals, I never had varied interests in English music, or movies, or sports. I imbibed most of my decent knowledge of sports and music from him. He explains to me, even today, in great detail, the different genres of music - and the best in those genres. He is an amazing database of statistics and reels them off the cuff. He points out to me, the intricacies of football and tennis. He tells the most inspiring anecdotes of sportsmen and musicians. Some of the best movies I have seen have been his recommendations. He has, arguably, the most impeccable dressing sense among the non-celebrities I know.
I shall probably remember him most for introducing me to Friends. I have since become a fan, something I share with another person close to my heart, and I have spent nights watching season after season on my laptop.
My fourth roomie is no longer a room-mate in the physical sense, he sold his girl and moved out five days short of completing two full years with us. The conversations are more on phones and reply-alls now. This guy is fiercely close to his parents and shares with me, a love for Mysore. Along with my third roomie, he has also helped in increasing my repertoire of english music. They always had topics to talk on, and I have picked up a lot of things being a silent observer to their conversations on music and sports.
Though we are all close-knit, there is a tangible closeness among some of us. Like the first and second are often dubbed "brothers" because of similar backgrounds, similar families, and a similar tongue of speech. But we are all equally fond of the fourth. A thing he mentioned to me in the days before he left will be the lesson I take back from him - that good fences make good neighbours.
So there you stand introduced to my four room-mates, who have shared time, space and life with me, over these two years. Not everyone is fortunate enough to get such roomies - I have friends who have room-mates for reasons purely financial, I know of people who are not happy with their room-mates - but in my room-mates I've got teachers of a different kind.
Guys, I know you will read it sometime now - no, I was not feeling senti (though I bet I made some of you senti). It's just that we're all kinda drifting apart, what with two of us here, two in UK and one in Bangalore, and with the possibility of living under the same roof again getting farther and farther away, I realised I have never thanked you guys. Hence this post, to thank you for being there, for making our stay in Pune that much more comfortable, for weaving together strands of your life into the fabric of mine.
The first is a guy who has the cleanest heart and the simplest mind one could have. A thought with an ulterior motive will probably never germinate in his mind. A guy who maintains a birthday calendar and wishes everyone at the stroke of twelve. He can never say NO, and hence is often found doing someone else's dirty work. He sees joy in the smallest of things - a simple meal of rice, a hit Telugu movie, a boundary in a cricket match - almost to the point of being child-like. He is often moody - sometimes revelling in little things of joy, sometimes going into a thinking mode and becoming silent, sometimes thinking about work and related stuff - which has led to us dubbing him senti, but nonetheless, he has great character. Oh, and yes, he is a wonderful cook, and he is insistent on keeping the kitchen clean - a bit Monica-esque.
He is our local interest-free loan bank, he always manages to arrange money when any of us is facing the crunch. From him, I have learnt to save money for a rainy day. From him I have realised that I want to be in a position where I can lend money at short notice. (Oh basically that means I want to have surplus money, and not just make ends meet). I have also learnt to take life seriously, to plan for the family. He does not do anything special - just the things a son would do, or a big brother would do for a kid sister - but for a guy like me who has not stayed with his parents for the last 13 years, it sure seems great.
As much as I have learnt to take life seriously from the first, I have learnt to let go from the second. In all the two years I have been with him, I have seen him lose his temper only once. A miniature version of him would look like the toy in the song - "aaDisi noDu, beeLisi noDu". He even rocks the same way when he laughs, holding his stomach. He takes everything in his stride - the only thing that comes out is a hearty resounding laugh. He is a master of parodising songs - he will twist the lyrics to his whims and fancies, and sings as if the bathroom is soundproofed. He has a strange obsession to puffed rice. He has this knack of conjuring up recipes with puffed rice. He will soak them and use them as a substitute for rice in chitranna. He will chop tomatoes and make tomato-puri in minutes. As a cook, he is second only to the first above (and that's because the rest of us would not be able to tell the difference between saarina-puDi and huLi-puDi)
His best quality is the ability to laugh at himself. He is invariably the butt of our jokes - we create and laugh at a joke on him, in front of him, and all he does is laugh with us. Every waking hour, he is poked fun at. We have poked fun of probably everything he does - his eating, his sleeping, his talking, his clothing and accessories, his hair, his voice - anyone else would perhaps been offended, given us a piece of his mind and changed rooms. But not him. He is a punching bag. He will take all your blows and never hit back. These two qualities of his, I would like to take back with me.
While the second taught me to let go, the third showed me how. Funny to the core, this guy is almost like Chandler, in dishing out one-liners and puns. He finds joy in the antics of Homer and Bart. I will perhaps, take back the most from this guy. Even though I knew him for years before he became my room-mate, I cashed in only in the last couple of years. Coming from a no-cable, no-loud-music background which, like the typical Indian Middle Class, favoured marks over runs or goals, I never had varied interests in English music, or movies, or sports. I imbibed most of my decent knowledge of sports and music from him. He explains to me, even today, in great detail, the different genres of music - and the best in those genres. He is an amazing database of statistics and reels them off the cuff. He points out to me, the intricacies of football and tennis. He tells the most inspiring anecdotes of sportsmen and musicians. Some of the best movies I have seen have been his recommendations. He has, arguably, the most impeccable dressing sense among the non-celebrities I know.
I shall probably remember him most for introducing me to Friends. I have since become a fan, something I share with another person close to my heart, and I have spent nights watching season after season on my laptop.
My fourth roomie is no longer a room-mate in the physical sense, he sold his girl and moved out five days short of completing two full years with us. The conversations are more on phones and reply-alls now. This guy is fiercely close to his parents and shares with me, a love for Mysore. Along with my third roomie, he has also helped in increasing my repertoire of english music. They always had topics to talk on, and I have picked up a lot of things being a silent observer to their conversations on music and sports.
Though we are all close-knit, there is a tangible closeness among some of us. Like the first and second are often dubbed "brothers" because of similar backgrounds, similar families, and a similar tongue of speech. But we are all equally fond of the fourth. A thing he mentioned to me in the days before he left will be the lesson I take back from him - that good fences make good neighbours.
So there you stand introduced to my four room-mates, who have shared time, space and life with me, over these two years. Not everyone is fortunate enough to get such roomies - I have friends who have room-mates for reasons purely financial, I know of people who are not happy with their room-mates - but in my room-mates I've got teachers of a different kind.
Guys, I know you will read it sometime now - no, I was not feeling senti (though I bet I made some of you senti). It's just that we're all kinda drifting apart, what with two of us here, two in UK and one in Bangalore, and with the possibility of living under the same roof again getting farther and farther away, I realised I have never thanked you guys. Hence this post, to thank you for being there, for making our stay in Pune that much more comfortable, for weaving together strands of your life into the fabric of mine.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Happy Diwali
So its Diwali, a time for the whole family to come together and rejoice. A time when sons return home to be with their parents, a time when daughters get busy helping their mothers set the sweets aside, a time when kids light up crackers all over the place.
I remember, as kids, we used to heap together all the crackers our numerous aunts and uncles got from their Lions and Rotary Clubs, and from various cheeTi vyavaharas. Two days before, we used to spread all the crackers on a newspaper, and put them in the sun to dry, so that they would burst in a bang, and not just sputter in front of the neighbours.
I don't really know when I began to appreciate Diwali more as a festival of lights than sound, even though over years, Diwali has become just the opposite. I guess we just miss what has left us.
Like Thatha, for example.
I'm in Mysore this Diwali, like every year, but for Thatha's annual ceremony.
I've been very busy for some time now, and there are other updates as soon as I return to Pune, but till then, wish you a happy Diwali...
I remember, as kids, we used to heap together all the crackers our numerous aunts and uncles got from their Lions and Rotary Clubs, and from various cheeTi vyavaharas. Two days before, we used to spread all the crackers on a newspaper, and put them in the sun to dry, so that they would burst in a bang, and not just sputter in front of the neighbours.
I don't really know when I began to appreciate Diwali more as a festival of lights than sound, even though over years, Diwali has become just the opposite. I guess we just miss what has left us.
Like Thatha, for example.
I'm in Mysore this Diwali, like every year, but for Thatha's annual ceremony.
I've been very busy for some time now, and there are other updates as soon as I return to Pune, but till then, wish you a happy Diwali...
Sunday, October 08, 2006
The journey of 40 kms ...
... begins with a bus.
Those who know me know I love travelling. Now, you know too. :D Alright, it was a dud joke.
Anyway, I have no special preference for the modes of travel, but somehow I had never had special affinity for buses. When my dad was in Andhra, we used to come to Mysore for the annual summer vacation. My tiny brain (at that time) registered very little of those journeys. I remember that before I fell asleep, the bus went in a long straight road which had eucalyptus trees on both sides, which gave way to dry fields bordered with parthenium and other thorny shrubs, and by the time I woke up, the bus would be descending a big jaaro banDe. Any guesses what the jaaro banDe was? Well, I'll let you Bangaloreans guess this, before I give the answer in the comments section. Muhahahaha. In any case, that was all I remember of those bus journeys.
Or bus-journeys in general. Until I joined engineering.
I have travelled in buses for the entire four years of my engineering, from Mysore to Mandya. The normal red ones - whose conductors allowed us in without a whimper; the special red ones, which claimed to be interstate buses, but whose conductors surreptitiously changed the board as soon as they entered Mandya from Bangalore - these conductors had to be fought against, because they barred us students to attract instead, passengers who would pay for their tickets; and the real interstate ones - in which students were not allowed - we have on occasion paid on these buses - sometimes in cash, sometimes in sheepish smiles.
The first year, it was all so new. And fun. Counting the number of hand-rails and pillars, walking up and down the aisle in the name of getting ragged, magnanimously allowing a bus to pull away because the seats were bad (yeah, I used to "drop" buses until I was late for an early class one day), flashing the bus-pass into the face of the conductor like it was the ID of a vigilance officer - you name it I had done it.
By the second year, it had become routine. The big gang of "fresher friends" had broken up into small groups - branch wise, class-wise and time-table-wise. We now had a specific bus to catch - Ghati Subramanya - because it had a lady conductor. And also because it made the 40 km distance 15 minutes earlier than the other buses, which took an hour. And those 45 mins were pure bliss. That particular bus was superbly maintained. Save for the occasional brake to save the stray dog from its suicidal death, it was pretty much a jerkless journey.
We didn't care about the buses by third year. We didn't care about the classes either. So we waited in the bus-stop, "dropping" bus after bus, until the whole "travelling" strength of our class assembled, and then we all crammed into the same bus. Unless of course, the lecturer who was supposed to take the class saw us waiting there. Yes, our lecturers travelled from Mysore, too. We would generously offer the seats in front to the normal passengers and occupy the last seats. And let the antics begin. We had more fun there, anyway. How many days we forced the government (forced the government??? $%&*%$* Ah!!! Youth power!!!) to run buses from Mysore to Mandya, without a single ticket collection. Yes - A bus full of hooligans, singing their way along. God forbid a fresher getting a bus like that in his first sem.
This was the year we enjoyed the most, I guess. The bus-stand had almost become our home. I even had a newspaper-wallah, who would hand me the paper at 7, when I came in and I would settle his accounts weekly. Till 7-15, we would scan the paper, waiting for the class to assemble. Yes, here. Our class assembled in the bus-stand. And then board any bus which had the last seat empty. We would reach Mandya by 8-15, catch an auto to the college a mile away, and storm into the canteen for a tea. We walked in the first year, enjoying the superb weather, but then, who wants to get all sweaty and tired before a class. An auto preserved the early morning drowsiness, which proved helpful in the class. ;)
The return journeys were more fun - in fact. It was the Mandya bus-stand that saw us wait more. Mysore was a terminus. We always got seats. But in Mandya, we had to wait for the buses which came from Bangalore. No sooner did a bus come in did the great collegian huddles run into a frenzy, throwing bags and hankies around. Usurping the whole last seat was the general aim. There have been times where the bus took just a bag, and the owner collected it from the cycle-stand. We all invariably parked at the Wellington Stand on Irwin Road, and the owner recognised almost everybody by face. I sometimes wonder about the life of these people - every year, they get a different set of people, and they establish a close relationship with everyone of them who chooses to say Hi to them. Amazing how tough bonds can become, even though they involve only saying Hi twice a day for four years.
Yes, four years. The final year was mostly of nostalgia. We had made sure we had only one theory subject for the final semester, so there was no need to come to college. Yet, once or twice a week, we found ourselves gathering in the bus-stand. We've taken photos inside the bus, making people wonder whether we had seen buses before. In these four years, I have memories of sitting in EVERY seat of the bus there is. So much so, we have an online group here.
It was a blissful time, and it appeased the travel-bug in me, so I have nothing to complain of. Even the seats - they taught me to appreciate the kind of seats we now have in Volvos. It can't get worse than having a mishmash of a plywood sheet, a threadbare cushion and a rexin cover bouncing aorund in the last row for a seat, does it? Now, I hear the college has employed buses to pick up students from the highway - from where we used to take an auto - and I wonder whether the kids now have as much fun as we had cramming five-six people into one auto and haggling with him for the fare.
I have no special preference for modes of travel - as long as the "travel" is there. I like to bike around - remind me to make a post of how we rode down to Mulshi on bikes - and drive cars, but I enjoy them more when I'm the one in the driver's seat. But now, I have an opinion of buses. I love them. And all the more because they take me to Bangalore in 16 hours flat. The train takes twenty.
Those who know me know I love travelling. Now, you know too. :D Alright, it was a dud joke.
Anyway, I have no special preference for the modes of travel, but somehow I had never had special affinity for buses. When my dad was in Andhra, we used to come to Mysore for the annual summer vacation. My tiny brain (at that time) registered very little of those journeys. I remember that before I fell asleep, the bus went in a long straight road which had eucalyptus trees on both sides, which gave way to dry fields bordered with parthenium and other thorny shrubs, and by the time I woke up, the bus would be descending a big jaaro banDe. Any guesses what the jaaro banDe was? Well, I'll let you Bangaloreans guess this, before I give the answer in the comments section. Muhahahaha. In any case, that was all I remember of those bus journeys.
Or bus-journeys in general. Until I joined engineering.
I have travelled in buses for the entire four years of my engineering, from Mysore to Mandya. The normal red ones - whose conductors allowed us in without a whimper; the special red ones, which claimed to be interstate buses, but whose conductors surreptitiously changed the board as soon as they entered Mandya from Bangalore - these conductors had to be fought against, because they barred us students to attract instead, passengers who would pay for their tickets; and the real interstate ones - in which students were not allowed - we have on occasion paid on these buses - sometimes in cash, sometimes in sheepish smiles.
The first year, it was all so new. And fun. Counting the number of hand-rails and pillars, walking up and down the aisle in the name of getting ragged, magnanimously allowing a bus to pull away because the seats were bad (yeah, I used to "drop" buses until I was late for an early class one day), flashing the bus-pass into the face of the conductor like it was the ID of a vigilance officer - you name it I had done it.
By the second year, it had become routine. The big gang of "fresher friends" had broken up into small groups - branch wise, class-wise and time-table-wise. We now had a specific bus to catch - Ghati Subramanya - because it had a lady conductor. And also because it made the 40 km distance 15 minutes earlier than the other buses, which took an hour. And those 45 mins were pure bliss. That particular bus was superbly maintained. Save for the occasional brake to save the stray dog from its suicidal death, it was pretty much a jerkless journey.
We didn't care about the buses by third year. We didn't care about the classes either. So we waited in the bus-stop, "dropping" bus after bus, until the whole "travelling" strength of our class assembled, and then we all crammed into the same bus. Unless of course, the lecturer who was supposed to take the class saw us waiting there. Yes, our lecturers travelled from Mysore, too. We would generously offer the seats in front to the normal passengers and occupy the last seats. And let the antics begin. We had more fun there, anyway. How many days we forced the government (forced the government??? $%&*%$* Ah!!! Youth power!!!) to run buses from Mysore to Mandya, without a single ticket collection. Yes - A bus full of hooligans, singing their way along. God forbid a fresher getting a bus like that in his first sem.
This was the year we enjoyed the most, I guess. The bus-stand had almost become our home. I even had a newspaper-wallah, who would hand me the paper at 7, when I came in and I would settle his accounts weekly. Till 7-15, we would scan the paper, waiting for the class to assemble. Yes, here. Our class assembled in the bus-stand. And then board any bus which had the last seat empty. We would reach Mandya by 8-15, catch an auto to the college a mile away, and storm into the canteen for a tea. We walked in the first year, enjoying the superb weather, but then, who wants to get all sweaty and tired before a class. An auto preserved the early morning drowsiness, which proved helpful in the class. ;)
The return journeys were more fun - in fact. It was the Mandya bus-stand that saw us wait more. Mysore was a terminus. We always got seats. But in Mandya, we had to wait for the buses which came from Bangalore. No sooner did a bus come in did the great collegian huddles run into a frenzy, throwing bags and hankies around. Usurping the whole last seat was the general aim. There have been times where the bus took just a bag, and the owner collected it from the cycle-stand. We all invariably parked at the Wellington Stand on Irwin Road, and the owner recognised almost everybody by face. I sometimes wonder about the life of these people - every year, they get a different set of people, and they establish a close relationship with everyone of them who chooses to say Hi to them. Amazing how tough bonds can become, even though they involve only saying Hi twice a day for four years.
Yes, four years. The final year was mostly of nostalgia. We had made sure we had only one theory subject for the final semester, so there was no need to come to college. Yet, once or twice a week, we found ourselves gathering in the bus-stand. We've taken photos inside the bus, making people wonder whether we had seen buses before. In these four years, I have memories of sitting in EVERY seat of the bus there is. So much so, we have an online group here.
It was a blissful time, and it appeased the travel-bug in me, so I have nothing to complain of. Even the seats - they taught me to appreciate the kind of seats we now have in Volvos. It can't get worse than having a mishmash of a plywood sheet, a threadbare cushion and a rexin cover bouncing aorund in the last row for a seat, does it? Now, I hear the college has employed buses to pick up students from the highway - from where we used to take an auto - and I wonder whether the kids now have as much fun as we had cramming five-six people into one auto and haggling with him for the fare.
I have no special preference for modes of travel - as long as the "travel" is there. I like to bike around - remind me to make a post of how we rode down to Mulshi on bikes - and drive cars, but I enjoy them more when I'm the one in the driver's seat. But now, I have an opinion of buses. I love them. And all the more because they take me to Bangalore in 16 hours flat. The train takes twenty.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Braking the break
The break did not do me any good.
Not writing has not helped me one bit - I'm still the same. Pangs of doubt and uncertainty hit me every now and then. I keep thinking of how to make it a win-win for all concerned, but I lose my way midway and think on what might happen if things would not work the way I want them to. I know there is only one outcome. But I just can't bully my way in there. I just don't want to hurt others on my way there.
Not them. Not after all they have done.
Not them. Not for believing in me.
Neither them. For no fault of theirs.
If only I could make others see my viewpoint and set everything right with a flourish of a wand, I would. Alas, I am endowed with no such powers, and I will have to undergo the uncertainty of it all. The dark clouds meandering over me shall pass to yield a brighter light. But the stream cannot stop till such time. The stream has to flow, lest it develop algae, in its stagnation.
I am back.
Not writing has not helped me one bit - I'm still the same. Pangs of doubt and uncertainty hit me every now and then. I keep thinking of how to make it a win-win for all concerned, but I lose my way midway and think on what might happen if things would not work the way I want them to. I know there is only one outcome. But I just can't bully my way in there. I just don't want to hurt others on my way there.
Not them. Not after all they have done.
Not them. Not for believing in me.
Neither them. For no fault of theirs.
If only I could make others see my viewpoint and set everything right with a flourish of a wand, I would. Alas, I am endowed with no such powers, and I will have to undergo the uncertainty of it all. The dark clouds meandering over me shall pass to yield a brighter light. But the stream cannot stop till such time. The stream has to flow, lest it develop algae, in its stagnation.
I am back.
Monday, September 11, 2006
And its time to take a break...
... because a lot of things are happening on the personal front.
I am going through a very bad patch, it is better that I do not tempt myself to write, for I may end up writing something, which I would regret later. See you folks around.
I am going through a very bad patch, it is better that I do not tempt myself to write, for I may end up writing something, which I would regret later. See you folks around.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Goosepimples...
...rise on my arms, even as I read my own article on Mysore, which Churumuri carries here.
A big thank you to Churumuri, for carrying my article, and to Shastri, for pointing it out to me. You guys made my day. I am proud that my writing found its way into a forum where titans like T.S Satyan, T.J.S George, Bhamy Shenoy and Sunaad Raghuram muse, and all the more because I did not have to do anything for it (except the writing, of course).
As email forwards, my article seems to have reached into the hearts of every software engineer either from Mysore, or who has done engineering in Mysore. Immense joy comes when they think it has been scripted by somebody from SJCE. Ironically, this "somebody from SJCE" did his engineering in neighbouring Mandya. I guess the assumption is because I have mentioned Jayciana right after the NIE-SJCE feud.
I also see, by the time Churumuri carried it, well-meaning people have tweaked the text to include their favourite hang-outs, which were missed out. Phalamrutha joins Penguin as a ice-cream joint, and GTR dosa sits pretty with the Mylari dosa I had mentioned. In retrospect, when I go through the comments of everyone of you guys - Adi, Shark, Vamshi (thank you all for carrying it as a main post) and of course, Anu (who brought me to that frame of mind here, in the first place), I do realise that I missed out mentioning quite a lot of things - some which I had experienced, some which I had not - I intend to, on my next visit.
Coming back to churumuri, there ensues an oft-repeated discussion in the comments section - how Mysore was polluted by the influx of IT community. Well, I will not get drawn into that debate, I have only this much to say - Striving to help Mysore retain its status as heritage city does not mean depriving it of development. If we are doing it even unconsciously, then we are doing a great disservice to the city which we love so much.
And before I end, a few gems which elicited wide smiles on this already radiant face - Nostalgic Mysorean says, "Surely this sums up the Mysore I lived in from 1948-1965", and Jeevarathna says "This is actually from Infosys bill board by a infosyan and not meant for public circulation". Really?
A big thank you to Churumuri, for carrying my article, and to Shastri, for pointing it out to me. You guys made my day. I am proud that my writing found its way into a forum where titans like T.S Satyan, T.J.S George, Bhamy Shenoy and Sunaad Raghuram muse, and all the more because I did not have to do anything for it (except the writing, of course).
As email forwards, my article seems to have reached into the hearts of every software engineer either from Mysore, or who has done engineering in Mysore. Immense joy comes when they think it has been scripted by somebody from SJCE. Ironically, this "somebody from SJCE" did his engineering in neighbouring Mandya. I guess the assumption is because I have mentioned Jayciana right after the NIE-SJCE feud.
I also see, by the time Churumuri carried it, well-meaning people have tweaked the text to include their favourite hang-outs, which were missed out. Phalamrutha joins Penguin as a ice-cream joint, and GTR dosa sits pretty with the Mylari dosa I had mentioned. In retrospect, when I go through the comments of everyone of you guys - Adi, Shark, Vamshi (thank you all for carrying it as a main post) and of course, Anu (who brought me to that frame of mind here, in the first place), I do realise that I missed out mentioning quite a lot of things - some which I had experienced, some which I had not - I intend to, on my next visit.
Coming back to churumuri, there ensues an oft-repeated discussion in the comments section - how Mysore was polluted by the influx of IT community. Well, I will not get drawn into that debate, I have only this much to say - Striving to help Mysore retain its status as heritage city does not mean depriving it of development. If we are doing it even unconsciously, then we are doing a great disservice to the city which we love so much.
And before I end, a few gems which elicited wide smiles on this already radiant face - Nostalgic Mysorean says, "Surely this sums up the Mysore I lived in from 1948-1965", and Jeevarathna says "This is actually from Infosys bill board by a infosyan and not meant for public circulation". Really?
Monday, September 04, 2006
The Kaleidoscope
"What is life, dad?" the kid asked.
The father ruffled the kid's dark brown locks, and took him into his arms. "Life, son", he said, "is a mirror."
The little one seemed satisfied for some time, and looked over his father's shoulders, gazing at the two sets of footprints in the sand, which had now reduced to one.
"Can I see myself in it?" he asked.
"Yes, son. But you have to be really patient, as the image does not form so easily."
"Why not?"
The father sat on a rock, put his son on his lap, and pointed to the waves at his feet. The kid peered intently, seeking some crab wiggling away, or a shell, which he could take home.
"Do you see yourself in it, son?" the father asked, pointing to the wobbly reflection of their hunched bodies in the water.
The kid nodded his head and smiled a Yes. The father explained, "When the water hits the shore, it is in a hurry, but it has all the time in the world to go back. You cannot see yourself in it when it comes in, but as it goes back, you can see your reflection in it."
"Life's mirror is similar, son. It reflects what you show to it. Show some anger, and it retaliates. Smile, and it smiles back at you. Show some love, and it will love you back."
"How many mirrors do I have?" the kid piped up, interested in the turn of the conversation.
"We have separate mirrors, son, for each of the people we know. One for me, one for the uncle at the toy-store, one for each of your friends, for each place you have been to. Each mirror is of a different colour, and depending on how much love you put into it, it acquires a deeper colour."
"Where are all these mirrors? Do we have to take them everywhere?"
The father smiled at the innocent question. He loved to explain things like this to the little one.
"When we move on, we cannot take the mirrors as a whole, so we break the whole thing down, and pick up a shard of the broken glass, as a souvenir. When you have lived your life, son, you will have a number of shards with you, which you put into a kaleidoscope. And as you turn it over and over, you see many different shards in random combinations, shining in the light. Each shard will remind you of the mirror it came from, and how you helped color it. And if you smile when you gaze through the kaleidoscope, it means you have lived your life well."
"Colourscope?" the kid looked up, confused.
"Ka-lee-dow-scope", the father syllabled, setting his son back on the sand. "Come, I will make you one when we go home."
And the kid held his hand and pranced away, sure that he would get something to play with in the evening.
The father ruffled the kid's dark brown locks, and took him into his arms. "Life, son", he said, "is a mirror."
The little one seemed satisfied for some time, and looked over his father's shoulders, gazing at the two sets of footprints in the sand, which had now reduced to one.
"Can I see myself in it?" he asked.
"Yes, son. But you have to be really patient, as the image does not form so easily."
"Why not?"
The father sat on a rock, put his son on his lap, and pointed to the waves at his feet. The kid peered intently, seeking some crab wiggling away, or a shell, which he could take home.
"Do you see yourself in it, son?" the father asked, pointing to the wobbly reflection of their hunched bodies in the water.
The kid nodded his head and smiled a Yes. The father explained, "When the water hits the shore, it is in a hurry, but it has all the time in the world to go back. You cannot see yourself in it when it comes in, but as it goes back, you can see your reflection in it."
"Life's mirror is similar, son. It reflects what you show to it. Show some anger, and it retaliates. Smile, and it smiles back at you. Show some love, and it will love you back."
"How many mirrors do I have?" the kid piped up, interested in the turn of the conversation.
"We have separate mirrors, son, for each of the people we know. One for me, one for the uncle at the toy-store, one for each of your friends, for each place you have been to. Each mirror is of a different colour, and depending on how much love you put into it, it acquires a deeper colour."
"Where are all these mirrors? Do we have to take them everywhere?"
The father smiled at the innocent question. He loved to explain things like this to the little one.
"When we move on, we cannot take the mirrors as a whole, so we break the whole thing down, and pick up a shard of the broken glass, as a souvenir. When you have lived your life, son, you will have a number of shards with you, which you put into a kaleidoscope. And as you turn it over and over, you see many different shards in random combinations, shining in the light. Each shard will remind you of the mirror it came from, and how you helped color it. And if you smile when you gaze through the kaleidoscope, it means you have lived your life well."
"Colourscope?" the kid looked up, confused.
"Ka-lee-dow-scope", the father syllabled, setting his son back on the sand. "Come, I will make you one when we go home."
And the kid held his hand and pranced away, sure that he would get something to play with in the evening.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Men, Women and Life in General
The Shawshank Redemption is about Andy Dufresne, an investment banker who is wrongly implicated in his infidel wife's murder, and is sent to the Shawshank Penitentiary in Maine. And how he comes to terms with his destiny. Realising he has a lot of time in his hands, he starts to occupy himself in a variety of things to keep busy. He begins to make himself a chess set carving the rocks with a jack hammer, gets the prison library into order, writes letters every week to request the authorities to provide an allowance to enhance the library, and begins to teach English. But mainly, he helps the jailors evade some tax, and makes the warden a cool wad of money, by handling his financial deals. Until one day, his English student reveals to him the truth of a lifetime.
Forrest Gump is all about man's achievement. It's about how Forrest, a crippled child, realises his strength and takes life head on. He gains his legs back, and runs like a man possessed. His running earns him a place in college, and he gets his degree by playing football all through college. He gets into the army, and goes to the Vietnam. He meets Bubba, from whom he learns all there is to the shrimp business. During the war, he also learns to play ping-pong and gets selected to the national team. He returns from the Nam with a Medal of Honor, and sets up the shrimp business to keep the promise made to his dead friend Bubba, and makes a big fortune out of it. With nothing left to do, he does what he does best - running. He runs all over the country for three years, and finally says, "I'm pretty tired now, I think I will go home."
I can't but draw comparisons between these two movies. Both are superlative, and hold your attention from the start till the end. While The Shawshank Redemption is all about patience, and willpower, Forrest Gump is about humility and simplicity. While Andy comes across as an extremely willed person, with a sound mind to draw a long term plan, and has the patience to implement it, Forrest is your local village simpleton. Yet both are ingrained with an exemplary zest for life. Both have good mentors, Andy in Red, and Forrest in his mother.
Both movies have beautiful lines which sum up the gist of life in the most marvellous manner ever, and mould your attitude towards life. The Shawshank Redemption - "Get busy living, or get busy dying." and Forrest Gump - "Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you gonna get."
The Ladies Coupe by Anita Nair is about the life of a single middle-aged woman, and her pathos. Ladies Coupe reads like One Night at the Call Center, where four-five stories are woven around a central character. Akhila is your typical Tam-Bram lady, and the story begins as she enters a train to escape from her dreary life of being a daughter, a sister, an aunt and basically the provider for a family where she has no existence of her own, where she has no one to ask her about HER welfare.
As she sits in the coupe, she meets other passengers in her compartment, and delves into their lives, and realises everyone has problems, and viewpoints of looking at them. She meets an aged lady, who thinks that the happiness of a woman lies in the happiness of her husband and family; a middle-aged teacher, who overwhelmed by her husband's self-importance and lack of affection for her, seeks revenge by feeding him and making him an obese glutton, thereby making him lose his self-respect and come back to her; another lady who was the embodiment of the perfect orthodox daughter and wife, until her husband takes her ona trip abroad, and she realises what she was missing out on; a fourteen year old, who perceives what her parents cannot, and does things that others consider sacrilege; and finally, a house-maid, whose life is a pathetic kaleidoscope of poverty, unwed pregnancy, lesbianism and bisexuality.
All this is beautifully woven against Akhila's own life, her father's death at an early age, her being the 'man' of the family, and the parasitic attachment of her sister's family to her money. The story travels deep into her own life, bringing out her strengths and her realisation of her wants. The book does not give any answers, but leaves you with Akhila at her hotel, where you stand with her, having been a spectator to her whole life, as she looks out into the sea.
After the two movies and the book, I strangely feel, Akhila would have enjoyed watching The Shawshank Redemption and Forrest Gump, as she broods on her own life. Life, indeed is a box of chocolates, you never know what you gonna get, but you have to move on - either getting busy living, or getting busy dying.
Forrest Gump is all about man's achievement. It's about how Forrest, a crippled child, realises his strength and takes life head on. He gains his legs back, and runs like a man possessed. His running earns him a place in college, and he gets his degree by playing football all through college. He gets into the army, and goes to the Vietnam. He meets Bubba, from whom he learns all there is to the shrimp business. During the war, he also learns to play ping-pong and gets selected to the national team. He returns from the Nam with a Medal of Honor, and sets up the shrimp business to keep the promise made to his dead friend Bubba, and makes a big fortune out of it. With nothing left to do, he does what he does best - running. He runs all over the country for three years, and finally says, "I'm pretty tired now, I think I will go home."
I can't but draw comparisons between these two movies. Both are superlative, and hold your attention from the start till the end. While The Shawshank Redemption is all about patience, and willpower, Forrest Gump is about humility and simplicity. While Andy comes across as an extremely willed person, with a sound mind to draw a long term plan, and has the patience to implement it, Forrest is your local village simpleton. Yet both are ingrained with an exemplary zest for life. Both have good mentors, Andy in Red, and Forrest in his mother.
Both movies have beautiful lines which sum up the gist of life in the most marvellous manner ever, and mould your attitude towards life. The Shawshank Redemption - "Get busy living, or get busy dying." and Forrest Gump - "Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you gonna get."
The Ladies Coupe by Anita Nair is about the life of a single middle-aged woman, and her pathos. Ladies Coupe reads like One Night at the Call Center, where four-five stories are woven around a central character. Akhila is your typical Tam-Bram lady, and the story begins as she enters a train to escape from her dreary life of being a daughter, a sister, an aunt and basically the provider for a family where she has no existence of her own, where she has no one to ask her about HER welfare.
As she sits in the coupe, she meets other passengers in her compartment, and delves into their lives, and realises everyone has problems, and viewpoints of looking at them. She meets an aged lady, who thinks that the happiness of a woman lies in the happiness of her husband and family; a middle-aged teacher, who overwhelmed by her husband's self-importance and lack of affection for her, seeks revenge by feeding him and making him an obese glutton, thereby making him lose his self-respect and come back to her; another lady who was the embodiment of the perfect orthodox daughter and wife, until her husband takes her ona trip abroad, and she realises what she was missing out on; a fourteen year old, who perceives what her parents cannot, and does things that others consider sacrilege; and finally, a house-maid, whose life is a pathetic kaleidoscope of poverty, unwed pregnancy, lesbianism and bisexuality.
All this is beautifully woven against Akhila's own life, her father's death at an early age, her being the 'man' of the family, and the parasitic attachment of her sister's family to her money. The story travels deep into her own life, bringing out her strengths and her realisation of her wants. The book does not give any answers, but leaves you with Akhila at her hotel, where you stand with her, having been a spectator to her whole life, as she looks out into the sea.
After the two movies and the book, I strangely feel, Akhila would have enjoyed watching The Shawshank Redemption and Forrest Gump, as she broods on her own life. Life, indeed is a box of chocolates, you never know what you gonna get, but you have to move on - either getting busy living, or getting busy dying.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Mysore and Me
Adi publishes my comment on Anu's post here. Thanks a ton, Adi, you have spared me of converting yet another comment of mine into a post.
Anu wrote this at a time where I had made it a point that I will not convert my post-length comments on others' blogs into posts on my own blog. And as much as I wanted to write about Mysore and my love for it, I stopped myself. I would still have written about it, another day, but then, it would not have been verbatim.
So go ahead, and read all about my love for Mysore, here and here.
Anu wrote this at a time where I had made it a point that I will not convert my post-length comments on others' blogs into posts on my own blog. And as much as I wanted to write about Mysore and my love for it, I stopped myself. I would still have written about it, another day, but then, it would not have been verbatim.
So go ahead, and read all about my love for Mysore, here and here.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
The perfect date
... is when, after all is done, the girl remembers the evening in the few moments before drifting off to sleep, and goes "Oooh !!!".
A very dear friend went to meet a prospective better-half sometime last week, but certainly didn't end up feeling the above. Which means, unless they lacked topics to speak on, and ended up feeling like Ross and Mike in Friends, the guy must have done something wrong. Because I believe that if an average guy does everything right, and speaks even half the amount he does when he is explaining a gadget to his gang, he has the potential to make the dinner work.
Allow me ... ahem ... to make a checklist which guys like him could go through before a date. (I seriously wish he reads this)
1. Get the timing right - As a guy, take initiative, and make the call. And time it well. Do not call her right in the morning, when she is still in a big rush to leave for office. All girls are in a rush, and she wouldn't have had a dream the previous night that you'd call. Do not call at night to fix up a date next evening. If you call her at nine, when she's at the dinner table with her parents, chances are she might agree half-heartedly or might not appreciate your "last-week's-email-forward's-santa-banta" PJs. Call in the evenings, when she is most likely be relaxed and ready to strike conversation.
2. Ask her preferences - Just because you like Chinese does not mean she has to eat chow-mein when she is getting to know you. Ask her what she likes, and whether there's a place she'd like to go. Personal experience tells me that all girls have a fave eat-out where they want to go. If she suggests one, there's nothing like it. If she doesn't and/or leaves you to make a decision, choose a quiet place which has a great ambience, and does not serve only one cuisine.
3. Offer to pick her up - Personal experience also tells me that nothing pisses a girl off like waiting alone in a public place. Now while it is perfectly okay that she agrees to come on her own, it still is chivalrous to offer. And in the rare case that you are late, for reasons beyond your control, she would be waiting at her house, touching up her make-up, rather than ruining it outside. If she insists on coming herself, then be punctual. Leave home an hour in advance, or if in Bangalore, two.
Great, now that the girl is ready, let's work on you.
4. Call the restaurant beforehand - Restaurants like it better if you inform them beforehand. This way, you can get a better table than when you walk in, and they will be more than ready to accomodate your requests. If you have been to the restaurant before, choose a cosy table far from the maddening crowd, and request it for the day. Ask for candles and/or flowers to be on the table. Girls love flowers.
5. Dress formally - While this is not a job interview and does not require ties, it does not mean that you can walk in in torn jeans and "Sepultura" T-shirts. Your dressing shows how much you respect a lady and look forward to meet her. Believe me, you wouldn't want to escort a lady to her table in faded jeans and floaters. We guys don't notice it, but girls do 'check us out', and this is not a day where you would want a 3-on-10. Wear a clean, ironed shirt. Do not go to a date straight from office, just because the restaurant is next door.
6. Smell good - Allright, I know, in hostels, you have proved that you can go without a bath for more than a month. There is no need of making it the first point in your resume. Take a bath before the date, use a deodorant and unless you sport a beard / moustache, shave. But please don't make the mistake of using a deo on your body, perfume on your clothes and after-shave on your face - all together, else the chef might just come out of the kitchen to park your car. Polish your shoes, carry a CLEAN handkerchief (yes, I know you forgot it. Your only hanky was in the pocket of your suit, which you bought when you went onsite).
7. Buy flowers - By that I don't mean the kanakambra in front of the Shiva temple. Buy roses, or carnations if you please, or have a combination of flowers with a few green stalks. Wrap them in shiny ribbons, and give them when you first see the girl, not "Oh!!! I had got these for you", when you drop her off.
8. Be courteous - Be polite. Remember your P's and Q's. Tell her she looks good (Tip: Even if she doesn't). Order her drinks/dishes to the waiter first, instead of going "A Bloody Mary for me, and you'll have ... ?". Say "My pleasure" or "Don't mention it" when she says "Thanks", instead of giving her a "Kya-aap-close-up-karte-hain" smile. Say "Please" and "Thank you" to the waiter, while he serves you. Tip the waiter well, at least a fifth of the bill in cash (preferably). Insist on paying, but if she does not agree (to the point of making a scene), then its perfectly okay to go dutch. If dutch, double the tip. (You don't know how she tips, do you?). This particular tip in life, thanks to this.
9. Be yourself - When you are meeting a girl, who would probably be your partner for life, it is imperative that you be yourself. Honest. Tell the truth, and be comfortable in your own skin. She's only a girl, and even if she's non-vegetarian, she won't eat you up. So, unless there are no butterflies on your plate, there is no reason why you should have any in your stomach. Have a nice dinner over a great conversation, and drop her home. No pretences, no false promises.
However, if you are not a gentleman, but a bachelor ogre with dirty long nails, an unshaven face and clothes which were washed before they were made into a shirt, then I would suggest you don't follow any of these, because you would end up giving a false impression. And it is not a good thing to start a relationship with a falsehood. You ought to be yourself, and not someone else. But then again, being yourself does not mean you can ignore personal hygiene and present yourself like a shabby chap. Come on, if you couldn't take care of yourself, what woman in her sane mind would expect you to take care of her?
10. Following up - is not going behind her wherever she goes. Following up is sending her a mail next day, that you enjoyed her company over the dinner and thanking her for her presence.
Now, if you are the gentleman you are, and have followed these tips, I don't see why the girl should not sit with her face cupped in her hands, and gaze starry-eyed into the distance. (Yash Chopra ke picture nahi dekhta kya?). This is in no way an exhaustive list, and are written with the assumption that the date in question would be fixed by parents of the 'daters', though it can be extended to hold good for EVERY date. You might get poked at by family peers for going all out like this for an unknown girl, but let me tell you, you might be the nth person the girl is meeting like this. We guys generally don't make much of it, but it is pretty hard on the girls. The least you can do is make it enjoyable for her.
Even if the match does not work out, at least a dinner will.
A very dear friend went to meet a prospective better-half sometime last week, but certainly didn't end up feeling the above. Which means, unless they lacked topics to speak on, and ended up feeling like Ross and Mike in Friends, the guy must have done something wrong. Because I believe that if an average guy does everything right, and speaks even half the amount he does when he is explaining a gadget to his gang, he has the potential to make the dinner work.
Allow me ... ahem ... to make a checklist which guys like him could go through before a date. (I seriously wish he reads this)
1. Get the timing right - As a guy, take initiative, and make the call. And time it well. Do not call her right in the morning, when she is still in a big rush to leave for office. All girls are in a rush, and she wouldn't have had a dream the previous night that you'd call. Do not call at night to fix up a date next evening. If you call her at nine, when she's at the dinner table with her parents, chances are she might agree half-heartedly or might not appreciate your "last-week's-email-forward's-santa-banta" PJs. Call in the evenings, when she is most likely be relaxed and ready to strike conversation.
2. Ask her preferences - Just because you like Chinese does not mean she has to eat chow-mein when she is getting to know you. Ask her what she likes, and whether there's a place she'd like to go. Personal experience tells me that all girls have a fave eat-out where they want to go. If she suggests one, there's nothing like it. If she doesn't and/or leaves you to make a decision, choose a quiet place which has a great ambience, and does not serve only one cuisine.
3. Offer to pick her up - Personal experience also tells me that nothing pisses a girl off like waiting alone in a public place. Now while it is perfectly okay that she agrees to come on her own, it still is chivalrous to offer. And in the rare case that you are late, for reasons beyond your control, she would be waiting at her house, touching up her make-up, rather than ruining it outside. If she insists on coming herself, then be punctual. Leave home an hour in advance, or if in Bangalore, two.
Great, now that the girl is ready, let's work on you.
4. Call the restaurant beforehand - Restaurants like it better if you inform them beforehand. This way, you can get a better table than when you walk in, and they will be more than ready to accomodate your requests. If you have been to the restaurant before, choose a cosy table far from the maddening crowd, and request it for the day. Ask for candles and/or flowers to be on the table. Girls love flowers.
5. Dress formally - While this is not a job interview and does not require ties, it does not mean that you can walk in in torn jeans and "Sepultura" T-shirts. Your dressing shows how much you respect a lady and look forward to meet her. Believe me, you wouldn't want to escort a lady to her table in faded jeans and floaters. We guys don't notice it, but girls do 'check us out', and this is not a day where you would want a 3-on-10. Wear a clean, ironed shirt. Do not go to a date straight from office, just because the restaurant is next door.
6. Smell good - Allright, I know, in hostels, you have proved that you can go without a bath for more than a month. There is no need of making it the first point in your resume. Take a bath before the date, use a deodorant and unless you sport a beard / moustache, shave. But please don't make the mistake of using a deo on your body, perfume on your clothes and after-shave on your face - all together, else the chef might just come out of the kitchen to park your car. Polish your shoes, carry a CLEAN handkerchief (yes, I know you forgot it. Your only hanky was in the pocket of your suit, which you bought when you went onsite).
7. Buy flowers - By that I don't mean the kanakambra in front of the Shiva temple. Buy roses, or carnations if you please, or have a combination of flowers with a few green stalks. Wrap them in shiny ribbons, and give them when you first see the girl, not "Oh!!! I had got these for you", when you drop her off.
8. Be courteous - Be polite. Remember your P's and Q's. Tell her she looks good (Tip: Even if she doesn't). Order her drinks/dishes to the waiter first, instead of going "A Bloody Mary for me, and you'll have ... ?". Say "My pleasure" or "Don't mention it" when she says "Thanks", instead of giving her a "Kya-aap-close-up-karte-hain" smile. Say "Please" and "Thank you" to the waiter, while he serves you. Tip the waiter well, at least a fifth of the bill in cash (preferably). Insist on paying, but if she does not agree (to the point of making a scene), then its perfectly okay to go dutch. If dutch, double the tip. (You don't know how she tips, do you?). This particular tip in life, thanks to this.
9. Be yourself - When you are meeting a girl, who would probably be your partner for life, it is imperative that you be yourself. Honest. Tell the truth, and be comfortable in your own skin. She's only a girl, and even if she's non-vegetarian, she won't eat you up. So, unless there are no butterflies on your plate, there is no reason why you should have any in your stomach. Have a nice dinner over a great conversation, and drop her home. No pretences, no false promises.
However, if you are not a gentleman, but a bachelor ogre with dirty long nails, an unshaven face and clothes which were washed before they were made into a shirt, then I would suggest you don't follow any of these, because you would end up giving a false impression. And it is not a good thing to start a relationship with a falsehood. You ought to be yourself, and not someone else. But then again, being yourself does not mean you can ignore personal hygiene and present yourself like a shabby chap. Come on, if you couldn't take care of yourself, what woman in her sane mind would expect you to take care of her?
10. Following up - is not going behind her wherever she goes. Following up is sending her a mail next day, that you enjoyed her company over the dinner and thanking her for her presence.
Now, if you are the gentleman you are, and have followed these tips, I don't see why the girl should not sit with her face cupped in her hands, and gaze starry-eyed into the distance. (Yash Chopra ke picture nahi dekhta kya?). This is in no way an exhaustive list, and are written with the assumption that the date in question would be fixed by parents of the 'daters', though it can be extended to hold good for EVERY date. You might get poked at by family peers for going all out like this for an unknown girl, but let me tell you, you might be the nth person the girl is meeting like this. We guys generally don't make much of it, but it is pretty hard on the girls. The least you can do is make it enjoyable for her.
Even if the match does not work out, at least a dinner will.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Thursday, August 10, 2006
23 minutes...
...is the time it takes to reach from Bangalore to Mysore, or so it says here.
Or if the link doesn't work, here is the transcript -
To Mysooru at wind speed
[ 9 Aug, 2006 2226hrs IST TIMES NEWS NETWORK ]
BENGALURU: Vayu Express, the bullet train between Bengaluru and Mysooru, has been speeded up. This means that the travel time between these two cities will now be reduced by 5 minutes. This is a major step forward for India's only bullet train.
Introduced last August at a speed of 300 kph, it enabled you to reach the City of Palaces from the state capital in 28 minutes. At a simple ceremony here on Wednesday, Infrastructure Implementation Ministry (IIM) administrator Bharat Kumar commissioned the new Track Maintenance Technology which enables the bullet train to zip along even faster to Mysooru.
Sanjay Rao, a regular commuter between the two cities, is thrilled by this development. "I'll spend less time on the train which means I get more to spend with my family. I hope the state introduces such trains to other cities too." His hopes may soon be realised. Track testing is under way on the Bengaluru-Mangaluru and Bengaluru-Hubbali routes and if all goes as per the IIM plan, the bullet train should be ready to roll from August next. This should dramatically improve the connectivity between the three IT hubs of the state and give a boost to further development of the region. The Hubbali link is of particular significance for travellers to Mumbai because the Maharashtra government is pushing the Railways to finish the Mumbai segment.
However, the occasion was marred by stray protests orchestrated by the opposition party which does not see much benefit in this Rs 1000-crore upgradation project. "What is the big deal in cutting short a journey by 5 minutes?" said opposition leader A Murthy. Most businessmen could easily give him a fitting reply. At least, he got his 5 minutes of fame on Web TV. Despite these carping critics, the bullet train continues to be a huge draw. Thousands of passengers have already travelled by it and there's no looking back on this Japanese technology.
My first reaction at this was - What is this crap about? Introduced last August? Yeah!!! And why was anybody not talking about it in September when I went home? 28 minutes from Mysore to Bangalore is national, no international news. How come no part of the hungry media, which carries every cough and fart of our cricketers on primetime, carried it? Except TOI of course...
And I googled, but could not find a Infrastructure Implementation Ministry headed by a Bharat Kumar, nor is any opposition leader in the State or Centre named A Murthy. And the three IT hubs of Karnataka are Mysore, Mangalore and Hubli? Whither Bangalore?
The article carries actual commuter-speak, too. The guy is thrilled by this development, the development being a reduction of travel time from 28 to 23 minutes. And he says he gets that much more time to spend with his family. Poor guy. I would like to know the time at which it leaves Bangalore to Mysore and also the fare for the half-an-hour journey.
What I did find out was that there was a proposal in 2004, here and it was shelved, here.
UPDATE : All right, I KNOW now. You don't have to tell me what this particular article was all about. It turns out that there is a Refresh Bangalore project going on, where ToI is requesting readers to contribute their dream for Bangalore. The article above, and the ones Shastri and Adi wrote about, are a reflection of the article author's dream for Bangalore in 2025.
Or if the link doesn't work, here is the transcript -
To Mysooru at wind speed
[ 9 Aug, 2006 2226hrs IST TIMES NEWS NETWORK ]
BENGALURU: Vayu Express, the bullet train between Bengaluru and Mysooru, has been speeded up. This means that the travel time between these two cities will now be reduced by 5 minutes. This is a major step forward for India's only bullet train.
Introduced last August at a speed of 300 kph, it enabled you to reach the City of Palaces from the state capital in 28 minutes. At a simple ceremony here on Wednesday, Infrastructure Implementation Ministry (IIM) administrator Bharat Kumar commissioned the new Track Maintenance Technology which enables the bullet train to zip along even faster to Mysooru.
Sanjay Rao, a regular commuter between the two cities, is thrilled by this development. "I'll spend less time on the train which means I get more to spend with my family. I hope the state introduces such trains to other cities too." His hopes may soon be realised. Track testing is under way on the Bengaluru-Mangaluru and Bengaluru-Hubbali routes and if all goes as per the IIM plan, the bullet train should be ready to roll from August next. This should dramatically improve the connectivity between the three IT hubs of the state and give a boost to further development of the region. The Hubbali link is of particular significance for travellers to Mumbai because the Maharashtra government is pushing the Railways to finish the Mumbai segment.
However, the occasion was marred by stray protests orchestrated by the opposition party which does not see much benefit in this Rs 1000-crore upgradation project. "What is the big deal in cutting short a journey by 5 minutes?" said opposition leader A Murthy. Most businessmen could easily give him a fitting reply. At least, he got his 5 minutes of fame on Web TV. Despite these carping critics, the bullet train continues to be a huge draw. Thousands of passengers have already travelled by it and there's no looking back on this Japanese technology.
My first reaction at this was - What is this crap about? Introduced last August? Yeah!!! And why was anybody not talking about it in September when I went home? 28 minutes from Mysore to Bangalore is national, no international news. How come no part of the hungry media, which carries every cough and fart of our cricketers on primetime, carried it? Except TOI of course...
And I googled, but could not find a Infrastructure Implementation Ministry headed by a Bharat Kumar, nor is any opposition leader in the State or Centre named A Murthy. And the three IT hubs of Karnataka are Mysore, Mangalore and Hubli? Whither Bangalore?
The article carries actual commuter-speak, too. The guy is thrilled by this development, the development being a reduction of travel time from 28 to 23 minutes. And he says he gets that much more time to spend with his family. Poor guy. I would like to know the time at which it leaves Bangalore to Mysore and also the fare for the half-an-hour journey.
What I did find out was that there was a proposal in 2004, here and it was shelved, here.
UPDATE : All right, I KNOW now. You don't have to tell me what this particular article was all about. It turns out that there is a Refresh Bangalore project going on, where ToI is requesting readers to contribute their dream for Bangalore. The article above, and the ones Shastri and Adi wrote about, are a reflection of the article author's dream for Bangalore in 2025.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Untimely Resolutions
I love books. I like to buy them and read, rather than borrow, because once I have read the book, I lose the interest to buy it anymore. At another point in life, I used to buy books off the footpath, because as much as I hated piracy, I loved books, and my pocket was too small to afford a new one. So, footpaths and second hand shops it was.
Now, I'm earning, so I don't mind spending on books. Sadly, that is also the case with things other than books. The result being running up huge bills on the credit card. Yes, I am one of those people who got financial independence and went on a shopping spree, only to find that living out of your means is suddenly very stifling, however nice your job may be. Having burnt fingers in that way, I cancelled many of my innumerable "lifetime free" cards, with the exception of a MasterCard and a Visa.
And I'm on a strict budget. It has been almost six months since I shopped anything (clothes/watch/shoes/shades/accessories). It has been a few months more that I have bought books/CDs. And no, in all these non-shopped months, I haven't saved money. I have managed to send home a fixed sum every month, a fine improvement on the sparse and undecided amounts I used to send home irregularly. I have managed to identify how much spare cash I am left with at the end of each month.
But of late, my wishlist is growing longer and longer, and my wardrobe looks outdated, and so I have decided that starting next month, I will buy one book, one CD and one piece of apparel every month. This fits nicely in my scheme of things. I also plan to put a little amount into an SIP. Those who have a good idea on markets can suggest an SIP which is doing good. Please drop some names in the comments.
It is with great reluctance I came out of Crossword empty-handed yesterday. And I'm not going there until next month. After days and days of just silent browsing in the store, I get a "Can I help you, sir?" five minutes after I enter.
Now, I'm earning, so I don't mind spending on books. Sadly, that is also the case with things other than books. The result being running up huge bills on the credit card. Yes, I am one of those people who got financial independence and went on a shopping spree, only to find that living out of your means is suddenly very stifling, however nice your job may be. Having burnt fingers in that way, I cancelled many of my innumerable "lifetime free" cards, with the exception of a MasterCard and a Visa.
And I'm on a strict budget. It has been almost six months since I shopped anything (clothes/watch/shoes/shades/accessories). It has been a few months more that I have bought books/CDs. And no, in all these non-shopped months, I haven't saved money. I have managed to send home a fixed sum every month, a fine improvement on the sparse and undecided amounts I used to send home irregularly. I have managed to identify how much spare cash I am left with at the end of each month.
But of late, my wishlist is growing longer and longer, and my wardrobe looks outdated, and so I have decided that starting next month, I will buy one book, one CD and one piece of apparel every month. This fits nicely in my scheme of things. I also plan to put a little amount into an SIP. Those who have a good idea on markets can suggest an SIP which is doing good. Please drop some names in the comments.
It is with great reluctance I came out of Crossword empty-handed yesterday. And I'm not going there until next month. After days and days of just silent browsing in the store, I get a "Can I help you, sir?" five minutes after I enter.
Talk of conversions
My ISP still blocks blogs, so I post using a mailer. And I read blogs using pkblogs. Now, an interesting observation is in the last post, I put in the address of my other blog as http://undertheshiningstars.blogspot.com (read undertheshiningstars dot blogspot dot com) and when it got posted on the site, you can see, it shows http://www.pkblogs/undertheshiningstars. I'm baffled.
Is it that whenever I open a blog through pkblogs, it actually runs through the whole text and replace *.blogspot.com with pkblogs/* ???
Update: It works only with pkblogs. When tried with another proxy, it comes up as dot blogspot dot com only. :-)
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Of partners and hands
They say in Bridge, as in sex, if you don't have a good partner, you better have a good hand. In badminton, however, you better have TWO good hands - A backhand and a forehand.
My partner last week, says he is used to playing badminton "mind-your-own-court" style, and not "net-and-baseline". Fine, I say. Now, whenever my right-handed partner is in the left side of the court, he gets me points with his strong forehand. He stands at the very outer edge of the left court, and rallies all his shots to the center, while I take care of the right side of the court.
Sadly, whenever he is in the right side of the court, he cannot cover the center court, and loses me many points as I try in vain to cover the left court, front, back and center. And then he attempts a few false shots but ends up dropping the shuttle in our court and losing us the game.
After the game, I sit for a break, and the poor guy walks across to me and says sorry for losing me the game. He explains that he has a poor backhand, and so he cannot play "net-and-baseline". I shrug it off, say it's just a game and make some small talk. Later he goes and plays with other guys while I rest for some more time.
It is raining hard so there is not much crowd to play with. Sometimes, lack of crowd becomes a problem in itself. Like, a court is vacant, and we are three guys resting now, and none pro enough to play singles. I wait for some time before another game ends, and partners switch, and then I play until N says she is hungry and wants to go home despite the rain.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Familiarity
Have you ever wondered how the first time you meet a person, you make an impression of him in your mind, and as you start interacting with them, to the extent of back-slapping, how your impression changes. (It changes for the better or worse, depending on whether you are back-slapping or back-stabbing). How, the first time you are ready to ignore a particular trait as a discount in the persona, but a few months later, you can joke about the same trait.
My cousin runs an internet cafe in Mysore. He has a live-in hire, who looks after it because the cafe is open 24 hours. The fellow maintained the sanctity of the cafe for a month or so, then he was seen to be managing the cafe in shorts, or on a rare day, pajamas.
A guy joined my gym a few months back. He would gingerly walk about the men's room, waiting for everyone to leave the room before he changed for the shower. Today, he walks all over the men's room, sits in the steam room, dries his hair after a shower, all in his briefs, and with the towel over his shoulder. As it was becoming quite an embarassment to the shier gents in our gym, I once ask him why he did not wrap the towel across his waist. His answer - choD na yaar, apna hi gym hai...
It is not without reason they say familiarity breeds contempt.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Winning
Winning is so good isn't it?
Last weekend saw me playing badminton after a long time, and with a new partner. I usually tire out after three back-to-back games, there is only so much an amateur can take. It was raining, so there was not much of a rush, courts were relatively free. Usually getting to play three full games is a big thing in itself. But Saturday, I played, in a row and won all three. Heh heh heh.
I had almost cooled down and ready to leave, while my partner called me for another game he was playing with a different set of guys. Needless to say, we won that match too. All this after a cardio workout at the gym, and on one red mug of Nescafe Classic. In retrospect, I think I should have bought a lottery ticket too, that day. Nothing seemed to go wrong at all.
On Sunday, everything was as usual. I lost my team more points than I gained it. Heh heh heh. I played with different partners, and ended up on the losing side. And mind you, after the second loss, I didn't feel like another game. That in itself, was instrumental in losing the third game.
Like I said, winning is so good. It goads you on and on, and you feel so unstoppable. Monday morning saw me with a blister on my right hand. Time to change the grips on the racket, I guess.
Unless I win, in which case of course, the racket is not what matters, talent is.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
What would you do?
I'm usually not bothered by mood swings. I do feel down sometimes, because I spend some time alone brooding on things past, present and future, but its not something that affects my daily routine. But once in a blue moon, I really get pissed off at things, and feel low - down and out - for no apparent reason. And when I am like this, I am best left alone. Those who attempt to talk to me, are either snubbed "I don't want to talk" or get the cold shoulder. Very rarely does someone actually succeed in probing me enough to get to the root of it all. Usually its the pent up feelings of not being able to do something, or something which fizzes out like a no-brainer, when I was very eagerly looking forward to it.
A particular Sunday was like that. I was acting very cranky. Silly thoughts wandering in my mind, and the whole of that weekend, all the forces of nature seemed to have conspired to make me feel miserable.
It was then that she called. And I'm glad she did. For the first time in many months. Even though we don't speak often, I cherish the conversations I have had with her. That day she chose to speak on Ayn Rand. Given the mood I was in, philosophy was the last thing I wanted to discuss. I kept looking at a tree from my window, while she was going on...and the conversations took an inane turn.
Her: "What are you doing now?"
Me: "Looking at a tree."
Her: 'Are there any birds?"
Me: "No."
Her: "Oh, they must have gone to find some food."
We spoke like this about the birds, trees and the sky, till she brought up "Bruce Almighty". And popped a question - "What would you do if you were God?"
My mood was out, and I was looking at the ants walking in a line on the windowsill, and I had no spontaneous answer. After a lot of hemming and hawing, I ventured, " I don't know. I've never thought of it before. Being God....hmmm" and trailed off. Then I asked "Tell me, what would you do?"
Her answer stumped me and shook the bad languor of my mood.
"You know what," she said, "I wouldn't do anything. I'm happy the way it is now".
"But, surely you would want something. If not for yourself, wouldn't you do anything for others?"
"No. Because I don't need supernatural powers to do that. You don't have to be God to do something for others. You can do it being yourself, too."
"But.."
"Tell me, why would you need to be God to help others? What prevents you from doing it now?"
I could only nod, while I listened to her, and looked at the ragpicker rummaging for something in the dustbin on the road below. What prevented me from helping him. Nothing.
She changed the topic soon and we were again talking on mundane topics like the trees and birds, but the question still lingers on...
A particular Sunday was like that. I was acting very cranky. Silly thoughts wandering in my mind, and the whole of that weekend, all the forces of nature seemed to have conspired to make me feel miserable.
It was then that she called. And I'm glad she did. For the first time in many months. Even though we don't speak often, I cherish the conversations I have had with her. That day she chose to speak on Ayn Rand. Given the mood I was in, philosophy was the last thing I wanted to discuss. I kept looking at a tree from my window, while she was going on...and the conversations took an inane turn.
Her: "What are you doing now?"
Me: "Looking at a tree."
Her: 'Are there any birds?"
Me: "No."
Her: "Oh, they must have gone to find some food."
We spoke like this about the birds, trees and the sky, till she brought up "Bruce Almighty". And popped a question - "What would you do if you were God?"
My mood was out, and I was looking at the ants walking in a line on the windowsill, and I had no spontaneous answer. After a lot of hemming and hawing, I ventured, " I don't know. I've never thought of it before. Being God....hmmm" and trailed off. Then I asked "Tell me, what would you do?"
Her answer stumped me and shook the bad languor of my mood.
"You know what," she said, "I wouldn't do anything. I'm happy the way it is now".
"But, surely you would want something. If not for yourself, wouldn't you do anything for others?"
"No. Because I don't need supernatural powers to do that. You don't have to be God to do something for others. You can do it being yourself, too."
"But.."
"Tell me, why would you need to be God to help others? What prevents you from doing it now?"
I could only nod, while I listened to her, and looked at the ragpicker rummaging for something in the dustbin on the road below. What prevented me from helping him. Nothing.
She changed the topic soon and we were again talking on mundane topics like the trees and birds, but the question still lingers on...
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
And the day after
Eighteen hours after the first bomb ripped through strategic points of the western line, which connects Churchgate to Virar, Mumbai has bounced back admirably. Schools, Colleges and Offices remain open, and people are keen to put the tragedy behind them and resume their routine.
Once again, the spirit of Mumbai triumphs over the tragedy, and like in the floods last year, people did not care or wait till the government machinery started rolling its wheels. One for all, and all for one, they showed the human face of Mumbai, televisions were flooded with images of people offering biscuits and water, volunteers were searching high and low for information which might help the persons next to them, citizens rallied around donating and appealing for others to donate blood, and for once, the media is not showing the gruesome tragedy, but the way the people overcame it.
In all tragedies, waiting is worse than knowing. Knowledge breaks the heart, so that it may begin to heal, but waiting rends the heart over and over again. And in order to counter this, Mumbai Help came up with a mindblowing idea. They set up this post, which served as a forum, and people all over posted their name and number as well as the name and number of the persons they wanted to contact. Mumbai Help contacted these persons as and when they could, and reverted to the next of kin who posted the messages. More than a hundred fears were laid to rest this way. They used all the means they could - telephones, cellphones, texting, and sometimes in person.
They have now set up a wiki for the same, and a train schedule as well.
Try as we might, we cannot fill the void left in the lives of those who lost their loved ones, but we pray for their souls to rest in peace. We wish the injured well, and hope they get back on their feet soon, and let the scars heal. Bravo!!! Mumbai Help and Thank you, you have contributed in ways more than one, to help Mumbai bounce back the way it did from the face of tragedy.
Update: Hospital-wise list of dead and injured people here.
Once again, the spirit of Mumbai triumphs over the tragedy, and like in the floods last year, people did not care or wait till the government machinery started rolling its wheels. One for all, and all for one, they showed the human face of Mumbai, televisions were flooded with images of people offering biscuits and water, volunteers were searching high and low for information which might help the persons next to them, citizens rallied around donating and appealing for others to donate blood, and for once, the media is not showing the gruesome tragedy, but the way the people overcame it.
In all tragedies, waiting is worse than knowing. Knowledge breaks the heart, so that it may begin to heal, but waiting rends the heart over and over again. And in order to counter this, Mumbai Help came up with a mindblowing idea. They set up this post, which served as a forum, and people all over posted their name and number as well as the name and number of the persons they wanted to contact. Mumbai Help contacted these persons as and when they could, and reverted to the next of kin who posted the messages. More than a hundred fears were laid to rest this way. They used all the means they could - telephones, cellphones, texting, and sometimes in person.
They have now set up a wiki for the same, and a train schedule as well.
Try as we might, we cannot fill the void left in the lives of those who lost their loved ones, but we pray for their souls to rest in peace. We wish the injured well, and hope they get back on their feet soon, and let the scars heal. Bravo!!! Mumbai Help and Thank you, you have contributed in ways more than one, to help Mumbai bounce back the way it did from the face of tragedy.
Update: Hospital-wise list of dead and injured people here.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Re-tying old strings
The first school I ever went to was Chaitanya Central School in Mehboobnagar, Andhra. I left it in Class 5, and had I been a bit older, I am sure I would have apprehensions on leaving the school. I loved every bit of it.
We lived in dad's factory quarters at Pillalamarry Road. The old campus of the school was in Rajendranagar. My sister used to attend classes there, but I dont remember visiting that campus once or twice, to get sis's paperwork done or when Dad had to meet some official. All the memories I have are of Yenugonda campus. Even at that point of time, the campus was a sprawling one. The bus would enter from the city, crossing an unmanned railway line, and through muddy roads until we saw a milky white building emerge. There was a paan-shop, selling sweetmeats at the entrance.
The building's entrance opened up a few steps ahead, bang in the middle, flanked by rows of classrooms on either side. When you walked up the entrance, you could see a flight of stairs going up to a landing, and TWO flights of stairs doing a right about-turn to the first floor rooms. These rooms were used by the residential students, and faculty members. There was a collapsible door, which prevented students from trespassing there during class-hours. The landing had a plush room, which was the principal's office.
Back to the entrance, when you stood facing the principal's room, you could see that the room to your right was the library, and then the higher classrooms (IX, X). Further to the classrooms, there was an open handwash-plaza, if you can call it that. Basically it was your kitchen sink extended into a L shape, with 5-6 taps on each leg. Beside that was the field. This was where the buses would pick up the students, and during classhours, would be parked. There were two buses - Blue bus and the Yellow Bus as we called it. The Blue bus had a driver with a flowing goatee, and we would call him "Pilli gaddam" (roughly, cat-beard)
Beyond the buses was the playground, for as far as the eye could see. Towards your right hand side was a rudimentary cricket pitch, and to the left was a mildly sandy football ground. It must have been a full-sized football ground, because by the time we took the ball towards the other goal, it would have been end of PT period. Enough of soiling your shoes, come walk back with me, as I go towards the library.
Again, I stand facing the flight of stairs, and suddenly it strikes me that the national anthem was sung here every evening before close of school. My sister was in the choir, and her classmates used to play the drums and cymbals. To my left now, were classrooms again, until we reached the end of the block, and there was again a small staircase, leading to that paan-shop through a passage in the bushes. There was a toilet complex too, if you went this way. But if you took a right, instead of going into the staircase leading down, you would reach another block perpendicular to the entrance block. Now, this is an elevated platform we are walking on, with the classrooms on one side, and the ground a couple of feet below on the other.
All the classrooms were named after scientists. I remember my sister's classroom named "Niels Bohr", and each room had a wooden plate with its class and section painted in white. The last room in the block we are walking is the Lab. Both Chemistry and Biology were inside. I dont know what Physics was doing. At the end, again, there were steps to get off the corridor, onto the ground. Again, if you took left, you could reach the toilet complex behind.
To the right of this block, which would mean, right parallel to the entrance block, we had the primary section. This was not on an elevated platform, but was on dear old terra firma. ( Maybe they thought we had enough head weight already, so no need of elevating them further ). My time in this school was entirely in this section, but I had the special privilege of walking on the corridors, whenever I went to meet sis.
Next to the primary block was a canteen, which was used by the residential students. I never ventured inside, as mama used to pack lunches for me and sis, but I could see the black stone gleaming inside. Sis was in the hostel once for a week, when Dad, Mom and me had come to attend an uncle's wedding in Mysore. I remember eating my lunches on the ground, furthermore right to the canteen, in the red hard mud, which served as a court for net games. (And before you think why you need a muddy ground to play a game on the PC, let me clarify, those net games were games which needed a net...like volleyball, badminton, throwball and suchlike). Sis used to sit further ahead, with her friends, in the soft sand near the football ground.
Now I have given you a rough quadrangle of the school, the only thing I have missed is the dais. The dais was behind the flight of stairs which led to the Principal's room. You could reach it through the corridors, and this was where the teachers would stand together, with few chosen students, who did the morning prayers and read the day's news. And from where the dais started, we kids would stand, classwise, section-wise, height-wise, and the last person would almost reach the primary school block behind. Mikes and speakers would be out every morning and evening.
And as I write this, I have made a sketch of how the school looked, on a sheet of paper. It has been 14 years since I left that place. And yet I remember it so vividly. It must have changed a lot in these 14 years, and I dont even know how it looks now. Now I feel I have to go there and visit it, just to relive those days. I missed that school so much. As I said earlier, if I were a couple of years elder, I would have preferred to stay in the hostel, and never leave the place. A visit to Hyderabad is on cards for a long long time, and when it materializes, I will go to Yenugonda, too.
Why this post, you wonder, I came across my school community in Orkut.com, and I found an old friend too, but inspite of the minutest details I gave him of our time together, he could not place me. I also came across a beautiful girl, who I knew was my teacher's daughter. How, you ask? My maths teacher's family had unconventional Sanskrit names - the girl's name is Snigdha (In Sanskrit, it means fair, which I remember she was), her brother's name was Veda Vyas. Their mother's name was Adyasree.
More on this school and town, later.
We lived in dad's factory quarters at Pillalamarry Road. The old campus of the school was in Rajendranagar. My sister used to attend classes there, but I dont remember visiting that campus once or twice, to get sis's paperwork done or when Dad had to meet some official. All the memories I have are of Yenugonda campus. Even at that point of time, the campus was a sprawling one. The bus would enter from the city, crossing an unmanned railway line, and through muddy roads until we saw a milky white building emerge. There was a paan-shop, selling sweetmeats at the entrance.
The building's entrance opened up a few steps ahead, bang in the middle, flanked by rows of classrooms on either side. When you walked up the entrance, you could see a flight of stairs going up to a landing, and TWO flights of stairs doing a right about-turn to the first floor rooms. These rooms were used by the residential students, and faculty members. There was a collapsible door, which prevented students from trespassing there during class-hours. The landing had a plush room, which was the principal's office.
Back to the entrance, when you stood facing the principal's room, you could see that the room to your right was the library, and then the higher classrooms (IX, X). Further to the classrooms, there was an open handwash-plaza, if you can call it that. Basically it was your kitchen sink extended into a L shape, with 5-6 taps on each leg. Beside that was the field. This was where the buses would pick up the students, and during classhours, would be parked. There were two buses - Blue bus and the Yellow Bus as we called it. The Blue bus had a driver with a flowing goatee, and we would call him "Pilli gaddam" (roughly, cat-beard)
Beyond the buses was the playground, for as far as the eye could see. Towards your right hand side was a rudimentary cricket pitch, and to the left was a mildly sandy football ground. It must have been a full-sized football ground, because by the time we took the ball towards the other goal, it would have been end of PT period. Enough of soiling your shoes, come walk back with me, as I go towards the library.
Again, I stand facing the flight of stairs, and suddenly it strikes me that the national anthem was sung here every evening before close of school. My sister was in the choir, and her classmates used to play the drums and cymbals. To my left now, were classrooms again, until we reached the end of the block, and there was again a small staircase, leading to that paan-shop through a passage in the bushes. There was a toilet complex too, if you went this way. But if you took a right, instead of going into the staircase leading down, you would reach another block perpendicular to the entrance block. Now, this is an elevated platform we are walking on, with the classrooms on one side, and the ground a couple of feet below on the other.
All the classrooms were named after scientists. I remember my sister's classroom named "Niels Bohr", and each room had a wooden plate with its class and section painted in white. The last room in the block we are walking is the Lab. Both Chemistry and Biology were inside. I dont know what Physics was doing. At the end, again, there were steps to get off the corridor, onto the ground. Again, if you took left, you could reach the toilet complex behind.
To the right of this block, which would mean, right parallel to the entrance block, we had the primary section. This was not on an elevated platform, but was on dear old terra firma. ( Maybe they thought we had enough head weight already, so no need of elevating them further ). My time in this school was entirely in this section, but I had the special privilege of walking on the corridors, whenever I went to meet sis.
Next to the primary block was a canteen, which was used by the residential students. I never ventured inside, as mama used to pack lunches for me and sis, but I could see the black stone gleaming inside. Sis was in the hostel once for a week, when Dad, Mom and me had come to attend an uncle's wedding in Mysore. I remember eating my lunches on the ground, furthermore right to the canteen, in the red hard mud, which served as a court for net games. (And before you think why you need a muddy ground to play a game on the PC, let me clarify, those net games were games which needed a net...like volleyball, badminton, throwball and suchlike). Sis used to sit further ahead, with her friends, in the soft sand near the football ground.
Now I have given you a rough quadrangle of the school, the only thing I have missed is the dais. The dais was behind the flight of stairs which led to the Principal's room. You could reach it through the corridors, and this was where the teachers would stand together, with few chosen students, who did the morning prayers and read the day's news. And from where the dais started, we kids would stand, classwise, section-wise, height-wise, and the last person would almost reach the primary school block behind. Mikes and speakers would be out every morning and evening.
And as I write this, I have made a sketch of how the school looked, on a sheet of paper. It has been 14 years since I left that place. And yet I remember it so vividly. It must have changed a lot in these 14 years, and I dont even know how it looks now. Now I feel I have to go there and visit it, just to relive those days. I missed that school so much. As I said earlier, if I were a couple of years elder, I would have preferred to stay in the hostel, and never leave the place. A visit to Hyderabad is on cards for a long long time, and when it materializes, I will go to Yenugonda, too.
Why this post, you wonder, I came across my school community in Orkut.com, and I found an old friend too, but inspite of the minutest details I gave him of our time together, he could not place me. I also came across a beautiful girl, who I knew was my teacher's daughter. How, you ask? My maths teacher's family had unconventional Sanskrit names - the girl's name is Snigdha (In Sanskrit, it means fair, which I remember she was), her brother's name was Veda Vyas. Their mother's name was Adyasree.
More on this school and town, later.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Blocked and Tackled
Block and Tackle is an interesting game played in university fests. It is a slightly different version of the normal debate, with the topics being a little lighter. Here, you don't have two people, one rooting for the motion, and the other ranting against it. A single person gets a topic, and for 3 minutes he starts speaking on it. His initial choice may be for or against the motion, but he has to keep it throughout.
Suppose a speaker starts speaking against reservations. This is his block position. He will continue speaking against reservations, until the judge calls out "Tackle", where he switches sides and starts speaking FOR reservations. Again when he is tackling it, if the judge calls out "Block", he switches back to his original stand, against reservations. Much fun comes when the speaker changes his stand when judges call out "Block" instead of "Tackle".
The winner is the one who had spoken on varied points, made their stands clear, and switched sides seamlessly. And did not switch sides, when judges called "Tackle" when they were already tackling the motion.
Shweta Jha was a clear winner. At our yearly fest, PESCO, she was an external candidate, who came along with Sudarshan Avadhany, from VVCE, Mysore. I had never seen anyone play B&T so seamlessly. It was obvious that a lot of effort and practise had gone into it. Her debates were something which I never missed, during the fest. Being busy with stage events like Dumbcharades and Mad-Ads, I never got a chance to congratulate her that evening, though I was in the front row, cheering at her every successful switch. Applauding at every relevant point she made in the debate.
I never knew her personally, but used to hear about her from friends. During the little I saw her on stage, she came across as a bubbly vivacious girl, with a ringing infectious laughter. She would laugh at every little mistake she or her teammate made, and the joy on her face was radiant. After PESCO, I heard a lot about her through Datta and Naveen (both VVCE) about her activities and wins in other tournaments, and VVCE's own fest, Vidyut.
It came as no surprise to me that she had carried across her enthusiasm to the workplace as well. Her colleague, Uppu Prasanna, remembers her as a, intelligent and a cheerful gal who took part in all group activities which involved making a lot of noise. A typical, fun-loving gal, who wanted to make the most of life.
Before fate blocked and tackled her life tragically.
On 10th of June, after hectic weeks of coding and stuff, Shweta and her colleagues went on a project party to Sivanasamudra, where, while playing in the water, she slipped on some rocks, and disappeared forever. By the time her colleagues recovered from the shock, it was too late.
When Naveen (ECE, PESCE, 2004) told me about this yesterday, we were silent for a long time. The mail he sent further mentioned that the body was found next day, badly mutilated due to all the rocks and debris it hit on its course. Prasanna, who wrote the stuff, further warns us, in such outing we hardly think of anything else but the moment. Before you enjoy like there's no tomorrow, do spare a thought for your parents, and the people who care for you. What will happen to them in case anything happens to YOU.
Like any other kid, Shweta's parents too had dreams and aspirations for her, they had a picture of their daughter's lively future. Her friends are inconsolable, and are yet to come out of the shock that encompasses them. It is hard for me to believe that the infectious laughter has been silenced forever. When it affects me, who saw her on stage for a couple of days, to this extent, I shudder to think of those who knew her better, as a close friend, as a classmate, as a colleague, as a relative...
Shweta Jha, Rest in Peace. May your ringing laughter illuminate your heavenly abode.
Suppose a speaker starts speaking against reservations. This is his block position. He will continue speaking against reservations, until the judge calls out "Tackle", where he switches sides and starts speaking FOR reservations. Again when he is tackling it, if the judge calls out "Block", he switches back to his original stand, against reservations. Much fun comes when the speaker changes his stand when judges call out "Block" instead of "Tackle".
The winner is the one who had spoken on varied points, made their stands clear, and switched sides seamlessly. And did not switch sides, when judges called "Tackle" when they were already tackling the motion.
Shweta Jha was a clear winner. At our yearly fest, PESCO, she was an external candidate, who came along with Sudarshan Avadhany, from VVCE, Mysore. I had never seen anyone play B&T so seamlessly. It was obvious that a lot of effort and practise had gone into it. Her debates were something which I never missed, during the fest. Being busy with stage events like Dumbcharades and Mad-Ads, I never got a chance to congratulate her that evening, though I was in the front row, cheering at her every successful switch. Applauding at every relevant point she made in the debate.
I never knew her personally, but used to hear about her from friends. During the little I saw her on stage, she came across as a bubbly vivacious girl, with a ringing infectious laughter. She would laugh at every little mistake she or her teammate made, and the joy on her face was radiant. After PESCO, I heard a lot about her through Datta and Naveen (both VVCE) about her activities and wins in other tournaments, and VVCE's own fest, Vidyut.
It came as no surprise to me that she had carried across her enthusiasm to the workplace as well. Her colleague, Uppu Prasanna, remembers her as a, intelligent and a cheerful gal who took part in all group activities which involved making a lot of noise. A typical, fun-loving gal, who wanted to make the most of life.
Before fate blocked and tackled her life tragically.
On 10th of June, after hectic weeks of coding and stuff, Shweta and her colleagues went on a project party to Sivanasamudra, where, while playing in the water, she slipped on some rocks, and disappeared forever. By the time her colleagues recovered from the shock, it was too late.
When Naveen (ECE, PESCE, 2004) told me about this yesterday, we were silent for a long time. The mail he sent further mentioned that the body was found next day, badly mutilated due to all the rocks and debris it hit on its course. Prasanna, who wrote the stuff, further warns us, in such outing we hardly think of anything else but the moment. Before you enjoy like there's no tomorrow, do spare a thought for your parents, and the people who care for you. What will happen to them in case anything happens to YOU.
Like any other kid, Shweta's parents too had dreams and aspirations for her, they had a picture of their daughter's lively future. Her friends are inconsolable, and are yet to come out of the shock that encompasses them. It is hard for me to believe that the infectious laughter has been silenced forever. When it affects me, who saw her on stage for a couple of days, to this extent, I shudder to think of those who knew her better, as a close friend, as a classmate, as a colleague, as a relative...
Shweta Jha, Rest in Peace. May your ringing laughter illuminate your heavenly abode.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
All weirdos, man
I saw this tag coming when she was doing it, but it was she who tagged me.
You gotta write five weird things about yourself, and then pass it on to five others. Of course, these can't be held against you in any court. Awright, here goes.
1. I always take the phone to my left ear to answer a call. Why? I don't know. This is about being weird, right?
2. I always keep my money sorted by denominations, the mutilated notes preceding the crisp ones for each denomination. And Gandhi always has his bald pate on top.
3. I can never wear a baseball cap with its peak in the front. It always has to be back. I used to, but once while riding fast, the wind blew it away, and my cap came under a bus, and I lost it. I have that fear ever since. Even when not riding.
4. My company is quite lenient on the dress code, and does not insist on a tie. Yet, you can catch me knotting a tie on a Monday, even though I don't wear it to office. I just remove it and put it away.
5. My comments usually end up being of a length fit for a post, and I quietly convert them to posts on my blog. I'm restraining it though, and the fact that there is no post on Mysore even a week after she put this up, is proof enough.
Now for the next five: Its her, her, her, him and him.
You gotta write five weird things about yourself, and then pass it on to five others. Of course, these can't be held against you in any court. Awright, here goes.
1. I always take the phone to my left ear to answer a call. Why? I don't know. This is about being weird, right?
2. I always keep my money sorted by denominations, the mutilated notes preceding the crisp ones for each denomination. And Gandhi always has his bald pate on top.
3. I can never wear a baseball cap with its peak in the front. It always has to be back. I used to, but once while riding fast, the wind blew it away, and my cap came under a bus, and I lost it. I have that fear ever since. Even when not riding.
4. My company is quite lenient on the dress code, and does not insist on a tie. Yet, you can catch me knotting a tie on a Monday, even though I don't wear it to office. I just remove it and put it away.
5. My comments usually end up being of a length fit for a post, and I quietly convert them to posts on my blog. I'm restraining it though, and the fact that there is no post on Mysore even a week after she put this up, is proof enough.
Now for the next five: Its her, her, her, him and him.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Monday, June 05, 2006
Bride and Prejudice???
I personally don't like putting up forwards here, as blogs, but when she sent it, I couldn't but resist putting it up.
Ah, lady, this is for you. And for you too, my dearest.
Here is a girl,
who is as much educated as you are;
who is earning almost as much as you do;
one, who has dreams and aspirations just as you have because she is as human as you are;
one, who has never entered the kitchen in her life just like you or your sister haven't, as she was busy in studies and competing in a system that gives no special concession to girls for their culinary achievements;
one, who has lived with and loved her parents and brothers and sisters, almost as much as you do for 20-25 years of her life;
one, who has bravely agreed to leave behind all that, her home, people who love her, to adopt your home, your family, your ways and even your family name;
one, who is somehow expected to be a master-chef from day #1, while you sleep oblivious to her predicament in her new circumstances, environment and that kitchen;
one, who is expected to make the tea, first thing in the morning and cook food at the end of the day, even if she is as tired as you are, maybe more, and yet never ever expected to complain;
to be a naukraani, a cook, a mother, a wife, even if she doesn't want to; and is learning just like you are as to what you want from her, and is clumsy and sloppy at times and knows that you won't like it if she is too demanding or if she learns faster than you;
one, who has her own set of friends, and that includes boys and even men at her workplace, too, those, who she knows from school days and yet is willing to put all that on the back-burners to avoid your irrational jealousy, unnecessary competition and your inherent insecurities;
yes, she can drink and dance just as well as you can, but won't, simply because you won't like it, even though you say otherwise;
one, who can be late from work once in a while when deadlines, just like yours, are to be met;
one, who is doing her level best and wants to make this most important relationship in her entire life a grand success, if you just help her some and trust her;
one, who just wants one thing from you - your unstinted support, your sensitivities and most importantly - your understanding and love.
Are you man enough to give it to her?
I, for one, am.
Ah, lady, this is for you. And for you too, my dearest.
Here is a girl,
who is as much educated as you are;
who is earning almost as much as you do;
one, who has dreams and aspirations just as you have because she is as human as you are;
one, who has never entered the kitchen in her life just like you or your sister haven't, as she was busy in studies and competing in a system that gives no special concession to girls for their culinary achievements;
one, who has lived with and loved her parents and brothers and sisters, almost as much as you do for 20-25 years of her life;
one, who has bravely agreed to leave behind all that, her home, people who love her, to adopt your home, your family, your ways and even your family name;
one, who is somehow expected to be a master-chef from day #1, while you sleep oblivious to her predicament in her new circumstances, environment and that kitchen;
one, who is expected to make the tea, first thing in the morning and cook food at the end of the day, even if she is as tired as you are, maybe more, and yet never ever expected to complain;
to be a naukraani, a cook, a mother, a wife, even if she doesn't want to; and is learning just like you are as to what you want from her, and is clumsy and sloppy at times and knows that you won't like it if she is too demanding or if she learns faster than you;
one, who has her own set of friends, and that includes boys and even men at her workplace, too, those, who she knows from school days and yet is willing to put all that on the back-burners to avoid your irrational jealousy, unnecessary competition and your inherent insecurities;
yes, she can drink and dance just as well as you can, but won't, simply because you won't like it, even though you say otherwise;
one, who can be late from work once in a while when deadlines, just like yours, are to be met;
one, who is doing her level best and wants to make this most important relationship in her entire life a grand success, if you just help her some and trust her;
one, who just wants one thing from you - your unstinted support, your sensitivities and most importantly - your understanding and love.
Are you man enough to give it to her?
I, for one, am.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Oooonnn
You must be knowing that Oxford adds a new word to its dictionary every year. This year's word is oooonning.
Oooonning: verb, the act of singing through one's nose, usually before or in the opening lines of a song. The most famous proponent of this form of singing is Himmy, who compares himself to the legendary sufi and ghazal singer, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.
All was fine when Sallu offered Himmy his first break in PKTDK. Humraaz, methinks, was the latest display of his sanity. Later, he appeared as a gharana trainer in Sa Re Ga Ma Pa- Music Director ka Mahayuddh. He was just a music director then, like Jatin-Lalit and Ismail Durbar. He was okay in the first few rounds. Later when his protege Vinit's luck turned with a baseball cap, Himmy took to it as well.
What Himmy does is - he doesn't bath for a week, gets a crew cut, grows a beard, gets a torn baseball cap, a worn leather jacket, a steel mike and starts ooooonnning. First he is seen sharing space with heroes in remixes of his own songs. Then others are seen sharing space with him, in his own music video. Talk of role reversal. (Come to think of it, oooooo sounds same if you sing it forward or reverse. Oh! Dear Me !!! Such versatility.)
Aashiq Banaya Aapne, the first product of this oooonn business is a smashing hit. It breaks all records (There were none, in the first place. This was the first ooonn album, remember?).
Then, my friends, begins to spread - the Himmy virus. So much that MTV makes a spoof of it:
A person affected by Himmy virus (ooooonnn Khajoor, 13 13 13 surrooor)
-> begins to wear a baseball cap suddenly.
-> wears a old leather jacket.
-> grows a stubble.
-> thinks Ismail Durbar does not know anything.
-> holds a guitar with no idea of how to play it.
-> thinks the nose is for singing and not for breathing.
If you know any person affected by this please send HIMESH (ech eye yem eee yes ech) to 8459, for vaccination.
Himmy delivers hit after hit in Aksar, Chinatown and his first non-film ooolbum "Tera suroor". Research done on "Himms", yeah these are the names for Himmy compositions, show that one particular single or double syllable word repeats at least twice. And more often than not, its 13 13...13 13. No?
Take a look-
Mar Jawa Jawa Mar jawa mar jawa mit jawa..
Aa Aa Aashiquin mein teri..
Zara Jhoom Jhoom..
Naam hai tera tera..
Tera tera tera surroor..
Laagi Laagi laagi prem rog laagi..
Jhalak dikhla ja, ek baar aaja aaja..
Ad-men try to catch in on his popoonnlarity by using his song "Jhalak Dikhla Jaa" for motorbikes. Methinks they want to prove that their bikes would also go oooonn once started, so like in cars, you can also enjoy music on the go.
By this time, wisecracks have come up with their PJs. Like this one:
Identify the song:
OO
OON
OOON
OOOON
OOOOON
OOOOOON
OOOOOOON
Didn't guess?
OOOOOOOON Huzoor, 13 13 13 surrooor.
And this one: There is a house called "DIL" where all the walls have 13 written over them. Identify the song:
DIL ki surkh diwaron pe, naam hai 13, 13... naam hai 13 13...
In spite of all this, people like her indulge in Himmy-bashing. What I don't understand is how can people say all these things about dear Himmy?
Crooning Himmy's songs in Karaoke will help you clear your nasal passages. Breath control and nasal voice modulation improve beyond imagination. In fact, those who croon Himms breathe better than those who chant vedic hymns. I think they fare a tad better than those who do Surya namaskar and Art of Living.
Ooonning once at bedtime will convince the mosquitoes that you are one of them, so they will not bite you. It will also identify you to the diseased dogs in the street, so they won't howl in front of your house.
Oooning with greater gusto, with increase in tempo, while listening to dhik chick dhik chick music will help cure constipation, and improve bowel movements. Himmy has 'himm'self said that he does not rest until he composes at least 3 songs a day. No wonder you don't get his appointment in the mornings.
Here is a man who is curing ailments, repelling mosquitoes and rabid canines, giving ideas for making brand new PJs, and all you do is indulge in Himmy-bash?...Tch tch...
Ok, thats all...I'm rolling on the floor now....Hoo hoo hoooooooonnn...Oh no, now i'm laughing in ooooon.
Update: Oh!! I thought I had heard it all. Villagers have now banned Himmy's Jhalak dikhla jaa, because the "ek baar aaja aaja" brings back the dead from their graves. The villagers have turned off the radio, and burnt all CDs and cassettes of that song. Wonder how it will affect the sales of bikes though.
Oooonning: verb, the act of singing through one's nose, usually before or in the opening lines of a song. The most famous proponent of this form of singing is Himmy, who compares himself to the legendary sufi and ghazal singer, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.
All was fine when Sallu offered Himmy his first break in PKTDK. Humraaz, methinks, was the latest display of his sanity. Later, he appeared as a gharana trainer in Sa Re Ga Ma Pa- Music Director ka Mahayuddh. He was just a music director then, like Jatin-Lalit and Ismail Durbar. He was okay in the first few rounds. Later when his protege Vinit's luck turned with a baseball cap, Himmy took to it as well.
What Himmy does is - he doesn't bath for a week, gets a crew cut, grows a beard, gets a torn baseball cap, a worn leather jacket, a steel mike and starts ooooonnning. First he is seen sharing space with heroes in remixes of his own songs. Then others are seen sharing space with him, in his own music video. Talk of role reversal. (Come to think of it, oooooo sounds same if you sing it forward or reverse. Oh! Dear Me !!! Such versatility.)
Aashiq Banaya Aapne, the first product of this oooonn business is a smashing hit. It breaks all records (There were none, in the first place. This was the first ooonn album, remember?).
Then, my friends, begins to spread - the Himmy virus. So much that MTV makes a spoof of it:
A person affected by Himmy virus (ooooonnn Khajoor, 13 13 13 surrooor)
-> begins to wear a baseball cap suddenly.
-> wears a old leather jacket.
-> grows a stubble.
-> thinks Ismail Durbar does not know anything.
-> holds a guitar with no idea of how to play it.
-> thinks the nose is for singing and not for breathing.
If you know any person affected by this please send HIMESH (ech eye yem eee yes ech) to 8459, for vaccination.
Himmy delivers hit after hit in Aksar, Chinatown and his first non-film ooolbum "Tera suroor". Research done on "Himms", yeah these are the names for Himmy compositions, show that one particular single or double syllable word repeats at least twice. And more often than not, its 13 13...13 13. No?
Take a look-
Mar Jawa Jawa Mar jawa mar jawa mit jawa..
Aa Aa Aashiquin mein teri..
Zara Jhoom Jhoom..
Naam hai tera tera..
Tera tera tera surroor..
Laagi Laagi laagi prem rog laagi..
Jhalak dikhla ja, ek baar aaja aaja..
Ad-men try to catch in on his popoonnlarity by using his song "Jhalak Dikhla Jaa" for motorbikes. Methinks they want to prove that their bikes would also go oooonn once started, so like in cars, you can also enjoy music on the go.
By this time, wisecracks have come up with their PJs. Like this one:
Identify the song:
OO
OON
OOON
OOOON
OOOOON
OOOOOON
OOOOOOON
Didn't guess?
OOOOOOOON Huzoor, 13 13 13 surrooor.
And this one: There is a house called "DIL" where all the walls have 13 written over them. Identify the song:
DIL ki surkh diwaron pe, naam hai 13, 13... naam hai 13 13...
In spite of all this, people like her indulge in Himmy-bashing. What I don't understand is how can people say all these things about dear Himmy?
Crooning Himmy's songs in Karaoke will help you clear your nasal passages. Breath control and nasal voice modulation improve beyond imagination. In fact, those who croon Himms breathe better than those who chant vedic hymns. I think they fare a tad better than those who do Surya namaskar and Art of Living.
Ooonning once at bedtime will convince the mosquitoes that you are one of them, so they will not bite you. It will also identify you to the diseased dogs in the street, so they won't howl in front of your house.
Oooning with greater gusto, with increase in tempo, while listening to dhik chick dhik chick music will help cure constipation, and improve bowel movements. Himmy has 'himm'self said that he does not rest until he composes at least 3 songs a day. No wonder you don't get his appointment in the mornings.
Here is a man who is curing ailments, repelling mosquitoes and rabid canines, giving ideas for making brand new PJs, and all you do is indulge in Himmy-bash?...Tch tch...
Ok, thats all...I'm rolling on the floor now....Hoo hoo hoooooooonnn...Oh no, now i'm laughing in ooooon.
Update: Oh!! I thought I had heard it all. Villagers have now banned Himmy's Jhalak dikhla jaa, because the "ek baar aaja aaja" brings back the dead from their graves. The villagers have turned off the radio, and burnt all CDs and cassettes of that song. Wonder how it will affect the sales of bikes though.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
MBA anyone?
An old post, but a good one.
Came across this checklist for MBA preparation. Do visit.
And yes, all the best.
Came across this checklist for MBA preparation. Do visit.
And yes, all the best.
Double Whammy
Fanaa: Three reasons to watch Fanaa are Kajol, Kajol and Kajol. Whew!!! She has taken it up from where she left off. The bubbly smile takes you back to those impish laughter in KKKG, or the shy wishing-at-the-sight-of-a-meteor girl in KKHH. Her dance is as graceful as it ever was, and the emotions flow like a river in spate...its so tangible...Apart from that, there's Aamir, one guy who is never content with one look. He looks a bit aged, though. And has a telling paunch in the rain scenes. His other looks are good though, loved the one in which he moves around with a laptop. And the shaayaris at the drop of a hat....dear me!!! And of course, Kashmir is outsourced to Poland. And its sooo beautiful. Its the only beautiful thing in the film which stands up in comparison to Kajol, but just falls short. Allright, I over-did it a bit now. The songs are hummable, and are picturised well, too.
But there are a few nuances too. Serendipity is one. Kajol's parents seem a tad over-enthusiastic about their daughter. It's as though they want their daughter to fall in love with the next person who crosses the street. It all seems too easy. The film is a wee bit lengthy. They have taken the concept of a 3 hour film a bit too seriously, because it does stretch that long. A couple of quick cuts, and some crisp editing could have made the movie slick and pacy. Also, there are many little inconsistencies, which do not fit in the scheme of things.
In any case, the absence of any other big banner movies, and the controversy, I think it will just make enough money to be stamped a HIT.
Da Vinci Code: For those who have NOT read the book, in one word, I can say the movie is gripping. For those who have, the word is "diluted". If you haven't read the book, it has you on the edge of your seat, wondering what might come up next. The pace is good, yet it runs to over two and a half hours. Look out for the scenes where Sophie drives the car in reverse, Silas punishing himself before the Christ and the explanation how a CRYPTEX works.
Now, for those who have read the book, the movie has done quite some justice to it, but again, it all seems too easy. He unscrambles the codes in a matter of minutes, whereas you enjoy the vivid five-page descriptions in the book. Same is the case where they go to the Zurich Bank. They put in the account number, as if it were the most natural thing to do. The book scores over the movie in scenes like these. By and large, the movie is good, and holds your attention throughout. The way the letters shine out individually reminds one of Ron Howard's earlier movie A Beautiful Mind.
Reports show that it opened to a good audience, but X-Men did better.
Another review of Fanaa here.
But there are a few nuances too. Serendipity is one. Kajol's parents seem a tad over-enthusiastic about their daughter. It's as though they want their daughter to fall in love with the next person who crosses the street. It all seems too easy. The film is a wee bit lengthy. They have taken the concept of a 3 hour film a bit too seriously, because it does stretch that long. A couple of quick cuts, and some crisp editing could have made the movie slick and pacy. Also, there are many little inconsistencies, which do not fit in the scheme of things.
In any case, the absence of any other big banner movies, and the controversy, I think it will just make enough money to be stamped a HIT.
Da Vinci Code: For those who have NOT read the book, in one word, I can say the movie is gripping. For those who have, the word is "diluted". If you haven't read the book, it has you on the edge of your seat, wondering what might come up next. The pace is good, yet it runs to over two and a half hours. Look out for the scenes where Sophie drives the car in reverse, Silas punishing himself before the Christ and the explanation how a CRYPTEX works.
Now, for those who have read the book, the movie has done quite some justice to it, but again, it all seems too easy. He unscrambles the codes in a matter of minutes, whereas you enjoy the vivid five-page descriptions in the book. Same is the case where they go to the Zurich Bank. They put in the account number, as if it were the most natural thing to do. The book scores over the movie in scenes like these. By and large, the movie is good, and holds your attention throughout. The way the letters shine out individually reminds one of Ron Howard's earlier movie A Beautiful Mind.
Reports show that it opened to a good audience, but X-Men did better.
Another review of Fanaa here.
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