... 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.
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