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2011-05-12T12:14:00.000+05:30

The Fresh Brew: Chronicles Of Business And Freedom by Amit Haralalka

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Being an Alumnus of IIML it was heartening to see this attempt by Amit. But I was disappointed with the execution. The writing and editing is poor, and leaves enormous scope for improvement. Sincerely wish they iron out the issues in the next edition.

View all my reviews

The redemption of Thomas, the coward

2010-02-10T14:43:00.004+05:30

The sound of rubber sandals on cemented floor echoed off the red brick walls of the long college corridor. A pigeon craned its neck to the sound that broke the silent summer afternoon. A figure in white jumped down the stairs and stumbled past the locked doors of the department labs. Sweat streamed down his face and the back of his shirt. His left hand tightly clenched the loose folds of his ‘mundu’ at his midriff. His feet slipped on the grease of warm blood and dirt that had formed on his slippers.

As he jumped down the last flight and ran into the courtyard, he saw them, the faces that he knew all too well. Their backs to the main gate, their hands tied behind, and their weapons barely concealed they stood waiting for him. A faint curse escaped his lips as his eyes searched for the way out that he knew did not exist.

Thomas was relieving himself and getting ready for his afternoon meal when he heard the sounds. Exams had finished the day before and the few staff and students who had turned up at the college gates that morning had also left. He cursed the heat as he made his way to catch the miscreants who he thought they were. He despised the long summer breaks, the times when it was just him, the voices in head and the mute red walls.

As he reached the edge of the courtyard, a scream shot through the muggy afternoon air.

Thomas saw the three boys with clubs and chains in their hands towering over the sprawled figure on the ground. His clothes were dirty with blood and sweat, and his face filled with fear, the boy was trying to scamper away. Instantly Thomas knew what was happening. It was not uncommon for the student political factions to settle a score or two when they got the chance. They were either venting the frustration of some lost election, or giving back what had been meted to one of their kin, or just reacting to a passing comment. It always amused him how the young confident faces transformed themselves when faced with the imminent threat.

Experience had taught Thomas that the best way to deal with these situations was silence and inaction from his part. He would turn a blind eye, and the victim would leave with a few bruises, boasting rights and an updated score.

So, as was routine, he slipped into the shadows and watched the events of that afternoon unfold. In the days to come Thomas would blame a bad stomach for his absence from the corridors that afternoon.

As he watched, one of the attackers raised his club and swung it with all his might. It caught the head on the left temple, opening up a gash that covered the face with dark red blood. With a stifled cry the body slumped on the ground.

A chill ran down Thomas’ spine and he felt his fingers tighten around his ‘lathi’.

Without exchanging so much as a word, the boys lifted the moaning body. As they half carried and half dragged the boy up the stairs an unknown fear gripped Thomas. He was sick in his stomach and felt a tear run down his cheek.

His heart was thumping against his chest when he saw the boys appear on the open roof of the east block. For a second they seemed to hesitate, and then, as a wail got stuck in the parched throat of Thomas, they flung the bundle of white over the edge into the courtyard.

***

Years went by, but Thomas grumbled about the summer breaks no more. Those two months of sweltering heat and loneliness had become an essential part of his life.

On certain days, when the sun was particularly hot and the air filled with a peculiar chill, he would hear those footsteps in the corridors of the East block. He kept the main gates open, and his trembling self hidden in the shadows, hoping, he didn’t hear the scream that followed, ever again.

O-tto!

2009-02-11T17:26:00.002+05:30

Songs of peace at a time of war

2008-12-14T12:22:00.002+05:30

Over the last 2 weeks news channels have been playing 2 songs in particular during their 'Tribute to the fallen' shows (I refer to the Mumbai attacks here, of course).

The lyrics of the two, 'Ek lau' from the movie 'Aamir', a personal favourite, and 'Vaishnavo janato', are worth remembering.

Ek Lau

(Song is written by Amit Trivedi, from the soundtrack of Aamir, performed by Shilpa Rao)

Ek Lau Is Tarah Kyun Bhuji Mere Maula…

(Why was a flare extinguished like this, my Lord…)

Gardishon Mein Rehti, Behti Guzarthi,

Zindagi Aahein Kitni…

(Struggling through dark clouds, flowing, passing by,

There are so many lives [being lived]…)

In Mein Se Ek Hai, Teri Meri Agni,

Koi Ek Jaisi Apni…

(Your life and my life is just one flame amongst all of these)

Par Khuda Khair Kar, Aisa Anjaam Kisi Rooh Ko,

Na De Kabhi Yahaan…

Guncha Muskuratha Ek Waqt Se Pehle,

Kyun Chodd Chala Tera Yeh Jahaan…

(But God please, may no soul here receive, this kind of ending…

Before the arrival of a flower-like*, smiling [peaceful] time,

why did this life leave your world…)

{*writer refers to the gradual, sweet smelling natural death of a flower}

Ek Lau Is Tarah Kyun Bhuji Mere Maula,

Ek Lau Zindagi Ki Maula.

(Why was a flare extinguished like this, my Lord,

A flare of Life, my Lord)

Dhoop Ke Ujaale Se, Aus Ke Pyaale Se,

Khushiyan Mile Humko…

Zyada Manga Hai Kahaan, Sarhadein Na Ho Jahaan,

Duniya Mile Humko…

(The light of the sunshine, the beauty of the morning dew,

We recieve joy from all of this…

Is it too much that we ask for a world with no borders*)

{*As in, borders/divisions between people, ethnicities, religions…symbolizing all artificially created conflict amongst humanity}

Par Khuda Khair Kar, Uske Armaan Mein Kyun

Bewaja Ho Koi Qurbaan,

Guncha Muskuratha Ek Waqt Se Pehle,

Kyun Chodd Chala Tera Yeh Jahaan…

(But God please, why should anyone be sacrificed to fulfill this desire*…

Before the arrival of a flower-like, smiling [peaceful] time,

why did this life leave your world…)

{*Why should there be sacrifice for the sake of creating this division-less, conflict-free society?}

Ek Lau Is Tarah Kyun Bhuji Mere Maula,

Ek Lau Zindagi Ki Maula. (2)

(Why was a flare extinguished like this, my Lord,

A flare of Life, my Lord)

Thanks to Mitasha Muses

Vaishnava Janato

Vaishnav jan to tene kahiye je
PeeD paraayi jaaNe re
Par-dukhkhe upkaar kare toye
Man abhimaan na aaNe re
Vaishnav...

SakaL lok maan sahune vande
Nindaa na kare keni re
Vaach kaachh man nishchaL raakhe
Dhan-dhan janani teni re
Vaishnav...
Sam-drishti ne trishna tyaagi
Par-stree jene maat re
Jivha thaki asatya na bole
Par-dhan nav jhaalee haath re
Vaishnav...

Moh-maaya vyaape nahi jene
DriDh vairaagya jena man maan re
Ram naam shoon taaLi laagi
SakaL tirath tena tan maan re
Vaishnav...

VaN-lobhi ne kapaT-rahit chhe
Kaam-krodh nivaarya re
BhaNe Narsaiyyo tenun darshan karta
KuL ekoter taarya re
Vaishnav...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Translation
One who is a vaishnav
Knows the pain of others
Does good to others, esp. to those ones who are in misery
Does not let pride enter his mind

A Vaishnav, Tolerates and praises the the entire world
Does not say bad things about anyone
Keeps his/her words, actions and thoughts pure
O Vaishnav, your mother is blessed (dhanya-dhanya)

A Vaishnav sees everything equally, rejects greed and avarice
Considers some one else's wife/daughter as his mother
The toungue may get tired, but will never speak lies
Does not even touch someone else's property

A Vaishnav does not succumb to worldly attachments
Who has devoted himself to stauch detachment to worldly pleasures
Who has been edicted to the elixir coming by the name of Ram
For whom all the religious sites are in the mind

Who has no greed and deciet
Who has renounced lust of all types and anger
The poet Narsi will like to see such a person
By who's virtue, the entire family gets salvation

Thanks to rasikas.org

Life in a small town - 2

2008-11-12T01:58:00.002+05:30

The Dude

The scene is this - the private bus stand of my town; a fruit shop 10 ft from the road; a drunkard sparwled in a large puddle of murky water in front of the fruit shop (referred to as 'The Dude' from here on) , and two cops towering over him (both the cops are standing on some sort of a wooden plank connecting the fruit shop to the road).

Cop1: You!! .. get up!.. YOU!!..GET UP!! (all this in malayalam, of course)

The Dude: (the Dude hardly moved)

Cop2: You!!

The Dude: Huh.. (he slowly lifts his head to see what all the commotion is about)

Cop1: You!!.. Get up (The cops, I noticed at this point, were hardly angry at the Dude; they were more matter-of-fact about the whole situation)

The Dude: (by now had lifted his body a bit, from waist up, and was looking at the cops with a slight swagger) Salaam Saab.. (our man manages to cop out a smart salute to go with the call of 'Sir'>

Cop1&2: (Amused by the whole situation, and grinning by now).. Aah.. you can continue sleeping there (they dismiss the drunkard with a wave of the hand, and a chuckle, and take a few steps toward the road)

The Dude: Ok Sir! (He brings the episode to its rightful end and gets back to his sleep, back in the puddle ofcourse!)

About town

2008-10-30T10:11:00.003+05:30

Paandan Naaya

2008-10-23T12:47:00.003+05:30

A malayalam poetry gem by the great poet Kunjan Nambiar,

Paandan naayude pallinu shauryam
Pandeppole phalikkunnilla
Pandivanoru kadiyaloru puliye
Kandichathu njaan kandariyunnen

Sing it out loud for maximum effect!

Life in a small town - 1

2008-10-19T20:05:00.002+05:30

That is one mean junction in my town - it really is!

It is one where you can go from one road to any other road. Rather, the 1st is sparsely used, and the 2nd and 3rd feed the 4th - a one way. There are no traffic signals and usually a traffic policeman tries to manage the manic traffic that jostles towards the 4th road. Now it not so much the cross-traffic that is the issue there, but the fact that you have all kinds of vehicles, from buses to bi-cycles trying to push through that small neck of the road. Add to that a few well placed potholes, of various shapes and sizes, obviously, and you get the picture. It is one of those places where if you are on a two-wheeler you feel as if you are stalked by one of those huge primeval predators, except that here the hunters come in the shape of cuboids, run on wheels, and creep up behind you before letting out a loud blare, invariably throwing you off balance directly into the path of the metallic beast.

"So what?", you may ask. You pick any town in India, small or large, and you will find atleast one junction worthy of the curse. Yeah, I agree, but my point is not that the this junction is one of a kind, but to simply paint a picture of the place where the incident took place that humid September afternoon (This is no murder mystery mind you. So don't get all worked up when I mention that 'incident'. Relax, continue sipping that bottle of coke you just kept aside, and let the music play).

Anyway, there I was in my car trying to squeeze through the traffic when I saw this old man trying to cross the road - right at that junction!

In the middle of the commotion there were these two cops trying hard to control the traffic. One of them, the sub-ordinate, suddenly saw the subject and started shouting at him. I couldn't quite make out what he was trying to say as the window was rolled up, though, I could make out that he was not quite pleased with the old fella. He quickly cut through traffic to reach the old man and tried animatedly, very, (atleast that much I can vouch for) to dissuade the bloke from trying what he was about to do. During the argument he would break for a second, wave and shout at a passing vehicle, and then revert to pursue the challenge. The old man, with his cream woolen head-cap and cardigans always had one eye on the vehicles and could be seen stepping aside or jumping away as and when he found himself seconds away from peril. He just refused to listen to the cop.

After sometime, the policeman finally gave up and decided to help the fellow the cross the road. With one hand raised to try and stop the incessant traffic, and the other firmly latched on to the old man, he made his way through the mess.

By now I had reached the neck, the choking point.

As I made my way past, I turned around for a second and caught what I thought was a very enduring scene. The two had successfully made it to the other side. And the old man having got his wish, was patting the cop on his shoulder, the way a father would pat his son for a job well done. The gesture seemed to re-establish the old man's seniority over the cop in addition to thanking him. He then started moving away from the traffic. The cop, overwhelmed by the unexpected gesture from the frail old man, broke out into a wide grin and started cracking a joke with his partner.... 'A sunshine moment!'

BLARE!! Damn! These metallic monsters... Get out my way you old creep!

Papa

2008-10-01T14:54:00.005+05:30

I stuck out and curled my tender little pink tongue, and pressed it against the dog's. I did the same with my little nose - so that my face, was now flat against the dog's face. I started making nasal sounds, there after - at times to scare the animal, otherwise to tease it. I was shaking my head from side-to-side, looking the pug straight in its eye, when the heavy hand of my Papa gently tapped my tiny bum, urging me to stay still and make peace with the cur.

The train whistled and trundled its way through the dark night - past nonchalant trees, trying to outrun a wind that came down from the mountains afar.

My Papa, never good at planning things, had got us the two side berths in a train that had far outlived it's glory days with some last minute booking.

My Mama was sleeping on the berth above and my Papa was trying to catch some shut-eye having placed me on the not so gentle curvature of his belly.

I loved to run my hands over the outline of the dog, but I disliked the smell of Papa's sweaty t-shirt, quite unlike the fragrance of my Mama's hair that put me to sleep every night at home. I could see strands of cloth standing up from Papa's t-shirt like the smoke that came out of his cigarettes. The strands would disappear under my fingers as I traced the dog, and would reappear, curled up, as the fingers moved on.

The lights were still on, and I could see the pallu of my Mama's saree hanging over the side of her berth. Once in a while she pulled it back, but it always re-appeared and peeped back at me through the flowery-eyes of its patterns. I could see my Mama's dangling right hand and was fascinated by the vermilion dabbed nails of her fingers. But, as I strained further to get a better look at all this I was stopped by a tap from my Papa - at times he would coat it with a gentle reprimand. He would inevitably rest his hand on my back, as a final sign for me to go to sleep.

Outside, the moon stared at me from a vast lonely space.

***

The skin felt cold, membrane-like, stretched over what was inside. Papa had lost a lot of weight in the last few months and the belly had flattened, leaving little signs of the once prominent protrusion.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the pallu of my Mama's saree, now a faded white,a lattice of criss-crosses, pulled up every now and then to dab her eyes. Her fingers were bony and her nails a pale white, a white that only old-age could paint.

Papa was bare-bodied, and I was on him. There were no sounds, no smells, and I knew his hand wouldn't move to hold me still.

As I looked at it, his hand, the skin long shriveled, and the bones and muscles stubborn hard, the memory of that night in the train popped out at me, like the contents at the back of an old drawer.

The shining

2008-05-21T12:01:00.002+05:30

Mohanlal
A Housewife
From IIM Indore

You can get more here

2008-05-20T12:55:00.001+05:30

A matter of honor

Leander

2008-04-11T15:13:00.000+05:30

interview

R.K.

2008-02-05T11:48:00.000+05:30

Interview with the common man

Butterflies are free !

2008-02-03T11:26:00.000+05:30

link

'Friends'

2008-01-10T11:20:00.001+05:30

They met over coffee that night - early, just-on-time, and apologetic.

Pleasantries were exchanged and formalities done with : health and wealth talked about, and matters of work and family dispensed with.

Few laughs were exchanged thereafter - some on each other, the rest on someone else.

Then came the rumours - some direct jibes, the rest, about someone else.

The sound of the trumpets followed, announcing them chest thumpers. One did it straight-out, while the other went round-about; one happened to be coy, while the other smiled in one-upmanship.

Books, Movies and Marriage, as topics of conversation; one liked it not, but then, even he had an opinion - at times politically correct, at times a frank critique; some times taking advice, at times giving one.

One remained silent, the second contributed sparely, the third talked the most, and the fourth continued to change topics.

A break to place the order, and another for a sip; a break for water, and another for a piss; a break for a call, and another for a message; and some breaks, that lingered on.

A fifth called and announced a delay - the thought of a possible drop-out spread around the table. Just then, a sixth called to say that he was on his way.

A broken thread of conversation is picked up by someone.

Attack - Defence, emotional - rationale, distracted - I-don't-give-a-shit, My point of view-Your point of view, Hitler-Hummer, Godse - Gandhi, Work-life balance - Money as a motivator, some show-off - some self-praise, some testosterone - some lack of it, ageing - the flight of time, some nostalgia - then for old time's sake, masks worn in self-amazement - masks shred to much fanfare, remarks that reinforce opinions - remarks that make interesting thought, cornered - leading the charge, Attack - Defence ; a little bit of change, but mostly the script remains the same.

Whodunit!!

2008-01-09T14:29:00.000+05:30

Kariyila kattupole (Dir. Padmarajan ; Cast. Mohanlal, Mammootty)

Some things facinated me in this really good murder-mystery by Padmarajan. One, the audience is told the progression and ending of the story right at the start, but is still kept guessing till the end. Two, everyone speaks the truth in the movie; and that makes the story look as if it is waiting to be unraveled. Three, some nice characters and dialogues (Mammootty as the brash, and allegedly womanising film director, for example).

Thin Man

An ex-detective and his wife decide to figure out the mystery behind their missing ex-client. That what makes the movie outstanding is the excellent casting of the lead couple and the brilliant banter between the husband and wife. And to think the movie was shot in just 12 days!!

Quotes

Nora Charles: Take care of yourself

Nick Charles: Why, sure I will.

Nora Charles: Don't say it like that! Say it as if you meant it!

Nick Charles: Well, I do believe the little woman cares.

Nora Charles: I don't care! It's just that I'm used to you, that's all.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nora Charles: All right! Go ahead! Go on! See if I care! But I thinks it's a dirty trick to bring me all the way to New York just to make a widow of me.

Nick Charles: You wouldn't be a widow long.

Nora Charles: You bet I wouldn't!

Nick Charles: Not with all your money...

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

Nick Charles: Now my friends, if I may propose a little toast. Let us eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.

Nora Charles: You give such charming parties, Mr. Charles.

Nick Charles: Thank you, Mrs. Charles

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

Nora Charles: Pretty girl.

Nick Charles: Yes. She's a very nice type.

Nora Charles: You got types?

Nick Charles: Only you, darling. Lanky brunettes with wicked jaws.

The Baggy Green !

2008-01-03T14:14:00.001+05:30

There is something exciting about waking up at 5:00 in the morning (“rather crazy”, some of you may mumble); cautiously opening the creaky bedroom door (trying to anticipate, unsuccessfully, the next creak); tip-toeing down the stairs in dead darkness (a slip, a stumble and a few missed stairs to show as price paid for not waking up the other less excitable inmates of the house); and on reaching the living room - groping, locating, and cringing as the remote crashes on the floor; before finally switching on the telly and frantically pressing ‘Mute’ in quick succession, so that a scream may not escape the speakers into the pre-dawn darkness.

Such were the start of the days of my childhood, and to a certain extent even now, whenever the Indian cricket team toured down under, to Australia.

The dark screen of the telly would slowly light-up - wiping the darkness from my face and chasing the darkness from the room.

As my eyes adjust to the light, and I find myself a chair (a stubbed-toe and a sore knee to show for the attempt), I would be greeted with live feed from Australia – Boxing Day Test Match!

Shaking off drowsiness from my head, I would find myself being hypnotized by the likes of a Richie Benaud or a Mark Taylor, or that affable Carribean, Micheal Holding – refreshing!

As far as cricketing venues go, there is no better place than Australia to play the game. Unlike the dustbowls of India and Pakistan, the grey-chilly-damp-stiff-upper-lip English weather, or the faded and worn-out greens of muggy South Africa and West Indies, Australia provides a feast for the eye – a huge circle of green, with stripes of light and dark running across, restricted in the middle of those sprawling, handsome stadiums. The pitch, the colour of golden wheat, one that is assured to offer both bounce and pace; and the weather warm, sunny and crisp (Yes, that is the word that comes to my mind when I think of cricket in Australia – Crisp!); ideal for Test cricket. The cricketers wearing their fresh starched whites (the Aussies have always had a slight distinct yellow tinge to their clothes, as if unwashed, but likeable, nevertheless).

With some of the longest boundaries in the world, where batsmen run Fours (I have seen them run 5 once for an over-throw – good for the athletic Aussies; not so good for the Indians who relish hitting the boundaries than running the quick singles), the Aussie tour is a real endurance test; from the quality of stroke-play, to the aggressive opposition, cricket down-under is enough to make or break careers (So, would concur a V.V.S. Laxman, but not so, would say an Aakash Chopra).

The fascination does not end there. Even the telecast would be different each time, with ever changing fonts, new camera angles like stump vision, new forms of dynamic game analysis like ultra-slow motion, and even presentation styles – with players introducing themselves (on T.V.) as they stepped onto the field to bat.

As it is with other tours, one could also get to see veteran players who have now either turned commentators or coaches or have just dropped in for the match – the David Boons, Allan Borders and Mark Taylors of Australia.

And then the ‘quicks’ would start steaming in from the bottom of the TV screens towards the trepid batsman at the top, batsmen with tenuous grips on their bats trying to stop the cherry from crashing into their stumps. Sound of the ball nicking the outside edge, fielders grassing a catching, the ball scampering towards the fence fearing the sweet thump of the willow, Chin music – noise for the batsmen and a good beat for the spectators, the Hook, the Pull, the-one-that-bounced-a-bit, one on the chest another on the helmet, the chest-thumping on knocking down ‘Timber’, and huge Australian men and women waving Fours with a beer in one hand!

MCG, Sydney, Perth (!!), Adelaide, Gabba .. Bring it on!

Epilogue:

I woke-up late for the Boxing-day test of the 2007 series. But what greeted me were 3 of the most beautiful dismissals I had seen in recent times.

Phil Jacques, fooled by a Kumble Googly was dragged out of the crease, and Dhoni did the rest behind stumps (there are very few instances in cricket that can match the embarrassment of a spinner completely fooling the batsman, I feel).

Zaheer followed up with a beauty to dismiss Ponting - the left-armer bowling from around the stumps with a bowl that angles in and moves away just that little bit from the right handed batsman, clipped the bails on its way back. With Ponting, the ball disappeared from the screen as the batsman played on the front-foot, and the next frame was that of the batsman outside the crease, covering the stumps completely, with the bails flying off on either side.

Hussey, the person to have the biggest test average after Sir Don, was next. Cool, efficient, professional, and determined (he made it to the side when 30+), he was fooled by a Kumble Googly (again!) that caught him on his back-foot plumb in-front.

As I publish this post, India has lost the MCG test by over 300 runs, and are struggling in the New Year’s test at SCG. The injuries are hurting India - with Zaheer returning to India. With the bouncy track of Perth to come next, the Indians have some hard work up ahead.

Dedication

2008-01-03T08:59:00.000+05:30

to his Uncle, by Ruskin Bond.

Dedicated to the memory of my uncle,
James Bond,
Who was a dentist by profession and not,
As some believe, a secret agent....
His epitaph reads:
Stranger! Approach this spot with gravity,
James Bond is filling his last cavity.

2008-01-02T20:11:00.000+05:30

" The private life of a child starts with his first tooth-brush."

- Spectator, Higuita & Other Stories by N.S. Madhavan

A Good Man

2007-12-21T13:49:00.000+05:30

The youngest Ashok Chakra winner.

Progress

2007-12-18T16:47:00.000+05:30

something to be happy about.

Steve Prefontaine

2007-12-11T12:13:00.000+05:30

"Without Limits" the movie talks about the life of Steve Prefontain, Pre, one of the distinguished American long distance runners, an Olympian, and his coach Bill Bowerman, coach and co-founder of Nike. Good movie and two inspiring people. Some personal quotes of Pre,

"To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift."
"A lot of people run a race to see who is fastest. I run to see who has the most guts, who can punish himself into exhausting pace, and then at the end, punish himself even more. Nobody is going to win a 5,000 meter race after running an easy 3 miles. Not with me. If I lose forcing the pace all the way, well, at least I can live with myself."
"I don't just go out there and run. I like to give people watching something exciting."
"I run best when I run free."
"A race is a work of art that people can look at and be affected in as many ways as they're capable of understanding."
"I'm going to work so that it's a pure guts race at the end, and if it is, I am the only one who can win it."
"Someone may beat me, but they are going to have to bleed to do it."
"The only good race pace is suicide pace, and today looks like a good day to die."
"What I want is to be number one."
"Something inside of me just said 'Hey, wait a minute, I want to beat him,' and I just took off."
"Some people create with words or with music or with a brush and paints. I like to make something beautiful when I run. I like to make people stop and say, 'I've never seen anyone run like that before.' It's more than just a race, it's a style. It's doing something better than anyone else. It's being creative."
"How does a kid from Coos Bay, with one leg longer than the other win races? All my life people have been telling me, 'You're too small Pre', 'You're not fast enough Pre.' 'Give up your foolish dream Steve.' But they forgot something. I HAVE to win"
"You have to wonder at times what you're doing out there. Over the years, I've given myself a thousand reasons to keep running, but it always comes back to where it started. It comes down to self-satisfaction and a sense of achievement."
"Having a true faith is the most difficult thing in the world. Many will try to take it from you."

Link to Nakul's post whose recco I took

The turn of phrase

2007-12-05T10:47:00.000+05:30

Interesting article on the origins of phrases

A point of view

2007-11-28T15:12:00.000+05:30

According to Indicus Analytics, an economics research firm, Thrissur features among the Top 10 places to reside in India.

The shameless..

2007-11-15T11:36:00.000+05:30

Another case of disgusting mob cowardice and apathy..

Disturbia

2007-09-27T10:10:00.003+05:30

To this day I cannot guess with any sort of confidence that which was going through his head that night - whoever he may have been.

The plane taxied slowly onto the runway.

Like a huge, bulky tight-rope walker it rolled over the smooth tarmac carefully balancing its huge wings with their blinking lights.

Once on the runway it waited, ready to charge, making great sounds from deep within, as if somewhere deepdown the oompa loompas were shoving all the gasoline into one garangutan of a boiler-like engine that was all set to blow up. The engines slowly revved up and soon the whole frame of the beast began to shudder as the sound reached deafening proportions. As the minions ran for cover deep inside, the strings that were attached to the back of the plane stretched themselves to breaking point – ready to catapult us into the dark sky above.

Whatever I maybe doing – reading a book, checking the in-flight magazines, banging the walls of my head with a stray thought, studying the flight path or trying to catch some shut-eye – I always snap out of it at this point. I would slowly shut the book, tuck it into the magazine slot in-front, gaze out onto the wings, wait, look around and press deeper into my seat – in anticipation. This I always do - without exception, and as if feeding on my thoughts, the tele-screens would go blank, lights would switch off, the flight-stewardesses would disappear and the silence inside would mix with the deafening noise from the outside creating a heady concoction.

Then the strings would let go and the plane would hurl itself forward like a loud animal - the powerful head-beams pushing aside the dark-silent night, making way for the strong bulk of the aircraft. The long stretch of lights on either side of the tarmac would hold their ground as the plane zipped past them and disappeared into the night sky.

On that day, there we were, waiting at the head of the runway, the engines revving up. I was seated just outside the business class, right in front of the partition and from where I sat I could see the in-flight attendants who had taken their positions for take off. They were all strapped onto their seats and were chatting happily with each other. The teenagers next to me were trying to catch some sleep – ipod ON, hand luggage secured neatly in front.

I waited, in anticipation.

It happened as the plane began to move forward.

From somewhere close behind me, 5-6 rows perhaps, there rose the most chilling laughter I have heard to this day. Male and youthful, it exploded inside the cabin silencing everyone instantly and continued to reverberate and establish its presence in the silence. It was a strong voice, strong and patronizing. It had the confidence, and madness, of someone who saw the future, of the dark fate that befell him and his fellow passengers, and had decided to go out in a blaze. There was no prelude, no sober conversation that tagged along, no second voice that provoked it further – alone, he laughed.

The stewardesses look wide eyed to some point behind me. The guy next to me, woke-up with a startle, and then twisted and turned in his seat, to which he was still tied down by his seat belts, to get a glimpse of the face that sent forth the sound. I sat still, wide-eyed for sure, too startled and confused to turn around and look at what was happening. It was then that I realized that a chill was running up my spine and that I was scared.

If I were to sketch it, I would have a cabin full of droop-faced, squiggly-mouthed, wide-eyed passengers. The sleeping ones jumping awake from their seat, their eye-brows popping, eye-shades flying-off, and the fainter of hearts shuddering and chewing on their mandibles, an exclamation mark popping out from the captain’s announcement speaker – and the source of the sound, a kind of omnipotent smudge.

By now the plane was rushing down the tarmac, engines roaring with all their might, seconds away from take off. However loud the engines screamed, the laughter seemed to prevail over it, giving it a sort of invincibility.

All this while no one made a sound, and that was a good 3-4 minutes of clean laughter.

I was impounded with scenes of people tearing away their seat belts and jumping on to the source of the sound – pounding him to near fatality. I was sure that any second now he would be pummeled by his fellow passengers. For a while I felt pity.

Then as the plane was taking off the runway, the wheels bumped on the airstrip, stretching the tension in the air to explosive levels. For a second, I was compelled to belive that there was something going on that was beyond my comprehension, something otherworldly, and that things were about to go terribly wrong and we were helpless. Throughout all this the laughter continued, unabated, wave after wave of renewed energy crashing fatally into the collective psyche in that airplane.

The laughter continued until the plane was well up in the sky and was turning to catch its course. Sometime then, as if snapped out of a trance, the seat-belt signs turned off, the flight stewardesses got off their seats to serve the meals, the guys next to me got busy in some animated and happy conversation, and people all around started to chatter and move about - and the laughter, unnoticed, faded away. I sat wondering about what had happened and soon, I too lost myself in the comforts of the in-flight hospitality

Sometime, pre-dawn, as the flight began it’s descend the captain’s voice seeped into my uneasy slumber. As I slowly started to crawl out of my sleep, I heard echos of that laughter, I’m sure - and once again it filled me up with fear.

Watch the end of Poverty

2007-09-12T13:54:00.000+05:30

Stunning! Do not, I repeat, Do not miss the end of the presentation.

Simply Joking

2007-09-12T12:33:00.000+05:30

The Russian military has successfully tested what it described as the world's most powerful non-nuclear air-delivered bomb, Russia's state television reported Tuesday.

Channel One television said the new weapon, nicknamed the "dad of all bombs" is four times more powerful than the U.S. "mother of all bombs.

"You will see it in action, the bomb which has no match in the world... Despite its destructive qualities, the vacuum bomb is environment-friendly," said Col.-Gen. Alexander Rukshin, a deputy chief of the Russian military's General Staff, said in televised remarks.

[ Applause.. mixed with few Jeers from the back and some Guffaws from the front.. the amused quicky subdued by Huge MIBs ]

More here

Inside Outside

2007-09-07T18:15:00.000+05:30

It is weird when a simple combination of words can indirectly indicate the ability to look at oneself, from the outside,

"Let us rest here... These creaky old bones of mine"
- Alfredo to Salvatore, Cinema Paradiso

"In my mind I still have brown hair. Hence it is a shock whenever I look at the mirror"
- Anderson Cooper on Tonight Show

"Hundreds of people lost their lives due to effects of radiation "
- Atom Bomb, Discovery Documentary

Dave Barry and Others

2007-09-04T14:59:00.000+05:30

Found this while browsing Rinchen's blog - Point.12 is my fav.

Some interesting snaps found while loitering around the www.

- From GWBE's blog - beautiful snaps of the London Eye

- Finally some emotion! (courtsey Rediff.com)

- American domination in Osaka World Athletic Meet (courtsey Rediff.com)

- From the bottom of the Atlantic (courtsey NatGeo)

For Madmen Only

2007-08-30T12:35:00.000+05:30

"There is so much to be said for contentment and painlessness, for these bearable and submissive days, on which neither pain or pleasure is audible, but pass by whispering on tip-toe. But the worst of it is that it is just this contenment that I cannot endure. After a short time it fills me with irrepresible hatred and nausea. In desperation I have to escape and throw myself on the road to pleasure, or, if that cannot be, on the road to pain. When I have neither pleasure nor pain and have been breathing for a while the lukewarm insipid air of these so-called good and tolerable days, I feel so bad in my childish soul that I smash my moldering lyre of thanksgiving in the face of the slumbering god of contentment and would rather feel the very devil burn in me than this warmth of a well-heated room. A wild longing for strong emotions and sensations seethes in me, a rage against this toneless, flat, normal and sterile life. For what I hated and detested and cursed above all things was this contentment, this healthiness and comfort, this fat and prosperous brood of mediocrity."

Steppenwolf by Herman Hesse

Kenny

2007-08-16T09:29:00.000+05:30

Stumbled on this really good Australian movie recently - some brilliant dialogues, a very documentary-like and biography-like camera-work and script, and some exceptional acting (Kenny's Dad!).

Kenny is a 'Plumber of toilets' in his own words and according to the rest of the world someone who delivers and looks after porta-loos.

Some of my favourite dialogues,

Kenny commenting about his job,
"I'd love to be able to say "I plumb toilets" and have someone say "Now that is something I've always wanted to do"

At the scene of disaster - so to speak
"There's another classic example of someone having a two inch arsehole and us having installed only one inch piping."

To a fellow in-flight passenger
"Just watch it in there mate. That machine, once you press that flusher, that thing will probably suck your guts out through your bum"

Kenny is trying to clean one of his porta-loos when he remarks to his distracted and chatty friend,
"There's a smell in here that will outlast religion"

Good movie!

The Membrane

2007-06-28T16:48:00.000+05:30

It was a very Murakamisque experience, that one; like the idea of spending time at the bottom of a dry well – weird, commonplace, disturbing, mysterious and exciting – all in one.

Breathe

A quiet wind swept over the surface of the clear blue water sending thousands of tiny ripples marching in its wake. The ripples hurried to the water’s edge where they lapped on the white-stone edges, some inevitably stumbling through the grills into the drainage system. A big brown ball of a buoy nodded in approval from the center of the large round pool.

Behind me, the restaurant was doing brisk business as the hotel residents looked to enjoy a relaxed Saturday morning.

In front the pool-decks were slowly filling up. Young families with little impish-boys and angelic-girls, cuddling couples applying sun lotion on each other, sexagenarian soul mates engaged in serious conversation, attractive women with their large dark glasses, i-pods and unfinished pop-fiction novels – all took their place around the pool; sit, stand, bend, run, prone.

Two little girls, one wearing a pink flower-printed swimsuit and the other in an off-white two-piece, stood at the edge of the pool - their black-goggled faces like that of the Luftwaffe. Chattering, smiling, pushing and pulling, and being the way only girls can be.

In the pool, away from me, a bulky Australian looked around - at me looking at him though my goggles and at others putting their diligent laps. He had his arms spread out behind him, the way one normally rests after one’s rounds.

Behind me a crow cawed - it is strange how the pool was the only place in town where I had seen these birds.

Then I went down.

Hold

Along with the blue, a thrilling silence and alienness pervaded the scene below. If I listened close enough, I thought I heard the sound of water running down a large pipe. The blue-tiled floor was unbroken and more or less clean, except for a small lump of feathers away to my left. The surface curved in to the center of the large circle where the tiles changed colour to form a dark flower like pattern. From the middle of that arose a white rope. Far away from me, it stood stalk-like, smoke-like, fragile, swaying helplessly, very metaphorical.

Headless torsos moved all around me. Live throbbing headless bodies propelling themselves around silently - eerie, weird and exciting. Only I could see how the muscles stretched and strained, how the supple flesh trembled in motion, how the legs flayed all over the place and pointed feet moved fish-like at times giving glimpses of perfection. I had exclusive privileges to another world and was privy to some part of these people’s life that they themselves were unaware of and more strangely, may never be. It is strange how when we look in a mirror we don’t associate the head as having control over the rest of the body.

Across the pool, the torso of the Australian stood knees bent and feet pointed together. The two girls splashed into the water, disturbing the calming peace of the place and raising a million bubbles around them. Soon the two tiny lean frames were standing on tip-toe and trying to move around. Arms tugged at each other for a while and soon the feet lifted from the floor. As they swam their limbs moved wildly – arms hit the water as they appeared and disappeared, legs kicked frantically at something invisible behind them, and a thousand air bubbles ran to the surface for safety. Suddenly the goggled face of one of the girls came underwater only to disappear just as fast and to appear once again. In an imperfect but nevertheless stunning display of breast-strokes, the body propelled forward sinuously, fighting the resistance of the water. The chest continued to pump the water as the rest of her body followed suite as if tied to it by a rope.

I looked up.

The surface of the pool, uneven, chaotic and colourful, spread above me like live plasma. The underbelly of the ripples took stunning shades of blue as they scampered all over the place. The surface blinded me from the view above like a live, motley alien membrane.

I lifted my hands from behind me and brought them close to my face. They were larger than what I was used to seeing, fingers wrinkled due to time spent in the water. I slowly raised them towards the surface, watching every movement they made.

What I touched immediately sucked in my fingers and soon half my palm had disappeared through the separation. The surface seemed to dance around the stump of my hand that was attached to it. I pulled back my wrist and fingers and the surface connected above leaving no trace of the intrusion, except of course for the microscopic bubbles that soon swam to the surface and disappeared. I repeated my action stunned by the beauty of it.

Breathless I stayed, at the bottom of the pool.

Painting the Mona Lisa in MS-Paint

2007-06-27T09:27:00.001+05:30

Here

Cool!

2007-06-26T11:13:00.000+05:30

The rickshaw-race is here!

A True Leader

2007-05-24T08:22:00.000+05:30

Steven Gerrard's comments soon after the hard-fought defeat in Athens!

Giving a face to the "Voice"

2007-05-16T15:00:00.000+05:30

Here is the face of the famous voice that speaks out to us from all the Hollywood blockbuster trailers that we see. Thanks to Jay Leno show!

2007-04-28T20:31:00.000+05:30

Night

The long-tail cut across the jagged surface of the ocean just as everything disappeared in one vast brush-stroke of blackness. The sounds around me - the drone of the engine, the rumbling of the ocean - struggled to escape the enveloping silence that seemed to descend from the sky. It was as if we were staring into the eye of darkness.

The island revealed itself onto our left every now and then - some lighted part of the shore, an array of cottages bordering the white sand beach, and dark hills that I knew flanked them. The long-tails swayed near the shore, in limbo, fleeing the absence behind and hesitant of the presence in front.

The lamp revealed half a lip and chin, adding glimpses of an eye or a nose as the boat crashed into the lashing waves. The red glow of the cigarette on the dark side helped fix the contours of the face. The man stood at the stern, now quiet, alert, guiding me to my destination.

Spray of salt water on the face

The ocean, restless and foreboding, held back its stunning visuals from us. The fluorescent blue and pastel yellow striped fishes with the wonderstruck look in their eyes, metallic green algae on dark purple coral, anemones, the black spiky balls I didn’t have a name for yet – Where were they now? Did they look the same even in this ink blot of pitch black? If I dived in for a peek now, would the waters be as benevolent as it were a few hours ago? What unspeakable creatures awaited me from the chilling depths of the ocean?

My mind bobbed along with my body in that vast sea of emptiness.

Encounter of a Different Kind

2007-04-18T13:44:00.000+05:30

Now I have had a bit of the "Indo-Pak" experience. From Group Discussions in college and late night sessions in college canteens, to a trip to the beautiful Kashmir and the electric Wagah Border, to even memories of a bomb-blast that was linked to terror groups in my nice little haven in Kerala.

I'm not an extremist and do believe that history is what historians tell us and hence do not have a very strong view of what happened back then. Though my views on the current situation is clear and strong. Hence an India-Pakistan cricket match is more than just another match, even though that is what I try hard to keep it to. (Well I really can't defend this with conviction after the recent WC experience and the way cricket has moved in our country. Anyway that is just to make a point)

No, this is not about cricket.

There has to be a name for this tactical move, though I'm sure the person I'm about to mention did not intend it as a tactical move - like a Queen's gambit or something. I find it hard to imagine the two leaders sitting across a table to discuss Siachin or Kashmir, and the leader from across the border telling Mr.Singh this. Without much ado, this is what happened,

I was walking home after a late night movie in Dhoby Ghaut. That is a place in Singapore and it is not very hard to figure out the origins of that name. I'm crossing a green signal when I see this guy cross from the other side - lean, boney to conjure a better picture, with a balding head and his hair pasted to the scalp, black rimmed glasses balanced on the nose bridge, and a white faded tee and black trousers giving away the lean frame beneath - much like a malnourished geek from college.

Now we cross in the middle of the road when he queries,

"Excuse me.. Hi.. can you tell me the way to Orchard. (Another Place in Singapore)"

I'm looking at the signal start to blink. Before I can answer,

"You look like a Pakistani. Are you a Pakistani?"

A bit taken-aback - I don't know if that is the right set of words that describe the moment, but something like that - I tell him,

"No.. eh.. I'm an Indian"

"You look like a Pakistani"

"Ok.. Orchard is that way" pointing my fingure

"Ok" As he begins to walk away, he looks back and says,

"You look like a Pakistani. Are you?"

"No.. I'm an Indian"

Man

2007-04-09T11:34:00.001+05:30

Don't forget to read the part about the Piranhas!

On Fire-Crackers and the Automobile Industry

2007-02-09T13:19:00.000+05:30

‘So like we have computer controlled fire-crackers la’

The idea of computer-controlled fire-crackers snapped me out of my thoughts.

The man behind the wheel was chirpy as usual, but I was lost in a slurry of deadlines.

‘What do you mean computer-controlled fire-crackers?’

‘Haa, Singapore Government ban fire-crackers-aa. No real fire-crackers in Singaporre. Considered as ammunition.’

In India, I was watching the entire night-sky fill-up with multi-coloured flower pots. The crescendo of uncontrolled burst of fire-crackers during the temple festivals deafening my ears.

‘Even one piece of fire-cracker in your pocket, you get 6 years of jail and 4 strokes’

‘4 strokes?’

‘Yeah, the scars stay on you for life. The skin is pealed off from your body with each whip. Once that wound heals the next stroke is made.’

‘Is one lashed in public?’

‘No. No. Inside the jail. But the scar stays with you forever-ah’

It didn’t look so beautiful anymore, the pictures of Singapore financial district and bay-area night-sky filled with fire-crackers.

‘So I guess the only way you can celebrate Chinese New Year is to go to Malaysia?’

‘No, even in Malaysia fire-crackers ban. You might find in some villages, but still illegal. If caught, you get punished. For that matter even China banned fire-crackers. Few years back one whole factory catch fire and burst- one whole factory – around 200 people die.’

‘I come from India. We still have fire-crackers there. It is a very big industry there.’

‘Oh. It is still not banned there eh?’

………..

‘So are you a Singaporean’

‘Yeah’

‘Since when are you driving this taxi?’

‘Oh taxi part-time. I have a factory in China.’

‘Factory?’

‘Yeah. Taxi my brother-in-law’s. I helping him because he is not well. I’m here for a few months. I did not want to sit at home with my wife and I like driving and talking, so here I’m’

‘What do you do then otherwise?’

‘I run factory in China, go to Sri Lanka and Cambodia’

This conversation was getting interesting by the minute.

‘I take scrap cars from junk-yards here and since they are mostly in excellent condition, sell them for good value in SriLanka or Cambodia. Singapore roads very good, so vehicles usually in good condition.’

What followed was a lecture on how the Government regulated the Automobile Industry. This is the gist,

In Singapore the Government on an year-to-year basis, decide on the number of private cars that can be sold in the market. Each new car comes out with a Certificate of Entitlement (COE), or lets say a kind of lease for the car. Now, since supply does not meet demand, these COEs are auctioned, and obviously the richest of the buyer end up with the cars. Hence, any car buyer, in addition to paying the mark-up price of the car also has to pay a price for the COE.
Two immediate questions arise. The first being, why is the government trying to regulate the free market forces when the Per Capita income of Singapore is one of the highest in the world, and you can see every car manufacturer from the BMWs to the Nissan’s here. The answer is to avoid congestion.

The second question then would be, doesn’t that lead to an excellent second-hand car market and over the years with the lack of increase in land size of Singapore won’t we face the problem of congestion anyway. The answer is not that fast. The rule says that anyone wishing to sell his car also has to sell his COE. This means two things, one he/she has to pay a higher price for the new car as well as the new COE thereby deterring him from buying and two, since the COE prices increase every year, the COE prices of the second hand cars are also not depreciated prices of the COEs. Hence second hand cars are also not that cheap. Also, the government is promoting scraping of cars (yeah sending them to the junk-yard) by providing a rebate for such an act. (Does the government bear the rebate? How does that work? I still need clarity on this). Hence there are lots of people sending cars to the junk-yard. Our man here went to the junk-yards and took all those cars that were in ship-shop-shape and sent them to neighboring countries.

Having reached this far I asked him,

‘So you must be a rich man! Doing all this.’

‘Not really, there are lots of us doing this here. There are lot of us ‘traders’, we call ourselves, around here.’

Oh yeah, I forgot to factor in competition!

Another amazing video

2007-02-01T14:46:00.000+05:30

'While my guitar gently weeps' on a ukulele

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=puSkP3uym5k

Amazing Video

2007-01-30T09:40:00.000+05:30

Watch some amazing jugglery in this Fat Boy Slim video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aEb3YknGUks

The Masseur

2007-01-23T11:59:00.000+05:30

What do you tell a man who looks into your eyes and tells you that you stole his job?

I was waiting for my food parcel and this is what the guy at the counter had to say,

“I got retrenched thrice and I got fed-up of it. Around the late 90s when you guys (raised eye-brows and pointing fingers, no animosity in tone or expression though) in India and China started picking up work from around the world including Singapore I lost mine. You guys outpriced us out of competition. Your employer, HAL, was the last one to give me the pink-slip. I tried my luck in the job market for about a year after that, but there was no demand for a middle manager. I gave up after one year. Now I help around here in this restaurant in addition to offering my services as a Thai masseur for private clients. I had around 20 years of experience before they kicked me out.”

It is definitely a very different experience when you come face to face with the fall-out of the process that flattened the world.

He plans to come down to Kerala and learn the technique of Ayurvedic massage to cater to the ever increasing market for massage therapy in Singapore.

"A Brave New World", First impressions of Singapore

2006-12-29T14:26:00.000+05:30

Everyday, as I get into my Hotel elevator, I see representatives from at least three different nations in that space. The tall, white, stout, bald foreigner in his late 50s wishes me 'Good Morning', the student wearing three quarter cargos, motley t-shirt, colour framed glasses and the spiky hair can be Malaysian, Singaporean or Chinese, and the middle aged couple who keep pecking each others cheeks looks like a mix of Asian and European origin. This diversity is one of the most striking things about Singapore.

The lady who attends to Room Service is Malay and knows all the four official languages of Singapore (she even tried to speak in Malayalam, but gave up). In the MRT (Metro Rail) I met a SriLankan who was educated in Trichy, is now settled in Singapore, but who someday wishes to go back, not to SriLanka, but to India, and settle in Bangalore. He tells me India, especially Bangalore, is doing great.

The Taxi drivers I meet almost always men in their 60s, mostly Singaporean of the 2nd generation of Chinese or Indian settlers. They are a very cheerful and talkative lot - a far cry from the Autowallahs of Bangalore or Chennai. The difference it makes when you are greeted with a - "Good Morning Sir", rather than a bargain on price and on reaching the destination given a print out of the bill, of course paid through card, and told - "Thank You and Have a Nice Day", is unparalleled. It is not to be mistaken as part of a high-flier life-style as a Taxi is a common means of transport in this city. Some of the men work from 6:00 am - 11:00 pm even after retirement age. They also know quite a lot about the world. One Taxi driver, on telling him that I was from India, enquired which part of India I was from and on being told South India, asked whether that place was hot. He had heard of a certain Chennai which was very hot throughout the year! Then there was the 2nd generation Malayalee, whose father settled here after the World War, and looked after his two families, one in India and the other in Singapore - well he said that in a matter of fact manner and on sensing my wonder at his description, told me that that was the way things were at that time. He then showed me a piece of news on those days Strait Times that talked about Kerala Govt's ban on public spitting and blowing mucus in public places. It doesn't take much to brighten my day.

One of my project mates is Chinese, from Beijing and is employed with - Infosys! On questioning he starts to talk about Infosys' operations in Beijing and tells me how a contract won by Infosys India is now being done in Beijing. I was even told Infy was a good option for fresh graduates as it was easy to get into and they were recruiting in large numbers! At work, I'm replacing an Indian, report to a Chinese, work with a Singaporean and an Australian, am part of an African's team and sit in the seat of my Alumnus from Lucknow, India. Not truly Global I know - the South Americans, Canadians and the Icelanders are missing. But am sure they are somewhere in the crowd!

People are in general very courteous, work hard, lead a balanced life - are in office by 9 and leave office by 5, and are not xenophobic. They are at ease with foreigners and are more than willing to help out; and are damn stylish! Women know a thing or two about style and fashion here, and men try hard to catch up. The range of fashionable clothes that women can wear without revealing or being obscene is amazing; and it is impossible to guess a woman's age. It is probably in their genes to remain slim and petit.

It is a truly fascinating city, Singapore. If I were to take any aspect of life and I mean any - from the attitude of people to cycle-rickshaws, or from food in McDonalds to the Central Fire Station - it will be different and more importantly different in a very positive way in most cases.

One of the reasons why The Taj Mahal is so beautiful is because it has a clear blue sky as a background, uncluttered by distractions of buildings and trees. Strangely, this was the thought that crossed my mind when in the light of dawn I first saw the sky-scrapers of downtown Singapore. There they were jutting out into the sky in sheer defiance, like the imperial guards of some Chinese emperor, defying everything that I had seen and experienced till then.

Singapore is a model city - the roads are wide, clearly named and are lined with trees and flowering plants. Sprinkle a good helping of stylish cars and well-dressed people from around the world and there you have your postcard. Above all the city is as clean as a freshly starched pajama. Like a friend describes it, you can see the treads on the wheels of the cars, and you don't have to polish your shoes everyday. Roadside constructions are blinded from the public, like I have seen when the Delhi metro was being constructed. The whole city runs as if it were an automated machine, I have seen a policeman only once in my last 2 weeks in this city.

Shopping is the favourite pastime of Singaporeans, and they jokingly call it the national sport of the country. There are underground malls connecting different parts of the city. You are busy taking in the Starbucks, the Carrefours and the Kopi tiams, and before you know you have covered 3 to 4 traffic junctions.

According to a B-School friend, the Government of Singapore has taken care of the fundamental needs of its citizens, the ones that Maslow talks about. What he meant to say was that the basic 'Roti, Kapda, Makaan, and Sex' needs of every individual in this city have been taken care. The Government provides housing - 90% owned by the individual, social security and health care needs of the populace; and the city has its legal blind spots. Rules and Regulations are plenty, and fines are very hefty - $500 for eating food and $1000 for smoking in trains. It is very clear that the authorities have no intention of spoiling the child by sparing the rod.

Still Singapore is not without its murmurs of discontent amongst its labour class - I have not yet had a chance to talk to the thriving upper class. Like one Taxi driver told me, till a few years back things were great, but now, though the govt does provide for our basic needs, there is no fun. He was for one referring to the many rules and regulations, and for another saying that given the small size of the country, to get away from the city one had to fly to another country. Cost of living also becomes high once you start going after the luxuries. $10 starting for a movie is probably the cheapest form of entertainment. Concerts run into $50 or more and cigarette packs cost $11 and come with gory pictures of patients afflicted with cancer.

I chanced upon a movie trailer that made fun of many of the quirky ways and some of the issues of Singapore (like bureaucracy!!); and it got a loud reception in the theatre. It probably is the biggest advantage of the visual medium that it can sneer the masses on their face, portray them as outright idiots and still get their acceptance and appreciation. Borat is making waves all around the globe and the Black Adder series that I'm currently into rips apart anything British (and French!) over the ages.

It might look a bit childish, but the list of cars that I have seen in Singapore reads something like this - Ferrari, Porsche, BMW, Renault, Jaguar, Mercedes, Alfa Romeo, Lotus, Kia, Nissan, Audi, Saab,Volkswagen, Mazda, Lexus, Volvo, Toyota (like we have the Maruti in India the Toyota is everywhere), Proton, Suzuki Swift, Hyundai and Honda (I have not seen a Lamborgini yet!). Well that is Singapore for starters.

And as far as bikes go Dirt Racers and broad wheeled Hondas rule the roost. I'm told there is a Harley Davidson parade that happens ever Monday - seems the club members just ride around the city showing off their priced possessions.

One is witness to innovation in every part of life and the meaning of the phrase 'by any stretch of imagination' is redefined everyday - there are street side e-kiosks for paying all your monthly bills in single shot (from electricity and water to the credit card charges), there are congestion taxes to dissuade vehicles from taking heavy traffic routes during peak traffic hours and the concept of "On-demand TV" lets you choose, pay and see movies of your choice using just your remote and TV.

It is hard not to wonder why things are so different from back home; but I miss home for sure.

Motorcycle Diaries

2006-10-27T12:15:00.000+05:30

We were like the travelling Saints - Param, Sri Kanta and Me.

We would move from shrine to shrine, singing bhajans for 10 mins wherever we stopped, mesmerising the gentlefolk of the sleepy town of Kaivara and bringing some smiles on our faces. Actually, spirituality was lost on me - I was just a chronicler, I took snaps, recorded videos on my mobile and reflected on the moment and the experience that I wished to chronicle somewhere. Param and Sri Kanta did all the chanting.

It was the night before that Param rang me up and asked me whether I wanted to join him on a bike trip. He had some work in this place called Kaivara, some 50 kms outside Banglore. I was just back from my Diwali break to Goa. The temptation to answer a blind call, the impulse, is exciting - reminds me of days back in college when we would on the spur of the moment decide to go for a movie on the eve of an exam. I'm glad some of that madness is still left in me.

We ate our home cooked food. We were spread-out on the grass near the road eating rice, dal and beans. We had clocked some 2 hours on the bike. We had almost 20 kms more before we reached our destination. The dog sat patiently behind us. Every now and then it would just get up and nudge a bit closer checking out where we were with our lunch. Its turn would come. I had tried shooing it away. It just jumped back a few steps confused why I was doing what I was doing - couldn't I see it was hungry and following us around for food was a natural thing to do. I gave up, I did not have whatever it took to pelt it with stones and drive it away.

Wind on your face at 70 kph, a machine that responds to your slightest whims between your legs, smooth grey roads scampering into a horizon of overcast sky, rocky hills and green flora that has taken its true colours from the slight drizzle that is falling around, and the thought of seizing the moment. Life!

There was this place in the mountain where they were cutting shrines in the hill. There was this hall in the womb of the mountain which shouted back at us when we called out to it. Param and Sri Kanta ran towards the podium shouting the Lord's name. I looked around taking in the moment, we were actually INSIDE the mountain! Forgetting for a moment our angst and our cowardice to solve it, we ran into the warm and protective cavern of nature.

We will emerge one day, stronger, resolute, free and ready to be scarred again!

Lines that Stuck

2006-10-10T12:33:00.000+05:30

The terror of society, which is the basis of morals, the terror of God, which is the secret of religion - these are the two things that govern us

- Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

The aim of life is self-development. To realise one's nature perfectly - that is what each of us is here for. People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owe's to oneself

- Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

Show some respect to your time on this Earth - Paulo Coelho, Zahir

Life is Serious Business - Param (Friend)

Give Life a Chance - Akshay (Friend)

Word Play

2006-09-05T17:38:00.000+05:30

Happy Onam.

Happyo Nam. (are we happy?)

An interesting message I received today.

By the way I have not quit blogging. Just took an extended break. Hope to be back to active blogging soon.

Recent movies I saw,

1. Lage Raho Munna Bhai - Very Enjoyable. Arshad Warsi as Circuit steals the thunder. The idea of Gandhi-giri is also good.
2. The Tenant (Roman Polanski) - Waste of Time. Have watched Chinatown, Rosemary's Baby and now this. What is all the hype about I fail to understand.
3. Vettayadu Vilayadu - Very slick and enjoyable. Production quality is great, but an overdose of violence. Watchout the lead dancer in the last song.
4. Achan Urangatha Veedu - Highly reccomended for performances and treatment of a new subject in Malayalam cinema (one of the many sex scandals that have rocked the state).

Ogden Nash

2006-02-14T19:11:00.000+05:30

This Is Going To Hurt Just A Little Bit

One thing I like less than most things is sitting in a dentist chair with my mouth wide open.

And that I will never have to do it again is a hope that I am against hope hopen.

Because some tortures are physical and some are mental,
But the one that is both is dental.
It is hard to be self-possessed
With your jaw digging into your chest.

So hard to retain your calm
When your fingernails are making serious alterations in your life line or love line or some other important line in your palm;

So hard to give your usual effect of cheery benignity
When you know your position is one of the two or three in life most lacking in dignity.

And your mouth is like a section of road that is being worked on.
And it is all cluttered up with stone crushers and concrete mixers and drills and steam rollers and there isn’t a nerve in your head thatyou aren’t being irked on.

Oh, some people are unfortunate enough to be strung up by thumbs.
And others have things done to their gums,
And your teeth are supposed to be being polished,
But you have reason to believe they are being demolished.

And the circumstance that adds most to your terror
Is that it’s all done with a mirror,
Because the dentist may be a bear, or as the Romans used to say, only they were referring to a feminine bear when they said it, an ursa,
But all the same how can you be sure when he takes his crowbar in one hand and mirror in the other he won’t get mixed up, the way you do when you try to tie a bow tie with the aid of a mirror, and forget that left is right and vice versa?

And then at last he says That will be all; but it isn’t because he then coats your mouth from cellar to roof
With something that I suspect is generally used to put a shine on a horse’s hoof.

And you totter to your feet and think. Well it’s all over now and afterall it was only this once.
And he says come back in three monce.

And this, O Fate, is I think the most vicious circle that thou ever sentest,
That Man has to go continually to the dentist to keep his teeth in good condition
when the chief reason he wants his teeth in good condition
is so that he won’t have to go to the dentist.

PS: Not sure about the line-breaks as this was picked from an unofficial site - is probably still under copyright. Please feel free to point out a 'proper' version if you know one.

Whose line is it anyway?

2006-02-01T13:19:00.000+05:30

Interesting link about the 100 Best 1st lines from novels!

(link from Jabberwock's blog)

Ennui

2006-01-28T13:28:00.000+05:30

The pages of the book had turned yellow with time.

I turned a leaf against the wind blowing through the window, careful not to disengage it from the bind.

Heat rays of the late morning sun lashed at me from all sides. Its blinding light enfeebled the already weak contrast of the print.

The skin on my cheek stretched and pricked itself awake as I closed my half open mouth - dry tongue on parched lips! Itch, scratch and micro flakes of dead skin on the forearm - a lone hair on the sleeve dispensed off into the wind.

Frantic winds howled in through the window in an attempt to run away from the smoke and dust, pushing through my hair and deafening my ears, that when my friend asked me what I was reading, I prayed he’d have partaken in the charade.

Camus' characters too were plodding along in his Algerian desert. A tale of shriveled dreams and enervated lives - not so impressive!

Then, the microphone of our Taxi crackled to life, blurting out incomprehensible phrases in a background of static. Cracker-candy pop in my head - as if a mosquito had made its way to my brain through my ear, and suddenly realizing it was lost had started pricking all around.

The driver spoke something into the handheld and the next instant the machine went dead, on command and respectful of its master’s voice.

I tried to find the spot in the book where I had left off.

As I grabbed the Arab in mid-sentence, the machine crackled back to life. The static once again contaminated the air, like a burst of itchy pollen. The prick went about its work all over again in my head - live, contained, its unique presence quite unlike the everyday pervasive head split. I would reach in and rip it out.

I grimaced and banged shut my book.

The shrill of a female voice floated over the noise of my thoughts - a rather animated critique of the guy on the wheels followed. Soon other drivers chipped in – little soprano, more tenor. A rally, and then, the microphone went dead again. I wished he had been a bit more assertive – “SHUT UP YOU FILTHY ANIMAL!!” or something like that.

I frowned and complained to my friend, he blamed his manager, and the machine came back to life, yet again.

Both of us jumped on the lad at the wheels as the cab raced through the clear and endless stretch of my ennui.

2006-01-24T20:02:00.000+05:30

ഞാ൯ കഥ എഴുതുകയാണ്....

(Translation: I'm writing a story....)

In case the above letters appear in Pali change your Browser setting
View -> Encoding to 'Unicode UTF-8'

Finally some headway in 'Unicode' !

Some helpful links,

1. For Malayalam fonts
2. Installation instructions
3. Change Browser settings
4. Character picker

I copy-paste from the 'Character Picker'.

Keen to know more efficient ways of doing this!

Sideways

2006-01-12T11:32:00.000+05:30

Miles Raymond: Well, the world doesn't give a shit what I have to say. I'm not necessary. I'm so insignificant I can't even kill myself.
Jack: Miles, what the hell is that supposed to mean?
Miles Raymond: Come on, man. You know. Hemingway, Sexton, Plath, Woolf. You can't kill yourself before you're even published.
Jack: What about the guy who wrote Confederacy of Dunces? He killed himself before he was published. Look how famous he is.
Miles Raymond: Thanks.
Jack: Just don't give up, alright? You're gonna make it.
Miles Raymond: Half my life is over and I have nothing to show for it. Nothing. I'am thumbprint on the window of a skyscraper. I'm a smudge of excrement on a tissue surging out to sea with a million tons of raw sewage.
Jack: See? Right there. Just what you just said. That is beautiful. 'A smudge of excrement... surging out to sea.'
Miles Raymond: Yeah.
Jack: I could never write that.
Miles Raymond: Neither could I, actually. I think it's Bukowsky.

I was LOL and rolling in my bed at 2:00 in the night when this sequence played out.

Paul Giamatti, I wonder if the role is slightly autobiographical - such talent! Even the support cast does a fantastic job. Watch it!

The Man, The Machine,

2006-01-10T12:57:00.000+05:30

It was New Year's eve and I was at the Dentist's to sort out some of my teething troubles.

I was in the waiting room expecting to be called anytime then. A lady and a small girl sat on my right, the bigger woman murmuring something to the other, and a guy and girl probably in their late teens sat to my left. The girl was talking to the guy who was toying with his mobile. The place was rather empty inspite of it being a saturday.

This was not my first time there and I looked at the now familiar walls, walls covered with colourful charts describing preventive measures for tooth decay, cavities and other such ailments. There was one particular information board that always caught my fancy. This one displayed a new technique developed by my Dr. for artificial tooth implantation. The technique, to put it simply, was to 'screw' in place the artificial tooth where the old or broken one previously stood. The information board carried end-to-end illustrations of the transformation - toothless gums, gums with the screw in place sans the tooth - boy, that was gory, the final effect after implantation and even the cross section of a jaw showing that strange apparition of 'screw-tooth' - the last one being a model ofcourse.

Pictures of doctors turning screws into the cartilage (or so, I think, is what they call the bony part of the jaw where the screw is locked) flashed through my mind, the images quickly changed to those of humans subjected to experiments during the development of the technique and finally to thousands of blue collar workers going for work feeling the steel under their gums everytime they felt around their mouth - the utility of the experiment outweighed all these I reasoned. My imagination was perhaps emaciated due to lack of knowledge on the subject.

Every now and then the door to the clinic's operating room opened giving me a glimpse of reclining patients and the equipments around them. Inside the drill was on, in more ways than one, and the low sound reminded me of times when in school our teacher wrote with new chalk on black-board creating that creaky sound that ever so often made me bite my teeth hard and grimace with repulsion. A kid suddenly screamed from somewhere inside. I thought of a poem that we studied in school by Ogden Nash about a trip to the Dentist's.

The TV at the center of the room was switched on, serving as a distraction from all that described so far, and was set to a prominent Malayam Channel. The channel was doing a 30 min recap of all it's episodes in the year 2005 - a Mega Serial, one of those emotional drivels that run at primetime, Mon to Fri, year after year. They were probably trying to show users the evident connection between the story at the beginning and end of the year.

Then, something happened.

Prof. P.C.Thomas walked in.

There is a saying in malayalam that goes 'idi vettiyavante kaalil paambu kadichu ennapole' (like someone bitten by a snake soon after he is struck by lightning). Now I don't intend to potray myself in such a light and capture the pity of the knowledgeble reader - he who knows about Prof. P.C. Thomas. For the unitiated, let me introduce you to the Teacher, Preacher and shrewd Businessman that is Prof. P.C. Thomas.

Prof. P.C. Thomas single-handedly runs and has been running for years the largest coaching center for the Engineering & Medical entrance exams in Kerala. Spanning 2-3 decades (Once he told us that one of his first students had approached him with a request to enrol his son under his able tutelage), the Prof's institute continues to churn out the largest number of Engineering and Doctorial candidates - all the top ranks in the state come under his name, always. A strict disciplinarian - a terror actually; stories abound of him abusing, both mentally and physically, pampering parents and their truant children - Thomas 'mashu', expanded his organization from a single room outfit to an enterprise with branches in Dubai and other Middle East countries. PC (that's what his students call him out of fear and respect) also now expanded his classes to cover IIT-JEE & Civil Services Exams with commendable success (the Prof. eventually told me that 2 of his students cleared the Civil exams that year). One can see the employment generation due to his work in my home-town by just looking at the no of PG apartments that have sprouted in and around his coaching center (I noticed around 5-6 notices right outside his gate - from Eve's Garde to Angel Valley). I always consider myself fortunate to have been tutored by him and the rest of the illustrious teachers at his Tution center.

Coming back to where I left off Thomas mashu walked in and briskly made for the Doctor's room. The years had hardly affected his appearance.

I jumped from my seat, more out of respect this time, and called out - "Sir". He turned, saw me, stopped in his tracks and smiled. He put his hand over my shoulder and enquired 'How are you faring?'. I replied 'Good'. Brief inquiries were made about career and well being. Soon he started to move on. I bid adieu.

He seemed to be in a hurry.

As I turned away, the lady sitting next to me slowly stood up and said - 'Mashukku enne manassilayo?' (Sir, did you recognise me?). PC gave a questioning look, but when prompted by the woman recollected her identity and started exchanging pleasantries.

The Lady soon bid farewell and took her seat.

As PC turned to open the door leading to the Dentist's, the guy on my left stood up and blurted, "Eh..Sir".

Season's Greetings

2005-12-27T14:27:00.000+05:30

Have a Great time this New Year's!!

Time well spent: Books in 2005

2005-12-21T20:12:00.000+05:30

After 2 years in a B-School, during which I managed to read just 5 books ('The Goal', 'Cuckold', 'Ravan & Eddie', 'The Rainmaker' & 'The Firm'. This excludes the many management novels that I left mid-way - Akio Morita's 'Made in Japan', Iacocca's 'IACOCCA' & Sculley's 'From Pepsi to Apple'), there was a conscious effort to spend more time with a book this year.

Starting April, these are the books that I read in 2005.

1. Chain Reaction by Eliyahu Goldratt
- First book on the job. Sequel to the much acclaimed 'Goal' by Eliyahu Goldratt, 'Chain Reaction' tries to apply the concepts of 'Goal' in Project Management. I was facinated by 'Goal', but 'Chain Reaction' goes one step further in terms of applicable take-aways. A really Good read.

2-4. The Murakami Novels

a) Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the world,

b) Dance Dance Dance

c) The Wild sheep chase

- Kraz and George raved about Murakami, but I was sceptical - from the Name, to Front cover to Story summary everything looked weird. Decided to check it out anyway.

Started with 'Hard-boiled Wonderland' and the style gripped me instantly. His is the kind of writing you can depend on when you want to re-invigorate your reading habits. 'Dance, Dance, Dance' proved he had a consistent style, though, he was probably not at his best in 'The Wild sheep chase'.

Have already bought his 'Norwegian Wood', 'Kafka on the shore' & 'Wind-up bird chronicle'.

If you thought the names didn't make sense, wait till you read one of his works. It hard to explain the plot and I don't want to try.

5. The Bhuj Story - After the quake by Rishi Sanwal
- Nice to see a friend publish.

6. 3 Men in a boat(Nothing to say about the dog) by Jerome K. Jerome
- Witty, humorous and tiresome in parts. Good but not a classic. He has a largely funny and consistent screwball style that may at times make it a bit laborious.

7. 3 Men on the Bummel by Jerome K. Jerome
- Continues where 3 Men in a Boat left off. Better than the previous one. This one is not so much about the cycle ('bummel') and their journey as his first work was about sailing. Though, his style remains consistent.

8. Seven sixes are forty three by Kiran Nagarkar
- Highly non-linear narrative. A coming of age, autobiographical work. Better than 'Ravan & Eddie' but does not have the Magnum Opus feel of 'Cuckold'. Though, we get more than a glimpse of the talent for intricate character studies that is so glaring in Cuckold. To be read again sometime.

9. 1984 by George Orwell
- A classic that triggerd my interest in Orwell. The explanations on why Anarchy and Class distinction are here to stay is outstanding.

10. Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell
- Like they say, 'A classic account of what it is like to be Down and Out'. An account of Orwell's tryst with poverty. Convinced me to explore lesser known works by popular authors.

11. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl
- Short and 'sweet' read. Have to see the movie to find out why they cast Johny Depp as the free spirited Willy Wonka.

12. Freakonomics by Steven Levitt
- Not as great as they have made it to be. You don't have to do a Ph.D and conduct research for understanding many of the day-to-day phenomenon described here. You can ask your Dad for a change!!

13. The Outsider by Albert Camus
- Classic. Nietzsche said,"God is dead" - Outsider will help one understand what he meant. On the lines of Fountainhead in terms of style - conveys a philosophy through stark characterisation. But unlike Fountainhead Camus does the job in around 100 pages.

14. Fear and Loathing in LA by Hunter S. Thompson
- One helluva Joy ride - 'Road Trippin', literally. The damning 'high' of a drop of live human adrenalin.

15. The Talkative Man by R.K. Narayanan
- Average. Fails to inspire one to read more of RKN's - something that 'Swami and Friends' achieved quite easily.

16. The curious incident of the dog in the night time by Mark Haddon
- Amazing work.

17. The Big sleep by Raymond Chandler
- Awakens a genre.

18. Intimacy - Hanif Khureishi
- Fascinating account of one man's arguments and counter arguments for leaving his wife and children. Spiced up with recollections of a troubled life and some interesting couch philosophy.

19. Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown
- Some interesting theories, but an average plot. I will be surprised if the movie survives the opening rush and interest.

20. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
- Last book I read in 2005 (to date). Failed to understand why this is a master-piece in American Literature. Interesting in parts and long-winded most of the time. Summarises a man's struggle to reclaim lost-love; a story of imperfect characters and the rather realistic decisions they make in life.

Should try more Non-fiction, some of the long pending classics (e.g. Catch-22, Catcher in the Rye, Walden) and inspect some of the younger writers (e.g. Zadie Smith) in 2006. 2005, seems to have produced some interesting books in both Fiction & Non-fiction. Should check them out too.

Recollection by Kraz, Nakul ,Vinod , DSine, Sluggard , Ubergeek , Mridul , Param & Moon Jungle should make a very good compilation.

Times We Live In

2005-11-16T17:36:00.000+05:30

Male Voice: " Good Morning Bangalore! The time is 9:56 a.m. and this is Christopher on Radio City.

(Sound of Girls wooing)

Male Voice: "Thank you Girls. Now, it's a sunny morning, great weather and we have just the right mix of programs for you on Radio City.

Bangalore, if you are stuck in traffic call us and tell us where you are. While you are with us, you can grab some fabulous prizes by taking part in the following poll.

Tell us what the most common form of public waste in Bangalore is.

Is it

A. Household Sewage

B. Litter

C. Vehicle Pollutants or,

D. Industrial waste

Call us and tell us what you think and win LOTS of Exciting prizes"

(Breaks into Ads)

The Common Man

2005-11-14T17:29:00.000+05:30

MG Road, Bangalore - yet another weekday

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned"

There was the cream Maruti-Omni, the fat lady in her late fourties inside, and the cop running from one door to the other to either get-in or pull the lady out. The lady was agitated and the cop, confused, but furious neverthless.

Then it happened. One of those gems that one loves talking over and over with friends.

The lady slammed the door wide open, the cop took a step back in surprise, the lady hurtled herself forward. Arms flailing, face contorted as of a woman possessed, tounge lashing like a whip taming a wild beast, she confronted the man. After shouting something at the cop, she swore not to follow his command; two-hoots, that what she claimed she cared for the dictum of his ilk. She got back into the vehicle.

As the play had already begun by the time I stepped out of Higgin Bothams I was unaware of what caused all the furore. Carpedium!!

The fellow, regained his bearings all of a sudden and, started running again from one door to the other, this time more confident and sure of his actions. He barked,

"I public servant. You call me...IDIOT!!.. get out woman.

I public servant. IDIOT eh...I show respect because you lady...GET OUT!!!

You call me IDIOT!!...I Public Servant"

The fellow was trembling with rage by now and his face had definitely taken a darker shade. To the woman's credit though, she was still persistent with her barrage. But I thought, the bit that went "I public servant" helped the policeman score a moral point over the lady; I for one thought it made the woman a bit doubtful. But, she was too deep in it to back-off now and tried to hold fort very stoically.

All of a sudden, one puny little man wearing a T-shirt and cap appeared out of nowhere. He had an impish smile on his face. He watched the proceedings for a few seconds and, unnoticed by anyone (I saw this becasue he made the move right in front of me), took his huge video camera and set about covering the circus. He ran with it to the driver's side of the Maruti, stood with the cop in profile and the woman staring straight at the lens.

A large crowd had gathered around the van by now and some 'elderly citizens' were pressing forward towards the policeman. Then, one man, quite bald on top and wearing a thick black spectacle spoke, in a rather conscientious manner,

"Madam, it was your fault. You shouldn't have..."

I decided to take a walk.

Focus...Stiffen...Click...another one for the album.

Reader's Bloc

2005-11-10T12:52:00.000+05:30

Vikram Seth released his latest book and I decided to check him out through 'An Equal Music'. After a point I gave-up on the same - the reading got a bit too laborious and I was in no mood for reading about someone in a mid-life crisis. My friends, though, tell me that if one is willing to plough through the same one is rewarded with gems of musical prose and prose on music. Another day, another place (2-3 years on a 1000 page book - just that and nothing else!! Baffles me, the sense of purpose of a writer of fiction. I guess that is a mould one is born into).

I decided it was time to try something light. I decided to read my 2nd Agatha Christie novel. I had read 'And then there were none' (or 10 little niggers) years back and was rather impressed by it then. On a friend's reccomendation, I decided to try 'The Hollow'. I did not get past the 5th chapter.

One thing that I notice, and have thereafter confirmed as a recurring phenomenon in Agatha Christie novels, is the character study that the author ventures into at the start of her novels. For a novel in the 'who-dunnit' genre, character study of about 5-6 characters for about 60-70 pages right at the beginnig of the novel can be rather frustrating.

I moved into the children's section; picked up my first Roald Dahl novel, 'Charlie and the chocolate factory', and thankfully, finished it. Very light and hilarious read and definitely of the children's section. Though, I felt the book ended rather abruptly and a bit too soon. Guess 'Charlie and the Great glass elevator' takes-off from where this left.

Tried reading comedy of Spike Milligan. Did some cursory reading. Found it 'OK' - nothing to spend too much time on though. It's time I tried something concrete in the non-fiction genre - Guns, Germs and Steel,maybe.

O Captain, my Captain

2005-10-28T13:21:00.000+05:30

" I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life... to put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."
- Dead Poet's Society (Quoting Henry David Thoreau)

The Bhuj Story ( After The Quake )

2005-10-20T19:42:00.000+05:30

My colleague just published "The Bhuj Story ( After The Quake )", a book about his experience during the relief work he undertook at Bhuj after the quake in 2001. The book focuses on the people he met there and their resilience to the tragedy. Rather, it does not churn out a grim narration of the catastrophe.

Short and light reading by an aspiring writer. Requesting all to grab a copy of the same.

PS: This is not a selling strategy to take advantage of the recent earthquake; he had finished the book months back.

One Saturday morning in July..

2005-09-01T16:38:00.000+05:30

I was in Coimbatore, en-route Bangalore to my home in Kerala; I was on the lookout for a quick connection home having already lost two precious hours of the weekend. As soon as I had set foot in Kovai, an agent of one of the local Private Travels had approached me, and on knowing my destination promised me a seat in a bus that he said left within the next ten minutes. The bus was already late and I didn’t have another idea to toy with. The Travel Agency had more than one agent, obviously, and the crowd gathering around that morning meant that some promises were sure to be broken.

Coimbatore was shaking dreams off and waking up to what looked like a bright sunny day. Shop owners who had hurriedly closed shop the previous night were cleaning their place before the first customers arrived. There was hardly a soul on the streets except for the occasional newspaper boy and the stray dog.

After a while the bus appeared in the distance, a good twenty minutes late. Right from the distance one could make out that the Cabin was already full. The bus ground to a stop ahead of us as many a sojourner dropped his plan - much to the chagrin of their respective agents. I decided to try my luck and took a cabin ticket – my agent definitely had his luck running for him that morning. One more desperate soul joined me.

At this point it is essential to write a few lines about ‘Cabin Travel’. In a semi-sleeper (Cabin Travel, as a practice, does not exist in Sleeper buses. Though one sure can let one's imagination draw out a desperate traveler sleeping foetus like on the floor next to the driver during a mad-rush), a cabin ticket would fetch one space enough to rest the upper part of one’s arse right under the rear end of the protruding TV, kinda back-to-back you could say. This came, of course, for the price of the regular seat. It gives one an excellent view of the hamlets, hillocks, paddy fields and palm trees that pass by – the catch being it is meant to be a play in one act. After a point, you'd rather meditate on the wonders and mysteries of nature with your eyes closed, coddled in the luxury of a cushy push-back seat with hands clasped over your tummy, than sit chin in hand, elbows poking thighs all over and your arse discovering bones that it never new existed till then. Basically, Cabin Travel, is for people who have bosses who wouldn’t let them know if they can take the weekend off from work till within hours of departure.

So there I was, standing on the foot-board, waiting for some divine intervention, tectonic or not, to shift the masses that were so precariously filling up their allotted spaces. All eyes were fixed on me and my gaze shifted from one face to another, pausing slightly to see if there was any space that could be usurped in between. As I stood there, waiting for something to happen, something did happen, to my surprise - a man got up from his seat and offered me the same! As he perched himself on the edge of an already occupied seat, much to the evident discomfort of its occupant, I, after a moments pause grabbed onto the seat that was offered, my bag thrown somewhere in the main seating area. Just for the record, the seat that was offered to me was the top of the gear-box right next to the driver - the Good Samaritan (GS), was obviously someone of importance in the scheme of things. The chap who got in after me made his way back to sit on the floor.

The GS gave me a benevolent smile and queried – “Bangalore?”, to which I replied, “hmm”. Guess I forgot to thank him then.

Tickets were paid for and the bus started its journey.

I was seated in a way that I had to turn 90 degrees to see through the windscreen, sliding myself further down in the process. My co-cabin travelers looked very distraught and the sight of me moving back and forth over the box, thereby polishing its surface, I thought caught their fancy. The seat, the edge of which the GS usurped, belonged to a teenager who wore a t-shirt that went “Nobody is Perfect…I’m Nobody” – for some reason he looked a bit more morose and grumpy than the others. Guess they contracted Cabin fever in Paradise also.

I started looking around and my eyes soon fell on my fellow travelers, the lucky ones seated on push-backs, who were catching up on dreams still undreamt of. As I let my eyes laze around the bus my vision suddenly fell on an empty seat right at the end - straight ahead of me. I quickly turned to the GS and asked him why we had a seat empty right at the back. He gave me that benevolent smile, yet again, and answered – “ Athu saar Walayar Check-postilindhu officer varum. Avarukku reserved” (It was reserved for the Road Transport Officers from Walayar Check post).

Though, at that moment, I was more concerned about getting myself a seat and was entertaining thoughts of occupying the seat till Walayar – what if they did not turn up, what if they had caught the previous bus, what if their work was delayed so that they had to catch the next bus – What the hell, I was in no mood for debates. I went back to my book. I was reading Orwell's 1984.

After a while, when the strain of reading fine-print in a moving vehicle began to tell on my eyes, I casually turned around to glance at the empty seat. To my surprise an old, frail lady was dozing off on the same. As a result of some seat adjustment that had taken place while I was engrossed in the novel, the chap who had boarded the bus along with me had got a seat for himself. He seemed quite pleased with himself, nestled in a push-back listening to his walkman. 'Wait for Walayar', I tried to justify some vague act of inaction I had committed.

As we approached Kerala it started drizzling. It was the kind that left pearly beads on the windscreen - beads with just enough water to form a drop, but not enough to overcome the surface tension and trail down. Soon the wipers were switched on. The wiper squashed the beads, mixed it with the thick layer of dust on the glass and left a wide sweeping trail that made it even more difficult to see what was coming toward.

We crossed the Kerala border sometime then and approached Walayar checkpost. The site of Kerala during monsoons had still not wiped the moroseness from the face of Mr. Perfect. As we approached the check-post, the bus started to slow down. The cleaner boy, who was coiled up on the footboard for a quick nap slowly stirred up.

The bus came to a stop at the check-post. The driver searched around and gathered few sheets of paper and put them into an already full file. After this he had a small chat with the cleaner boy, as if he were clarify what was to be done one final time. Then, as if by habit, he slid a 100 rupee note (or did I miss a few?) under the sheets of paper. The cleaner boy collected the same and made his way towards the office. After about 10 minutes, I heard voices outside the bus. Two middle aged men made their way in followed by the cleaner boy. The men carried a plastic bag filled with something I couldn’t see. They had a smile across their face and walked in as if it was their domain. They knew exactly where they had to go and made their way over luggage and cartons lying all around. I looked back through the hole in the wall. As they reached to their predestined seating location they saw that their seats were occupied. Nobody wakes up an old sleeping lady. All of a sudden two other men got up – guess they had been given the seats on the condition that if need be, they had to part what was dear to them – and offered their seats to the new travelers. The men with the plastic cover gladly accepted the offer and sat down. The stranger, who had boarded along with me, was still sleeping, quite unaware of all that was happening around him. The bus started and we moved on.

That weekend, a close friend narrated to me the troubles he was facing dealing some of the corrupt bureaucrats in the State’s public offices. How bribes were a norm than something shunned as immoral. How bribing was a part of his life and how he made officials feel indebted to him by bribing them than sprouting a grudge by turning them down. Yes, it was immoral, but that was the order of the day, or so he made me believe then. Also, some prominent Malayalam newspapers carried the following headlines –

· 8 (or so. I’ve lost count) MLAs quit ruling Congress party and join ex-Congress leader Mr. K.Karunakaran in his new formed Indira National Congress (Karunakaran) Party.

· Student activists charge the police in Calicut Medical College as a part of their protest against policy changes affecting the backward communities

· Hartal to be declared on someday the subsequent week to protest against the rising petrol, diesel prices

· National Survey rates Kerala as the least corrupt state in India

Guess, All’s well when Gods own the country.

Sin City

2005-08-31T18:01:00.000+05:30

Comic to Screen comparison of the movie.

Chandler, Marlowe & "The Big Sleep"

2005-08-18T10:52:00.000+05:30

“So you're a private detective,' she said. ‘I thought they only lived in books. Or else they were fat little men looking through keyholes in hotels."

There was nothing in that for me, so I didn't touch it.

Raymond Chandler created Philip Marlowe sometime in the 1930s, thereby creating a stir in the detective genre of fiction. The incisive and streetwise character that Marlowe is stands on his own in a genre already filled with creations quite distinct by their nature and modus operandi - from the broody and analytical genius of Sherlock Holmes to the womanizing and daring James Bond.

"The two rooms showed lights on the ground floor and a car stood on the drive in front. That must be Mr. Canino's brown car, I thought. He lets her drive it sometimes. He probably sits beside her with a gun. The girl Rusty Regan should have married. The girl Eddie Mars couldn't keep. The girl that didn't run away with Regan. Nice Mr. Canino."

He is probably one character, that I know of, who does it for the money – unlike Holmes whose reasons are more pedantic and have a lot to do with improving once trade, or Bond, who did it for the Queen or just for the thrill of the chase. Like Marlowe puts it in 'The Big Sleep',

“I have no feelings, I only want money. That’s why I work for twenty-five dollars a day, I do my own thinking. The police hate me, and so do Eddie Mars and his friends. I try to miss the bullets and stay alive. It’s difficult. I ask for trouble. I do all this for twenty-five dollars a day. And perhaps I feel a little sorry for an old man as well.”

Though, if you thought Marlowe was all work and no play, then you would be wrong.

“Her face under my mouth was like ice. She put her hands up and held my head. She kissed me hard on the lips. Her lips were like ice too.

I went out through the door and it closed behind me. The rain blew into my face. It wasn’t as cold as her lips.”

He does play the hermit quite often though.

Though, the main attraction of Raymond Chandler is not the character that is Philip Marlowe, but, is his style of writing. It’s made for a movie, this one. If Robert Rodriguez made 'L.A. Confidential' with Frank Miller’s dialogues and the scene templates of 'Frank Miller’s Sin City', the result would be the cinematic recreation of Chandler’s narrative. Philip Marlowe could very well be Jack Nicholson out of Polanski’s Chinatown, a Jack who spoke much lesser of course.

'The Big Sleep' is short, just like its style, and comes across as very refreshing to someone trying to discover a new style or character in the genre of “who-dunnits”. The story comes with the usual set of Rusty Regans and Eddie Marses, twisted plots and sub-plots, crisp action sequences and an always on the move feel. It’s like the experience of watching Kurosawa’s Ikiru (1952) - a story that has been done a lot since but a narrative and a central character that stays as new now as it was then, yet.

Click no more !!

2005-08-16T18:51:00.000+05:30

Don't Click

In Conversation

2005-08-10T19:21:00.000+05:30

9:41 a.m., Outside an FMCG major’s office

The Youth, in his White & Black formals; his laptop slung across his shoulder, briskly walks through the gate when a Metallic-Blue 6 point something slides by and eases down in front of the main lobby. A man, possibly in his early fifties, gets out. He is tall, has an unobtrusive paunch and wears a striped short-sleeve.

Y: Casuals - no more formalities at the work place; the sign of a man who has made his indelible mark.

The Man takes out his bag and laptop. He stops to give instructions to someone in the car.

The Youth studies the car as he approaches it. The Man turns around and sees the Youth doing the same.

M: Years of smart-work and perseverance; that’s what it takes my Son. You better work your ass off if you want to succeed.

Y: Hmm. "Honda City", up-close and personal. Nice. Waiting for the weekend till I reach home and get my hands on Dad's new car. Why is the guy looking at me like that?

The Youth catches up with the Man. They start walking toward the elevator. The youth suddenly makes it for the stairs. He bounds up, taking those 3 at a time – the only exercise of a sedentary manager. He glances back as he takes the turn at the top of the flight.

He catches the man glancing at him.

M: Wish I could.

Y: Ha! - The joys of youth. You better take the elevator.

Or so the Youth thought.

Lalettan does it again!!

2005-08-09T11:11:00.000+05:30

Mohanlal has been offered the role of "Thakur" (Sanjeev Kumar) in RGV's remake of Sholay. One can only wait.

Lost in translation

2005-07-23T17:39:00.000+05:30

MG Road, Bangalore City

A damp, rainy, traffic-clogged Saturday evening

A youth jaywalks across the road, quite an expert at it by now, and heads for Brigade - to meet a friend, to have a party, to shop a bit if time permits; another typical IT-bachelor evening beckons.

A woman, penniless and pitiful, her child wailing in her arms, approaches. She extends her arm - for a thought to spare, a rupee to share.

He avoids the eye and moves on without a sigh; scratches the flab at the side of his tummy, scratches it that has grown over the last couple of months.

A thought is lost somewhere.

PS: The youth suddenly realises that what has passed, a good journal entry he could be proud of.

The curious incident of the dog in the night-time

2005-07-13T14:44:00.000+05:30

Two things attracted me to this book. One I got curious with the name and the cover. Two, I saw a comment in amazon.com from an autistic claiming that the author has been able to capture, rather fantastically, the way the mind of an autistic worked.

About the story, you couldn't be further off the mark if you thought the book was a whodunit involving a dead-dog and a kid with a photographic memory. The way you feel when you read about "The curious incident of the dog in the night-time" is the way John Malkovich would've felt in 'Being John Malkovich' - the writing gets into your head. Mark Haddon should have named it 'Being Christopher Boone' (the protagonist).

It is a quick read, took me just a few hours. Its all the more enjoyable if you are nestled in a couch on your veranda on a sleepy Sunday afternoon with the rain pouring outside.

Customer Rating: Five Red Cars!!!

Books it is

2005-07-08T20:23:00.000+05:30

Kraz tagged me. Books it is then,

Books I own

Two cupboards full.

Last few books I bought

Dance Dance Dance - Haruki Murakami
The curious incident of a dog in the night - Mark Haddon
1984 - George Orwell
The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
The complete novels of Franz Kafka
Pudd'nhead Wilson - Mark Twain

Last book that was gifted to me

Calvin and Hobbes: Scientific Progress Goes 'Boink'
..... Never a dull moment

Last few books that I have read

The curious incident of a dog in the night - Mark Haddon
..... The writing gets into your head. World through the eyes of an autistic.

Hardboiled wonderland and the end of the world - Haruki Murakami
..... Fresh, Enjoyable, Weird, Great translation

Bhuj: After the quake - Rishi Sanwal (This one is yet to hit the stands. My collegue)
..... About the people who fought the disaster

Chain Reaction - Eliyahu Goldratt
..... Great read to follow-up "The Goal"

Books that mean something to me

PAI&CO Classics (1st one - Robinson Crusoe) and The complete Amarchitrakatha series
..... Priced possession.

Hardy Boys series
..... Growing up

Kane & Abel - Jeffrey Archer
..... Next level

Short stories by Vaikkom Mhd. Basheer (Malayalam)
..... Intro to the fascinating world of Malayalam literature

Fountainhead

Roots - Alex Haley
..... A Life's quest captured beautifully in 1000 pages

Randamuzham - M.T. Vasudevan Nair (Malayalam)
..... One of my top 3. Takes an amazing view on 'Mahabharata'

Freedom at Midnight - Dominique Lapierre & Larry Collins
..... Great book about Partition. Too dramatic and glorified though.

Cuckold - Kiran Nagarkar
..... Fantastic imagery, better perspective on a spec of Indian History

Hardboiled wonderland and the end of the world - Haruki Murakami
..... Out of this world

Books I plan to read soon

1984 - George Orwell (Reading at the moment)
Amritsar - Mark Tully
Dance Dance Dance - Haruki Murakami
Seven Sixes are Forty-Three (Saat Sakkam Trechalis) - Kiran Nagarkar
Khazhakinte Ithihasam - O.V. Vijayan

Thatz it then. Tag on,

1. Mridul
2. NY
3. Shreyas
4. Nakul
5. Gopakumar

So long

Indigo Blues - II

2005-06-14T18:37:00.000+05:30

The Experience

We made our way past shops selling hot kattori-milk and flee contaminated oily samosas.

We found our way through roads congested by emaciated cows, potholes and dumps.

We walked past the abandoned town tank - larger than the temple premises, perhaps.

We twisted, turned and shooed our way through cacophonous street urchins – a mysterious nonchalance about their face.

There sure were no evergreen gardens, no murmuring brooks and whispering winds, no peacocks and milch-cows and, definitely no overflowing ghee pots. Though, at this point, let me avoid further description of the not-as-significant details of the town, its people and the mood, and get straight to the purpose of the visit.

As the temple at Mathura is very high on some Jihadi’s ‘Places to visit’ list, we had to leave half our belongings in the bus and undergo a thorough body check before we could get in. Once we were through, our guide, a local Brahmin, gathered us at the base of the temple - he sure looked the part with his ‘tikka’, accent and the Brahmin’s hair knot. As he started his monologue on the temple’s history and religious significance, I began to notice that the locale had a dark motley shade to it. A quick enquiry confirmed that it was the week of Holi and we had just missed the celebrations. Pilgrims, town-folk, shopkeepers and whoever else was around were all dabbed, slapped all over rather, in violent violets, bottle greens, Govinda pinks and mixtures of these in varying degrees to spectacular effect. I think that’s when I first thanked God.

The guide covered the bit about how Lord Krishna was born within the confines of the prison walls of King Kamsa and moved on to recent history of the temple. History had literally taken its toll on the temple at Mathura. It had witnessed, and withstood, for a large period in history, repeated attacks from the various foreign rulers of India. The structure that housed the main shrine, the sanctum sanctorum to say, had been renovated just a few years back by some corporate house of India Inc.

We did not proceed directly to the main temple. Rather, we visited some satellite shrines and made our way straight for the prison cell where the Lord was born. Now, I expected a deep-damp-dark and labyrinthine dungeon made of impenetrable stone walls and unbreakable iron bars – some place heavily guarded and, where I unconsciously believed, I wouldn’t be let in due to archaeological and religious reasons.

We experienced nothing of the sort.

We were led through some narrow corridors; straight into the room where it had all began many yugas back. A simple plastered and painted room, with a few idols to offer our prayers to, greeted us. As I turned to see where the way from the cell led to, I drew a blank. I literally faced a plain wall (and nothing on it said “Sorry for your inconvenience”), the wall of the structure adjoining the disputed Mathura temple.

Mathura temple is one of the top targets for perpetuating communal disharmony, not just because it is what Jerusalem is for the Christians to the Hindus, but because of the fact that it is a disputed territory. A part of the Mathura temple, part of the prison to be precise, actually falls inside the confines of a neighbouring mosque. The wall that I saw was that of the mosque. Let me not describe the history behind the same as that information is readily available. I was told Mathura, along with Ayodhya, was (is?) part of the saffron brigade’s hidden agenda.

We moved on.

As we entered the main temple we became part of a great commotion. Women in their late 40s were playing cymbals and drums, and dancing in a circle chanting praises of the cowherd Lord. And there was hardly any man participating in the fun. As I observed the spectacle, it became clear that they were playing Gopis - Gopis dancing to the tune of an imaginary flautist. That was probably their way of pleasing the Lord. It was something novel, something that made logical sense if one considered the Krishna’s tastes according to mythology and definitely something that the women who offered the prayer enjoyed.

As we came to the end of the Darshan our guide pointed to us the directions of Gokula, Mount Govardhana, Lake Kalindhi and other places related to Kisna. Then, as we had come to the end of our guided tour, he folded his hands and chanted a prayer for our health and well-being. Thereafter he proclaimed,

“Anyone who wants to perform a good deed in this holy land, and thereby receive the direct blessings of Lord Krishna, can do so by providing free meal to the poor. All you have to do is to give me the desired sum - be it Rs. 50, 100 or 1000. I will see to it that the bhiksha is taken care of.”

It was probably the blunt abruptness with which the attempt was made – quite contrary to someone who had been very matter of fact till that point. The group remained confused and suspect for a while, slowly realized the nature of the intention, turned their backs to the confused chap and started walking out of the temple.

Indigo Blues - I

2005-05-25T19:24:00.000+05:30

Imagine

Gopis dancing to drum-beat in a garden of thousand roses

Mathura, the holy land

Where, behind bars a stormy night, the flautist cowherd was born

Murmuring brooks, whispering winds and ever-green pastures

Mathura, the holy land

The birth place of Radheshyaam, the butter-thief

Pious brahmins, purifying prayers & offerings of ever-abundant ghee

Mathura, the holy land

Womb to the Uncle-slayer, nemesis of Kaaliya the serpent demon

Crafty temples & serene villages house to saadhus & the temple-folk

Mathura, the holy land

Witness to avataar of Paarthasarathi - the blue-skinned Yaadava king

These were the pictures that came to my mind when I thought of Mathura, (or Gokula for that matter. They are just 21 kms apart anyway) the place associated to Lord Krishna’s birth. This is courtesy primarily to Amarchitrakatha (more on that another time). Hence expectations were sky-high when our tourist bus took the diversion from the Delhi-Agra highway for Mathura.

Next, “Experience”…

Scarlet

2005-05-20T17:42:00.000+05:30

00:30 hrs - 29.Mar.05, Chennai

The couple stood at the edge of the beach. The foamy waves fast swept away the earth under their feet. The man and woman were in their mid 50s. They stood hand-in-hand their gaze fixed on something beyond the pitch black that surrounded them, something invisible to the naked eye.

A month ago, Singapore

The fish-eyes darted across the path. A dark mix of sweat and mascara accentuated the palpable fear on the face. Suddenly, sensing imminent danger the girl shot across the path and just as suddenly she stopped on her tracks. Her hands slowly extended skywards - as if she was pleading for mercy. In the next instance, the body writhed, paused and then collapsed under the folds of scarlet that covered her torso.

As the crowd rose to their feet and erupted in a thunderous applause, the girl ran to the woman and started to cry in joy. As the lady pressed her daughter closer and dug her face into the hairdo of jasmine, she reflected on the last two decades – the time it took her child to learn, choreograph and perform the particular form of Natyashastra at the international arena.

Sometime early March, Chennai

“The symptoms resemble those of the commonplace viral fever making diagnosis difficult until the final stage. In its final stage the disease causes rupture of blood vessels resulting in profuse bleeding through pores of the skin. Then, death is the only deliverance. ”

00:40 hrs - 29.Mar.05, Chennai

Tears rolled down the woman’s cheek, collected near her chin and lost itself in the vast ocean. The man tightened the hold on her hands. The deafening waves dampened the wailing sirens of the police cars in the distance.

They waited as the water started to rise.

The killer wave spared the Indian coast on the night of 28th March 2005. The alert was called off at 02:30 hrs, 29th March in Nagapattinam, Chennai and other coastal areas of Tamil Nadu.

Authors Note: Quite often people react uniquely and rather uncharacteristically to tragedies in their lives. More often than not, they try to inflict bodily harm unto themselves. The above narration is based on a true incident.

.

The redemption of Thomas, the coward

O-tto!

Songs of peace at a time of war

Life in a small town - 2

About town

Paandan Naaya

Life in a small town - 1

Papa

The shining

Leander

R.K.

Butterflies are free !

'Friends'

Whodunit!!

The Baggy Green !

Dedication

A Good Man

Progress

Steve Prefontaine

The turn of phrase

A point of view

The shameless..

Disturbia

Watch the end of Poverty

Simply Joking

Inside Outside

Dave Barry and Others

For Madmen Only

Kenny

The Membrane

Painting the Mona Lisa in MS-Paint

Cool!

A True Leader

Giving a face to the "Voice"

Encounter of a Different Kind

Man

On Fire-Crackers and the Automobile Industry

Another amazing video

Amazing Video

The Masseur

"A Brave New World", First impressions of Singapore

Motorcycle Diaries

Lines that Stuck

Word Play

Ogden Nash

Whose line is it anyway?

Ennui

Sideways

The Man, The Machine,

Recommended reading

Season's Greetings

Time well spent: Books in 2005

Times We Live In

The Common Man

Reader's Bloc

O Captain, my Captain

The Bhuj Story ( After The Quake )

One Saturday morning in July..

Sin City

Chandler, Marlowe & "The Big Sleep"

Click no more !!

In Conversation

Lalettan does it again!!

Lost in translation

The curious incident of the dog in the night-time

Books it is

Indigo Blues - II

Indigo Blues - I

Scarlet