Sunday, February 11, 2007
Too much democracy?
Its a duel to death. You fight his strength with skill, his skill with strategy. But what decides in the end is not how well you fought, nor your cause. What decides is whether people see you as a murderer or a martyr.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
I want
To be responsible, but have no responsibilities.
To spread my wings and fly, not fly away.
To grow up, not grow old.
To give in if I must, but never give up.
To use the mother of all cliches, I want to have my cake, eat it too and lost some weight in the process!
To spread my wings and fly, not fly away.
To grow up, not grow old.
To give in if I must, but never give up.
To use the mother of all cliches, I want to have my cake, eat it too and lost some weight in the process!
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Yours is not to reason why
If you tell me to go jump in the well, I will do it. Somewhere along my way down, I might casually wonder why you asked me to. If I am in a deep mood, I might even get to wondering why I am doing it.
That I am alive and kicking is testimony to the fact that my life is filled with nice people.
That I am alive and kicking is testimony to the fact that my life is filled with nice people.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Who am I?
Am I a log floating in the river
Flowing where the water flows
Going where the wind blows
Convinced that higher powers are on my side
Content to sit back and enjoy the ride
Knowing but not caring that one day I will end up in the sea?
or
Am I a fighter with an axe
Making my way as I go
Meeting everything that comes with a blow
Getting bruised along the way
Hurt and hurting because that is the game
Knowing but not caring that I my end before the fight does?
Flowing where the water flows
Going where the wind blows
Convinced that higher powers are on my side
Content to sit back and enjoy the ride
Knowing but not caring that one day I will end up in the sea?
or
Am I a fighter with an axe
Making my way as I go
Meeting everything that comes with a blow
Getting bruised along the way
Hurt and hurting because that is the game
Knowing but not caring that I my end before the fight does?
Why
Like there aren't enough already, i come up with yet another basis on which to classify people.
- those who ask why before the act
- those who ask why after the act
- those uncomplicated, carefree souls who do not bother
I, of course, do not bother.
But, having been subjected to several post dated whys recently (Yaaay! I'm at the top of the tree. Now why did want to climb it? Or more interestingly, this is the secret password that will give you access to all my millions. Now why did i tell you that?), i decided to ask myself one. Just to see how the other half, err... third of the world lives.
Why do I write.
Sometimes it is because i want to. (Earth shattering, isn't it?) Some interesting event or idea that i would like to put to words. The words are as important as the idea, if not more. (The beauty of language, that kind of thing) A friend says I end up being a tad artificial. I think he is being polite. But the whole point there is to show off! I may be the only one being impressed, but hey, I count a lot with me.
At other times I write because i have to. The thing just wont stay inside me. Writing it down makes it more real, somehow. Like it has been engraved on stone or something. Also, there is always the hope that someone reads it and it rings a bell. I wont hear the bell, but i like the idea of being connected to invisible people. (Hmm. I thought i had more sense than that.)
Hah! Post dated whys are fun. Provided of course, they affirm what you have already done.
- those who ask why before the act
- those who ask why after the act
- those uncomplicated, carefree souls who do not bother
I, of course, do not bother.
But, having been subjected to several post dated whys recently (Yaaay! I'm at the top of the tree. Now why did want to climb it? Or more interestingly, this is the secret password that will give you access to all my millions. Now why did i tell you that?), i decided to ask myself one. Just to see how the other half, err... third of the world lives.
Why do I write.
Sometimes it is because i want to. (Earth shattering, isn't it?) Some interesting event or idea that i would like to put to words. The words are as important as the idea, if not more. (The beauty of language, that kind of thing) A friend says I end up being a tad artificial. I think he is being polite. But the whole point there is to show off! I may be the only one being impressed, but hey, I count a lot with me.
At other times I write because i have to. The thing just wont stay inside me. Writing it down makes it more real, somehow. Like it has been engraved on stone or something. Also, there is always the hope that someone reads it and it rings a bell. I wont hear the bell, but i like the idea of being connected to invisible people. (Hmm. I thought i had more sense than that.)
Hah! Post dated whys are fun. Provided of course, they affirm what you have already done.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Much ado about nothing
Spoiler - If the whole thing seems like a lot of noise about nothing, it is because that is exactly what it is.
A parent and a grandparent were to leave on a trip to the Motherland, to oversee additions to the family. Partly due to the Great Indian RailwayTamasha, it so happened that the parent had to catch a bus from Pune to Bombay to catch a train, that, left to its own devices, would have anyway made its way to Pune. So, it fell on the kids to deposit the grandparent at Pune Railway Station. At 3 in the night. Since the family car was not yet part of the family, they had to stoop to a rick. And thus started the hunt for the Great Indian Looter. After several atrocious candidates who left them laughing with tears, they stumbled across one who seemed too reasonable to be true. Desperation won over suspicion however, and an exchange of mobile numbers later, the kids were home. The next day being a regular working dayand the kids being, at least in the outside world, responsible working professionals, bed time that day was Calvinistic. (Calvinoian?) She slept to the sound of Karan Thapar droning about a racist calling Shilpa Shetty a Big Brother. He slept. With two mobiles and an old fashioned alarm clock set to signal the end of the world at 2 a.m.
Everything went off at 2 a.m. and they wished the world could have ended instead. They spread the morning cheer by waking up therickshawala . The grandparent of course was all packed and ready to go. There is something about the people of that generation. Sometimes, the seem more alive at 80 than you did at 20. Dressed forAntarctica , they stepped into the surprisingly warm January night. The journey to the railway station passed in relative silence because before they could really get down and dirty aboutrickshawalas, the specimen driving them confessed to being a Tamilain. She could not have been entirely awake during the journey because later she distinctly remembered feeling envious of the sleeping homeless, all tucked in and comfortable on the footpath. The railway station was surprisingly full of life. The train was surprisingly on time. A brief family reunion and the kids were off, with warnings about eating food offered bystrangers and footboard travel. All this work had made her hungry. A midnight snack and a motorcycle ride later, they were back in bed and fast asleep. The world had not ended, after all.
(Nope. No forgotten tickets. No wrong station, no wrong platform, no wrong train, no wrong grandparent... Me and the Indian Railway come together and the world does not end! Almost makes a believer out of me.)
A parent and a grandparent were to leave on a trip to the Motherland, to oversee additions to the family. Partly due to the Great Indian RailwayTamasha, it so happened that the parent had to catch a bus from Pune to Bombay to catch a train, that, left to its own devices, would have anyway made its way to Pune. So, it fell on the kids to deposit the grandparent at Pune Railway Station. At 3 in the night. Since the family car was not yet part of the family, they had to stoop to a rick. And thus started the hunt for the Great Indian Looter. After several atrocious candidates who left them laughing with tears, they stumbled across one who seemed too reasonable to be true. Desperation won over suspicion however, and an exchange of mobile numbers later, the kids were home. The next day being a regular working dayand the kids being, at least in the outside world, responsible working professionals, bed time that day was Calvinistic. (Calvinoian?) She slept to the sound of Karan Thapar droning about a racist calling Shilpa Shetty a Big Brother. He slept. With two mobiles and an old fashioned alarm clock set to signal the end of the world at 2 a.m.
Everything went off at 2 a.m. and they wished the world could have ended instead. They spread the morning cheer by waking up therickshawala . The grandparent of course was all packed and ready to go. There is something about the people of that generation. Sometimes, the seem more alive at 80 than you did at 20. Dressed forAntarctica , they stepped into the surprisingly warm January night. The journey to the railway station passed in relative silence because before they could really get down and dirty aboutrickshawalas, the specimen driving them confessed to being a Tamilain. She could not have been entirely awake during the journey because later she distinctly remembered feeling envious of the sleeping homeless, all tucked in and comfortable on the footpath. The railway station was surprisingly full of life. The train was surprisingly on time. A brief family reunion and the kids were off, with warnings about eating food offered bystrangers and footboard travel. All this work had made her hungry. A midnight snack and a motorcycle ride later, they were back in bed and fast asleep. The world had not ended, after all.
(Nope. No forgotten tickets. No wrong station, no wrong platform, no wrong train, no wrong grandparent... Me and the Indian Railway come together and the world does not end! Almost makes a believer out of me.)
Who yells wins
To the silent ones,
The world listens to the one who yells loudest. If you do not speak up, it means you do not have an opinion. If you do not yell, it means you do not respect your opinion enough.
Eat or be eaten. Its that simple.
(Thanks B, for that and for a million other things)
The world listens to the one who yells loudest. If you do not speak up, it means you do not have an opinion. If you do not yell, it means you do not respect your opinion enough.
Eat or be eaten. Its that simple.
(Thanks B, for that and for a million other things)
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Those were the days...
I have been told (and can see for myself) that I have been weeping all over my blog. So, in the spirit of the new year, I have decided to post positive. And to give the past years their due, nostalgic.
Me and three other people met for an hour of badminton yesterday. Its surprising how cooperative , efficient, pushy, fearless and utterly devoid of responsibility that one word makes people! And of course the memories had to follow. We've had such wonderfully nonsensical times on the court all that's to a bunch of crazy, super enthusiastic and most importantly, quirky individuals. Before I elaborate, a note to the folks this is about. Kindly do not take offence. Writing about how excellently you play would be infinitely boring. A good story is my only motivation.
Its 6 p.m. Snacks have travelled far enough for it to be unlikely for any physical activity to make them come out the way they went in. As if on cue, pairs of eyes all over the building go to the rackets kept on the desks. A few owners of the pair of eyes (not necessarily same as the owner of the rackets) valiantly try to get the pair back on the computer screen. Wiser ones simply pick up the racket and leave for the indoor badminton court. (Which, along with the sofa at the reception transform the office building from a place of work to a place of well being). Sitting, standing, lying all over the court are other PEOs (pair of eyes owners).
The narrative now shifts focus to a particular group of PEOs, identified by seemingly random letters of the alphabet.
R, by far the most talented of this particular bunch of PEOs, is dancing on the court. He just cant wait for the game to begin. Impossible to guess that this impatient guy has truckloads of patience for those less gifted. Also impossible to guess that this newcomer's dream hides a mercurial temperament that goes from boiling to grinning with the span of a shot.
Giving him company is D, the queen of quick returns. While the audience may be pardoned for occasionally thinking she is one of them, even though she is standing on the court with a racket in hand while a game is in progress, anyone who has ever made the mistake of placing the shuttle in the vicinity of her racket has lived to regret it.
On the other side of court is A. But how much longer she will be there is impossible to say. She has been known to answer hunger calls in the middle of a game, even in the middle of a shot. She is also known to race after the shuttle as if her life depends on it, raise her racket carrying arm to deliver the death stroke, only to have it stuck there in mid motion. With an enigmatic atak gaya, she walks off the court, hand raised in submission.
Next to her is S, the grand old man of the game, who has nurtured generations of PEOs. His presence on court is predicted with complete certainty by everyone but him. He appearance on court follows a rather peculiar ritual whose outcome he stubbornly defends as being unpredictable. When called to play, he politely refuses citing doctor's orders (signed, and in triplicate) as a reason. 5 minutes later, he is found on the outer boundary of the court. Just come down to watch, of course. 2.35 minutes later, he has displaced the nearest PEO and is poised for action, doctor's orders be damned in triplicate! One smash from the grand old man and the opponents are damned, the shuttle is damned...
The match goes on along thoroughly unpredictable lines, even though each player's game is as predictable as can be. PEOs are replaced at regular intervals (not always involuntarily) by others. Notable among them is K. And her compassionate serve (patent pending). Lest she send out mixed signals regarding her intentions to server backhand/forehand to her opponents, she follows an elaborate routine that involves rotation by 90 degrees and recalibration of the racket's alignment with respect to the position of the moon.
And then there is L. Though not a regular, he never fails to leave a mark. This is primarily because he believes the fool proofest way to create confusion among the opponents is to roll all over the quadrant where the shuttle has no intention of falling, in an apparent attempt to hit it. His success rate is impressive, if success is measured by the number of times the opponents are so busy gaping, they forget to play.
And E. Whose beliefs alternate between seeing his racket as a hammer and believing that the shuttle responds to voice commands. His voice commands. There are N and M but their quirks seem to have slipped my memory. (That they are normal is impossible).
To each of these PEOs (and a few other unalphabetized ones) I owe my love for the game. And this is how I pay them back!
Me and three other people met for an hour of badminton yesterday. Its surprising how cooperative , efficient, pushy, fearless and utterly devoid of responsibility that one word makes people! And of course the memories had to follow. We've had such wonderfully nonsensical times on the court all that's to a bunch of crazy, super enthusiastic and most importantly, quirky individuals. Before I elaborate, a note to the folks this is about. Kindly do not take offence. Writing about how excellently you play would be infinitely boring. A good story is my only motivation.
Its 6 p.m. Snacks have travelled far enough for it to be unlikely for any physical activity to make them come out the way they went in. As if on cue, pairs of eyes all over the building go to the rackets kept on the desks. A few owners of the pair of eyes (not necessarily same as the owner of the rackets) valiantly try to get the pair back on the computer screen. Wiser ones simply pick up the racket and leave for the indoor badminton court. (Which, along with the sofa at the reception transform the office building from a place of work to a place of well being). Sitting, standing, lying all over the court are other PEOs (pair of eyes owners).
The narrative now shifts focus to a particular group of PEOs, identified by seemingly random letters of the alphabet.
R, by far the most talented of this particular bunch of PEOs, is dancing on the court. He just cant wait for the game to begin. Impossible to guess that this impatient guy has truckloads of patience for those less gifted. Also impossible to guess that this newcomer's dream hides a mercurial temperament that goes from boiling to grinning with the span of a shot.
Giving him company is D, the queen of quick returns. While the audience may be pardoned for occasionally thinking she is one of them, even though she is standing on the court with a racket in hand while a game is in progress, anyone who has ever made the mistake of placing the shuttle in the vicinity of her racket has lived to regret it.
On the other side of court is A. But how much longer she will be there is impossible to say. She has been known to answer hunger calls in the middle of a game, even in the middle of a shot. She is also known to race after the shuttle as if her life depends on it, raise her racket carrying arm to deliver the death stroke, only to have it stuck there in mid motion. With an enigmatic atak gaya, she walks off the court, hand raised in submission.
Next to her is S, the grand old man of the game, who has nurtured generations of PEOs. His presence on court is predicted with complete certainty by everyone but him. He appearance on court follows a rather peculiar ritual whose outcome he stubbornly defends as being unpredictable. When called to play, he politely refuses citing doctor's orders (signed, and in triplicate) as a reason. 5 minutes later, he is found on the outer boundary of the court. Just come down to watch, of course. 2.35 minutes later, he has displaced the nearest PEO and is poised for action, doctor's orders be damned in triplicate! One smash from the grand old man and the opponents are damned, the shuttle is damned...
The match goes on along thoroughly unpredictable lines, even though each player's game is as predictable as can be. PEOs are replaced at regular intervals (not always involuntarily) by others. Notable among them is K. And her compassionate serve (patent pending). Lest she send out mixed signals regarding her intentions to server backhand/forehand to her opponents, she follows an elaborate routine that involves rotation by 90 degrees and recalibration of the racket's alignment with respect to the position of the moon.
And then there is L. Though not a regular, he never fails to leave a mark. This is primarily because he believes the fool proofest way to create confusion among the opponents is to roll all over the quadrant where the shuttle has no intention of falling, in an apparent attempt to hit it. His success rate is impressive, if success is measured by the number of times the opponents are so busy gaping, they forget to play.
And E. Whose beliefs alternate between seeing his racket as a hammer and believing that the shuttle responds to voice commands. His voice commands. There are N and M but their quirks seem to have slipped my memory. (That they are normal is impossible).
To each of these PEOs (and a few other unalphabetized ones) I owe my love for the game. And this is how I pay them back!
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Auntygiri
(Or should it be Auntiegiri?)
Not new, the concept has been around for as long as Auntys have. But now, cutting across age and gender, it has attracted the unlikeliest of followers. So, how much of an Aunty are you? Take this quiz and find out!
1. Do you always assume that everything that can go wrong will go wrong and prepare accordingly?
(reaching the (Indian) railway station an hour in advance, carrying food for 3 days for a 12 hour journey, umbrellas a month after rains have officially bid goodbye...)
2. Do you think that taking risks for non life and death issues is stupid?
(stupid to go out beyond ankle level into the sea, stupid to climb the gate when you can call the watchman, stupid to sit on the terrace parapet wall...)
3. Do you subscribe to the idea of society as a watchdog?
(that barks when you get home late, barks when you go watch a movie alone, barks when you do not follow the prescribed life cycle...)
4. Do you believe that our ancestors have figured it all out, and all we have to do is follow?
(they knew what to eat, when to eat, how to eat and I represent them, so eat! In other words, do you see the world the same way your parents do?)
Score: Give yourself one point for each question you said yes to.
Score You are a
----- -----------
0 Antiaunty
1 Miniaunty
2 Semiaunty
3 Superaunty
4 Megaunty
No, you do not get an opinion. You are not being judged, not by me at any rate. I just show you where you are. Where you want to be is none of my business.
Its not just a moral issue, this not wanting to pick a side. I just cannot see the thing in black and white. Auntygiri has saved my life more times than it has messed it up. I was once saved from walking back home several hundred kilometers because one miniaunty told me to keep my money distributed. In case your purse gets stolen, she said, which it did. We all know (and if we don't, we can guess) what happened when there was no Aunty around to remind me to carry my train ticket. If its about the numbers, Auntygiri wins, hands down. But its not. Cause when Auntygiri messes up your life, what remains is this unrecognizable mess that you can neither own nor disown.
There i go. On the middle path again. I wonder why i bother thinking at all, when i know that for every yes or no, i will come up with a maybe.
Not new, the concept has been around for as long as Auntys have. But now, cutting across age and gender, it has attracted the unlikeliest of followers. So, how much of an Aunty are you? Take this quiz and find out!
1. Do you always assume that everything that can go wrong will go wrong and prepare accordingly?
(reaching the (Indian) railway station an hour in advance, carrying food for 3 days for a 12 hour journey, umbrellas a month after rains have officially bid goodbye...)
2. Do you think that taking risks for non life and death issues is stupid?
(stupid to go out beyond ankle level into the sea, stupid to climb the gate when you can call the watchman, stupid to sit on the terrace parapet wall...)
3. Do you subscribe to the idea of society as a watchdog?
(that barks when you get home late, barks when you go watch a movie alone, barks when you do not follow the prescribed life cycle...)
4. Do you believe that our ancestors have figured it all out, and all we have to do is follow?
(they knew what to eat, when to eat, how to eat and I represent them, so eat! In other words, do you see the world the same way your parents do?)
Score: Give yourself one point for each question you said yes to.
Score You are a
----- -----------
0 Antiaunty
1 Miniaunty
2 Semiaunty
3 Superaunty
4 Megaunty
No, you do not get an opinion. You are not being judged, not by me at any rate. I just show you where you are. Where you want to be is none of my business.
Its not just a moral issue, this not wanting to pick a side. I just cannot see the thing in black and white. Auntygiri has saved my life more times than it has messed it up. I was once saved from walking back home several hundred kilometers because one miniaunty told me to keep my money distributed. In case your purse gets stolen, she said, which it did. We all know (and if we don't, we can guess) what happened when there was no Aunty around to remind me to carry my train ticket. If its about the numbers, Auntygiri wins, hands down. But its not. Cause when Auntygiri messes up your life, what remains is this unrecognizable mess that you can neither own nor disown.
There i go. On the middle path again. I wonder why i bother thinking at all, when i know that for every yes or no, i will come up with a maybe.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Kahani ghar ghar ki
(Its all very cliched, i know. But it hits you only when it hits you)
Her fight beings before she does. The walls of her mothers womb are not strong enough to keep the big bad world out. They want to get in, they want to get her. She doesn't know why, she doesn't know how, but she fights. For her right to life.
She knows that the earth goes around the sun. She knows all about oceans and seas and snow and rain. She knows her tables up to 10. So what if she has never been to school? Her brother has, and if second hand knowledge is all the world allows her, so be it. She will take that and fight. For her right to a better life.
She had come first in her class. She couldn't quite make up her mind whether that was the high point of her life or it's biggest joke. Whatever happened, no one could take that away from her, but how did it matter? Did it make her a better wife, daughter-in-law or mother? For that was all she was and if life had its way, all she would ever be. Unless she fought. For her right to be all that she could.
Such a handsome guy! And in such a great job too. And from such a respectable family. I wish all girls were as lucky! How many times had she heard that? Square peg, square hole. What could be more sensible? How does it matter what peg you fit, as long as it is square? If only people were like pegs, she thought. Wouldn't life be infinitely simple? She would never have to fight. For her right to the guy that fit her soul.
She was good. She knew that. It wasn't enough. She knew that too. She had to prove herself, everyday, to people who were waiting for her to fall or even stumble, so they could write her off. She had to be on her guard all the time and yet be friendly because she needed them. They were the opponents as well as the judges in her fight. For her right to her heights.
She wanted to dance. Run barefoot in the grass. Spends days in the woods with only trees for company. Travel. Stop in the middle of nowhere because the sunset looked nice. Hear the old man's tales all day long. She wanted to be a butterfly, flitting from flower to flower. The word fight did not really belong in her world, but she had to let it in. For her right to fly.
A country living in many centuries. It doesn't really matter which century you are born in. All that changes is the fight you have to fight. Is live and let live really that difficult to practice? Why do we have to fight the past to get to the future? Why does every saas forget ki woh bhi kabhi bahu thi?
Her fight beings before she does. The walls of her mothers womb are not strong enough to keep the big bad world out. They want to get in, they want to get her. She doesn't know why, she doesn't know how, but she fights. For her right to life.
She knows that the earth goes around the sun. She knows all about oceans and seas and snow and rain. She knows her tables up to 10. So what if she has never been to school? Her brother has, and if second hand knowledge is all the world allows her, so be it. She will take that and fight. For her right to a better life.
She had come first in her class. She couldn't quite make up her mind whether that was the high point of her life or it's biggest joke. Whatever happened, no one could take that away from her, but how did it matter? Did it make her a better wife, daughter-in-law or mother? For that was all she was and if life had its way, all she would ever be. Unless she fought. For her right to be all that she could.
Such a handsome guy! And in such a great job too. And from such a respectable family. I wish all girls were as lucky! How many times had she heard that? Square peg, square hole. What could be more sensible? How does it matter what peg you fit, as long as it is square? If only people were like pegs, she thought. Wouldn't life be infinitely simple? She would never have to fight. For her right to the guy that fit her soul.
She was good. She knew that. It wasn't enough. She knew that too. She had to prove herself, everyday, to people who were waiting for her to fall or even stumble, so they could write her off. She had to be on her guard all the time and yet be friendly because she needed them. They were the opponents as well as the judges in her fight. For her right to her heights.
She wanted to dance. Run barefoot in the grass. Spends days in the woods with only trees for company. Travel. Stop in the middle of nowhere because the sunset looked nice. Hear the old man's tales all day long. She wanted to be a butterfly, flitting from flower to flower. The word fight did not really belong in her world, but she had to let it in. For her right to fly.
A country living in many centuries. It doesn't really matter which century you are born in. All that changes is the fight you have to fight. Is live and let live really that difficult to practice? Why do we have to fight the past to get to the future? Why does every saas forget ki woh bhi kabhi bahu thi?
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Not to be
I've found something else i don't want to be. I figure if i keep at this long enough, I'll eventually be what i want to be.
I don't want to be included in the log that people seem to fear and respect so much when they say "log kya kahenge". I do not want to dictate peoples views, actions, lives, definitely not indirectly, definitely not as a nameless, faceless mass that cannot be argued with. I do not want to be the reason Mrs Subramaniam's daughter cannot cut her hair short. I also do not want to be the reason Mr Sharma stubbornly refuses to take his errant son back into the family. I definitely no not want to be the reason Srygdh abandons his plan of murdering his wife and running away with his secretary. Not that i am for his plan, not for a moment, but I'm not comfortable with that kind of power. I cannot walk around knowing that one encouraging nod of my head and the next thing i know, poor late Mrs Srygdh's ghost has taken up permanent residence in my bathroom, moaning about how her life was incomplete because it ended before she could get her daughter married.
Seems to me there is only one way to not be what i don't want to be. And that is, to stop letting log's opinions dictate my life. Once i do that, i automatically lose the right to disapprove of any one's life choices. I'll be so far down log's morality scale, I'll be out!
I don't want to be included in the log that people seem to fear and respect so much when they say "log kya kahenge". I do not want to dictate peoples views, actions, lives, definitely not indirectly, definitely not as a nameless, faceless mass that cannot be argued with. I do not want to be the reason Mrs Subramaniam's daughter cannot cut her hair short. I also do not want to be the reason Mr Sharma stubbornly refuses to take his errant son back into the family. I definitely no not want to be the reason Srygdh abandons his plan of murdering his wife and running away with his secretary. Not that i am for his plan, not for a moment, but I'm not comfortable with that kind of power. I cannot walk around knowing that one encouraging nod of my head and the next thing i know, poor late Mrs Srygdh's ghost has taken up permanent residence in my bathroom, moaning about how her life was incomplete because it ended before she could get her daughter married.
Seems to me there is only one way to not be what i don't want to be. And that is, to stop letting log's opinions dictate my life. Once i do that, i automatically lose the right to disapprove of any one's life choices. I'll be so far down log's morality scale, I'll be out!
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Murder she wrote...
(I could kill. But instead I write. The pen is indeed mightier than the sword.)
Why do I have to choose?
Why does no one review my code?
Why is it that each time I expect (and hence am prepared for) my neighbours dog to bark my arrival, he is safely inside? More importantly, why am I never prepared when he does bark?
Why am I not the way I am supposed to be?
Why am I not the way I want to be?
Why are the two so irreconcilably different?
Why is my hand in a cast for an operation on my finger?
Why is there not a single coffee addict in office?
Why is there no beach in the world where it snows?
Why am I always always always in two minds? (Does it mean I'm twice as intelligent?)
Who do I feel better even after writing crap?
Why do I have to choose?
Why does no one review my code?
Why is it that each time I expect (and hence am prepared for) my neighbours dog to bark my arrival, he is safely inside? More importantly, why am I never prepared when he does bark?
Why am I not the way I am supposed to be?
Why am I not the way I want to be?
Why are the two so irreconcilably different?
Why is my hand in a cast for an operation on my finger?
Why is there not a single coffee addict in office?
Why is there no beach in the world where it snows?
Why am I always always always in two minds? (Does it mean I'm twice as intelligent?)
Who do I feel better even after writing crap?
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
I eat therefore I am
In a completely nonsensical attempt to explain the mystery that is Vinaya to a friend, I came up with the answer "I eat when I am hungry". After I said it I realized that it actually makes a pretty good mission statement. Excited, I came up with many more. And then I got bored. These don't even cover all the people I know well, so I doubt you will find yourself in there.
1 . Eat when hungry:
Keeping life simple. Cause and effect. An uncluttered mind. Living in the present.
2. Eat at mealtimes:
Living by the rules. Safe. Predictable. Inflexible.
3. Eat if ( (hungry && you_like_the_food && you_have_company && food_is_hygienic && (!not_going_to_gym_in_10_mins)) ||
(mealtime && you_not_likely_to_get_food_for_a_long_long_time) ||
(food_going_waste) || (mom_says_so && in_the_mood_to_listen) ):
Complicated. Unpredictable. Will take so long to decide whether to eat or not, might end up having no time left to eat. But will be happy with the decision all the same!
4. Eat if the weather is good:
Random. Totally unpredictable. Mysterious.
5. Eat during a public speech. Your public speech:
Shock effect. Living for an audience. Rebel without a cause. Unconventional.
6. Eat if and only if you feel like it:
Very determined. Not swayed by anything, sometimes including logic! Unpredictable. Unconventional.
Hmm. I don't think people can be boxed neatly into categories. Like, I see a bit of myself in 1, a bit in 2, also some in 5 and almost but not quite entirely none of 6.
1 . Eat when hungry:
Keeping life simple. Cause and effect. An uncluttered mind. Living in the present.
2. Eat at mealtimes:
Living by the rules. Safe. Predictable. Inflexible.
3. Eat if ( (hungry && you_like_the_food && you_have_company && food_is_hygienic && (!not_going_to_gym_in_10_mins)) ||
(mealtime && you_not_likely_to_get_food_for_a_long_long_time) ||
(food_going_waste) || (mom_says_so && in_the_mood_to_listen) ):
Complicated. Unpredictable. Will take so long to decide whether to eat or not, might end up having no time left to eat. But will be happy with the decision all the same!
4. Eat if the weather is good:
Random. Totally unpredictable. Mysterious.
5. Eat during a public speech. Your public speech:
Shock effect. Living for an audience. Rebel without a cause. Unconventional.
6. Eat if and only if you feel like it:
Very determined. Not swayed by anything, sometimes including logic! Unpredictable. Unconventional.
Hmm. I don't think people can be boxed neatly into categories. Like, I see a bit of myself in 1, a bit in 2, also some in 5 and almost but not quite entirely none of 6.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
To fly or not to fly
I sat down to write something but then remembered this poem we were taught as kids that says it so much better than I ever could.
What does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
Let me fly, says little birdie,
Mother, let me fly away.
Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till thy little wings are stronger.
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.
How do you know you are strong enough?
What does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
Let me fly, says little birdie,
Mother, let me fly away.
Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till thy little wings are stronger.
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.
How do you know you are strong enough?
Monday, November 20, 2006
Selectively blind
(One of those rare rants where I express extreme displeasure over everything ever invented, discovered or evolved)
Ostrich, isn't it? The animal that buries its head in sand and believes that since it cant see the enemy, the enemy cant see it? Show me one human being who thinks this is not stupid. And yet, the vast majority of them do exactly that. Cover their senses with a comfortable, protective covering and believe everything is all right with everyone. And its fine by me. If thats the only way they can get through life, so be it. What I cant stand is them making a hole in their covers just large enough for one eye to peek out, using the eye exclusively too see whats wrong with me and shaking their "what is this world come to" head shake. Either you are blind or you are not. In between is nothing.
I know. I should be able to say go to hell, but I cant. Not to everybody.
Ostrich, isn't it? The animal that buries its head in sand and believes that since it cant see the enemy, the enemy cant see it? Show me one human being who thinks this is not stupid. And yet, the vast majority of them do exactly that. Cover their senses with a comfortable, protective covering and believe everything is all right with everyone. And its fine by me. If thats the only way they can get through life, so be it. What I cant stand is them making a hole in their covers just large enough for one eye to peek out, using the eye exclusively too see whats wrong with me and shaking their "what is this world come to" head shake. Either you are blind or you are not. In between is nothing.
I know. I should be able to say go to hell, but I cant. Not to everybody.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Aaaaaaaa
I feel kind of left out. And dumb. A silent revolution seems to have taken place around the world without my knowledge or participation. Unless, there was a lot of hungaama, widespread protests, which makes me deaf as well as blind. Whatever be the case, from around the beginning of 2006 the world seems to have agreed that Vinaya is a guy's name. Just like that. Indian railways has been doing that forever, but I thought the rest of the world would have more sense. The only explanation I have been able to come up with the universal lack of recognition of the trailing "a" is - "Rama is to Ram what Vinaya is to Vinay". I've lost count of how many of my phone conversations follow the following general format:
Me: Hello
Caller: Hello. Can I speak to Vinay N?
Me: Speaking
Caller: Mr. Vinay N?
Me: Speaking.
Caller: Hello? (unwilling to believe that connection can distort voices so much in this day and age) Can I talk to MISTER Vinay N?
Me: SPEAKING
Caller: Oooh, its VinayA. He he.
Me: Yeah, my name is very funny. What can I do for you?
It happens regardless of age, gender, education, geography, which is why I believe its a worldwide phenomenon. My hard earned degree was awarded, both during rehearsals and the actual ceremony, to Vinay N. Apparently, the world famous professor considered it more probable for a girl to answer to the name of Vinay than for Vinaya to actually be a name. (Her parents must have wanted a boy, he must have thought, if his thoughts ever stooped to such levels).
Maybe it would help if I would start to write my name as VinayA. But then, what happens to my name on capitals only official forms? Brilliant idea, I could change the spelling! Vinayaa, Vinayaaa, Vinayea, Vinayeah... I'd better consult a numerologist before I do anything rash. My whole future might depend on which letter I use to distort my name!
(Three cheers to me for single handedly typing out this post! Knowledge acquired as part of this process - keyboard shortcuts are not so great for us handicapped folks)
Me: Hello
Caller: Hello. Can I speak to Vinay N?
Me: Speaking
Caller: Mr. Vinay N?
Me: Speaking.
Caller: Hello? (unwilling to believe that connection can distort voices so much in this day and age) Can I talk to MISTER Vinay N?
Me: SPEAKING
Caller: Oooh, its VinayA. He he.
Me: Yeah, my name is very funny. What can I do for you?
It happens regardless of age, gender, education, geography, which is why I believe its a worldwide phenomenon. My hard earned degree was awarded, both during rehearsals and the actual ceremony, to Vinay N. Apparently, the world famous professor considered it more probable for a girl to answer to the name of Vinay than for Vinaya to actually be a name. (Her parents must have wanted a boy, he must have thought, if his thoughts ever stooped to such levels).
Maybe it would help if I would start to write my name as VinayA. But then, what happens to my name on capitals only official forms? Brilliant idea, I could change the spelling! Vinayaa, Vinayaaa, Vinayea, Vinayeah... I'd better consult a numerologist before I do anything rash. My whole future might depend on which letter I use to distort my name!
(Three cheers to me for single handedly typing out this post! Knowledge acquired as part of this process - keyboard shortcuts are not so great for us handicapped folks)
Sunday, November 05, 2006
I'm Back!
Blame this post on Monu. He is the one who told me such incidents should be documented, that they increase the BSP (best seller potential) of my blog. Who am I to disagree? So, here it comes, with a little bit of background and lot of mirch masala.
With the IT industry up and running again, placements were great for our class. The biggest majority of would be office going bachchas were lapped up by Bangalore based companies. Pune came a distant second, Hyderabad and Noida being also ran. There was a lot of horse trading from the very beginning, with people falling to unbelievable excuses to tempt people from the other camp. Even stuff like "Who will wake me up for breakfast everyday if you are not there" was considered respectable enough a reason to chuck a great job you still couldn't believe anyone could be dumb enough to offer you. End of the course and barring a few casualties to PhD and laziness, the various camps went to their respective cities pretty much intact. Bengaluru wale (Bengalurueans?) settled in their city (which means they cribbed about the traffic, the cost of everything and local language problems) and Punites settled in theirs (incessant rain, pothole paved roads and rickshawalas from hell for them). Life went on for everyone, with occasional conference calls between the two camps in which everyone spoke at once but no one had anything to say.
One fine day one brilliant Punite had the idea of a trip to what was then Bangalore, to see how the other half of the world lived. Lets continue with our story without getting into specifically who she was. She mailed her folks to see if anyone was interested. Only one other was. Another brilliant Punite, you say? Lets just say his heart was in the right place. These two made plans. Oh yeah, big plans that involved air travel and holidays from office. Her brother was especially supportive of the air travel idea. She not at all secretly believed it was because once she went to what was then Bangalore by air just to meet her friends, no one would ever question his trips to his holy place, even if he said he was going to see off his colleague's roommate's sister's friend, who was going to Chennai for the weekend. A feasibility study followed by in depth research revealed that bus travel for the to journey and train for the fro would be optimal. She promised to book train tickets the very next day after the results were published and the bus tickets a little later. She told the Bengaluru camp she was coming and they made their share of big plans.
A lot happens between this point and the point that follows. However since absolutely none of it is related to the story at hand, we skip ahead after making the following assertions:
1. She did not book train tickets
2. She did not book bus tickets
3. She did not tell him she did not book the tickets
4. He did not ask
Skip to some Friday. The day they were supposed to leave for Bengaluru. She messages him.
She: I hope you are packed and ready. We are supposed to leave today, remember?
He: I am at the bus stop. Where are you?
She: At the railway station!
They laugh it off, hit upon another brilliant idea to go catch Vettaiyadu Vilayadu in the local theater next weekend and go on with their lives. If you want to ask her how she liked the movie, go and read the story again. You have completely missed the point.
If you think this was the worst anti-climax ever, go hit Monu!
With the IT industry up and running again, placements were great for our class. The biggest majority of would be office going bachchas were lapped up by Bangalore based companies. Pune came a distant second, Hyderabad and Noida being also ran. There was a lot of horse trading from the very beginning, with people falling to unbelievable excuses to tempt people from the other camp. Even stuff like "Who will wake me up for breakfast everyday if you are not there" was considered respectable enough a reason to chuck a great job you still couldn't believe anyone could be dumb enough to offer you. End of the course and barring a few casualties to PhD and laziness, the various camps went to their respective cities pretty much intact. Bengaluru wale (Bengalurueans?) settled in their city (which means they cribbed about the traffic, the cost of everything and local language problems) and Punites settled in theirs (incessant rain, pothole paved roads and rickshawalas from hell for them). Life went on for everyone, with occasional conference calls between the two camps in which everyone spoke at once but no one had anything to say.
One fine day one brilliant Punite had the idea of a trip to what was then Bangalore, to see how the other half of the world lived. Lets continue with our story without getting into specifically who she was. She mailed her folks to see if anyone was interested. Only one other was. Another brilliant Punite, you say? Lets just say his heart was in the right place. These two made plans. Oh yeah, big plans that involved air travel and holidays from office. Her brother was especially supportive of the air travel idea. She not at all secretly believed it was because once she went to what was then Bangalore by air just to meet her friends, no one would ever question his trips to his holy place, even if he said he was going to see off his colleague's roommate's sister's friend, who was going to Chennai for the weekend. A feasibility study followed by in depth research revealed that bus travel for the to journey and train for the fro would be optimal. She promised to book train tickets the very next day after the results were published and the bus tickets a little later. She told the Bengaluru camp she was coming and they made their share of big plans.
A lot happens between this point and the point that follows. However since absolutely none of it is related to the story at hand, we skip ahead after making the following assertions:
1. She did not book train tickets
2. She did not book bus tickets
3. She did not tell him she did not book the tickets
4. He did not ask
Skip to some Friday. The day they were supposed to leave for Bengaluru. She messages him.
She: I hope you are packed and ready. We are supposed to leave today, remember?
He: I am at the bus stop. Where are you?
She: At the railway station!
They laugh it off, hit upon another brilliant idea to go catch Vettaiyadu Vilayadu in the local theater next weekend and go on with their lives. If you want to ask her how she liked the movie, go and read the story again. You have completely missed the point.
If you think this was the worst anti-climax ever, go hit Monu!
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Nothing is free!
A recent addition to my extra curricular activities is reading Scott Adam's blog (yeah, the Dilbert guy). He writes every day, manages to make me smile on most days and laugh out loud on some. That guy is comic genius!
One of the recurring topics on his blog is that of "free will". Observing the behaviour of people around the world, he has apparently concluded that free will does not exist, that it is an illusion and loves to rub this in the face of his readers, who, as if on cue, get all worked up. Him and certain events have made me wonder - does free will really exist? My wonder does not extend to any deep, or for that matter shallow, philosophical level, but restrains itself to everyday life.
When you are young and foolish, you believe everything is possible. I am the captain of my fate, I am the master of my soul. Every road is there to be explored, every why to be answered by a why not. And if you don't find a road you like, why not make one of you own? Inevitable falls and bruises later, age and experience begin to take over. Risks no longer seem worth it since you have too much to lose. One by one the paths begin to fade until you see only one way - the safe way. And are convinced there is none other. Poof! There goes your free will. You are now a "moist robot", programmed by life to react in predictable ways to every situation. Living becomes routine and you are glad. The burden of choice is not easy to carry.
Apparently I don't write funny stuff anymore.
One of the recurring topics on his blog is that of "free will". Observing the behaviour of people around the world, he has apparently concluded that free will does not exist, that it is an illusion and loves to rub this in the face of his readers, who, as if on cue, get all worked up. Him and certain events have made me wonder - does free will really exist? My wonder does not extend to any deep, or for that matter shallow, philosophical level, but restrains itself to everyday life.
When you are young and foolish, you believe everything is possible. I am the captain of my fate, I am the master of my soul. Every road is there to be explored, every why to be answered by a why not. And if you don't find a road you like, why not make one of you own? Inevitable falls and bruises later, age and experience begin to take over. Risks no longer seem worth it since you have too much to lose. One by one the paths begin to fade until you see only one way - the safe way. And are convinced there is none other. Poof! There goes your free will. You are now a "moist robot", programmed by life to react in predictable ways to every situation. Living becomes routine and you are glad. The burden of choice is not easy to carry.
Apparently I don't write funny stuff anymore.
Words
Live and let die
Nothing lasts forever
Even cold November rain
Comfortably Numb
Never imagined these words would make sense, leave alone become the thread that one hangs by.
Nothing lasts forever
Even cold November rain
Comfortably Numb
Never imagined these words would make sense, leave alone become the thread that one hangs by.
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