Sojourns

Untitled

2010-07-12T23:34:00.003+05:30

I'm getting married, you say. You don't know how I'll take it. There's concern in your eyes. What do I see in them? Guilt? Apprehension? Years have gone by since the days we used to stare at each other's eyes without saying a word. And no words come to me now.

What do I say? What can I say? "That's great news!"? "Wow!"?

Suddenly those memories are back. A lonely, wind-lashed lighthouse and the rest of the picnic group far, far away. Just you and me and the sea, and the setting sun in the distance. Our favourite tree and that spot we thought nobody else knew about. Evenings spent in the breeze with those eavesdropping mosquitoes.

"Please don't go"? "Don't leave me"? That doesn't sound right. It doesn't sound fair.

I'm getting married, you say, again. And I think to myself, maybe in another life. And I smile my best fake smile and say, "congratulations".

Women's Day for the Everyday Woman

2010-03-08T10:32:00.001+05:30

She gets up earlier than everybody else in the house. It’s 5! I overslept again, she thinks. She wakes up the kids, gives them milk and makes tea for the others. Her morning is hectic to ensure that everybody else’s is perfect. Then, it’s running after the kids to hurry up — that school bus has to be caught. Sometimes, when the school bus leaves without the kids, she drops them to school. Then it’s breakfast for the husband, and if possible, some slices of bread for herself. Then, it’s a mad rush to get to the office in time. Corporate life does not recognize ‘kids missed the school bus’ as a valid excuse for coming late. Neither does office work. She works away, reports, presentations, deliverables, assignments. But some part of her mind is alert to the kids — they’ll be back soon. What snacks will they eat? They have to start studying as well. But still, the work doesn’t suffer. While the rest of us know about work from home, she homes from work. By the time it’s evening, it’s time to rush back home. Kids’ homework beckons. Their exams are approaching, too. She makes them study — Science, Maths, English, languages, she knows it all. She has to. Maybe she steals a moment to enjoy a cup of tea in the middle of it all. Then, it’s time to cook dinner. Husband will return soon. What do I make today? Something different. How about rajma? No, we had it just last week. Maybe some bhindi. Let me rush out and get it. No it’ll get too late. I’ll just make rajma... maybe a different preparation today. Husband returns. Dinner time. Now it’s time to pack off the kids to bed. Then she exchanges notes on the day with husband, but her eyes are shutting on her. 16 hours of non-stop work take their toll. She takes the days newspaper, but it goes to the stack unread, like most other days. TV, maybe? Eyes close further. I’m sorry, I wish I could pay more attention to how your day was at work. She hits the bed. Tomorrow’s another day, another battle, and yes, another victory.

She’s unsung, you won’t recognize her in a crowd. She’s not on TV, she’s not in the newspaper. She could be your mother, your sister, your wife or that neighbourhood aunty you’ve always admired. She’s that invisible fuel that keeps us running.

This Women’s Day, I salute the Everyday Woman. Without you, this world would have folded a long time ago.

random rainy days

2008-05-18T00:22:00.004+05:30

one day, as you look out at the rain
those memories will return
of a time that went by
of many laughters and tears
of conversations that knew not a beginning nor end
of several promises you made to yourself, but never expressed
of hopes and wishes and desires that remained hidden
of moments that stood still, and those that whizzed by
of a belief that something was forever
of unending days and nights just smiling for nothing
of realizing that this was life
of thinking that nothing else mattered
and then, one day, it just went away
where you had once laughed together
you cry alone
you tell yourself that some things are not meant to be
you decide to move on
and you move on.
you accept and understand
life goes on...
except on random rainy days.

Vis-a-vis

2008-04-01T20:45:00.006+05:30

The application form for a visa to a certain country asks applicants the following question:

Do you seek to enter Acirema to engage in export control violations, subversive or terrorist activities, or any other unlawful purpose? Are you a member or representative of a terrorist organization as currently designated by the Secretary of State? Have you ever participated in persecutions directed by the Nazi government of Germany; or have you ever participated in genocide?

Yes | No

I wonder what kind of person would say "Yes".

Everything-compliant

2008-03-18T00:22:00.008+05:30

I heard an ad on the radio the other day, about some high-rise apartment complex. In the beginning, there was nothing really special about it. The same old blah about greenery, swimming pools, solitude, etc. etc. And then, it came. The house was, hold your breath, 100% "Vaastu-compliant". Oh. My. God.

I guess it's good to be "compliant", these days. But before we get Vaastu-compliant, I think there are several other areas where we show our "compliance". (I first wrote "compliancy", in a fit of dictionary non-compliance.)

Yes, here's a list of compliances we possess:

1) Corruption-compliant
2) Terrorism-compliant
3) Not-getting-what's-our-right-compliant
4) Existing-not-living-compliant
5) Doing-what-we-have-to-do-not-what-we-want-to-do-compliant
6) No-complaint-compliant
7) Everything-that's-wrong-compliant
.
.
etc.

Everything's wrong. So be it. Tathaastu. We're Tathaastu-compliant -- Vaastu comes later. I think I figured it out. We're just compliance-compliant.

And yes, you figured it out. I am joblessness-compliant.

Studies show...

2008-02-26T02:11:00.004+05:30

...that people come up with the most ridiculous things to conduct surveys about. I remember recently reading about a survey that illustrated salient features about a matter of grave national importance. If you're a heart patient, stop here.

The survey described, with the help of colourful pie charts, how our population was using its arms while driving. 80.437847930247% percent of women surveyed drove with both their hands on the wheel. This figure could be very significant - if you figure out how or why, do let me know. If you're done digesting that staggering statistic, here's another. Only 30.623982713% percent of the male population drives with both its hands on the wheel. Again, something to ponder about as soon as you can get down to doing it. And that's not all, no sir! The survey then also listed, with the help of another pie chart, what the male population does with its other arm while driving. This is how the responses panned out:

Resting on gear: 40%
Resting on window: 30%
Not resting anywhere in particulat: 15%
Am I really answering questions about this??? : 15%

This is classified information so please do not disclose to anyone, even if they desperately need this information for a life-and-death situation. Apparently a lot of underworld gangs will pay big money for this data.

This survey has changed my life. It has opened my eyes to a whole new perspective, and I'm still trying to figure out what that is. I have become a better person. Thank you, survey-makers. I'm not sure what I would have done if you had not been there to provide answers to Life's enduring questions.

P.S.: Studies show that 100% of folks who read this post found it to be an utter waste of time. That's 100% of me.

Guess who's back!

2008-02-10T00:20:00.001+05:30

Hello. Warm and sincere greetings to those of you who still read my blog. A number which, at last count, was hovering tantalizingly close to zero. When it comes to my blog, I'm lazy, I'm irregular, I'm disorganized, I procrastinate. Wait, that's not just when it comes to my blog. Sounds like a pretty apt description of the way I lead my life.

Anyway, here's a resolution. I'm going log at least one post a week. I know there's a lotta stuff that circulates in my head, and it's now time to put fingertip to keypad (a modern-day version of "put pen to paper").

As always, comments and thoughts welome. I will also warmly accept all brickbats, iron rods, crowbars and other such multi-utility objects, and I won't object. If by some rare chance you want to send me a bouquet, I'll be around to catch it.

Wait, I forgot that nobody reads this blog. I'm talking to myself again. Damn.

the longer way

2007-06-30T23:39:00.000+05:30

i'm going home
taking the longer way
fresh rain has fallen
and the cold wind holds sway

my mind's a mist
of complicated things
of yesterdays gone by
and a today that clings

city lights refract
through drops which were once rain
twisted light through the windshield
shimmer on the window pane

blurred questions and answers
wreak havoc in my mind
some intangible thoughts
some feelings undefined

why do we have to explain?
why should i?
what if i don't want to follow
the "rules" we're needed to live by?

all i want is silence
there's really nothing to say
i'm going home
it's just... the longer way

What I'm not.

2006-12-27T00:04:00.000+05:30

I'm not:

able to cook.
a biker dude.
particularly brave.
extremely strong.
fit at all.
very tall.
vegetarian.
super-cool, with long hair.
into trance.
capable of changing a car tyre by myself.
too religious.
understood instantly.
tatooed.
the experimenting type.

lying.

Be Yourself

2006-12-26T14:02:00.000+05:30

Someone falls to pieces
Sleeping all alone
Someone kills the pain
Spinning in the silence
To finally drift away
Someone gets excited
In a chapel yard
And catches a bouquet
Another lays a dozen
White roses on a grave

Yeahhh...

And to be yourself is all that you can do
Heyyyy...
To be yourself is all that you can do

Someone finds salvation in everyone
Another only pain
Someone tries to hide himself
Down inside himself he prays
Someone swears his true love
Until the end of time
Another runs away
Separate or united
Healthy or insane

And to be yourself is all that you can do(all that you can do)
Yeahhh...
To be yourself is all that you can do(all that you can do)
To be yourself is all that you can do(all that you can do)
Heyyyy...
Be yourself is all that you can do

Even when you've paid enough
Been pulled apart or been held up
Every single memory of the good or bad
Faces of luck
Don't lose any sleep tonight
I'm sure everything will end up alright
You may win or lose..

But to be yourself is all that you can do
Yeahhh...
To be yourself is all that you can do

Ohhhh...
To be yourself is all that you can do(all that you can do)
ohhhh...
To be yourself is all that you can do(all that you can do)
To be yourself is all that you can--
Be yourself is all that you can--
Be yourself is all that you can do

Thank you, Audioslave.

Chairy Blossom? Yeah right.

2006-10-30T01:11:00.000+05:30

Ok, did you know what an intricate, complex and nuanced science buying a chair is? I found out the hard way; you just can't do it in one "sitting".

I thought it would be easy. I sauntered in to the furniture store with the air of someone who had come to buy a toothbrush. Hell, no. There are many varieties of chairs. Some swivel, some don't swivel. [I swivelled so much in one to test it, I almost felt like a revolutionary.] Some can be moved up and down, as in, the height can be adjusted. No, I didn't mean that they can be used as weights. One chair looked identical to another, but there was a difference of a thousand bucks in their prices. I then learnt that chairs too have that enigmatic attribute that most costlier things have - "Much Better Quality", sometimes also referred to as "Much Longer Lasting" and "Superior Technology".

It didn't help that the attendant kept disappearing to help other customers. Why couldn't the owner (I suppose we can also call him the chair-man) hire some more people to handle store visitors? I mean, you'd expect that atleast at a furniture store, attendants would be crawling out of the, well, wood-work. Hah, not this store.

So I was left to my own devices. I sat on some, wheeled around on some, reclined on some. But I didn't like anything. They were too freakin' complicated for me. Not to mention expensive. I couldn't stand it any more [metaphorically, not literally].

I walked back home, with hardly any cheer and certainly no chair. I entered my room, and looked at my Neelkamal plastic chair. There it was. No fuss, no frills. So what if it's slightly uncomfortable, alleast it's sturdy, and of course, it was cheap. Ergonomical might be good, but at the moment, I'd still go with economical!

This post was sponsored by Neelkamal Chairs:

Neelkamal Chairs - Supporting posteriors for centuries.

The Tipping Point

2006-10-26T23:50:00.000+05:30

"What??? You're leaving that much! You must be a millionaire!"

"Don't be a cheap-ass. Leave some more."

Yes, of course you've recognized the essence of this post. That question that circles in your mind when you're paying the bill at restaurant/cafe/bar/pub - "How much do I tip?"

Tipping is a much researched science. Different countries have different conventions regarding it. When I went to the US, I noticed that there, tipping is big. You gotta tip everywhere. To a taxi, to a porter, to an usher, to the delivery guy. Everywhere. We were most confused each time with how much to tip. Various travel books advised various figures. "10% of the bill amount", said one. "Not a cent less than 15.6%", said another. "18.443% or nothing!", said the third. We were quite lost each time the bill arrived. More than the amount, it was how much we had to tip that worried us.

There are so many complication involved with tipping, it's just strange. When the bill arrives, you first check to see if there is a service charge. If there is, here's a tip: Don't tip. Atleast that's what I do (or don't do). At pubs, there's almost always a service tax, so folks usually don't tip. Unless, of course, they're feeling, well, tip-sy.

Once you've negotiated that tricky question of whether you want to tip at all, you think you're done? Think again, my friend. That's just the, well, tip of the iceberg. Next question - How much to tip? Question 3 - Add it to the credit card bill or pay in cash? Man, sometimes I feel like you need a manual for this.

However, what I really feel is that there shouldn't be any "rules" for this. You should give how much feels right on your heart, and on your hip pocket. :-) And nothing should be expected of the customer. I believe that if people genuinely appreciate any kind of service rendered to them, they will tip on their own, depending on what they can afford.

Of course, if you don't agree at all with the "tipping" ideology, you can use an approach that some people use - Pay the exact amount on the bill (to the third decimal point), and when noone's looking, sneak out. It may be necessary to "tip"-toe.

Unfinished Stories

2006-10-21T00:25:00.000+05:30

"Na jaane koi
kaisi hai yeh zindagaani
zindagaani...
hamaari adhuri kahani"

This post doesn't really have any logical beginning, or a logical end. This song from Gangster, with its haunting tune (which is actually from an equally amazing Bengali rock song), has touched a raw nerve. And I thought I'd write about it.

Do you have an unfinished story in your life? A path that you went some distance on, and then, due to reasons beyond your control, couldn't go any further?

I do. And sometimes, "what if..." questions raise a cacophony in my head. Thinking about what might have been can have a multitude of reactions. You can laugh out loud, be scared shitless, sigh with relief, seethe with anger, break into a smile, or sometimes, just break down.

The saddest part is, usually, there's nothing you can do, but think. Perhaps we should have "What-If" consoles. You type in an alternative scenario, and the console shows you what life would have been like then.

But nah, that wouldn't be nice. That takes away the best part from unfinished stories. Which is that, in your head, you can complete them the way you want. But hurry, you don't have much time. Reality is usually around the corner.

An Evening to Remember

2006-10-14T01:24:00.000+05:30

Just came back from a cultural programme organized by the Employee Club of my company. It was a spectacular evening. People danced, sang, played instruments, acted, mimicked, and brought the house down. Then there was the audience that laughed, sang along, applauded, shouted, hooted, catcalled. I was part of a group that sang a medley of old Hindi songs on stage. I also sang Roobaroo, with the band. It was a helluva lot of fun.

And that got me thinking (what doesn't, did you ask?).

There was such a lot of talent, everywhere. Flawless renditions of rock classics, hilarious spoof scripts, pop numbers delivered with elan, dance moves executed to perfection. All reinforced my belief that somewhere, hidden beneath the humdrum of everyday life, perhaps buried under responsibilities and duties and commitments, there was a spark waiting to reveal itself to the world.

And for those four hours, sparks were everywhere. The idea was to have fun, to destress, to enjoy a sparkling evening. And that's what happened. For days beforehand, people had put in a tremendous amount of effort to make the items happen. And the enthusiasm showed. Nay, it flowed.

For those four hours, the outside world was forgotten.

And I think, somehow, in the relentless march of everyday life, somewhere, hidden beneath cooking for the household, getting the kids ready for school, discussing finances with the wife, there is a person who can sing really well, who can dance awesome, who can play the guitar... Who would love to stay till midnight at the concert screaming her lungs out, but can't. Because routine life beckons...

Everywhere, people are living their routine lives. They may not hate it, but sometimes, like today, there might have been some who felt, for a couple of hours, that life could have been a little different, perhaps... But when the evening ended, those thoughts went back to their remote dark corners, to be reflected upon again when life took its next break from everyday.

Change

2006-09-12T16:41:00.000+05:30

Ever wondered about how things change?

A recent visit to a favourite Aunt's place set this thought off in my head. This Aunt was the one of the bubbliest, crazy, over-the-top people I knew. She was never dull, never dejected, and certainly never disheartened. This, in spite of some unbelieavably tough moments that life has given her. The fact that she managed to be so perked at all times was something I was always awed by.

When I went to her visit her this time, there was a perceptible change in her appearance. The hair had greyed, the specs looked thicker, and in general, age was having a marked effect on her visage.

I was, frankly, a little taken aback. But it is my fault, really. I was expecting to see the same vibrant, verbose person I had met quite a few years ago. Obviously, that could not be.

Thankfully, not much of the personality had changed. There was still that sense of humour, albeit with a tinge of apprehension because she wasn't sure whether the jokes were funny any more, there still was that cackle of a laugh, and most importantly, that spirit to live life and love it still burned, although there were always some moments when it felt like that flame had been a lot stronger once.

"Do you know who I am?"

2006-07-28T12:11:00.000+05:30

No, don't be mistaken into thinking I'm the son of a super-rich bureaucrat which powerful political connections. The only connection I have is a rather unreliable Reliance one for my cell phone. Hardly political, as you can figure.

This post is about the people who use this phrase to get their way in every aspect of life. Star kids, offspring of politicians, beaurocrat progeny, industrialist heirs - it's usually someone from this set of mega-rich, mega-powerful folk that misuses power.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not painting all of them with the same brush. I know everyone would not the same. Unfortunately, one tends to remember only the negative stuff.

An innocent women is shot point blank in a restaurant with forty people looking on. The people in the restaurant want to call the police, but are petrified into a meek silence, because the murderer says - "You're in big trouble if you squeal on me. Do you know who I am?"

The son of a politician zips around town in his swanky new BMW. His friends, all from the same super-high socio-economic status, and each with an expensive, foreign brand of beer in his hand, enjoy the blaring music that heralds their presence on the road. Not just the road, the footpath is their territory as well. Since they rule the space, how dare a poor, homeless beggar sleeping on the pavement come in the way of their drunken revelry? They run over him, crushing him to death. The car speeds away. But an alert onlooker notes the registration number. Sadly, the rich son has Daddy to get him out of trouble. The onlooker's eyewitness account never gets heard in a courtroom.

It just saddens me. But, like I said earlier, there are always incidents that give you hope. There is still some good going around!

A filmstar's car accidentally hits a cyclist on a turn. The star himself rushes the victim to the hospital, and stays till he is sure that the injured person is out of danger. This story always warms my heart. In this case, I can almost imagine the filmstar saying to the hospital administration - "Do you know who I am?", but this to get them to move faster with their treatment. That is an instance of clout being used for a positive outcome. And it does happen.

Finally, how about an instance when this statement is used to get out of a tricky situation?

A student was writing an examination in a classroom. The external examiner announces that the time is up. Everyone else gives in their sheets, but this one student continues writing. The examiner says, "OK, that's it! Anyone who doesn't submit their answer sheets now does not get to submit them at all!". Our friend just continues writing. The examiner gives him a cold stare, and then decides that he will not accept his sheet, even when he does come to submit it. After about ten minutes of leisurely writing, this student finally comes to submit his answer script. The examiner flatly refuses to take it, and calmly taps his finger on the stack of answer scripts the other students have submitted. The student pleads, and then pleads some more. The examiner is unrelenting. Then, the student says, "Do you know who I am?". The examiner, not one to succumb to political pressure, replies, "I don't know, and I don't care." The student smiles, places his sheet somewhere randomly in the middle of the stack of papers, and runs out of the room.

Hob-Knobbing

2006-07-28T12:06:00.000+05:30

[This is a piece of absolute nonsense I wrote for my college journal a long, long time ago. While my other posts are under construction, bore yourself with this one.]

This is a woeful tale. You may have shed buckets of tears by the time you’re done. Or may have kicked the bucket itself. In fact, the bucket plays a pivotal role in this story. This is the saga of the H and the C, those things that you turn in the bathroom, when you want to get the filth off you, or soon after it’s out of you, as the case may be. But this epic piece of literature is “awash” with questions.

Left Or Right? What an innocuous little query. It could be asked to elicit political leanings from the replier (a word I made up specifically for the occasion), or infinitely more importantly, to find out the way to the nearest bar. It could be asked to avoid collision with a speeding bus, or, quite interestingly, with the intention of getting thrown out of Marching School. But I, on the other hand, ask myself that question, every time I’m inside the confines of an unfamiliar loo.

H and C - those critical carriers of knowledge embossed on water-knobs all over the world. The knobs may themselves be gold or plastic, round or square, but the letters are always there. Ay, there’s the rub. They’re always there, true. But how accurate they are, if at all, is anybody’s guess. I have fool-proof (and water-proof) evidence to believe that this is a problem that many Indians face. Therefore, my grouse, as reason enough for an article, does hold water.

Simply put, it’s this. Which of the blasted rotating things dispenses hot water, and which one cold? For the information of those in the habit of pointing out how stupid I am (that is, most of humanity), let me reiterate that I know H and C are there for precisely that purpose. But however, dear learned friends and co-bathers, more often than not, the information is misleading, as it eventually “turns” out.

How often have you, in a bathroom not your own, been in for a rude shock when boiling hot water comes out when you were all ready for that lovely cool shower? Believe me, it’s a burning issue. It’s happened to me enough number of times to warrant lamenting. Immediately after, when I look at the wretched knobs with sunken heart and scalded skin, I can almost hear H telling C in unconcealed and unapologetic glee, “Yet another steamy scene! Now that’s what I call a fitting reply!” How I hate Sknobs!

Others have also narrated similar experiences. One such was of the shower with both Cs, in a bathroom that was somewhere in chilly Shimla. It may not exactly have been a mistake. Perhaps it was a discreet way of giving you the cold shoulder.

Remedies are hard to come by. One could be to have a dry run, literally. Observe the water fall harmlessly to the ground, and then, if things don’t cool down or heat up as per your desire, proceed to control the knobs, now with the power of knowledge. Don’t forget to look smugly at the knobs and say “Nice try”, though. Buckets can also be used to do the dirty work, it gets them “brimming” with confidence. No guarantees, however.

Sometimes I feel (to the pleasure of all family counselors I’m sure), that I should discuss my problem with my parents. I suggest this method to all. It really makes you feel better once you share whatever it is that is bothering you with your family, especially when you’re in hot water. Believe me, they usually know which knob (or ear) to twist.

Thus it was that I asked my dad what exactly is the secret to a great bath, or at least a water-temperature that is in line with expectations. He looked at me, no doubt pleased that I had become mature enough to seek answers to the great questions of Life, the Universe and Everything. And then he said, in a voice that didn’t exactly sound like that of a proud father, “Go study for your exams”.

Not to be disheartened, I recently went to Iraq to find out more. After all, its home to the Baathist Party. But as it happens, the only knobs they know about are those that control cylinders full of Nerve Gas. Not too helpful.

My quest for the Ultimate Truth continues. Someday, I will know. And when I have gathered all the knowledge, rest assured, I will come clean.

It will be my water, and my loo. But not my Waterloo.

Cinematic Refuse

2006-06-27T20:19:00.000+05:30

Sometimes, you just wish you were someplace else. That was the overriding emotion last night when I went to watch a piece of trash called Date Movie. I mean, superlatives would come up short if I were to describe how bad this movie is. Sometimes, you wonder why people do the things they do. I wondered how any director in his right mind could hope that such a movie would be anything but a super-resounding, stinking flop.

I'm a reasonable chap. Bad movies I can tolerate. But not bad movies, that are also simultaneously gross, disgusting, sick, crappy, unfunny, shocking and offensive are a little too much to handle. I mean, what the hell was that? Didn't the geezers who made this garbage not see it themselves first?

The US should close the torture chambers at Guantanamo Bay. Make those poor prisoners watch Date Movie. They'll break in a jiffy. But I'm guessing the UN Human Rights Commission will never allow it.

Flashes of Sincerity

2006-06-23T18:20:00.000+05:30

Today, when I was coming to work, I saw a traffic officer controlling rowdy traffic at a snarling crossing. What was special, you may ask. The officer was a lady, and she went about her work with such gusto and determination, I experienced some mysterious feeling of happiness. I don't know, maybe it's something to do with the fact that it was so heartwarming to see someone going about her job with so much sincerity.

Have you ever seen flashes of sincerity? When you give your sandals for repair and the cobbler gets lost in a world of his own, trying to make them as good as new for you. Or when your office boy cleans the obscurest corners of your desk, places where no one will even notice the dirt. They don't do it for the money. I mean, of course, it's their livelihood, but more than that, it's their feeling of responsibility. When you see someone put their heart and soul into something, it feels nice. Why does it feel nice? I don't really know. Maybe because we've begun to expect lethargy, half-heartedness and dishonesty in everything. We expect (probably because we ourselves put in) half-baked, just-about-as-much-as-necessary effort. So when you see someone going all the way and seeing their responsibility through to perfect completion, you feel pretty darn good.

Maybe that's why, when I saw the lady traffic officer rule roaring trucks with the palm of her hand, and take pride in her effort, I was filled with some vague feeling of hope. All is not lost. No way.

un-Fair and Lovely

2006-06-15T12:22:00.000+05:30

I've been meaning to write about this for a really long time. I'm really concerned about which century some people think they live in.

Have you seen the fairness cream ads that have been playing on TV? I can't believe that such balderdash is actually allowed to go on air. I mean, what is that s**t?

Apparently, powered with fairness cream, women can reach the pinnacles of human achievement. Potential husbands are all over them, they become commmentators for cricket matches overnight, film directors jump with unalloyed glee when they see them walking on the street. That's not all! Coming soon - The Fairness Cream Girls will be seen: conquering Mt. Everest, doing the salsa on the moon (without oxygen), building the first ever Time Machine (to transport them back to the present day from the 'Dark Ages'), and many more such wondrous feats that are only possible when you apply generous amounts of fairness cream.

And recently, I heard an ad on the radio that really took the cake. Believe it or not, there is now something called a Fairness Meter which actually measures your complexion. I guess it's a device that tells you that you are 8.56645 on the Fairness Index, so you know you have a superior complexion, maybe to help you achieve a superiority complex. Boy, has science taken us places or what.

At the end of the day, I know that in spite of everything, people still buy the stuff. Heck, even men are buying fairness cream. But I can't help thinking, doesn't this encourage discrimination and inequality? When you say that you can do big things if you're of a fair complexion, don't you say that if you're dark, you're doomed? Is that a message we want to send out to the people? Our aim should be to be as progressive as we can, and shun anything that holds us back from advancement, especially those ideas that became obsolete in the 19th century.

On the other hand, if you can't be strong enough to put an end to the propagation of such retrograde concepts, then don't be hypocritical either - don't push for greater benefits for the backward classes when you're doing nothing about mass media propaganda that encourages people to stay backward.

Crash

2006-05-27T17:00:00.000+05:30

[Drumroll]

Your worst fears have come true. No, George Bush is not running for a third term. I am back in Bangalore, and back in Blogsphere!

I was away on a trip that was out-of-this-world (idiomatically speaking, of course). Lots of pics and descriptions of all the places I visited coming soon to a browser near you.

But first, a little story.

My manager in the USA was paying a visit to our office in Bangalore. Being the quintessential Indian hosts, we decided to receive him at the airport. 'We' is Pallu, Amathai and me.

Here in Bangalore, for all such occasions, and many more occasions, we use "Cab services". The taxi system is slightly different here than what it is in Bombay, Delhi or Calcutta. You don't hail one yellow-black vehicle on the road. You "book" one. That conjures up an image of a swanky sedan will ACs and DVD players at the back. Hah. The taxis usually are Maruti Omnis (yes, the nearly extinct, prehistoric Maruti Vans), although the car should be called Maruti Omen, because travelling in them can be a very bad omen. We found out the hard way.

So Pallu and I were sitting at the back, enjoying a nice nighttime ride in Bangalore. Pallu pointed out to me in the rear view mirror that our driver seemed to be falling asleep. His eyes seemed to be under an extraordinary force of gravity. However, it also seemed that one eye of his was smaller than the other. Pallu also mentioned to me that since morning she had a premonition that "something was going to happen". I thought to myself that was quite impossible, simply because in my life, nothing happens. So we just continued in the car.

We picked up Amathai from close to his place, and then we turned into the driveway of Bangalore Airport. And then it happened.

It retrospect, I feel it's quite strange how accidents happen just in nanoseconds. Our driver probably couldn't resist lalaland any more and hit a parked car on the left. I was lunged forward and my legs were caught in a weird angle between my seat and the one in front. Amathai was in the passenger seat in front, the area of maximum impact. And Pallu's face hit the front seat.

Amathai is a 6 footer. The front part of the car had just caved in. So he was stuck. Pallu's nose was bleeding profusely. Thankfully, I could move, and wasn't too badly hurt, though my leg and back ached quite bad. The driver was nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, Mr. Driver reappeared. Picture the scene. There was 3 hurt people in a mangled car, of which atleast 1 seriously. What does the driver come back to the car for? His radio, of course! I mean, c'mon, what is more critical? The lives of 3 people, or a car radio? Duh, the radio, obviously. With the impact, the radio and its wires were dangling outside, and kindly entwined with Amathai's leg. Mr. Driver a.k.a. The Slumberjack decided that he could not possibly flee the scene leaving his radio in disarray. So he pulled and tugged at his radio in an effort to yank it loose, not too worried even if some human limbs came off along with it. Mission accomplished, Sleepy Hollow disappeared again.

Amathai managed to come out of the car. Pallu was bleeding real bad, but was talking coherently. I'm amazed with the girl. I mean, even in that condition, she showed more presence of mind than I did. (Of course, in my case, it's a well known fact that there is no presence of a mind).

Pallu rested her head on my lap in an effort to stop the bleeding. I had already given her my hanky. Amathai, limping around, made some calls. By now we were in the midst of The Great Indian Accident Scene. A crowd had gathered. People were offering everything from advice to water. Some just looked on sympathetically. In other circumstances, I might have felt like a celebrity. In this situation, I just felt like a Crash Test Dummy.

Someone called an ambulance. But it was learnt from reliable sources that it would be some time coming. After some deliberation, where again, Madame Pallu showed amazing alertness, all 3 of us were in an auto headed for Manipal Hospital.

At the hospital, as the doctors tended to Pallu, I commenced on the all-important task: form-filling. And boy, do they make them detailed. I'm sure they have their reasons, so don't "form" an opinion based on what I'm saying, but it is a pain to have to fill all that information in and such a tense time.

After all the paperwork was settled, Amathai and I went to do what we had originally started out for, receive KC, our manager. Hoping that he had still not come out, we reached the airport. I didn't find a car from his hotel waiting for him, so I called the Hotel to ask them where the hell it was. I was politely informed that KC had already checked in to the hotel.

We went to meet him there, and to explain what had happened. After that, I felt hungry. Aha, I'm sure you're asking the question a lotta people wanna ask but don't, out of sheer politeness: "How on earth could you feel hungry after all that????" To which I answer that, as far as appetizers go, there's nothing like a good accident. ;-)

After we ate something, I booked a cab from the hotel itself to take us to our respective homes. And all through the journey, I engaged the driver in lively conversation about Kannada movies to make sure that he didn't fall asleep.

Pallu's X-Ray showed a fracture in her nose. She stayed in hospital till the next morning, after which she was ok to go home, though surgery was a possibility.

It was a crazy night. Each time I think about it, I think how much worse it could have been, and how lucky we were. The car we were in was a wreck. Absolutely totalled. If it had been another spot, a higher speed, maybe some oncoming traffic, and you probably wouldn't be reading this now.

Where the hell have I disappeared?

2006-05-06T10:32:00.000+05:30

On a holiday with family. That's why the hiatus on my posting, and the calm in blogsphere. Once I'm back from vacation, I'll write an account of all the places that I've visited. So if you were beginning my celebrate my exit from blogland, I'm sorry you'll have to uncork the champagne at a later time. ;-)

Quality Walls

2006-04-22T16:55:00.000+05:30

I've begun to carry my camera around. Be afraid, be very afraid.

Everytime I see this message at Transit (the food court) in the Forum Mall (Bangalore's hottest weekend hangout), I can't help but smile. This time, I thought I'd click it so everyone else can smile as well!

What this means is that if you walk into Transit with a burger from 'outside', the burger will be put on trial, and if convicted, thrown into jail. And boy, then it'll be one 'cheesed'-off burger.

Took this at a spot very close to my office. If there isn't enough iron in your diet, The Andhra Mesh is probably where you should eat. ;-)

Landlords, Autorickshaws and FM Radio

2006-04-19T13:46:00.000+05:30

[Even though I'm not a student any more, I've written this for my college magazine. Don't be surprised if you also read it there, though chances of it getting published are slim.]

After four years of absolute bliss in Manipal, any normal person will approach living in an entirely new city with trepidation. (I hereby claim to be a normal person; I challenge anyone to an open debate on the issue.) I mean I’ve lived the most unbelievable portion of my life at Manipal. While leaving Manipal and going anywhere else is tough, let me narrate my experience in moving to, and working in, Bangalore.

During my first 15 days at Bangalore, I lived like a king. I was put up at the company guesthouse, but it wasn’t a “house” at all; it was a palace. A service apartment, with everything from a toaster to washing machine, was my home. The food was free, and life was good. After those 15 days of heaven, it was time to move to a place of my own. I didn’t have too much of a problem finding a house. A colleague was looking for a flat mate, and I was looking for a flat, so it clicked wonderfully. I was very, very lucky.

Normally, to find a decent, affordable house to live in, you have to go “flat” out. You might find a ceiling under which you think you can live, but you’ll soon also learn that there is no ceiling to the amount the landlord will ask for as rent. And then, when you hear the deposit you have to shell out, you’ll definitely hit the roof. Usually, haggling doesn’t help too much. Landlords aren’t very, well, accommodating.

But living in a house, and taking care of it, is a whole new experience for me. Washing utensils, paying the electricity bills, buying shoe racks, going curtain-shopping, bathroom cleaning, it’s a whole new world out there. However clean you think your house is, there’s always broom for improvement. On the other hand, if you want to keep a maid, you have to be a very calculating individual. The logic circuits in my brain go haywire while I try to figure out how many days she didn’t come, so that much can be cut from her pay. If you want your math to improve, employ household help.

I read somewhere that Bangalore has the lowest road accident rate in the country. No prizes for guessing why – because nothing moves. Trust me, the traffic is so stationary, it’s a moving sight. It is rumoured that Steven Soderbergh thought up his movie “Traffic” while travelling on M.G. Road at peak office hours.

I lead a very ‘Auto’-mated life, since ricks are my mode of transport. And boy, do they rule the roads! You have no option but to “hail” an auto. Usually, you have to stop one, politely ask the driver where he is going, and timidly sit inside if his destination matches yours. Most often, it won’t. Don’t lose hope; another auto will soon come along. This one will ask for “one-and-a-half”. Don’t worry; it’s not people he’s referring to. Pay 1.5 times the fare on the meter, and enjoy yourself while you’re taken for a ride.

It was tough living here in the beginning, and I was very anti-Bangalore. Then one day, as a bolt from the blue, I realized why I was so bitter. I just miss Manipal, where an auto ride can never cost more than twenty bucks, where you don’t have to worry about where you stay and what rent you pay, where cows constitute the only traffic hazard, from where both the hills and the sea are easy getaways. Therefore, in contrast, Bangalore seemed like hell, when in reality, the problems I face here I’ll probably have to tackle in any other bustling metropolis.

I’m reasonably happy now, here. I have friends to be with, and places to chill out at after a hectic week at work. Above all, there is one small thing that I treasure most. I take a walk sometimes while it rains; the soft, unobtrusive rain that I’ve seen only in Bangalore. FM radio plays in my ear, and more often than not, some great tracks are on air. It’s a lovely feeling. For those few moments, I forget about the traffic, about the autos, about the bad roads, and about the house that needs to be cleaned when I get back home.

Winds of Change

2006-04-17T19:36:00.000+05:30

Nope, it's not about the song, though someday I will write something about how much I love it.

It's about the heavenly weather that we Bangaloreans have been enjoying the past coupla days. It's been raining, and it's been bliss. Particularly last night, while we sat outdoors waiting to go in for a movie (Coming Soon - my $0.02 on the flick) the 8pm breeze was just, well, mind-blowing.

It's amazing how the weather can actually ignite thoughts in you. For example, I'm quite sure, that on an unbelievably pleasant late evening like yesterday's, not too many folks walking outdoors would have thought of the impending Monday and the inevitable start of a new work-week. The first thought that came to me was... well, never mind. [Suitably cryptic that, what say?]

It was the perfect time for chai [Tea, in English] and chaat [chaat, in English] which is precisely what I had. What I like about Bangalore (among other things) is the soft rain that causes no hindrance to the continuity of life. It falls, and along with it, so does the temperature, but life goes on. People don't scurry for shelter, and shop facades aren't suddenly barricaded by people seeking protection from getting drenched.

All in all, yesterday was a wonderful time to be outside the confines of house, PG, hostel or hotel, and for some, home. After the unusually hot last coupla weeks, the rains were a welcome change. As the fresh wind blew, it kinda seemed, just for a bit, that everything was alright.

The Hair and the Tortoise

2006-04-13T10:47:00.001+05:30

I just came back from a short but thouroughly enjoyable trip to Hyderabad. A blow-by-blow account of that later. First, let me tell you about my haircut - an experience that was, well, hair-razing.

I wanted to leave to the airport to catch my flight to Hyd by 11.15am, and by 10 I had finished packing, so I thought I'd do the world a favour and get a hair cut, because, apparently, the Amazon rainforest on my head was causing antagonism among the masses. Somebody had remarked that if I cut my hair, it might wipe out the civilization living inside, but some things just had to be done.

So I walked into the salon (that makes it sound like a posh, high-end joint, when in reality it was a hole-in-the--wall barber shop) at 10am. There was one empty hair-cutting chair, so I sat on it. That was the beginning of the end.

The barber at work on my hair wasn't, with no offence to the hair-cutters' fraternity in general, "cut out" to be a barber. Maybe The Creator messed up His paperwork a little bit and this guy was given a human form, although documents now available clearly show he was slated to become a snail.

This guy was SLOW. So slow, I think time stood still while he cut my hair. All through this barbar-ic act I sat in front of the mirror and was forced to, well, reflect. It seemed to me that when, or rather, if, I ever walked out of the door of this shop, I'd see a whole new world. Everything would have changed - Martians roaming around, people commuting in air-cars, folks reading electronic newspapers... Maybe the flyover being constructed outside my place would also be ready, though that was, admittedly, stretching it.

The problem with haircuts is, if you get totally pissed off in the middle and just wanna walk out in a huff, guess what, you can't. Not unless you want to look like you got pissed off in the middle of your haircut and walked out in a huff. So, I sat, and wondered - why couldn't haircuts be automated, and handled by robots? That, in my view, would be "cutting-edge" technology.

Thankfully, the owner of the place also realized that The Eternal Haircut package had to be scrapped. In a fit of fury, he ordered someone else to continue with my hair. This other guy, in a bid to prove to how quick he was, accidentally caused a small bruise on my neck. Talk about cut-throat competition.

But finally, it was over. I expected to not be asked to pay for my ordeal, but no such luck. Went home, and left for the airport, reaching just in time for the flight.

All in all, it was a bad hair day.

Meanderings

2006-04-06T18:59:00.000+05:30

I've been in some sort of philosophical mood of late. Actually, I'm slightly confused about what being 'philosophical' really means. The moment I delve deeper into people and happenings more than what society budgets for, do I, then, without losing another second, become 'philosophical'? Anyhow, I'll leave that for a later time.

I have a really close friend who is going through a slightly rough period in her life. While I have no doubt that she will pull through and all will be well again sooner or later, it does get me thinking. What, or, Who, determines what happens in our lives?

I have the following take on how our lives seemingly unfold before our eyes. I believe every moment is a forked road. You choose one path, and that determines what happens next, and at the next fork, you choose yet another path, and so on. The point is, you decide what path you take, and hence, you decide what happens to you next. Therefore whatever happens in your life is a consequence of a decision that you made at some previous instant in time.

So, you might ask, are 'Destiny' and 'Fate' a whole lotta bollocks? In my view, here's how they fit into the scheme of things. As I mentioned, you reach a forked road and you choose the future course - course means path, what a happy coincidence! - of your life. Destiny, in my view, is what brings you the choices, the paths, that you choose from. It's like you're walking on an unknown road, and suddenly you reach a point where three paths go in three different directions - Town A, City B and Village C. The choice of these three destinations was brought to you by Destiny. However, where you decide to go, is your decision, and within your control.

Since everything that happens to you is a result of a decision you've made, this leads to so many what-if scenarios. "What if I had left the party early and never met her?". "What if he hadn't been sitting next to me at the examination, would I have passed?" You wonder how life would would be now if you'd taken a different path at some moment in the past. It's something worth thinking about.

I don't know how much sense I make. My apologies if you're cursing your Destiny that you had to read this.

What you always wanted to know about everything but were afraid to ask

2006-04-05T16:06:00.000+05:30

I write this to bring to your attention a fantastic online service that I have been using for a while now - Wikipedia.

Most of you probably already know about this wonder of a website. It's been created "with the goal of providing free knowledge to every person in the world". And for once, that's not a platitude. I have searched here for information on topics ranging from Chicago to Area 51, and on each occasion have clicked the 'Close' button on my browser with a feeling of satisfaction, with a feeling that I've become a better person, with the feeling that I can change the world. Ok, ok, I'm getting emotional - cancel the last two feelings.

The concept is unique. The content can be updated or edited by almost anyone. (Why they say 'almost' is something I haven't been able to figure out. Maybe they don't allow people like me to contaminate their repository with jewels from my vacuum-like knowledge-base). Every little change is discussed, and, if approved, archived. What results, therefore, is an encyclopedia that provides brilliantly presented, amazingly accurate information, with thousands of little changes every hour constantly making it better.

This site can make millions with advertising. It has so much information that reaches to so many people and that can be linked to so many products, advertisers would pay good money to make their presence felt here. But, hold your breath, Wikipedia is non-profit. Yes, you heard right. They don't make money out of what they do. Donations from wondrous, wide-eyed users keep the service going. So I made a little donation (I'm embarassed to quote the paltry sum) because I'm a wondrous, wide-eyed user. I had to give something back to this!

Try it out for yourself. For starters, you could search for 'madness' and compare it with what you know of me. You won't be disappointed.

Heck, it sounds like a sales pitch. Heck, that's what I wanted.

The Weekend that Weakened

2006-04-04T10:14:00.000+05:30

Having partially recovered from a blitzkrieg of a weekend, I have found some strength to write about it. A friend, tired of the exciting life Chennai does not have to offer, came to Bangalore for a breath of fresh air, and (more than just) a swig of strong spirit. However, much before he descended on Namma Bengaluru, my weekend had already begun on Thursday, with the play that I've already talked about.

Friday - 31st March

Thought I'd not go to office and instead complete the million household tasks that hang like Damocles' sword over my forgettable existence. (Phew, one hell of a sentence, that!) One item on the to-do list was to get my watch repaired, and office falls conveniently on the way, so I visited office after all. Went to the watch repair shop in the afternoon, and deposited my watch for repair, only to find, when I went to pick it up, that there was nothing wrong with it in the first place. This was explained to me by the shop guy, who spoke to me like I was in desperate need of psychiatric attention. I guess I am, but I don't want random watch guys telling me that. Talk about comic 'timing'.

Went to Sigma Mall in the evening, where I saw a Nike T-Shirt that read "I scored last night". Drank some exotic tea at a place called Infinitea, on Cunningham Road. I had Blue Curacao Tea which was actually Green but it made me see Red and I wanted to beat up the waiter Black and Blue but I let the Golden opportunity go to waste. :-D Nah, I kid, I kid. The tea was good, the place was nice, and the company rocked. Thanks, R!

Friend from Chennai arrived late night. Went to Guzzlers' Inn to, well, guzzle. That was Pub 1 of 4 that weekend.

Saturday - 1st April

Watched 'V For Vendetta'. I liked it. It's very reminiscent of Orwell's 1984. Then went to good ol' Pecos to drink some lunch. For anybody, a trip to Bangalore is incomplete without a trip to Pecos! That was Pub 2 of 4.

A 'Purple Haze' enveloped us this Saturday night. I quite like the place. The good thing is they play contemporary rock as well, not just the classic stuff. We didn't get a place right away, of course. That is unthinkable. Consumed some Gin with Mango Juice. I loved it when they played 'Iris'. Been a while since I heard that, and it somehow makes a lot more sense now. Long Circulate the Purple Haze! Pub 3 of 4.

4 people crashed in my room for one that night. The room looked like a Disaster Area the next morning.

Btw, pardon my jarring, staccato narration.

Sunday - 2nd April

Spent the morning all by myself in my room, a rare occurence considering the refugee area it was the previous night.

A McDonald's lunch happened, where, I realized, that I was eating too regularly there, and have to give it a break. Caught 'Capote' in the afternoon. I won't say I didn't like it, but if it weren't for the fact that I recommended it and pushed for it, I might have complained it was too long.

Nitin (the mysterious 'friend from Chennai' who keeps popping up in the narrative) had to socialize with some more with folks in Bangalore. That continued till evening, and then we hit Tavern, Pub 4 of 4. Downed some beer, and Nitin was all set for the journey back.

Came back and logged out from life for 8 hrs till the next morning.

Chapter 2

2006-03-30T23:55:00.000+05:30

Just watched a play called 'Chapter 2'. It's written by Neil Simon, and was performed by a Chennai-based group called Evam. I've been involved with theatre in a big way at college, and have in particular worked on a Neil Simon play. There was no way in world I was going to miss this.

It's about relationships. Nah, wait a bit. That makes it sound like a heavy emotional drama. It's not. 'Chapter 2' is a wonderful comedy, with sizzling wit and crackling dialogue. And, like all Neil Simon plays, it carries a message.

It was nicely done. The cast consists of all of four people. The acting was good, and soft music at apt moments kinda lit up the play for me. Sets were elaborate and appropriate, a rare combination. Forgive this rather un-layman analysis, I like to believe (wrongly, perhaps) that I have a discerning eye for theatre!

The play's about believing that love doesn't happen just once. You get hurt, you get shattered. But don't think it's the end of the world. There can always be a Chapter 2.

That's a nice thought, isn't it?

Big Eating in Little Italy

2006-03-29T15:30:00.000+05:30

I just came back (actually, I came back 5 hours ago, but it still feels like 5 minutes) from an eating experience not bound by the limits of mortal existence. In short, I just consumed a divine meal.

Three colleagues of mine, Hungry, Famished, Starved (not their real names) and me descended on a restaurant called Little Italy in Indiranagar for lunch today. Before I continue, let me state that this is an Italian restaurant with a twist - it's vegetarian.

I'm as much of a non-veggie as the next person. But this place, Little Italy, had me sold on it, Big Time. I ordered a drink called Lava Flow; a heavenly concoction of strawberry crush, pineapple juice, coconut milk and cream. Then, Rima (her real name), the only one of us who'd been to this place before, ordered something called Tobasco Pizza. I'm convinced it tasted better than any pizza I've ever had, Veggie or otherwise.

I'm not narrating the events in chronological order. But it doesn't matter. We ordered the main course, a task which in itself was quite tricky because there were so many pastas/pizzas to choose from. I had a pasta called Something Something Gorgonzoyle. It was out of this world (you kinda get the idea with the name itself). Lasagnas, red wine pastas and one more really good dish filled up the other plates. The food was awesome.

At the end of it, I struggled to finish, periodically inching my plate closer to Mandeep so she could help herself to Something Something Gorgonzoyle. But all in all, it was a wonderful lunch. Thanks also to Ridave, Magill and Dkamal, for a nice time!

I was so full, I think I was high. The entire auto ride back I was cursing post-lunch workhours. Why can't people just go home after lunch?

Two consecutives posts have dealt with restaurants and food. I think I'm becoming a food critic. I think I'm becoming a glutton. Good thing you can't see my paunch in that snap I put up a few posts ago.

I might as well rename my space to The Hog Blog.

More Bong for the Buck

2006-03-27T10:07:00.000+05:30

Yesterday, we (3 friends and me) went to this Bengali restaurant called '36 Chowringhee Lane'. Two of us ordered fish, and the other two mutton. Not just the food (which I'll come to in a bit), the entire experience teleported me back to the world of Calcutta that I belong to. Oh, the thrill of speaking in Bangla to absolute strangers! The ambience was very homely, very Calcutta. :-)

The food was great. Actually, for a Bong cuisine starved person like me, even mediocre would have been great. Lovely Hilsa fish (Eeleesh) in all its mustard splendour, awesome Chholaar Dal (chane ki daal), and some out-of-this-world chutney were the highlights of the day. Everything, of course, was with dollops of oil, a fact that didn't go down very well (pun intended!) with the health-conscious folks in the group. In fact, the name could have been shortened to 'Ghee Lane', and it would still be apt. But who's complaining? Oil's well that ends well! To top it all, we had unforgettable Mishti Doi for dessert.

Heaven exists. I've had lunch there.

Being Cyrus

2006-03-26T02:15:00.000+05:30

Watched Being Cyrus today. It was quite nice, though not as great as you would think it might be, if you see the previews.

I believe Indian cinema has definitely improved in the art of making trailers, or previews. I love watching previews of Hollywood flicks; they are amazing, even though, sometimes, the actual movie turns out to be eminently forgettable. Now, it seems, Indian cinema has decided to not 'trail' behind.

One small thing more. There is a beautiful piece performed by an orchestra while the credits display right at the start of the movie. I waited till the credits rolled at the end, and found that it's the Bombay Film Orchestra. I'll Google them and see what I can find.

Hurry Home, Hari

2006-03-25T02:16:00.000+05:30

I was bewildered to read in the newspapers about a teenaged boy (named Hari) filing a case againt naukri.com for using the name "Hari Sado"in their ad. It seems his schoolmates were teasing him by expanding the letters of his name in the same way it's done in the commercial.

I mean, have you heard of anything more ridiculous? I quite like the ad - it's funny, it's effective - and for the life of me can't think of a sillier reason to move court. I mean, should I file a case against the James Bond producers for maligning my name in "Die Another Dey"?

Gimme a break. Ribbing and leg-pulling are a very necessary part of school life, because it teaches you to take things in the right spirit. Sure, sometimes, it gets too much. If it does, try and correct the problem where it is occuring - discipline the kids who're going too far with the taunts. For heaven's sake, why blame the poor Job-site?

That be me!

2006-03-24T12:03:00.000+05:30

Half crazy, half emotional. Half bad, have worse. Half loner, half extrovert. Half in, half out!

Advertising

2006-03-24T10:07:00.000+05:30

What is it about good advertising that is so attractive? It doesn't need expensive locales, or exhorbitantly priced celebrities. A good idea is all it takes to drive home the point. Check out Pepsi's small but delightfully powerful retort to Coke's hoarding, somewhere in Chennai. I got this pic courtesy a colleague. Thanks, Deez!

Coke put up that signboard in a building where they had an office on the 2nd floor. Pepsi turned it around completely with its own hoarding. Simple, but deadly. Isn't it amazing?

And This Is How It All Begins

2006-03-21T23:22:00.000+05:30

Finally, after much coaxing and cajoling, I have convinced myself to put in the effort required (which, I was surprised to learn, is next to nothing) to create a blog.

So, what am I? A carbon-based biped who still thinks digital watches are a pretty neat idea. DNA fans exult, may the drumroll begin! Another H2G2 maniac joins the blogging fraternity.

The name's Dey. Deepanjan Dey (nah, doesn't sound half as cool). Work in Bangalore, India for Oracle Corporation. Aged 22, I belong to the un-fair sex.

I do all the usual things - read, listen to music, watch movies. Sometimes, I even do some work, and those are the days my colleagues go back home early to recover from the shock.

I'm given to long spells of ponderance (I'm guessing there is such a word), where I dwell upon the meaning of Life, the Universe, and Everything. People (I know a few of those) say that I think too much, in an effort to find solutions to problems, sometimes when none really exist.

I have been honoured with monikers like "Incorrigible", "Weird" and "Too Insignificant To Think Of A Name For". The last one - bestowed by my parents - as I didn't have a name till a year after I was born.

So me is this. Where did I come from? Where am I going? Why does Donald Duck wear a towel after a bath when he otherwise never wears any pants? For answers to more such posers that are, undoubtedly, the very core of my existence: Watch this space.