The Great Wise Egghead

Between a rock and the deep blue sea

2011-11-13T13:15:00.001+05:30

I can count the number of times I’ve awoken at dawn, without any assistance, on the fingers of one hand. In most cases, it wasn’t pleasant. But this time, from my beach-facing bedroom on Michamwi Beach, Zanzibar, has all the remarkable qualities I could ask for.

Zanzibar, a large island off the coast of Tanzania, derives its name from the term Zinj el-Bar, which was coined by Arab traders around the third century. It means Land Of The Blacks.

It’s 6 am and my Greek-styled Spartan white room is flooded with the first light of dawn. Drawing away the mosquito nets that enshroud the bed, I walk onto the porch of our boutique villa. There, in the middle of the beach, amidst the incoming tide, is a monstrous limestone rock. It looks so alien in its environment, almost as if someone planted it there. But that’s not all.

Some enterprising soul has built a restaurant atop it. There’s even trees growing on this thing; you can see their roots reaching out, eager to meet the crabs, barnacles and corals below.

You can walk over to the rock during low tide or have the restaurant’s boatman take you there during high tide. Right now, at 6:15 am, as the boat gently bobs up and down in the glassy water, the sky’s a dull grey-blue with a smattering of clouds.

I pull out my camera hurriedly to capture the moment when the sun breaches the surface of the Indian Ocean — like a deoxygenated diver steadily making his ascent. I want to get closer to the action, but the tide is high and walking into the water isn’t a wise choice.

Michamwi isn’t your typical tropical island beach. The seabed, even in ankle-deep water, is awash with dead coral. A wrong footing could end up giving you a nasty cut. And may God help you if you accidentally step on a trepid sea urchin. As a local beach boy puts it, “You step on one and you won’t be able to stand up again.”

Spherical and spiny, sea urchins are the porcupines of coral-land. These creatures, from the same family as sea cucumbers and starfish, help maintain the coral reefs’ delicate eco-system. But they’re not nice at all when concealed in seaweed or hidden in cracks between rocks. The black sea urchins that populate the beaches around Zanzibar have spines that can reach up to a foot in length. Even the native Zanzibari people, who cultivate seaweed (that gets exported to China) in the shallow water, wade out wearing thick-soled shoes.

The angular rays of the sun now begin to hit the beach’s pristine white sand and highlight something peculiar. Michamwi’s ‘sand’ isn’t actually sand — it’s more like minute bits of shells mixed with the occasional grain of sand. This is in stark contrast to, say, the sand on Matemwe Beach that’s further up north, which is so consistent that you’ll have a hard time differentiating it from corn flour.

As my camera zooms in on the horizon, there’s a splash in the distance. It’s a school of dolphins, and one jumps out of the water, disappearing just as quickly.

A concierge from the villa walks up, saying “mambo”, which is Swahili for “How’re things?” If everything’s cool, you reply, “Poa”. He asks if I’d like my glass of bungo juice right now.

Bungo, a fruit native to Tanzania, tastes like a mix of mango, pineapple and orange. It’s an excellent refresher, especially after cycling on the beach under the midday sun. Passion fruit with avocado is a good choice too, but bungo gets first priority, if only for its novelty.

It’s 6:30 am as I crawl back into my bed. There’s a lot in store: the rest of the trip includes completing a scuba-diving course; taking a trip with Captain Kikoko into a bog to see wader birds like flamingos; visiting the ancient but still habited Stone Town; and taking a relaxing swim in the much safer, turquoise waters of Paje Beach.

But right now, it’s time for another nap.

Et tu, Hombre?

2010-02-11T18:42:00.003+05:30

This comment begs its own post:

I'm the kind of hombre who passions to try different things. Right now I'm fabricating my personal photovoltaic panels. I am making it all alone without the aid of my staff. I am using the internet as the only path to acheive that. I discovered a really brilliant site which explains how to build solar panels and so on. The web site explains all the steps involved in solar panel construction.

I'm not exactly sure bout how precise the information given there iz. If some guys over here who had xp with these things can have a peak and give your feedback in the page it would be great and I would highly value it, because I really passion solar panel construction.

Thanks for reading this. You guys are the best.

Kalsubai summit!

2009-11-19T18:11:00.001+05:30

Ken Vs Ryu

2009-03-10T14:52:00.001+05:30

grammar rules, okay?

2009-03-03T02:46:00.003+05:30

Most writers believe they've arrived after they incorrectly master the semi-colon; fortunately, I am not like them.

frightful puns

2008-09-14T19:29:00.005+05:30

Q: What do you get when someone throws a container of eye mascara at you?

A: Cosmetic damage.

Dig Out Your Soul

2008-06-25T15:08:00.002+05:30

"All the songs are wrote, this record's gonna be fuckin' rockin'. There's no acoustic on it, man. We rehearsed about 10 tunes before coming in. Three are mine. Some are Noel's, some are Gem's, some are Andy's. We're there for a long time, so we just keep pickin' em off the tree, man. Some are sounding really fucking heavy, and then we're picking some out, and you go, 'Well that doesn't sit with that, right.' So we just keep moving about. We've got plenty of songs. We're not gonna go bored."

Bogma

2008-05-24T18:32:00.003+05:30

Bog: "I know I've been slow at updating my journal this month. Unfortunately I have no profound reason to explain this phenomenon. At any rate, you better not get bogmatic about it."

Bog you very much

2008-05-15T15:57:00.002+05:30

Bog: "I feel as if there's an incubus weighing down on me. I guess the feeling could be due to the steroids I've been on all week. Or maybe it's just emotional boggage. Who can say?"

an atoll in the sky

2008-04-24T20:45:00.005+05:30

Bog: "Hello everyone. My heartiest wishes to one and all of you."

"I had a wonderful time these past two days. I was taken into the firmament, drifted over sheer precipice, and shown a bird's eye view of the land from an eyrie in the clouds. My legs careened forth in the strong breeze, which ruffled my hair and clothes and teased the air-device I was strapped to."

"So, you're probably curious what I did. Well, I dunno about you humans, but we bogs call it 'para-glading'."

down and out

2008-04-21T12:50:00.003+05:30

Bog: "Yeah I've noticed as well. I haven't been able to keep up with my promised daily quota of writing. I've been totally swamped with work you see."

"But now I'm free once again."

"Free as a bog."

how to contact a bog

2008-04-17T14:08:00.001+05:30

Bog: "I'd love to hear what you humans have to say about my thoughts and innermost desires that I reveal unto all on this page. So, if you have any feedback or comments to offer, you can wreck havoc on the 'comments' page or mail me at bog@bog.bog."

Bog-cula

2008-04-16T14:05:00.002+05:30

I knew I must reach the body for the key, so I raised the lid, and laid it back against the wall. And then I saw something which filled my very soul with horror. There lay the Bog, but looking as if its youth had been half restored. For the white hair and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey. The cheeks were fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath. The mouth was redder than ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners of the mouth and ran down over the chin and neck. Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood. It lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with its repletion.

I shuddered as I bent over to touch it, and every sense in me revolted at the contact, but I had to search, or I was lost. The coming night might see my own body a banquet in a similar way to those horrid three. I felt all over the body, but no sign could I find of the key. Then I stopped and looked at the Bog. There was a mocking smile on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad. This was the being I was helping to transfer to London, where, perhaps, for centuries to come it might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate its lust for blood, and create a new and ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the helpless.

The very thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon me to rid the world of such a monster. There was no lethal weapon at hand, but I seized a shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the cases, and lifting it high, struck, with the edge downward, at the hateful face. But as I did so the head turned, and the eyes fell upon me, with all their blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to paralyze me, and the shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the face, merely making a deep gash above the forehead. The shovel fell from my hand across the box, and as I pulled it away the flange of the blade caught the edge of the lid which fell over again, and hid the horrid thing from my sight. The last glimpse I had was of the bloated face, blood-stained and fixed with a grin of malice which would have held its own in the nethermost hell.

a chance encounter

2008-04-15T23:44:00.000+05:30

Bog: "Yesterday I came across a vagabog. Judging by her accent, I deduced that she had to be Scottish."

""Brother Bog," she said, after I prodded her to speak her mind, "until we meet again." And that was that."

mmm, dessert

2008-04-14T23:36:00.000+05:30

Bog: "What does a bog like best in its hot chocolate? Marsh-mallows."

a walk in a bog

2008-04-13T13:04:00.001+05:30

Bog: "What did the marsh say to the evil midget who crawled out from a fissure and trampled all over his land?"

"Stop trolling all over my bog!"

the proverbial bog

2008-04-12T20:02:00.008+05:30

Bog: "Here are some of my favourite proverbs:"

Curiosity killed the bog
Every bog has a silver lining
Spare the bog and spoil the child
A fool and his bog are soon parted
A bird in hand is worth two in the bog
After the storm comes a bog
All work and no play makes Jack a dull bog
Bog is thicker than water
Bogs will be bogs
Every bog has his day
Bog helps those who help themselves
Let sleeping bogs lie
Lightning never strikes twice in the same bog
Old bogs die hard
Patience is a bog
There are two sides to every bog
Even the bogs have ears
Where there's a bog, there's a way
You can't have your bog and eat it too

an exercise for nature freaks

2008-04-11T18:13:00.006+05:30

Bog: "If you love going on nature trails and discovering the wild, I have a fun idea for you. We bogs always love company, so why not come and seek us out? The event can be called 'Bogspotting' and if things go well, we could start a website and call it bogspot.com. Bogspotters from all across world could sign up and it'd become an international thing of marvel and wonder."

"What say, then?"

it's time for a joke

2008-04-10T20:57:00.004+05:30

Bog: "I just thought of a joke today and thought I should share it with all of you."

"What's a ditch with rotting electronic filth? A Robog."

"Come on, I know that was funny. Laugh for peat's sake."

may her soul fester in peace

2008-04-09T12:08:00.007+05:30

Bog: "I just found out that a nubile she-bog a couple of leagues away from where I hold fort was ravaged and then swallowed by a Goliath-fen, early this morning.

"It's a fucking bog eat bog world."

we may have started off on the wrong note

2008-04-08T19:41:00.005+05:30

Bog: "Heh. I often get my knickers in a knot and then I become a bit of a hothead. Think nothing of it."

"Today, I'm in a rather good mood. I had a nice salamander for brunch. Mmmm. In fact, I'm positively beaming all over. Come over and have a look if you're in the neighbourhood."

Let me introduce Mister Bog

2008-04-07T23:59:00.003+05:30

Bog: "Hello Everyone, I am a Bog. You've probably met my cousins Mister Marsh and Sister Swamp before. They're a lot more popular than me. They're a lot more populous than me too, for that matter. For nothing survives in a bog. Marshes and swamps have their liver flukes and bladderworts, but bogs contain only death and decay."

"Sigh."

"But don't let me bog you down though. If you want, you could bogger off and I'd act like we'd never met, you sonafafookingbog."

a random joke (on account of my long absence)

2008-02-07T16:13:00.000+05:30

What do you call a person who ransacks software stores off their operating systems only to hoard them on his computer?

A freebooter.

So long, folks.

lights out

2007-09-07T13:43:00.000+05:30

I'm sitting on my chair, at work, in the darkness. The faraway windows let in some light but the overall mood's still dismal and stuffy. Yet, despite this marvelous electrical failure, I'm still able to browse the internet and update my blog, thanks to my PowerBook and K750i. It's quite a simple connection really. My phone, which has an active GPRS connection synchronises with my mac via Bluetooth and allows it to connect to the net.

Now, I'm no techno-evangelist; in fact, the superabundant radio waves being emanated in combination with the mac's heat generation are probably frying my balls at this very moment. But I can tap away at the web with reckless abandon. So who the fuck cares about anything else.

My TOI article on Bhutan

2007-07-09T19:35:00.000+05:30

A happy country fears democracy

Bhutan is in the pursuit of happiness and not democracy. Nikhil Hemrajani reports from that country

This April and May, Bhutan took its first nervous steps towards something called elections. Two mock polls were held. People were encouraged to choose from four fictitious parties and place their vote. The parties were named after colours – Druk Red, Druk Yellow, Druk Blue, and Druk Green. (Druk in the Bhutanese language Dzongkha means the thunder dragon, the kingdom’s national symbol, and so the word is a ubiquitous prefix.) The first party, Druk Red, promised industrial development. Druk Green was all about going the environment friendly way. The blue party promised to extend free services such as healthcare and education. Druk Yellow was about preservation and promotion of Bhutan’s rich cultural heritage and tradition. Not surprisingly, Druk Yellow won hands down both times. Favouring Bhutan’s cultural heritage and tradition implied favouring the monarchy. The people were happy with the monarchy.

Phuntsok Rabten, involved in the construction business and co-owner of a karaoke pub says, “No one’s comfortable with the move to democracy. There were cases where a couple of villagers turned in their newly issued citizen ID cards during the mock elections. They put the cards in the ballot box. This shows the lack of awareness regarding concepts such as anonymity and democracy.”

At the heart of Bhutan’s infatuation with monarchy is the fifth Dragon King of Bhutan, His Majesty, Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck is 27, six-foot tall, broad and handsome. And he loves basketball. He tries to play every week alongside some of the top players in the country. He encourages the juniors after the main game is over, and even speaks to the lucky few in the stands. And his three-pointers are of legend. Last June, when he, as crown prince, attended the celebrations of the Thai King’s 60th coronation anniversary in Bangkok, his female fan-following there swooned. At home, he is on posters, mobile phone screen savers, and computer wallpapers. He’s an icon. For the Bhutanese, he is bigger than Elvis.

He is the country’s head of defence, and the world’s youngest head of state. He has been educated in several international universities including Oxford. In 2003, when the Royal Bhutan Army fended off the ULFA and destroyed their camps he fought from the frontlines. Come 2008, when Bhutan becomes a parliamentary democracy, he’ll be there to relinquish power.

It was his father, the fourth King Jigme Singye Wangchuck, who first nudged his country into democracy. And it was he who introduced the concept of Gross National Happiness (GNH) to his people as a way of measuring the kingdom’s progress. Evaluating GNH includes criteria such as preservation and promotion of cultural values, protection of the environment and good governance.

Bhutan has been rated one of the happiest nations in the world by surveys. This happiness, that is so evident in the country’s routine, lies in a tenacious simplicity. Thimphu is the only capital in the world that doesn’t use traffic lights at signals. Instead you’ll find the good old policeman, who almost never needs to use his whistle. The streets are spick and span wherever you go, and there’s no jaywalking. Advertising is minimal – there’s not a single garish hoarding in sight, and stores put up their names and details on old-fashioned wooden boards. Entire cities follow a distinct architectural pattern that reflects Bhutan’s Buddhist culture. If a new building crops up, it had better fit in with its surroundings.

Bhutan’s population is less than a million. The figure registered in various official records is higher because in the seventies and the eighties there was a misconception that a country needed to be at least a million-strong to be part of the United Nations. So the Bhutanese government used to exaggerate its population.

People don’t work beyond 6 pm here. It is compulsory for the citizens to wear the national dress at work and school. For the men this comprises a robe with knee-length socks, while for the women, it’s a skirt and jacket. No one seems have any complaints about this. Healthcare services are free for the Bhutanese. Education is funded by the government.

The Bhutanese people are so happy with the present state of affairs that the only that worries them is change. “No one really understands the need for a change” says Kunga Dorji, a 34-year-old English lecturer. “Of course, the people respect the King’s decision as he knows best.”

Come Together

2007-06-08T18:28:00.001+05:30

a village across the plains, originally uploaded by bugenhagen.

So I'm back from Bhutan.

While there were many exciting things I did there, the most momentous of them all was my meeting with the King, who, at 27, is the world's youngest head of state and the fifth Dragon King of Bhutan.

How this meeting happened is rather simple. We were invited to watch the game by the King's personal assistant whose brother we met earlier in Paro, a small town located south-west of Thimphu, as we dined at Four Seasons eagerly asking the residents what we could do and where we could go. Sonam rose to the occasion and took us around. He also briefly mentioned about his elder brother and the King, telling us to call him once we got to Thimphu.

The King, His Majesty, Jigme Khesar Namgyal Wangchuck, is an ardent fan of basketball and a professional player of the game. He ensures that he plays the game twice a week or so. The teams he plays for and against consist of the top players in the country, and his personal assistant who's known amongst his peers by the initials G.P.

GP is a heck of a guy. He's reaching 30, but in excellent shape, can scale and descend Tiger's Nest Monastery four times in a single day, shoot a bhutanese arrow through a man's heart, and impress the chicks at the karaoke bar with his harmonious voice. It's said he can also echolocate in pitch darkness.

GP took us around in his souped-up jeep, refused to let us pay for our own meals and drinks, and invited us to watch him and the King, His Majesty, Jigme Khesar Namgyal Wangchuck, play basketball.

After the game was over, we took pictures with the King and spoke to him for five minutes or so. Then, when the day was done, we celebrate our good fortune at the karaoke bar while G.P. betted a thousand ngultrums over a game of snooker and won. Meanwhile, Shiryn learned how to string a bow; Sagar understood his calling that it would be the last time he stepped into a karaoke bar in his life; Arunima felt longing for her boy even as her insides griped with hunger; and I sang Come Together karaoke without needing to read the lyrics on screen.

It was a momentous day indeed.

where do we go from here?

2007-04-20T02:02:00.000+05:30

"In order to do something new we must go back to the source, to humanity in its infancy."
Paul Gauguin

If everything we had were taken from us, would we be able to start from scratch?

Could we make glass all over again from fresh sand? Could we extract iron from ore and smelt it in a forge? Could we pass electricity through wires and illuminate our huts? Could we do all of this from stones, leaves, mud, rock, silt, reeds, water, flowers, and wood? Could we do it faster than how it was done before?

How long would it take to make a television out of earth and water? Would it take a lifetime? Would we have to go through evolution once again in order to ride a motorcycle or make a telephone call? How long would our society take to evolve from primitive spear-wielding food-gatherers to gun-toting killers?

Evolution’s all about being on a treadmill. We can’t get off. We keep running to keep what’s past. For, we’re the result of a billion years’ toil. We kept ourselves alive in the primordial sludge. We grew our way out of the slime and we grew our way down into the sea. We grew our way up into the skies and we grew our way out into the land.

But where do we grow from here?

classical conditioning

2007-04-03T19:54:00.000+05:30

Today I'm going to reveal something about myself.

I believe in being terribly efficient. In fact, I'm one of the most terribly efficient people I know. For instance, one can find me over long hauls in the toilet probably strumming the guitar or chewing a bone. At other times I'm surfing the internet or trying my hand at tap-dancing (the pun was only incidental, I assure you).

Unfortunately, the guitar-playing bit on the pot hasn't worked out too well. It has mostly resulted in the tragic, Pavlovian situation where I feel the need to take a shit everytime I play an instrument.

all hail the samurai

2007-03-28T21:01:00.000+05:30

What to do when your sub-standard, Chinese DVD and MPEG4 player gives up the ghost:

Laugh.
Laugh again as you shout out loud "I sure showed you who's the boss!"
Consider saying "I awaited this moment since the time I picked you up!" as well.
Heave a sigh of relief.
Reaffirm your faith in Japan.
Rush to the neighbourhood Sony Store.
Proceed to pick up a new DVD and MPEG4 player.
Hatch elaborate plans on nuking Mitashi's factories as you watch Harpo play the harp on your new Sony player.
Smile.

Mister Eagle

2007-03-21T03:21:00.001+05:30

Or, how I learned to blog from within Microsoft Word.

I never need to access Blogger's tacky interface ever again! And look at the marvellous photo I've uploaded too.

Oh this is the life.

precisely my thoughts

2007-03-19T20:08:00.000+05:30

you win some you lose some

2007-03-17T03:26:00.000+05:30

My creativity levels are at an all-time low.

I must be in love then.

What a predicament.

lessons unlearned

2007-03-06T21:50:00.000+05:30

So, I'm riding on J.J. flyover in the afternoon. Having just tuned my carburetor to an optimal ratio of acceleration : fuel efficiency, I pull on the throttle, hoping to find a noticeable increase in performance.

So, the bike accelerates rather quickly and I soon approach the second of the two bad-ass turns that statisticians and journalists never fail to monitor for their research projects and articles.

Entering the curve, I decide to overtake this taxi driver from the wrong lane. Yup, he's in the fast lane driving slow and I'm in the slow lane driving fast. Unfortunately, what I find slow for the cab is rather fast for its driver.

(In retrospect, obviously he wouldn't be able to take the sharp curve at 50 kilometres an hour in a Fiat Premier. OBVIOUSLY.)

At this point the taxi driver has two options: hit the brakes and pray hard that the car behind doesn't rent into his boot or zero in on the precariously placed CNG cylinder; or, perform a mammoth feat unknown to Fiat drivers by successfully taking the curve at 50 kilometres an hour!

So, he chooses the latter. Unfortunately, he turns too hard and hits the innocent rider-who-overtakes-cabs-from-the-left-side-at-high-speeds-on-sharp-curves.

The poor lawless rider's heart jumps to 150 beats a minute as he struggles to maintain control of the now-very-wobbly motorcycle. But lo and behold! He regains balance and races on as if nothing has happened!

WHAT A HERO!

why I moved the television out of my room

2007-02-13T21:08:00.000+05:30

Yes it was a long time ago when I first moved the television into my room and I was quite a bully for making my mother and sister cope with the fact that the idiotbox would then belong to me and its presence in my room made my watching it first priority. Sure it was fun for a bit.

Then my mother whom I in a loving and conformist fashion call 'mom' decided the time was nigh that I realised who really wore the pants in the house although I now look back at it as merely skirting the issue.

Before I proceed I must mention that this was a time when no computer wires trailed the back of my table and no internet line conduced my pornography viewing and out of the sheer desperation that drives a thirteen year old kid I was forced to visit my local video rental store to hire x-rated video cassettes that my VCR oftentimes promptly spat out quite possibly due to the art of overuse that desperate thirteen year olds excel in. Which is mostly why I wanted the television in my room in the first place.

Then a couple of years later lame tv-producers whose neurons had caught fungus from all the years of watching The Bold and the Beautiful and Santa Barbara came across the stale masterplan that an indianised version of the same would be an excellent way to pass time for corrupt officials, rapists and losers who hadn't gotten laid. Unfortunately the plan backfired and seemingly normal people started watching the shows as well. Like my mother for instance.

It was then that I knew what I needed to do. I had the television delivered by the hands of God himself to the Living Room thereby making it public property for public viewing. I had finally unleashed utter freedom to the residents of my house to do as they pleased.

Of course the move was also simultaneous to the time I got my first computer system with a working internet connection. Who the hell needed video cassettes to watch pornography when I had the universe of the internet before me.

I have never looked back ever since.

hanging on in quiet desperation is the way

2007-02-12T04:20:00.000+05:30

I should like to go for the Roger Waters' concert happening on the 18th of Feb but then again the show's probably going to be thronged by wannabe fans and metalheads sporting black Megadeth and Pantera t-shirts who just need an excuse to mosh around for no good reason.

I think I might just give the show a pass after all.

is est non terminus

2007-02-12T03:29:00.000+05:30

In case any of you peeps cultivated the impression that this blog doth heads towards an ignominious death the pleasure is all mine to have you know that such is of course impossible and any direction this blog has yet to take is intended and has been premeditated over many beers and a few crummy biscuits.

Yours,
The Great Wise Egghead

I'm a sunday timer

2007-01-17T19:40:00.000+05:30

This is what I got in the mail from some foolish PR company. I'm an old timer; I'm a Sunday timer.

It may also excite some of you to know that I uploaded this photo directly from my mobile phone to this blog. So I now plan to flood my blog with mobile phone pictures.

All ye dissidents of mobile blogging shall feel me cutlass. ARRRRRRRRRRrrrr!!

NOW

2007-01-11T04:18:00.000+05:30

If there's one problem with me it's that I don't do enough self-analysis. And hence I never learn.

It's about time I start. Bloody-fucking-about time I say.

photo journal

2007-01-01T19:26:00.000+05:30

I now have an online photo journal! If you're really interested in viewing the tedious photos I take with my mobile phone camera, you can have a look at them here.

Oh, and good luck for the new year to everyone.

Havelock Island

2006-12-28T16:07:00.001+05:30

Testing The Water At # 7 Lagoon, originally uploaded by Oceanstar.

A good friend of mine, Sagar, took a trip to the Andamans this September. He raved about it a lot before he went there, but I didn't think much of it. Until yesterday that is. However, having had the chance to look at the pictures he took over there, my opinion stands reversed.

Now, I can't think of any other place I'd rather be at. And I thought the beaches were pretty decent in Goa.

Here's a link to the rest of his photos. Who wants to join!

The Triumph of the Egghead

2006-12-22T18:38:00.000+05:30

Look what was written about me all the way back in nineteen fifty-two:

"Egghead: A person of spurious intellectual pretensions, often a professor or the protégé of a professor. Essentially confused in thought and immersed in mixture of sentimentality and violent evangelism. A doctrinaire supporter of Middle-European socialism as opposed to Greco-French-American ideas of democracy and liberalism. Subject to the old-fashioned philosophical morality of Nietzsche which frequently leads him into jail or disgrace. A self-conscious prig, so given to examining all sides of a question that he becomes thoroughly addled while remaining always in the same spot. An anemic bleeding heart."

Yours,
Louis Bromfield

a moment of clarity

2006-12-14T22:02:00.000+05:30

It’s been a good eight months since I bought my Enfield. I’ve gotten into an accident (all thanks to my drunkenness) and had several close shaves; a few of which I was to blame, and the rest, the others. At least that’s how I thought initially. But on my way back home today – and for no obvious reason or connection I can think of – it occurred to me.

Perhaps my self-righteousness is masking the truth: maybe my ego is obscuring my rationale. In all probability, I’m possibly not that good a rider as I put myself out to be. And you know what? The more I think of it, the more sense this realisation makes.

Whenever I have to slow down when a signal goes red, I always make sure I manage to squeeze through between the cars and busses into order to reach the ‘front of the line’. Why do I want to do that? So that I can pull on the throttle and rip ahead once the indicator goes green of course! Also, I don't just gradually slow down like a normal person would at a red signal. Of course not! Instead, I hit the brakes at the last moment and screech to a stop. Were there to be an equally excitable rider behind me, he surely wouldn’t be able to pre-empt my antics and would crash into me instead. In fact, were there to be an equally excitable rider ahead of me, I wouldn’t be able to pre-empt his antics and I’d crash into him instead.

Now it’s different if I had a sports bike that was built for this kind of stuff. Then, taking high speed turns with my bike inclined at a forty-five degree angle or watching my rpm go into the red area in the tachometer wouldn’t be that unheard of. But a WWII-designed heavy duty motorcycle like an Enfield simply isn’t made for this sort of thing. Use a dirt bike if you want to do stunts, not a badass one, is what my mind tells me.

Unfortunately, it’s exactly this that makes it all the more exciting. Anyone can do stunts with a sports bike. That’s what they’re made for. It doesn’t require much skill. Okay, it doesn’t require too much skill. Give Photoshop to a fool and a week and he might still be able to baffle an art critic. But it’ll be the ordinary pencil that’ll clearly differentiate a professional from a novice.

Were I Yoda, I’d say “Light-sabre skills show proficiency in the Force not, my young padawan.”

So, yeah, cool stunts on a heavy bike show proficiency in riding not.

P.S. As an afterthought, I think this piece might shock or scare a few readers who actually bother about how my rash driving affects my life. To these people: Please, do not worry. I might have exaggerated above a bit for added effect. I'm not even that rash. But just so that the point is driven home. Or ridden home in this case.

wideness

2006-12-09T22:06:00.001+05:30

And we have width! I found the orginal layout too narrow to be comfortable with, right from the start. But then I'd have to get my hands messy and play around with the code. So naturally, I procrastinated and procrastinated until now. But the job is done.

Anyhow, getting it done was a lot easier than I had imagined it to be.

Hullo

2006-12-04T16:21:00.000+05:30

The City sucks. It draws you in, hypnotises you, and turns you into a zombie whose only respite is meeting other zombies at the dog walk. Save that we're the dogs being walked, we're the ones on a leash, and we'll be hacking our throats to pieces as we try and pull against the stranglehold that the City has on us.

I imagine the City as a living, breathing organism composed of steel, flesh and malice. It feeds on life force; it thrives on it. And like gangrenous tissue, it spreads and devours all around it. Water emanating from the City is black. It pollutes the lakes and rivers spreading its filth into the ocean. Air arising from the City is black. It kills all things living and casts a veil over the sky. It blocks our escape, if only momentary. Earth, the City covets for itself. It stabs it with a million knives and tears holes into it, violating it each time. Fire is the City's defence. It'll atomise anything that threatens to disturb the City's equilibrium.

The City is both murderous and necrophilic. It kills you first. Then it begins to fuck you.

We Have Piecharts II

2006-11-23T17:29:00.000+05:30

Henry The VII's "Green Groweth The Holly"

Tragedies, Based on a Survey of 1000

Evil and Good

Dangers in Parallel Dimension X

Sunset to Ocean Ration

Solo Cola

Chinchilla ConcernsThe Presidential Decision-making Process

Inside of Head

Analysis of Riffs in Devo's 'Speed Racer'

All Your Base Are Belong To Us

God's RecipeBlack and White

Composition of the Mushroom Kingdom

Empty Supervillian Threats

Things That Oftentimes Made Life Worth Living, Though I'm Unsure Why

disclaimer: all credit goes to A 1000 Ridiculous Tragedies for coming up with these piecharts.

we leave we do

2006-11-23T17:10:00.000+05:30

I'm off to Goa for a week! My aim is to catch films at IFFI - the International Film Festival of India but somehow I don't quite see that working out.

Anyhow, I shall not be around for a week. So please don't go about thinking I'm dead. In the mean time I'm putting up more piecharts for temporary appeasement.

I hate lists

2006-11-14T18:30:00.000+05:30

A list of reasons why I hate lists:

For,

There's nothing worse on this beautiful Earth than bulleting ones points
It takes less time to make a list than write a sentence
Lists are not only hateable but also deplorable and despicable
You can't do a list while taking a leak or chewing a bone
Numbered lists are even worse than bulleted ones. It's as if you're telling the reader that he can't count. And I hate it when someone tells me I can't count. It's like telling Dracula he can't count. Err bad joke but you get the point
Lists often speak about nothing in particular
Lists often speak about everything in particular
Lists are the offspring of Lucifer
Lists can be re-edited easily
They say the same thing again and again
Lists don't emulate real life. Imagine speaking in lists in real life. Let's see how far you get by doing that. HAH
The things I like aren't contained in any of the lists I read
My name was never at the top of any lists in school
The same could be said about college as well
Listing has resulted in the death of millions
Lists aren't always interesting, informative, correct or true. In that order
Lists can just go on and on, pointlessly
Lists don't follow grammar rules such as ending with periods
You can rephrase a point and consequently make it occur several times in a list so that the list looks exhaustive upon first glance
Lists are full of shite
Lists are sired by the Devil himself
Lists are borne by the Devil herself
They're never in a font or colour I like
You feel like shite after you've read a list
Lists are often too full of themselves. They think they're the wittiest things to have happened since Bernard Shaw.
Lists make cry-pods out of us all
Lists often end abruptly

a brief update

2006-11-08T15:24:00.000+05:30

What's going wrong in my life: Work

What's going right in my life: Life minus Work.

it's all out

2006-10-29T04:13:00.000+05:30

O RLY?

I love dentists. yeah right

2006-10-19T03:32:00.000+05:30

I have many a fond memory of dentists. I remember gleefully walking over to the inviting chair waiting to yet again experience the sheer joy and utter bliss that may also be known to other mortals as a root canal operation.

Tears often roll down my cheek when I reminisce the happy hours in that chair; my jaw limp and lip numb from anaesthesia, groggy to a certain extent, and body filled with a languor that poignantly spells out my thoughts to the tooth doctor:

I WANT TO SHOOT YOUR FUCKING BRAINS OUT YOU SADISTIC PAIN-ENDORSING FIEND FROM HELL!

Every conversation that I have suffered with the dentist went like this:

Hell-fiend: Your tooth's in bad shape. Does it hurt?
Hapless Mortal: Nah, not too much, I can deal with the pain, you know.
Hell-fiend: Why should you, my dear boy? There's nothing like a ROOT CANAL to fix things.

Apparently root canals can fix anything. Or so the scions of the Forgotten One have me know.

It all started one fine day a long long time ago when I noticed a small black dot on my tooth. It wouldn't get brushed off as hard as I tried - leaving me to the only conclusion that I was imagining it. There was no black dot; my mirror was dirty perhaps.

But clearly this dot didn't think so. It had to prove its existence and so it grew. The poor thing only wanted attention. It craved for it. But I wouldn't have any of it. I had the mirror changed and when that didn't help, I had the bathroom changed. But the dot refused to go! Or move for that matter.

The dot grew and grew until it was no longer a dot. A jaw-crunching, enamel-devouring, gum-swelling, and tooth-loosening fissure of pain and death was a better suited description. But clearly the hell-fiend thought otherwise: "The good news is you aren't going to lose your tooth! A quick root canal and you're set to go."

In hindsight, I have made these following observations:

1. I would rather extract a tooth and shove in a fake one than do a root canal.
2. Root canal operations are not 'quick'.
3. Dentists are FIENDS FROM HELL.

It has now been a decade since I've visited my dentist. A decade free from pain and suffering. However, my silver filling (from another cavity) has eroded off and the tooth has broken in two. But it hasn't started hurting yet.

All I know is that I'm going to get the damn thing extracted if the hell-fiend recommends a root canal.

We Wait

2006-10-12T01:45:00.000+05:30

Sit. Sit. Think. Yes, that’s correct. Think. Think harder.

“But we aren’t getting anywhere.”

Not yet we mean. Besides that needn’t matter much. Not much at all. We think we do. Yes.

“But what if we don’t come up with much?”

Ah much is a subjective word. Much subjective indeed. Could even depend on the weather. You know? We just think. A thought so hard to think that it cannot be thought.

“How is that even possible!”

It may sound better in theory. True. But it does make us curious. Could there exist such a thought? Residing beyond the consciousness. But fighting its way across. Desperately. Fighting its way to the other side. From nonexistence to being.

“The Thought!”

Yes! We shall like to witness the birth of the Thought. Be told of its awakening. Its transformation from nothing to existence. A grand event would it not be? In all probability it borders on the impossible. But we think the Thought exists.

“But what are the chances of this Thought coming into existence out of nothing? And what about the opposite? Could this Thought have existed forever?”

Who knows. It certainly is a master of concealment if it does. Besides this Thought is probably growing as we speak. It has been growing since an eternity. It grows for an eternity.

“So how do we go about thinking this Thought?”

Maybe we shall listen to music. That may inspire the Thought. May that inspire the Thought. Or squeeze a couple of smaller thoughts out at the least. We may get lost in their chain. Lost in a chain of thought. We may even fall down a trench of thoughts. But we must clamber our way up then. We must clamber our way out. Find it through. Think it through. Clinging onto every smaller thought. If we lose our grip the thought’s lost. We fall back down again. We will need to start our thought from scratch.

“And if we catch the Thought?”

Oh that’s not going to happen anytime soon. Not in a lifetime at least. Maybe we shall experience the Thought in the afterlife. Maybe that’s the point of the afterlife. To experience the Thought!

“That's a nice thought! But what if we catch the smaller thoughts?”

Then we climb up. Slowly. And up we climb. Slowly. We don’t want to miss any of it. We want to experience all of it.

“When do we know we’re out?”

When there’re no more thoughts to be thought.

“But isn’t that how we started?”

Not at all. It was different then.

“How was it different?”

We started nowhere. Thinking. We end nowhere too. But there’s no thinking now. Just waiting. Waiting. Now we wait.

an excellent crusade

2006-10-11T19:58:00.000+05:30

hahaha!

Head over to Maddox's The Best Page In The Universe and read the rest.

the incident

2006-10-01T16:09:00.000+05:30

So I had an accident on the bike. But I'm alive, anyhow.

A grazed arm and a crushed foot were the encounter's parting gifts. I've decided to keep these wonderful presents for the next week or so after which I'll tell them to shove it.

Afterall, I have important things to do and no grazed arm or crushed foot shall keep me from them.

a travesty in the making

2006-09-26T19:07:00.000+05:30

While hanging out with friends last night I learned that Indian television is about to witness its Next Big Thing. Apparently a desi (I hate that word) remake of the classic ‘70s science fiction TV serial Star Trek is either on the drawing board or already in production; beats me which one. You can imagine my horror. Also, the special effects and whatnot are going to be just as enthralling as they were in the ‘70s. Brilliant.

Needless to mention, I thought a lot about it. Clearly this news affected my psyche. In fact, I even vividly dreamed of extra-terrestrial beings masquerading as housewives plotting revenge on their extra-terrestrial mothers-in-law.

A couple of questions have been plaguing me though: Will there be the oh-so-familiar zooms into the corneas of our good old protagonists in all their bloodshot detail? What about tedious pans shuffling back and forth between actors while the script writers attempt to conjure up the ultimate one-liner so as to justify the following round of manic zooms and pans? And most importantly, will cheap background score supplement dialogue delivery as if to emulate the real world?

To make a long story short, will we see the usual drama unfold in outer space? Is this a conscious effort made by the producers telling their drab and zombie-like viewers about life beyond joint-families where all things happen in the same mansion? So what now? Do all things happen in the same spacecraft? Will Captain Kirk be snogging the bald Lieutenant Ilia to the utter displeasure of Uhura whose oversecreting ovaries clearly make leading a non-bitchy, non-vamp life highly difficult?

Assuming all the questions were rhetorical, I say Bravo to all the producers. Here’s to making more travesties of classics. Here’s to bastardising all my old favourites. Three cheers to you, producers; may your natural talents ever shine.

birthday pictures

2006-09-25T15:53:00.000+05:30

As I promised and much-awaited, here they are. A lot of people don't appear in any of the snaps. Don't ask me why, blame the photographer!

hanging on a star

2006-09-19T03:44:00.000+05:30

Complexity may have its worthy moments of marvel; but simplicity, with its sheer precision, is just as staggering. If not more.

Why leave me hanging on a star
When you deem me so high
When you deem me so high
When you deem me so high.

It's beautiful how Nick Drake's work is so grand in detail yet so exquisite in clarity.

introspection

2006-09-13T03:38:00.000+05:30

I hope you can decipher my squiggles (click on the image to enlarge it).

Oh and my machine at home is up and running.

2006-09-11T20:21:00.000+05:30

I have an excellent idea in the making. And it applies to this very blog. But it will have to wait.

Since my home machine has been rendered into a worthless piece of trash, I am no longer able to tend to my blog as often as I would like to. However, I shall remain a servant in the name of Providence. May he cast a miracle upon my computer, and in the process, save us all.

an excerpt from Lila by Robert M. Pirsig

2006-09-07T13:31:00.000+05:30

This excerpt is taken from Robert M. Pirsig's second book titled Lila: An Inquiry Into Morals. It continues from his first book, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values.

He liked that word 'philosophology.' It was just right. It had a nice dull, cumbersome, superfluous appearance that exactly fitted its subject matter, and he'd been using it for some time now. Philosophology is to philosophy as musicology is to music, or as art history and art appreciation are to art, or as literary criticism is to creative writing. It's a derivative, secondary field, a sometimes parasitic growth that likes to think it controls its host by analyzing and intellectualizing its host's behavior.

Literature people are sometimes puzzled by the hatred many creative writers have for them. Art historians can't understand the venom either. He supposed the same was true with musicologists but he didn't know enough about them. But philosophologists don't have this problem at all because the philosophers who would normally condemn them are a null-class. They don't exist. Philosophologists, calling themselves philosophers, are just about all there are.

You can imagine the ridiculousness of an art historian taking his students to museums, having them write a thesis on some historical or technical aspect of what they see there, and after a few years of this giving them degrees that say they are accomplished artists. They've never held a brush or a mallet and chisel in their hands. All they know is art history.

Yet, ridiculous as it sounds, this is exactly what happens in the philosophology that calls itself philosophy. Students aren't expected to philosophize. Their instructors would hardly know what to say if they did. They'd probably compare the student's writing to Mill or Kant or somebody like that, find the student's work grossly inferior, and tell him to abandon it. As a student Phaedrus had been warned that he would 'come a cropper" if he got too attached to any philosophical ideas of his own.

Literature, musicology, art history and philosophology thrive in academic institutions because they are easy to teach. You just Xerox something some philosopher has said and make the students discuss it, make them memorize it, and then flunk them at the end of the quarter if they forget it. Actual painting, music composition and creative writing are almost impossible to teach and so they barely get in the academic door. True philosophy doesn't get in at all. Philosophologists often have an interest in creating philosophy but, as philosophologists, they subordinate it, much as a literary scholar might subordinate his own interest in creative writing. Unless they are exceptional they don't consider the creation of philosophy their real line of work.

As an author, Phaedrus had been putting off the philosophology, partly because he didn't like it, and partly to avoid putting a philosophological cart before the philosophical horse. Philosophologists not only start by putting the cart first; they usually forget the horse entirely. They say first you should read what all the great philosophers of history have said and then you should decide what you want to say. The catch here is that by the time you've read what all the great philosophers of history have said you'll be at least two hundred years old. A second catch is that these great philosophers are very persuasive people and if you read them innocently you may be carried away by what they say and never see what they missed.

Phaedrus, in contrast, sometimes forgot the cart but was fascinated by the horse. He thought the best way to examine the contents of various philosophological carts is first to figure out what you believe and then to see what great philosophers agree with you. There will always be a few somewhere. These will be much more interesting to read since you can cheer what they say and boo their enemies, and when you see how their enemies attack them you can kibitz a little and take a real interest in whether they were right or wrong.

With this technique you can approach someone like William James in a much different way than an ordinary philosophologist would. Since you've already done your creative thinking before you read James, you don't just go along with him. You get all kinds of fresh new ideas by contrasting what he's saying with what you already believe. You're not limited by any dead-ends of his thought and can often see ways of going around him. This was occurring in what Phaedrus had read so far. He was getting a definite impression that James' philosophy was incomplete and that the Metaphysics of Quality might actually improve on it. A philosophologist would normally be indignant at the impertinence of someone thinking he could improve on the great Harvard philosopher, but James himself, to judge from what Phaedrus had read so far, would have been very enthusiastic about the effort. He was, after all, a philosopher.

A suggestion: for those who haven't read the prequel, read that first before attempting to read this book.

i-suck

2006-08-31T18:01:00.001+05:30

Of course, it isn’t the me I’m talking about who sucks. Did you not notice the lowercased ‘i’? Surely I’d have to be a terrible writer to refer to myself with a lowercased ‘i’. I don’t suck at all. Not even remotely. Heck there isn’t even an inkling of that property in me. Naught, I say.

The i-suck I’m talking about is a certain rock concert that takes place every year on or around Independence Day. It’s dedicated to all the losers in Bombay who have no idea what rock music is. These fools wouldn’t be able to differentiate it from boiled soya milk even if their miserable lives depended on it. Independence Rock, or simply I-Rock, is what this tedious event is lovingly called by all the bovine buffoons this city has sired.

If anyone ever told you that I-Rock is worth going to, tell them to shove it. Why do I detest Independence Rock so? Oh, there are a number of reasons that I’m going to delightedly get into, in detail, right here and right now.

First off, someone needs to go and tell those pathetic-as-arse performers that Rock is dead. Indeed. The only purpose Rock served was back in the Devonian Period four hundred million years ago when amphibians first crawled out from the ocean and made their houses under it. Had it not been for Rock back then, we wouldn’t be here now to quip about it. Instead, all you’d get is the gulp of bulltoads still in their primordial infancy. But that was then; this is now, and Rock is Dead!

Second, Rock is not Metal. The equation is as simple as a piece of cake. Even if the cake is exquisitely complex. My powers of comprehension and faculties of logic simply fail to understand this little fact how these two altogether different things can be muddled up with each other. Rock is not Metal! Can butter be bread? Can milk be sugar? No! No, no, and no! Now that this detail has been established, pray, tell me how can Independence Rock actually be Independence Metal! If this beautiful piece of logic has successfully penetrated your mind, you’ll see the light the way I do.

Every year, year after year, that I have been loth to present myself at the said hopeless event, all my ears have been subject to is noise. And I’m not talking about the regular noise of idiots screaming out incorrect lyrics to songs that should never have been composed in the first place. What I am talking about is the anti-sound that is produced when a ghastly piece of electronic contraption called an effects processor intercepts the music originating from an angelic musical instrument like the guitar before our brain does. Being the technological horror that an effects processor is, divine musical notes get twisted into an infernal and hellish sound that can only be appreciated by Lucifer himself or his hapless minions who might have descended upon this Earth. And decidedly, such is neither the company I’d like to share nor whose creation I’d like to enjoy.

Third, and lastly if I may add, when I go to a rock concert, I’m looking for originality. And needless to mention, a terribly rendered piece-of-shit Eighties punk rock song force-fed by a bunch of oafs is not what I would classify as original. Unfortunately, that’s all I get. Rather, that's all I ever got. Every single fucking time. Which is why I hereby declare that I have had enough.

Independence Rock is Teh Suck. Thank God I didn’t go for it this year.

yet another change

2006-08-24T06:46:00.000+05:30

I should never have changed to Blogger Beta in the first place. But now that I have, I must follow protocol or Blogger will proceed to make my electronic life increasingly difficult.

Older templates have issues it seems with the new Blogger. I have tried my best redesigning this one to match the former.

what is the purpose of writing?

2006-08-20T16:33:00.000+05:30

As I lay feverish on my bed, something occurred to me. In fact, things usually occur to me when I’m feverish. Unfortunately, I don’t catch the chills that often which can only but mean that not too many things occur to me. Therefore, when an idea does pop up, I waste no time, pick up a pen and jot it down. I prefer ink pens because they’re really good for these sort of things. Alas, drab electronic alphabets must suffice for my electronic people for now. Okay, I’m getting wound up about it. Anyhow.

So, what is the purpose of writing? Really, what is the purpose of writing?

Bill Watterson the author of one of my favourite comic strips, Calvin and Hobbes, very succinctly notes, “The purpose of writing is to inflate weak ideas, obscure poor reasoning, and inhibit clarity.” He then goes on, “with a little practice, writing can be an intimidating and impenetrable fog!” Of course, Calvin’s high-minded idea is taken solely in jest; we get to laugh at a good joke and then on to the next strip it is. But is he really joking? I’m not so sure.

I was reading a friend’s blog the other day only to see this comment:

“well, now i finally believe that you can write well...normally you try to give that hardhitting realist edge to simple stories and leave them neither simple nor complex..here it was a simple story told in a simple manner and it suceeded in touching a chord...”

My goddamn arse it is. Who the hell do you think you are, Sir/Madam Anonymous, trying to tell people whether the story works or not. Is writing only to show off one’s articulation? Is it a conceited pat on your back by showing the level of prowess you have with words? It’s the story you’re supposed to look at, not the way it was written.

You know what I call writing that’s an end in itself? Pretentiousness. Goddamn pretentiousness.

Writing is merely a means to express an idea. The idea could be a drunken ramble, a meaningful story or even arbitrary thoughts that you want to remember. Organic circuits can only last so long; what better way other than to note it down.

While there’s no doubt that good writing can enhance the effect of the story, it’s always the story that’s the ends. It bloody always is. Quality of writing that has no effect on the story (if there exists a story in the first place) is worthless, useless, and utterly pretentious.

There’s a fine difference between what’s fake and what’s pretentious. When you’re fake, you’re fully aware of it. It’s all out then in the open and possibly you’re even fine about it. But when you’re pretentious, you’ve managed to fool yourself into thinking that this actually is the way you are. And you proceed to go on in a downward spiral of self-deception and self-destruction.

If any of you reading this think this piece is pretentious, please poignantly comment your thoughts.

Beta

2006-08-18T18:59:00.000+05:30

I upgraded to the new Blogger Beta a couple of days ago, being filled with greed, looking at all the *new features* available, and guess what? My display picture has disappeared. This is just simply excellent.

Unfortunately the process is irreversible so I'm going to be stuck faceless until Blogger decides to pull up its socks. All of you who have received the tempting upgrade option, please think twice before you switch over.

Quality

2006-08-16T22:06:00.000+05:30

Earlier today, I had an argument with my sister regarding the level her files have infiltrated my hard drive. Yes, I am the sole proprietor of the computer hard drive in question. However, since I’m a good brother, I allow her to frequently hoard her gigabytes of data that include digital photos, music and the like on my precious storage circuits until she feels up to it to burn a couple of DVDs in order to free up some much required space.

Of course, the music I’m quite all right about. Being a musician and a fan of music (in that order), I welcome newer stuff to my ears – though it must conform to my liking. The latter isn’t really much of an issue since my sister and I have pretty similar tastes. In fact, I’ll even stretch that to say that my elder sister has quite possibly influenced my musical tastes in a large way.

So, this morning I started my usual rant about how I had no space left on the hard drive for my own bloody stuff thanks to her burgeoning data which she chose to never back up. Since we didn’t have any spare blanks at the moment, she responded by offering to delete a lot of the music that she’s already gotten sick of, and which I didn’t listen to either.

It then occurred to me that she’s always been this way about her music. There’d be all this experimental stuff she’d stockpile, listen to for a couple of months, and then get bored only to throw away/move on. In fact, there are millions of people in this world who belong to this category, who appreciate music in this manner.

My stance however, is entirely different. For instance, when I really start to like a particular band, I gather every album, every b-side, every piece of music it ever wrote, every lyric, and every bit of guitar tablature I’m proficient enough to play.

While brings me to my main question: how can you in general get fed up of the music you’d swear by only sometime ago? How can something lose its quality after a while? Isn’t Quality thought to be inherent? Besides the music in question hasn’t changed whatsoever. It still is the same collection of sounds it always was. What has changed then and why?

When you swing from one band to another, endlessly moving on to newer and newer music, fed up of what you’ve left behind, are you really appreciating its inherent quality at all? I think not. I think it's only a superficial level of liking; a temporal, transient sort of quality. Do orchestrators get bored of Beethoven after conducting Moonlight Sonata for the hundredth time? Not at all. Moonlight Sonata has an absolute quality underlying it. It isn’t a cacophonic electric guitar riff that after having heard over fifty times, begins to get to you.

Can it therefore be possible that Quality has not single but dual avatars? Is there a subjective, temporal aspect to quality that is easy to appreciate and access that you get to like and once the phase has passed, stop liking? Similarly, is there an objective counterpart, which is absolute, doesn’t depreciate in value over either space or time, and stays with you once you've found it?

My Dear Friend Vishal

2006-08-11T19:50:00.000+05:30

His life is now revealed to the whole world.

We Have Piecharts

2006-08-10T19:04:00.000+05:30

Some of my favourites:

Verily, It Is Good At The Mall!

List Of Things Which Are Cool

Why Things Happen

Miss Scotland 1998 Contestants' Wishes For The Planets' Future.

Things Spoken Of At Speaker's Corner, Hyde Park

People Who Fight With Swords

A Day In The Life Of A Goldfish

Excuses

The Games Of Gargantua

Alphabets

World Population

Pirate Information

I shall add more when the time's more conducive to goofing around. Oh, and all credit must go to the now defunct A 1000 Ridiculous Tragedies for coming up with these hilarious piecharts.

the best darn blog ever

2006-07-28T19:32:00.000+05:30

For those who haven't visited this blog before, do so now and witness a legend in the making. http://rrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnnnhhhh.blogspot.com is the funniest blog in the whole wide world!

Oh Chewie, I salute you.

Evolution, Ye Olde Scallawag

2006-07-25T22:44:00.000+05:30

I’ve had a hard time coming to terms with the catchphrase “Survival of the Fittest” these recent days. I don’t know why it’s gotten to me, or got me thinking for that matter. What exactly does fit imply? Fit for survival? So survival of the fittest only means survival of the survivors - which is downright redundant, to say the least. Therefore, Evolution – or as Darwin called it natural selection, or as pop-culture called it survival of the fittest – merely means survival. And, since you must change to your surroundings in order to survive, you must evolve. Evolution is nothing but survival amidst change. Natural selection follows directly as a result of this.

On an entirely different note, I have come across a fine way of describing a slut. Fine and dandy, if I may add. I shall now call the variety hi-infi. "She's hi-infi man, she's a real slut!" Unless you haven't figured it out already, hi-infi implies high infidelity. Isn't that really novel? Of course, there's a whole other side to debate over – how infidelity has nothing to do with sluttishness or vice versa, but I shall not get into that today.

a new look

2006-07-21T16:56:00.000+05:30

Please welcome my blog's new look.

Yeah, the picture's all messed up and I have to fine-tune some other elements as well. I'm working on that. But as an overall feel, this is mostly it.

...updated much later: Everything's fixed. Now let me go and kick the arse of whoever it was that developed CSS and its gathering minions.

sleep

2006-07-18T19:55:00.000+05:30

Have you ever had an out-of-body experience? Have you ever felt as if you were observing yourself but had no control over your actions?

It’s almost like I have one every other morning. If there’s one problem with me, it’s waking myself up when I want to. I have no control over my sleeping body. Every morning, I press a pillow over my head and forcefully, yet involuntarily, block any attempt that will have me woken. Its strange, it’s bizarre. I’m obstinate to the extent that I even refuse to relent to my own self. I can hear my consciousness telling me that there’s a meeting in forty-five minutes – that I have to get going, but my body won’t budge. My eyes remain shut until it’s all over and I’ve managed to make the usual egg of myself. What’s odd is that my consciousness is me. I was watching over all throughout; I told myself to get up, but I refused to listen. What happened? Why did it happen? Was there some self-destructive force at play? Why so?

The worst is later though. After the spell finally wears off, I recollect everything I did. I remember the numerous times I shut off the alarm, the incoming phone calls I cancelled or just let ring, or the fierce manner in which I told anyone who tried to wake me up to scoot.

I also remember having no say on my actions. I had no effect on me. Rather, I have no effect on me.

look what I found

2006-07-03T19:13:00.000+05:30

Look what I found! When was this, 2003?

Oh and from right to left, that's Kunal (KG), Leo, Vivek, Sagar, and I.

good morning

2006-07-01T05:02:00.000+05:30

Good morning, Mr. Warhol. Good morning, Mr. Avedon. Any afterthoughts on the afterlife? You must tell me now. For I regret to announce that I shall be unavoidably delayed.

comment moderation no more

2006-06-27T02:19:00.000+05:30

Apparently I had enabled comment moderation and didn't quite know about it - resulting in the forlorn look on my page. I have now exorcised its demons and banished it altogether. It ceases to exist here any longer.

Thus Spake Egghead.

Great White Death

2006-06-26T20:17:00.000+05:30

I’ve gotten into a sudden, manic funk these days: weekends must be taken advantage of, to such an extent, so as to nullify the negative effect that humdrum city life has on my being. It’s my personal adage. And I follow it with an intensity that only gets fiercer. It was on this note that I decided to scale Kalsubai, the highest peak in Maharashtra.

Kalsubai is also the tallest mountain of the Sahyadris. It’s all of 5,500 feet; and looking at its intimidating, cloudy head makes you wonder whether you’ve been transplanted upward to the north, where the younger mountain ranges grow taller each year even as their holy waters wash through the country. Quite perfect, if you ask me, for those who can’t make time for the real stuff. Though, Kalsubai itself is pretty real stuff.

Naturally, I had to go there. I had to conquer it. For lofty peaks and tall aspirations go together especially well. Not that there would have been anything to gain other than a wider view of the countryside, a deluded sense of superiority, and a few incidental bolts from the blue which, wasn’t quite blue to begin with – not when there’s an ominous thunderstorm rearing its head over the undulating landscape. Incidental yes, but certainly not unforeseen: uncalculated would be a much better word to explain the event.

The beauty about something being uncalculated is that it turns into the most obvious and rationally fathomable piece of information when you do your revisions; but you simply cannot think along those lines prior to that – the self-aware piece of organic jelly between your ears is already engaged in other affairs like, calculating the reaction of your peers when you tell them of your thrilling expedition, or in conceited self-admiration of its unrelenting anima.

It’s understood you make the usual preparations when you climb a mountain: an adequate amount of sleep the night before; a good breakfast before commencing; water supply in plentiful; a couple of tidbits to eat during the journey; appropriate gear; and mental preparation.

And so it was that the three of us, Sagar, Fabio and myself, left on the wrong foot. No sleep, empty stomachs, a bottle of water between us (which works out to a glass each), and an underestimation of the hike or more possibly, an overestimation of the self.

To make matters worse, the weather was downright abominable: the sweltering sun burned right through my skin, and in the course of a week preceding our coming, dried every trickling stream – whose hope might have been to embrace the ground and flow out to caress the sea, to finally meet the great ocean that’s living and breathing with activity; the great body of water that was billions of years ago the very source of life itself. Fruitless it must have been for the stream: it met its maker instead.

We made it to the summit nonetheless. There, on the highest point of the land, an eyrie in the sky, was a temple dedicated to the local deity Kalsubai. After overcoming several obstacles, I was there. Decidedly though, the worst was yet to come.

At the summit, the sun had disappeared. The clouds had hearkened to our pleas and the sky was overcast and solemn even as we were wont to receive it. The low but distant rumbling of thunder had already begun, and across the darkling plains you could even catch an occasional flash of lightning cascade across the grey – momentarily illuminating the brooding countryside and murky waters in its wake. And it began to rain.

It didn’t take long to be shaken out of my serene setting. We had better get going I thought, for the mountainside would be treacherous when wet. Yeah right. As if slipping off a wet rock was the most dangerous thing that could happen to me; naïve yet arrogant in my supposition that I had no dues to settle. A few minutes into the journey downward, I had presently stopped for a bit to check whether my bag was tightly closed, waterproofed, and its contents dry when the next thing I heard was a deafening crack quite similar to a large concert speaker tearing at full volume. The sky’s rage had boiled over and bore down on a point barely hundred feet from where I stood. I didn’t need to comprehend what had come to pass; it happened again, save this time the thunder only boomed louder.

It’s almost ironic how the most natural of things appears completely unnatural when magnified. Take something as ordinary as an ant. There’re millions of them, scurrying about while we conduct our daily chores. It's no big shakes when you see an ant; in fact, you probably unknowingly squash a hundred everyday. But when you focus on an ant in its entirety, to the extent that it fills your frame of reference, you witness a warped perspective. Suddenly the ant changes into a monstrous arthropod; with huge, compound eyes, furry legs and an incapacitating bite. Or have a look at the simple night sky. Those twinkling white dots enveloping you in a blanket of darkness, turn out to be gigantic balls of fire almost incalculably far away.

Discovering for the first time this sudden change of perspective is unsettling to say the least. It’s just the same with lightning. Up in the sky it’s a beautiful white streak that shows you how wondrous nature can be. When it hits the ground near you, it’s a blinding bolt whose terrifying sound echoes through your bones. The hills were alive with the sound of thunder that day. I could almost feel the charge in the air as lightning smote the land, which so nonchalantly seemed to receive it.

There’s no better way to understand helplessness than this: you’re on high ground and at least two hours from safety; there’s no significant cover other than for the odd, huge piece of stone; and lightning is striking all around you. You can’t make a dash for it as the descent is steep and strewn with jagged rock ensuring broken bones if you miss a footing. On the other hand, remaining where you are isn’t any better, for standing on open, high ground is beckoning to be struck.

Years of studying logic, science, reason in school suddenly fail to prove their worth. You might as well have been institutionalised – you’re incapable of acting rationally to the event. Not that your actions are irrational; rationalism itself merely relies on reason to explain causality; which of course, doesn’t help a bit when the atmosphere’s pregnant with a million volts of electricity, whose intent is bent upon meeting the ground using the shortest way possible. And may god help if that shortest route is you.

Needless to say, I did what I must. I took the way down, ever so carefully, first crouching in anticipation, then dashing over precarious rock. This went on for the next half hour. Two village boys also darting downward joined us mid way. No mercy was shown to these kids who watched over the temple everyday. They had both been struck at the peak though were miraculously unhurt. But that stopped their tears not. From the ravings of these two I learned the fate of the seven other tourists at the top. They had been hit as well, but were all alive.

We did not get hit that day.

Even as the fury subsided, we resolutely made our way down the mountain to the awaiting village below, where such accidents are mere incidents for its hopeless residents, who must continue to go about their work in a matter-of-factly way, so that we can sit safe in our big cities and reap the benefit of their efforts and bother not for the casualties that occur far, far away from us.

But nature has its parting shots. In a twist of fate, two days later, I awoke to find out that a bunch of seven college kids couldn’t escape the seething sky in the prime of our city. One was electrocuted to death the papers raved. I was back in the city, but not safe and sound. The message was conveyed.

SNAFU

2006-06-19T15:46:00.000+05:30

Okay, my page doesn't look the way I intended for it to. Apparently, not too many people have the font lucida grande installed on their machines. Well, use your appropriate sources and get it. Or then just send me a mail. If nothing else, at least my writing will look better.

I wish I were a neutrino

2006-06-19T14:07:00.000+05:30

It sure must be fun being a neutrino. You just pass through matter the whole damn time.

Because the cross section in weak nuclear interactions is very small, neutrinos can pass through matter almost unhindered. For typical neutrinos produced in the sun (with energies of a few MeV), it would take approximately one light year (~10^16m) of lead to block half of them. Detection of neutrinos is therefore challenging, requiring large detection volumes or high intensity artificial neutrino beams.

Courtesy: Wikipedia

A light-year thick slab of lead! If only I were a neutrino.

a most peculiar night

2006-06-14T23:58:00.000+05:30

This is one of the first poems I wrote. Way back in 1999 it was. Looking at it now, it isn't too shabby at all, I think.

a most peculiar night

We walked on the virgin sand,
our feet burning indents in the Earth.
The moonlight was scorching
and liquid platinum flowed in with surf.
Crimson flames leaped from the dry wood
blurring technicolour and obscuring vision.
Oh, how I loved the crackling,
it was sweet music with a black fin.
The golden light sparkled in glory
and the stars really reached,
their dreary screams hit a vein in my head
and the fire throttled my speech.
“Shall we swim?” she said,
and Death looked at her and smiled.
The water was dark and inviting
while Foreboding stretched across the skies.
But the waves, they devoured me
with their crests and troughs magnifique,
and the tide, she swallowed me;
I was unable to breathe.
The reeds caught my legs
and only the clams heard my plight
while I was beset by the creatures of the deep,
she disappeared into the night.

Gearing Up

2006-06-14T22:15:00.000+05:30

An article I wrote for the Economic Times:

Straddle on, tug at the reins, and get out into the country. But this isn't about horse riding. Here, 'rein' implies pedal, and 'country' is the Mumbai outback. What I'm talking about is cycling in the city. And not where you're chased down by territorial neighbourhood dogs or deafened by edgy, veering buses.

But you'll need to have three things: a bicycle, a decent amount of stamina and the need to break out of the mundane city life and its dull routine. The bicycle can easily be bought, and the stamina acquired with a little bit of dedication. But the urban decay is hard to come out of.

It all started when a couple of my friends and I, having grown tired of meeting at the popular watering holes every weekend, decided to pick up bicycles and head out. But not to a specific destination – it's the journey there and back that makes it worth experiencing.

A few days later, I bought my cycle after looking around in a couple of shops in the Metro area. But professional fun requires professional equipment, so a standard pair of wheels wouldn't do me any good, although these come a lot cheaper. Rather, the cycle I picked up was a mountain bike with gears and suspension. Other than this, I looked out for the lightest of the lot. The heavier the cycle is, the more effort you'll have to put in. And you don't want to needlessly tire yourself out on long rides. In my case, I stripped my bike of all unnecessary accessories such as the mudguards and carrier. I cycled back home all the way almost immediately, though there were numerous halts when I had to regain my breath. It took a good hour, and when I finally reached, I was aching all over and exhausted.

The next weekend was my first big head out. Along with my friends, we cycled to Imax Adlabs, Wadala, and back. Any of you who have been there will know that Imax is located in the thick of desolation. It was midnight, I had my iPod hooked up and a bottle of water strapped on. The air was still, quiet and cool and the streets sullen and brooding. That midnight ride was easily one of the best experiences I've had till date.

Over the past few months, I've explored the entire eastern harbour of South Mumbai. Mazgaon with its naval dockyards is tight on security. Cotton Green with its rundown sheds hasn't changed in half a century. And from Wadala onward to Trombay (where Mumbai's main refineries are housed) extend greenery, plantation, saltpans and straight, empty roads: the perfect setting for cycling. I'm hooked, and already awaiting the next weekend.

Vegas

2006-06-14T06:34:00.000+05:30

Written for The Times of India:

Endless tv reruns, cramped feet and a couple of stuffy flights later, I’m finally in Vegas. I see ‘Viva Las Vegas’ over the shoulder of an excited fellow traveller in the text message she’s sending. The pilot’s voice crackles out of the speakers welcoming us into the city and her mobile beeps back, concurring.

Walking out of the airport I notice the first of many strange sights I‘ll remember long after the trip is done. I see a cleaner going about his business. A closer look reveals the man’s Indian! His handlebar moustache itself allays any suspicion as does the ratty woollen sweater. He looks up nervously and I realise I’ve been staring too long. I look away and he’s about his job again. Quite strange it is that I leave my country to enter another and the first sight I see is of the familiar.

My room on the 29th floor of the hotel Monte Carlo has a view of the cityscape that is quite overwhelming. Monte Carlo is on ‘The Strip’ where all the hotels are high rises. The rest of the city, mostly elegant row houses and condos, aren’t more than a storey or two. So from the 29th floor you see pretty much as far as the eye can go. And on a bright and clear afternoon, I feel compelled to stand and ruminate beneath the boughs.

My window pane isn’t built to open and I can understand why. Las Vegas, entertainment city, must certainly have its share of heartbreaks. For the big winners at the casinos every night, tenfold lose as much. I’m sure these windows have a deathly story to tell. The city d’nocturne is an inviting sight and as they say, there are many ways to leave Vegas. I wonder at the number of times a drunken and grief-stricken guest, having lost everything in a reckless gamble, was betrayed by this open invitation.

Post dinner, I get my first view of Sin City. I walk the streets of Vegas hopping from one casino to the next. Outside it’s a chilly 10°C with wave upon wave of flashy neon signs wherever you look. Inside, the atmosphere is musty with smoke, sex, glamour and wealth entangled in a dark knot. My jacket does a good job keeping me warm externally, a few vodka slugs do the same from within.

Vegas more than lives up to its reputation as Strip Central of the West Coast. You get a chance to acknowledge this on every sidewalk in fact. Peddlers stand there at all hours distributing contact cards for private strippers. My head really turned the first couple of times before the sight dulled into normalcy. Then my head turned once more when I noticed an Indian family in the business! Besides technology, it’s the low-level jobs that are pulling Indians in. The funny thing is it happens precisely when you least expect it. Suddenly you find a young Indian taking your order at a typical McDonald take-out, or a calm geriatric accepting your bill at the counter of a grocery store.

The week zips by in a mad rush: attending the Consumer Electronics Show (CES) by day and bounty hunting at the casinos while scouring the Strip at night. Coming across lots of Indians at CES, the largest technology show in the world, is a warming sight. But a mister Singh giving a presentation about a forthcoming piece of silicon isn’t one-tenth as remarkable as being dealt cards by a pretty missus Singh at the black jack tables. And such casino dealers, airport cleaners and street peddlers are just a few instances out of a hundred.

The trip draws to a close now. My head’s still reeling from the drone of slot machines, roulette tables, and the snap of shuffling cards. On the flight back, an elderly Indian sitting over at the seat next to mine tells me his story. He’s the owner of a gas station in Texas for over twenty years now and is travelling to Ludhiana to visit his ailing mother. What of his gas station, I ask him? His wife will look after it of course, with a few helping hands who’ve readily volunteered.

In less than a day I will be back home. But honestly, throughout my journey eerily enough, I’ve never felt far away. There were always a few instances of the familiar helping me maintain a grasp even on those things alien. It was amazing. And heart-warming.