Friday, July 30, 2004

insight

the egg came first....or the chicken wouldnt have been born...hang on... who put the egg there? damn relativity!

insomnia

bleary eyed, comp on, screen bloody flickering....fan rattling happily away in the background (too silent without it), my bitch(literally) yelling her tail off outside, rain drops drippin from the roof..... Is my life an analogy to this...god its insomnia...coffeeee?...naa too much jhanjhat. ditch maadi, NITK... done deal, was good, arbit but good. fan still rattling, raw nerve...this isnt making sense, sadism hits. read this and feel sorry...dont know for whom though...

 
i need sleep. good night.
coconuts dont suffer from acrophobia...coffee is a drug and goats cant talk. life is weird

happy?

Two guys were under a tree feeling happy.....and then happy got up and walked away.

ROTF LMAO

Thursday, July 29, 2004

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

There is me. And there is life. When did we cross last?
What am I doing? And why? Where is all this taking me? I wish I could see myself in a bright, happy future. It's amazing how my visions of a bright future are always clouded while visions of bitter past are as clear as crystal. Sometimes there are tears. Mostly brought on by frustration. I stare at the ceiling quite often. Thankfully, there's anonymity in darkness.

Tuesday, July 27, 2004

Chronicles of an Insomniac - III

We WON!!! Amazing match... Damn! I'm still sweating... I figured we were out the way Jayasuriya and Dilshan were playing... And then Sehwag comes out of nowhere and gets rid of Dilshan with an absolute beauty. And then he gets J'suriya, and I'm like: "Hang on! This could be fun!!!". Irfan sends down an awesome over with a well deserved wicket, and bang... it's the last over, with 11 runs and 2 wickets. I was praying that the over wouldn't go to Zaheer Khan (considering that he'd been giving a steady 8 runs an over) and then, lo and behold... he comes up with a nerve-wracking, crazy finishing over. Just one thing, Zaheerbhai... why don't you bowl those yorkers in your first nine overs?

Negatives from the match:
a) Parthiv Patel. He really needs to improve on his keeping. He's one rung higher than Deep "where's the fu@#ing ball" Dasgupta.
b) Anil Kumble, who needs to think about either retirement, new glasses or a "how-to-spin-the-ball guide". He's hardly as dangerous as he used to be now that most of the world's cricketers have figured out that the ball isn't going to turn at all. In fact, when it does turn, he's more likely to pick up a wicket.
Positives:
Bhajji came back with a bang today. Awesome stuff from the fiery Surd. Wish he'd batted though. Yuvraj was awesome. No other word for it. Every time that man scores a 50, we win the game. I doubted it today for a while, but we came through. Tendulkar was in ominous form. Tough luck he got out.

It finally rained in Ahmedabad today. This, after four days of dark clouds and light drizzles. The MET department's also finally given up trying to forecast weather. Methinks they'd make better palmists/fortune-tellers/fortune-cookie makers etc. My dad, of course, blames the late monsoon on Modi (along with all market fluctuations, his students' not working, Sachin Tendulkar's non-performance in Asia cup and my dress sense).

Had gone to Pantaloons today to shop for shorts and some footwear. I find that I'm quite unable to shop for myself. I couldn't decide if I liked the red shorts with white stripe more or the blue shorts with white stripe. And whether the blue reebok floater was better than the grey reebok floater. Despite having Rich helping, I ended up buying nothing. When I complained about this to M, all I got was:

"And you are mad because? Most men can't shop, love. It doesn't make them less capable"

Last time I went to Mumbai, my dad's friends' daughter (8 years old) renamed me "Goat Bhaiyya" (in honour of the semi-goatee I was sporting). Then she said:

"Bhaiyya, you look like Hagar"
"Haggard? Of course. I'm working quite hard at college. Studying and stuff..." (At this point I was thanking God that she didn't call me Hoggard... I have hair. You just have to look for it. And 32 teeth as well)
"Not Haggard, bhaiyya. Hagar... Hagar the horrbile"
"@#$*!#$)" (Unprintable)

She was quite candid about my dress sense and the frequency of my bathing at Surathkal. Apparently women even at eight years like clean shaven, nice smelling, decently dressed men. Damn.

What's the fuss about metrosexuality about, really? Is the fuss simply because these men groom themselves? Because they wax chest hair, get curly hair and use shampoos with 1,43,269 extracts? Is this really a movement at all? Look at it this way. Even one century ago, in Europe, and even in the U.S., men wore wigs, make-up and effeminate dresses. So why is it that when the same things are done today, it's suddenly a movement? Metrosexuality is just another smart marketing gimmick.

Earlier:
"Let's put hair gel in cool bottles for men. Hell we won't paint them pink. Let's paint them... ummm... yeah... steel grey!" (Sexist)
Today:
"Get in touch with the woman in you. Use Kleeno Wax for unwanted chest hair" (Still sexist)

It's strange how we love to categorize people. There are nerds, jocks, gays/homos, heteros, bis, lesbos, Pais... and now metros... (heavy sarcasm) Maybe in a decade or so we'll have 'Metrosexual quotas' in our colleges instead of 'Scheduled caste and scheduled tribe quotas'. (/heavy sarcasm) My point is this. There is no such thing as the 'metrosexual man'. It' s just a name. The metrosexual man has no distinct identity. Contradictory to popular belief, metrosexual is not a synonym for 'gay'. By calling someone 'metrosexual' we simply provide a chance for loser homophobes to show us very clearly why sexuality is not linked to higher brain functions. I despise ads like 'Bajaj Pulsar: Definitely male'. Is it sexist or does the bike have a body part we haven't seen yet? Truth be told, the ad is made for the significant buying demographic. Quite obviously, the chances of a woman buying a Bajaj Pulsar are about as high as Anil Kumble spinning the ball more than 2 inches in a cricket match (i.e. non-existent). It's the same with metrosexuality. Except, the tag-line's "Definitely female".

Some guys like dressing well. They like shopping. Even if it is for aloe-vera enriched bio-fresh natural apricot-extract ultra-pure hair-strengthening lotion, so what? Get over it. They aren't any less male than any of us. And they sure as hell aren't gay. And the whole 'getting in touch with your feminine side' thing is crap. What feminine side? Last time I checked I didn't have breasts.

Or maybe you're one of those good ol' sweaty, hairy, rugged males who thinks:

"I've heard about guys going to beauty parlors to get facials and pedicures! Are women actually falling for men who get their legs waxed? I'm being threatened by the man in designer trousers, pink shirts and make-up"

Me... I'm proud of all the hair I've got. Considering that I don't have much on my head, I have to make do with whatever there is. Facials? The closest I get to a facial is a face-wash with Dettol. I have a dog. My dog has a zillion ticks. I spend an hour everyday plucking ticks off his body and after one hour with him, it's tough figuring out who smells worse. Most people give us a wide berth when we go for evening walks. But I have nothing against the man in the pink shirt. Even if it does happen to be a moron like Govinda.

We have enough problems as it is thanks to the categorization of our society and the two billion scheduled castes and tribes in our country. If you're reading this and you claim to be a proud metro, poke yourself in the eye. If you're a proud metro-phobe, go take a cold bath.


Monday, July 26, 2004

Of god and man

                The insomniac in me has arisen again...its one in the morning and i need sedatives...so i'm here to pontificate on something that has been brewing in the cess pool that is my brain for quite a while now. Who is this god guy? Is he for real? why are we so obsessed with this concept? what is it about an omni-potent being that makes most of us swoon like teeny boppers and start talking abt faith and otherwise? what makes him tick? (in reality and in the mind of those with faith!)
   
                i realise by putting up this post i will be inciting and re-awakening one of the oldest arguments in the history of mankind, but right now i dont really care about being politically correct. i must, in the interest of fairness, state my inclination on this front...i happen to be agnostic bordering on being an atheist. so i must confess that this will inevitably end up being a slightly(or majorly..again i state my bias isnt the point here) biased post. but is always up for objective discussion.
 
             at this point i'm compelled to examine why we had to have a god in the first place? maybe for the spirituals i posed that question in wrong way, for them it should've been why god exists? but in the end all grammatical corrections aside i'm asking the same question...why?

             for the longest time i always thought people just didnt know any better and just assumed what their ultra-religious parents told them was right, that god exists and we arent anyone to question that...anyone living in a religious community (this happens rather often in india) would've experienced this. but there are more facets to a person, during the course of my existance i've realised something very poignant. i.e: that people are crazy, but the person is always smart. he questions, wonders, examines, seeks answers, some of us more than others; and some of the traditional guys wont ever admit publicly that they questioned god at any point in time, but we all know that we've had our doubts and questioned at the same time. when we lost something we really wanted, when it felt like the world wasnt being fair, when we didnt get what we deserved, when the credit for what we worked so hard for was given to "gods grace", we questioned, we wondered....we always will....
            

             there are so many ways we can look at the concept of god, as to why we humans need it. some say its an emotional crutch, its a way of de-valuing our defeats and failures, its real easy to say "oh well, god has a reason for everything". we are given an easy exit route in matters of the world, at first the mystics denounce reality by saying this world is an illusion and we are all puppets of the almighty, and then when we do fail that is blamed on the guy upstairs as well.

 
          i've always wondered, if its all his doing and his game...then what part does a man's will and ability to make something of himself play in where he gets in life. if how far he's going to go is all predetermined then why should that man work at all? destiny is a concept thats directly a brainchild of blind faith in "gods plans". the idea of prayer is also lost on me, they say work is worship and yet the most "supposedly" pious are the saints who sit in ashrams and dont do any work at all...all their ability for charity comes from the financial power of productive donours. then there is also the question that (considering god exists) he's given us two arms, two legs, a brain, etc etc every thing thats needed to make something of ourselves in this world. now wouldnt the most profound form of religion or worship be to do our work in the best and most dedicated way possible. the tool of survival for a man is his mind and his ability to apply that in the process of creation and execution of various tasks. if we denounce it in the name of faith, then what are we to trust?

       
         then there are the people who say that we ought to do everything we can...and then what happens is all a direct function of gods blessings. what is that supposed to mean? lets look at this statement. if a man does everything in his power then there are certain consequences...it would be inadequate if one said that he will be rewarded accordingly. because they are several things that are outside the purview of a single humans power, but they are within the purview of reality. if a man gets less than what he deserved it can be explained by the simple factor that something in the world (please not i'm not implying divine intervention or karma or any such metaphysical concept) interfered with his efforts and they entire product was something less than what he deserved. this is also the case when he gets something more than his efforts have merited. where does god fit in?

         
           we also have this great tendency to explain the freak phenomena that happen in our life with by crediting them to god, the titanic, hindenberg, a miraculous recovery from a horrible car crash, ganesha statues absorbing milk during ganesh chaturthi...etc etc the list is endless. but we refuse to look at the bare facts. for every miraculous recovery that occurs..there are millions that die. for every one medical marvel, there are a thousand that go exactly according to the doctors predictions and for every ganesh statue drinking milk... there's something called capillary action induced by concentration gradients.

        
            i don't want to denounce the idea of god altogether. the other day i argued with one very old uncle of mine on the concept of god. he tolerated me for a long time and patiently heard out every shred of damning (or so i thought) evidence i had against his existance. but then after waiting patiently for the better part of an hour all he said to me was "If my faith helps me get through the day, why should it bother you?". from that day on i gave up on my quest to convince every theist otherwise and realised a couple of important things....

 
            i realised that in my case the existance of god does not make a difference. my belief in him is inconsequential, an omni potent being doesnt thrive on the belief of others. it would be an end unto itself. therefore i conceeded my own atheism and moved to become an agnostic. i also realised a simple but great truth that drives me to this day "to each his own". i have no right to question anothers beliefs, only a right to express my own. i end in hope that we will all find our own principles that'll aid us in the process of becoming the best men and women we can be. amen.

 
"To those who believe no proof is necessary, to those who don't none will suffice"
   
   




Sunday, July 25, 2004

In India I Trust

Damn. We lost. Tomorrow the papers are going to be bloody full of stories about how Tendulkar never performs under pressure and how if he had made 150 we would have won and how we are not really the second best team in the world and that our bowling is weak, our batting is shaky and our fielding isn't all that good.

I'm sick of the debate on the Tendulkar issue. Seldom has there been a player as gifted and yet as dedicated as this man. There is no-one on the planet who can wield a cricket bat with the finesse of an artist, the grace of a dancer, the arrogance of an aristocrat and the power of a tyrant. Brian Lara, Matthew Hayden, Adam Gilchrist, Rahul Dravid... the list is endless. They are pretenders to the throne. Gifted, they are. Tendulkar, they are not. To all those who say he never performs under pressure, I suggest you go back and watch replays of the Sharjah matches in 1996... or watch the way he decimated the Pakistan attack in the last world cup (Especially when he kicks Shoaib's butt... I love that part). Yes, I know you're going to say he didn't perform when it mattered the most, in the world cup final. Tendulkar, when he walks out to the middle, carries the expectations of a billion people on his shoulders. Even cynics who claim that he never performs secretly cross fingers and pray for a Tendulkar-storm to begin. Imagine what he must contend with each time he steps out to bat. And we blame him when he fails. Everytime. And when he succeeds, it's a pat on the back and a "Oh but he's Sachin Tendulkar". Face it. There is no greater joy in world cricket than to watch Sachin Tendulkar in freeflow.

We lost today not because we are a poor team. We lost. It's one of the inherent features of cricket that makes it the incredibly interesting game that it is. Pakistan lost by a huge margin to Sri Lanka and came back and beat us. That's all there is to it. They played well. We had a bad day at the office. Let us not read more into this than is necessary. Tendulkar did everything he could today to win the match. So did Ganguly, and Sehwag and Dravid and Yuvraj and Kaif and everybody else. No matter how small their actual contribution to the match. The positives from this match: Tendulkar's batting, Ganguly's batting, Pathan's batting, Tendulkar's bowling. We need to beat Sri Lanka to reach the finals now. All the best to the men in blue. We know you can. Just do it.

Wednesday, July 21, 2004

India Shining: A dissident Indian's perspective

What a week!

The British parliament debated that war on Iraq was an unnecessary measure, the American press finally decided that it it's as much fun to rib John Kerry as it is to rib President Bush, Ralph Nader's finally lost the support of the Green Party, the Indian hockey team's coach has been sacked, Tendulkar hit form against Bangladesh and Navjot Siddhu is not a commentator for the Asia Cup. Sidin Vadukut hasn't posted anything for three days either.  

I watched the Indian parliament in session today. The FM was going through another long speech on his budget, the people of India, the opposition and the NCMP. And all this for a grand total of a hundred people; fifty of whom were half-asleep. A hundred people? With over four hundred and fifty MPs? That's an attendance of less than 25%; lower than the attendance in an extra class on Sunday on "Yoga and the science of Patanjali: how your breathing style can increase your examination marks"!

Is there no minimum attendance required for members of the Indian parliament? These are the people we elect to rule our country. They are the guardians of our democracy. They make important decisions everyday that affect the way we live... be it finance, railways, defence, civil aviation, mining, transportation, media, agriculture... These decisions are to be taken by a consensus among all the members of parliament. What intelligent consensus can ever be reached through a total lack of debate and discussion? Of course, the day any decision is to be taken, the house is overflowing with MPs. I doubt most of them even know why they're in Delhi at all.

"I am in BJP. BJP is in opposition. Therefore I will vote against the motion."
"What is the motion about?"
"Er... I am in BJP, you see. It doesn't really matter."

The same goes for the ruling UPA too, of course. Their MPs just come to vote for the motion as blindly as the opposition MPs who vote against. Of course, in bizarre cases such as the UP assembly, politicians start throwing footwear and mikes at each other whenever decisions are required to be taken or when contentious issues arise. It is true that perhaps there will never be a complete consensus on any issue on parliament. There will always be objections, people to convince, rules that might get bent slightly... issues will arise, no doubt; but these objections raised must be geniune. Objection for the sake of objection is unfortunately the hallmark of the political leader of today.

It is sad that the world's largest democracy must find itself in this lamentable state. Our leaders choose to settle personal scores in parliament rather than address the key issues that face the nation today. Of course, Pakistan is one key issue that we never tire of, but I think I'm tired of that one too.

"Bomb blast in UP. Who's behind it?" "Pakistan"
"Two airforce pilots crash in Kashmir. Who's behind it?" "Pakistan"
"Indian football team loses 18-0 to Gambia. Who's behind it?" "Pakistan"

Water, health, education, infrastructure development, the issue of minorities and the categorization of society... these are issues that our politicians love to talk about when the next election is only five months away. Once the election is over, they're swept under carpets and back into dusty cupboards only to be brought out during another election. Gujarat hasn't had anything that even resembles rain all this year. Basic health services in the country are abysmally poor. We are ill prepared, if at all, to combat the onset of any epidemic. Most hospitals lack even very basic health-care facilities (such as a doctor). Education is more or less a joke. 30% of India cannot read or write. Most villages in India have one dusty road and a tube-well for infrastructure. Unemployment rates in the country are alarming. While it is true that the Indian job market is improving, the question is, who for? For us, the inhabitants of India's cities, yes. For us, who have access to good education and therefore, good jobs, yes. If we are to make our dreams of one day being an important player in geopolitics, internal stability and well-being are essential. For every Delhi, Mumbai, Chennai, Bangalore, Calcutta and Ahmedabad we have five hundred villages with no power, no water, no education, no food and no means of getting any. Concentrated efforts must be made to improve the state of India's poor. Our politicians, despite being aware of the state of things do nothing about it. Until they realize their duty, as the upholders of our democracy and the chosen representatives of our people, and set about solving our country's multitude of problems, the Indian parliament will remain merely a theatre of the absurd.


Monday, July 19, 2004

Conversation Among the Ruins

Through portico of my elegant house you stalk

With your wild furies, disturbing garlands of fruit

And the fabulous lutes and peacocks, rending the net

Of all decorum which holds the whirlwind back.

Now, rich order of walls is fallen; rooks croak

Above the appalling ruin; in bleak light

Of your stormy eye, magic takes flight

Like a daunted witch, quitting castle when real days break.

Fractured pillars frame prospects of rock;

While you stand heroic in coat and tie,

I sitComposed in Grecian tunic and psyche-knot,

Rooted to your black look, the play turned tragic:

Which such blight wrought on our bankrupt estate,

What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?

- Sylvia Plath


Sunday, July 18, 2004

our hidden caustic comment

hello people...
    just a couple of seconds ago i was checking out our blog for the umpteenth time when i came across this comment, this comment was in refrence to "ode to a second hand philosopher" and posted by someone anonymously. the reason most of you wouldnt have seen this one is because its posted as a "fart" i.e: you'll be able to read it only if you click on the article in the previous iterations section. i burst out laughing and couldnt stop for a good  5 minutes, because this man absolutely destroys our rantings with such panache and well humour isnt quite out of the question either....although he does pay us a compliment in admitting that we have a decent command over the english language (thank you sir..compliment duly noted), he goes on to unabatedly bash us at a frenetic and dare i say absolutely enjoyable pace. read and enjoy. constructive criticism my arse...this is real humour, vindictive as it is at times, you cant help but marvel at this critique... here it comes and i quote!
 
"Anonymous said...

Dear Holier-than-thou,

 
I'm so very sorry that you feel the need to rant every morning. The world must owe you something. Why? Because you're YOU, of course! Who needs any other reason when an ego conquers all? I suppose freedom of speech lets any Tom, Harry, Richard (with a short Dick) complain about how the world abuses their own existence, just by BEING!(Oops, thats existensialism... does this mean you won't spit my way?) Why would you actually need to know about a subject in order to diss it? Wasn't it Socrates who said that "He is wisest who knows that his wisdom is worth nothing" or something to that effect(Apology- by Plato). You seem to have mistaken this with that floating pool of ignorance in your head.
 
 
You said- /* The way I see it, philosophy is interpretation. It is the way you interpret what you see, feel, hear, touch and so on.*/ What a contradictory little boy you are. In consecutive sentences, even!
 
You said /*They are third-handers (an original Sahil B term).*/ I'm still laughing! or "laffeeng"! (yet another original term, eh?)
 
You said- /*There is no thing such as higher truth. The only truth is man, mind and knowledge; and the humility to realize this. Those who don't can eat shit for all I care.*/
        Pseudo. Or junkie. Whatever. You strain for the public eye (you and that uncle galt character) and then do the 'kewl' thing (did I spell that right, your highness?) by denouncing the world. You try to destroy a set of established morals, then prove to the world that you're a slave to the same rules after all. To top it all, you live off a self concieved image, brought about by some misconception that a normal command over language overwhelms all. In this lovely couple, I see the literary equivalent of school bullies, who fight off some major insecurity issues by calling the world unfair and unfit for people of your 'type'. Don't take my word for it, ask yourselves. I'd rather go read your juvenile NW issues, than listen to your reverse-psychology-look_im_a_man-ravings. Atleast then I'd have the satisfaction of not having spent bandwidth on The Sahils B-and-K.
 
Grow up."
 
by far the most brilliant, luminous and radiantly funny comment we've ever received and we bow in gratitude to the good chap. but lets pause and look back shall we at this...."critique". i also should interject at this moment and add with a touch of sarcastic laughter and a smirk of smug satisfaction that, in the process of badgering us for ranting about everything...he's ended up ranting himself. Irony is such a beautiful thing. :-D 
 
  aaah yes this man does know his philosophy and indeed takes a pot shot at poor hil (who gave a rather herculian task of critiquing philosophy itself, an attempt). But hmmm lets see...other than dissing us, for dissing philosophy...he hasnt made a single point. enjoyable as it was, pointless it remains.
 
  
 
P.S: Mr. Sunil Pi you've been found out. *evil laughter*



Saturday, July 17, 2004

Solace in words - Wise Goat Talk Much VI

    Emotional release... A major reason why i signed up for this blogging thing. This is what writing gives to me the most. A sense of freedom, of alternate reality, a feeling that for once i can create a world that i like. A world that contains fragments of logic and reason. Things that i like to see in this world. For in this world what i say is what goes, its my world, my reality, my sense of self.
                 Call it escapism but when we are confronted by anything that doesnt make sense to us, we recoil in some sense or the other and this is my sense of protection, my defense mechanism. The way i freeze things and bring them to a halt, whenever they spiral out of control. Its another matter that it gets recognised as pieces of literature (or not...depending on what i write) but the fantastic part about writing the article is that it achieves its purpose as its being written.
                  The feeling of a new world being born as your finger tips breeze over the keyboard is a surreal and beautiful one...therapeutic even. It holds me slowly and calms me down, almost as if its singing a lullaby to me. We all crawl into foetal positions whenever we're scared, afraid, anxious or feel defeated in some way or the other,  writing to me is the ultimate metaphorical foetal position. No profanity used, no damage done, no sentiments hurt....
                  Besides that it also calls to the egomaniac in me, my desire for creation, being the one who makes things happen, in reality or otherwise. It isnt all that different from the real world though, in the sense that once my thoughts do materialise on this post they become part of the real world and in my eyes render some sort of sense to it. Its like i call on reality and impart to it a piece of me. Words always amaze me for once they are born from an authors imagination, they have a great tendency to become immortal (this of course is subject to the authors skill). They live on, carrying forth the legacy of the mind that spawned it. Writing is my solace. Writing is beautiful.
   

First good Jam session

Yahoo! I was at an awesome Jam session tonight with two of Vineet's friends. It was abso-fucking-lutely awesome!!! For a month now, Gaurav and I've just been fiddling around with our guitars trying to string something together (pun intended) and it just hasn't worked. Today, in a flash, we played with this other guy, and it sounded good. There's even a red-head drummer. She's about as good/bad as we are, so it fits in really nicely. I have no clue if this is really going anywhere, but tonight's music was worth anything. I've never been more charged up about practising the guitar. My fingers are bleeding even while I type this post, but they don't hurt. They actually feel good. Because I'm finally playing some chord progressions that sound like songs. G3, watch out. The Ripper - II is here.

*eyes glaze*
"Music... a magic greater than all we do here"
- Albus Dumbledore from "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone"

And God said let there be music... and Hammett was born

Friday, July 16, 2004

Exhaustion

I am zombified. The whole day has been spent doing nothing. There is a full-of-energy 11 year old kid in my house right now who plays age of empires II like a champ and is a God at Tony Hawk's Pro Skater. I feel old and decrepit. I cannot win at computer games anymore. Especially not FPS ones. As long as they're good old strategy games like Warcraft, I am God. But give me a gun in my hand and I'm about as skillful as Sunny Deol in a dance sequence. To boot, the kid also shot more three pointers than I did yesterday at basketball. Hell! And I even had that awesome 76er's vest and stuff. And he had on bathroom slippers and a Mickey Mouse t-shirt. Then I had to go get Spiderman 2 for him. He already knew the end. At least we agreed on the fact that Kirsten Dunst is good looking. Tomorrow, the schedule includes Ping Pong, a visit to Crossword, a movie and dinner. I think that's it, but I'm not too sure. I cannot keep up with kids anymore. I suppose this is how life is preparing me for my own kids. I feel old now. Good night.

To

"You are the reason I am. You are all my reasons."

(A Beautiful Mind)

To

One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it;
One feeling too falsely disdain'd
For thee to disdain it;
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother;
And pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love:
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the heavens reject not,
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?

- Percy Bysshe Shelley




Thursday, July 15, 2004

Random Ranting

Would you call a man who stands on a toilet seat high on pot?

When you blow into a dog's ear it goes mad. Have you ever wondered why the same dog sticks it's head as far out of a car window as possible?

Why do chicken sausages look like something my dog did?

Why is a dog a man's best friend while diamonds are a woman's best friend?

If the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, is the starting point his anus?

Wtf... I'd better sleep.

An ode to the second-hand philosopher

Philosophy is boring. I hate having to listen to people pontificate on the thoughts of Aristotle, Plato, Freud, Kant, Ayn Rand and assorted 'intellectual stalwarts'. Unfortunately, I'm also subject to loads of people who think that being able to discuss these theories makes them intellecutal stalwarts themselves. What fools! More often than not I find them slaves to their own 'higher' way of thinking. Their ideas are far-fetched, self-glorifying and in most case, completely incorrect. I find them laboring under false impressions; false impressions of their own grandeur, false impressions of the world at large, false impressions of perception (their's and others' as well). They seem to imagine that it is beneath them to discuss "mundane, worldly things". These are the people who will look at a tomato and wonder if it couldn't be a potato simply because they think it's cool to do that. They stare at spoons and try to bend them, simply because they think the spoon really isn't there. Heck! Get used to it people. Pigs would fly before the damn spoon bends.

What's even sadder, perhaps, is the band-wagon that follows such people. Other people who find such things impressive. Who are impressed by big words and long, self-important speeches. At parties, at pool tables, at restaurants over lunch, at tennis courts for god's sake, snatches of conversation follow:

"Oh! You mean Frued's theories on interpretation of dreams?..."
"I beg to differ on your interpretation of Dali's paintings..."
"I think Sartre's philosophy is the best. Existentialism is, of course, man's destined way..."
"Sade? Marquis de Sade... why of course. Gave rise to that entire new school of philosophy... the sexual revolutionist in philosophy, wasn't he?"

Another disconcerting fact is the complete misinterpretation of the meaning of philosophy itself. The way I see it, philosophy is interpretation. It is the way you interpret what you see, feel, hear, touch and so on. There is no "one" philosophy. No single philosophy is our "destined way" or a guiding principle or a higher truth in itself. Each one of us has a philosophy. We define it through our actions, through our interactions with people around us, through our thoughts, through what we wear, what we eat... every single thing in itself contributes to that totality that constitutes our philosophy. A mind that depends on the philosophies of Aristotle and Plato for it's own philosophy is one that has no philosophy of it's own. It is a mere vessel for someone else's thoughts. To quote Ayn Rand, whom I dislike intensely, for her complete abuse of the word philosophy... People who hold philosophical truths put down by others to be self evident are second-handers. Those who are impressed by the second handers are worse. They are third-handers (an original Sahil B term). There is no thing such as higher truth. The only truth is man, mind and knowledge; and the humility to realize this. Those who don't can eat shit for all I care.

Wednesday, July 14, 2004

An open letter to the great tomato in the sky or "The great Mexican gravy-train robbery" or "The story of Spindly Polo"

Once upon a time there was a restaurant called Tomatos. They had awesome Mexican food. Their rates were high, but the food was great, so I didn't mind going there. I loved their cocktail tacos. They came with chips too... for free. That was a long time ago in a galaxy far far away.

Today, Rich, Kini and I decided to renew the association with Tomatos. It'd been two years. Two years is a long time. The decor was still the same. The same tongue-in-cheek comments on wood plaques on the walls. The same Coca-cola ads. The same bric-a-brac on the walls. The only bar in the world that doesn't serve alcohol was also there. The ambience was nice. So far so good.

Kini: Dude, whatcha having?
Me: Tacos and enchilada classico vegetariano.
Kini: What's Spindly Polo?
Me: Read the description.
Kini: Is it Italian?
Rich: Mexican.
Kini: Ah. I still can't pronounce it.
Me: Enchiladas cost 134 rupees? Wow! (thinking to myself: they must fly it in straight from Mexico, i guess... Ola!)
Kini: Dudes, I'm having Spindly Polo.
Me: (to myself) He He He... It costs 170 bucks... Spindly Polo... food with a hole... in your pocket.

We ordered. Cocktail Tacos, chicken wings, enchiladas, mocktails, rice and chicken... the works. I could almost feel the taco in my mouth. The wonderful taste of cheese and beans on a corn based chip. (sigh).

The tacos arrived. But something was wrong. Surely the waiter was mistaken. Just three? Where were the free chips? Something that looked a bit like a limp french fry turned out to be a piece of yellow capsicum. Ugh! One taco each? That was unfair. I wanted two. I confessed to the others that I'd been banking on eating two, hoping that one of them would give up theirs for me. That was not to be. Kini is no gentleman, and Richa is certainly no lady. Fine people do not eat others' tacos. Hmph. I decided to eat their chicken wings, when I remembered, much to my distaste, that a normal chicken has only two wings.

The wings arrived. There were six. Now I was suspicious. What if it wasn't a chicken at all? Lots of things have wings. I remembered the story of the guy who ate a small snake while drinking sugarcane juice. But I was hungry, and it was food. I ate two wings. One chicken, never to fly again. The rest of the food arrived. Kini's dish looked exactly the same as Richa's. So did the food on the dish. Which was surprising, considering that Rich had ordered Chicken Stroganoff and Kini'd ordered Spindly Polo or something that sounded like that. I never can pronounce those exotic names. I mean, all it had was chicken, capsicum and rice. Why not just call it "chicken, capsicum and rice"? Spindly Polo my taco.

We munched stolidly for a while. The enchiladas were mercifully served with a small (read: SMALL) amount of bread. They reminded me of the Tomatos that once was. Smiling waitors, free nachos, people everywhere... dad paying the bill. (sigh). We finished lunch in silence. The bill arrived. I took a look at the bill and nearly passed out. 758!!! They had to be joking! 7 bloody 58? My God! Holy great tomato in the sky! 250 bucks per person? For Spindly Polo and 3 tacos? We paid the bill, left a two rupee tip and walked out in silence. Kini, musing about his first exposure to a Gujju rip-off joint, Rich blank as usual, and me, lost in thought. This was not the Tomatos I once knew. The tomato is dead. Long live the tomato!

Tuesday, July 13, 2004

Unbridled optimism

I suppose this post comes as no surprise following what hil wrote, it was one of the few feel good posts I've read on our blog (not counting our episode series with neo). But the sense of hope I presume is contagious. I'm not as poignant in my sense of hope as hil was in the previous post. But I was always an advocate of optimism and well it makes me happy as hell to read a sense of pride in the future come from anyone.
I don't write this to be patronizing, but only to reflect and strengthen the view of life as a celebration. May we live and love life for long....Very long.
we have a long way to go to make life what it truly is meant to be and I finish by quoting some of my favourite lines of poetry ever written.


"The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep."
- Robert Frost

Chronicles of an Insomniac - II

It's eleven in the night and I can't sleep. Tonight's a bit different from the usual sleepless nights I have. I can't really define what I'm feeling right now, which is why this post might read like nonsense. I feel light... absolutely weightless. Almost as if I haven't a care in the world. (Of course, this feeling could be caused by the excellent chilly chicken I had for dinner). I'm remembering old poems I once read. I suddenly remember old quotes I once read and thought I'd long since forgotten. Passages from books become clearer in meaning... I can remember scenes from movies... scenes from memory, at times! I remember my first day at school... my first Gujarati exam... the first time I had a crush on a girl from school... the first quiz I won... the first day of eleventh... the last day of twelfth... first day at college... the last class I attended with the Gujjus... crazy shit! There's this inexplicable sense of... the future right now. I feel this weird anticipation and a rush of excitement, almost like the first time I got to drive the car. There're so many things to come. I'm still young. I still have time to go out and do everything I want to. I can feel change around me. The strangest thing is that I'm the one who's changing. And it's because I'm changing that the world is changing. I don't usually agree with Kini on some of his posts, but I concede that perhaps it is all just a matter of perception. I feel like a piece of wood in the hands of a craftsman. I'm being molded... shaped... created. And I am the craftsman. That is the beauty of this feeling. I'm somehow detached right now. Not from the world or anything. Nothing as fake as that. I'm detached from my thoughts. It's like my thoughts are printing themselves on this screen through my fingers, and there's another me sitting next to me (!) watching and reading. There're no analyses. I'm not judging my thoughts today. I'm not worried about my future. I'm glad that I have one, and I intend to use it fully. I'm going to go out there and kiss the world. I wonder if I can define what I'm feeling right now... I think it's called Life. Man I'm going to have awesome dreams tonight!

"Mourn, not for that which passed, but
Rejoice for that which may yet come"

Spiderman 2

Every now and then I come across a movie which entirely changes my perception of action as a genre. Of course, Van Helsing did that too, but that's another story. Spiderman 2 is incredible. And I use that word simply because I can't find any other. I'm always scared of watching sequels, lest they be unable to live up to the first movie in the series, and action flick sequels are usually as entertaining as a visit to the dentist. But Spiderman 2 is awesome.

To begin with, the scenes about Peter Parker's inner turmoil are intense, to say the least. The movie deals wonderfully with his confusion and his desire to be a normal guy and lead a normal life, instead of being a superhero. To add to the confusion, he loves Mary Jane (Kirsten Dunst) but can't tell her because he doesn't want to expose her to his multitude of enemies. In the meantime, Spiderman's next enemy, Doc Oc is born. A good scientist turned bad, Doc Oc is this helluva guy with four mechanical arms controlled by a neural pool he's designed. There are several totally rad action sequences involving Doc Oc, Spiderman, a runaway train and loads of flying people that are simply breath-taking. One of the most awesome scenes in the movie involves Spiderman stopping the runaway train and almost killing himself in the process. The movie also has several side-plots such as Peter's best friend's obsession with killing Spiderman (for revenge), M.J's love story, scenes with Peter's aunt etc. All in all, this sequel more than lives up to the first movie, and all the hype surrounding it. It is monumental. The film's action is breath-taking, the cinematography is awesome, graphics are to die for and the story, though a little weak, is gripping. The end is a pleasant surprise. I'll leave it for you people to watch and enjoy.

Rating: ***** (5 stars out of 5)
*ing: Tobey Macguire as Peter Parker/Spiderman, Kirsten Dunst as Mary Jane. The rest of the cast doesn't really matter.

Monday, July 12, 2004

Dirge for a Joker

Always in the middle of a kiss
Came the profane stimulus to cough;
Always from the pulpit during service
Leaned the devil prompting you to laugh.

Behind mock-ceremony of your grief
Lurked the burlesque instinct of the ham;
You never altered your amused belief
That life was a mere monumental sham.

From the comic accident of birth
To the final grotesque joke of death
Your malady of sacrilegious mirth
Spread gay contagion with each clever breath.

Now you must play the straight man for a term
And tolerate the humor of the worm.


- Sylvia Plath

Peaches and cream - Wise goat talk much V

Hello citizens...
The goat returns for yet another exercise in verbal diarrhoea. Usually whenever I come to write the wise goat talk much series I have a rough idea in my brain as to what the sad souls coming to the blog will have to endure but at this point in time I'm praying my skill of beating around the bush will have some bearing and keep them riveted to this page....hmmm...Bearing, rivets, I see a pattern there...ohwhatever nevermind.

 
as I speak hil continues to make an unusually large amount of noise in the background, this dear reader please note isn't exactly conducive for any sort of activity which involves thought, not that my writing ever does...*rolls eyes, sighs and hangs horns* but then again if a goat must bleat then he must do so under the illusion of free thought. aaah I've hit something the goat has wanted to discuss for a long time.. Perception.

 
now this concept is very arbitrary and the strange part about it is that its totally subjective.. I haven't come across a single concept as subjective and ductile as this one and yet it is the tool which makes reality ours, the tool via which the world is projected on to our minds. There was a school of thought among the Greeks called the realists, this indeed was headed by the great Aristotle himself (some say he was the most brilliant human to have ever lived). He was the man who defined the laws of reality as most of us know it.
 
 
Reality as the process of objective reality and the world as it is "A is A" i.e: a rock is a rock and nothing else. Mathematics and logic where a direct consequence of this school of thought and so were all the basic sciences. But at the same time there was also this school of thought (I forget the name...The goat apologises) who believed the world was wholly subjective and was only subject to the way we perceived things, and ironically the father of this school of thought was Plato, Aristotle teacher. It defined perception as the way we saw things and was a direct consequence of the way we interpreted things.
 
 
Now this school does at first sight seem to have a bias towards the humans because it places the human mind and the way it sees things first and reality next, and I being a true realist for a large part thought that this was hogwash, but sometimes in those moments when I cant comprehend what happened and why it did and when I encounter something illogical the easiest explanation for me to revert to is perception. The fact that I perceived it to be illogical was what "made" it illogical. But then this refutes the fact that logic is objective and leaves me thoroughly confused.
 
 
The funny part about the whole school of thought funda is that even though the Platonist school is egotistical when it comes to perception and calls reality as a consequence of man, the followers of this school usually end up being theistic and the Aristotelian usually atheist...Guess sometimes reality has a way of making us believe there isn't anything above it.
There was a saying that originated in ancient Greece "you're either born an Aristotelian or a Platonist and how you see and interpret the world is a consequence of that." I always thought I was a son of Aristotle...But they say Plato lures you as you grow older, because you become tired of trying to explain reality...Who's legitimate offspring are you? Think about it!

The goat rests.

"To see the world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eterinty in an hour"


- William Blake

Wednesday, July 07, 2004

A very short story

I got out of rehab yesterday. God! Six years is a long, long time. Mum and Dad were there, waiting for me while I changed out of those clean whites into jeans, a t shirt and sneakers... stuff I hadn't worn for two years now. It's been two years since I last saw Mum and Dad. Mum cried a lot when I was sent here... I hated that. She had tears now, but I didn't mind them as much. At least she was happy. Dad was real happy too... I could tell by the way he shook my hand and said "It's nice to have you back, my boy". They're awesome people... really.
I hadn't seen the house for too long. Old memories return now, flooding my senses... filling the empty corridors of my mind, reminding me of times that once were... like the times we played ball right outside in the park... every Saturday Dad and I would go play with the other kids... Dad's great at soccer... I wish I could play like him... Sundays we'd all be at home and watch soppy movies with Mum, pretending to be interested in the movie, while secretly smiling at her when she cried with the characters... Somewhere along the way, I grew up... Other kids filled out, dated, partied all night and played basketball... I, on the other hand, was too tall, too thin, hated parties, stammered when girls were around and would rather study Math than play basketball. Mum and Dad were worried, but I guess they never knew what to do with me. I never really had too many friends... except him.
He listened to me when I talked about my dreams... I told him how I always wanted to travel the world... someday, perform at Albert Hall... the Fields medal... nothing was impossible when I spoke to him. He made me feel like I was worth it. Like I was important. He held my hand when I was sad, laughed with me at the jocks and sneered at braindead chicks. He accepted my quirks without complaint, and never, never questioned. We were inseparable. And then one day, he showed me the bottle of pills in Mum's room. He told me they'd help me relax. They'd open up new worlds to me. Worlds where the impossible became possible... insanity was rationale... where I would achieve all that I ever wanted. He told me to open the 'Doors of perception' (I liked Huxley) and enjoy the boundless freedom the pills would give me.
Gradually he introduced me to new pills. Red ones, blue ones... round, square... some powdered... some in cubes... He taught me how to suck on them, how to put them beneath my tongue and roll them around my mouth. He opened the doors to happiness. The pills soon became my best friends. Every day, when I'd feel low I'd pop one and spend the rest of the day in a state of beatific happiness. I was in a world of my own, with no one to laugh at me. No one who thought I was strange, or disturbed, or geeky. I was never too thin, never too tall. I was king. And then, six years ago, Mum walked in on me while I was popping one of her pills. She told Dad, and they took me to the doctor nearby. It was his fault that I had to go through rehab. I hated rehab. No pills, bland food, time-tables... It was almost as bad as it was at home before the pills came. And he was dying. He came with me to the rehab center, of course. I knew he wouldn't let me down. This time, I held his hand while he burned with fever. I begged for them to help him. To give him something to take the fever away. I knew he needed the pills to stay alive. They pretended like he wasn't even there. And then, three years ago, he died. I lost my only friend in the world. He was gone. GONE... GONE... GONE!
I grieved for him. I screamed at God for taking away my best friend. Over the next three years I recovered a bit, I guess. I never stopped thinking about him. But without him, Albert Hall and the Fields medal looked farther away than ever. I gave up on my dreams. I hadn't touched a pill for six years. They finally decided I was ready to go back to the world and start all over again, but how did they know that I had nothing to go back to! My world died with him. Sure I love Mum and Dad, but I know they're still wary of me. It's the way Mum keeps asking if i'm okay, and how Dad keeps saying that I should go back to doing Math at college. They mean well...
Everything I wanted is gone. My life feels like a void. What's worse is that I'm not capable of feeling anymore. I don't feel happiness, but then, I don't feel any pain either. I don't feel anger. There's nothing. It's like my emotions are dead and gone. I feel hollow. I smile back when people smile at me on the streets, but I don't really feel like recognizing them. I'm sure they don't feel like recognizing me either. Why would they? I'm still tall... I'm still thin... And I still don't play basketball. Even the jocks are nicer to me. And the chicks pretend like I'm their favourite person. They're always nice and asking me to take them to movies and lunches or to go to parties with them. They don't seem to remember that they laughed at me the most six years ago. They were the ones who called me a geeky gay guy. They never invited me to their parties back then. I don't want their pity. I'm tired of living on pity when I don't really have anything to live for. Even Math doesn't inspire me anymore. I'm as good as I was back then, but I don't feel like being good. I don't care, I guess.
Dear Mum and Dad, when you read this, I'll be gone. Back to my world. MY world. A world where I won't live on pity anymore. This time I don't want to come back. I just want you to know I thought of you before the knife went through my skin.

Tick Tack Toe - The Doped Fleas or "What Hao Ming didn't tell you about the art of war - I"

Citizens of the world !

'Fleas R us Inc.' now bring you a game that will assist in spending those eternally boring vacations, classes etc.

No. of players: 2 upwards, must be jobless and spending listless, boring vacation

Requirements: IQ <= 2 *skeptically looks arounds for any such life-form*

Large, fluffy canine dog, garrulous and prone to slobbering all over the game area - 1 unit

Ticks - small, red blood-sucking creatures. Obtained with large, fluffy canine dog. As many as the number of players. Of course, you can play with armies (that's more fun).

Tiled floor - preferably with square tiles about 2.5 sq. ft in dimension. To be renamed -death arena, Circus Maximus, Stonehenge, Sloan school, IIT etc.

Cheerleaders. Preferably Naked. (>= 2 ensures greater fun)

RULES:
1. The game is a distant relative of carrom, billiards and snooker. Ticks are initially positioned at corners of the death arena. Players may choose personal orientations (sexual and non-sexual).
2. The person with the smallest tick goes first.
3. Each player must scream 'SET THE GOAT ON FIRE' before taking his/her first chance. Failure to comply with this rule results in a forfeit of 5 points.
4. The objective of the game is to send your tick flying through the death arena to combat other such ticks.
5. One point is received for each impact between a player's tick and any other. Ticks may accumulate weapons as they progress through the game. For example... life.
6. Players forfeit a point if the tick-warrior escapes the death arena either by itself or through any other means.
7. Players may continue the game until a pre-defined score is reached or they get bored or the ticks are lost.
8. Example: Consider a game of 25 points. If two players are tied at 24 each, then they must strive to achieve a difference of two points. A player who achieves this difference first wins the game.
9. No fouls are possible in this game. Anything goes. Even your uncle.

STATUTORY WARNING
Ages: 0 and up
'Fleas R us Inc' takes no responsibility if the game leads to monumental arguments, blunders, insults on how fat your grandmother is/was and comments that the dog is an infertile idiot... Other bizarre occurences during testing included references to Freud, Rajnikanth and coconut pudding.

Monday, July 05, 2004

Episode III: Matrix Uploaded... or "The Great Escape: to level two" or... "The last of the Mohicans"

Scene: A dark, dirty room in the annals of the imposing edifice called "Main Building". Outside the office of agent Shetty. The board says it all. ***(FUNDA) "Prof. Srinivasa Iyenger Ramanathan Krishnan Appukuttan Mohanan Subramaniam Thiruvananthapuram Anandarathnam Nellichetty Shetty" (/FUNDA) (It's a long board). In small letters: "Assistant Agent, Department of Mechanical Engineering".

*** = For those of you who aren't fundamaniacs (i.e. you thought the matrix was a cool sci-fi flick on aliens and the like)... the name spells Circumstance in a weird way. One more unexplained feature in this edition of the Matrix... Uploaded...

NeoBond stands outside the office, waiting for the agent to dispense with another unassuming first year. The first year comes out smiling. He's just been mindfucked (NITK slang for "I just got attendance, but I gave Shetty a blowjob"). He clenches his teeth in anger as he realizes what he's going to taste in a minute. He walks in slowly and rearranges his features into that deadpan look of complete distaste and complacence (a.k.a. K. Reeves Shetty in the reel matrix... this is the REAL matrix, dimwits!)... Conversation ensues...

Shetty: Well well well... Mr. Anderson Pai
NeoBond: Sir... my name is NeoBond
Shetty: Roll Number?
NeoBond: *rolls eyes in head* 0221666 (/funda... :p)
Shetty: Ah yes... Mr. Pai... you have a shortage of attendance in "How to operate that damn thingy - IV".
NeoBond: No sir. The course is "It's a lathe... No wait! It's a bench-drill!... Oh God No! That's Alex's p@%Is - I"
Shetty: Of course... of course... my mistake, Mr. Pai... Now... (*swivels in chair, puts on dark glasses ala quick-gun Murugan and rearranges his lungi*)... can you explain this shortage of attendance...? Perhaps... you would like me to explain it for you?
NeoBond: No! No! No! I wasn't short on attendance... It wasn't me (/funda)... But wait... if it wasn't me, I must have a shortage right? Ergo, It WAS me... (/funda, but I'm not sure what the funda is ;))... *looks totally confused and realizes what's coming now*
Shetty: *snicker snicker snicker*... well Mr. Pai... We have a problem... I wrote a mathematical equation many years ago... an equation that was supposed to be perfect... to guide you first years into a life of... shall we say... freedom? (/funda that only those who have passed through the hallowed portals of ATB shall ever understand)
NeoBond: (to himself) Yeah right.
Shetty: But then, Mr. Pai... you showed up... an anomaly... while the others kissed my butt for the extra sessional mark, you ate egg-puff in Samudradarshan and bunked sessionals... while the others attended every 'lecture' and compulsary gathering at SJA, you chose to frolic around Mangalore with Protona, my daughter...
NeoBond: *eyes glaze over as he remembers experiences with Protona... some intensely gratifying*
Shetty: Now, Mr. Pai... Do you know why I wrote that equation?
NeoBond: *you can see the brain cells working now... steam exits from right ear*... a) Because you're paid 2.5 lakhs a year to write it. b) Because you think students actually learn something from it. c) You're a sadist pig. d) You needed something to do over lunch. I don't know the alphabet beyond that.
Shetty: No, Mr. Pai... *evil laughter, lightning strike... goat bleating in background... fish jump out of swimming pool and start playing harp... volcano blows up on Jupiter (/random funda from Chacha Chaudhury) strange things happen*... Why did I write that equation? *walks around desk*... I've often wondered myself... It has something to do with you students... You think you know what's good for you... That you can decide your futures for yourself... I'd like to share a revelation... that I've had during my time here. It came to me when I took a Mech lab viva. I've realised that you are not actually mammals. Every mammal on this planet instinctively develops a natural equilibrium with the surrounding environment. But you students do not. I mindfuck you once *eyes glaze over at thoughts of one more blowjob*... but you keep coming back for more... What is it with you students, Mr. Anderson Pai? Why?... Why?... Why?
NeoBond: *snicker snicker snicker* You can't see beyond a choice you don't understand, Mr. Shetty...
Shetty: You talking to me, partner?
NeoBond: You must let me go to the second level... It is my destiny...
Shetty: Destiny Schmestiny... Yenu Neo?
NeoBond: Ditch maadi sir... You won't get it... I need just 1 attendance point to get through to the next semester... And I won't leave without it...

*Pardesi Pardesi plays in the background*

Shetty: I cannot give you the attendance. *glares*... Go and talk to the HOD.
NeoBond: I said... I won't leave...
Shetty: OK. Have it your way. But you must do something for me. Kiss me like you kissed Protona... where the sun don't shine...
NeoBond: *first facial expression registers... intense, sudden fear*
Shetty: Yes, Mr. Anderson Pai... that is the key to the second level... I am an agent... But I am a free*lance* (/dirty funda) agent... kinda like Beckham after that missed penalty, but what the hell... And I hold the key to level II... so...
NeoBond: OK. I'll do it.

*It begins... but it's too dirty to write about*

Just then, Protona walks in and sees daddy's dong...

Protona: DADDY! Not NeoBond! WTF?
Shetty: *wears lungi quickly* Protona... It's not as it seems...
Protona: You have lipstick on your lungi... NeoBond... is there something I should know?
NeoBond: Well... Protona... since you wouldn't give me any... I well... *shifts miserably from one foot to another*...
Protona: Well what?
NeoBond: Well... you know... that guy from NE?
Protona: WHAT? *passes out*
Shetty: Yeah... cute kid... OK NeoBond... you may enter Level II

Cut! Scene Two: NeoBond walks out of main building into glorious garden... egg-puff in hand...

Rest in EPISODE IV: "Was it worth it?"

Poetry in (non)motion or "Why Dca murdered the poem" or "Grammatical Armageddon Version 1.1"

We generally enjoy good poetry. The posts on Longfellow's 'Psalm of Life' and Kipling's 'If' are testimony to that (hopefully). We've been searching the net for good poetry and happened to chance upon some good material (on occasion) and some absolute nonsense (more often than not, (sigh)).

Most poetry you'll see on poetry.com by Indian poets is sadly verbose and lacks any meaning or context. An increasing trend that's highly noticeable is the use of unnecessarily long words that can often be substituted and don't in any way enhance or grace the poem. Examples of these poems are abundant on poetry.com. Of course, you could visit this site:

http://www.oye.150m.com

Read matters of the heart. The poet is a certain "Dca". We're glad he hasn't divulged his name. Thankfully there's anonymity in (understatement) mediocrity. (/understatement)

In any case, the poem we're referring to is called "The Third Eye". Unnecessary use of past tense (actually, it's past perfect, but wtf) seems to be Dca's forte. Of course, he can spell chrysalis. So that's one good thing. Besides, I wasn't sure what it meant. :) I'm not sure he did either.

"Cared not for the flag of victory
Cared not for the fortunes of praise
Satisfaction blazed through in being complete
For alas one was he with the eye of freedom
One was he with the eye of trust
One was he with the eye of life
Alas one was he with the third eye"


Observe as he murders concepts of good and bad here. If he cared not (*winces, and Aristotle rolls over in his grave*) for flag of victory (methinks Dca is an Olympian), fortunes of praise (nice phrase but meaningless, unfortunately), for satisfaction in being complete (Raymonds, anyone?) then why, why, why, why, WHY would he be sad about having this third eye? Considering that this eye is the eye of freedom, trust and life, I'd be awfully glad to have that eye. Of course, in Dca's case, I'm assuming this eye replaces important cerebral matter. (Sigh) So much for Longfellow, i suppose.

This post is the first extremely caustic post we've put up yet. And intensely satisfying, if we might add. Truth be told, the poetry was far too inspiring (as in - sitting duck inspring) for us to resist. Besides, Dca's an old friend.

*Two fingers to Dca, and he knows which ones*

= Goat and Frog rest. Only till we find another work of art from Dca or any other of you morons out there.

From (The Z files... Shit is out there... somewhere... for sure...)

Thursday, July 01, 2004

I am Gladiator or "Why Inci fashion shows should be banned"



"Fashion is a form of ugliness so dire that we must change it every few months"

- G.B. Shaw

I suppose some people find grown men in short skirts insanely sexy. The rest of us call such people transvestites/cross dressers/freaks/Scots. I suppose it takes all kinds to make a world. No offence, Abhishek. It's all for a laugh. :-)

The model in the pic, by the way, is my very good friend, Abhishek from college. He doesn't usually dress like that (thankfully).
 

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