Get to the point, Jack!
I’m generally a fairly happy-go-lucky fella, and have a pretty high sickness tolerance. However, intermittent bouts of clean-freak-ness overcome me. It could relate to all sorts of things. Sometimes, it’s my room. Sometimes, the garage. Other times, the kitchen. On smaller scales, it could be filing cabinets, sock drawers, the gaps between the keys on my computer’s keyboard, my ear canal, even my navel. Last week, though, it was the turn of my Inbox. After re-reading only a few mails, I knew at once, that I had quite a task at hand. You see, I found that a lot of my emails had been clueless victims of my verbal diarrhoea.
Where a simple “I need this. Now! Please send, ASAP” could do, I am likely to find myself having said “It would be extremely considerate of you to consider expediting the dispatch of…”. Now, this is likely a time-hardened process within my head, and probably happens quite naturally, but I found it quite disturbing when revisiting old emails. I know that most of my victims aren’t reading this, but I offer all of them my sincerest apologies. If I had been the recipient of my emails, as responses, I would’ve sent myself beer that’s gone flat, or Rhino Poo in a Box, probably even death threats. Upon further reflection, though, like everything else that’s flawed about me (which is quite a list), I would like to apportion the blame for being unnecessarily verbose, to somebody else.
And, that would be every person who has been involved in educating me in a formal capacity. English teachers from high school, history and social sciences rhetors (they’re especially culpable), those that taught Manufacturing Processes and Materials Science during my bachelor’s studies, and finally, the fine folks who took a perfectly enthusiastic engineer and converted him into a disgruntled non-researcher during my master’s course.
A “quarter-page” (how ’bout we switch to turning in exams in pocket notebooks in that case?) answer was absolutely necessary if it was in response to a “4 mark (has to be followed by the incredulous look that the local grocer gives you when you’re haggling with him and trying to save 50 paise or snag an extra potato) question!”. I’m surprised how I managed to retain use of the extremities of my right hand after repeating myself through nearly twelve pages of misery while answering the paper on foundry technology. There’s only so much you can do with gooey stuff and a box of sand. Ask any kindergartener who has played in a sand pit! Oh, and to save the best for last, when I went to university for a master’s degree in an engineering discipline, I managed to get through it having written approximately forty-thousand words in reports and other such junk and not bothered with one engineering drawing. I was told this was because it was a “Master of Science” degree. I can only surmise that scientists are, in fact, secretly, novelists.
Anyway, there’s likely no cure for this ailment of mine. Expect no let up in the word count the next time you’re around here, if you’re brave enough to visit again, that is!
echoes in the emptiness
A lonely cowboy and his trusty steed navigate the deserts. Sands swallow dips and bends in the ancient-looking, crack-riddled asphalt, a black carpet uncoiling infinitely. The only sign that others have been here before, and that there is something beyond. Tumbleweed is blown about by the howling winds. In the distance, shimmering in the haze born from a furious sun, a lone cabin. Boarded up and left to wither in the vastness of the barren ocean around it. A faint smile sneaks its way into the expression on the cowboy’s face. His mount twitches uncharacteristically, in anticipation. It has been here before. So has he.
As he nears the dilapidation, he catches a glimpse of a faded board. The little remaining paint proclaims the identity of the abandoned habitation. Our friend dismounts and wipes away some of the grime that covers the board. It does little to improve the visibility of the inscription. He takes off his hat and hangs it on the post that holds up the board. The air carries nothing but sounds of its own motion.
Our friend is tired. But he is impatient. He digs around furiously for a few moments, and finally produces a claw-peened hammer from his satchel. With deftness, and a certain familiarity, he quickly does away with the timbers that guard the entrance to the dwelling. He steps inside to find everything as he left it. Except for a fine layer of dust that hasn’t spared any surface.
He sets himself down gently on the single piece of furniture inside. A sturdy, straight-back wooden chair that is right in the center of the room. A light-shade hangs over it, barely high enough to keep him from knocking his head against it as he sits down. The light still works. He reaches for the flask in the pocket on the inside of his vest. He reclines a little, careful not to reach a position in which he would be blinded by the light. The drink is refreshing. He closes his eyes. He will sit here and reminisce his adventures.
reboot. release.
Go back to the start
No longer an afterthought
Find my fascination
Shining from the skies
Wings that fly free
Reset my mind
And set it free
Focus just now
Prophets of wasted thought
Feed my fascination
Streaking through the darkness
Vanishing allure
Reset my mind
And set it free
Run ahead to the end
No time for forethought
Flee my fascination
Where’s the innocence
That brought me here?
Reset my mind
And set it free
What’s in a name? Everything…
The seed for this rant was sown when a friend exclaimed a few hours ago that some “MI” had secured victory, presumably in a sporting contest, considering that I knew of no other kind of conquest currently in progress that would interest her. Although I was kinda-sorta aware of what the generic-sounding abbreviation stood for, I feigned ignorance, enquiring whether she had suddenly sprouted an interest in the fortunes of old Hollywood movie franchises, or, even quainter, the state that is home to the Detroit 3 (err, 2.5… or 2? or 1?), and was promptly subjected to fake annoyance… but, I digress…
Well, the MI in question were the “Mumbai Indians” – a crack team of cricketers plying their trade in the BCCI’s Twenty20 Indian Premier League (read ACME Insta-Cricket for Dummies). Another product cast in the mould of McDonald’s and Coca-Cola so today’s humans may spend longer complaining that they have no time to do their usual dose of nothing. While researching this phenomenon for the sake of this post, I’ve come to learn that the second season of the competition was moved to South Africa because the government in India refused to provide the services of the country’s military forces to protect the players. This was only because of the nation going to polls around the same time. And the organizers of the cricket thingamajig made the government out to be the devil-incarnate for doing so. So, now, it’s less important to ensure the safety of the morons who lap up the “entertainment” you concoct and beam into their brains than protect a bunch of overpaid, tantrum-throwing schoolboys, err, men, who never grew up, so that they and their rich friends may pillage the fans in comfort? Get real…
Anyway, moving on to what really bothered me at the time…
Mumbai Indians… really??!! Mumbai INDIANS??!! Right, that would be necessary to state if there was another team from Mumbai comprised of, say, Mexicans, or, slightly more likely, Penguins, also playing in the same league. However, there’s neither of those, or any other team from Mumbai, for that matter. Also, does that mean the Mumbai Indians isn’t home to players who aren’t Indian? I think not… If you must be stupid and ape leagues that have a World Series contested by teams from a couple of countries, by all means, go ahead, but be smart about it and show some class. I’m sure the San Jose Earthquakes, Detroit Pistons, and Chicago White Sox, for example, gained their names for a reason.
But, I won’t bother defending the Washington Wizards, San Jose Sharks, Utah Jazz, and so on… those fall under the same category as the titles of teams in the IPL , which are just as ridiculous… Royal Challengers Bangalore – effectively, walking, talking advertising boards for their owner’s real purpose of existence – his liquor empire; Deccan Chargers – Deccan, not because they’re proudly representing the entire southern half of India beyond the Vindhyas, but because they’re owned by the same folks who publish the Deccan Chronicle, but that’s pardonable – however, Chargers – what does that make them? an uninspiring resurrection of a legendary Dodge nameplate? alternatives to alternators? steeds for knights in a medieval jousting contest?; Chennai Super Kings – first, it’s a tall enough claim to be calling oneself a king and then toiling away on a cricket pitch to feed and clothe oneself, but Super King? what’s that? your ego not inflated enough?; this one’s awesome… Delhi Daredevils… haha… how about playing the entire game with a flaming ball and a bat filled with petrol – and surrounded by man-eating tigers instead of an audience? No? Well, it was worth a shot; Kings XI Punjab – first we want to be kings, like them Chennai folk, and then we just want to mention as an aside that we know how to use Roman numerals, and might have something to do with Punjab (which we really don’t, but we like to say it anyway); Kolkata Knight Riders – we want to be cool… ’80s cool… with red lights flashing across our foreheads when we speak with our totally radical synthesized voices; and finally, the Rajasthan Royals – another bunch who simply don’t get that there’s nothing regal about being in a team with a lame name.
Phoenix Post
It’s not necessary to restate here the magnitude of the economic hardships that have struck the world in recent times. It’s been a bit of a bummer for everyone, including those responsible for keeping this blog going. During such unfortunate times, we couldn’t help but resort to unpopular moves such as trimming the payroll, reducing incentives and lowering our expenditure. This has largely been the reason for the lack of updates for so long. We apologise to all our faithful readers, if any, for the inconvenience, however unlikely, that our abscondment may have caused. It is hoped that the recent measures to streamline our operations and bring them back from the dead will prove adequate and that we can continue to hammer out more nonsense in the future.
As reward for your poor taste and judgement (you’re spending your time reading this) and our recovering strength, we bring you excerpts from personal communication that our now only writer (yes, the cost cutting measures were THAT bad) once had with someone we assume he knows quite well.
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“Soon, I have to tackle the Gi.Ar.E (name changed on request – ed.). Frankly, I think it’s staring the Vi.Ti.You (again, name changed on request – ed.) in the eye for high-handedness and testing on unworldly topics. For a nation with an average IQ that’s limited to two digits, it’s unlikely anybody would find his ability to engineer blighted by his inability to explain what legerdemain means. I know folks who would struggle to put two meaningful sentences together, but have memorised the meaning of vituperative so they can do well on the test… sounds awful familiar to what happens every six months on engineering college campuses in Bangalore. I’m not really good at the math bits… so I’m not going to say anything about them… Oh, I’m not much good with the words either, but those things absolutely had to be said…
Sometimes, I think it’s best to go away to some far corner of any of the many forests in the world and live in tranquil solitude (see… just preparing for the darned stuff leads you to use unnecessarily complex words and sentences). All this preparation for war has made me forget what I was fighting for in the first place… Vicissitudes in the offing, maybe?”
Silent Avalanche
Wakeful after dark,
In a stream of aural comfort.
Visions of tilting trifectas,
Taunting and evanescent.
Falsely herded
Into fake allegiances
By unprecedented colors
In a recurring rainbow of riddles
Dark pages from the past,
Resurrected in distant lands.
Tainting future memories,
With endless narratives.
Scant compensation
For patent foibles
Manifest every day
In niggling multitude
Weary before dawn,
In blended illumination.
Visions of countenances,
Blurred and fleeting.
Held ransom
To ambivalent queries
By deceased metal
Of an exigent, esoteric esprit
Preachers and pachyderms,
Preside over final congregations.
Amateur prophets deliver,
Futures that sleep with the fishes.
Retrograde horologes and
Ponderous precipitation
Manifest everywhere
In niggling multitude
Fun on Four Wheels
My apologies to all my faithful readers (both of them) for having gone on extended hiatus. Not having to go to college has been largely soporific (cue shock and awe) and has led to a dearth of ideas (cue more shock and awe) to rant about. But, I decided that something had to be done to keep the bull, err ball, rolling. Hence, something inspired by a series of posts over at Aj’s blog, from way back, which he liked to call “The Five Women in a Man’s life”. This is my counterpoint, though not spread over five instalments, that I like to call “The Five Cars in a Man’s Life”.
#1 Your first toy car – This is usually a counterpart to the set of wheels your dad drives. You’re three, and, it is usually a really small-scale, low-detail, hunk of plastic with an elastic solid axle, rickety wheels and no real redeeming qualities. But, you love it so, and place it lovingly beside your Tom-and-Jerry-bedecked pillow before dozing off at seven every evening.
#2 Your dad’s car – You’ve outgrown toy cars (well, at least the one mentioned above) and graduated to riding squeaky bicycles operated on daily leases from the neighbourhood bicycle repairs store. However, your father’s car is the holy grail. It might only be a poor (but licensed) reproduction of decades old European automotive technology, a relic of the pre-liberalisation days, but it’s still the stuff of dreams. Limbs are imagined to be long enough to reach the foot pedals and head high enough to see over the steering wheel. With the ‘driver’ providing all the necessary engine notes, one could manage a trip to the farthest corner of the world and back, all in the short span of time between when the car was brought home from the workplace and when it was packed away into the garage for the night.
#3 Your first drive – See #2 if you were an upright, law-abiding conformist citizen. Otherwise, you probably managed to coax an older cousin or an uncle into letting you experience the thrill of motoring before your moustache showed signs of sprouting. It could’ve been another of those rides that had passed through several hands and was slowly falling apart, or, if the said uncle/cousin was retarded (for letting you drive when that young, of course)/rolling in wealth (or both), a ride without rust eating away at the door sills. But, the experience stuck in your mind nonetheless. Not in graphic detail. But the inexplicable pleasure of not stalling while setting off, and timing subsequent throws just right was way off the charts in terms of anything you’d experienced and recalibrated your grading scale for future events.
#4 Your dream drive – This is always a work in progress – until the day you die (unless, of course, you’re Lee Noble). Every new car launched at any notable motor show anywhere in the world is a candidate to take over this coveted office. Obvious ones are those that would take many lifetimes’ earnings to acquire but go from 0-100 kph in an instant. Exotics powered by engines with as many cylinders as the engines of all the cars you’ve ever driven, combined. Fancy technologies referenced by fancier four letter acronyms; Bodywork made from materials lighter than the finest French crepes; Drivetrain components machined from metals so precious, they’d make the family jewellery stash, a souvenir of many generations, look crude, and worth dust. I’ll take two of those please, one in Rosso Corsa, and one in Giallo Modena.
#5 Your first ownership experience – The enjoyment derived from this, is, for the most part, dependent on whether you make a commitment to a #2 or a #4. Judging by most occurrences around me, #2 is more likely. Even then… Yes, I’d like something small… Parking space’s at a premium… No, not that small… Bigger… No, not that big, that’s not a hatchback anymore… Is this the smallest engine that’s available…? Are those the fuel efficiency figures??!! That’s not efficiency… Does it have air-conditioning as standard…? Don’t you have this in grey…? Red cars don’t really have good resale value… No, I’d like the five door… The rear seats must be easily accessible… Which insurance category does it fit into?… Finally, how much?… HOW much??!!… Couldn’t you be a darling and take a few zeroes off??… And, throw in a couple of floor mats, perhaps?
High School Poetry Redux: Part 0.5 – Untitled pencil on paper
As I was rummaging through the abyss that is my book shelf, looking for some unused textbooks to give away to those that might put them to better use, I happened upon some yellowing, randomly folded bits of paper ripped from my high school notebooks and put away for “later”. It had been a while since I had looked at them.
It felt strange, liberating all those demons from the past. The faded trails of graphite rose in wonderous swirls and eddies and left me feeling quizzical, embarrassed, awed and amazed, all at the same time – some lines failed to make any sense; others were clearly worded by someone with too little verbal ability to write blog posts, leave alone poetry; yet others reminded me of times that had been confined to the past, and firmly nailed in place, in the hope that they would never escape their pointy captors.
I dutifully filled in the lines that had been erased out many years ago with the hope of finding better substitutes when plane polarised light wasn’t also begging for attention, swapped out a few words that might’ve caused Shakespeare to consult a dictionary, and did some weeding so that I may present what follows. Of course, if it seems like a half-baked attempt, it’s probably because two of me wrote it.
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Have you ever…
Loved something so much,
You started to hate it?
Wanted something so bad,
Everybody else found it?
Enjoyed something so,
It now brings you sorrow?
Words these fail me again;
Inferior relief
To constant incongruity
Have you ever…
Tried to douse a regret,
Only to magnify the pain?
Reached out for your one true want,
And found too short your hand?
Admired one sight so beautiful,
Your vision it now eludes?
Words these fail me again;
Inferior relief
To constant incongruity
Have you ever…
Tried to break free,
Only to sink deeper within?
Wanted to forget,
But were reminded forevermore?
Had coveted treasure granted
After desire had waned?
Words these fail me again;
Inferior relief
To constant incongruity
Pondering the Eroteme
The question mark, or eroteme, as I’ve learned it’s also known (yes, I’m a lonely, lonely guy – I find the time to research such dispensable information), is a pretty special punctuation mark. I have come to revere it in many ways for all the things I manage to imagine it capable of symbolising. My first encounter with the proverbial interrogation point began as a young lad, when I started to take an interest in quizzing. Of course, the connection in that context is obvious. However, since then, the little fellow has continued to be a source of inspiration, or exasperation, as the case may be.
? is the purpose of your existence
? is what tomorrow will bring
? is a tedious weekend
? is the most exciting outing in years
? is that vacation you never took
? is the photograph that is your only memory of a trip
? is that talent you’ll never know you possess
? is the skill you have for things that mean nothing to you
? is why you can’t break free from the tethers that restrain
? is the reins that guide you
? is that vision in your head
? is its translation onto paper
? is why you can’t successfully learn to play a musical instrument
? is why you keep going back to try
? is why you promised yourself that things would stay the same
? is why change is the only constant
?… is a big question mark.
Occult Oreos
I consider myself less technology-dependent (not less techno-savvy) than most others my age. Though, I’d be standing on very shaky ground if I tried to prove it. That’s because I own two iPods (was one of the first among my friends to possess one), a pretty powerful computer that I screwed together myself (again, an early-adopter of multi-core computing technology), several game controllers (I received them late enough in life to be able to realise how silly they really are, without having thrown away the best part of my adolescence worshipping them. It also means I save big dough by not feeling the need to welcome “even more awesome looking” aliens on an even more awesomely expensive game console with the latest, even more awesomely powerful rendering chip, into my life), and other tid-bits and obscure helpings of electronic wizardry.
However, there were tech things that I didn’t warm to very quickly – mobile phones and social networking sites, for example. I can’t really put my finger on it, but they just didn’t “feel right”. I came to be in possession of a mobile phone less than a year ago, when I was past 20 (cue silent disbelief from the Internet Generation), on the insistence of my uncle, who was visiting us after a long time. I’ve probably made a couple of hundred calls (that’s a generous estimate) in that time, and texted on about the same number of occasions. Which has caused me to start to wonder why I stayed up late last night, following the most boring Stevenote in years, expressing mild pleasure at iPhone 3G being announced. I guess it’s only my love for beautiful hardware that keeps me interested in Apple and its wares. (Lately, the halfway-through-my-cider-substrate company has been losing some of its cool, at least in my opinion, by shedding its underdog status). Although, VoodooPC might have a new customer in a few years’ time (if they haven’t managed to make Carbon Fibre passé by then). I’d happily take good looking gear and collect it even if it didn’t work right, or served no purpose. (Hey, wait a minute!! I already do that…)
It might be hard to believe, for some that know me, but yes, I can go months, probably years, without having to obsessively check my inbox every 30 minutes, or, for the seven hundred and sixty ninth time that hour, see who else on my IM contact list is also bored at that moment. On that note, back when they started to appear, a profile on a social networking site didn’t appeal to me right away – another username and password to remember, another link to bookmark, another five minutes of my day lost to the hypnotic spell of the interwebs. I decided to play “revolving door” with my sotual (I coined that just now… it’s pronounced so-tchu-al and is a portmanteau of social and virtual) presence. It seemed strange that people who had hardly said a word in real life wanted to be “friends” in the comfort afforded by a virtual existence. In the time that I was away protesting, which, by the way, didn’t make any impact, the minders of the friendly friendship site had added more time-wasters to their offering and given it a round of spit and polish. And, now that the initial hysteria surrounding it had passed, I decided to let myself in quietly and see what all the noise was about.
The one thing that caught my eye was an extremely vague-sounding virtual fortune-cookie. (What a tangled web of pointless banter I wove to finally arrive at my originally intended subject of preaching. I’d make a fantastic novelist). Yesterday, I was told I would “take a big chance on something in the near future”. A few things… firstly, what IS “the near future”? The next few minutes? A couple of hours? A week? A millenium? What? Keep in mind, this was just “today’s fortune”… that had to imply that the prediction wouldn’t last too long. But wait, what might taking a chance involve? Would I try a daring new strategy at a game of dice? Would I finally manage to egg my bike into popping a wheelie? Would I try some contraband? Would I find myself throwing caution to the wind and embarking on a journey to circumnavigate the world, instead of tackling my exams? Would I ask somebody I’d see on the street out to dinner?
I found today’s version of “Today’s Fortune” even more hilarious… “You display the wonderful traits of charm and courtesy”. It seemed to me like I was in a low-budget adaptation of Cinderella and the night of that famous ball. All right, then, I’ll spend the day walking about in a morning dress, doffing my hat and saying “Good Day, milady!”. And, Poof!!, at the stroke of midnight, I’ll turn back into a cussing, door-slamming hooligan, only to be affected by tomorrow’s edition of “Today’s Fortune”.
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