student sermons

SF W/O FTL

2011-07-28T07:18:00.000-07:00

I have often wondered what science fiction (SF) would've been like without faster-than-light (FTL) travel, hyperspatial jumps, wormholes or the sundry other means by which our intrepid protagonists travel vast interstellar distances in mere moments to rescue damsels in distress of astronomic proportions*. I expect it would've gone something like this:

It was a dark and stormy night. The launch of the Voyager III was wisely put off till the next morning, by which time weather.com had predicted that things would clear up a bit. The launch went perfectly well, except for a brief delay minutes before the launch when the Captain just couldn't hold it in any longer and absolutely had to go. Bits of the spacecraft fell off when they were supposed to; crew morale was high, and the Captain's bladder was blissfully empty. Things looked good for the mission.

By the time the Voyager had reached the Alpha Centauri system, however, things were unusually silent aboard the spacecraft. A closer analysis of the situation (p < 0.05) revealed that the crew were, in science-y medical terms, dead of old age.

End of story. Think, I implore you, of the vast tracts of Brazilian rainforest that could've been saved had it not been for the cursed imaginations of our SF writers.

*Erm, I must clarify here that it is the distress that would have been of astronomic proportions, and not the damsels.

2010-03-15T08:22:00.000-07:00

Written some time in the November of 2008, soon after the elections

One realizes one wants to get back to writing again. However, one also realizes that one doesn't have the faintest idea as to what to write. But one decides to start, nevertheless; perhaps the words will come as one begins to type.

Much- perhaps too much- has happened in the four months since I set foot in the ~~land of red states and blue states~~ United States of America. Old bonds have been broken; indeed, some have been torn away most painfully. But that's okay, I tell myself, as new, stronger and hopefully more lasting ones have been formed. Perhaps the single most important thing that I can take away from these past months of upheaval is that I am still here, and that I now look to the future with a little Hope. Change has indeed come, at least to my life; and all in all, it has been for the Good.

Certain things, however, seem immune to change. I still abuse semi-colons and commas, and still end up writing convoluted, hard-to-follow sentences. It is a disease I am doggedly trying to disabuse myself of; to my distress, however, I seem doomed to die trying with a depressing dearth of results. However, a little alliteration, of course, never goes amiss. Politicians continue to be kuntry, apathetic bastards; and as always it is the man on the street and, for once, the man in the high-end luxury hotel who suffers.

Moving on to happier things, if I was asked to name one thing I liked best about the academic system here, I would pick the faculty. Almost all of the professors I have met here have been highly intelligent, dedicated people who are extremely good at what they do. It is their sheer approachability, though, that really impressed me. Of course, I realize this may not be the case with all of them- I have, of course, heard the standard horror stories about advisors from hell. But most- no, strike that, all of the people I met during my search to find my advisor have been extremely nice people, at least to me. During those difficult first couple of months, I think it was meeting these people that kept me going; I used to meet them and realize that he/she was the kind of person I wanted to be: extremely competent, passionate about my work, and capable of inspiring young people.

* * *

Turn the Page

2010-02-17T19:50:00.000-08:00

I can feel the words forming in my head. It is a familiar feeling; a good one, and I can feel the beginnings of a smile forming on my lips. As I write this. For this, I have none but the Pie to thank, for urging me to start writing again.

I go back, I look at my first post, written in 2004. Ridiculous, cringe-inducing stuff. So much has changed. So much. What do I write here now? I have no clue. My last post was called Change. Hah. Upheaval, I think, would have been more apt.

If nothing else, though, I do know this: it is time now to turn the page, and start a new chapter. I shall say this with great trepidation, for I do not know if I can do it justice. But say it I will: I'm back.

Change

2008-04-14T02:22:00.000-07:00

One my friends just quit his job at this company (I think it's best I don't name that organization; therefore: short mother and Sun God guard rear (8) ) and is now preparing for CAT. This was a guy with real enthu for tech- he'd put an excellent AIR in GATE in third year with barely any preparation and cracked a few math-modeling contests at various techfests- and now he's become so disillusioned with the tech scene in India that he wants to go for an MBA. Another friend wanted to quit and play football, apparently. I was willing to sell my soul and study management in case the research thing hadn't worked out (it did, thankfully, and I'm going to Purdue this fall), or perhaps even sit at home and study for CAT/GATE/whatever in case I couldn't convert those calls this time.

So, yeah, work sucks.

P.S. Yeah, yeah, I know it depends on the company and all that, but whatever. I'm just pissed at these companies right now, for selling dreams and then selling short.

Every Once in a While...

2008-02-03T22:57:00.000-08:00

...I stop by my blog, and read a post or two. Take a look at my last post, wherein I say that Ayn Rand's philosophy doesn't quite cut it in the real world. I was reading this, trying to find adequate words that would express, in a sentence or two, exactly why her ideas wouldn't work, and it struck me: Rand's ideas are impractical not because the universe we live in is irrational (which it isn't), but because Man, no matter how much we wish it were otherwise, is not a rational creature. Evidence to that effect: Religion. Racism.

We are rational some of the time and in dealing with certain matters, but certainly not all the time and about all things. It would be irrational to believe otherwise. ;)

Perhaps we need to be rational only, or at least, about the big things. Y'know, about the things that matter. At the least, consider- rationally- all the options available, the consequences thereof, and then make a reasonable choice.

Of the Proper Balance of Things

2007-09-14T02:30:00.000-07:00

Terry Pratchett, in my opinion, reached a pitch of greatness with Reaper Man that has seldom been achieved in literature. The book builds up to its climax, about a page of dialogue- well, more of a monologue, really- between Death and Azrael, the Death of Deaths. Death pleads with Azrael for a little time; time to restore, as he says, the proper balance of things. Into that page or so of dialogue is distilled the essence of modern philosophical thought, and it is summarized superbly in Death’s final plea to Azrael: Lord, what can the harvest hope for, if not for the care of the Reaper Man?

The above line is one of my favourite quotes/lines-of-dialogue/bit-of-text-on-a-white-page/whatever. Death is an anthropomorphic personification, which in English means that he is the flesh-and-blood embodiment of humankind’s imagination: The Grim Reaper. In the book, he is sacked by the people who essentially form the Quality Assurance department of the universe; the same people who give the most boring presentations during induction briefings - an ordeal for unsuspecting freshers - and are consequently responsible for the phenomenon that, in corporate circles, is called Death by Powerpoint. Pratchett chooses to call them Auditors. Need I really say anymore?

And why do they sack him? Because Death, being an anthropomorphic personification (typing which is a pain), is developing Personality. There is nothing wrong with his work, in that everybody who dies is collected and disposed of properly, but they can’t have him doing silly human things like pondering the existential, now, can they? The Auditors hate irregularities, and it is of course well known and, more importantly from the Auditors’ point of view, well documented that Personality leads to irregularities. Ergo, he’s given the pink slip and an hourglass with his own allotted quota of time. This, for those unfamiliar with the Discworld, means that he is now human, give or take a little reality*. So, for the first time in- for want of a better word**- his life, Death can die.

He doesn’t like it. He’s always been fascinated by humans, and by What Makes Them Tick, but this lesson is hands-on. He learns, through bitter experience, (although he’d possibly known it forever) that there is no such thing as justice or mercy, and that hope is often a delusion, except in one case. And that case is him. This forms the crux of his appeal to Azrael:

‘Lord, there is no good order except that which we create…’

Azrael’s expression did not change.

‘There is no hope but us. There is no mercy but us. There is no justice. There is just us.’

The dark, sad face filled the sky.

‘All things that are, are ours. But we must care. For if we do not care, we do not exist. If we do not exist, then there is nothing but blind oblivion.

‘And even oblivion must end some day. Lord, will you grant me just a little time? For the proper balance of things. To return what was given. For the sake of prisoners and the flight of birds.’

Death took a step backwards.

It was impossible to read expression in Azrael’s features.

Death glanced sideways at the Auditors.

‘Lord, what can the harvest hope for, if not for the care of the Reaper Man?’

* * *

I made a statement in the first paragraph, one that a Professor of literature would possibly hesitate to make, that I shall now try to justify. In reading classic works like those of Shakespeare, Milton and the like, I have always found myself looking for meaning, in that I read the hallowed passages and try hard to understand, or basically just feel something, y’know? It is most likely a failing on my part that I have to look; but that is beside the point, for look I certainly do. Pratchett's writing, to me, seems much more accessible and, critically, the easiest to relate to. The characters he has created are, much like those of Shakespeare, many things: they are brave, cowardly, smart, funny and sometimes all at the same time. Most of all, however, they are intensely human.

However, one aspect of Pratchett’s writing irritates me: he tends to oversimplify certain issues. It is not so much oversimplification, however, as it is a sacrifice of accuracy and/or logical coherence for the sake of clever wordplay and a couple of catchy lines. It is a temptation that most of us who (attempt to) write fall prey to at some point or the other; yet, it is sad to see it happen with Pratchett.

Getting back to the bouquets, the most important aspect of his writing, in my opinion, is that he entertains, and does so like no other. In fact, I find him to be the literary equivalent of Quentin Tarantino as far as style (the humour and the general tongue-in-cheek-ness) and pop culture influence is concerned, except that his work is more profound, morally stronger and, I think this is important, makes for excellent reading for teenagers/adolescents. It is around this age that they- not so long ago, it was we- are introduced to the books of Ayn Rand, and Objectivism, in my opinion, does not deliver the right message. Rand glorifies unrestrained individualism, capitalism and the self above pretty much everything else; and along with being ridden with inconsistencies from a rigorous philosophical perspective, it does not, quite cut it in the Real World. As to why I think her philosophy doesn’t cut it, well, that would require a separate post (and extensive re-reading for which, because of corporate stress, interminable coffee breaks and suchlike, I simply do not have the time) in its own right. For now, suffice to say that she doesn't quite achieve the proper balance of things. And the less said about authors like Paulo Coelho and Robin Sharma, the better.

The essays of Bertrand Russell should, ideally, be part of the curriculum in, say, 12^th standard, but his ideas are not easily understood and assimilated, and I suspect even schoolteachers would have a tough time understanding (or even accepting, particularly in India) them. Pratchett, therefore, forms an ideal foil to Russell. The gentle morality that underlies much of his work, his condemnation of war and racism, his views on religion- all expressed through characters that are completely, wonderfully human- make for ideal reading for teenagers/adolescents; an age when, to paraphrase Russell, the ideal world begins to make its claim. The question of which ideal, or which world is worth putting your faith in is a momentous one, and a world like Pratchett’s, where the Death is concerned about the proper balance of things, seems to be better than most.

* More or less. He still has the same effect on human minds; in that they don’t grasp the rather extreme boniness of his, well, bone structure. In other words, they don’t, or rather their brains don’t let them notice that he is a skeleton because, well, people are generally not all (and only) bone, now, are they?

** There is a better word, and it is existence. But I simply couldn’t resist, so I put it in.

Epilogue

2007-05-22T13:07:00.000-07:00

Two months ago.

It's been a while, I know.

Summer's creeping up on Trichy. I can tell by the way when, inevitably, I feel too lazy to get out of my room in the afternoons. And I'm totally, completely an afternoon person- it is the time of the day when I'm at my sharpest, most enthu best. You know, when you feel like doing something. Another sign's the way my jeans feel sticky after a bit of cycling around the campus. And when you can quite literally smell the heat in the air. A faint smell, admittedly, but it is there.

There's nothing to do here in college. Wait, that's not quite right, there are programs to complete, equations to derive, project reports to write, newsletters to edit, blogs to update and quants papers to correct for the nanhe munhe bacche. The difference, I think, lies in the fact that this semester (unfortunately) we actually have the time to do all of the above. Therefore, as is obvious, nothing gets done simply because our arses aren't on fire.

Sometimes I think the only thing I've learnt in four years of engineering is how to deal with the pressure of deadlines.

Well, we're almost done. I'm going to miss these days like crazy; however, strangely enough, I'm looking forward to working. Most of my friends, thankfully, have got postings in Bangalore. At least some things will endure.

Present Day.

Well, we’re done. Yup, that’s right, stand up and clap for the man here, who’s just done with his Bachelor of Technology. Except that he’s not sure he’ll appreciate applause; naaah, not for this, no. Hell, he shakes his head in wonder, it just isn’t sinking in. Pause. Resume head-shaking. When will it, then, he wonders? When he wakes up on one morning too many to find that he doesn’t have to knock his neighbour’s door down for toothpaste? When, once too often, the tea he drinks with breakfast actually serves its intended function of waking him up?

How did it end? In a mockery of a final comprehensive viva wherein we took photographs while writing the preliminary written exam. In a final photo and video session which included a tour of the entire department. Yes, even the bathrooms. Desperate, we were, to take everything back with us. Except we left behind table fans, bags, notebooks, pencils, movies, songs, the LAN, the hostel terrace, oh the hostel terrace.

Thank heavens there’s something left to rediscover when we go back.

The last act, however, was staged in a railway station that we never conceived would see such emotion on display. Pregnant silences that at once left everything and nothing unsaid; long, heartfelt hugs with neither party willing to let go; promises to meet again, to keep in touch, of third degree homicide should either party visit the other’s city and leave unmet; tears- open and discreet; but above all, it ended in emptiness- a hollow feeling that bespoke the realization that a way of life had just been laid to rest, and that this chapter had finally come to a close.

P.S. It's been a while, I know. :)

My First Review

2007-02-20T07:12:00.000-08:00

Reservoir Dogs was good. I mean, the movie was a visceral, yet chaotically funny take on how things could go horribly wrong. You know, the best laid plans of mice and men and all that. It had quite a few moments, an unforgettable one being the infamous ear-slicing scene with Michael Madsen and the cop. One hell of a debut, one that any director would’ve been more than happy to have. It received quite a bit of critical acclaim and did fairly well at the box office as well. Expectations were high.

So what does Tarantino do next? He pulls off the near impossible, coming up with an even better movie, a movie driven almost entirely by dialogue. Bizarre and totally inappropriate dialogue, but sparkling with wit, humour- dialogue begging to be quoted. And at the same time managing to be profoundly and improbably realistic. Not possible, that’s an oxymoron, you say? Watch the movie, say I, and you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.

Right, the plot(s). Tarantino displayed this penchant for playing with space and time in his debut, and he carries that forward into this movie. While it had a slightly disorienting effect in Reservoir Dogs, it is used very well here; probably because they seem to be stand-alone sequences, apparently unrelated. The movie opens in a diner with Honeybunny (Amanda Plummer) and Pumpkin (Tim Roth) discussing their previous robberies. They talk about how a diner/restaurant would be a far easier mark, and decide to test their theory right then and there. Cut to Story #1: Vincent Vega and Marsellus Wallace’s Wife. We see Vincent (John Travolta) and Jules (Samuel L. Jackson), Marsellus’ hit men, on their way to a hit. This is where Tarantino excels; in any other movie the dialogue would’ve been entirely plot driven, but here they talk about cheeseburgers and foot massages. And believe me, never have these items/services sounded this fascinating. Yet this doubles up as groundwork for later sequences, when we learn that Vincent has to take out Marsellus’ wife Mia (Uma Thurman) for a night on the town. Vincent is nervous about this job, because we all know what Marsellus did to the guy who gave Mia a foot massage.

Shit happens, and Mia accidentally overdoses. Vincent rushes her to the dealer Lance (Eric Stoltz) and his wife’s (Jody Arquette) place where they bring her back with a shot of adrenaline to her heart. So far, I’ve talked about Tarantino’s dialogue, but now let’s get into the visuals. This one’s a perfect example. It could’ve been one hell of a gut-wrencher, but we almost invariably end up laughing. Why? Because Tarantino never actually shows the needle going in. All we see is Vincent bringing his hand down in a stabbing motion, as Lance puts it. The next shot is that of Mia quite literally springing back to life, startling everybody. Brilliant editing. Another one’s the dance sequence with Vincent and Mia in the diner; I forget what its name was. I swear, I’ve never seen anything like it. Mia says she wants to win the dance competition and what Mia says goes. So they get on the floor and start dancing. They’re doing good, having fun (and at the same time managing to look uber cool), but they’re holding back at some level, which is apparent in the way their eyes hardly meet. I personally can’t think of a better way to showcase Vincent’s uneasiness at the whole thing and the way it rubs off on Mia.

And this is just the first story. The second one’s The Gold Watch, which has Bruce Willis playing Butch, a prizefighter paid by Marsellus to throw a fight. However, at the crucial moment, he decides his pride is more important and reneges on Marsellus, by going on to win the fight. Then he goes on the run with his girlfriend Fabienne (Maria de Medeiros), and the rest of the story deals with how he deals with the situation.

The Bonnie Situation kind of fills in the gaps and brings the plot together. We see Harvey Keitel as Marcus Wolf, summoned by Jimmy (QT himself in a brilliant cameo) to get rid of the ravaged corpse in the car before his wife gets home. Keitel turns in a superb performance as the professional troubleshooter as he quickly and efficiently deals with Vincent’s fatal blunder.

Finally, the now legendary diner sequence ties together quite a few loose threads and provides an immensely satisfying climax to the wild ride. The performances are all uniformly brilliant. Right from Samuel L. Jackson to QT himself, they play their roles almost to perfection. Tarantino extracts surprisingly first-rate performances from Travolta and Willis, actors not particularly known for their histrionic abilities.

The dialogue can’t be eulogized enough. From potbellies to divine intervention, we’re talking poetry all the way. Every single detail is in place. The situations are full of irony and double meaning; one can spend hours analyzing what Tarantino really meant. There is humour to be found in every situation, no matter how macabre. As for flaws, there are hardly any. You’re too busy enjoying the movie to think of anything else. I personally found the second story to be slightly off-colour. The movie loses steam slightly in the middle but comes back brilliantly.

In the final analysis, what we have is a master in love with his craft and culture, and that shines through in every single frame. He is clearly indulging himself, but in such a geeky, self-aware manner that you can’t help but admire his audacity. Have I been objective in this review? I don’t know. Do I give a damn? Most definitely not. Will I stop this question-answer thing? By God, yes.

I love this movie.

Author's note: This is the first review I wrote in my long and illustrious career as a writer of chaat. So far, I've written two; the other one was of Sholay. I wrote this around seven months back for my movie club. Please take the time out to read and tell me what you think of it.

First, Click on the Link Below

2006-10-02T06:44:00.000-07:00

or

Return of the Flying Panda

“What now?”

“Indeed. What now?”

* * *

The younger one shook his head in a mixture of wonder and wistfulness. “I assumed that once it was over, once I had my revenge, I would get back to my ‘normal life’.” He looked up at the older one and smiled ruefully, amused by his own naiveté.

The older one waited, wanting the younger one to put it into words.

“I didn’t realize that vengeance had become my life. I don’t know what to do with myself now.”

The older one said nothing.

There was a slightly accusatory note in the younger one’s voice. “You knew this would happen, didn’t you? Why didn’t you warn me?”

He waited for a response; none was forthcoming.

“Oh. I see. Of course.” He inclined his head in acknowledgement of the older one’s foresight. “It had to become my life. I had no option but to make it so, were I to be successful.”

The older one smiled. “Yes, but what now?”

* * *

As is the annoying (and to me, inexplicable) habit of all these martial art exponent dudes, our panda awakened as the first rays of the new day made their way into the glade. He walked into the center of the glade, and let himself soak in the gentle warmth of the afore-mentioned rays. He took deep breaths all around and let the freshness that was the new day permeate his consciousness. He was now fully awake, though how that is possible without the benefit of filter coffee I shall never understand.

He let his gaze sweep across the surroundings and realized that it wouldn’t be easy to leave them. It had become too much a part of his identity, too much a part of who he had become. He sighed, and shook his head. It didn’t solve anything. He still had no idea as to what to do with himself.

* * *

“No!”

The older one looked faintly amused. “Your roots, young Pneo, your roots. Never forget where you come from. ‘Tis not common blood that your veins carry.”

Pneo looked at the older one, stricken. “But an arranged marriage? In this day and age of speed dating?”

“Why not? Old is gold.”

“Eh?”

* * *

The older one walked the worn path to his resting place. He paused for a moment and looked up at that scene of vast, magnificent splendor- the star-studded night sky. He smiled to himself. His time had come. Muscle, sinew and soul would come together for one last battle.

* * *

Pneo looked down at his master, and it broke his heart to do so. He told himself that this was the only way, that he had had no choice, but the words sounded hollow. All that remained was remorse: utter, biting remorse and the terrible loneliness of one who has dared to change the world around him. He looked away. I do believe he could’ve done with some filter coffee.

The older one waited patiently for his protégé to find the courage to look at him again. And at length, as he knew was inevitable, the younger one came out of his reverie, took a deep breath and turned to face his mentor, in readiness to have his soul torn apart.

Serenity suffused his master’s time-ravaged visage. He felt his protégé’s gaze upon him and opened his wearied eyes. He took in his surroundings, his home for the past half-century, and was filled with sadness that the dew on the grass should never moisten his feet again. Yet it was not a sadness born of fretful longing, but of quiet acceptance. His gaze now focused on Pneo.

“Look at me, young one, for in me, in my fallen figure, you shall find the key to your destiny. This was meant to be, it had to happen, it was inevitable. Understand that. Empty, you think my words are? You are wrong; I have never been surer of them. You, young Pneo, are one of those blessed ones, one of those chosen by Nature herself, by her gift of exceptional ability, to be one of her agents of change. I am but a mere catalyst; you are the instrument. Should you continue on this path, and should you choose not to run away from yourself, ‘twill be a blessed life that you shall lead. Terrible shall be your loneliness, and the ones who understand you may be the ones you shall have to destroy. Mark my words, young one, and do not think me mad, for this is indeed a blessing. For none lesser than the Gods themselves shall share your loneliness and your pain; for you shall have the satisfaction of doing what you want, of getting what you want; for, most of all, you shall be one of the fortunate few exempt from the curse of utter futility.”

"Yes, but will I be happy?"

Author’s note: ‘Tis very corny blood that my veins carry. ;)

The Illustrious Life and Times of PJ Talukdar

2006-09-19T09:35:00.000-07:00

It was a dark and stormy night. I stood in the deserted hotel corridor, watching the black velvet of the night sky being ripped apart by jagged bolts of lightning. It was silent, except for the rhythmic drumming of raindrops on the concrete and the occasional rumbling of distant thunder. But then, that formed part of the silence. I contemplated the savage anger of the elements, wondering what lay in store for me the next day. I stood on the threshold of a new phase of my life, knowing not what awaited me yonder.

The door next to ours crashed open. A short, wiry guy with close-cropped hair that gave an impression (entirely justified) of imminent baldness stepped out. I could hear his mother calling after him, presumably to stay out of the rain. He stopped short, taken aback to find another person in what he obviously expected to be an empty corridor. Our eyes met for no more than a second, yet I detected a spark of kinship in them. In them, I recognized the same fear that had haunted me lately, that of the unknown. Instinctively, I knew then that here was a fellow NITTian, one of the guys I’d be spending the next four years of my life with. I think he realized it too, for we moved towards each other almost at the same time. Introductions were made, and the first hesitant steps that marked the beginning of a beautiful acquaintanceship (you know, the hello-hello kind) that would last the whole of first year were taken. However, his parting line was one that I won’t forget in a hurry: You teach me organic chemistry and I’ll teach you inorganic chemistry, ok? I bit my tongue, gurgled a goodnight, and staggered back to my room, holding my sides.

As with most of my branchmates, I got to know him better only in second year, when we entered the department. However, our mutual friends tell me that he was quite a colourful character back then too. Apparently, he was a major favourite with the seniors. After every ragging session, or call, as we call it here, he would come back, face swollen and cursing all the seniors, swearing he’d see them all buried alive if they ever crossed his path in Guwahati (I quote him verbatim). Needless to say, his threats never materialized; he was all sweetness and light when they did cross his path in Guwahati.

It was in second year, of course, after we entered the department that our acquaintanceship bloomed into a lifelong friendship. Indeed, it really does warm the hackles (?) of my heart when he says, “You’re my beeesht friend in the whoooole universh”, after consuming three large measures of McDowell’s finest. However, enough about our relationship. Suffice to say that it is based on a system of mutual give and take of money, photocopies and fundae regarding life, human nature and women. I shall tell you more about the man himself now.

Following are the qualities that make Pranab Jyoti Talukdar worth the effort of writing this post:

1.) The money he paid me.
2.) His deep understanding of relationships, especially with his cell phone, which has made him particularly well known among the girls (admittedly very, very few) of our college.
3.) His fundae regarding women and how to go about pataofying them. For example, “When you are in the process of wooing a specimen of the female species, the best way to gauge her interest in you is to praise another girl in front of her. If she displays an inclination to stab you through the cheek with her spiked heel, then you’re on solid ground.” More like in solid ground, if you ask me.
4.) Entertainment value in the class. For example, we played this game (which he invented) in the class once. You start with a word, and go on adding words/phrases in turn to make logical sentences until you can no longer think of anything more. Here’s an example:
Sex.
Avoid sex.
Avoid sex with animals.
Avoid sex with animals and PJ Talukdar.
This is when he hit me and I cried out in agony, anguish et al. and the lecturer busted us.
5.) The money he paid me. I did say I was turning this into a franchise.

Yenyway. It is time I said some nice things about him and wound up. Well, the dude is, if nothing else, intensely human. That's it. Ta-ta and toodle-oo.

Author's Note: This was NOT easy to write. Vaira and Yoga were stereotypes, so it was much easier to write about them. Thing is, this dude happens to be a really good friend of mine, and it is not easy to go all sarcastic about someone who is like you in a lot of ways. Besides, a lot of the jokes are something of inside jokes, stuff that would probably be appreciated more if you knew the guy. But I absolutely love that first paragraph, so I absolutely had to post it. I hope you guys enjoy reading it.

Experiment No.1

2006-08-23T12:45:00.000-07:00

There was this guy. He was studying to be an engineer. He used to have a lot of fun in the college he studied in. He had great friends, but there was something missing. You see, this kid, he was a major flop as far as girls were concerned. No, wait, I suppose that's slightly inaccurate, because he had never really tried. At any rate, I think it would be best to reserve judgement as far as this statement is concerned, because we don't have enough data. Besides, I don't think it matters much.

Anyway, point is, even though he never really looked, he longed for a companion, ideally of the female variety, someone he could share his daily life and experiences with and vice versa. A sort of I'm-there-you're-there-we're-both-there-for-each-other thing, you know. He believed, perhaps erroneously, that he had much to offer such a companion. He believed, again perhaps erroneously, that he was intelligent, comfortable with his emotions, and in general, a decent guy. Oh, as far the looks department went, well, he was something of a flop. Still, that did not deter him. From what, you ask, as you have yourself claimed that he didn't really look. Ah, a valid question indeed. From hoping, I guess. Oh, he also just wanted to get some, if you know what I mean. Nudge-nudge, wink-wink.

Let me guess what happens next, you say, a girl then dropped out of the sky into his life. That's right, Gentle Reader, that is indeed what happened. Quite the run-of-the-mill love story this is, I'm afraid. At least, that is almost what happened next. No one actually dropped out of the sky, but something as close to that as possible happened, I guess. He met this girl on the internet. Quite by chance. I can almost see you shake your head sanctimoniously and cluck your tongue; not wise, not wise at all, you say, this business of meeting people on the net. I have to agree with you. Again, it no longer matters, for that is what happened. He dropped into her blog, commented, she reciprocated the gesture, and soon they became regular visitors to each others' blogs. Not long after, comments turned into emails, and finally phone numbers were exchanged.

The calls were long and frequent. They found, to their delight, that they got along very well. So well, that they decided they were falling in love, and both of them were agreed on the fact that they must meet and put all doubt to rest. So they met. The meeting went off well, perhaps better than either of them expected. They were going out now, they were a couple. Hell, they were boyfriend-girlfriend.

They love each other, you know. But ask them to define love, and you'll find that neither of them can give you a precise definition. How cliched, they'll say embarrassedly. But they don't really care. Because they love each other, you know.

So what's the point of telling me all of this, sounds like a happy ending to me alright, you say. Fine, I'll get to the point. See, thing is, the engineer dude, he's scared. He's happy now. The girl has made him really happy. But he's still scared, precisely because he's happy. He's scared of the future, of what it might bring. He's scared that it might bring separation from his beloved. That they'll be very far apart. Who knows what might happen then, huh? He's scared of being less happy than he is now. He's scared that he might lose her, and that he might never find such happiness again. And he wants her to know that occasionally these fears, evil things that they are, they might make him do or say stupid things that might hurt her. Besides, he's new at this, and he might have a little trouble dealing with all these new feelings. He wants her to know that he would never hurt her intentionally. And when he does do these things, he hopes she'll forgive him.

Oh, he also wants her to know that for all the happiness she's given him, he'll be eternally in her debt. And finally, he wants her to know that he loves her. A lot.

Author's Note: This is one of the very few instances where language became a secondary consideration while I was writing it; I have relied only on the content and the flow to make it what it is, I guess.

Kindly adjust.

Update: A reader of mine has had the infernal gall to insinuate that I, yes, I the Monk have read Mills & Boon. I knew I was asking for it when I wrote this, but, by God and the itch in my crotch, I did not deserve that. ;)

Confessional

2006-08-06T13:36:00.000-07:00

Ajeeb dastaan hai yeh…
Kahaan shuru kahaan khatham…

Profound lines. Makes one wonder why such songs don't win Grammys. Not that it matters, of course.

The last three months or so have been, well, different for me. I'm sure you guys must have noticed, but my frequency of posting has become, almost commensurately, quite irregular. I really don’t feel like writing funny stuff (alright, have it your way, attempts at humor) anymore. I don’t think I’ve lost what passes for my sense of humor, but I now need to make an effort to come up with the funnies. The one superpower that I presume to possess, that of Chaat, thankfully seems to be intact, as evidenced only yesterday when I was forced to stop under threat of severe physical damage. All said and done, though, I might still surprise myself and come up with something that’ll hopefully have you rolling. Hell, I might even get started again; all I may need is an Aunt May to tell me that there’s a hero in all of us. Ideally, though, I think I’d prefer sweetly phrased requests from particularly pretty girls.

I haven’t really lost the desire to write, though. To a certain extent, I suppose I really was busy and didn’t have time and all that stuff, but there’s only so much that I can kid myself. Every time I picked up a particularly good book, I’d think, “Shit, I want to write like that” and then immediately wonder if I’m good enough. I suppose I’ll never find out unless I actually put my head down and write. Maybe I’m just afraid of finding out.

I don’t know what I’ll write either. I’m not sure how good I’ll be at fiction. I really don’t think I have the imagination to come up with a yarn that’s good enough. Nor do I think I have the staying power to see it through. I’ll probably just stop caring about what happens to the characters simply because it’s too much work. I don’t know, maybe short stories someday. Non fiction’s an option. I’m not the kind who has an opinion on every issue under the sun, but there are a few things that I’m passionate about, like books and writing, for instance. Most of all, I like giving fundae about such stuff, so I’ll probably write a good deal about books/literature/writing/movies/whatever.

You know, I really do care about this stuff. I mean, it has the ability to get me really excited; emotional, even. I can go on for hours about, say, Three Men in a Boat, or Lost in Translation and why I think they’re such brilliant books/movies. I can read Three Men any number of times and still be moved beyond tears when Jerome talks about the moonlight touching the river’s surface. He gets carried away by the sheer beauty of the night, and so am I, with him. I can feel every bit of Bill Murray’s bittersweet anguish when he waves goodbye to Scarlett Johansson; he’s glad he experienced this, but he’s devastated that he has to leave. At least, that’s what it seems like to me.

So, Gentle Reader, bear with me while I find my niche or whatever it is that I shall search for. I shall experiment a good deal, and I do not know how good the results shall be. However, stay with me, for I shall need your encouragement and criticism, in equal measure. In return, I promise you this: I shall try my best, aur dil se likhne ki koshish karoonga.

Yeh manzilen hain kaun sii…
Na woh samajh sake na hum…
Ajeeb dastaan hain yeh...

Apologies

2006-07-29T01:54:00.000-07:00

50 wordlists, 6 full-length tests, hazaar fundae and one nerve-wracking afternoon later, it is over. Finally.

I didn't get what I wanted, but I am more or less happy with what I did get.

1550; 800 in quants.

Now I can hit the play button and get back to life and blogging.

The Illustrious Life and Times of R. Vairamuthu- II

2006-05-19T22:53:00.000-07:00

What can I say, one post proved to be not nearly enough. I’m not sure a second one will suffice either. But try I must, for it would be a real shame to let such a character be lost amongst the multitudes of History (I love that phrase). And it wouldn’t be fair on my part to leave an incomplete account of him. Who knows, decades, or maybe even centuries later, somebody with way too much time on their hands may chance upon this little article of mine and bring glory to his name, something it richly deserves. If nothing else, it might bring a little glory to my name, something it sorely needs. Hoping against hope, I believe, was the phrase this poet dude used in his poem, I forget its name, but it had one of the first recorded alternative fashion statements in history: a sailor wearing some arbit bird for a necklace.

Hey, I just realized, I’m doing a sequel. Khu-ohl. Maybe I can turn this into a franchise; all I need to do is find enough suckers. Drop me a line if you want me to do a piece on you. Girls, enclose photos, you get discounts if you’re hot.

Right, I’ll continue from where I left off in the first post, namely from after the fourth semester. It was the fifth semester that saw the meteoric rise of Vairamuthu’s star. ‘Twas strange, though, because by third year people hardly studied at all, and exams became trivial annoyances that came and went like an itch in the crotch. 9 pointers remained 9 pointers and 7 pointers continued in the delusion that they were the real fundoos; all they had to do was study and then where would the 9 pointers be? And didn’t they have loads more fun? Anyway, in the case of Vairamuthu, things turned out to be just the opposite.

I think it was getting the single room that might’ve done the trick. I believe I mentioned something in my last post about how enlightenment usually dawns in the third year; however, no such happy event occurred in the case of Vairamuthu. With the sobering effect of roommates no longer available, the madness only took greater hold of him. Already with a predisposition towards discipline, hard work and other such evils, his fetish for perfection now intensified with no one to keep him on the straight and narrow path to complete indolence. Assignments were no longer put off for the next day; they were completed almost immediately after class dispersed. Indeed, he was even spied rushing off to the library in the breaks between classes to reserve books that no one even knew existed. Lab records were, shockingly, completed and checked on the same day in the lab itself, disregarding the fact that it could wait for at least a week until the next lab session. This caused a fair bit of irritation in his batch, for the same impossibly high standards began to be expected of us too. So we sat under a Peepal tree and drank vodka. Sure enough, enlightenment dawned. We realized that this was all for the good, for we could now rely on at least one person in the batch from whom we could copy the results. Screw the grades, all we needed to do was pass. After all, how much difference can a one-credit lab make, seemed to be the alcohol-induced sentiment echoed all round.

I’ve already written about how he used to lock himself in his room to study during exam time. Ah, they speak the truth, and nothing but the truth, our seniors, when they say single rooms are double-edged swords.

But that was then. Now, he is back to his old serene self, but there is a new sense of contentment about him. I do not know what has changed between now and then. Maybe he has finally found happiness in porn, but I cannot say for sure, it is all conjecture. Maya, so to speak.

He peaked in this semester, especially with the course on Tooling and the Pro-Engineer lab. The professor who handled tooling was a total nutcase; he insisted on separate notebooks for the subject, and did other things previously unheard of: he actually handed out design problems as assignments everyday. In other words, he was a perfect foil for Vairamuthu. He reveled in his class; thinking up design solutions on the spur of the moment and presenting them to the delighted professor. We, of course, adapted quickly to the whole exercise. We had to, there were only so many of his classes that you could bunk. Vairamuthu would solve the problem and our class rep would immediately take photocopies of the solution and distribute it to the entire class, to be copied from and submitted the next day.

And then you had the Pro-Engineer lab. In theory, it involved converting the design solutions that we, uh, that Vairamuthu had developed in tooling to 3-D graphic models. In practice, it involved copying Vairamuthu's files and writing obscene posts on our LAN notice board during the lab sessions. So, there I was, two days before the exam, struggling with a particularly complex component. Along comes Vairamuthu, takes one look at the component I’ve been wrestling with for two hours and finishes it in five minutes flat. I had tears in my eyes; such was his expertise.

As I was to learn later, almost everyone in our class had had similar surreal experiences. On the eve of every exam, I tell myself that I shall get through this one without going to his room. But when the hour is late and desperation begins to set in, I inevitably find myself tracing the familiar steps to his room, only to find half the class there. And there he is, an island of calm in the midst of chaos, clearing doubts and explaining concepts. Never ruffled, not once irritated. If I have lost all traces of sarcasm in the last two paragraphs, it is because I hold him in true respect. As our Varundev puts it so aptly:

Vaira is great.

P.S. The 7 pointers are the real fundoos. All we need to do is study. And in most cases, we’re the apti toppers. Hah. ;)

Impure Lumps of Carbon and Water

2006-05-08T05:28:00.000-07:00

~I have good news, and I have bad news. Either can be interpreted as the other. I'll tell you what I think is the good news first. Well, the good news is, I'm (w)hole again, which means I can get back to monopolizing the computer for long hours at a stretch, much to the irritation of all at home. This also means that I can get back to doing some (hopefully) meaningful posts, full of profound insights that alter your outlook on life even as you read them. There, I did say that it can be taken either way.

If you paid close attention to the above paragraph (if you hadn't, please do, or you'll miss the profound insights), you would have noticed that I said at home. Yup, I'm back in Bangalore, and I'm lovin' it. Trichy was hotter than ever this summer, and it wasn't pleasant, having to mug definitions that only got more incomprehensible with every exam. The guy who said that engineering was all about using your imagination to solve cutting edge technological problems obviously hadn't done a course on Quality, Reliability and Maintenance. After this semester, all I've learnt is to use my imagination to adapt one definiton for a minimum of eight different terms. And, to top it all off, I had to deal with the trauma of having gone under the knife. Yes, I suffered.

Now for the bad news: there is no scar. I feel cheated.

~Well, anyway(s). What is it with this new funda of saying anyways instead of the good old anyway? Everywhere I go, I hear people say anyways (with the requisite American roll, of course). I mean, this is taking things a little too far. Chill, dudes and dudettes, no need to freak. I have no pangas with slang. Yeah, slang is like, totally cool, man. You had slang back when our parents were living the wild life in college, and you have slang now. But, I ask you, anyways? It's plain wrong English. I can totally empathise with Lynne Truss when she says she feels like inflicting physical damage on people who mess up the language and, to add insult to injury, think they're being cool when they do it. It's murder, I say, what they're doing to my beloved English language.

Nd don strt me off on SMS/IM lingo. Wht's da bldy dictnry 4, I ask u?

I need to chill, man, maybe take a time-out, y'know?

~Right. I'm all chilled out now. Onward ho, then.

Yup, that's what we all are, impure lumps of carbon and water, with an affinity for green paper. ;)

~Another semester's come and gone. We're final years now, the Lord Gods of the campus. First years tremble when they cross our paths, the second years still address us as aap and the third years, in spite of all the abuse they heap on us, still listen to us when we give fundas.

On a totally unrelated note: Listen well, all you disillusioned second years out there, for 'tis the Monk who speaks now, and no common preacher. Do not worry, for enlightenment generally dawns in the third year, when you get single rooms. Use the solitude well.

Three years have passed so bloody quickly. And it's been an amazing three years. I have grown and learnt more in these three years than in any another period so far. If today, I am more or less happy with the kind of person I have become (oh, there are many more miles to go, but the journey is well begun, I think), I owe it in no small measure to this college, to this culture. Sometimes I wonder what I'll do when I get back to civilization.

Author's Note: To all you disillusioned second years: I am, of course, making broad, sweeping generalizations without any logical basis. Still, do not disregard my words, for 'tis the Monk who speaks here, and no common preacher. ;)

In Which the Monk is Punctured, Literally

2006-03-25T02:06:00.000-08:00

I can't sit for long, still or otherwise. Oh, I am no bundle of energy, nor am I a more-than-a-stick-but-less-than-a-club of dynamite. Friends and family will testify to that. I am happiest when horizontal, preferably with a good book, music (no, NOT Boyzone) and peanuts. I am nuts about nuts. However, I enjoy sports, and I'm always game for shooting a few hoops or showing somebody how to play that immaculate cover drive (in theory, of course). My mother has risked many a heart attack and burst blood vessel in screaming at me to get off the bed and make it, for God's sake, or you won't get breakfast. If there is one thing I shall never be accused of being, it is of being a pint-sized dynamite. I mean, there's no way I'll ever be called pint-sized.

Really, I delude myself. Sometimes I can make small talk.

Well, the reason I can't sit in one place for long is because there's this small hole in my lower back. And it hurts when I put pressure on it. It's been put there because there was something near my tailbone that had to come out. Nothing major, I assure you, but still, it's surgery. My first one, too. Now I'll finally have that scar I always wanted. Unfortunately, not one that I acquired in a battle to the death, and neither is it suitably located, but what the hell, it's a scar. I now have the right to nod gravely and say, yes, I have gone under the knife.

I think there was a point in telling you guys all of this. Yeah, now I remember. See, this is the reason why I haven't been able to post regularly. I mean, it is slightly inconvenient to type lying down, and even that is bad for my back, apparently. And I seem to have completely lost the ability to write in the traditional way. Except in the case of exams, of course. Believe me, there's nothing like impending doom to get the creative juices flowing. I'm particularly proud of this definition I cooked up for Statistical Quality Control in the last cycle test. I used words/phrases like mathematical device, suboptimal parameters and evaluate, and I got full marks. Maybe I should get into management.

You'd think going under the knife would generate some sympathy, at least at home. My mom actually laughed out loud when I broke the news to her. "Just above your butt, did you say?", she said, and went back to doing the ha-has. I informed her, quite coldly, that I saw no cause for such mirth, and would she kindly tell me which part she found funny, so that I could join in. As usual, my sarcasm was lost on her. She continued rolling. Things got better after the first dressing, though, which was a couple of days back. It was pretty bad, and I came close to screaming the place down. She was with me, and was ready with words of comfort to soothe the fevered brow. I even got an extra slab of Hershey's (strictly rationed, and viciously fought over), much to the annoyance of my sister.

She's a hopeless case, though. She doesn't seem to care in the least. Oh look, I feel a small poem coming on, that might illustrate my point more effectively. Here goes:

Be a dear, I said, and fetch me some water,
Be my ministering angel, aur meri seva kar.
Ho hum, she yawned, you're not in pain,
Ab nautanki band kar, it's all in vain.
But tell me this, brother o' mine,
My new look, will it make men pine?

I gave her a fairly graphic description of what she could do with her new look.

My Dad was completely unperturbed, once he learnt that it wasn't anything serious. But then, he's been like that ever since the Central Government Health Scheme took effect. As long as the bill goes directly to NAL (and he doesn't have to see it), he's happy. He informed me excitedly, the moment I came out of the operation theatre, that Tendulkar was the top-scorer in India's disastrous second innings against England. And then he learnt Tendulkar was injured, and that he had to undergo surgery. He was heartbroken, and didn't say much all day. Oh well. Atleast Sachin and I (or is it me?) have something in common now.

So, the point is, I don't know how regularly I'll be able to post, what with this unforeseen calamity having struck me down. Besides, my writing has become a little jaded, methinks. Maybe a break will do me good. However, impending doom might work. And that definitely isn't going to be in short supply anytime soon, what with the semester exams being just around the corner.

Cheers!!

P.S. Did I mention, the nurses in Manipal are very pretty? They were so patient with my questions, and I had so many.

Globalization and the Modern Indian Woman

2006-03-13T06:49:00.000-08:00

or

Revenge of the Flying Panda

There were bodies strewn all around the clearing. Not all were covered with blood, though. Some were totally unmarked, if one discounted the faces contorted in agony. Somehow, though, they told of greater suffering.

He stood at the edge of the moonlit meadow. It was a beautiful night. His gaze swept the clearing, resting for a moment on each fallen warrior, allowing himself the slightest glint of satisfaction at each pause. For a moment, however, sadness nearly overwhelmed him at what he had done, at the havoc he had wrought upon this once peaceful glade. Yet, in spite of all this, he sensed a strange sense of peace about the surroundings, as if what had happened, all the death and destruction, was not wrong. Yes, he told himself, that was it. The sense of inevitability. That brought the peace. That might explain, he realized, as to why they understood. Maybe they lived by the same rules too.

He shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. There was still work to be done, one final obstacle to be overcome. The answers would come later. However, this much he knew for sure: there was honour in this.

                                                     * * *

“How did you get away?”

“I hid behind a bush.”

“And they didn’t find you?”

“I am not without training. And my teachers were the best; all of them Pan-SAS.”

“Not good enough. The Reds were better.”

“No! They were the best. But we didn’t expect treachery. At least, not direct contravention of the Convention.”

The older one turned away, disgusted. “They are Reds.” Venom in every syllable. “You were naïve.”

When he spoke again, it was in a softer tone. “You saw it, didn’t you?”

The younger one looked up, eyes burning. “Everything.”

“Describe it to me. Every single detail. Leave out nothing.”

“My parents didn’t scream at first, you know. But the shoots, they were too long. That was what defeated them. And they couldn’t stop, once they started screaming. The Reds didn’t stop even after it was clear that they were dead, and could no longer feel pain. Every inch, relentlessly. Sometimes I wonder if they were aware that I was watching.”

“What of your twin?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged, beyond pain now. “I suppose they killed him as well.”

“They took him. They made a mistake; do you understand that? It was you they wanted. They took the wrong twin.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“How do you think I found you?” He smiled, and tapped his nose. “You fart mightily, boy.”

Incredulous now. “You don’t mean-? The prophecies? Us?”

The older one said nothing. He merely smiled again.

                                                     * * *

“What do you think?”

“I have taught you all I know. You are a worthy student, in that you have interpreted what you have learnt in the light of your ability and experience, and not merely accepted and understood. You have surpassed me in skill, as every successful disciple must. You have watched Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, and can now jump over and around bamboo shoots at will, like a bleeding chimp. You have read Hitchhiker’s, and mastered flying from it, with my guidance. Maybe someday you shall have a hot she-panda cavorting in the air with you too, like Arthur Dent did. You have read Lynne Truss (a champion of our cause), and as a result, you are more than proficient in the exquisite art of punctuation.”

“Will that be enough? Against him?”

He was silent for quite some time, choosing his next words with care.

“I do not know what will happen. It is good that you have doubts, for it never pays to make assumptions, especially in cases like these. But I have noticed this in you: you have passion for your art. Your art is an end in itself for you, even though you use it to seek vengeance. I have seen it in the way you move when you practice, in the way your eyes light up when you talk of it. The Reds have no use for such passion. It is a mere tool for them, a mighty weapon in their quest for power. They have desire. You have passion. That might make the ultimate difference.”

                                                     * * *

The waiting had come to an end. He could see him approaching.

“Psmith.”

“Mr. Panderson. Surprised to see me?”

He took a step backward, reeling from the shock. He didn’t know! He had no idea as to the true identity of his adversary!

He took a deep breath. So be it, then.

“No. Not really.”

“Your death is inevitable, Mr. Panderson”.

His hand tightened over the shoot. “My name is Pneo.”

Author's Note: This is exactly the kind of corny, completely over the top stuff (I can't bring myself to call it crap) that I'm crazy about, in print and on the screen (I'm talking The Matrix, Kill Bill Vol.2, the Dune Chronicles and stuff like that). I had amazing fun writing it. Please bear with my indulgences, Gentle Reader. And Pushkar, my friend, I hope I have not disappointed you. The Panda deserves better, I know.
However, this much I know for sure: there was honour in this.
;)

Musical Meanderings and Other Arbit Stuff

2006-02-25T14:44:00.000-08:00

>There was this time when I used to listen to Boyzone, Backstreet Boys, Westlife and, don’t judge me yet, Britney Spears. Boyzone was definitely my favourite. I was greatly disappointed (I was going to use heartbroken when I realized how gay this whole thing already sounds) when I learnt of their breaking up. I thought All That I Need was the greatest song ever recorded since As Long As You Love Me. I remember agreeing wholeheartedly with Mom that rock and metal were just so much noise. I used to pity the tortured souls who needed to listen to the likes of Metallica and Slipknot to get their kicks. The closest I came to listening to rock was Bryan Adams. College changed all of that. I was met with agonized cries of “Please tell me you have heard of GnR?”, or “What the f**k do you mean you like As Long As You Love Me? Haven’t you listened to Stairway to Heaven?”, when I proudly declared my musical preferences while giving my intro during ragging.

I was nonplussed. Soon, Bryan Adams became my favourite. While I was still met with the afore-mentioned agonized cries, the intensity had lessened somewhat. It resembled the tone one adopts when one finds out that a young one in the fold has strayed, but not so far that all is lost. There was still hope for me. The seniors decided to initiate me one step at a time. First, they told me to check out GnR. I did, and nothing happened. Typically, I liked Sweet Child of Mine, but not enough to displace the hallowed place Boyzone occupied. No, I told them frankly, for I was young and foolish then, I didn’t like November Rain. Nope, not Estranged either. His voice wasn’t melodious enough, I said. That was when I had my first near-death experience.

The second one followed soon after, when I, with painful experience having done nothing to temper my reckless zeal to speak the truth, told them that the only thing Du Hast did to me was give me a headache. I think I became something of a challenge for the seniors, a chance for them to prove that, yes, ragging was indeed beneficial. I suppose this is how the Missionaries felt when they encountered their first savages. Finally, one fateful day in the second semester, I came back to my room after a particularly frustrating session, grabbed the first tape I could get my hands on and plunked it into my walkman. Must’ve been my mood, I guess, but as the angry opening chords of Unforgiven broke over me, I found my head moving in a manner that could only be described as head-banging. I listened to the song six times in a row.

Now, of course, Metallica is my favourite band. Knopfler and Hetfield are my musical Gods. I pity the needy souls who need to listen to the likes of Westlife and Britney in order to appreciate music. It pains me to listen to the Backstreet Boys and music being mentioned in the same sentence. Blasphemy, I say.

Don't tell anybody, but I still retain something of a soft corner for Boyzone. On warm summer nights, when it is too hot to sleep in the room, I take my Greatest Hits tape, put it in a Metallica/Straits cover, borrow good quality headphones (very important) and fall asleep to Ronan Keating & Co on the hostel terrace. If anyone asks, I'm listening to Nothing Else Matters.

>My mother has this annoying habit of hovering in the background whenever girls call me. Alright, that's quite enough, get your jaws back in place, there was indeed this glorious time in the past when fine specimens of the feminine race used to call purely for the pleasure of talking to yours truly. Back when we were in Trivandrum, we had only one phone (not a cordless one), and it was located in the dining room. Which was fine, actually, as it was the optimum location, being almost equidistant from the other parts of the house. But it also ruled out any chance of getting any privacy whatsoever. And, didn't you know, there is no need for privacy among People Who Love Each Other? So, once it was established beyond reasonable doubt that Oh My God, a Girl(!!!) has called My Only Son, my mom would develop this irresistible urge to cut vegetables or do her LIC math (which would invariably require my help, in the event of my Dad's absence) on the dining table. My gesturing madly at her to go away would be of no consequence; it would only strengthen her resolve to remind me (loudly, too) at regular intervals that I have sums to solve, and in general, miles to go before I could talk to arbit girls. This would, inevitably, put the afore-mentioned lovely ladies off, and they would make their excuses and hang up.

Oh well. At least I get to blame my non-existent love life of the past three years on somebody else.

Author's Note: Man, everytime I use Author's Note I get such a kick. Anyway, for Aslan, the Baap, Alfi and other seniors who may read this: I have, as usual, milked my experiences for blog material. And as always, I have exaggerated the facts and blown things a little out of proportion. However, I did get reactions like those from the final years. And the Little One (really, need I mention his name? Or even his nick?) did subject me to something of a Metallica session (remember the dreaded Rammstein sessions, guys?). All in all, though, great fun.
And if I've made my Mom out to be something of a rigid, orthodox person, well, she isn't. Really, someday my total irreverence will get me into trouble.

Apologies

2006-02-15T22:59:00.000-08:00

A hundred thousand apologies and more to you, Gentle Reader. I have been upto my nostrils in work this semester, what with the daily exam series conducted by our seniors, then our technical festival Pragyan, our department's technical symposium immediately after that and the cycle tests, which got over only yesterday. Now, I can breathe. I haven't written anything new after Yoga, and I shall start right after I post this. I shall probably post over the weekend. However, if some unforeseen calamity does strike me down , you lovely people will please kindly adjust, right?

How presumptuous of me, isn't it, to assume that you guys will be affected by my not posting? But I will, anyway, for it is good for my ego. ;)

Regarding the previous two posts, I was surprised by the response. It was a parody, you know, of all the tragic/melancholy love stories I've read/listened/been subjected to. And I was surprised (actually, devastated) that nobody commented on the F.R.I.E.N.D.S. reference in Memoirs-II. I do enjoy Maths a lot, and yes, I would like to do something related to Maths in the future. But a lot of it was exaggeration; the story required it, you know. But it was great fun writing it, and that, I suppose, in the final analysis, is all that matters.

Memoirs of a Last Bench Romeo-II

2006-01-27T16:56:00.000-08:00

I came to 11th, full of anticipation, for I was now free from the shackles of History, Hindi and the like. Except for English, of course, but I didn't mind English. I mean, you can't have everything, now, can you? Nothing stood between us now. Biology was always there, but the teacher gave up after we were thrown out of three consecutive classes for fooling around with T-functions while she was telling us all about how bacteria ate and drank. Yup, while the others read Penthouse and Playboy in Bio class, we flirted with number theory. Of course, not that we didn't read porn, we saved it for the English classes. We paid attention only in one Bio class, and that, obviously, was the class on reproduction. We even asked doubts.

My obsession really peaked around the middle of that year; for like moths to a flame, all the maths freaks in our class were drawn to the last two benches. It was easily one of the best periods of my life, for it was the first time that I was truly consumed by a passion. In the best traditions of Coca-Cola, I ate, drank and slept maths. And best of all, I was surrounded by similar-minded people, guys who truly understood and more importantly, shared my passion. We really went crazy around this time. We used to trawl the Net for interesting questions and email them to one another. The challenge was to solve them as fast as possible and email the solutions before anyone else did. We never cheated on one another, it was unthinkable on our part to do so. And this wasn't during the vacations when we'd rarely meet, but every single day after class.

Although we scarcely knew it then, all was not well, for we were soon corrupted by the power which comes with the knowledge of one's own competence. I think our teacher actually felt intimidated by us, for in our arrogance, we looked down upon her. She couldn't touch us, because our credentials were impeccable. We were the principal's Golden Boys, the ones who stood her school the best chance of getting a decent result. We turned into major show-offs; we would actually time each other when given a problem in class, and announce, instead of the answer, the best time to the whole class. We rarely let her complete a problem in class, because one of us would almost invariably come up with an easier method and then browbeat her with it until she'd admit, almost apologetically, that it was the better method. Homework would be dismissed contemptuously, and we'd finish it before class ended. Ah, but we were young then, and the blood ran hot in our veins.....

And then, in 12th, the last year of school, came calculus. There was an irresistible aura, that of advanced mathematics, about the word itself. Hell, we were talking about whole new operators here. It opened a whole new world for us, an exciting world with limitless (pardon the pun) possibilities where anything could happen. Some of my friends who attended private tuitions had already glimpsed some of her delights, and they spoke, in hushed tones of awed reverence, of hitherto unimaginable feats that could be accomplished with ease in her domain.

I had an amazing time with limits, but was slightly disappointed by differential calculus. But it was with applications of differentiation that I could really get a measure of Newton's genius; it was then that I understood how powerful a tool calculus was. However, it was integral calculus that I truly loved, and always will. Integration is something that really tests the limits of your imagination; you have to reduce the given function to a known form. And you can pretty much do anything to make that happen. And the integral sign: ah, it is the most beautiful symbol in all of mathematics, as I know it, of course. No wonder Newton (supposedly) died a virgin.

Finally, Physics, that lone seductress among the other pure-as-distilled-water goddesses began to make her presence felt. She was quite literally forced on me, as I was in real danger of failing her. And the all-important entrance exams were coming up, weren't they? First it was kinematics, which I had ealier cursorily (and wrongly) dismissed as mere manipulation, and I was fuckin' good at that, now, wasn't I? I had experienced her before, but I had barely scratched the surface then. This time it was different. However, it was with dynamics that the rot really began to set in, and a new madness, less intense but somehow more complete, took hold of me. She toyed with us, tantalizing us with glimpses of the sheer rush that comes with imaginative manipulation, but never letting us, not once, really soar beyond the boundaries that she had so carefully, so lovingly marked out. Soon, I couldn't get enough of her. But this time I was wiser, and I took my time with her, exploring her intimately, before letting myself go completely. And when I did, for the first time in my life, I experienced pure, unadulterated bliss.

I'm sorry, my love. But we were on a break.

And now? Ah, now. Somewhere along the line, over the last three years, the ardor has abated and the passion quietened, no longer the all-consuming flame it once was. I don't know how, or why, but there it is. But I still feel the same way about this queen of sciences, and I suppose I always will, because I don't really see myself doing anything else. It has become part of my existence, like breathing, or fantasizing about Salma Hayek. I may no longer drop everything when given an interesting problem, but I still spend boring theory classes trying to perfect that integral sign. That is why, my dear mother, that T-shirt with the surface integral will always be my favourite, no matter how old, or how faded it becomes. Dammit, I should have bought two.

Archimedes will be remembered when Aeschylus is forgotten, because languages die and mathematical ideas do not. "Immortality" may be a silly word, but probably a mathematician has the best chance of whatever it may mean.

-G.H. Hardy in "A Mathematician's Apology"

Memoirs of a Last Bench Romeo-I

2006-01-14T01:13:00.000-08:00

For the nerd who lurks within me, biding his time. For the nerd who lurks within all of us, awaiting passion.

I fell in love on, fittingly, Valentine's Day, 1999. I remember the date only because it was Valentine's. It wasn't really love at first sight, or anything as cliched as that. But if I had to pick one day of my life, as some sort of turning point, I suppose it would have to be this day.

It was a perfectly normal Valentine's day; the girls all giggly and the guys trying their best to act indifferent. Nobody really paid any attention to any of the classes, even the interesting ones. It was in a free period (granted by the exasperated teacher, after a few minutes of wasted effort), an hour or so after lunch, that it happened. Looking back now, I guess it was something like love at first sight, because even though we had known each other pretty much all our life, it was the first time I felt that way, a tantalizing whiff of what lay in store for me over the next three years.

Our class 'brain' (I'll call him B), oblivious to all else, was working on a geometrical proof he'd dug up from some obscure question bank. Surprisingly for him, he was unable to solve the problem. He started passing it around. The problem reached me through her, that is, she passed it to me. I looked up at her, smiled my thanks and looked at the figure on the piece of paper.

Parallelograms. A complicated figure looking something like the Great Pyramids, but with a trapezoid for a base. And areas. I had to prove that the areas of two triangles included in this figure were equal. I looked enquiringly at B; he said something about having to draw a perpendicular from the apex to the base. I shook my head, unable to understand, and got back to my piece of paper.

I concentrated. Unbidden, the thought came- parallelograms on the same base and between the same parallels are equal in area. I looked at the figure again. Two parallelograms-on the same base and between the same parallels. I smiled to myself, elated. I knew I'd got it, the rest of the proof was just manipulation. That was the moment; I'd never felt anything like that before. It was a kind of breathless exhilaration that made me so excited I actually had to get up and walk around a bit. The ego rush lasted for days; I was the only one in class who solved that problem. It intensified after the final exams, for that same question was asked. After the exam, B, all teary-eyed, came upto me and thanked me. He said that if it wasn't for me, he could have never achieved his lifelong dream of a hat-trick of Maths hundreds in all three term exams. By then, I was head over heels, what with heights and distances (in trigonometry) having caught my fancy, once I was done with geometry.

There was no looking back after that. I plunged headlong into her world; if it was geometry in 9th, it was quadratic equations and circles in 10th. I spent many a happy hour in the last bench with my friend Siva inventing theorems and finding, to our great disappointment, that they reduced to the original ones when manipulated a little more. Still, it was great fun and besides, we did come up with some new proofs which we showed proudly to our Maths teacher. But 10th was marked by one major mathematical event: the Horse Question. It was this question in areas that came in the boards (CBSE) that apparently very few people solved. It needed one very simple insight, and once you got that it was six marks for the taking. And it was the all-important boards, wasn't it? Six marks could mean everything. We (me and Siva) didn't have any trouble with it, considering the amount of practice we had (we'd solved two whole question banks apart from our textbooks, that's how obsessed we were). It became a matter of prestige for us, even after we joined college. I remember, in the first semester, when we were meeting new people almost every day, one of the first questions we asked each other (after establishing that we were from CBSE schools, of course), was almost invariably about this.
It would go something like this:
#1 (feigning casualness): Hey, remember that question in the 10th Maths exam?
#2 (knowing fully well which one): What do you mean, 'that question'? Which one?
#1 (knowing fully well that #2 knew which one he meant; but the farce had to be played out to its completion, didn't it?): Oh, you know, the one with the three horses grazing in the triangular plot.
#2: Oh, that one. (shaking his head) Man, I had a tough time with that one at first. I got it in the end, though.
#1 (nodding energetically): God , I know. I still remember how fuckin' good I felt when I got it.

And so forth. Everybody had a tough time with it at first, but always managed to solve it in the end. An instant bond would be formed; this conversation marked the beginning of many friendships. It didn't matter how many marks we'd scored, 'coz dammit, we'd solved the Horse Question. We would get all misty eyed over that paper, and nod knowingly to one another after long nights spent in fond remembrance, "Ah, but that was a good paper; it really was, that one".

Author's Note: I wrote this, and the rest of it (including the corny dedication at the beginning) around six months ago, in something of a melancholy mood. Blame unbidden, the thought came- on that. I mean, how crappy is that? I couldn't post the whole of it all at once because, scintillating though my writing is, I can't really expect you guys to take the time out to read the whole thing at one go. This is part parody, part fiction and quite a bit of fact. I'm not quite sure what it has ended up as. Hell, even this note thing feels like a parody.

My Heroes

2005-12-16T10:14:00.000-08:00

In one of my previous posts, the memory of which I’m trying hard to suppress, I had mentioned something about my admiration for the great heroes of popular fiction. In this post, I’m going to elaborate on that. Many of these characters aren’t really considered as great heroes; in fact, I’m sure there’ll be some you wouldn’t even have heard of. Yet these are the characters that have remained with me after I finished the book, the ones who have affected me the most. This post is my small way of paying tribute to the creators of these characters.

I hope they were inspired by real people.

Carlo Alfred Thomas ‘Cat’ Shannon, The Dogs of War

‘I may be a fighter, I may be a killer, but I am not a bloody sadist.’

I suppose that, at one time or the other, we are all tempted to say something as presumptuous as that sounds. But the difference here is, with Shannon, we believe it (atleast I did; I lapped it up with unrestrained glee) of him. One of my all-time favourite heroes, Shannon is the leading protagonist of what I believe is Forsyth’s best, The Dogs of War. He is a mercenary, a man who, I quote him, fights the wars because that's the way he likes to live. One of my favourite sequences in the book is his two-page monologue about mercenaries and his view of the world; he ends it with, again, one of my favourite lines in popular fiction, 'When I go, I'll go my way. I'd prefer to go with a bullet in my chest and blood in my mouth and a gun in my hand; with defiance in my heart and shouting, 'Sod the lot of you', than to flicker out in a damp basement with a mouth full of cardboard'.

The novel itself is more or less typical Forsyth, all craft and not much focus on character. But Shannon is something of an exception, because Forsyth has fleshed out his character almost completely. We are given insights (though limited) into Shannon’s way of thinking; this is unlike most of his other characters, whose actions speak for them.

Why Shannon? For doing what he did and going out the way he wanted to. In other words, for living life on more or less his own terms. But finally, after everything else, for Spanish Harlem.

Lyra Belacqua and Iorek Byrnison, His Dark Materials: The Golden Compass/ Northern Lights

‘Belacqua? No, you are Lyra Silvertongue’, he said. ‘To fight him is all I want. Come, little daemon.’
She looked at Iorek Byrnison in his battered armor, lean and ferocious, and felt as if her heart would burst with pride.

The reason I’ve put them together is because they make such an amazing combination. Their sequences together are, for me, the best in the book. There’s this incredible sequence wherein Iorek invites Lyra to fence with him, to make her understand how a panserbjorne fights. At the end of the session, Lyra is exhausted; she has tried everything, but she hasn’t been able to touch him. She asks him, “I bet you could even catch bullets. How do you do that?” He answers, “By not being human. We see in a way you humans have forgotten to.”

Northern Lights/The Golden Compass is the first instalment of Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy, the next two being The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass. Never has a trilogy, or any other fantasy series (yup, including LoTR, for me) for that matter, begun as explosively as this one. Lyra Belacqua is the heroine, a rather wild 12 year old whose incredible journey begins, much like Narnia, when she hides in a wardrobe to eavesdrop on a conversation. She is a spunky little girl, an almost compulsive liar with the ability to make up stories on the spur of the moment to get out of a tricky situation. But Pullman describes her as an unimaginative girl; he says that had she been able to imagine the odds against her, she would have simply been overwhelmed. On her journey she meets Iorek Byrnison, an armoured bear or panserbjorne, as Pullman calls them. He is in exile, disgraced after having killed another bear in a drug-induced fit of anger, and his armour, which he says is his soul, has been taken away from him. Lyra helps him retrieve his armour in return for helping the Gyptians on their quest. And that, to use an oft-repeated cliché, marks the beginning of their truly beautiful relationship.

Why these two? Lyra, for doing what she believed she had to, against all odds. And Iorek, for not being human.

Liam Devlin, The Eagle Has Landed

Schellenberg smiled. 'Sometimes, my friend, I wonder how you've managed to last as long as you have.'
'Ah, well, it must be my good looks, General.'

Poet-philosopher and IRA gunman, Liam Devlin made his first appearance in Jack Higgins’ The Eagle Has Landed, his first international bestseller. Devlin was not the lead protagonist of this World War II thriller, yet it was his character which drew maximum attention and ultimately, stood the test of time. Devlin is featured in three later novels, written in the same style. But more importantly, his character inspired the creation of another equally compelling and possibly more complex character, Sean Dillon, a Devlin for the 90’s and beyond. Higgins writes with a sense of quiet drama, which can be corny to the point of silliness at times. Still, it is more or less effective, probably because most of his leading characters are suffused with a sense of sadness, and people generally have a tendency to think/say corny things when they are sad. But Higgins has gotten into a rut with the Dillon novels; his plots follow more or less the same pattern and his characters, including Dillon, are becoming more caricaturish with every novel.

Eagle is populated with real heroes in the old-fashioned sense of the word; that is, strong men of honour and dignity, not the tortured whiners (alright, I know that’s unfair, but I definitely prefer this kind) we see today on screen and in print. Devlin is a described as a man with a ‘perpetual lop-sided smile on his face, as though life had played a cruel joke on him and he figured the best thing to do was to laugh at it’. He is a man on a mission for the Nazis, but he manages to have a wonderfully narrated love affair with an 18 year old girl he meets in the tiny little village called Norfolk, which is the setting for most of the events in the book. He has to blend in with the village folk, which he does by playing the typical Guinness-loving, bog-trotting Irishman to the hilt. This part of the book is all Devlin; it is here that his charisma really shines through. He has killed often, and can be ruthless when required; but most of the time he’s almost unbearably cheerful, never seeming to take life seriously. Still, as with most of Higgins' characters, there is an air of wistful sadness/cynicism about him, which only added to my fascination for him.

Why Liam Devlin? For being the only character, among all of these, I secretly wanted to be like.

Paul Atreides, Dune

I have seen this place in a dream, he thought.
The thought was both reassuring and frustrating. Somewhere ahead of him on this path, the fanatic hordes cut their gory path across the universe in his name. The green and black Atreides banner would become a symbol of terror. Wild legions would charge into battle screaming their war cry: "Muad'Dib!"
It must not be, he thought. I cannot let it happen.

Paul, son of Duke Leto Atreides, newly appointed regent of the desert planet Arrakis/Dune, the only known source of the drug/spice mélange, arrives on the planet at the tender age of fifteen. And almost immediately escapes an assassination attempt. Thus begins what is considered to be science fiction’s answer to the Lord of the Rings, Frank Herbert’s the Dune Chronicles.

Herbert has borrowed heavily from Islam; references are found everywhere in the book. Dune, the first book in the series, is easily the best, though the third book, Children of Dune, comes close to equaling the sheer power of the first. The first book chronicles the rise of an Islam-like religion, with Paul as the equivalent of the Prophet Mohammed (he is even called Muad’dib, which sounds a lot like Mohammed). His prophetic visions are the result of spice-trances; in other words, he sees the future when he gets high. But Herbert adds a new spin to this: Paul doesn’t really see the future; he merely foresees various possible futures, out of which only one or two are viable. This basically means that unless he follows the path that leads to these ‘good’ futures, all is lost. Naturally, these paths are fraught with danger, not only to himself, but to his near and dear ones as well. He has to make sacrifices, all for the greater good that will be the result of his actions/choices. The sequels deal with the complicated politics and power-play that accompany any newly established religious government, as well as the implications of Prophet-hood on Paul and those close to him.

Paul is a hero in every sense of the word; he can fight, he is a Mentat, which basically means he’s a human computer, and how could I forget, he predicts the future too (a superb reason is given for his possessing all these abilities). But along with all this he still retains his sense of humanity. He tries his best to make sure the future his manipulations will lead to is the most humane, the one that’ll entail minimum killing (even though his Jihad leads to the deaths of millions).

Why Paul Atreides? Ah, because he was almost God, wasn't he?

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

‘Nitwit. Oddment. Blubber. Tweak.’

Because when the seventh book comes out, I'm actually going to miss him.

P.S. The reason I haven't really told you a lot about these characters is because I hope I have provided just enough info to make you curious enough to actually check out the books. I think it'll be worth it. And I'm starting a new kind of tag with this post, hopefully more meaningful and more fun. I'd like you people to write about atleast two fictional characters, in print or on screen, who have really affected you. It can be done any way, not necessarily the way I've done it. Anybody who's interested can do it.

Winter Warblings or What's in a Name

2005-11-26T00:29:00.000-08:00

>Winter’s hit Trichy. Atleast, as close to winter as it’ll ever be in this dustbowl of a town. This basically means the temperature hovers around 20 deg. Celsius. Perfect, weather-wise. That is, perfect for sleeping in on cool mornings, warmly tucked up. Definitely not perfect if your semester exams happen to start from the next week. It’s high time I switch to exam mode. And so, naturally, here I am.

Winter’s also a time when old records are broken and legends are created. Arch-rivals accost each other in the corridors with a belligerent “When was your last?” Finally, on the fateful day when all else have succumbed to temptation, the champion walks his ceremonial walk down the corridor. And as he makes his lonely way down the seemingly endless corridor, towel slung across his shoulder and bucket in hand, people come out of their rooms to watch; for it is not every day that you get to see history in the making. Cameras click away for all of posterity to see. And they ask each other in awed whispers, “When was his last?”

>I set out to clean my room today. It turned out to be a journey of real self-discovery for me. Muscles that I didn’t even know existed protested their now painful existence. I gave up after a strange-looking lizard decided to join me in my self-exploration. Now I know more about myself than I ever wanted to. Later, I got a couple of first-years to do it for me. And I had a good laugh when my friendly neighbourhood lizard abandoned me for them. Ah, the little joys of being a senior…..

>I don’t like this funda of parents naming their children. I mean, we should get to choose our own names. Hell, we are the ones who have to live with them for the rest of our lives, and if we’re lucky(?), after we’re dead too. I have no issues with my first name, but it would’ve been so much cooler if my last name was Xavier. I could call myself Varun X then. I have even booked train tickets in that name.

>Similarly, houses. When I build a house, I’m going to call it something almost untenably cool, like the Eyrie, or Eagle’s Lair, or something like that (though both more or less mean the same). How I wish my parents had listened to me. But no, it had to be Srivatsa.

>In the folly of my misguided youth, I thought that cool user IDs would attract girls and that when I was done chatting with them, you’d have to peel them off me to let me breathe. Ergo (no wonder the Architect used it so many times, I feel all superior after using it), I acquired IDs like white_fang01in (my Yahoo ID, which I still have to use) and evil_incorporated2001 (my MSN ID, which I no longer use). Now I’m stuck with them.

Of course, now I blog. And I call myself the Monk.

Still, White Fang. Jeez.

>Again, I don’t understand why people give such inane names to their dogs; like Tommy, Jimmy or Pinky. Unless, of course, you're naming them after somebody, like a sibling or your boss or someone like that. Now, if I had a dog, I’d call it Xtreme Prejudice. XP for short. I mean, the possiblities are endless. For example, when I meet a male acquaintance (M.A.) while walking my dog:
M.A.: Hi! Walking your dog?
Me (coldly): What does it look like?
M.A. (smiling deprecatingly): Oh, sorry. Of course. Nice dog, though. What’s his name?
Me: I call him XP.
M.A.: XP? Why, does he crash just as often?
Me (in a soft, yet menacing tone that’d send chills down his spine; if only he’d had one): No. XP, as in Xtreme Prejudice.
And right on cue, my dog would utter a deep, menacing growl and bare its teeth.
M.A.: Uh, I suddenly need to pee…Bye!!

On the other hand, when I meet a cute female acquaintance (C.F.A):
C.F.A.: Hi! Walking your dog?
Me: You have such a gift for stating the obvious.
C.F.A. (focusing on 'gift'): Oh, stop it. Such a cute doggie, though. What’s his name?
Me: I call him XP.
C.F.A.: XP? Why, does he crash just as often?
Me (wiping my tears after laughing uproariously): God, but you’re funny, too. No, XP as in Xtremely Pleasant doggie.
And right on cue, the dog would sit up to beg and then extend a paw to shake.
C.F.A. (shaking the paw): Oh, how sweet!! You have trained him so well.
Me (in an undertone): Yes, yes, all credit to me. You know, you’re an XP too (not in an undertone).
C.F.A.: Huh?
Me: Oh, you know, Xtremely Pretty.
And then, right on cue, unable to withstand the coolness (?) of it all any longer, she’d swoon right into my arms. We’d live happily ever after.

Me and the dog, that is.

>Think about it. In the Eyrie lives Varun X aka White Fang with his dog Xtreme Prejudice.

Wow.

P.S. This post in an anachronism. For the benefit of those unfortunate ones who haven't yet acquired a prodigious vocabulary, such as mine, this basically means that the origin of this post is anomalously located on the temporal axis. If you still happen to be blinking, I recommend Word Power Made Easy by Norman Lewis. It is an excellent book. However, the following double couplet (for want of a better word) is perfectly synchronistic.

Today, I saw Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire,

He was brave, and fought through circumstances dire.

But this is not right, I must not be a liar,

In truth, I saw Emma Watson and burned with desire.

Vignettes-II

2005-11-18T21:52:00.000-08:00

Bakar

The literal meaning of bakar is, I suppose, meaningless or useless conversation. Or even, God forbid, gossip. But it is much more, and importantly, far from useless. It plays a major role in the overall development of the personality of the average NITTian. Or so we delude ourselves. As engineers-in-the-making, we are expected to be technically proficient. We are supposed to spend the majority of our time acquiring and practicing the various skills that will turn us into the technocrats of tomorrow. I’m now going to let you guys in on a big secret: we don’t do any of that. Instead, we spend quite a bit of our time earning bakar points. So, what exactly is bakar? If you ask me, it is the heart and soul of life in our college. It ensues when a minimum number of two NITTians meet and start talking. It can happen anywhere; in the mess, in the snacky/canteen, in the hostel, in front of the coffee shop, even while waiting for our turns in front of the shower cubicles (fancy name, isn’t it, for where we take our baths?). Anywhere. The intelligent reader will at once ask: what then, is so special about this? What distinguishes it from the ordinary conversation that two friends have when they meet? Frankly, I’m not too sure about that. There probably isn’t anything. But if there’s one thing I’d say that might be unique about this, um, phenomenon, it is that usually even passing acquaintances (and often complete strangers) end up talking for hours about pretty much everything under the sun. I guess they only need to be NITTians. My friends from other colleges who have visited have often remarked about this; the general lack of reserve seen in the junta here. The conversation can be about anything, from sex to sport to aliens to the question of sex with aliens for sport (I’m so proud of that little thing I just had to include it).

For example, one of our major sessions occurred about a week or so ago, when I sauntered into my friend’s room around midnight with the noble intention of chaating him. Halfway through the process (I was making excellent progress on obtaining his psychological portrait on the basis of the colour of his cycle), I was rudely interrupted by another friend who came in and made the profound observation that being a film star in India must be easy. This immediately started it. The group quickly swelled to six (NITTians have an uncanny instinct for detecting bakar; they can sense an ongoing session from incredible distances, sometimes even from the other wing of the hostel). That particular session lasted for 6 hours. We moved to the terrace at around four in the morning, drinking in the view (the Lapis terrace has one of the best views in the college) and also some, uh, liquids. Besides, it was wonderfully cool around that time.

Some topics covered in that particular session:
1.) Parameters of success in Indian cinema and, of course, the inevitable comparisons with Hollywood.
2.) Who is greater: Einstein or Newton (we finally decided, after much heated debate, that it was unfair to compare the two of them).
3.) Why our age seems to have no truly great scientists (except maybe for Stephen Hawking).
4.) Trying to build factual bases for legends (for example, the Brahmastra in the Mahabharat/Ramayan.). We had fun with this one.
5.) The question of the equality of the sexes (we finally decided that men and women complement each other, and need not necessarily be symmetric sexes, as far as ability is concerned. Each sex has a role to play, which is defined by evolution and the requirements for the propagation of the species).
I can almost hear the lynch mob.
6.) Trying to understand the nature of a somewhat eerie light that suddenly appeared on the banks of the lake.
7.) Trying to come up with a workable model of a condom that generates electricity during coitus. This was inspired by an IEEE conference that was held here a month ago, in which we engineers were exhorted to solve common problems that affect all of us. Started out as a joke, but the seriousness of our discussions is increasing with every session.

If all of that sounds very intellectual, then here’s an extract from that session that might clarify things:

The Sinister Case of the Sinister Light

N1: Hey, what’s that light over there?

(After much pointing and follow-my-finger exercises, the position of the light is established to everybody’s satisfaction).

N2 (he’s crazy about aliens): Maybe it’s the searchlight of an UFO.

N3 (shouting at the light): F**k you!! You hear that? I can see you! F**k you!

N4: You know, maybe all this time, the light’s been draining the life-force from us, while we were talking about it.

Nervous glances exchanged all round. It’s four in the morning. Reason and logic have long since made their exits. Accusing stares leveled at N3.

Me: You better apologize, man.

N3: WTF? Apologize? What do you want me to do, say sorry?

N1 (pointedly): The lake is deep, you know…. you could fall into it by accident…. and none of us here can swim.

N4: Um, actually, I can.

N1: We’ll send you to fetch help. Come on, man, do it.

N3 (at the light): Jeez, I can’t believe I’m doing this….Sorry! I didn’t mean it!

I live for this.

P.S. As for the cribbing about our non-existent love/sex lives, here’s the reason: the sex ratio of our batch is approximately .09. For the benefit of all Casio-deprived engineers and other arithmetically-challenged people, that’s about 11 guys to every girl. Seriously, need I say anymore?

Tagged by Fate....

2005-11-06T02:35:00.000-08:00

Uh, I’ve been tagged. Apparently, this means I have to think of twenty things about myself and write them down. In this I agree with Carol aka Weary Hag, one of the finest bloggers around, that this tagging thing doesn’t exactly make my adrenal gland work overtime. I mean, jeez, twenty things. And I’m the kind of guy who doesn’t like to talk about himself. You know, the shy ones who lurk in corners at parties, or worse, never go to one. Alright, that’s a load of crap. I can’t stop talking about myself to save my life.

Anyway, thanks for thinking of me, Manjari. Read further only if you happen to have sado-masochistic tendencies. Here goes:

1.) I try my best not to go to parties.

2.) And when I do go, I lurk in corners or hide behind trees.

3.) Damn, this is difficult.

4.) In fact, I’d say it calls for powers of the occult.

5.) I like people with a sense of humour.

6.) But I’d like them more if they had money power.

7.) I don’t like people who lose their temper.

8.) I mean, later, how will they ever change a diaper?

9.) I have a major passion for movies.

10.) I'm absent-minded; I keep losing my keys.

11.) By the way, I happen to be a vegetarian.

12.) Ergo, I’ll live to be an octogenarian ;).

13.) I’m also an agnostic.

14.) And I'm into all things robotic.

15.) I really admire the great heroes of fiction.

16.) I only hope I have their strength and conviction.

17.) I think Gautama Buddha was a really cool guy.

18.) I hope the iPod will be my next major buy.

19.) I have only begun to appreciate the greatness of Gandhi.

20.) Especially the fact that he never went into Jal Samadhi ;).

Wait! There’s more! For those of you who have actually read until here, here’s something that MAY ease the pain:

The Quest for Stimulation

The fire is lit,
And my arse is burning.
The photocopies are laid out,
And books have been dusted.
But wait! What is this I hear?
The coffee shop is open!
The pages are marked,
And pens are put down.
We embark on our journey,
The Quest for Stimulation.
Braving the bovine menace,
And the drizzle from the skies,
The Fellowship of Caffeine soldiers on,
From yon Lapis, to the wastes of Pearl.

P.S. I never thought I’d write a poem, but there’s no accounting for what an overdose of caffeine can lead to. Kindly adjust.

P.P.S. Lapis and Pearl are hostels. I'm not going to tag anyone; I'm still reeling under the after-effects. I promise you all, I won't subject you guys again to this.

Vignettes-I

2005-10-26T05:10:00.000-07:00

There are some things that, studying in NITT, you just can’t escape from. It becomes a way of life. Like chaat. Or bakkar. And constantly cribbing about our non- existent sex/love/night (mostly sex) lives. It is part of the culture here, and soon, it becomes a way of life. I thought I’d tell you a little about these things, partly because I think it will make you a better human being, not to mention elevate your mind and enrich your soul, but mostly because I’m a pathological chaat.

Chaat
Variously spelled, but pronounced as chaat. One of the most versatile (and common) words in the NITTian’s (usually limited) vocabulary. It can be used as an adjective, verb or a noun. Personally though, I think it serves best as a fairly adequate and usable-in-public (if you ask me, there’s an acute shortage of these) swear word that expresses perfectly boredom and frustration mingled with irritation, all at once. See examples for usage. Ah, the layers this word has….

I don’t know the etymology of the word, but I’m sure you’ll get chaated reading it anyway.

Some common examples of its usage to illustrate its meaning:
1.) Adj. “That was one major chaat lecture.”
2.) Verb. “If you’re going to chaat me, I’m gonna put that ragging-time first year photo of yours on the LAN.” Or “Chaat liya, baap.”
3.) Noun. “Congrats, you’re one of us now,” said the veteran chaat to the greenhorn chaat.
4.) As a fairly adequate and usable-in-public swear word that expresses perfectly boredom and frustration mingled with irritation, all at once: “CHAAT!!!” However, to convey the right idea (or emotion, as the case may be), it must be pronounced with correct intonation, and more importantly, with feeling that arises from the very depths of one’s very soul. Otherwise, it will become very chaat.

You get the idea, right?

Now, for the formal definition of chaat: Well, chaat was defined in the 2004 edition of The Pierian Spring (our college magazine) as:
Chaat/’t?a:t/? adj, n, v, adv 1.Person who tells you more and more about less and less until you want to know nothing about anything. 2. What a chaat (refer chaat) usually talks about. Example: What a chaat class by a chaat professor teaching a chaat subject amidst chaat students asking chaat doubts entails.
But I personally feel that it is a word that defies definition, as it can be used (like a certain four-letter word that comes immediately to mind) several levels.

Chaat is mainly of two types: intentional and unintentional. I don’t think I need to explain the second type; it’s an inherent characteristic of the person/material/movie/whatever. Intentional chaat is, of course, practiced with deadly (to the perpetrator, not the victim; though there was this isolated incident when this guy passed out after one of our more accomplished brethren went to work on him. He denies it, says it was the heat) purpose. Effective intentional chaat is a subtle art, it is a skill born of long practice. Or it is simply a gift (and boy, do the gifted flaunt it). The object of the exercise must ideally be caught unawares, especially if you happen to have a reputation. The quality of chaat should be stepped up slowly but gradually, and stopped just before the victim chooses to reverse roles. The victim is usually much less subtler in his retaliation, but the moral and intellectual victory is the chaater’s. He may retire bruised, but he’ll retire with his head held high, and with the quiet satisfaction that comes with a job well done.

We are everywhere. And we shall inherit the earth.

P.S. I know that I’ve gone completely crazy in this post, and I understand that many of you might (and probably will) be tempted to respond with the same depth of feeling that makes the use of chaat such a success.

P.P.S. There exists NO first year ragging time photo of mine. Anywhere. I accept that I’m in denial.

Random Philosophical Musings of a Reeling Raconteur

2005-10-13T06:41:00.000-07:00

It was a dark and stormy night. I staggered out of the consultation room, reeling from the after-effects of having debris sucked out of my ear with an improvised vacuum cleaner.

It was a dark and stormy night. I staggered out of my friend’s room, reeling under the emotional impact of “Lost in Translation”, the Sofia Coppola movie I’d just finished watching.

Right ho, then. The nights in question here are tonight (nowhere near dark and stormy, in fact, hot and muggy would be a much more accurate description), but if I’d mentioned that earlier, I couldn’t have infringed on Snoopy's copyright, now, could I? Anyway, the point is I’m reeling. And when I reel, I philosophize. I don’t know about you, but having clotted blood sucked out (and very painfully, too) of my ear and watching what is one of the finest movies I’ve ever seen immediately after makes me reflect on profound stuff such as the meaning of life and the purpose, if any, of existence. I understand that the ear part was definitely information that you could have done without, but if I am to subject you, Gentle Reader, to philosophy, then it is only fair on my part to provide at least two (ostensibly) good reasons for doing so.

As far as philosophy goes, I was first introduced to it when I was 14, when one of my English teachers at school, on learning that I had more interest in books than the average 14 year old recommended Richard Bach’s Jonathan Livingston Seagull. I loved it then, and while I’ve revised my opinion slightly now, I still retain something of a nostalgic affection for it. I later came across Kurt Vonnegut Jr.’s books such as Jailbird, Slaughterhouse Five and others. Somehow I’ve always preferred this kind of writing to the otherwise grave and heavy handed works such as those of Spinoza, Aristotle and the like. I mean, most of the time, we take ourselves much too seriously. Similarly, Catch 22. This book has to be one of the best I’ve read, without doubt a modern classic. Yossarian’s words still ring in my ears: “If something is worth dying for, isn’t it also worth living for?”

Then I went through the stage that, I suppose, any 17 year old with an interest in philosophy would go through: that of being a Howard Roark wannabe. One of my friends (probably the only other guy in school who read such stuff) introduced me to Ayn Rand, though with a warning: don’t get carried away. Well, looking back now, I guess I did get carried away a little. I could identify with much of her writing; I loved her ideas of rational self interest and admired her protagonists with the kind of breathless admiration that, I guess, teenagers reserve for their idols. Almost as quickly, though, I became disillusioned with them, I began to feel that such characters couldn’t really exist. And the more I thought about it, it seemed to me that most of her writing was exactly the opposite of what she claimed it to be: rational. Sometimes I feel she’s the one who got carried away.

It was around the beginning of the second semester of college that my Dad, noticing my interest in philosophy, told me to check out Bertrand Russell. The first book I read of his was a collection of essays called ‘Skeptical Essays’; I enjoyed it tremendously. It seemed to me that I had finally found what I was looking for, somebody who had tried to evolve a set of ideas that helped to deal with the world as it is, and not go on posturing about how it should be. Here’s a small example of what influences my thinking:

The question....

And maybe the answer....?

"Brief and powerless is Man's life; on him and all his race the slow, sure doom falls pitiless and dark. Blind to good and evil, reckless of destruction, omnipotent matter rolls on its relentless way; for Man, condemned to-day to lose his dearest, to-morrow himself to pass through the gate of darkness, it remains only to cherish, ere yet the blow falls, the lofty thoughts that ennoble his little day; disdaining the coward terrors of the slave of Fate, to worship at the shrine that his own hands have built; undismayed by the empire of chance, to preserve a mind free from the wanton tyranny that rules his outward life; proudly defiant of the irresistible forces that tolerate, for a moment, his knowledge and his condemnation, to sustain alone, a weary but unyielding Atlas, the world that his own ideals have fashioned despite the trampling march of unconscious power."
-Concluding passage of Russell's A Free Man's Worship

A Free Man's Worship is undoubtedly the the finest piece of prose that I have ever laid my eyes upon; it is written with a grand, quiet passion that I haven't found anywhere else. In my lowest, darkest moments, I have always turned to it for renewed strength and hope. It has never failed me. It reminds me that there is still beauty in this world; in art, in science, in literature, in nature and in our relationships with people. And that as long as this beauty remains, there is still reason for hope.

P.S. For those who are interested, the entire text (it isn't very long) of the essay can be found here:

http://www.positiveatheism.org/hist/russell1.htm

A Review of the Deletrious Effects of Exams on the Student Psyche

2005-09-26T02:13:00.000-07:00

Well, here we go again. What is it with exams and me? Every time an exam approaches I get this irresistible urge to crank out yet another literary masterpiece. 'Tis a pity no one's noticed yet, but I understand that these things take time. Being way ahead of your time is by no means a pleasant job, but I guess someone's got to do it. Oh well.
Onward ho, then. It's third cycle time now, a time when desperate engineers make last ditch attempts to salvage their internals and prevent their grades from plumbing the depths of the afore-mentioned ditch. It is a time of intense stress and nervous-breakdown-inducing tension, a time when the tough really get going (or atleast need to). When they (or we, I should say) attempt to relieve this stress, fiery in its intensity and piercing in the agony it causes, it results in behavior that would cause any casual observer to abandon his casualness in a hurry and dial feverishly the number of the nearest madhouse.
One of the things that contribute to this state of apparent insanity is the characteristic exam time look that the average NITTian acquires around this time. Hair grows unchecked all over the face. There is no time for bathing, let alone shaving, what with having to cram the whole semester's portions in a couple of days' time. I believe that some even take their books to the potty on the morning of the exam. Even I was shocked-appalled-disgusted when I heard of the extremes people go to when faced with impending doom. The grime accumulates and after a week or so when the supply of deodorant runs out it becomes worse. Eyes become red due to lack of sleep and there's this hunted look about him that, combined with all the hair, gives him more than just a passing resemblance to an escaped convict.
I remember one particular time when things really got out of hand, when people began acting really strangely, even by normal examination standards. It was in the 3rd semester, during the final semester examination time, our first major test after getting into our respective departments. We were eager to make a good first impression on the faculty by performing well, or atleast try and redeem ourselves after an especially poor performance in the cycle tests (atleast, that was the case with me). Also, it didn't help that several guys who had taken the first two semesters pretty easily had suddenly turned into real psychos after entering the department, continually moaning about how bad their preparation was, when it really wasn't. Anyway, whatever the reasons, that semester things reached breaking point.

One of my friends (one of the afore-mentioned psychos) in the neighbouring room had taken to poking his head out of the room every half hour or so and screaming at the top of voice for a full ten seconds in order to vent his frustration. This went on for a couple of times until the rest of us decided to pay him a brief visit and apprise him of the consequences of continuing in a similar vein. Needless to say, his rather effective imitation of a hyperactive banshee ceased immediately. Another immediately noticeable effect was that our senses of humour had suddenly become dumbed down. A joke that would have normally been accepted by any jury as perfectly reasonable grounds for homicide now evoked shrill, nervous laughter. Eyes dart furtively to clocks/watches every now and then to make sure there's still enough time to cram that 5-mark question which, you know, is sure to come. Guys visit their branchmates in neighbouring rooms at regular intervals to hear reassuring dialogues such as:

1.) "Arre, vaat lagi hui hai, yaar..."

2.) "Man, am I screwed or am I screwed? I hope you'll be too, we'll go down together.... Seriously though, do you really think I'll be screwed?"

3.) "Christ, when the hell did he teach that?"

4.) " Oh good, you're here, now teach me this...."

Truly, misery loves company. And if I remember correctly, that particular semester my tension manifested itself in one supreme act of madness: I took a bath.

Even Vairamuthu, who no one (atleast no one who has read that shining example of literary genius, my previous post about him) would have expected to be fazed by something as trivial as an exam, was not immune to the stress. Strangely, though, throughout that particular semester exam period he maintained his Buddha-like calm while everyone else was doing the loony act. He fell prey sometime around the start of this semester, around first cycle time. I have mentioned earlier that his room transforms into something of a Mecca around exam time; and that he receives a continuous stream of ignorant visitors seeking enlightenment. They never return disappointed. Apparently, this started getting to him. Beneath the calm exterior there lurked a maelstrom of seething emotions that tormented him without respite. Alright, not really, I got carried away. But you get the idea, right? Anyway, to give the impression he wasn't in the room he used to latch the door from outside (it's possible to do that, there's this window through which the latch can be reached), leave that window open, squeeze himself into the largest shelf of the room (which is out of view of the window) and study. Extreme.

All this craziness, the stress and the tension makes me wonder, what purpose do these exams really serve? Is a 9 pointer really better than a 7 pointer, especially in a place like NITT where everyone's at more or less the same level? I'm sure the answer to that question, from any and every quarter, would be an emphatic no. Therefore, they defeat their ostensible purpose, which is that of providing a measure of how much a student has learnt. Are examinations really necessary? I think so, because there must be some method of evaluating performance. Then what remains to be done is to change the nature of the exams, to make each and every question test the level of understanding of the subject. Each question must provide situations wherein the student has to apply the principles he has learnt in order to solve the problem, and that will be possible only when understanding is there. That it is easier, and infinitely more enjoyable to understand than to memorize, I think you will agree. Only then, I think, will the drive to work harder be there, the will to prove that you can understand and not merely remember. And only then will the madness stop.

Festival Follies or What I Do When At Home

2005-09-08T01:54:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm home for Vinayaka Chaturthi. I'm hardly what you would call the religious type, but I'm all for celebrating festivals like this. For one, they afford opportunities for going absolutely overboard on the culinary front. For two, well, I guess there isn't anything else. Just the food. But if you're the sentimental type, I suppose you would like the festive air that pervades all of Bangalore around this time. Apparently, this particular festival is big in Kanduland. One of the things that make Bangalore so charming, I suppose, is the propensity of people to just go out and have a good time. No inhibitions, just total masti.

Man, I love this song. Dire Straits. Private Investigations. Unfathomably profound. Corny, I know, but that's the phrase that popped into my mind.

Right, back to Vinayaka Chaturthi (VC for short). My mom was, as usual, up since 5 AM preparing the culinary extravaganza that is mandatory on these festival days. I, having slept at the ungodly hour of 3 AM the previous night (?), woke up bleary eyed at 11 AM only to find four of my cousins, all clad in their festive finest, standing around my bed staring at me. Not exactly a pleasant sight to wake up to, I must say; nothing compared to waking up on the hostel terrace to birds making weird noises and a view of people crapping on the banks of the Lapis lake. After enduring a thousand (or so it seemed) wisecracks about how indisciplined how I was, I finally got down to breakfast. I must mention, these cousins are nothing like me; having been brought up by an iron hand, they are quite the epitomes of discipline, actually bathing before 10 in the morning, even on weekends. It took me three helpings of the traditional pongal and four even more traditional kadabus before I could fully assimilate the taste and the texture of the food and finally pronounce my judgement, which, as usual, was ignored. However, my exploits at the table failed to go unnoticed. As a result, after breakfast came another session wherein I was taunted for coming home from college only to eat. I maintained, as I'm sure becomes me, a dignified silence throughout. Properly chastened, however, I resolved to fast until the next meal.

After a delicious lunch, the memory of which still sends me into raptures, we settled down to watch a movie. Let me dispel a notion which might have crept into the minds of most of you: I do NOT come home only to eat, though it is always in the top 3 of my things-to-do-at-home list. I catch up on movies, since in Trichy the Hollywood presence is limited mainly to movies such as Night of the Vampire Queens and Pleasure Island. I also spend a lot of quality time bonding with my PC, listening to music, reading Calvin & Hobbes and out-plotting nasty Nazis. I also spend a lot of time on Wikipedia; one article leads to another and before you know it, it's 3 in the morning. Ah, what would I do without broadband? And of course, loaf around 4th Block, contemplating the mysteries of the universe (which appear to me to take the form of denim clad pretty young things that seem to abound in this particular nook of the universe) over grilled sandwiches and filter coffee. Finally, discuss philosophy and sports and what-not with my father, Harry Potter with my sister and continually reassure my mother that I maintain high standards of hygiene and cleanliness in the hostel. So you see, I manage to pack in quite a bit in my limited time at home (ladies, take particular note of the above passage, for it brings out my multifaceted personality; I also play cricket, basketball and badminton, though not much at home).

One of the questions that I keep getting asked by friends and family is whether I get homesick [I sound like a bloody celebrity, don't I; one of the questions I keep getting asked]. It is a difficult thing to explain to non-hostelers, but being at college and being at home are two very different things, not comparable. In the hostel, you're living with your friends; with like-minded people. It is an amazing experience, a huge amount of fun. You're never homesick, unless the conditions in the hostel are really bad, which they aren't in NITT. At the same time, this is precisely what makes being at home special. I spend the first couple of days just soaking up the feeling of being home, taking in (and I don't mean just food) all the little things that make home what it is. At the risk of sounding too academic, both experiences, merely by coexisting, enhance each other.

Well, it's nearly 2 AM and I have an appointment to keep with Galahad & Co. at Blandings Castle, Shropshire. I mustn't keep them waiting.

Cheers!!

P.S: As mentioned earlier in a previous post, I suck at conclusions.

P.P.S: And the title can do with improvement, too. Any suggestions?

The Curse of the RAs

2005-08-13T00:52:00.000-07:00

Well, exam time approaches again. The question arises in your mind, and quite rightly too, what is he, this self-confessed geek/nerd lover doing here, when he should be hard at work cracking PDE's? Elementary, my dear readers. Throw your minds back to my previous posts and recall, if you will, that I happen to be a batchmate of one R. Vairamuthu. Also recall that this paragon of virtue and discipline is renowned, nay, worshipped for his class notes, of which I am now a proud possessor. Tell me now, in light of these recently established facts, need I fear any exam anymore?
Well, let us not tarry long; onto the subject at hand. Examinations are of three types in our college: cycle tests, lab exams and the big one, the semester examinations. There are three cycle tests, held at one month intervals; out of the three the best two performances are taken into account while assigning our grades. Therefore, if we perform well in any two cycles, there's no need to write the third one. Unless, of course, you happen to be R. Vairamuthu.

As for lab exams, they are held a couple of weeks before the semester exams, with a week (on an average) in between the two. The preparation for the lab exams starts early, with the groundwork being laid right from the beginning of the semester. The research assistants (RAs) generally handle the labs, and it is here that absolutely no pains whatsoever are spared. As Churchill put it so eloquently, blood and toil, sweat and tears. RAs in NITT can be broadly classified into two types: the sexually frustrated RA and the nervous youngster RA. There are a few exceptions, notably so in our department. They are young, barely out of college, display no signs of sexual deprivation and teach very well. We respect them; as far as their labs go, we just try and do our best and leave the rest to the next higher authority.

The sexually frustrated type can be of either sex; however, in our college the female sex predominates (I suppose the men find release in pornography). They are characterized by arrogance, extreme irritability and, on the whole, sadism. One more thing: they generally know about as much as I do about their subjects (which, as you might have gathered, is next to nothing. Now, if you hadn't figured out that much, well, do you happen to be related to Bush in any way?).

Coming back to the current topic, what really gets a man's blood boiling about the sexually frustrated type is their lack of knowledge coupled with their I-can't-wait-to-make-you-suffer-because-I'll-never-get-any attitude. It is in handling these absolutely delightful personalities, if we are to have any hopes at all of securing a decent grade, that we need to have degrees in Freudian psychology (I believe Freud or Jung or some such chap said that most psychological problems can be attributed to sex or the lack of it). However, with the wisdom accumulated through years of patient suffering at our disposal (passed on to us by our seniors), we rise to the challenge. Now, at the slightest deviation from perfection, these creatures are upon us in a flash. Unfortunately, the thing about perfection is, no matter how desirable, it is generally not attainable. Therefore, we abandon that approach. So what follows is a grueling period (approximately the first month of the semester) where we cater to their every whim, hang on every word they say and make sure that in every sentence addressed to them there are atleast three sir's/ma'am's. In other words, we give their egos such a fine massage that once our work is done they are susceptible to our every suggestion, almost hypnotically, provided we liberally sprinkle our speech with yessirs and the like.

However, life isn't exactly a bed of roses from this point onwards either. We have to be very careful; at the slightest hint that we are taking advantage of them, all is lost. It is here that the greatest delicacy is required. Our suggestions must be infinitely subtle, we must get it into their head that it was their idea in the first place. This is of vital importance, since if anything happens to go wrong, then we can count on the RA not to spill the beans because he/she is busy trying to save his/her posterior because he/she thinks it is his/her idea in the first place (I counted four his/hers, how many did you get?).

And now for the reward. Once all this khoon-paseena has been bahaofied, we can sit back and watch our efforts fructify. Putty in a carpenter's hands, that's what they begin to bear a striking resemblance to. Extra labs if we've missed a couple, dismissing us before time is up, accepting late submissions and importantly, a little help with the apparatus in the lab exam all become child's play. We generally get favourable results, but there are a few, pastmasters of this sublime art, who achieve spectacular results. A couple of examples:

Sometimes, in response to the charms of these talented few, the RAs even begin to flirt, albeit slightly. She handled the electrical lab; a first rate ogre (or ogress, I guess), if I ever saw one. But after being subjected to a few weeks of the best at the expert hands of this friend of mine, she definitely begin to exhibit characteristics of the fabled Mrs. Robinson. She used to go to his desk, run her fingers seductively on the table, positively simper and ask, in her inimitable Thambi manner, "New notebook,aa?"

And in some cases they become highly dependent on the student in question. For them, class is incomplete without the afore-mentioned student. The following incident illustrates my point. She's doing the roll-call in class and reaches his number. Unfortunately for her, he happens to be absent. This is what follows:

"ee10314?"

No answer.

"Bismay?"

Silence.A look of dawning horror upon her face.

"Bismay? Where is Bismay?"

Hysteria begins to set in.

"For God's sake, somebody tell me where Bismay is!", she shrieks. Class is cancelled shortly thereafter.

You see what I mean? That's pretty much it about the sexually frustrated RAs. Let us move on to Type 2, namely the nervous youngster. These are characterized by, well, mainly nervousness and in rare cases, misguided enthusiasm. But this can be attributed to the foolishness of youth, for they learn fairly quickly. And lack of knowledge, but that's a given. They are much more easier to handle than Type 1, as they are intimidated by us, fearful that we may come up with doubts they can't handle (and this happens often). All we need to do is play it easy, keep from asking doubts too often (for this may set them against us), keep up a steady flow of the yessir/yes-ma'ams and we're home free.

So you see, we have to live with the curse of the RAs hanging above our heads throughout our academic life. But with a little deft handling and oodles of patience, this curse can be turned into a real blessing.

Cheers!!

In Defence Of Nerds,Geeks and Science

2005-06-30T12:31:00.000-07:00

Warning: This is a largely unfunny blog (of course, the question of whether my other blogs are funny or not is an open one). Occasionally, I may punctuate my writings with blogs like these. Please bear with me, Gentle Reader.

A friend of mine from college told me about this conversation he had with a girl (not an engineer) he had just met,which set me thinking (no,there's nothing wrong with your vision; engineers occasionally make contact with non-engineer members of the opposite sex too). It went something like this:

Girl: So what are you into, other than your work?
Friend: Well, I like to read, play badminton and I listen to lots of music....
Girl:That's nice. Anything else?
Friend: Weeelllll, I like physics too....
Girl (shocked): EWWWWW!!!Don't say that in public!
Friend (more than a little disconcerted): Oh,where you come from, is physics the word for, ummm,you know,the F word?
Girl: Oh no,it's worse than that. It means you're a nerd (pronounced with extreme distaste).
Friend: But I like physics!!!
Girl: Maybe, but don't tell anyone until you know them well. You see, it makes for a bad first impression.

There you go,people. I was disturbed when I heard this, for I have had similar experiences too. For example, when I tell people I like reading Carl Sagan's books, the immediate reaction is: you read books on science for entertainment?
What is it about science that makes most non-scientific (I know that's a bad adjective,but if you think it's easy coming up with adjectives,let's see you do it) people cringe? Of course, the obvious answer is that this is precisely why they are non-scientific. But I don't buy that; we don't think art,or accounts,or history are swear words. Of course, the above mentioned girl may just be a brainless delinquent (point to ponder: aren't delinquents already brainless?), but this is not an isolated case. And why is anyone who happens to like his/her work and spend a lot of time on it branded a nerd/geek?I believe this is prevalent in non-technical fields too. Why are they dismissed as not having 'lives'? Let me try to answer the questions I have raised.
First,let me deal with the question of science. Why do people in general dislike science so much? I believe this may be because they don't understand science. I'm sure that when you go into the intricacies of other fields, there maybe many things that we may not understand easily;things that may require an aptitude for that particular subject. But in the case of science (especially maths,since I believe we don't encounter actual science until after 10th standard), this dislike is developed in many people right from school.To a large extent, this may be because the right teachers,who know exactly what science is about, are not present. In general, we dislike (and fear,to some extent) things we don't understand. Think about it, and you shall see that this is true to a large extent. Why do we dislike some people? Because we do not understand the their actions; their motivations to do some of the things they do. Similarly, I believe science is disliked because people do not, in a fundamental way, understand what science is really about. Most people look upon science as a subject they didn't like in school; a subject they're glad to have left behind. Therefore, inevitably, the question arises: what is science really about? Science strives to understand Nature, to unravel the workings of the universe we live in. Sounds huge? Yes, it is. It is a quest that will never end, but it is a quest that is worth undertaking not just for the goal alone,but for the sheer thrill of the quest itself. Isn't it an absolutely wonderful idea that three simple laws govern the motion of any object in the universe (until convincingly proved otherwise, of course)? Isn't trying to understand such principles a worthy task? Let me tell you, I feel absolutely privileged that I understand, however rudimentarily, these all-encompassing laws of Nature. It fills me with an almost religious awe; of reverence for the universe; that it is described by laws so simple and yet so elegant. Carl Sagan has given this feeling a name in his book 'Contact' (yes, the movie is based on this book), he calls it the feeling of the numinous. The closest I have felt to nature was not when I went to Ooty or Goa; but when I first understood Einstein's principle of equivalence. Why? Because it describes the very fabric of the universe. When I first had that insight, when I had that 'moment of clarity', as scientists often refer to it, I was so excited I had to get up and walk around the room a few times before I could calm down. Truly, there is real joy in understanding.
But is this joy privy only to scientifically minded people? Of course not. Any person, with a little effort and the right books and/or teacher, can easily grasp the basics. But before that, he/she must first dismiss any pre-conceived notions about science and approach the subject, in the true scientific spirit, with an open mind. It is only then that the dislike will fade.
Now, on nerds and geeks. I understand that the so-called nerd/geek is one who is totally absorbed in his work and has no time/inclination for anything much else. But why does he spend so much time on it? the answer is easy, because he likes, nay, loves his work. Isn't he lucky, the nerd, that he derives so much joy from his work? The immediate reply to that would be that he misses out on so many other things in life. But look at it from his point of view. He doesn't need the so-called 'other things' in life. He is happy with it. Of course, he may have little social skills, or lack the ability to make small talk, but these are minor things when compared to the pleasure that he gets from his work. How many of us can really claim to love our work, to love it with a passion that is all-consuming?
In physics, there is something called a frame of reference, which is basically an obsevation point. Why limit ourselves to only our frame of reference? Why don't we understand that there are frames of reference other than ours? So, people, before we dismiss a person as a nerd/geek, I think it would be wise to consider the situation from his/her point of view. If that person is more or less happy, then what right do we have to judge them, to look down upon them? As Christ said (atleast, I think it was Christ), let him without sin be the first to cast the stone.

All things considered, there is a much more fundamental and profound reason why I am such a die-hard 'nerd/geek' supporter. It is this: come exam time, without them, what would we do? :)

The Illustrious Life and Times of R.Vairamuthu

2005-03-07T11:49:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: All names and places mentioned in this blog are entirely factual. If anyone has any problems,be warned: I have seen more than 20 movies of Jackie Chan(atleast twice).

I met him on the first day of class of the first semester. A long anticipated day for me; I actually woke up at 5:45 in the morning and was ready by 6:30, this for a 10:30 class (refer to one of my previous posts,wherein I have described in detail the almost superhuman effort I make every morning to make it to the 8:30 class). A seemingly harmless guy, dressed in a full sleeve shirt and trousers, I had no idea then of the role he would play in my life. Indeed, it wasn't to be until the third semester that I would feel the full force of his personality.
That fateful day, I was eager to meet new people and make new friends. I'm a production engineering student, and when I heard him say his branch was Prod. too, I was happy. I had found a future batchmate. The first semester passed without much interaction with him; we had separate groups of friends, and so he remained an acquaintance. Though, at the end of the first semester, when the attendance lists were out, I nearly fainted when I saw the scandalous figure of 99% against his name. I didn't realize the significance of that number just then; it was a sign of greater things to come.

In the second semester, I was in the same batch as his for the AutoCAD and C programming labs. It was then that I got a glimpse of his incredible disciplinary powers. Our lecturers would give us a set of exercises to work on and submit them in the next lab class; we exercised the God-given powers of cut, copy and paste. Inevitably,the question arises: who do we copy from? C was not a problem, as there were quite a few programming whizzes in our section. Besides, I kinda enjoyed figuring out the logic and implementing it in my programs, so I did most of the programs myself.
However, AutoCAD was a completely different matter. Manual drawing was bad enough, now we have to slog it out on the computer as well? And so we turned to Vairamuthu. He held the saintly belief that drawing was important for Production engineers; it was the very language in which we were supposed to express our technical ideas (in a forthcoming article I shall describe in detail the language in which Production engineers express their ideas; it consists mainly of four letter words and their variants). He would complete the exercises on the very same day that they were given, and immediately put it on the intranet. A week later, in the lunch break just before the AutoCAD lab, we would rush to the Octa (our computer center) and copy them to our accounts .And then we would change the drawings here and there in order to make them look different(cunning bastards,aren't we?) and happily submit them. And at the end of the semester, we pitched in to give Vairamuthu a royal treat.

As it turned out, that was just the tip of the iceberg.

I came to the third semester, full of resolve to study hard and be more disciplined (I can almost see my friends rolling on the floor when they read this). He became my lab batchmate for all the labs (you see, my name starts with V). That's how I got to know him better.

And he changed my life.

Well, almost.

Actually,he didn't. I just said that for effect. To do that would take truly divine powers.

Anyway, his daily routine in the morning goes something like this: (detailing his entire routine would take too much time; he manages to do so many things in a day. Contrarily, a normal NITTian's routine would be much simpler; for example:5 PM -2:00AM: He screws around).

6:00 AM: He wakes up (hostelers, you know the implications of this statement).
6:45 AM: He's ready for class, having completed all his morning ablutions. Yes, he even bathes.
7:00 AM: He goes to the temple. Yup, every single day.
7:45 AM: He goes to the mess for his breakfast.
8:00 AM: The rest of the college wakes up.
8:15 AM: Back from the mess, he goes through the timetable and makes sure he has all the books required for the morning session (that's another thing, he has separate notebooks for every subject. Me, I have this tiny notepad where I try to mathematically unite the theories of quantum electrodynamics and universal gravitation during class hours. For details, refer to the post-script).
8:20 AM: He leaves for class, five minutes early because he doesn't have a cycle.

Come cycle test time, and Vairamuthu assumes this Messiah like aura about him. He is one of the few who actually know what the portions are for the test are. On the eve of the test, his room resembles a temple, a sea of footwear outside the door. People fight over his notes and over the photocopies of his notes. Once somebody misplaced his notes (I believe that person hid them so nobody could get them and later just forgot about it, the devious bastard), so he photocopied the photocopies of his own notes and used them. Need I say anymore?

The same thing happens on lab days too. He will actually know what experiment we have to do that day. He would even have completed his record and observation notebook the night before. As far as I know, he hasn't got anything lesser than an A grade in any lab.

Maybe he does have divine powers.

On matters involving the fairer sex, he maintains an indifferent silence. However, being the large hearted person that he is, he allows us to use his name in all the harmless little pranks we perpetrate on the girls. As a result, his rather saintly reputation doesn't extend to Opal.

Before I conclude, two famous Vairamuthuisms:

I.
Me(after the last cycle test): Man, I've really screwed up the CT's this time.
R.V: Don't worry, you'll do well in the semesters.
Me: Yeah, right. Hey, you wanna get some tea in the snacky? Come on, it's on me.
(You know I'm really down 'cause I'm actually offering to buy someone tea).
R.V: No, you go ahead. I'm going to the mess.
Me: Come on, gimme some company....wait, don't you drink tea or something?
R.V(in all earnestness): No, it's not that.You see, the tea in the mess will go to waste.
BANG! CRASH!
R.V(lifting the cycle off me):Are you all right?

II.
Me(arriving late for class): No class today?
R.V: No, the guys are trying to get us all to mass bunk this one period. They're saying Tommy's gone too far this time. Three straight hours.
Me: Cool, let's go.
R.V: Wait, I have an idea. Let's go hide in the toilets until everybody's gone and then get Tommy to come teach just the two of us. Yeah, that'll teach 'em.
Me(overcoming my speechlessness): Sure,you go hide in this toilet and I'll go hide in that one. I'll tell you when he gets here.

He waited for half an hour.

People, make no mistake: I am not condemning him. I mean this. Neither am I judging him; I am merely describing him as he is. He's a great guy, very helpful and always with a smile. However, to paraphrase a popular saying: All men are created unique, but some men are more unique than the others.

P.S:1.) Opal is the girls' hostel.
2.) ToM:Theory of Machines. Therefore, Tommy.
3.) I have currently reached a very exciting stage in my work on the the unification of QED and universal gravitaion. After a lot of work, I have found that the caricatures of our professors (especially the outer curves) may be the closest we can come to a solution that satisfies both sets of partial differential equations.

The Paneer wars

2004-10-11T02:35:00.000-07:00

We get paneer butter masala,pooris and rice with lots of peas(the mess annas call it jeera rice;though to this day nobody's smelt or seen a trace of jeera or similar spices in the rice)for dinner on Sundays.
Now this is a big day for all of us.We starve ourselves all afternoon and evening and by the time its 7(that's when the mess opens for dinner)we're ready to make a mad rush for the mess.Me and a couple of my friends even cunningly went to the mess at 6:45 in the hope of being first in line for the food.Unfortunately,the whole college seemed to have had the same idea.
Result:we're 25 millionth in the line.And when we do get to the front all we get is a measly few pieces of paneer and gravy.They're generous with the gravy;it makes the few pieces of paneer we get seem measlier.Strictly one helping only.To think we actually pay their salaries...
When I think of all the paneer being devoured by the evil mess annas quite literally at our expense,it makes me want to kill pandas and burn rainforests.Well,maybe not the pandas,but napalming large parts of Brazil would definitely help vent some of my frustration.
And so began the Paneer wars.Every Sunday;the mess transforms into something out of the Assault mode from Unreal tournament;the mess annas viciously defending their precious paneer and us out to get our rightful two helpings at the very minimum.
But we have one thing on our side:the experience of having played Commandos two,Age of Empires and other such games.We are embattled veterans of strategy;we are used to careful planning and quick execution,while all the mess annas have is the right to suspend us temporarily from the mess.It's an even match.And the stakes are high.
Operation Infinite Justice
Mission objectives:Appropriate and ingest as many helpings of paneer butter masala as possible within one hour.
Mission equipment:Nothing but our wits.
Primary target:Mess anna codenamed "Tango" occupied in serving one medium sized ladle full of paneer butter masala.
Secondary target:Mess supervisor codenamed "Charlie" occupied in,well,supervision of the proceedings.
Initial mission status:One helping obtained.Preparing for assault.
Mission status Go!

Delta(that's me;I've always wanted to be called that.NITTians:pardon the pun)observes Tango and Charlie intently.He has nearly finished his first helping; and he is considering his options.He has several strategies in mind;after all,he has been certified by Mensa international to have mental powers beyond human comprehension.There are several interpretations for the above statement,into which,for obvious reasons,I won't go into at present.Suffice to say that Delta's smarter than the average NITTian out to get his rightful two helpings of PBM .

After a few seconds of careful consideration (yup,that's all the time it takes him!) he decides on the simplest course of action.He is aware of the fact that this involves a considerable amount of risk;but then again,what's life without a little bit of risk?Besides,he knows he can depend on his legs to get his 192 pounds of pure muscle out of trouble faster than Tommy Lee dropped his pants for Pamela Anderson(believe me,that's fast).

In short,Delta's a Hollywood action movie superstar.

His whole body tenses as he resumes his surveillance;the moment of strike is everything.Tango continues serving;but there is a visible (only to Delta's eyes) droop to his shoulders.Tango is tiring.Delta plays out the scenario in his mind;nothing can go wrong.He synchronizes his watch to the moment Tango moves his hand for the next serving and begins the countdown.
At T minus O seconds Tango turns and calls for the replacement.Delta springs out of his seat(like a well oiled spring) and makes for the counter.He moves at just the right speed;fast enough to get to the target in time,yet not fast enough to attract Tango's attention.The replacement is moments away from the target:a huge bowl of PBM left unattended;as is Delta.
They get there almost simultaneously,but Delta's reflexes are faster.As he grabs the ladle their eyes meet;and in that fleeting moment Tango knows he's lost this round.Delta serves himself quickly and turns when he hears Tango call for his ID card.He doesn't hesitate.He spins around and cuts through the queue for the pooris,leaving Tango(and the people in the queue)cursing.He moves quickly to the exfiltration point,which is located at the other end of the mess hall. He can now enjoy his second helping in peace.Mission acccomplished!!

P.S:1.)This blog is my tribute to gaming. Some of my happiest memories are of long nights spent outthinking Nazis and slaughtering bots in Deathmatch.
2.)If you think it's easy coming up with great analogies,let's see you do it.

the Week:Part One(don't count on part two,though)

2004-08-13T10:49:00.000-07:00

To think i actually thought i led a fairly indisciplined life in school...
Ah well,i was young and foolish(though people who know me happen to think nothing much has changed,especially in the foolish part..but then,what do they know?).
Well,now that i'm in a hostel,something's happened to my system of having seven days in a week.A week,for me(and i can safely say,for most NITTians)now consists of the following days:weekends,normal days and lab days.
A 'normal' day goes something like this:
The night before i set the alarm for 7 AM,a ritual i religiously follow,hoping that some day it might bear fruit.
My trusty mobile(i've sent too many alarm clocks to their somewhat premature deaths by knocking them off the table when they ring)never fails me, it faithfully rings at 7.Then another ritual,followed equally,if only not more religiously,is set into motion. I grab my mobile,curse whoever had the cheek to actually schedule classes at 8:30(8:30,can u believe it???) switch it off and get back to dreaming about Salma Hayek's...Well, i'll leave that to the reader's imagination.
I wake up with a start at 8:15,my subconscious(just before i wake up,it takes the form of our Machining Tech. professor grinning nastily;his delight evident at having another hapless latecomer to throw out)coming to my rescue.
I curse loudly,grab the soap and my toothbrush and run to the toilet complex(it's actually two toilets,two shower cubicles and two wash basins with mirrors for each wing).Who do I find there but my roommate,attacking his molars with passion,the object of which could only have been the above mentioned professor. I'm relieved to see him;you know what they say:misery loves company.
By 8:20 I've finished washing my face and brushing my teeth(constipation is welcome on such days).I run back to my room,pull on my jeans,find the t-shirt/shirt that smells the least and put it on.I get on my cycle and pedal furiously to the mess.Once there,I grab two slices of buttered(at least i think it's buttered,or maybe its just the sogginess) toast,burn my throat with scalding hot tea and i'm back on my cycle.
It's 8:29.By now i'm praying to all the gods of all the religions i can think of(and i'm an atheist,by the way).I think of Lance armstrong and try to get inspired.By now the campus resembles the venue for the Tour de France.
The cyclists are basically of two kinds:people like me, who are desperately trying to make it on time and guys who know they have a lenient prof.,cruising along laughing at guys like us.

Every dog has its day.

Occasionally,we get distracted we get distracted by a very rare sight on campus:maals(nope,that's not malls spelled wrong,it means sexy women/girls)on their cycles.We slow down and maneuver(yup,that definitely is spelled wrong)behind them,trying to catch a glimpse of their magnificent....well, let's not get into that.I don't want to lose my female readership,which presently numbers at one.
Well,I finally make it to the building when i see the prof. starting out from his office.I break the sound barrier as I zoom into the cycle shed,in the process knocking over around twenty cycles.
I then run and walk closely behind the prof.,follow him into the class and quietly slip into the last bench as he enters the class.

Phew and double phew!

One hell of an anti-climax,wasn't it?

This cycle repeats whenever we have a professor who actually believes that punctuality is a virtue or has forgotten his own student days.
The rest of the day,atleast for the two classes until the break,follows in a daze wherein I catch up on lost sleep or read a novel.
Listening in class is not an option.
I complete my breakfast in the canteen in the break,which,mercifully, is twenty minutes long.After class, in the evening and night i indulge in all sorts of wasteful activities,not the least of which is blogging,but then that's a different story altogether...
I've never been good at concluding something I start writing.
As for lab days and weekends,I repeat,that's a different story altogether...
cheers!!

P.S:As is evident,i've exaggerated a bit. There are no maals on campus.

Ah,what a tangled web we weave.....

2004-08-13T09:52:00.000-07:00

just back from watching spiderman 2...the special effects are kick-ass, but other than that the movie resembled the dharmendra movies of old in many ways.
the bad guy undergoes a change of heart in the end,though i suspect that was just to stop spidy from lecturing him.spidy chaats him so bad he drives him to suicide,though he says it's because he actually wants to save new york.
there's even this part where spidy loses his powers only to regain them when aunt may tells him there's a hero in all of us after nearly half an hour(or so it seemed)of a major chaat session.
though,i must say,the sequence where spidy stops the train is real good stuff.
all things considered,it isn't spidy but the SFX dept. that saves the day.
believe me,dudes and dudettes,the train sequence is brilliant.
toby maguire is good,though the lost puppy dog look on his face started getting on my nerves after sometime.
kirsten dunst looks good,nothing very special in her acting though.
the rest of 'em were mediocre.
it's true,though,what aunt may says:there IS a hero in all of us.
i have him to thank for getting me through the corny stuff.

P.S:'chaat' is NITT lingo for boring-cum-irritating.

let the crapfest begin!

2004-08-04T00:18:00.000-07:00

hokay,ppl..
zis ees my first blog.....zis ees where ze shit hits the fan,where crappy writing takes on a whole new meaning...
and as for those who have assumed i have dyslexia,i just happen to like french accents;so i try to write with one too(don't tell me i didn't warn u abt the crap)..
anyway,i'll lay off the accent for a while....
by the way,do the french say hokay or plain ok?
Why am i called the Monk?Well, it isn't because i want to be one[though the idea of being a shaolin monk was alluring,especially after watching 36 chambers of shaolin;they do some really cool stuff...until i found out(sue me if this piece of info is wrong)celibacy is one of the requirements of being one]...thing is, people say my new haircut makes me look like a buddhist monk,so i thought what the hell,i'll use it here...
Now for info abt me(i'm makin it easy for the shaolin monks to pursue their litigation against me..as to why i'm doin tht,well, i suppose this explains why i'm a potential case study for mental health/psychology students)..
I'm a student of the National Institute of Technology, Tiruchirapalli, apparently one of the premier technical institutions of the country. So, in addition to a slightly (though that point is debatable) eccentric human, you have an engineer-in-the-making on your hands...should make for quite a heady cocktail, I suppose...
more importantly,i'm 19 and SINGLE.So for those 19(plus or minus 2;i have nothing against older women) yr old single women who are jobless enough to have actually read until here,u need look no further....wait a minute,just one easy to fulfil requirement:u have to be a look alike of either salma hayek or lara dutta.
well,i'm gonna sign off now,ppl...i'll be back with more sermons for the spiritually inclined.
cheers!!