Maddening ads

Lifebuoy soap claims to have the power to counter the swine flu pandemic. It doesn’t state that explicitly but leaves enough audio-visual cues to get most people to think so. I’m NOT trying to undermine the importance of washing hands with a disinfectant soap to prevent swine flu, but to loudly claim that it’ll give you 100% protection against the swine flu virus can be misinterpreted. I’m sure Lifebuoy has the capability to incapacitate or remove the H1N1 from its area of application in a certain way for a certain period of time, but this can lead people to wrongly think that swine flu can be stopped by using Lifebuoy alone. True, one should not forget that an infected person’s hands are likely contaminated by the virus and whatever this person touches becomes a source of infection for others. Therefore you should wash your hands and try not to frequently touch your face without thoroughly washing your hands first. But unless you read between the lines, statements like “SWINE FLU SE DARNE KA NAHIN, LADNE KA (you shouldn’t fear swine-flu, you should fight it)” can make common people rather careless to other ways of contracting the infection. Of course once the virus enters your body, you will have no option but to fight it, for it will fight back to turn your body into breeding grounds for its posterity. Swine flu, like any other flu is an airborne infection. If an infected person sneezes in your proximity, the virus directly enters your lungs via microscopic droplets in the air as you breathe, washing your hands with Lifebuoy isn’t gonna help. Once that happens, maybe washing your mouth, trachea, bronchus, bronchioles and alveoli thoroughly with lifebuoy might help but let me tell you that that would be impossible without killing you first…or in the process. I feel that the ad should be more vocal about this fact. It is the way these people highlight one fact and downplay other, equally important ones, from the whole story that gets me worried. Please inform yourself more about this disease.
Another ad I do not like: Idea cellular. 26/11/08 the day terror knocked straight at the Gateway of India and entered The Taj Hotel. We were all shocked and in disbelief as the events unfurled. We are all still emotional about it. One year hence, Abhishek Bacchan appears on the T.V. screen with a serious face and requests the viewers to pick up their idea cellular phones and go crazy making calls on 26/11 (today). He informs us that the money thus generated will be given away to the police (in lieu of the sacrifices they made on 26/11/09…I do not remember if it’s hinted at or explicitly stated in the advertisement). I wish this ad were a little more informative. The ad neither tells whether the money would go to the families of the policemen who died or were injured in the incidence or to Mumbai police or to some other police force. I’m especially restive because recently it was in the news that some of the police officers did not report to duty when called in the emergency situation of 26/11. Are these people gonna get a share of the collections as well? I request someone to tell Abhishek Bacchan (whoever can), that the next time he brings a somber face on the screen to conjure up our emotions in the name of national integration, generated out of a crisis situation, to please request the people, who pay him crores for an advertisement, to give us (the viewers) a lucid insight into what they’re requesting us to do and who does it help and in what way?
These ads either contain only hints to something that the common’s psyche automatically builds on in presumption (which might be incorrect) or hide important facts from the complete story; both are unfair practices. I think I’m gonna try and find out how to use the RTI, I’m sick of so many things happening around me. Call me cynical if you must.
Only last week I received a forwarded mail giving incomplete details of some woman claiming to be in a financial crisis after her husband suffered total paralyses. It gave no details of the city, no details of the place the husband worked. The mail said the woman had two kids whereas the picture showed three. I couldn’t help but raise my skeptical eyebrow at this. I mailed to all the people that were on this mail’s mailing list about this doubt of mine. As I was typing this email, I googled the name of this lady in another window…lo and behold…the name was found in the list of hoax mails. Every time the mail was forwarded, it added a few paise in the account of the conman, who devised this great plan. People just ignored it and said, “it doesn’t matter to me for it doesn’t cost me money and hardly takes time to forward it to a 100 people”. Why would you help a thug to even earn one paisa? Why would you even spend one second of your time to do that? How bloody careless and lost are you? It’s surely good to be kind and benevolent but is it not good to also be attentive and vigilant? How long are we gonna be a bunch of idiots, fooled by every Tom, Dick and Harry who plays on the strings of our emotions?
SORRY I DIGRESSED, I’ll get back to the mad world of ads. There’s one genre that conquers the rest (in my opinion i.e.); comedy. I love comedy, at times sarcastic (though I feel it is best avoided), goofy, slapstick, witty, any kind of comedy. When I hear the bingo mad angles song playing on TV, I stop all other activity and watch the ad. The pretty girl and the lovesick boy gesturing to each other from their balconies with the melodious song playing in the background, it all makes me happy. The mischievous flying kiss of the girl that is slyly and skillfully captured into the shirt pocket by the boy is a treat to watch. The expressions of the girl hence say something’s gone terribly wrong, and the first time I saw the ad, I was sure it would be another girl but wait, the next shot captures the boy’s shirt pocket on fire. He hastily slaps it out. Then the girl looks at the packet in her hand…and the music goes BOINGGG!!! The reason of the fire is ascribed to the fiery hot flavor of the mad angles that were transmitted to the boy’s shirt via the flying kiss. The next part, which is mostly omitted from the shorter version of the ad, shows that the two meeting with the hot mad-angles still in the girl’s hands. This rightfully (obviously) alarms the boy and he lowers his welder-helmet that he’s wearing, to cover his face and hence protect is from the fires in the girl’s mouth. WOW! I’d suggest that the boy eats the hot mad-angles too and they both can thus get cosy; fire beats fire.
We talked about two kinds of transmissions, swine-flu and fire. I’d go with the fire transmission. If I were you, I’d go to the CDC website and read more about swine flu to learn how to protect myself rather than trust a bunch of currency-note hungry businessmen, trying to mislead me in the smallest way in connivance with the ad-psychologist they call “dream merchants”. I’d call them nightmare salesmen. Call me cynical…ah! A cynic that loves comedy!

Boot camp Harley

I registered myself for Harley Davidson boot-camp on the internet yesterday. There was a button that said “win your place in the boot camp” so I opted for it because being a part of the Harley Davidson boot camp costs 3500 bucks! I just had to give my name, address, age and the bike I own and punch in 30 words saying why I deserve to be in the boot camp. I didn’t know what boot camp really meant in this context but I figured I’d get to ride a Harley (maybe for a couple of days) so I wrote something like this (I don’t remember the exact words) “I’ve done long roads, many a time, bad ones on my Bullet. I’d like to know what it feels like to do it with more power, control and technical finesse.” I remember that the one I actually wrote was also 29 or 30 words.
In all probability, these lines were unimpressive but what the heck, that’s all I could manage surfing Harley website for a few minutes, hiding from my boss. I really don’t know of any person who knows about motorcycles and doesn’t wish to ride (and of course own, if possible) a Harley Davidson. I especially like the SPORTSTER; it impresses me with its bobber looks and crouching posture. It seems like it’s ready to spring into action at the twist of that throttle.

Bondage

As far freedom of expression and liberty is concerned, living in this part of the world is difficult sometimes. No, I will not thank God that I’m not living in Iraq or Afghanistan. I will not do so because India has a system is place that gives me the freedom to exercise my will regarding what religion I follow, who I marry, who I vote for etc without being under any kind of pressure from any quarter. I know someone who resides in the US with her parents and was slapped viciously by her father when she expressed her desire to marry her boyfriend in India. The reason was that the boy wasn’t from the same caste as her. This is the ugly truth no matter wherever we go, we carry this attitude with us. I know someone who is facing difficulty picking his girlfriend up from near her place (they both work at the same place) because people the people who’re present there every morning stare and gossip about them, and not wanting to be left behind, the neighbours are out spying too. These middle and old aged culture vultures are out on the voyeuristic prowl, imagining things that they fantasize in their dark dreams. If you’re one of those vile hypocrites who’d point their fingers and say that the girls parents must not be aware that she goes with the guy, I’d say you’re true and it’s because of people like you that they don’t know. There are people busy hard-wiring their children to live a certain way and to think a certain way; it cripples the kids without them ever knowing about it. I’m not against teaching good habits to your children but that is an aspect barely touched upon as seen in the kind of creatures that have entered youth, roaming in the city streets. Only in the beginning of this week a brawl broke out at the local KFC in which a boy was stabbed. People like talking about high principles and morals but lack basic manners and courtesy. Today CNN IBNs office in Mumbai was attacked by the Shiv-Sena workers. The reason was that this news network criticized Bal Thackery for criticizing Sachin Tendulkar for saying that he was an Indian before he was a Marathi. That’s the deplorable status quo of the national pride as seen in the leaders of political parties.
What does liberty mean in this society? It seems to mean that so long as you have money and contacts, you have the freedom to do as you like and the liberty to pay your way out of your deeds. Who are the people enforcing the law here? Gluttonous, greedy perverts that take ages to reach crime scenes and when they do, they’re inept doing what they’re supposed to and adept at committing unscrupulous acts themselves. I’ve known girls who’ve called up the police station to report acts of eve-teasing only to be discouraged by the voice on the other end of the line advising them against lodging a formal complain stating that it would be a tedious and a messy process that they should avoid. When I lost my wallet a few months ago and went to report it to the police station, the policeman was rude to me and said that he had a whole lot of work and careless people like me were increasing his work load. He went on to show me his wallet saying “see this, I have it for the past 20 years, I’ve never lost it.” I politely replied, “Even I hadn’t lost mine for the past ten” at which he frustratingly told me to go back and come the next day. I was lucky, that night, a gentleman walked up to my place with my wallet that he’d found in the parking lot. Last year in July when a bus ran over my father’s toes (and ripped the whole sole off his foot) and he was lying on a bloody stretcher in the hospital waiting to be taken into surgery, the policemen arrived. My father wasn’t in a state to give any statements. These bastards were being rude to him and pressing him to sign a paper that said the accident was all his own fault…UNBELIEVABLE! This was happening in front of my eyes. I was too shocked to see my father in that condition to react. A friend advised my dad to do so and not get into the mess for now because there was another important thing we needed to concentrate on; keep him alive.
Its sin to have a girlfriend but it’s ok to go around eve-teasing because in the former case, you’ll face the wrath of the society and in the latter case…well no one will bother to catch you. This is the liberal democracy I live in. People take the law into their own hands to punish people for falling in love and marrying (“Haryana’s Khap Panchayats), where nuns are raped to punish a community (how do these bastards get aroused in front of a resisting, crying helpless woman?), where goons try to gag the press, where a surprise check would reveal a staggering number of inebriated on-duty cops, where the common man is busy hard-wiring his/HER kids to be like him or something he/SHE always wanted to be but never was. Where is the bloody freedom to speak or choose, where is the liberty to develop and follow my own thought? We’re all slaves. I want more bloody freedom; this is not enough for me.

I just woke up to a song playing in my mind “Just Good Friends” by Michael Jackson. I used to love this song as a kid. Way back in the 80s my sister and I used to listen to a lot of music and MJ’s tapes were on our favorites list. I don’t remember the last time I heard this particular song, it was probably in the 80s only for when we shifted to our present home in 1991 February, we’d lost many of tapes including BAD. Besides I was getting into other kind of music by Guns n Roses, Eric Clapton, Color Me Badd and even rap but MJ was still one of my favs. It was time I was in school and never had money to buy original tapes so I’d spend the last rupee (of the very few I had) to get songs recorded on blank tapes; a true music pirate. MJ bombed the world in those days with his album Dangerous and the songs like Black or White, Jam, In the Closet, Remember the Time, Who is It dominated the charts.
Anyway I jumped out of bed and headed straight for MJs MP3 CD that I borrowed from my friend. It’s a pirated CD but I had no compunctions about enjoying it; Why? MJ’s dead, he doesn’t need money anymore to pay of the debts that he died under.

The first MJ song I heard was Dirty Diana in 1987…or so I thought. There was guy who had a locally-made stereo, and he kept two of the four big speakers inside two big earthen pots that raised the bass to a level that made you feel that the bass-guitar and drums were playing right inside your tummy and yes, they weren’t hard on the ears at all). I was sitting in his room and when he played Dirty Diana and the music raised the hair of my head (didn’t have any body hair, hey I was seven half years old then). I never liked the way the song ended but then again, this was Michael Jackson and the slightest twitch in any part of his body would lead to a couple of dozen people fainting in awe (at least back then), who was I to pass a judgment on him. Then I looked at the cover of the cassette and went WOW! There was Michael Jackson, light brown stretched skin, dressed in “are you for real” studded jacket embellished with chains and whatnots wearing his propriety glove in one hand. This picture’s not the same as the typical one you get to see on a BAD album in which MJ’s is looking like a white man (Woman?!?). The confusion was generated when after going back home I heard the familiar “Beat It” again and exclaimed HEY THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG HERE!!! This guy sounds the same as that guy but he is black while that one was…well…brown! Then the revelation, both cassettes had Michael Jackson written on them (yeah! I’d never paid so much attention before, hey!! I was a kid). So my sister told me that he’d had a cosmetic surgery done. I asked her why, she replied as a matter of factly “to look better”. Of course throughout my life I was made to realize why White is better than Black, at least in this part of the world. So I understand why Michael did it. Though he maintained that it was vitiligo…maybe it was…but I’ve never seen such an even progression of vitiligo, I thought it spreads in patches but since MJ says to it must be true. Later I learnt looks didn’t help sell his records better as his Album Thriller holds the Guinness Record for the largest selling singles album, the time when he was black.
Anyway he got message across in his songs and when I heard the lines “I’m not gonna spend my life being a color” in the song Black or White, I sighed and said “I understand MJ”. Living in the US (the land of liberty and freedom) and being popular ever since he was kid, if one wrote and songs “They don’t really care about us”, we here, can only wonder what was plaguing him.
Though there was a time when I was filled with scorn for MJ (late 90s through to the time he died), his creative genius seemed to be taking a nose dive, so did the way he look; ALIEN. But just like he did, I thought that he would never die. When he did I realized for myself that death is the ultimate truth. There were other people who lost their lives around me, but I really thought that MJ would never die. A lyricist, singer, dancer, a creative genius, there was but one Michael that was also a Jackson. What a sad end! I have no shame in shouting it out loud “I’M A MICHAEL JACKSON FAN”. Now as thoughts overwhelm me and my writing becomes more of a nonsensical and incoherent, I’ll close this post (I’m getting late for work) and continue listening to the MJ songs playing on my computer while I get ready (Ha! It’s so much easier to obtain music nowadays unlike back then).

Now's moving

My head’s dizzy, just enough,

to hallucinate that I’m in love

the one that was never mine

the one that happened

twenty times nine

My eyes see things unseen

It’s pitch dark but these trees

look so green

the lights flashing at the distance

tell me to go on, despite

my resistance

tell me my friend, do you want advice?

I’ll give it from the bottom of my heart

Though it might be filled with vice

Tell me too, what to do of all this despair

Tell me why life’s to me anything

but fair

The night is cold but I’m not

I’m on fire

right now I’m The Zealot

these visions make the real surreal

being alive right now is no big deal

Death wouldn’t end me now

I’ll leave this flesh,

and live on somehow

I’m intangible, I’m a soul

Right now, I’m with myself

I’m complete, I’m whole

Tomorrow I’ll be another book

eating dust on the shelf

A book with many chapters

One of which deals with rapture

a time when it’s just about me

beyond which nothing else I see

That’s the last one I’m sure

Dear friend I’ll have no more

Time to drink just got over

Must hurry back home,

though I would’ve like it slower

I’m just another beggar on the street

An invalid trying to find his feet

A voice from a throat parched and dry

Or maybe a mind that’s just gone awry

The surreal now looks more real

With regret for things I just said

I admit, I’m better off alive

than dead

I don’t care Heaven or Hell

This is my time I’ll spend it well

I see them both every now and then

I see them in the form of men

Tomorrow I’ll start another day

in the empire

and live with angels that switch

over to vampires

But who am I to point fingers when

my dear, I’m just one of them

Tables of the Universe

There they stood, beautiful statues of the deities, high up on the carpeted stage. The devout followers seated below on the ground were listening to the holy words of the preacher seated at a height between the people and the Gods. As I passed on and reached the rear side of the stage I was quite astonished at the sight. The stage was built of tables, piled one on top of the other. The kind of tables that are a familiar sight on this side of the planet (at least here in Chandigarh). These are ones that are most commonly used by tent-services. Each one has a heavy, crude cast iron frame and legs with wooden boards on top. Most of them were (probably) designed and manufactured 20-30 years ago. I’ve never seen a clean table (one of these) till date. The metals finish is rough and uneven and it has some cheap greenish paint brushed on it (most that I’ve seen have lost much of that too). The wood is…err…I don’t have a good word to describe it. It’s dirty, unfinished (I mean crude) with big nuts running through it on the vertices. It’s not a big single piece of wood either, there are two to three planks fitted to make one ugly table top. The ghastly cast iron legs are foldable and the sound that these tables make when being loaded or unloaded from a truck is something I can recognize instantly. I once attended an extravagant, outdoor wedding dinner. The set up was beautiful. I was happy to see no signs of the ugly tables anywhere. Then while taking the nth helping of the dessert, I  got curious and lifted the skirts of the table....and found the same sickening, semi-painted, rusty cast-iron legs. “YYeoww!!” I let go off the fabric immediately after my fear was confirmed.

Pathetic, these tables are just pathetic but I wonder who designed them. They’ve been so successful because of their strength, design (foldability…ha ha I just added a new word to your vocabulary), resilience to torture (oh I’ve seen them being treated like they were less than tables) and of course their ability to function in a beautiful way without actually showing up their ugliness. They’d hold your Gods, you food, your politicians……did I say politicians?

Yes that brought back something that was strolling in my mind. I think that’s the reason I started to write this article. Today’s breaking news “Laalu Prasad Yadav hurt while addressing the people as the staged caved in”

We like to place our politicians high up, alongside the gods. The problem of being so high is so aptly described in the old adage “the higher it goes, the harder it falls”; Laalu was hurt alright. They also showed some other political leaders that took the fall when the stage gave way. These were:
Uma Bharati
Amar Singh
Varun Gandhi

So while the Indian news channels were showing the memorable masala moments of all these people falling down as the stage crashed, the camera captured an interesting detail; guess what the stage was made of. That’s right, our very own Universal Table. Oh I’ve started to love these table now. They hold steady when they have to and cave in when they must. Muahh!! I love you tables.

Rain on

As they creep up and cover the sky
I watch the ominous sight and sigh
These ones are not that give just shade
these ones are here to show their rage

A blanket dark and dense
One that has no pretense
Down below the gale gesticulates
Nature's opening its floodgates

Thunder roars with a message clear
Lightening flashes the message of fear
"take cover" every life that moves
or be struck by the bolt's hooves

Then as they start to fall
They hit the big and the small
Sneering arrows of the Cloud
Relentless as it glides by, proud

And then it all mellows down
The green shimmers, now rid of brown
Its shower time for things immobile
I was foolish to think of it vile

There must be a farmer, happier now
The sweat washed off his wrinkled brow
There he dances in elation
As I worry about reaching my destination

I see that Love too celebrates in the rain
Gone is the hurt, and the pain
As they walk holding each other’s hands
Now resolute, they’ve taken a stand

As they fall the drops touch me too
And reveal two points of view
As one sits and accumulates rust,
Another washes off it’s dust

So is everything else we face
The same moment’s for one to rest
For another to race, as he
reaches out for the crest

But let me not get stuck in the
Human wisdom’s muck
Let me see, smell, feel, hear and taste
These were not given to me in vain
They were only gifted, for me to
Enjoy the rain

(Started 09/09/09, when it was raining heavily but left it midway. Completed on 12/11/09; I was hungry so I munched on this leftover food for thought)

Your high(headed)ness

I just cannot see your point of view
Your words are like the grains of sand
Good points in them are but few

You talk of the time that you were young
You talk of the times when you went numb
You talk of the time your dog died
Still smell the aroma of the first fish you fried

You say you know that He is right
If I say no, you’re ready to fight
You claimed to have seen their miseries and plight
You wanted to help; they just wouldn’t follow the light

You claimed you know your inner self
You’ve traveled the road from heaven to hell
Enlightened; when you lost that friend
But still revel in the glitz of brands

I hate you not, I don’t like you either
In you I see my own reflection
Just like you, my words are heavy
My works, light as feather

Let us both stand in front of the mirror
Let us try to open our closed eyes
Who are we?
Can we ever see the truth
a bit more clearer?

Anchor

Yesterday I shared the anchoring of the Freshers Formal Show with my batchmate Anmoldeep Randhawa. It was the first time I was hosting a show of any kind. Here's the sequence of events in a nutshell:

(2 days to freshers) At 12 noon I called up Anmol. She did not answer. I kept calling her till 6p.m. in vain. Then I lost my patience and fired at the other organizers (apparently she's their friend). She finally responded at 7p.m. and told me that she'd fallen sick. The med had made her drowsy and she'd slept off. We sat down till 10:00pm outlining the script.

(1 day to freshers) We sat for sometime and made some changes. Anmol's very creative and intelligent but unfortunately doesn't give a shit about other people's time (she's anything but punctual). She asked me to meet her at 6:30p.m. and disappered till 8:00p.m. She also took the script with her. My fuse blew out for the second time. Again I went to her friends and gave them a piece of my mind. They frantically searched for her and brought her back. I reckoned it would be no use getting angry at her for she'd probably make me suffer more later. We sat down and edited the script till 10:00p.m.

(D-day, freshers at 5:30p.m.) We hadn't finished editing or even completing the final part of the script. Anmol for busy with the presentation that was supposed to be played in the background. I gave her my deadline of 2:00p.m. She couldn't get back to the script till 4:00p.m. We worked on it till 4:30p.m. and by that time she was in tears, cursing me that I was taking her precious dressing-up time! We both rushed to the hostel to get ready.

According to me I took ages to get ready but it was a microsecond compared to what Anmol took. By 5:15pm I started to get calls saying that people had started gathering in the auditorium and that Anmol and I should rush ASAP. I reached the audi only to find Anmol missing. She didn't take my call again. When she finally did, she asked me come and pick her up on my bike. By now I was ready to kill. I rushed to the girl's hostel and called up her roomie. Anmol was getting ready.

Then I called out as loudly as I could "Anmol if the Director reaches there before us, we'll be history!"

She shouted back "It's all your fault. You didn't let me get ready on time"

I replied astonished "Are you bloody crazy. What would you do looking pretty on stage when you woudn't have anything to say out there?"

She shouted, "Shut up Jesse"

By now it was 5:40p.m. and I was on the verge of having a nervous breakdown. She finally came out and we rushed to the audi.

She said she needed more time as her saree wasn't tied properly!

The audi was full with our hyper-critical audience ready to hoot at the first chance. We pulled off the begining pretty ok. The director gave a rather candid speech about life of PhD student. Addressing the juniors he said that that they won't face ragging at the institute but the five or six or even seven years that they are in the institute will more than cover up for its absence. I am no stranger to that bitter reality as I've seen many students lingering on for more than five years to complete their PhDs here.

Anyway, after that started a series of non-cordinated moves with us announcing an item and the performers shouting from the backstage "We're not ready yet!!" and the crowd booing and hooting at us. I managed to paste a smile on my face and laughed it off but Anmol got really emabarrassed. She started cursing the other committe that were supposed to coordinate with us, not realizing the mic was right in front of her face, raising the hooting even more. I tried to pacify her but kept my distance from the mic. I wasn't so fazed and was surprised at that, for it was me (not Anmol) who'd been losing sleep over this debacle. Not that it was happening, I was standing there, totally calm. Then came another performance by the juniors that can be described in one word as "catastrophe". A group of 10 students standing on the stage holding candles (nearly setting each other's hair on fire) and only one of them singing "Heal the world". An inappropriate song for the ocassion. The crowd went wild with laughter and shouted funny comments. I was finding it exceedingly hard to control my laughter, and Anmol, her temper. Poor people, they walked off the stage holding their heads down in shame. The lead singer felt so humiliated that she didn't come up on stage to introduce herself later.

Then there was a solo song which too was booed off the stage. The two dances that followed settled the audience down a little.

Then two skits saved the day. They were hilarious and crazy and one of them can be aptly described as one of the best choreographed skits ever at IMTECH. This one had a guy playing an affable overconfident dwarf. The same guy also went on to win the Mr. Freshers title. He had his fair share of booing too when he introduced himself in his south-indian accent (he's from Andhra). Fortunately he didn't let all the stingy remarks get the better of him.

By the end of the ordeal of the show, I was pretty relaxed; thankful that we managed to pull it off without any untoward incident. Later I felt that Anmol wasn't so bad afterall (apart from the disappearing act that she's adept at). She had single handedly made the whole presentation that was played through the show. She had been running around to get her dress made on time and had a lot of trouble dealing with the tailor at the eleventh hour. She was unwell throughout the three days that we'd been preparing and executing the whole thing. Considering that we both are short tempered and we actually managed to finish the job without killing each other or even having a bad feeling it was a big success. Surely this event taught me a thing or two about working as a team.

Blogger's Park

Yesterday, five of us met. "We" are people who blog. The mundane day passed rather slowly and by the time we all met I still had some bit of energy left that I spent in cracking wise jokes. By the time people actually started to talk sense, I was a spent force. I went into a trance like state, oblivious to the conversation and started to observe the sights and odours around me.

From whatever little I heard, here are some of the topics that were dicussed (with my answers in brackets, wherever I could answer i.e.):

Veronika decides to die by PC!
How difficult it is to help the destitute! (Very, that's why not everyone can.)
Sigmund freud Vs Sigmund fraud! (I know just one thing about him; he's dead.)
Dalhousie is beautiful. Please comment! (Must be)
The electricity problem in Punjab! (Heck! it's ok... what about the overexcess of electricity inside a random punjabi...you gain some, you lose some)
Sizzlers cause air pollution. Can they also harm your body then? plz comment. (Doesn't matter as long as they taste good)
Why would an African tribal not want to climb Mt. Everest? (Err!! because he spends all his time to gather food and protect himself from lions using spears??)
Why would a New Zealander want to do so? (Errr!! Because he's probably rich and doesn't have to gather food/protect himself/ family from animals and has the time to think of doing so??)
What's the similarity between Whitney Houston and a canine? (Both can howl at high pitch)

Other topics I would've like to discuss were:

Why do dimly lit places make me sleepy? (Unless of course I'm on a date with my girl)
What is the need to have a huge mirror placed in front of a urinal? (Don't know, I kept standing there trying to figure out why...in vain.)
Why I do not understood psychology like psychology students do?
Why are some noodles flat? (I guess I have the answer to that...because they can be made like that...just like Mt. Everest can be climbed)
If neurotics start writing, do they turn into psychotics?
If psychotics start writing, would be treated as idiot-savants?
What kind of a conversation does a neurotic have with another neurotic?
What kind of a conversation does a psychotic have with another psychotic?
What kind of a conversation does a neurotic have with a psychotic?
Why do some people make use of so many hand gestures while conversing?

By the way I just received a mail while writing this blog and it shows The largest flower is of a plant named Amorphophallus titanum...if you see the flower, you'll immediately understand why the plant has that hilarious name.
Ok Ok so I'll end the joking session now. On a more serious note, it felt good to know that there are others like me for who writing is the road to their inner self. It is sporadic, intense and compulsive. The big question was "how can we possibly retain the 'intense' and 'compulsive' part and replace 'sporadic' with 'consistent', I think we all took it home as holiday homework for it was never discussed. My problem with doing that is that for me to write, I need to be alone for sometime. A quiet time when a chain of thoughts start to move, part reality, part fiction generated by my opnion on a particular subject. Strangely when I start to indulge socially, the 'need' to write vanishes. Probably because the thoughts generated over conversations are immediately put across as words in real time. Since I'm not a quick thinker, I find it difficult to strike good conversations. Writing however gives me time to ponder over my thoughts and analyze them for their logic. Anyway this post is exactly like a one sided verbal conversation. Besides, my guide has just left the lab and others in the lab are playing music at loud volume, the kind that can be aptly described as jarring cacophony, so I must end this post. GRRRRrrr!!

Have a nice day

30th October 2009
I am really angry right now. I’ve been angry for a long time though I haven’t been able to figure out why. Its 2215hrs, my head is dizzy. I think I’ve been a little overexposed to radioactivity in the lab somehow. I think it was when I was using the vortex machine.

But the anger started to seed in the morning when the neighbour was being cocky.

Or was it when I realized that the motorcycle tyre was loosing air pressure despite my replacing its valve. Or was it when I read that blog-post “dirty education” (http://iamplural.blogspot.com/2009/10/dirty-education.html) and remembered the time I worked as a lecturer in a private college.

Or maybe it was when I had to get the puncture fixed and I was overcharged by the guy. Or was it?

I think it was when boss sarcastically suggested that we’d sit and discuss about what I’d been upto lately.

Or was it when the security guard asked me to park my bike in a certain way. That was totally dumb because he told me to park it 180 degrees to the way in which I was parking it, so it takes the same place…why the difference in orientation? Does the motorcycle God live in that direction and all bikes must be parked facing that direction?

But that’s not something that’d make me lose it the way I’m fuming now. Maybe it was in the evening when I nearly got run over by a bus, then by a car for no fault of my own. None of the aforementioned people gave any indication of turning but just did so at high speed. Thank God my bike has a disc brake or I would’ve been down with some broken discs. I wanted to pull these people out of their vehicles and wring their necks.

Or maybe it was that stinker friend of mine who made fun of me when I told her that my BP was surging, she said that it was perfectly normal to happen in old men; I stopped myself from wringing her neck.

Maybe it’s because that lazy-ass (my best friend) hasn’t still gotten the paper work done of the scooter he purchased from me one and a half years ago; I’ve been reminding him lately, in vain. Today, like everyday, the reminder popped and like everyday I sent him a message and like everyday, he was perfectly deaf to my reminders and blind to my growing restlessness.

Maybe it was mom, every night she brings me a big mug of milk that she’s clasping with both hands and doesn’t let me touch it saying “It is way too hot, you’ll burn your hands.” I snapped back at her today, “Your hands aren’t burning right? So just let go of the cup ok!”

No I think it was the radioactivity for this was just a day like any other.

There goes our hero

August 29 2009
After arguing with myself for over 30 minutes that it was/wasn't time to wake up and oscillating between the sight of my cupboard and the man eating lion, I tried to force myself back to reality of the cupboard by trying to move some part of my limp body. I slept on my tummy (like always) such that my head was facing one of the sides of my dorso-ventral plane (as always). My mouth was open, lips dry but the lower side of my mouth was dripping saliva that was making its way out onto the pillow. My arm weighed heavier than any weight I'd ever lifted, half numb due to lack of circulation. I tried to revive it in a slumbering, slow-motion panic attack. I sat dazed and relieved that I wouldn't have to fight the lion afterall. I waded through the morning air and located the newspaper in the haze of reality that looked more beautiful, pleasing and non-ominous than what I had been seeing a few minutes ago in fantasy world. I picked the paper and was shaken by the condition of my sight; I was seeing things in decaplets. Or was I? No, these were real estate ads, ten of them, by different dealers about the same apartment building and consequently (and strangely) they all carried exactly the same picture but with different dealer addresses. I flipped the pages hoping to see something other than political unrest, murders, rapes, defalcations, cricket etc etc...all in vain, even Michael Jackson managed a very small place despite it being his birthday today. Except that section on Dhyan Chand, the legendary hockey player from our country. I remember reading about him in high school. I reckon all (probably) language text books, at some level in high school, do have a chapter on Dhyan Chand. I guess that's the only way to keep the memory of a legend alive and not mentioning the cruel apathy he faced in his last days. Everyone knows what a wizard DC was at his game, if you don't then spare a minute to read about him but we were never ever taught in high school that he died of liver cancer lying neglected in a general ward!

face it

Yesterday night I was reading the Royal Enfield Manual by Pete Snidal and I quote:

"Let's face it- India is basically a third-world country, and their high-tech (If that it may be called) exports, such as the Enfield Bullet, are an entirely different kettle of fish than most other motorcycles."
It was embarrasing to read this line, it had nothing to do with the Royal Enfield: a British vintage, and everything to do with me being an Indian. It embarrassed me; it didn't enrage me, for the statement cannot be generally rubbished.

Recidivist

In my last post I'd said that I couldn't write anymore; I couldn't have been more wrong. Of course I had slumped enough that I needed an extraneous push and decent bit of guidance. What was generated in the end was an article for an online newspaper which was well received by readers and embellished with comments that made me "HAPPY".

Here's the link http://www.heraldofindia.com/article.php?month=10&year=2009 the article is titled "Nobel for Venky in layman's language"

A friend of mine told me write this article on 2009 Chemistry Nobel winner Venky Ramakrishnan. He emphasized "it need to be for a layman". I started with reading about Venky's post Nobel interviews but I soon realized that for someone who doesn't know the basics of cell biology and biochemistry it would be rather greek to say "Venky's group deciphered the structure of the small subunit of the ribosome and it's association with various antibiotics" Another question that would baffle the reader would be "why is a guy who worked in Biology all his research life, receive a Nobel in Chemistry"? So I wrote down as best as I could to put it all together as ABC for the layman. I also included an analogy of a tape-recorder (to protein biosynthesis) that I had once orally given to one of my friends who is from a non-scientific background. When I hurriedly prepared the first draft and mailed it to my friend suggested the relevant changes. Only then did my eyes open up as an "editor" of the text; much of it was jumbled, parts of it to an extent of being garbled. I saw the errors and heaved a sigh of relief; "thank God there's just another person apart from me that has seen this draft" I thought to myself. I was resonably excited when I submitted the article but it rose when I actually saw it published. It rose further with the first two comments. It shot out of this planet with the comments that followed. Here I am, planning ny next article. I was wrong...I can write...at least for now.

so long solo

Can't write anymore, I've lost the knack (if I had any) and the pleasure I used to derive from it.
There were streams of thoughts that once flowed through my mind. I'd close my eye and watch the fleeting, flickering thoughts generated in the cranium. Sometimes I'd reminisce and go back in time and feel the joys and pain and write about them.

Now I'm consumed in the parochial anxieties of the day, everything's work and everything need to be done.

When I do have time for myself, I'm either listless or very sleepy. I've lost myself.... and I'm sleepy again. Sigh!

Haryana khap panchayat at it again

This is a "The Tribune" article

23-year-old youth lynched for marrying same-gotra girl in NarwanaChandigarh/Narwana, July 23

The khap (caste) panchayats of Haryana defied law yet again when a 23-year-old youth was thrashed to death by a mob in Singhwala village of Narwana last night at his in-laws house where he had gone to bring back his wife.

Nightmares amidst dreams

Srijana Mitra Das is with the Department of Social Anthropology, Cambridge University, UK
This is a Hindustan Times article

Indian popular culture usually presents Punjab as the fount of eternal well-being. Bombay cinema in particular depicts Punjab as a rich homeland full of golden fields, sarson da saag and tractor-loads of farmers poised to bhangra at yet another bumper harvest.
Through the 1990s, Bombay films popularised this image of Punjab among Indian and diaspora audiences. The filmic ‘state of plenty’ boasted brave and handsome sons, fair and lovely daughters, industrious and prosperous people. The state seemed State-less, ruled only by ironies. Love flowed through its winds but required social approval, migration to foreign locales strengthened emigrants’ roots and a regional ethos of equality was riddled with hierarchies.
In its construction of a rustic idyll extending itself across the globe through diasporic movements, Bombay films ignored caste in Punjab. As the recent shoot-out in a Vienna gurudwara and its aftermath show, caste for Punjabis is real, violent and tense. It has a long history and a bitter present. It is a realm of oppression and struggle where every Singh is certainly not king. The drama of caste in Punjab makes its omission by Bombay cinema particularly remarkable.
I chanced upon caste in Punjab by accident. During my doctoral research, I lived in a Sikh village near Ludhiana, doing what anthropologists call ‘participant-observation’, immersion in the environs of people whom one is studying. I wanted to see how Sikhs negotiated ‘Punjabiyat’ in Bombay films. The filmic phenomenon was ubiquitous and dazzling, yet contradictory as the culture on-screen was presented as Hindu Punjabi and usually personified by Shahrukh Khan, a Peshawar-Delhi Muslim.
My fieldwork yielded knowledge about audience aspirations, politics and pleasure playing out through popular culture and commercial entertainment. I learned that screen silences were as important as speeches. I began sensing the ghosts of Partition, the Green Revolution and Khalistan hovering over filmic sequences. I learnt about a fabulous pre-colonial history and a troubled relationship with colonisation that blended into screen politics. I also learnt of the power of caste. The Punjab village where I lived was indeed idyllic, prosperous and attractive with old havelis and cobbled lanes on which the SUVs of rich Jats trundled, surrounded by green fields and a blue-gold sky. The sense of space was enormous, yet constricted. The first question one faced was, “What caste are you from?” which, in a Sikh village, took one rather by surprise.
The village was divided into two zones, Jat and Scheduled Caste. The first was rich, electrified, wireless. The second was poor, darker, smaller. Separate gurudwaras existed for each. There were restrictions on eating, touch and marriage between castes. The Jats regularly emphasised their ‘purity’ to the Scheduled Castes who sought dignity in sects and affirmative action by the State. Popular culture played a definite role in struggles over identity.
Jat Sikhnis of the village, ardent fans of Bombay cinema, began observing the marital Hindu fast of Karwa Chauth. While the Jat Sikhs muttered about ‘Hindu-fication’, one thing was certain: the Scheduled Caste Sikhs were not allowed to observe the same fast; their ‘pollution’ ruled that out. “Jats are the noblest Sikhs,” said an agricultural rentier. “Look at Hindi films. On the rare occasion they show a Sikh, he is a Jat.”
But how could you tell, I wondered, with a common surname and an identity based on ending distinctions by adopting the markers of Sikhism? “Of course you can tell,” a woman said. “Just look at the colour! Fairness and a good build mean Jat Sikh because they come from pure stock and haven’t mixed their marriages.” Interestingly, Akshay Kumar was the Jat zone’s favourite star, considered ‘handsome’ enough to portray a ‘proper’ Sikh on-screen, which is exactly what he did soon thereafter.
Contrary to its perception of being based entirely on fantasia, Bombay cinema actually acutely senses grassroot realities and ground-level politics. With a mix of prejudice and judiciousness, it chooses elements of maximum acceptability with the maximum number, depicting that on-screen as ‘reality’. Many aspire towards such reality, some challenge it fervently.
As I found, in its omission of caste from the Punjab landscape, Bombay cinema, in fact, touched upon the reality of nightmares jostling amid dreams, silences amidst celebrations, and aspiration and brutal denials co-existing in the ‘state of plenty’.

Peripheral knowledge

I was searching for some information on the protein that I’m working on: Epo, when a silly idea struck me.
“Why don’t I search the key words “Motorcycle” in Pubmed (the biological science citation database)?
To my (pleasant) surprise, the key word hit 1,995 results!
As I skimmed throught the articles, I saw that they indeed were related to medical science and statistical analysis to be more precise but the fact is that some of these articles can be an eye opener for a layman as well.
Here are the titles of some of the articles:
Motorcycles and goats.
Ueffing E.
Maxillofacial injuries in a group of Brazilian subjects under 18 years of age.
Road traffic injuries among middle school students in a rural area of China.
Accident-related risk behaviors associated with motivations for motorcycle use in Iran: a country with very high traffic deaths.
The prevalence of drugs and alcohol found in road traffic fatalities: a comparative study of victims.
A mixed logit analysis of motorists' right-of-way violation in motorcycle accidents at priority T-junctions.
An analysis of motorcycle helmet use in fatal crashes.
National Highway Traffic Safety Administration.
The burden of motorcycle-related neuro-trauma in Ireland and associated helmet usage.


The ENTREZ search engine also suggested the following key words to search:
Also try:
motorcycle accidents
motorcycle injury
helmet motorcycle
motorcycle trauma
motorcycle riders

As I altered the search words to “Motorcycle riding”, I hit 130 articles, some of which are:

Patterns of risky behaviors associated with methamphetamine use among young Thai adults: a latent class analysis.
A case of abdominal aortic injury caused by a traffic accident.
Characteristics of back pain among commercial drivers and motorcyclists in Lagos, Nigeria.
Barriers to, and factors associated, with observed motorcycle helmet use in Vietnam.
Paediatric motorbike injuries: do children riding motorbikes get the same injuries as those riding bicycles?
Heart rate and blood lactate concentration of male road-race motorcyclists.
Neurologic injuries in cycling and bike riding.
Kennedy J.
Dupatta (scarf): a unique cause of cervical spine injury in females.
Jain V, Agrawal M, Dabas V, Kashyap A, Sural S, Dhal A.

Exploring the economics of motorcycle helmet laws--implications for low and middle-income countries.

Helmets for preventing injury in motorcycle riders.
Hazards of bicycling: from handlebars to lightning.Hazards of bicycling: from handlebars to lightning.
Neurologic injuries in cycling and bike riding.Neurologic injuries in cycling and bike riding.

Related articles
ReviewHelmets for preventing injury in motorcycle riders.
ReviewHelmets for preventing head and facial injuries in bicyclists.
ReviewSpeed enforcement detection devices for preventing road traffic injuries.
The impact of two related prevention strategies on head injury reduction among nonfatally injured motorcycle riders, California, 1991-1993.
The prevalence of non-standard helmet use and head injuries among

Wish I had the time to read them all. I did go through 2 of them, they were quite interesting. I’ll selectively read a few more when I get time.

I visited the sisters at Snehaylaya, Maloya a few days ago. I went there to donate some old clothes. It was nearly half past eight at night. Unlike the time when the children’s shelter was based in the sector that I live in, I had to make formal entry in a visitors register kept with a security guard. I wasn’t allowed to go straight to the sisters but a message was sent to them about my arrival. The sisters sent a message to let me go to their living area. I went and the three sisters were overjoyed to see me. My institute is less than half a kilometer away from this place but since the time the kids and sisters have shifted to this much bigger, government run children’s shelter almost 3 months ago, this was my second visit. When they were in Sector 47, I visited them at a frequency of almost 3-4 times a week. They were about to eat dinner so they asked me to join in. Their accommodation is decent but the sisters are anything but happy with the way the government is running the show. They’re allowed to take the sick kids only to a government hospital, there’s no conveyance at their disposal and although they don’t complain about this problem, the ordeal of getting treatment done from overcrowded hospital is enough to make anybody’s patience run out. When they were in Sector 47, they were managing around 25 kids, here there are 200 kids, many of them they say, almost irreparably damaged characters, victims of circumstances like abusive fathers, rape victims, children of prostitutes, children of terminal ill AIDS patients etc. The children that went from Navjeevan sector 47 were quite disciplined but living full time with the other kids is taking a toll on their upbringing. Sisters say that the government is apathetic to their needs, they’ve built two big buildings, furnished them, stuffed them with kids, got pictures clicked and made news in the papers about their good deeds and subsequently washed their hands off after handing over the whole system to the three nuns and a few other caretakers…and yes while they washed their hands, they handed over a set of rules to these people, one of which says that the sick kids will not be treated at any place other than a government hospital; no arrangement to take them there or any other help in anyway.
Sisters also told me that they only get to eat daal (lentil) and rice all three times a day, seven days a week, a stark contrast to the time when they were at Navjeevan. These are growing kids, being raised on meager amount of substandard food. At Navjeevan sometimes when I’d spend a whole day with the kids, I used to find it impossible to manage these 25 creatures and at such times I had to resort to a decent bit of chiding; I wonder how they manage 200. The sisters are also unhappy about the fact that they cannot have their fellowship at this place, because if they do, the outside world will perceive it as them trying to run some kind of a “religion conversion” racket; people love jumping at conclusions on such subjects. There are lots of peacock running free inside the premises of my institute and the sisters told me whenever they heard the peacocks cry out, they remembered me as they knew the sound was coming from my institute. I felt sad, really sad. To me the kids now had better four walls to live in but were being denied the affection and care they enjoyed at Navjeevan. Additionally there are these other kids, who need just as much love but also need someone to show them the right path and undo the damage that circumstances has done to their impressionable minds. The kids seem happier than ever, they’re not as restricted as they were. They love the freedom but don’t realize the harm that might occur to their lives if they’re not guided well. They don’t seem to bathe regularly anymore, most of them were dirty and enjoying the mellow fruitlessness of the autumn that seems to have engulfed their dwelling.

Branded air filter Vs unbranded one

My electra has done 19200+ kms in a year. I first got its air-filter changed in its 15K Kms servicing. I had no clue about the type of RE air-filters available and didn’t once suspect the vendor of not informing me adequately enough on this. He sold me one and I paid 80 bucks for it; no questions asked since the guy sells RE genuine parts. Of late, I have developed an interest to enhance my bulls performance and I have replaced the stock exhaust pipe with a shorter one and removed the baffles from the silencer and the down-pipe (AKA bend). My mechanic (his name’s Lucky) told me that such tweaks require the blocking of the PAV; so the PAV was blocked. The blaring sound finally produced (they call it “thump”) gives me a headache when I ride the bike with my ears shielded under a full face helmet but I must admit that the bike rocks…and roll it does. I went on to explore what else could be done with the bull and apart from throwing money on synthetic engine oil (that would cost 2000 bucks as opposed to the decent Quartz oil I buy that costs ~600 bucks), I found that I could “invest (!??!)” in a K&N filter (Model R1100 is supposed to add a MOJO to the bull…R1060 isn’t meant for the bull but for smaller bikes). I talked to the K&N dealer based in Mohali (near Chandigarh) and he told me that the thing would R1100 would cost somewhere 2400+. Considering that I paid 80 bucks for the regular AF, this NEWS made me melancholic but then a K&N is a K&N even if costs 30 time more. It has it’s huge advantages of being some arbitrary-massive-times more efficient than the stock filter and being perpetually usable; yes you buy a K&N just once, wash it and oil it (I do not know how much oil is used or it’s cost because this is something you’ll have to keep buying) for the rest if it’s life (which, going by the way they advertise it, would last beyond the extinction of mankind). “It would add power and mileage to your bike” the dealer enlightened me.
Knowingly I have never used inferior quality material for my bike but K&N and synthetic oil are things categorized as “Performance Products”, not meant for the bourgeoisie. With a heavy heart I accepted the fact that I couldn’t buy a K&N now or in the near future because I spend way to much on the fuel and servicing already. I just moved on to buy a stock RE air filter.
I landed at a shop that sold “STEELBIRD” (the people that manufactured safety helmets in the past) manufactured air filter “for the Royal Enfield”. I went to another guy who sold an unbranded AF “for the RE”, just to know the difference. This one seemed distinctly narrower and quietly moved on. The Steelbird was being sold for 95 bucks and the unbranded for 70. The original RE AF was for 135 bucks but I still wanted to try something other than that. I crossed my fingers and bought the Steelbird. I still had the original RE AF that I first replaced lying in my room. When I compared the Steelbird to the original, they both appeared alike in weight, compressibility (I pressed it with between my hands), size and the foam quality (the orange stuff lining the side walls). I took off the AF from my bike and fitted the Steelbird AF. As I brought the old one to my room I sensed that it was distinctly inferior in quality and seemed lighter. So I got down to exploring the truth about what I was feeling; as much as my senses would allow me. When I kept this old AF (which was obviously unbranded) next to the older original RE AF, the difference is size was apparent. It was similar in width (unlike the other unbranded one I had seen in the market) but had a narrower profile. I held it in my hand and pressed it between my fingers and thumb…and without too much effort…Phuss! It deformed completely and the orange foam on its side cracked and started to fall apart. I tried doing it to the older original RE AF, I pressed as hard as I could but it didn’t show any signs of giving in at all. So the metal casing on the original was tougher, but I guess that’s not important when you’re talking about an air filter, it needn’t be tough, it just has to filter better…right? To I took the fake filter and easily plucked off the orange foam with my fingers, took pliers and without too much effort, removed both the inner and outer wire mesh. The original was a different story, I had difficulty removing the foam even with pliers; built quality was much superior. Also I realized that by the time I removed the wire meshes from the two AFs, the fake one’s paper-flter element got torn at two or three places whereas the original stayed put. Examining the filter paper element it was evident that the original had much more paper, more densely stacked as opposed to the fake. To me that’s a simple translation: More paper means more filter area present to filter more air and longer life. The amount of dirt that would clog the original would choke the life out of a fake much sooner and this would directly translate to lesser and dirtier air going to the engine.
Anyway the paper quality was different too and it goes without saying that the original seemed superior. So I end the analysis with an advice for people (like me) who blindly trust their friendly vendors: Keep your eyes open and gather as much knowledge as you can for your self, don’t trust overly greasy vendors who’ll laugh their way to the bank while the love of your life (your bike) gets screwed for the want of better care. I’m gonna get the AF replaced at every service I should be able to keep the bike running on clean air without burning a hole in my pocket in one go…till the time I can buy a K&N. I will then analyze the claimed advantages and write about it. So long!

All images have the fake AF followed by the original.

Found the following post on the "American" Royal Enfield website. I find it interesting and would love to know what all comes to your mind when you read this:

Date: July 24, 2005
Topic: new owner
Message: Just bought a 2005 military Royal Enfield in New york City and loving it. Great for getting out of the city and cruising along long islands beaches, not to mention the amount of traffic you stop in the city with a lost of Indian taxi drivers.
email: tmccosker@hotmail.com

Smokin' Stupor

It was quarter to three in the morning when I woke up, sweating excessively and feeling choked. I threw the blanket off me and the moment I opened my eyes, I realized that my room was filled with thick white smoke. I jumped out of bed and almost instinctively ran to the window to catch a breath of fresh air. I took two deep breaths and returned to see that my pillow was smoldering over the room heater. Apparently my bad habit of throwing the pillow in my sleep could’ve taken me to my final slumber. I quickly switched the heater off and moved the pillow to one side after which I re-rushed to the window to catch a few breaths. The smoke was so thick I could barely see anything and was causing severe burning sensation in my eyes. I opened the windows of my room, shut the door and went outside with the smoking pillow. From there I could see thick smoke coming out as if a fire was raging inside. I rushed to my parent’s bedroom to check if the smoke had made its way there, thankfully it hadn’t. I did not wake my parents as I thought I could handle the situation without trespassing on their peace. I re-entered my room, switched the fan on and came out again after shutting the door tightly. It was an hour before the smoke cleared and I could enter the room without asphyxiating myself.
By now sleep had returned after having been temporarily shooed away by adrenalin. I slept in the blanket that still smelled of smoke, I kept waking up startled every now and then thinking that the carbon-monoxide (probably absorbed into the blanket and the curtains and every porous object in the room), quietly forming a stable complex with my hemoglobin and rendering it incapacitated, was gently putting me to a sleep from which I’d never wake up. Every start that I woke up with was followed by a sigh of relief; I wasn’t dying.
The windows open and the fan running at lowest speed. The cold, the smell of the smoke, the street light from the open window shining into the eyes could’ve made a cadaver uncomfortable, but I, I just couldn’t remain awake any longer…maybe the fumes had gotten me…maybe…maybe it was a hard day’s night!

slot for blot

An unplanned experiment
To plug the boss's volcanic vent
When electrophoresis becomes the scape goat
It sounds like an orchestra that's lost it's note

With these quick calculations I pray
I will lead the boss's attention astray
These mangled ideas that pop like corns
Help me walk this path filled with thorns

These are thorns of insecurity

That help me gain maturity
So long as corn will pop
I'll crush the thorns and won't stop

I'll walk the road and reach my aim

Till I can walk I'll play this game

Merry Christmas

Yesterday, on Christmas, I attended the Church Service in Sector 18 after a many years . I remember attending this church (against my wish) since I was a kid. It'd been more than 5 odd years since I last visited the place. So familiar was I to the place that I when i entered the premises yesterday, it felt like I was still a regular member of the congregation. When I entered the hall, I was greeted by a few people (who still remembered me), with a big smiles and hugs. As the Service commenced, I was overjoyed to hear the familiar hymns and the zealous congregation singing really well. I was not too engrossed in the sermon though; it was soporific and extremely so. I was glancing around, looking for familiar faces and did many.

The first shock came in the form of Aaron George, Abraham's son. The last time I saw him, he was a squeaky little boy reaching barely 5 feet in height, now he's almost 16 and 5'8"! When I wished me "Merry Christmas", I wished him back and didn't take my eyes off him, for this face was almost familiar...almost! Then I almost shouted in disbelief "Arnie"!! He smiled and said "Yes"

The second and the more severe of the shocks came when I saw a guy (don't remember his name anymore) who I used to play with as a kid (he's my age). I saw him standing some distance away, he was stooping, had a big paunch, had a woman standing next to him (which I later learnt was his wife) and the guy looked 10 years elder to me...either that or I'm in a state of denial!!!!!!!!!!

Dad and I went to meet Bhatti uncle today. He and dad have been friends from college days. My dad met with a serious accident 6 months ago; he lost two of his toes and nearly lost his foot. Mr. Bhatti underwent a bypass surgery 12 days ago. We were greeted by the sad and wrinkle faced Mrs. Bhatti, my parents tell me she used to be very beautiful when she was young. Every time I meet her I try to picture how that could’ve been possible and I’m sometimes convinced that she must’ve been. Actually I do rememeber what she used to look like when I was a kid. But when I see her now, I can't relate that face to this lady. Mr. Bhatti however was a well maintained healthy man...till very recently. We went in and met Mr Bhatti; stopping and weak, this wasn’t the picture I carried of him all these years. I was in a state of shock; I’d never seen him this feeble. I saw the endless sutures on his leg and chest; he really was cut open wasn’t he!! He had three coronary artery blockages that were “fixed”. Dad and Mr. B talked about their status quo for a long time.
I wondered what they discussed 35 years ago!

That's me eh?

The trip from Chandigarh to Dehradun wasn't very uneventful except for a small mishap! Going downhill on the road after crossing Nahan, i was oblivious to the fact that the road very slippery (unbelievably so). The bike hadn't given any trouble on any of the steep curves. This time I was damn slow. As soon as I turned, the front tire lost traction; the moment I realized that I was about to fall I said a million prayers for my buddy sitting behind me....hoping that his head wouldn't have hit on the road or his leg wouldn't have come under the bike...we were dragged for a short distance along with the bike. I do not how how i manouvered my body but for some reason when I got up, I wasn't hurt at all, I picked up the bike instantly, the bike was ok too, not a scratch (incredible again) except for a twisted footrest. In fact the engine didn't die out either, it was happily chugging when I put it on stand. The road was so slippery so it didn't graze us but my buddy took some blow on his shoulde. I was very cautious the rest of the way. We went to Dehrahun and then returned to Herbertpur where my sister lives. In all we covered 250 Kms that day travelling through field, hills, forest, towns (quite a variety there).
My arse was sore but that was nothing compared to my right calf, which was killing me. The bike had stalled 3 times the previous night and it took more than 50 odd kicks everytime to start it; my calf's not used to this kind of a beating (4 days past and it's still very sore). But the sad fact is that throughout the time I was in Herbertbpur, I completely forgot about my buddy who's one of those few people who doesn't seek attention when in pain. I was tired and in pain myself. I spent that evening and the next morning happily talking to my mate but never once asked him how he was, whether his shoulder was hurting. All this despite recalling the event many times.
I didn't know I was so inconsiderate!
Just incredible how you think that there's nothing wrong with you...till the time something like this happens.

Worldwide survey was conducted by the UN. The only question asked was:"Would you please give your honest opinion about solutions to the food shortage in the rest of the world?"

The survey was a huge failure,

In Africa they didn't know what 'food' meant,
In India they didn't know what 'honest' meant,
In Europe they didn't know what 'shortage' meant,
In China they didn't know what 'opinion' meant,
In the Middle East they didn't know what 'solution' meant,
In South America they didn't know what 'please' meant,
And in the USA they didn't know what 'the rest of the world' meant!

Past revisited

A visit to the Chandigarh Art Gallery and Museum made me rethink why I hated the subject of History with all my heart in schooldays. In school, I couldn't understand why we were looking at the seals and figurines made/ used by people who lived a couple of thousand of years before us. Why did I have to spend my time trying to remember something that was so old and apparently of no use to anymore.

For some unknown reason, I was yearning to go and read about Chandigarh's Harrapan civilization connection. This city is small and well planned but most people that live here have no interest in visiting places like the Art Gallery/Museum. Since I was born here, I thought it would be a good idea to finally learn something that was free to public yet so well hidden (out of shear uninterest on the part of the denizens).

Time and timing both are important

Be gentle on my curves! O ye curves, be gentle on me.

Yesterday I rode up to Chail, a beautiful town in the state of Himachal Pradesh. The return journey was harrowing. To sum up the danger I was in, I’d just mention that I was in a delirium while riding; I was half asleep in the latter part of the journey back home. The curvy hilly roads were as dangerous as the frequent potholes that embellished it. Riding on low beam I could see the potholes that I was headed for, but not the direction in which the road turned, and the reverse in the high beam. Consequently, I had to keep the dipper pressed on with my index finger and release it for the time there was someone coming from the opposite direction. The shock absorbers took a serious beating, so did my butt, back, shoulders and arms. My ears and neck were hurting from having the helmet on for more than 12 hours. And just to make things more difficult for me, the oncoming traffic mostly comprised of doggone-idiots who did not keep their beam low.

Try to imagine this:

You start the ride a little sleep deprived from the previous night.

you’re desperately trying to stay on the curvy road trying to focus hard to keep a lookout for potholes (pot-wells actually). Every once in a while a broken patch of road or a deep pothole suddenly appears from nowhere and you go over it…JHANK!! Was that the bike or your bones? You don’t know!

you’re going at a reasonably high speed for hills (45-60 kmph),
with your index finger you’re maneuvering the dipper (keeping it pressed most of the time),

you’re dogging traffic and constantly shifting gears from 3rd to 5th,
you have a heavy pillion rider (nearly a 100 kgs) who is incessantly complaining of a sore butt. He can’t help it, the rear seat is a massive torture, especially on such roads.

Your whole body is hurting; in fact an involuntary action sets in whereby your body has started to shut down. Some part of your brain is battling to keep the eyelids open but the eyes themselves have almost lost contact with the rest of your brain.

The oncoming lights become hazy and you’re trying hard not to fall into a gorge that’s just a few feet (sometimes inches) away from you.

You cannot stop, you must reach home. You’ve gotta be back in your lab and do that little experiment that you thought you’d do when you reached at an earlier time…unfortunately you’re calculations, owing to some friendly advice, has gone horribly wrong.

You stop to pee and recognize the landmark; Ah!! The hills are finally going to end…unfortunately that’s just your brain playing tricks on you! That place is still far away! You start again and do not understand why, after an hour, you’re still riding on the confounded hills.

On the dividerless highway, you are blinded by the highbeams, it seems like there’s no place to go, I seem to going in the wrong direction…wait, that’s just a couple of cars in the wrong lane while negotiating a dangerous overtaking procedure.

You get pushed off the road a couple of times by the aforementioned…the other option is to die.

You’re body’s shutting down more and more with the passage of time; home is still far away.

SCENE 2- You’ve reached home. How? You don’t know!

SCENE 3- You're in your lab at 12 midnight, thinking if such adventures should be banned for PhD students...scientists die old, don't they!

I just have one thing to say at the end of it all:
Chail’s beautiful!

...one more thing, i'd do it all over again...yeah, but wouldn't start sleep deprived.

short city ride

It so happened that my old friend Harman touched home shores after 8 months of sailing in the icy waters of scandinavia. He owns a standards bullet and I, an electra 5S. After a week's rest H wanted to go for a ride. I however have been keeping so busy lately that a long distance ride was impossible to undertake. So on the night of 9th August, i.e. last friday, we set out aimlessly at around 8pm. Chandigarh wasn't the most crowded of the places till around 5 years ago but these days its a different story. Innumerable traffic lights, roundabouts and newly-acquired-money has metamorphosed the traffic scenario altogether and the scenario is at it's worst at office hours and friday nights. We moved through the packed traffic that had barely enough meandering passages to accomodate our bulls. Finally we left the traffic jams behind as we left Madya Marg behind and moved towards Sukhna Lake. The bulls seemed relaxed too and we cruised at 60kmph on the, broad, well-made roads of the city-beautiful. It was extremely humid and the only way to keep cool was to keep riding. The sound of the two bulls reverberated on the empty roads lined with trees. It felt like a reverie. Only once in a while did Harman and I make any kind of eye contact, it was was as if we were cruisuing reassured by the heartbeats of our bulls. As we reached the long stretch of the lake road, we increased the speed a bit and sped down, crossing the lake and the governor-house and took a left turn to dark, secluded alley that moves to the backside of the lake. The road was dark and not very well paved, we rode till we reached one of the two parking lots, it was pitch black. Two couples that were enjoying the seclusion were starlted and pushed off the moment we stopped our bikes (c'mon guys we're not policemen!!). As I mentioned before, it was pitch black, the air was humid and very still. On one side were thick bushes and the land was raised (that's the side where the lake is situated), the other side was plain...and that's all we could see. We both layed down on our bikes, head up; the view of the sky, from between the sparse canopy of the trees was phenomenal. As we gulped down the stout-beer, my sailor friend told me about the constellations and how he was taught to navigate using the stars; it was all greek to me. There staring at the stars we started talking of the old days, of our college days and the ex-girlfriends we had...we've been friends for the past decade and had spent the glory-days together. Now that I'm almost 29, I realised how much we had changed over the years, how much our situation had changed; I don't fall in love as frequently as I used to...not at all actually and I've started believing that short term relations are much better. HA! we were just glad to have lost all those chicks (emptied our hearts and filled our brains for good) and found our "own selves"...happy to be riding alone, yet together...the Loner Males. So we pushed off...and chugged for another 3 hours through the City that we were born in and the City that we love. When I reached home way past midnight....Ma was angry!

It’s a nightmare; wake me up.

From a distance, I saw the naughtiest of the girls at the children’s home, Seema, weeping inconsolably; I had never ever seen he cry till this day. I was clueless till I saw in the bustling swarm of kids, to my utter surprise, her mother sitting next to her. The three kids, two sisters and a brother, Seema, Reena and Rinku, stay at the Children’s Home. As I went closer, I saw that her mother was injured; she had bandages from her right brow-ridge up to her hairline. Her clothes were stained with blood. I enquired from Sister Kalyani about the cause of her condition. She told me that the landlord had beaten her up since she didn’t have money to pay the house rent. Her kids were visibly disturbed; Rinku was quiet and stayed away from his mother but kept staring at her with unblinking eyes, Reena too was in a state of shock (apparently it all happened in her presence when she’d gone home), she wasn’t crying but had a blank look in her eyes and Seema became hysterical on seeing her mother all bloody and bruised. Only when Riti turned up did Seema do her final bit of crying (after hugging her). I think these kids grew-up a little today. As kids, parents seem like huge boulders, all powerful and capable of doing anything. As you grow up, you realize that they have to fight a daily battle to sustain the creatures they gave life to.
Navjeevan Children’s Shelter, run by The Don Bosco Society, has its own set of tales to tell the world. It’s a home for destitute kids who are not orphans, but whose parents cannot keep them due to poverty. They range in age from approximately 4 to 13 years. There were older boys but they were all sent away to a less equipped place which housed boys only. These are stories of children who were given life, but “time and chance” brought them to this shelter, away from their parents. Take for example Karan and Deepa, the newest “acquisition”. Their father is about to die of AIDS and mother too is HIV +ive. The kids are healthy and unaffected by the virus but they have nowhere to go since the parents can’t keep them.
Tomorrow Seema’s mother will go to seek the Governor’s help. She’ll start another day to wade through the life that’s so messed up. God knows if the father of these kids is safe; he’s paraplegic and runs an STD pay phone business under a tent. He moves around in a hand-pedaled three wheeled cycle, I pray to God that that landlord doesn’t target him.

purge it

I had no idea about the low-quality, high-volume mental excreta I had gradually accumulated on my blog...not till the time I found my name on the pages of HT... that was an emergency call man! I logged on and saw realized that my blog needed some summer cleaning.
Gosh it's not good to write at night in a semi-conscious state; you tend to go on and on writing utter nonsense!

The boy in home science

Ah! I guess I can take some time off to pen a few things down (actually punch em in). Its strange how much and how well I used to write when I was undergoing an emotional turmoil a year ago. The talent just seems to have disappeared now, now that I've been keeping extremely busy. Anyway it's been a long time that I haven't written anecdotes from the past on my blog.

I'll just tell you about the time when I was in 9th standard. I was one of the (may "the") quietest boy in the class (rather throughout the schooldays). When we were asked to choose between the subjects of Home-Science, Physical Education and Computers, I choose Home Science. This was due the fact that I found computers too boring and used to play basketball every evening for 4-5 hours at the Sec-46 Stadium so I didn't see the point in joining pys-ed at school. I was the only boy in HS, and since I was so introvert, had hardly ever talked to any of the class girls (even most boys for that matter). The girls found me extremely shy and quiet. Once I was standing and one of the girls (I remember her name "Deepali") threw a chalk at me. As my rotten luck would have it, it landed right above my crotch and left a clear white mark on my dark grey pants. Deepali burst out laughing which made the other girls look towards me...n down there...n they burst out laughing too. I got really embarassed and could feel the perspiration on my forehead and the feel the heat emanating from my ears.

That wasn't the only prob I faced in HS class. Once my teacher asked me to bake and bring an eggless cake. This was a major prob for me. You see I used to live alone with my dad and we could barely manage to make palatable food, let alone cakes...that too eggless ones which I had no clue about how they were made. "What the hell can replace an egg?" I thought to myself...I couldn't imagine as egg was my staple diet, the only things that dad and I knew how to prepare well. Anyway I finally baked a cake with eggs and didn't know that the cake was meant to be given to the principal who was a strict vegetarian. Of course they found out that the cake had eggs...and I went into a state of denial....and inside I was cursing myself for having enrolled in this stupid class.


Once our HS teacher was on leave so the HS girls decided they'd go to the football ground and play. I was happy, I thought they were gonna play football. I realized later that they had other plans. They started to play what the li'l children's game "A FARMER IN THE DEN, A FARMER IN THE DEN...HEY HO THE...BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH" I was utterly shocked..."how could 14 year old girls play the games of 8 year olds??" I sure was perplexed. From the corner of my eye, I watched the boys play basketball in the most horrible way possible. "I could teach those idiots" I thought to myself. None of them knew that I actually played pro because I never talked to anyone and never did tell anyone about it.
While I was lost in my thought, I saw the swarm of HS girls headed towards me!! "Run" I told myself out of instinct. But I was cornered. They started bullying me by ordering me to sing a song for them. I hadn't sung since 6th standard after a very bad performance left me completely embarrassed. "I'll die but I won't sing", I had vowed. So they gave me 2 options, "either sing for us or come and play with us"....boy the decision was simple, no matter how embarrassing. So they made me the farmer and made a circle around me and sang and danced around me. This was such a sight that the boys left their game and watched with their jaws drooping. Now that I think of it, my class girls were actually being nice to me. They wanted me to open up and live like a normal kid, but my family situation was such that I never could open up to anybody. I'm a completely different person now, I wish I could meet them and be friends with them again, but it's just a silly wish!

Anyway, after this episode I begged the principal to consider my case and shift me from HS to Physical Education; he conceded. Once in PhysEd, I showed them how to play basketball...and for the first time in my life, guys actually wanted to befriend me. I was so happy to be HOME! Finally I was accepted. But I always remained quite despite it all...well! At least they liked me! It was so important for me back then.
Surely I've changed now!
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