Weis, Tricks, Vulcans, and Pencils

The Tao that can be spoken is not the eternal Tao – Lao Tzu.

Tao means ‘the way’. So apparently, while they revered him as a spiritual guru, no one in China ever asked him for directions when they saw him on the street.

Imagine. You are on a way to an interview, to meet the Grand Panjandrum in Lao Tzu’s city. You are applying for the job of imperial street sweeper, and carrying one of those long bamboo sticks with bristles at the other end, meant to sweep up debris from the public byways. Never call a broom, a broom (or an earth inverting implement, with a long handle and grip on one end, and a metal plate attachment at the other end –  a spade, if you can help it. It will help when you finally set up your own consultancy startup. Word to the wise). You are already ten minutes late, sweating, and shitting bricks (I have always wondered about that metaphor – you would have to have a rather specialized assembly line, to produce those. Just saying). 

Your parents are going to kill you, if you do not get this prestigious job. “Look at your brother! He has already made it to chief chopstick inspector. And he looks decent and respectable. Wears his long hair in a queue, like any proper young man should do. You sit around with your short hair, and play the Guquin all day.  No, you are never going to play the background during Jet Li fight sequences! Do not come back if you do not get this job!”. No one seems to know the right way to reach the office. You run up to this venerable old man, who from the look in his eyes, is self-realized. He KNOWS. “Please tell me the way to the panjandrum’s office?!”. “The way that can be spoken, is not the eternal way machan.” Guess where the broom goes?

Oh, and remember to thank whatever forces you believe in, that you do not have to study Chinese history. This is an actual excerpt from Wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gao_Huan):

“In spring 543, another sexual wrongdoing by Gao Cheng would lead to a new campaign between Eastern Wei and Western Wei. The official Gao Zhongmi (高仲密, Gao Aocao's brother), already fearful over his situation because one of Gao Cheng's major assistants, Cui Xian (崔暹), had tried to pick his faults after he divorced Cui Xian's sister, was further aggravated when Gao Cheng tried to rape his second wife, Li Changyi (李昌儀). He therefore surrendered the important garrison of Hulao (虎牢, in modern Zhengzhou, Henan) to Western Wei. Yuwen led his troops to try to come to Gao Zhongmi's aid and further again seize the entire Luoyang region, but was repelled in a major battle near Luoyang, during which both Yuwen and Gao Huan were nearly killed in battle, with Heba Sheng, then a Western Wei general, nearly killing Gao with a spear. (In retaliation, Gao Huan later had all of Heba's sons who remained in Eastern Wei territory executed.) By summer 543, the Western Wei forces had withdrawn, and the entire Luoyang region was again under Eastern Wei control.”

Yes. That made things very clear, thank you. And that, is one paragraph. Your history unit test? It would have been on a few hundred such incidents, if not more. But they do seem to have lived it up, don’t they? This Wei, and that Wei…  Anywei, moving on… That said, let us begin.

I am back after a long lowatus (I am never high), thanks to this friend of mine. So, this same really ‘cool’ friend asked me today, if I had ever done any of those silly conjuring tricks when I was in school (Just for the record, cool in Tamil, is jillu. Cruisin’ for a bruisin’, right there…. LOL!). I told her I had not. But I did see one of the greatest magic tricks ever performed, when I was in the seventh standard. Yes, I went to school, all you doubting Thomases and Lot’s wives! No. Not lotsa wives. She was the lady who turned back to look at Sodom, and was transformed into a pillar of salt. Sodom being a little relevant to the said magic trick (Rather coincidentally). To the disappearance trick, forthwidth (No, not a typo. Wait for it)!

Three of us were sitting on the bench, with me on the extreme left (You will see how this incident created my phobia of these ‘centrists’). The kid on the extreme right was asked a question, and stood up to answer. My friend who was at the center, had just sharpened his pencil, and was looking at it the way Good Will Hunting probably looked at the math problem on the blackboard, before solving it. And just as the rightist sat down, the centrist placed the pencil under him, with extreme dexterity, and care. Sharp point up. And voila! Exit – the pencil. It disappeared! I shit thee not (Rather inappropriate usage of metaphor in this case, I admit), gentle reader, whilst thou cringe.

In his defense (The penciller’s, not the penicillin’s), it was a rather small one. The pencil, that is. We used pencils till they became stubs. Ummmm….  I shall cease and desist on that point – the imagery is not too conducive to how much we actually knew anything, about the birds and the bees (See earlier post explaining this – if you have the patience). But, damn! The pencil disappeared. I cannot stress this enough. But then, neither could the guy who received it.

A turning point in my life, because that was the first time I heard Scandinavian Black Metal vocals. Even more, that boy could have grown up to be Mariah Carey’s voice trainer. I mean, the dogs for a few square meters around the school went berserk, because of the pitch of his voice. No. You should use a dog whistle instead. Do not try this at home. Or anywhere else, for that matter. This trick was actually pretty straight. Not a revolution, or thankfully, even a rotation. But it lent a whole new interpretation to the expletive ‘up yours’. This was no mere pencil pusher, who performed the trick.

Talking of which, have you heard about QUASARs? ‘Quasi Stellar’ objects? They apparently are the result of mass from the core of a surrounding galaxy, under the influence of the black hole's gravity, falling onto the black hole's accretion disk. I saw one that day. That goddamned pencil was definitely Quasi Stellarse!

And talking about space travel, and new dimensions that you arrive in by travelling through a black hole… I wonder where that pencil ended up. We will probably have to watch Inter Stellarse, to find out. I mean, that pencil… It was the Starship Enterprise’s equal – “to boldly go where no man had gone before”! I bet you that kid probably never watched a single episode of Star Trek for the rest of his life, without forwarding the intro. And, I also bet you he was glad Mr. Spock was not around. Let us look at this situation in the context of a few of Mr. Spock’s famous quotes:

“You speak of the objective hardness of the Vulcan heart, yet how little room there seems to be in yours.” Yes, Mr. Spock. But unfortunately, the human arse too, has no room for the objective hardness of a pencil.

“That position Mr. Scott, would not only be unavailing, but also undignified.”  Say that to someone who is bent over with a pencil stuck in his arse, Mr. Spock. I dare you. I double dare you!

“The fact that my internal arrangement differs from yours, doctor, pleases me to no end”. That is exactly what the kid did not say to the doctor, after arriving at the hospital. And can we stop talking about ‘ends’ already, Mr. Spock??!! Thank you, very much.

“It is curious how often humans manage to obtain that which you do not want.” Ya think, Mr. Spock??? Here I was, always dreaming I would obtain a pencil in my colon.

“Has it occurred to you that there is a certain inefficiency in constantly questioning me on things you’ve already made up your mind about?” Aw gee, I am sorry Mr. Spock… I just asked you if that is a pencil stuck up my arse. I mean, it sure feels like one. But you see, I just seem unable to turn around, and see it.

“Captain, I see no reason to stand here, and be insulted”. Stop complaining Mr. Spock! I probably will not be able to sit down for a long time to come.

“An ancestor of mine maintained that if you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the solution.” No shit Sherlock? Literally. And what do you think the pencil up my arse is Mr.Spock? Impossible, or improbable? Because it sure feels possible, and very painfully prob(e)able.

“Fascinating is a word I use for the unexpected; in this case, I think interesting would suffice.” You know, I would have gone with interesting too, Mr. Spock. Really. You have no idea how much I expected this to happen. Interesting….

“Captain, your analysis of the situation was flawless – anticipating that she would deny you admittance. However, the logic by which you arrive at your conclusion escapes me.” I anticipated denial of admittance too Mr. Spock. But the evidence by which I arrived at this conclusion, is something that refuses to escape me.

“You may find that having is not so pleasing as wanting. This is not logical, but it is often true.” Well, let me enlighten you Mr. Spock. In this situation neither wanting, or having, are pleasant. I know what I am talking about. Believe me.

“It is somewhat stimulating. You seem to be moving very slowly, doctor. Fascinating.” Not even bothering with the response to this one. ROTFLMAO!!!

It was magic all the way. Here’s the proof: “Every great magic trick consists of three parts or acts. The first part is called "The Pledge". The magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards, a bird, or a man (Or a pencil). He shows you this object. Perhaps he asks you to inspect it to see if it is indeed real, unaltered, normal (And unsharpened). But of course, it probably is not. The second act is called "The Turn". The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary (How can you disagree with this?). Now you're looking for the secret... but you won't find it, because of course you're not really looking. You don't really want to know (You know you don’t want to look. You know you don’t to know). You want to be fooled. But you wouldn't clap yet. Because making something disappear isn't enough; you have to bring it back (Aye, and there is the difficult part). That's why every magic trick has a third act, the hardest part, the part we call "The Prestige".” QED.

Let me leave you with some more really ‘straightforward’ information to ‘chew on’. “A pencil marked “HB” is hard and black, a pencil marked “HH” is very hard, and a pencil marked “BBB” is really, really black! Today, however, most pencils using the HB system are designated by a number, such as 2B, 4B or 2H to indicate the degree of hardness. For example, a 4B would be softer than a 2B and a 3H harder than an H.” 

No, you perverts. I do not know what kind of a pencil it was, to this day. 

LCN, Birds and Bees, Ostrohips and Hairy Plodder

"Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pitch and moment in this regard their currents turn awry and lose the name of action."

- Shakespeare (Hamlet)

I sort of like that line a lot... difficult to understand.. but has nice ring to it, wot? I think what the Hamlet dude is saying, is something to the effect of "Wassup?" I maybe wrong of course, and he may be talking about the deforestation of the Amazon basin and how it affects the 'natives'. Or whether the ball will spin because of the showers on the 'pitch' yesterday... Or that electricity/'current' supply in Bihar is not up to the mark... Or the new 'action' flick Rambo, sucks... Take your pick... And that said let us begin.

I've been planning this one a long time, and now it's time to deliver. And before you ask, no, I am not a part time gynaecologist. I owe Sheetal this post, big time. As a taggee (person who's been tagged - my contribution to the queen's English), I was supposed to answer five questions, all of which are things I'd rather not address in my usual, serious, concise prose (posts on family, friends, love etc.). Not because of anything else, but for the fact that I value my miserable hide. I'd make very poor shoes or handbags or sofa upholstery. Especially, family. I mean the LCN (No, not Liver Candy Nose, its La Cosa Nostra) can't shine a candle to my family when they get it into their minds to enforce Omerta..... "Sleeping with the fishes" would seem a lovely holiday. Can you imagine waking up to make your own coffee? AAAAAA!!!! Yes, I'm a lazy bastard.... but on the other hand...unlike y'all, I 'wake up and smell the coffee'. So, who's a bigger idiom, now?

Talking about 'sleeping with fishes' (sticking to my usual habit of sticking to one topic - laser focus ha, ha), apparently mermaids used to seduce sailors in days of yore.Ummmm.. aren't mermaids supposed to be fish from the waist down?? So, how would a mermaid seduce... Well, to each man, his own.... But if any of my learned audience can figure out how this was done, do write in...and fill in what seems to be a vital gap in my knowledge of the birds and the bees (and mermaids apparently).

On another related topic why 'birds and bees' I always wondered. I mean most of my knowledge on the subject was from wildlife documentaries, in general. And of course, from flowers touching each other at crucial times during song sequences in true Indian movie fashion, in particular. Like any competent Indian adolescent (I could be wrong here - about the 'competent' bit and probably also the 'any' bit), I'd assumed that that's what really happened. Which on the whole didn't do me any good. Ever see this documentary where the female praying mantis bites off the head of the male, while in the act of procreating, or the one which has huge ugly Elephant seals cavorting on the beach?? Well, all things considered, not the best of images. According to the all seeing oracle, governing my life (in this particular instance it goes by the name of 'Wikipedia', usually it goes by the name 'the missus') the terms 'birds and bees' comes from a Cole Porter song (which was titled 'Let's do it' - interesting coincidence wot, wot?). Apparently the lines go like this:

Birds do it, bees do it
Even educated fleas do it
Let's do it, let's fall in love

At least, there is something to be said for educated fleas. They're also called MBA's, apparently. Consequently the song could be re-written to be "Even MBA's do it". And if they do it, anyone can. Obviously - remember George Dubya Bush is an MBA from Harvard - the very first American president to hold that degree - need I say more?? But why 'birds and bees' I fail to see. Why not 'Hippopotami and Ostriches'? (I don't seem to have lost my 'Ostrich Fantasy' as Sheetal calls it...) Hmmm... can you imagine the outcome if a Hippo and an Ostrich did it? Apart from presumably, a squished Ostrich. An Ostrohip, perhaps? This would probably be something for the next Harry Potter book. There will obviously be another one (would you give up on such a big money spinner, even if you were Rowling in the stuff, like J.K currently is?)

Speaking of which, here are some plausible plots for the next book/movie in the long and boring (and largely unknown parts of the) history of Hairy Plodder, Herwhiny Grunger, and Runt Measly:

Warning: Rated PGA (Parental Guidance Advised) - I could never figure out why parents would 'guide' their children to see or hear any stuff rated PGA or which kid would ask his parents for 'guidance' about this new tape thats got some really 'nice, new' words, or that video featuring the latest Playboy Bunnies??!! As far as these things went, in my era, we used to to consider them PGA too. But PGA stood for Parental Guidance Avoidable.

Anyways, if the PGA tag hasn't piqued your curiosity and made you want to read on... God help you.

Hairy, Herwhiny and Runt together discover a radical new method of lighting up their long, dreary and unnecessary nocturnal adventures at Warthogs, without using their wands. The movie of the book is a blockbuster... Eminem does the 'incendiary' title track, covering a number by his 'dear friend' Elton John and summarizing the radical new method of lighting ... "Candle in the ass" goes multi-platinum!!

Hairy and Herwhiny experiment extensively on Runt Measly, and prove that the fourth deadly curse can be used to cure certain conditions. They patent it and become millionaires. Runt Measly is never known by the same name again. 'Lettherebe Viagra!!" is an 'outstanding' success!

Principal Dumbodork perceives the great threat to Hairy’s life and proceeds to instruct him in the only skill that will help Hairy overcome the odds. Hairy is instructed in the ancient art of ‘buggery’ (that’s Chinese magic for getting rid of Mosquitoes, and not anything else you might be thinking of).

Hairy moves to another game, which has simpler rules than Quidditch. A leader flies around the field trying to catch an Ostrohip, which predictably cannot fly, while opposing team members pair off as klotzwinkles (centre right backward positions), who try to sing the Warthog anthem while drinking fermented dragon milk at the same time, boozetinkles (up, down and anywhere positions), who try to goose each other with their wands while trying to prevent the klotzwinkles from singing, by banging loudly on the drums that are carried by the swingledingles (there go your goolies position), who try to stop the leader (I’ve lost my marbles position) by giving him broomstick wedgies. No one wins until everyone loses. Games often continue for days, by which time the leader develops a castrato tone due to the number of wedgies. This may be the reason the game is called Squishit.

Hairy discovers that he can speak Parsley tongue, the language of vegetables. The rest of the book is a conversation between him and a stalk of Spinach. The book is considered to be more interesting all the other Hairy Plodder books put together. The fans lap it up as unquestioningly, as usual. The book is critically acclaimed and gives rise to a huge burst of demand for Spinach. Third world agrarian countries prosper. J.K Rowling wins the Nobel Prize for Economics (the committee for the Nobel prize for literature having to be committed to an asylum after reading the book).

If you’re a Harry Potter fan, and would like to see me in the near future, please do make an appointment. I’m in the process of collating reasons why I’d rather not meet you in person (refer line on shoes, handbags and sofa upholstery in para 2).

Idiots, Ostriches, Alfred.E.Neuman, Spaceships and Parathas

"Mit der Dummheit kämpfen die Götter selbst vergebens". (Against Stupidity, the Gods Themselves Contend in Vain)

- Friedrich von Schiller, Jungfrau von Orleans (Maid of Orleans)


This guy (Schiller) was apparently a contemporary of Goethe. The surprising thing is that he got this at an age when I would assume there were lesser number of idiots around. I shall prove this conclusively in the following part of this blog (assuming that proof is required for something that I, Mahesh, contend is true...). Yes, all this and modesty too... That said, let us begin.


But first, after a long hiatus, I am back, and I'm sure all my readers who were clamoring for more are extremely gratified. There was a vast number of people (ummm.. OK!! Three, if you really MUST know!!! ) who respectfully enquired as to my health, when I took a brief respite from blogging. "Has he become sane" they wondered, "Has he stopped blogging" they wondered. And then they decided that it wasn't that big a loss to mankind, and went on with their lives. Genius should never expect to get appreciated in its own time. Actually, when I made a formal announcement to a certain section of my friends that I would be blogging again, they were deliriously happy, and there was dancing in the streets. It had nothing to do with the fact that we were all several pitchers of beer down (several pitchers each, not several collectively- you understand) that day, I'm sure (the dancing, not my blogging again). Hmmm... maybe 'deliriously' wasn't the best word to use in that context?


I'm concerned. Yes, me. For those of you who know me, this will be reason for concern - that Mahesh is concerned about ANYTHING. "I mean, this is the guy who's only major concern in life is walking straight!! And even that concern, only emerges after those looong Saturday night parties!! Well actually Sundays too.. and maybe another three or four days in the week.. but not too many, mind you...") Ah, gentle reader, as much as the Ostrich in my constitution tries to assert itself.... I am unable to bury my head in the sand and pretend that the problem does not exist.


OK, for those of you who are woefully uninformed about Ostriches (how anyone can not know about this in the present day and world I can't understand. I mean, after all, isn't the life and times of Ostriches part of every elementary schooling curriculum?), let me save you a trip to Wikipedia. For some time in the past it was assumed that the response of this avian equivalent of Einstein, to danger, was to bury its head in the sand and hope that it would go away (the danger, that is). A most educated response, I must say. On a completely different note, there's something that I've always wanted to do. Find an Ostrich with its head in the sand; give it a swift kick in the butt, and run away before it pulls its head out. Whoa! Now that's my idea of fun!! Well, for those of you who don't appreciate this, just picture yourself as the Ostrich, and your flow of emotions (and expletives) when this happens to you.. geddit? Ha, Ha! A word to the wise though. Apparently Ostriches kick, and a kick from an ostrich can apparently disembowel a Lion. So once you kick the Ostrich, you'd better run like you were the Ostrich, and your tail feathers were on fire. I mean, if it were to kick you a little lower, you wouldn't be disemboweled. You would be Dis-somethingelsed. And believe me, disemboweling would be better than getting dis-somethingelsed.


OK.. enough said about avian genius, lets move on to my pressing 'concern'. I see so much about 'Global Warming' 'Global Pollution Levels' 'Global Warfare' etc., and I'm concerned. Concerned that we're missing out on the biggest threat to all mankind. "Global Stupidity'.


There are signs all around us that people are becoming more and more stupid, and we just refuse to acknowledge this. And even if the rest of you don't see this happening, I do. Let me prove it to you. Over the last few years, the kind of statements that I hear around me/ questions I've been asked/people I've met, have led me to believe that while the amount of IQ in this world is constant, the number of people sharing it is steadily increasing. You go do the math. There was this friend of mine who asked me recently if I knew any men who were handsome, erudite and rich (and before you let your imagination wander... the friend was of the female gender. Wander about the friend, I meant, not about me. Obviously). "Erudite"??? I mean what kind of person 'digs' an 'erudite' male??? Sounds like some kind of fat person.. Well its any day better than 'Hirsute' I guess...Hmmm... anyways those kind of questions are the ones I'm talking about. The only person who I know answers that description (handsome erudite etc. not hirsute) is this iconic American called Alfred.E.Neuman (this time, no spoon feeding. Go Wiki!!). This youth has been at the forefront of the fight against stupidity since 1954 (and has aged surprisingly little).


His contributions to the fight against stupidity range from becoming the mascot of one of the most 'erudite' (do you hear me snigger?) magazines to come out since the dawn of time, to making earth shatteringly logical statements such as:


"It's not the ups and downs in life that are problem. It's the jerks"


and


"Most people have minds like concrete - all mixed up and permanently set"


Well, I didn't in all sincerity suggest Alfred to her. But yes, the fact remains that more and more people are asking questions like that. Just today, someone asked me "How do you maintain your beard?" I was stumped. I was tempted to say "I have this guy who comes in every weekend dude? And then gives me the works with a lawn mower and a pair of gardening shears... Amazing what those instruments can do". Well, I can't imagine what his reaction would have been, had I said this..(And no!! He gives my beard the works!!! My beard you hear??!! Before all your itinerant imaginations go to work again..) Well that question was actually tolerable. As compared to people, who come up to me when I'm eating and ask me "Having lunch a?". What does it look like?? "No, oh my god!! how could you even think that?? This is how I excrete." Or, "Had a hair cut a?" (the 'a' is mandatory in Indian English. I think it qualifies as a genitive form of the adverb declined in the past participatory tense. And its Geni 'tive' geddit? Geni 'tive'). My answer to the hair cut problem was "No, its winter. I usually moult in winter".


The high point came when some one mailed me recently and wrote "pls feel me for any clarification required". Excuse me?? What made it worse (in a perverse way of course...) was that this was from a male colleague.. Not that receiving such a statement from a female colleague would have me shouting from the rooftops in joy, I must confess. Well, this is when the stupidity barrier kicks in. The stupidity barrier is something like the "Jedi Force" (remember your physics? Electromagnetic, gravitic, weak, strong and Jedi forces? The five fundamental forces?) The effect of the barrier is to make you wish, that you lived "once upon a time, in a galaxy far far away" (if you can't connect Jedi force with that phrase... I have only one suggestion.. Wiki the phrase and look for specific topics that have 89.4% relevance. I'm assuming that if you've read this far, you don't have anything better to do)


So, in response to the mail, I put on my velvet smoking jacket, sat down and composed this exquisitely polite and immensely insulting mail to the interlocutor in question.(Does the use of 'interlocutor' make me an 'erudite' person? Hah!!) I expected him to cringe in discomfort, squirm in the throes of my masterly, rapier sharp, wit. I miscalculated.


What I received back as a response was broad sweeping swathe of utter imbecility, with a vote of thanks for having replied, a copy to my superior asking him if I was right, and of course and invitation to "feel me for any 'further' clarification" (punctuation inserted by author i.e. the person with whom your present interlocutor is in the habit of identifying with, by means of the perpendicular pronoun - in other words, they were inserted by I. Nice grammar there, wot?? More evidence of my erudition or your not having heard about Anthony Jay and Jonathan Lynn - take your pick. I'd prefer you pick the first option, though. "My erudition" - sounds kinky huh? ). Anyways, the stupidity barrier kicked in again. The man was simply impervious to sarcasm and wit. It was I who was left cringing and squirming at my inability to permeate the dense screen of idiocy surrounding him. I was also left cringing at my inability to kick him in the family jewels (goolies if you must... do ostriches have family jewels? Hmmmm....) resoundingly.


The cut to the chase being, that stupid people are impervious to the fact they are stupid!! There is nothing you can say, short of "you dumb m*&%af*%$a!!!" (And if you don't know what that means.. go figure. And no, I don't think wikipedia has a section on this particular turn of phrase). Does anybody realize that these people are breeding like mice? (if not Ostriches.. I shall keep the breeding habits of Ostriches for another day) And since they are in a majority already (stupid people, not ostriches - bird brains!!), one day this world is going to be run by them. In fact, there's enough evidence all around that it's already being run by them. Just watch the news on T.V for justification.


The only way to solve this problem is to leave them and fly away to another galaxy, far far away (to take a page out of Douglas Adam's book, but in the reverse - the idea, not the page). I have the plans for the spaceship. Donations are welcome. Once I have it built, I shall decide who gets to fly away. Depending on what kind of donations are received. Beer is the most favoured form of donation though, as it helps me think better on the intricacies involved in designing such an advanced technological invention. I've put in an order for a dozen Mice, three Pigeons, one Yeti, and of course, one Ostrich, to power the new bionic engine for this spaceship. If this doesn't impress you, and send you running to buy me beer, then I'm sorry. You'll just have to deal with being left behind; when all us smart people fly to the galaxy, far far away. Which connects in with my earlier point on being surprised at Von Schiller recognizing this epidemic of stupidity, so early in the century. There must definitely have been lesser idiots then, than exist now… Hence proved (Hah!!)


In the eternal words of my hero Alfred.E.Neuman, "A fool and his money are soon parted". In the eternal words of my hero Alfred.E.Neuman's biggest fan (me of course, do you really deserve a place on my spaceship??) "People who wake up in the morning, wondering whether to scratch their watches, or wind their asses are the world's biggest problem, today"


On a tangential topic, I came upon an alternate form of life a week ago. It was called a 'Kerala Paratha'. This thing insidiously cons you into putting it into your innards, and then clogs your internal plumbing for a minimum period of three days. The only way to dislodge it is a strong dose of "Kiwi Drainex" or some industrial strength pipe cleaning solution. You realize you've made a mistake, when you put it into your mouth and then realize that it has exquisite texture and subtle taste of a cycle tire left out in the sun for three and a half days. But by then, it has control over your mind and you have to swallow (add to it the fact that spitting food out isn't completely accepted in all levels of our society, even today). My only advise to you, the next time you see one of these things eyeing you is.. Run. And if you're in time, you might even catch the spaceship carrying all the clever people to the galaxy, far far away.

MBA's, Limbo, Global Warming and Dirty Harry

Major Major had been born too late and too mediocre. Some men are born mediocre, some men achieve mediocrity, and some men have mediocrity thrust upon them. With Major Major it had been all three. Even among men lacking all distinction he inevitably stood out as a man lacking more distinction than all the rest, and people who met him were always impressed by how unimpressive he was.
- 'Catch 22', Joseph Heller
I've always been impressed with Joseph Heller. And equally with the character of Major Major Major Major. Something about him brings about a sympathetic twinge (or is it empathetic?) in me. The funny thing about Catch 22 is that the first time you read that book, it's funny. The second time it's a serious book. The third time over its a very sad story. Funny, that. And that said, let us begin.

I know I have been neglecting my blog and have decided to come back with a bang. Hopefully the bang will not be due to 2 kg's of explosives packed beneath my toilet seat, by irate readers of my latest post. Come to think of it, with this post I have a higher probability of being gone with a bang. I'm treading on thin ice here. Come to think of it, I'm actually treading on no ice at all. But in the interests of moral convictions (Yes, surprise! surprise! I happen to have some. If you're interested, let me know, and for a convincing price I could sell them to you if you want some) I have decided to most nobly proceed with publishing my views. Man, I'm getting so noble these days, I make myself sick. Anyways, proceed at your own peril. While the views expressed here are entirely the author's, he asserts the right to not own up to them. Depending on who's asking . Especially if you're an MBA, six feet ten, built like a refrigerator and live within a 100km radius of Bangalore. I know deadly Kung Fu techniques and will not hesitate to use them at the least provocation. But just let me know before you knock on my door will ya? I need some time to reserve tickets, see?

It's a little weird. What is a little weird, you ask? I qualified as an MBA, some time back. The weird thing being that I qualified and not that the MBA is.

There are two kinds of people on the face of planet Earth. There are people and there are 'MBA's. For the poor souls out there, who haven't been fortunate enough to have done one (An MBA I mean, I know what all you dirty buggers thought immediately though, Ha Ha), this is my chance to gloat. You poor poor people! Y'all do know that you're not going to heaven don't you? They don't let people in there who're not MBA's. Most probably you guys ain't going to hell as well, considering the fact its probably overcrowded with MBA's already. I mean if lying were money, then us MBA's would be the richest people on the face of the Earth. Actually, we probably are. All those rich 'Finance' dudes, in white shirts and designer ties? Where do you think they learnt how to deceive all you naive people out of your money? At Sunday School? Anyways, the long and the short of the matter is that you peops are going to be stuck somewhere in limbo, between hell and heaven, gnashing your teeth, and screaming 'Amma, You were right! I should have prepared for CAT instead of watching _____ ". Fill in the blanks with the name of that cute girl next door/ the Rajini movie that came out during your era/ porn. You know the one I'm talking about. Serves you doubly right for not listening to your mother too. Though god help you if she ever came to know that you were watching porn. Your mother I mean, not the cute girl next door. Women may avoid filling up the blanks. I may be brave, but I'm not stupid. But, you'll also be stuck in limbo. There's no escaping that. Unless you're an MBA, of course

See, apart from consideration of the state of your mortal soul, another reason you're going to regret not having done your MBA, is that we MBA's are special. Some of you may have noticed that. Every time one of us walks into an organization we have this air of 'You small people better treat me with respect because I have these three alphabets attached to my name'. And no, the three letters are not A-S-S. Or S-O-B either, come to think of it. All you mere mortals will just have to deal with the fact that having those three letters behind us ( and this time its definitely not A-S-S), makes us better than all the rest of you. When we walk in to an organization there are only certain jobs or designations that should be assigned to us. Something preferably along the lines of "God of Strategy", or "Big Kahuna of Marketing" or better still "Chief Genius Savvy Financial Whiz". Anything lesser is an insult. Unfortunately most of the world doesn't seem to recognize this fact. Why this happens we can't understand. I mean an MBA can hardly be expected to work under such mundane titles as 'manager' or 'executive' can he/she? Come on! You know we can't. In the absence of the aforementioned favourable titles, we might just settle for CEO, CFO or CIO as a compromise. But it's still a compromise mind you. I hear however, that the rest of the world often refers to us as "Pompous P@#ck", "Smart Ass" or just plain "Will no one rid me of this bloody pain in my rectum". Well in all fairness, people with Piles, and people who have just been kicked in the ass, also often use the last epithet, and hence it may not be limited in its application to MBA's.
The one thing I've learnt as an MBA is that you can take the man (or the woman, to be politically correct, or wrong as you'll find when you read on) out of the MBA course, but you CANNOT take the MBA out of the person. MBA actually translates to 'Well I don't know much about reality, but I've learnt all this stuff after paying shitloads of money, so you guys'd better listen to what I have to say (never matter that it's not in the least relevant)'. Remember this the next time someone asks you a complicated question like "Nasty weather we're having, isn't it?". All you deluded souls would probably answer that question with a simple "Yeah duude!". It takes an MBA to see the intricate details involved in that situation and come up with an answer like " Well actually as part of the global warming scene and the El Nino effect and this low pressure thats been building up over Uganda, and due to the fractal nature of weather patterns and the butterfly effect and the fact that ruminants have been flatulating all over the world (non MBA's read: Cattle have been farting) excessively this quarter YOY (non MBA's read: recently), leading to a hydrocarbon buildup, I think this kind of weather pattern was rather inevitable at Bangalore'. Who's going to visit Uganda in the near future, or god forbid actually go and see whether the cattle in the neighbourhood actually..... You get what I'm saying right?

Which is one more reason why the world is so unorganized. In the ideal MBA world a spade would be 'an earth inverting gardening tool' and knife would be a 'segmentation utility'. Signs would say "To stop train, pull value chain" and "Connecting concrete structure spanning an underlying depression 10 minutes away measured YTD" (you'd be more familiar with 'bridge ahead'). What's the use of world that doesn't let you use 'underlying' 'spanning' and 'depression' in the same breath, I ask? Hah! And of course for the people who are labouring under the serious misapprehension that there is something called the real world, I have two words ( No, no, I meant 'Forget it'). The real world exists only in power point presentations. If you can't do a decent PPT ( oh, that's suave slang for 'power point presentation'. Learn this acronym. Its probably the most important thing in your life!), your life is wasted. Anybody who tells you otherwise is wrong, or has not done an MBA.

There are advantages to being an MBA, which are beyond the reach of the pitiful majority, who have not evolved to the next level (which is obviously - 'MBA'). An MBA is a pre-requisite to 'Consult'. 'Consulting' is the MBA equivalent of going out on a date with Salma Hayek, Isabelle Adjani and Juliette Binoche. At the same time. Which is kind of funny, because until before I did my MBA, I always thought this was something which my Doctor did to me when I had, say..... a stomach upset. He 'consulted' on me, nothing else, before you let your imagination run wild. And as a consultant you get to advise people on how to run their affairs. That is their day to day working, not anything exotic, let me stress. This way you get to experiment and since you've couched your advise in phrases like the ones above on the weather, once things go wrong, you can always say "I told you so". And if you're that kind of a person you can wiggle your index finger under the nose of the poor slob who's taking the axe for following your instructions, when you're saying it. What other job can offer this kind of emotional satisfaction? Nothing else, though being a professional beer taster might just make the mark.

If you can't be an MBA, you could always try to act like one. Here are a few tips:

The next time you want to ask that cute chick in the next cubicle out, try doing it the MBA way. Make a PPT listing the advantages of accepting your proposal (remember to add 'value chain' 'segmentation' 'options' and 'future (s)' in it somewhere) and send it to her. When you meet her next, arrogantly ask her "so where do we go babe?" The results I promise you, will be thrilling. Well, if not for you, then at least for the people in the next fifteen or so cubicles around you.

Remember to answer most questions with "It depends". Please avoid using this however, for certain questions like "What's your mother's name?" or "Will you marry me?" or "Do you have any contagious diseases?".

This is in case of a life threatening situation. If you and another person are stranded on a four feet lifeboat, a few hundred miles from land, refuse to row, until you've been designated as "Captain of the ship". If the other person is an MBA, immediately designate him as "Captain" (or he'll refuse to row). If both of you are MBA's jump off and try to swim for land. It'll be faster.

Let us all in our prayers tonight, bow down to the infinite wisdom of the lord god, who put the idea into someone's head, of creating something called the 'MBA'.

A parting word to the wise. Never forget Clint Eastwood's eternal words in "Dirty Harry" - "Opinions are like a#*e holes, everybody's got one."

Gizmo Queens, Tax Evaders, Aliens and Spanish Inquisitions

O all ye exorcizers come and exorcize now, and ye clergymen draw nigh and clerge,

For I wish to be purged of an urge.

It is an irksome urge, compounded of nettles and glue,

And it is turning all my friends back into acquaintances, and all my acquaintances into people who look the other way when I heave into view.

It is an indication that my mental buttery is butterless and my mental larder lardless,

And it consists not of "Stop me if you've heard this one," but of "I know you've heard this one because I told it to you myself, but I'm going to tell it to you again regardless,"

Yes I fear I am living beyond my mental means.

When I realize that it is not only anecdotes that I reiterate but what is far worse, summaries of radio programs and descriptions of caroons in newspapers and magazines.

I want to resist but I cannot resist recounting the bright sayins of celebrities that everybody already is familiar with every word of; I want to refrain but cannot refrain from telling the same audience on two successive evenings the same little snatches of domestic gossip about people I used to know that they have never heard of.

When I remember some titlating episode of my childhood I figure that if it's worth narrating once it's worth narrating twice, in spite of lackluster eyes and dropping jaws,

And indeed I have now worked my way backward from titllating episodes in my own childhood to titillating episodes in the childhood of my parents or even my parents-in-laws,

And what really turns my corpuscles to ice,

I carry around clippings and read them to people twice.

And I know what I am doing while I am doing it and I don't want to do it but I can't help doing it and I am just another Ancient Mariner,

And the prospects for my future social life couldn't possibly be barrener.

Did I tell you that the prospects for my future social life couldn't be barrener?

"So Does Everybody Else, Only Not So Much" - Ogden Nash

Couldn't have put it more succintly myself. Forget about my 'future' social life getting barren, even my current one seems to be getting less fertile. Why else would I blog? Ha Ha. That said, let us begin.

Actually I must be losing my social charm. Yes, This is me and I am saying what you read in the last sentence. Go back and read it if you don't believe me. It'll still say the same thing. What made me come to this earth shattering conclusion? Well, a lot of things the last of which was my weekly train pilgrimage to Chennai. Started on a Friday, and the omens were definitely not good. I had resolved to try and reduce my smoking, which in itself is a very bad omen for me, because it makes me very crabby and restless. Well, you say, you're a crabby and restless old geezer anyway! Ah, yes gentle reader, be that as it may, this particular fact has a bearing on the tale I'm about to relate. So please keep bearing with me.

I got on to the auto to get to the station and got stuck in the traffic. Aren't you tired of hearing that about Bangalore? Yes, you say? Good. Then you can hear it again. I got stuck in traffic. And again. I got stuck in traffic. Hopefully I have milked that point for all its worth, and will proceed.If you think I haven't please do let me know and I will correspond with you personally and repeat that line a hundred times. It helps getting things out of your system, y'know? This time my getting stuck in traffic was made even more enjoyable by the fact that, I got stuck behind a truck. Well, we all do that, so whats so special about you, you may ask? In fact if you haven't gotten bored already and showing great perseverance have reached this point of the narrative, you'd have to be an extremely considerate person not to ask that question. Or pretty dumb, come to think of it. This was one of those tanker type trucks and had a sign which said 'Danger - Inflammable material'.

What it should have said was 'Stop breathing or You'll regret it'. Ever been in a class room where your benchmate had beans for lunch? A lot of beans? And the fan was not working? Let me tell you, that class room was heaven compared to what it smelt like in the auto. I mean, I have a serious doubt whether it was inflammable material or hazardous chemical waste of some sort, that the truck was carrying. The kind of chemical waste that makes teenage mutant Ninja's out of turtles. You know the sort I'm talking about. That was one concept I never could figure out anyway. I mean teenage turtles are bad enough. The one's on Discovery are only interested in eating seaweed and having sex (ostensibly with other teenage turtles). They very rarely seem to call in for pizza's. But mutant teenagers who're turtles and also Ninja's? Whoa... I can tell how much LSD the creator of those characters must have been on...

Anyways, arrived at the station with my sinuses clogged up. Nothing that an industrial strength drain cleaner couldn't have rectified, after repeated applications (say twenty three or so times). And a whacking great head ache. As luck would have it, bumped into one of my B-School classmates and her friend. We got talking about jobs, and when the friend heard I was with an IT company, she asked me a lot of questions on a career in IT. The regular reader's of this blog will know how comfortable I am with technology, and as for the newbie's suffice to say that I am as technology savvy as you'd like to have a root canal done. Without anesthetics. But alas, my ego got the better of me and I answered the questions posed, with great wit and wisdom, for half an hour. I just hope she didn't take them at face value. I did tell her at the end of the conversation that my wide and varied experience in the IT field was all of two months, though. I somehow don't think it increased my equity with her tremendously. In fact, post the information on my short IT career, it must have fallen like Enron stock after the bankruptcy announcement.

Luckily the train arrived and saved me the necessity of being stared at like the insect found mixed up in the tambram mama's curd rice (Only by the friend, and not by everyone else at the station. That bit comes later). Its called the Shataabdi (the train, not the insect), which translates into 'anniversary' (I think), and also 'the train that is as comfortable as having someone stick a pin into your backside' (I'm sure). Boo had traveled by this epitome of comfort and gave me rave reviews on the culinary accomplishments of the catering coach. I was really looking forward to the journey (Little did I know). I've got to get even with her one of these days. Probably convince her about a skiing holiday in the Sahara or a clubbing and pubbing holiday in Afghanistan or some such, and send her off. Before getting in, as usual, I checked the passenger list to a.) ensure that I had been recorded in the manifesto as a 'male' and also of the correct age. Proving these two, if they've been put down wrongly is rather embarrassing in public and the former more so than the latter. Especially if you have a loud Railway official, demanding proof. And b.) hopefully check if the person next to me was female and went by the name of Isabelle Adjani or Salma Hayek. Situation a.) has happened more often than situation b.)

I got onto the train, in the AC compartment after being poked and prodded in various places by the luggage of various people, who seemed doubtful about their seats vanishing into thin air if they didn't get on in thirty seconds. By virtue of being thin, I managed to get in, in one piece. 'You can never be too thin or too rich' as the Duchess of windsor once said to me in a personal communique.

The lady next to me was of obvious tambram vintage ( I should know, I'm one of them myself. Besides I got to know her name while exploring the possibility of situation b.) described above). The man on the other side of my seat was around fiftyish. So in all innocent anticipation of an exciting journey, I smiled at both of them and clambered into my seat. I should have known it wouldn't go well from their stares in return. Made me seriously think about getting plastic surgery done. I mean if my being pleasant can evoke that kind of a response..... The lady was loaded with gizmo's and I immediately started getting rashes (refer para 5 above for my reaction to technology). She pulled out a laptop, which could have qualified for a home theatre system, or even just a theatre (it was that big) and started watching a movie.

Then I realised that the fan was on and combined with the AC this was creating to a column of cold air that seemed very pleased to crawl down my spine though my collar. I considered wearing my wind cheater and pulling on the hood, but realized that a 50 Cent lookalike would probably not be very welcome in the compartment, and besides would I'd look like an idiot (more so than I normally do. Why exacerbate things?). So gathered up courage and asked the gizmo queen to switch off the fan (she was hovering over the switch like protective mother). She stared at me like I'd made an indecent proposal and muttered 'Its hot'. Yeah right! It would've been hot if you were an Eskimo probably, but to normal Indian like me.... See what I meant about my social life earlier? Sat through the whole goddam journey hoping and praying for the fan to conk out.

She turned the laptop away so that I couldn't see the movie. At least she tried to, and considering the size of the bloody thing, this was an impossibility. I've seen people who had tickets to first day first shows of 'Sivaji', who were less conceited, and students watching their first porn flick who were less secretive, than her. It was bloody difficult not to watch the movie too, considering the fact that the bloody screen was almost covering half the compartment. I turned to the gentleman seated on the other side,, and a very shifty sort he was too. He was reading a book on taxation, obviously for the express purpose of avoiding them (Lets face it, do you know anyone who would read a book on taxes, just for entertainment on the train?). He was obviously someone to avoid.

By now the much vaunted food started arriving. The first course was a Sandwich. It just a little old and a little tough and crusty. I mean it must have been prepared somewhere in 2 B.C. As for the toughness, the Navy SEALS could have used it in their bullet proof vests instead of Kevlar. Managed to eat it though (one of the great achievements of my life, eating that sandwich). The next thing to come was Tomato soup. It had the delightful taste and consistency of th hot salt water I used to gargle with, during periods of throat infection. the high point was when the shifty man sitting next to me dropped the whole gunk of Amul butter provided for the sandwich into the soup and drank this stirring mixture. Very stirring it was. In fact, my whole stomach was stirring with horror at this combo. It was all I could do not to throw up into his lap.

Lay back and tried to meditate the way I had learnt in the deepest reaches of Tibet (see earlier post on kung fu for further info on this). And dinner arrived. There was a sabji, which seemed to contain some animal matter of an alien nature (it was a vegetarian dinner mind you) and a dal which seemed to contain some plant matter of alien nature. There was also another side dish, which contained indeterminate matter of alien nature (some where in in the evolution chain between animals and plants bought from a galaxy far, far, away probably?) Ate this also. You may marvel at my perseverance, but I had paid for the ticket after all, and all this came with the fare.

After all this persecution reached Chennai, feeling that the Spanish Inquisition should have been a picnic compared to the Shataabdi. Too bad they didn't have this train back in Spain. People would have confessed more easily, after a jaunt on it. Went home to hot Rasam, amazing Potato curry and Curd Rice. A proper dinner.

My life isn't all hardships, come to think of it...

Baths, Advertisements, Broomsticks and Roadtrips

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

Hamlet in 'Hamlet'- Shakespeare

Well he was one confused dude, he was. Hamlet, I mean, not the good ol' Speare Shaker. It gives me a lot of solace reading Hamlet. And that said , let us begin.

I have been rather lax in updating my blog and the masses were clamoring for more outside my door and refusing to accept my excuse that I was suffering from a serious case of 'writers block'. No, that has nothing to do with irregular bowel movements, or anything that can be cured with a good laxative. More of a 'mental' thing. Having thus established my credentials as a 'writer' in a fatuous manner, I shall proceed.

There's only one person I know who's more confused than Hamlet. Thats moi, yes, me. I wait for you to recover from the shock of being told that someone of my bearing can actually get confused. That is but natural. Let me explain. Whether it is because of my 'brought up' (thats Tamil for 'bringing up' in English, usually pronounced 'braat uppei'), being a standard 1974 model of Tambram stock, or some congenital reason, I get confused rather easily. Take baths for example. I don't mean your taking a bath will make this easier to understand, let me hasten to add. What I'm saying is that even taking a bath can get confusing. Ever been to a hotel that has a bath tub? They usually have around thirty different knobs and levers, combinations of which make the water flow from various places. To my luck I've never been able to figure them out. I always end up standing in the tub and twisting knobs to get the batch tub filled up with hot water, and the next thing I know I have an icy cold shower of water running down from the shower. It always happens. Always. Its a very enriching experience, let me tell you, when you have ice cold water pouring on your head, when you least expect it. Makes you recall all those swear words you thought you forgot, in languages you never knew you could speak. They even have phone extensions in the bathrooms in some of these places. I can't for the life of me, understand why. To answer nature's call presumably?

To compound things, my flat here in Bangalore also has bathrooms of the same type. The knobs for the hot and cold showers turn in different directions. I always get confused about which one turns which way, resulting in either a scalding hot or ice cold shower. Suffice to say that the neighbour's kids are learning a lot of new words every time I go take a bath. I just hope their parents don't realize where they're picking it up from. I can't run tuition classes for adults who want to learn more expletives. I'd rather reserve the curses for the bathing expedition.

To Mrudula's everlasting irritation, I can't make up my mind on which channel to watch on the telly. A typical evening of confused TV watching usually goes like this:

'flip'

Motorcycle Ad: Dude dressed in black leather and helmet drives out of a thirteenth floor window. Why? Was he in an IT company, on the bench for too long? Did he listen to too much of Himesh Reshammiya? I can't figure it out. More importantly how did he manage to take the bike up to the thirteenth floor, into some office? I could use that kind of knowledge. Every time I want to go up, all the six lifts in my office are already on their way up, on a floor above mine. Anyways, dude survives miraculously. Goes to the edge of the cliff, pivots on a wheel over the edge and drives off. Presumably, his daily routine before going home and eating curd rice. Who knows? Next scene: A doctor types is asking him "Do you think you are ready for your next mission?" Motorcycle moron replies "Thinking, is such a waste of time". Yeah right, genius. And this is supposed to tempt me into buying this brand of motorcycles? I'm confused.

'flip'

Another motorcycle Ad: Dude is riding one of the 'new generation' bikes. He suddenly becomes the 'superhuman amoeba biker man'. He splits himself effortlessly into five of himself and they all race each other. 'These stunts are performed by experts' the subtitle very kindly says.'Viewers are advised not to imitate'. Yes, that should be easy. When you're stuck in the Bangalore Traffic, all viewers will be really tempted to try and split into two. A very calming mental excercise, obviously. And who are these experts who can split themselves into replicas, so easily? Anyways all five Amoeba men merge back into one, and then a copy of the bike suddenly emerges from a lake nearby and takes off into the sky. Is it just me or was the director of this ad on hallucinogenics, wasted beyond all scope? I'm confused.

'flip'

Holiday package Ad: A couple and their two children arrive at the holiday spot. The irritatingly cheerful backgound song goes 'You arrive, you happy, You messy, you happy'. Is that bad grammar or are they using Jamaican Patois? Search me. The family keeps smiling. Obviously these guys have never been on a real holiday. The people who made the ad, I mean. Fifteen minutes into the holiday, the brats should have started screaming and whining, and the couple should have started fighting. Welcome to the real world dude. The family is finally closeted in a small tent, I wouldn't put my dog in. Its raining like mad, and their lunch is delivered there by another cheerful guy with an umbrella. The amount of cheerfulness makes me puke. You no play ad please, We very very happy? I'm confused.

'flip'

Another Harry Potter News Flash: Aaaaaaarghhhhhh!!! A lady reporter in one of those wizard hats and robes is reporting on the forthcoming book. Well, either the poor deluded woman thinks its the high point of fashion, or she's being paid extremely well, or she just plain belongs to the loony bin. I wouldn't be caught dead in a ditch, wearing that outfit. Actually there's a lot about Harry Potter that also confuses me. What kind of a person would whiz around at speeds of mach one with a stick between his legs?? If you ask me, thats a definite no no. I mean, I get uncomfortable on a flight in fifteen minutes. The only kind of person who would try to fly that way would have to be really into pain or just absolutely dumb (the type who wouldn't recognize smart if it came up behind him and bit him in the butt). Or maybe he just couldn't pay for his family planning operation, and took this way out? I'm confused.

Actually there are two guys I know, who can rival me when it comes to getting confused, especially in terms of directions - Adi and Sandy. I remember when we took our road trip in Sandy's car driving all around South India. Half the time we didn't know whether we were coming or going. Bangalore was the crowning glory in this trip. What with directions all being 'Straaightu to dead endu and leftu' and us being sozzled half the time, we ended up seeing the city in greater detail than any human being would want to. We tried all remedies. We figured out that all the people were wantonly misguiding us and took the exact opposite directions. We thought about which was our left and which the 'dead endu and leftu' dude's left (We were high and this line of thought led to considerable disagreement betwixt us). We assumed very correctly that all roads in Bangalore should lead to M.G Road and ten minutes of driving any which way should bring us there anyway. But none of it worked. We finally resorted to asking for directions every hundred yards or so, which didn't make us very popular with the other commuters. Then we ended up asking the same auto driver thrice for directions at various points, in a span of half a kilometre (by mistake, we caught up with him and it being dark we didn't realize it was the same person). He expressed very concisely, his doubts about the legitimacy of our conceptions, and those of three generations before us, not mention his opinion of our IQ levels. We stopped asking for directions after that.

This however had its own downsides. We arrived in front of Forum (a huge mall, the landmark we remembered) to visit Sandy's property where there was building going on. To our shock and dismay, it was no longer there(the property, not the mall). We first argued amongst ourselves on the landmarks which had been there earlier, which now seemed to have disappeared. But then we realized that not only the landmarks but the streets and the street names had also changed. We were stunned by the pace of development in Bangalore. To take down a building is one thing, but to transplant a whole area! We considered suing the government for loss of property. The least they could have done was to inform poor Sandy. We commiserated with him. Some more beer was called for and consumed. Then we undertook our own jihad, we would find Sandy's property no matter what, whether it existed or not. After another twenty minutes of inspired searching and badgering poor pedestrians into admitting that this was a different area, we gave up. Thats when it dawned on us that we should be looking at the rear entrance side of the mall, on the parallel road. We were on the wrong side. What can I say? We were confused.

Responses, Poems, Veecharuvals and F(l)ights

When Icarus fell
he had just finished updating his blog,
a farmer was sharpening a
'veecharuval' in his field,

The rowdies were awake
folding their veshti's above their undrawers
near the edge of the sea

Using a blow torch
they melted
the wings' wax

Insignificantly off the coast there was a splash quite unnoticed,
this was Icarus being fed to the crocodiles by the undrawerers.

- Suseen's response to my last post (A brilliant take off on 'Musee des Beaux Arts' by W.H.Auden - Which was in turn inspired by the Dutch master Pieter Breughel's painting 'The Fall of Icarus' - Both of which in turn inspired the title for this blog). The painting featured in my blog, is incidentally (or coincidentally, if you're naive enough to believe it) the one by Breughel.

One can't let such challenges pass by, can one?

Mahesh's response to Suseen's post:

Though the insignificant splash was unnoticed,
At least the crocodiles were very well fed.
And the blow torches might have seemed dull,
In the bright sunlight of the boring afternoon.

The undrawerers might have had a lot of fun,
Completing their trivial task on the seashore.
Folding the veshti is but incidental to the fact,
That in the end, nothing is as easy as it seems.

As for the farmer and his sharp veecharuval,
They were both but tools in this poetic scene.
They played no part in the happenings as such,
But were still witnesses to the underlying fact.

What mattered here was not who was being fed,
To the ravening crocodiles, or what the farmer,
Or the undrawerers did. What mattered was that,
Before Icarus fell, Icarus flew.

Your turn, Bro.

P.S: A 'Veecharuval' is a Sickle, usually used to detach parts of the body from the original owner. Most prevalently used in Madurai, where Suseen comes from. You just might not find this on Google or Wikipedia.

Poaceae, Undrawers, Hovercrafts and Morality

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe."

"Jabberwocky" - By Lewis Carrol in "Alice in Wonderland"

Some how I've always found this poem a little intimidating... Especially the bit about how the mome raths outgrabed. Gives you a lot of scope to imagine who was doing the outgrabing and how they were doing it. Rather unsuitable for children, I always thought. And that said, let us begin.

I've been through a lot of journey's which were intimidating to interesting to downright painful one's. By means of transport ranging from trains to cars to being dragged along by the legs, by cursing people. Adi, Sandy and Suseen, will probably remember the last mode of transport mentioned, from B-School. This was one of the For further explanations, please refer to Suseen's comment on my previous post. For some obscure reason he chooses to call himself 'wulf paw' on Blogger. Well, better the paw than the wolf's wee wee, I suppose (The Wolf's Wee Wee - WWW - nice huh?). Having said that, I must confess that when they were taking up the onerous task of dragging me home, Suseen I hear was repeatedly heard confessing that he was 'happy' (once every thirty seconds). I'd like to think it was because he'd been given the privilege of dragging me along by the feet, something not accorded to many mortals, I'll have you know. But maybe, just maybe, it was also because we'd consumed inordinate amounts of flora from the family 'Poaceae' (Yes, your weekly visit to Wikipedia is due.. Ha Ha... Thought you'd get away this week didn't you??) Takes a lot to make these Madurai denizens happy, you know. Adi allegedly was singing a happy little Metallica ditty in tune with the bumpity bumps my head was making, bouncing off the stairs. Sandy, 'expressive' even under normal circumstances, soared to new heights. He apparently made sterling contributions to invective levels in three languages (being the relatively sober one), and was nominated for the Pulitzer for helping develop literary criticism in the expletives genre. I, as usual, got up the next day said "I'm too old for this shit" and went on my merry way. I haven't indulged in that particular pastime since then, however.

Now that this momentous occasion has been described in public, I'm relatively sure that Suseen will be hopping mad. I suppose I'm likely to receive a social call from a couple of hit men from Madurai (Suseen's from Madurai). All snazzily dressed in coolers, white shirts and 'Veshti's' (that's dhoti's for all you fashion unconscious people) folded above their 'undrawers', with AK-47's tucked into the Undrawers. Ok... So now you don't know what an undrawer is, I suppose? Its pronounced 'un-draa-yer' and is the epitome of fashion down south. It consists of a pair of shorts which are usually in a virulent green color, with stripes running down them, in as contrasting a color as possible ( usually dark blue). These come down to your knees and serve a variety of purposes. Right from hiding AK-47's to carrying your travel documents (imagine going to JFK airport, lifting your dhoti and pulling out your passport from your undrawer! James Bond couldn't be more suave), to revealing you shapely legs. Fashion and utility at one stroke, not to mention how airy they are. The point to notice is that your 'veshti' should always be worn folded above the undrawer. You are trying to make a fashion statement here, remember? 'Jockey' couldn't shine a candle to these. Try sticking an AK-47 into your Jockey and you'll know. There's a real business opportunity in the fashion business going a begging there. Any taker's with funding capabilities of about a million dollars or so, please contact me. We'll take the fashion world by storm. Versace, watch out....

Last week, I had another brilliant idea about a new venture. I suggested to Mrudula, that we open a boutique consulting firm under the name 'Uranus Consulting'. I explained to her, all the pro's of naming the firm that. People will be too embarrassed to call up and ask "So, do you have any openings in .....". And when they call up to ask "So hows Uranus doing?", all you need to say is "Man, its doing real good, you must come and take a look at it sometime". Chances are they'll never turn up. Mrudula however was not to impressed. For some reason she thought it was too childish, and vetoed the idea... Sigh...! Genius is never recognized in its time.

Coming back to journeys, the last time I traveled to Bangalore from Chennai, I was late. I had half an hour to reach the station, a journey which normally takes forty five minutes. Please carefully note the word 'normally' gentle reader, and brace yourself for the nerve wracking description of my auto ride to the station. An auto is usually a three wheeled vehicle that uses the road as means of conveyance. But I had apparently stumbled upon this vehicle which was probably a top secret military experiment, in mating a hovercraft (We seemed to spend more time in the air than on the road) with a F1 car, dressed up to look like an auto. The kind of vehicle Q (remember the old bugger who gives James Bond all his fancy gadgets?) would die to get his hands on. They saw me and thought "Ha! here's a sucker who's perfect for our first test run!".

I should have realized this as soon as I got into the auto and told the driver to do anything and get me to the railway station in half an hour. He went to the back of the vehicle and twiddled on something. 'Petrol reserve saar' he said, but was actually turning on the controls to convert the vehicle, into the traffic hazard it was. And so it began. I could probably have reached the station in the same time if I'd used a helicopter, but I would have been safer using a pogo stick and jumping down the middle of the busiest roads in Chennai to reach there. We took off at approximately 80 miles an hour, and that's when I had my first apprehensions. We seemed to touch the ground approximately once every three minutes or so.


Somewhere in the shrouded mists of time, two lines had combined. One, of Attila the Hun (in terms of disregard for human life) and the other Michael Schumacher (in terms of speeding). The culmination of these two lines was the person who now driving me to the station. I however didn't want to upset him in the least, and a stupid grin on my face, was hanging on to the auto with one hand and to my luggage with the other. My luggage showed a marked propensity to start floating (It happens at light speed, I hear). The Auto driver however seemed to see through my facade. "Less tension, more work saar" he said, quoting either from some obscure vedic text or a famous Tamil movie. I was too terrorized to realize which. I found myself singing this delightful little hip-hop number by Ludacris. The lyrics are pretty complicated and go something like " Move b*#ch! gerrout the way! Gerrout the way b*#ch, gerrout the way!" Very expressive these hip-hoppers, I tell you.


Now, knowing my commanding presence and charisma, if most of you were expecting a Moses act, with the traffic parting like the Red Sea, in response to my song, you're going to be disappointed. That day it just wasn't working. The radio was blaring an old Tamil song on the shortness of life (yes, thank you I needed that), and my life began flashing before my eyes. My mobile rang. It was my mother. She knew I was running late and called in with a lot of advise on starting early and not boarding running trains and asking the auto not to drive fast. Handling the mobile, while clinging on to the auto, and holding my luggage was a feat of contortion which even Jackie Chan wouldn't have attempted. I carried it off, while at the same time assuring my mom that all was well. Well, my ass!

Reached the station in twenty five minutes. Got down on rubbery legs, paid the auto driver and ran for my life. The old couple, on the seats next to me were very solicitous and offered me banana's to calm me down. I'd have killed for a whiff of the old poaceae right then, but settled for banana's.

There was a vendor who kept walking up and down selling 'Syphilis' . I was stunned and was wondering whether this was some kind of subtle moral warning, when I realized this was just his version of 'Chips Lays'. The 'Chi' had been converted to a 'Si' sound, resulting in the message on morality.

Prophecies, Parties, Dancefloors and Dives

"Any statement in a politician's memoirs can represent one of six different levels of reality:
a. What happened.
b. What he believed happened.
c. What he would have liked to have happened.
d. What he wants to believe happened.
e. What he wants other people to believe happened.
f. What he wants other people to believe he believed happened."

- Sir Humphrey Appleby in "Yes Prime Minister" by Anthony Jay and Jonathan Lynn

Well, that some how reminds me of what I write. I'm still trying to figure out which ones from the above all this stuff fits into. That said, let us begin.

Yes, prophetic words I penned some time ago. Those about the weekend bringing barrels of beer and humongous hangovers. Only it turned out to be more like barrels of Beer, Whisky and Tequila and as for the consequent hangover, lets just say humongous was an understatement. Which brings me to the fact that I really might be too old for this shit.

Thats something I keep repeating every time I party. "I'm too old for this shit". Some kind soul accompanying me always manages to try and convince me that I'm not. I proceed to party my merry way through the night, with all my misgivings happily wiped away. Funnily the kind souls seem to be more convinced about this fact more often when I'm footing the bill, though I'm sure that is mere coincidence. There are some people who genuinely might feel so too, influenced I'm sure by my natural charm, charisma and the spectacle I present when I'm buzzed.

My propensity to fall down on the dance floor is legendary in certain circles in Chennai. Every occasion when yours truly enters the dance floor, is preceded by an impassioned request (over the speakers) from the the DJ asking me to 'please be careful and not break your bloody leg again'. That's when I start looking around with the others on the dance floor for this clown who keeps falling down, and ruefully shake my head and grin at how silly some people can be. This is of course a risky procedure, which can be thwarted by 'well meaning' friends, who point at you and hoot when the announcement is made. Thus making sure that the entire club is now waiting with bated breath to see me perform my magnum opus. Every move of mine is punctuated with sharp intakes of breath from the people around, who're thinking "Will he ...? Won't he?". I've even come to know that large sums of money are being wagered on whether or not I'll repeat my performance, and if so which particular act of daredevilry or moronicity I'm about to perform. The daredevilry is my point of view, the moronicity I understand, is the others' point of view. I guess people will be jealous no matter what... Hah!

I have several acts up my sleeve, including the 'wicked woofer free fall' .That's when you climb up on to the woofer to dance and suddenly find yourself on thin air over the edge of the speaker and plummet at death defying speeds to the dance floor. Anybody familiar with the Roadrunner cartoons featuring Wile.E.Coyote's falls off cliffs? Let me tell you Wile.E.Coyote couldn't shine a candle to me when it comes to falling. And also the 'deadly dance floor dive' . Your favorite track plays and you jump around, trip on the girl next to you, fall off the dance floor and try to crawl away unnoticed - especially if the girls partner is built like a refrigerator. The potential results of being caught while trying to crawl away are truly 'deadly'. Reader discretion is however advised. I am an expert at these stunts, having perfected them through constant repetition and gallons of beer. Readers are strongly advised not to try them anywhere (at home or outside) despite the popularity these acts will fetch you. Leave them to the expert, I say.

This time in Bangalore, we were at a discotheque which was on the tenth floor of a building. Mrudula was as usual at her stunning best. In my constant effort to impress her, I confidently told her I knew where the place was. I'd been there before with some other friends. As it turned out, we landed up at the opposite end of the road we were supposed to be. She got upset for reasons I fail to understand. I mean it was just a short walk of two kilometres or so... whats a short jaunt like that? Of course the fact that she was wearing heels, it was drizzling and also that we couldn't take an auto to get there ( because all the roads in bloody Bangalore are bloody one ways) might just have contributed to her getting angry. I even tried to explain that the last time I was there, the road was much shorter and that they seemed to have extended it. She immediately pointed out that it was not possible to extend a road which was around forty feet broad and two kilometres long, situated in the heart of Bangalore. Residency road, she further said, was around for the last forty or fifty years only, in the same line and length as it is today. We were just getting to a detailed discussion of my sobriety when I'd been there last, when I wisely changed the subject.

After that brilliant beginning, we arrived at the place. It was open, and by that I mean the bloody place didn't have any bloody walls (just a roof) and it was bloody raining. So it was obviously bloody cold. Mrudula and I got into this deeply philosophical conversation about how all those girls in short tops and short skirts were managing to seem so oblivious to the cold. I looked around at each girl dressed in this manner (from a purely scientific perspective, you understand, in the interests of furthering the boundaries of human knowledge) and despite my studious efforts was unable to fathom how they did it. Mrudula wasn't too impressed by my quest for knowledge however, and I abandoned the effort speedily.

But I really think that question ( as to how those girls don't feel the cold) needs further research. I've seen this happen in quite a few Hindi Tamil and Telugu movies too. Ever seen those 'situation songs' , with a heroine (scantily clad), and the hero (dressed up like he's going up mount Everest), rolling around together in the snow? I think the question ranks right up there with the other ones such as 'Who am I?', 'Where am I going?' and 'How does Superman get a shave and a haircut?'. The last one about Superman especially, I must admit, has been troubling me for a long time. I mean, if even bullets can't hurt him, how the f&*#k does the dude remain clean shaven with a decent haircut, all the time?? Obviously scissors and razors wouldn't work on him too!

Anyway to cut a short story long, I had some beer and then some whisky and then some tequila, and then some beer and then some whisky.... You're getting the picture right? Well, if you think you are, you're lucky, because by the end of the evening I most definitely wasn't getting any picture. In fact it all seemed rather blurred. I did manage to keep standing upright, a feat which offered me immense pride, and satisfaction. I didn't slur at all, too. Though I remember some slight difficulty in saying difficult things like 'see you tomorrow' or 'why's the lift not moving for the last five minutes, oh its because I haven't pressed the button' etc. Mrudula, was of course her graceful suave self, which is probably why most people seem to perceive my behaviour rather odd (darkening by contrast, types).

The evening however wasn't over. I have this friend who's a nice, cheerful, bubbly little thing who was with us that day. However, pump enough alcohol into her and she becomes a force of nature. A force to contend with, as in a few thousand kilowatts of energy packed into a five foot nothing frame. The kind of person whom hurricane Katrina would arrive to pay respects to, before starting whatever it is that hurricanes do. On our way back, she took into her mind that she would wish all the denizens of Bangalore who were out on the road at that god forsaken time a goodnight. She rapidly proceeded to do by shoving half her body out of the window and wishing people 'a good night' loud enough to be heard across the whole city. The rest of us being god fearing citizens (who had yet to be arrested on charges of drunken driving), thought this might not be such a wise pastime. It took the combined efforts of all twenty or so of us, who were squeezed into the car to subdue her and get her back in. How difficult it was to get that two and half feet (half of her five feet height) back into the car, is truly unimaginable. We however managed to do so by way of threats, cajoling and of course down and out begging. The rest of the drive was spent trying to distract her from this new pursuit of hers. She was extremely hurt that we didn't allow her to cut this huge swathe of cheerfulness through Bangalore and in no uncertain terms told us we were wimps and wet blankets of the first order. What the world needed, she said, was more cheer and less zombies like us. I'm afraid the rest of us didn't agree.

I woke up the next morning and everything was fine. Until I raised my head by two or so inches. Thats when the thirty little men inside my head with saws, started trying to take the top of my head off. The diligent little buggers were trying to establish some kind of world record in sawing. The next time you see thirty, ugly, two inch buggers, with chain saws in their hands, featured on AXN ( That guinness book of world records show....?), well you'll know where they came from. There was something wrong with the weather too. The sun was too bright, and all noises were too loud. I crawled back into bed before you could say 'hangover'. Another fallout from the whole thing was that my knowledge of human musculature increased significantly. After all that dancing, I discovered new muscles in my body, that I didn't even know existed, by way of aches and pains for the next two days

Maybe I'm really getting too old for this shit... Hmmmm... There's only one way to find out I guess. I'll just have to try and repeat this the coming weekend. Will keep you posted, please keep your ardent desire to know more about this in check, till then.

What the hell, at least I didn't fall down this time.

Secrets...

I stumbled upon this today.

http://postsecret.blogspot.com/

I can't figure out what troubled me more. The blog, the comments, or the fact that something like this blog exists.

I guess we're all searching for answers.

English, Bleeps, Water buffaloes and Keralafonia

“I know less than half of you half as well as I should like and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.” ~ Bilbo Baggins in the LOTR

Amen dude....! And that said let us begin.

The more discerning amongst you will have noticed that I have added a few gizmo's, thingys and watchoocallits to the blog, which reportedly are supposed to do a lot of things, most of which I don't understand. To me "Feedburner" suggests a large cow with an extremely effective digestive system (cattlefeed types). I think they improve the blog's look, however, and make me look incredibly techno savvy, which has been a long time dream.... sigh. What they are not supposed to do, is to direct you to any other sites, especially dirty ones. If they do, please do let me know, especially the dirty ones. Just so I can report them you understand, not because I have any interest in such sites. I know most of my vast audience would never think that of a fine cultured person such as me, but its always better to explain.

My favorite is the 'button' (prior to this I always thought they were circular thingies to make your clothes cling on) which gives my gmail ID. The smarter half of readers will notice that I have added the word 'Errrr...' above this button, and immediately realize that this is a trick button. The other half will spend a lot of frustrating time trying to click on this hoping that it would help them communicate with me. These are the In'duh'viduals as Dilbert (or rather Scott Adams) calls them. I only wish I were around to see their faces when they do this. Thus do I claim revenge on technology buffs! Ha Ha!

Which brings us to the fact that English is a beautiful language. Just by adding the word 'Errr...' I have communicated the above mentioned facts to my audience. On the other hand you could do it in a long winded way too. Consider for example the below, which could win a prize for bad English:

If such a sublime cyborg would insinuate the future as post-Fordist subject, his palpably masochistic locations as ecstatic agent of the sublime superstate need to be decoded as the now-all-but-unreadable DNA, of a fast deindustrializing Detroit, just as his Robocop-like strategy of carceral negotiation and street control remains the tirelessly American one of inflicting regeneration through violence upon the racially heteroglossic wilds and others of the inner city.

I mean, what the hell? You could just say "Man, that dude kicks ass!" or even "Dude, that man kicks ass!" and be done with it. Metaphorically and literally a precise interpretation. The problem is that there's English and there's American. Most of us don't understand American when she's spoken. My favorite example of American is the conversation Samuel L Jackson (Jules) has with this kid (Brett), while he's holding a gun over him ( Jackson's holding the gun, geddit? Tricky thing, this American....)

JULES: What country you from?

BRETT: What?

JULES: "What" ain't no country I know! Do they speak English in "What?"

BRETT: What?

JULES: English-MF-can-you-speak-it?

BRETT: Yes.

JULES: Then you understand what I'm sayin'?

BRETT: Yes.

JULES: Now describe what Marsellus Wallace looks like!

BRETT: What?

JULES: Say "What" again! C'mon, say "What" again! I dare ya, I double dare ya MF, say "What" one more goddamn time! Now describe to me what Marsellus Wallace looks like!

The audience is advised not to try this at home, unless you're sticking a big gun, or a big broomstick into the listener's face. In the absence of these two, the listener will demonstrate violent tendencies towards rearranging parts of your anatomy, or will tear your leg off and beat you to death with it. This may partly be, because Samuel Jackson does not say emmeff (MF), he substitutes with a word, which suffice to say is not 'My Friend". That's one of the inherent problems with American, see? In view of the delicate sensitivities of my audience I shall leave this line of discussion here and move on.

A deficient or even dysfunctional socializing process, has brought most of us to believe that four letter words add power to our speech. I'm sure we can communicate effectively without the 'bleeps'. For example take Wodehouse, I hear the man used to re-write each page in his book eight times before he was satisfied with the results, and he can use some mean English I tell you. Wouldn't you rather say " I say old chap, you gurgle like the death rattle of a soda water siphon" rather than "F*#@k off, moron!". See English has its uses, unless you're in a hurry of course.

The one exception to the four letter word rule is the word B-E-E-R. You have no idea how much much power it adds to my speech, or how lyrical I wax when B-E-E-R is around. How much sense I make is a debatable topic, and the subject of another post by itself. More on that later.

Then there are the delightful compositions, that rock bands come up with. Don't get me wrong, Rock is my life blood, but when I hear this guy singing: 'Oooh Life, Its bigger, Its bigger than you, and yooouuu are not meeee" I can't help getting irritated. What are you supposed to do? Say "Thank you for that brilliant piece of logical thought!" ? "You are not me"? "Life, Its bigger, Its bigger than you" ? I didn't know these things! What a clear insight! I know them now, and for the life of me, I wont understand them ever! Give me a break will ya?

Then you have the death metal bands, which purportedly sing in English. Try as hard as I can, it doesn't sound like English to me. More like a pair of flatulent water buffaloes mating in a sludgy pond, or a brace of pigs being tortured in a tin foundry. Well, zat too, is ze Eenglees.

Then there are the personal gems you come across. Was in the elevator at work, and I overheard this conversation which went "We used to collide every quarter but now we have been asked to collide every month". Now this seemed like a event which would be more prevalent in the mosh pits of the above mentioned death metal band's concerts. Images of arcane rituals of people body banging before starting a project flashed through my brain (Kind of like a Hi-Five, see?). Took me some time to realize that the guy was talking about "Collate".

I'm the kind of guy who always gets threatened by service providers, in life. Whether its my TV mechanic, or my phone banking representative. I'd called my Bank yesterday to find out if they had a SMS alert for credits to my account. He told me they didn't have one right now. "But we are adding those 'technologies' saar. We will continue to call you and 'intimidate' you, as soon as they are up".Thanks a lot, as if I wasn't intimidated enough by technology, already. I work for an IT company after all. English at work, for you.

According to urbandictionary (thats a website) an 'askhole' is a person who asks too many idiotic questions. English is getting better by the day, baby!

The last word in English of course is this song I heard yesterday called "Hotel Keralafonia". With all due apologies to everyone from God's Own Country (and to those irritating people who've heard everything before, especially when you think you have a good joke to crack), you can find it here:

http://kotinetti.suomi.net/hilja.reinikka/Audio/KeralaFoniaYC.mp3

A weekend of barrels of beer, hard rock, and humongous hangovers, beckons. Adieu, all......