Hear you doubters all! May rain never again from your grace fall. A lady is the monsoon day - she troubles you but the beauty, well that's what stays ;) The last line is unabashedly adapted from a classic poem. But it fits. So it stays.
The Rain is here, the rain its here!
Come all ye' from far and near!
Come ye' to see Lord Varuna's might!
Come behold this glorious sight!
Watch how nature's children dance
And your weaker hearts entrance.
Look how roses dance and sway
Like ne'er before in Summer's day.
From little shrubs to pines that tower -
Bask ye' all in long awaited shower!
Lone rain drops on many sills teeter -
Sparkling tear drops were ne'er sweeter.
Don't forget the fleeting union
That sends forth the soil's opium -
The lovers parted are joined again,
Earth once more waltzes with Rain.
Yet, what's missing? ... Perchance
Poet's hearts yearn for romance?
Despite what his pen may say
(to his heart) Sonnets are all the Monsoon day.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Listless & Ironic
- Being stranded in the middle of a national highway by a team, who refused to listen to reason when I shout, panic, point at a share auto that is willing to take us to the mall. Them just strutting ahead, and me following senselessly. Running 300m across the highway, while the others walk 'coolly' across, pointing and laughing at the prude.
- Being told that a share auto would ask 10 bucks to go to the mall 500m away, and thus not taking it makes sense.
- Being mocked that my kids will have no fun in life, when I remonstrated.
- Not having coffee at the mall because it is too expensive. Beside, we already had 100ml of premixed coffee at office an hour back.
- Walking around listlessly at the mall. Picking up a basketball at the sports store and relishing the feel of it in my hands after 3.5 months. Tell myself, 10 days.
- Trying on clothes at Westside. Looking for V-neck full sleeves that made me look like a gay, stocky and very well fed giant. Opting for a half sleeve. Taking pics wearing different clothes in the trial room. Flirting with a purple top a la Thejas, sense wins over adventurism.
- Falling asleep in an auto with 15 other people, out of pure tiredness from waking at 6, coming office first and working (at least one guy has to) and leaving the last.
- Coming back home, to shower, force food down my throat, and get ready for bed.
- Power cut for an hour when my head touches the pillow. Inverter, which I am paying for, doesn't work for the floor I am put up in.
- Dragging myself downstairs to sit in the 'common room' and doze off with my neck at an angle akin to modern geometric art.
- Being told, the next morning, that complaining about this means I'm 'getting on his head' and I am being pampered, when heart patients are in the other room. You see, not only do you pay him double what the usual rate is, you also need to be critically ill to be considered.
- Tolerating a blubbering, worthless, tactless and hypocritical landlord's outburst and subsequent 'make up' talk whose highlight is, "When you were in pain, I sat on the floor and cried". Resisting urge to suggest he is gay.
- Realizing that the landlord has money I should be returned, which means I can't push it all too much.
- Signing into FB, seeing "Goodbye Germany :(", "Leaving for hostel :(" and the like. Wondering if it would be nice to feel some attachment to the place I'm in.
- Sigh.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Not the best experience, by far....
After giving dear Gurgaon a fair run for 2 whole months, with forced optimism and the like, I've finally realized that however I look at it, this is not going to be one of the greatest experiences of my life.
Originally, I believed that once work took off, everything would fall in place. Then I realized, this particular workplace resembled a train more than a jet plane. You keep chugging along, picking up speed just to slow down for the next stop. There was, and is, no scope for anything taking off.
Then the place itself. Prohibitively expensive to stay in, it gives you the feeling that you're in a Shakespearean play, particularly, Much Ado About Nothing. It is, ladies and gentlemen, a wasteland. Someone, somewhere, thought they could pull off a Dubai. Sorry, not happening. There is no water, no electricity, and no roads. The entire place is just 3 roads. The rest is suburban. Sub-sub-urban. Think Salem, not Tanjore/Trichy. Electricity is leased at 5.75Rs a unit flat, water tax is almost as high and to top it all off, there isn't any electricity for at least 7 hours a day. Not to mention, absolutely no concept of public transport. For what this fuss, then? For development that will come in 15 years, probably when pigs fly and England win a world cup.
The biggest disadvantage, however, is how not happening this place is. Come weekend, what do you do? Sit at home and sweat while you get a weekend bonus of 10 hour power cuts. Or, alternatively, go to one of these amazingly repetitive malls and laze around while utter boredom makes you go buy clothes.
The companies have an untenable cost of operation. The employees have an untenable cost of living. The place is not renowned for it's quality of labour and most of the workplace is invariably imported. The proximity to Delhi seems like a petty excuse to live in Gurgaon. It is like living in a hut, consoling yourself that the mansion is just down the road. It makes more sense to go to a Tier-II city and make use of the land and infrastructure it already has.
Of course, not all of my ire is the fault of the place. The company, or lack of it, is equally irritating. Stuck with guys that are, granted, very nice and all, but whose idea of fun is sitting in their PG and saving up money that they earn during the week. They do not want to travel to Jaipur, nor do they want to sample the famed chat in Delhi. They do not care for sight-seeing nor do they care for coffee. It is always too far, or too hot, or too expensive. The truly tragic part of it is that I, being me, am incapable of doing any of that alone. Without company, it seems, frankly, a waste.
I have exhausted positive intent, at least for the time being. How much can you grin and bear the irritation that is heaped upon you day after day. After a point of time, Facebook gently reminds you that it cannot substitute for hostel, and that you are veritably alone. The world cup, with all its color and fun, comes in 90min spurts (which are unkindly interrupted by the power cuts). National SMS and chatting helps, but even if you are freaking Larry King, you're gonna stop being entertaining after a few weeks non-stop. Books offer solace, sparingly.
I doubt if I'd be proud of this rant tomorrow, even an hour from now. Whining is for sissies, would be one of my mottos, and I would still stick by that. But somewhere, something breaks, even if temporarily. Maybe there are people who are leading lives less rosy than mine, maybe there are others who are staying alone, others who can claim to have gone through this and handled this better. Pass judgement if you will, but I assure you, this summer has been an unmitigated disaster.
Originally, I believed that once work took off, everything would fall in place. Then I realized, this particular workplace resembled a train more than a jet plane. You keep chugging along, picking up speed just to slow down for the next stop. There was, and is, no scope for anything taking off.
Then the place itself. Prohibitively expensive to stay in, it gives you the feeling that you're in a Shakespearean play, particularly, Much Ado About Nothing. It is, ladies and gentlemen, a wasteland. Someone, somewhere, thought they could pull off a Dubai. Sorry, not happening. There is no water, no electricity, and no roads. The entire place is just 3 roads. The rest is suburban. Sub-sub-urban. Think Salem, not Tanjore/Trichy. Electricity is leased at 5.75Rs a unit flat, water tax is almost as high and to top it all off, there isn't any electricity for at least 7 hours a day. Not to mention, absolutely no concept of public transport. For what this fuss, then? For development that will come in 15 years, probably when pigs fly and England win a world cup.
The biggest disadvantage, however, is how not happening this place is. Come weekend, what do you do? Sit at home and sweat while you get a weekend bonus of 10 hour power cuts. Or, alternatively, go to one of these amazingly repetitive malls and laze around while utter boredom makes you go buy clothes.
The companies have an untenable cost of operation. The employees have an untenable cost of living. The place is not renowned for it's quality of labour and most of the workplace is invariably imported. The proximity to Delhi seems like a petty excuse to live in Gurgaon. It is like living in a hut, consoling yourself that the mansion is just down the road. It makes more sense to go to a Tier-II city and make use of the land and infrastructure it already has.
Of course, not all of my ire is the fault of the place. The company, or lack of it, is equally irritating. Stuck with guys that are, granted, very nice and all, but whose idea of fun is sitting in their PG and saving up money that they earn during the week. They do not want to travel to Jaipur, nor do they want to sample the famed chat in Delhi. They do not care for sight-seeing nor do they care for coffee. It is always too far, or too hot, or too expensive. The truly tragic part of it is that I, being me, am incapable of doing any of that alone. Without company, it seems, frankly, a waste.
I have exhausted positive intent, at least for the time being. How much can you grin and bear the irritation that is heaped upon you day after day. After a point of time, Facebook gently reminds you that it cannot substitute for hostel, and that you are veritably alone. The world cup, with all its color and fun, comes in 90min spurts (which are unkindly interrupted by the power cuts). National SMS and chatting helps, but even if you are freaking Larry King, you're gonna stop being entertaining after a few weeks non-stop. Books offer solace, sparingly.
I doubt if I'd be proud of this rant tomorrow, even an hour from now. Whining is for sissies, would be one of my mottos, and I would still stick by that. But somewhere, something breaks, even if temporarily. Maybe there are people who are leading lives less rosy than mine, maybe there are others who are staying alone, others who can claim to have gone through this and handled this better. Pass judgement if you will, but I assure you, this summer has been an unmitigated disaster.
Sonnet for Home...
An impromptu sonnet that sprung up at work the other day... I risk becoming a sobbing, very non-macho mess soon...
Following up with a post of why this yearning and remorse...
To wake at ten and breathe the salted breeze,A small note about the structuring... the rhyme scheme, originally a 14-line AABB type rhyme, was subsequently modified to the Shakespearean Sonnet 3x(ABAB)CC. Of course, I have no idea what a quatrain is so don't know if this conforms to the purist's expectation, but I do know that since every line in the sonnet body is independent, it was mighty easy to rearrange it!
To yawn and stretch and reach for my phone,
To gaze sleepily upon the waving yellow trees,
To know that you sleep in the comfort of your home,
To laugh with friends and cry with some,
To walk alone sans oppressive hurry...
To sing some lines, and others gently hum,
To eat and drink, mock, make merry,
To sprawl in the sand while dusk yawns idly,
To speak in the tongue that I hold dear,
To see anothers' eyes dart around slyly,
To jump and bound and shout without fear,
Will the weeks soon vanish, or do I hope in vain
To be tomorrow, home again?
Following up with a post of why this yearning and remorse...
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Is there a Raavan, inside.....
Thus did Mani Ratnam sign off on the audio booklet. Ten heads, he said. A hundred voices. Is there a Ram inside Raavan. Is there a Raavan, inside every one of us.
He wasn't fooling me. With that excitement that only a Mani Ratnam movie or an A.R.R album can inspire, I ran around telling everyone, what he really wanted to say was closer to,
Is there a Raavan inside Ram?
Mani Ratnam's Raavanan/Raavan has been in the news for a while now. With D-Day finally here, I waited for an agonizing day, catching the morning show on Day 2. En Route to my seat, I probably heard the most Tamil since coming to Gurgaon, and it was a pity I was too nervous to appreciate it. So we move, to the movie... Raavanan...
The title track, Veera, kicked things off. That track has perhaps the best start of the album, and what a way to use it! Vikram's face in various contortions and guises lit up the screen. Then confirmation... Mani Ratnam/Madras Talkies/Raavanan.
The first thing that strikes you about the movie is the visuals. Somehow, the same screen that showed a movie no less technically brilliant that Ridley Scotts' "Robin Hood" last week, seems to have transformed into some sort of super-HD screen. Water sprays, sunlight seeps through, blinds and lights in equal measure. Every frame is a masterpiece, drawing from the one before and setting up the one after. Santosh Sivan has easily produced the best looking movie I have seen, barring Avatar, The Lord of the Rings and a few fantasy movies that slip my mind. Green never looked greener, nor did water ever make you thirstier, nor did the inner Raavanan ever wake up as swiftly as today, when the clear blue eyes of Aishwarya Rai Bachan lit up with surprise.
The story has several, several subtle shades in it. For starters, this is not the Raamayana. Like Abhishek Bachan very eloquently put it in a recent interview, this is more the Raavayan. By changing perspective, by looking at this war from the point of view of Raavan, Mani Ratnam has indeed done what only one person before him has - Kamban, who wrote the Kamba Ramayanam proclaiming Raavan as king, god and what not. For the pious who are protective of their faith, this movie is not for you. Ram here is quick to anger, he is ruthlessly efficient, and he is by no means out to live the perfect life. This is war, and his concept of right seems more Krishna than Rama. The gut-wrenching interrogation of Veera's B-I-L, the heartless betrayal of the Parley code wrt Veera's brother, and later, the ultimate deception. Prithviraj is adequate, yet in the face of all-round outstanding acting, comes off as the weak link.
Sita is ravishing, sinfully so. Like mentioned, her costumes inadvertently torn, her exertions to escape, and her cat-in-a-box attitude, with her soft vulnerability, her fears and her beauty - Mani Ratnam, Santosh Sivan and Aishwarya Rai conspire to tempt you into believing that there is a modicum of reason to the madness that grips Veera. Ash comes out with her best performance that I care to recollect - I was a staunch critic of her plastic faces and irritating dialogue delivery, but today I eat my words whole. Her pleas, "Show me the villains as villains, is that so difficult for a God to do! Give me the strength to hate them... Do not let them love me." and "Dev! It is an act. I act brave, and violent and strong... Inside I live with the fear that you may not come" are truly touching. That we can feel for Ash as we would for one such as Sita (you get the comparison) says volumes.
Dialogues by Suhasini (?) are apt. Maybe a touch too many overt references to the epic, but overall they serve their cause. The dialogues for Karthik (and their subsequent delivery by the veteran) are a pleasant reminder that comedy can exist purely thro' words, not necessarily actions. An inspired dialogue this - "I could kill you for your Sita... But it is for her that I save you."
Vikram, Veera, is outstanding. Despite the mildly irritating "Bam bam dum dum" and the 'Aalavandhan' inspired head twitches, he delivers what his director has asked of him – make this monstrous, uncultured demon a likeable and upright, although violent, outlaw. The movie does not depend on any one actor, true, yet the tension and the pace is persistent because of Veera's emotion, bubbling near the surface, unpredictable and even blasphemous. Consciously, the 'Curse' on Raavan to not touch any woman against her will here is more of a choice – such details contribute in making Veera much less of a villain, and more of a hero stuck on the wrong side. Indeed, you might be tempted to wonder, “Hang on, this is what happened in the story, yet there we always thought Raavanan was the evil guy... this guy seems all right!”
The music of the film is an enigma. With not much insight into the world of Rahman that so many next to me have explored in depth, I will not venture but to suggest that the music is a bit underrated. Suddenly, a tune jumps out of you and sticks. Also, the rot about ARR being unable to score BGM's is baseless. I used Kanathil Muthamittal as a case study before, Raavan too is a case in point.
Something I CAN comment on, at least amongst my peers, is the lyrics by Vairamuthu. The man is a god of imagery, and nobody I have heard has ever courted Nature's beauty as elegantly. That said, “Kodu Pota”, “Keda Kiri” are timepass. “Kaatu Siriki” which has come under fire purely because of its extraordinary rendering as “Ranjha Ranjha” in Hindi, actually hits home with the lyrics, though a few more listens are requied to isolate the lines that do. “Veera” is written by the director himself (again, a sly move to get his point across without interfering with the storyline). “Kalvare” is a happy wive's day-dream. “Usure Pogudhey” has 5 geniuses working in Tandem, and deserves a post by itself.
To sum up, Raavanan is a great watch. It may not be, at first glance, a movie that may require Mani Ratnam's treatment. Yet there are shades, subtle shades yet like in any enduring epic, shades that (I bet) will reveal themselves as time progresses. On the face of it, it is just a glorified hostage tale, with bells and whistles – yet beneath that, it is the tale of the ego of a man, the fears of a wife and the desire of a villain. It is also the attempt by a director to explore his own (probably not-so-concrete) beliefs in a man we are brought up to know as the embodiment of evil. Yes, the movie has issues with pace, and sometimes the reactions could have been underplayed (considering that Mani R is the god of the understatement) yet I feel to pick on these and pan the movie as stilted or uninspiring is an attempt to show you are 'above the hype and the names involved'. This movie is open enough to be interpreted in a million ways, and only those who want to will look at the glossy, 'faulty' outer covering.
Signing off with a dialogue that I believe is meant to be important, but did not fully understand...this is one movie the DVD is a must buy...
“A husband like a God, a wife who is from the heavens, and me, a demon who can only envy. Yet in my envy I shall rise, and I shall outshine you all!”
Strange. DVD, quick please!
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Have I told you about...
The flow of the world dictates that the ill-mannered will reign and the soft-spoken shall perish. Kali is upon us, the tut-tutting elders pronounce gravely, and look at us young 'uns with face arranged as much a condescending smirk as their hearts will allow. That explains it all, gives method to the madness that has enveloped us - Kat rides sympathy waves in low-waist khadi sarees that make an oomphatic statement, India beats Zimbabwe in a cricket match, and more TV footage was devoted to the lineaments of a yesteryear legend than the feet of a prodigy. Ah, yes... bring out those doomsday prophecies, for if this isn't the part when God steps in and cleans everything up with a flourish, then he needs a new scriptwriter.
Yet in dark times springs hope eternal (and equally eternally is it stamped out or told off with severity) and such was the setting of the scene that follows. Imagine a share-auto filled with 16 people. None of them, mind you, have heard of any of the following three words - Diet, Deodorant and Digestion. Now imagine one less person (probably a prude, silly him). Ah yes. Provide some poetic license for the author, and assume (a tricky affair, but humor me) that he does, indeed, have a grasp of those 3D objects we encountered earlier. Perfect.
The auto is stationary. The driver believes that a full auto is a beautiful auto, and anything less is an abomination, not to mention financially and environment-wise unsound. An old woman walks towards this lorry dressed up deviously as a cute little automobile (the lorry, not the lady), and looks. 15 pair of eyes look back. She pouts, ever so slightly, and her lip quivers. 14 pair of eyes hold firm. One particular pair, whose owner just happens to be the first guy to enter and all that unimportant stuff, gets up for the old lady who hurries in without a word, and goes to the back seat to travel adventurously (the owner of the dropped pair, not the lady), with feet hanging tantalizingly unguarded for violent highway drivers.
If Bertram Wooster had met the Ostrich Sheik from Prince of Persia, he could have asked, "Have I told you about the Code of the Krishanamurthies?"
Legend has it that however lame the reason, however rude, abnoxious and belligerent the receiver and however unfavourable the resulting circumstance might be, a follower of the Code would put a Woman's comfort or need above his own. Modern day followers speak of something called Chivalry, yet this is but a timid term. The Code is stringent, absolute. It is complete, and it does not back down in the face of empowered females. In fact, the Code would probably force the chap to gaze into the aforementioned face and compliment the wearer on the choice of lipstick, mascara or earring.
So laddie, have I told you about the Code of the Krishanamurthies?
Yet in dark times springs hope eternal (and equally eternally is it stamped out or told off with severity) and such was the setting of the scene that follows. Imagine a share-auto filled with 16 people. None of them, mind you, have heard of any of the following three words - Diet, Deodorant and Digestion. Now imagine one less person (probably a prude, silly him). Ah yes. Provide some poetic license for the author, and assume (a tricky affair, but humor me) that he does, indeed, have a grasp of those 3D objects we encountered earlier. Perfect.
The auto is stationary. The driver believes that a full auto is a beautiful auto, and anything less is an abomination, not to mention financially and environment-wise unsound. An old woman walks towards this lorry dressed up deviously as a cute little automobile (the lorry, not the lady), and looks. 15 pair of eyes look back. She pouts, ever so slightly, and her lip quivers. 14 pair of eyes hold firm. One particular pair, whose owner just happens to be the first guy to enter and all that unimportant stuff, gets up for the old lady who hurries in without a word, and goes to the back seat to travel adventurously (the owner of the dropped pair, not the lady), with feet hanging tantalizingly unguarded for violent highway drivers.
If Bertram Wooster had met the Ostrich Sheik from Prince of Persia, he could have asked, "Have I told you about the Code of the Krishanamurthies?"
Legend has it that however lame the reason, however rude, abnoxious and belligerent the receiver and however unfavourable the resulting circumstance might be, a follower of the Code would put a Woman's comfort or need above his own. Modern day followers speak of something called Chivalry, yet this is but a timid term. The Code is stringent, absolute. It is complete, and it does not back down in the face of empowered females. In fact, the Code would probably force the chap to gaze into the aforementioned face and compliment the wearer on the choice of lipstick, mascara or earring.
So laddie, have I told you about the Code of the Krishanamurthies?
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Of parting and honesty
A bit late in catching it, but I caught "P.S - I love you" yesterday. The movie was good, yes, with some endearingly romantic renditions by Gerald Butler, and a believably down-to-earth Hilary Swank. A touch too slow to begin with, yet the pace picks up later, and an amazing way of finishing it all off so elegantly. But if you detected doubt in my tone, indifference maybe, and a desire to get due credit and all that done with, brushed away - you are absolutely spot on.
Through the movie, I kept thinking about two other movies - also about love and parting - "A Walk to Remember" and "If Only". The first is an absolute mind-blower. You just can't slot it under feel-good cinema, or drama, or romance, nothing! The second, a very good movie in it's own right, is faster, more dramatic, yet doesn't have the elegance of the first.
The common theme, in all three, was love, parting and death. Specifically, what would you do for the person you love. Do you hold tighter, or do you let go? Remarkably, "If-Only" held tighter, "A Walk...." reconciled with the inevitable and "P.S" taught you how to let go. However, that wasn't what I got from them all. What I saw, under the hood, was an innate fear of all of us, about waking up one day and finding that something or someone you love is not longer there. That feeling, in all these movies, drives incomparable acts of compassion, selfless things that are so touching that, despite the odds being in such situations 1 to a million, you wonder if that was you, would you be as perfect as that.
Personally, I think a lot of things that we have today are taken for granted. Particularly people. We assume that the same faces we fight with, or scream or rant or hammer down today, will be there tomorrow for round two. We believe that the people we have had forever, will continue to be there forever after. We honestly, honestly believe that people we've met, and have grown to love, will stand around forever, and hey, you managed without them once right? What's the big deal?
Unfortunately, life doesn't flow backward. There could be a host of reasons for it, but people don't stay around forever. Imagine any person you care about, imagine them just gone, tomorrow. Without knowing how much you loved them, enjoyed their company, cared for them - imagine having to deal with all that. I guess what I'm getting at is, sometimes we keep from saying the 'silly sentimental things' - there's a moment where you almost, almost bare your heart, but a voice in your head - that complacent, lazy, smug devil reminds you of how stupid you may look, and that things are fine now anyway. Whenever you have one of those, just imagine, if today was the last time you'd speak to that person. Give yourself that little push, and let the special people know really how special they are.
Worst case, they might dismiss you as a sentimental sop. Usually accompanied by a sudden change in topic, or an 'Enough already! :)'. But the same people will watch those movies with a pack of tissues and cry their tear-ducts dry. To them I say - Life doesn't have grandiose moments of epiphany - you make your own, small, memorable moments. Why wait for dramatic events, when the people, your feelings, and you are here already?
P.S - I love y'all!
Through the movie, I kept thinking about two other movies - also about love and parting - "A Walk to Remember" and "If Only". The first is an absolute mind-blower. You just can't slot it under feel-good cinema, or drama, or romance, nothing! The second, a very good movie in it's own right, is faster, more dramatic, yet doesn't have the elegance of the first.
The common theme, in all three, was love, parting and death. Specifically, what would you do for the person you love. Do you hold tighter, or do you let go? Remarkably, "If-Only" held tighter, "A Walk...." reconciled with the inevitable and "P.S" taught you how to let go. However, that wasn't what I got from them all. What I saw, under the hood, was an innate fear of all of us, about waking up one day and finding that something or someone you love is not longer there. That feeling, in all these movies, drives incomparable acts of compassion, selfless things that are so touching that, despite the odds being in such situations 1 to a million, you wonder if that was you, would you be as perfect as that.
Personally, I think a lot of things that we have today are taken for granted. Particularly people. We assume that the same faces we fight with, or scream or rant or hammer down today, will be there tomorrow for round two. We believe that the people we have had forever, will continue to be there forever after. We honestly, honestly believe that people we've met, and have grown to love, will stand around forever, and hey, you managed without them once right? What's the big deal?
Unfortunately, life doesn't flow backward. There could be a host of reasons for it, but people don't stay around forever. Imagine any person you care about, imagine them just gone, tomorrow. Without knowing how much you loved them, enjoyed their company, cared for them - imagine having to deal with all that. I guess what I'm getting at is, sometimes we keep from saying the 'silly sentimental things' - there's a moment where you almost, almost bare your heart, but a voice in your head - that complacent, lazy, smug devil reminds you of how stupid you may look, and that things are fine now anyway. Whenever you have one of those, just imagine, if today was the last time you'd speak to that person. Give yourself that little push, and let the special people know really how special they are.
Worst case, they might dismiss you as a sentimental sop. Usually accompanied by a sudden change in topic, or an 'Enough already! :)'. But the same people will watch those movies with a pack of tissues and cry their tear-ducts dry. To them I say - Life doesn't have grandiose moments of epiphany - you make your own, small, memorable moments. Why wait for dramatic events, when the people, your feelings, and you are here already?
P.S - I love y'all!
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Beautiful Blasphemy
Video gamers are a zealous bunch. We have our own religion, a god for every genre, our legacies, our defectors, conflicted heroes, the full house. It's sorta like a Greek mythology kind of think. The religion was dying, wasting away... the Consoles were corrupting the once holy land, drawing the faithful away. We stuck to our Need For Speeds and watched helplessly as Sundays became longer and our eyes less red.
Then, unexpected, a hero rose. The legends spoke of a prince in pixel... of the treacherous vizier and the kidnapped princess. The accounts were hazy, some said he was the first Platformer, others dismissed him as just another Sidescroller. Soon a new generation of Gamers rose, and they did not know him. Soon we DOS-ers were left wondering if he really did exist. Till he came. In glorious 3D. With an incredible story, with extraordinary agility, with charming wit and of course, with BLOOM effects. The world rose as one, and many bits were rearranged in the One matrix. They set, reset and swapped till only the main diagonal remained. He gave us an Identity (matrix).
The point being, for a whole new generation of gamers, Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time was the original pill, the dope, whatever. This was hallowed ground. You do not walk into Ayodhya and put up a banner on Global warning where the temple/mandir/both/neither stood. Granted, its good, but dude! Put that somewhere else!
The PoP movie is good, it really is. Jake Last-name-fought-with-tongue is exactly how you'd imagined the Prince. The guy we all wanted to be, shut up in our rooms days at a stretch. The vizier, well, could you have found a better actor?! But otherwise, the story is a complete joke - granted, video games don't have story material for feature films, but they could have at least built up on what they had!
Actually, deep down, its not the story either. The PoP Storyline is too convoluted to market to a mainstream audience, and I understand that. It's just that, when you've spent hours perfecting those wall walks and those perfect time-manipulated combos, its a bit of a let-down when none of it comes on screen. Yes, it is an amazing, stylish and perfectly entertaining movie - yet it is not the movie of the game, but a poorly misunderstood spin-off. The dreams of a creed were misinterpreted and misunderstood, sadly willfully.
One note about video gamers. They hate to be misunderstood. Prepare to be Pwned, soon.
Then, unexpected, a hero rose. The legends spoke of a prince in pixel... of the treacherous vizier and the kidnapped princess. The accounts were hazy, some said he was the first Platformer, others dismissed him as just another Sidescroller. Soon a new generation of Gamers rose, and they did not know him. Soon we DOS-ers were left wondering if he really did exist. Till he came. In glorious 3D. With an incredible story, with extraordinary agility, with charming wit and of course, with BLOOM effects. The world rose as one, and many bits were rearranged in the One matrix. They set, reset and swapped till only the main diagonal remained. He gave us an Identity (matrix).
The point being, for a whole new generation of gamers, Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time was the original pill, the dope, whatever. This was hallowed ground. You do not walk into Ayodhya and put up a banner on Global warning where the temple/mandir/both/neither stood. Granted, its good, but dude! Put that somewhere else!
The PoP movie is good, it really is. Jake Last-name-fought-with-tongue is exactly how you'd imagined the Prince. The guy we all wanted to be, shut up in our rooms days at a stretch. The vizier, well, could you have found a better actor?! But otherwise, the story is a complete joke - granted, video games don't have story material for feature films, but they could have at least built up on what they had!
Actually, deep down, its not the story either. The PoP Storyline is too convoluted to market to a mainstream audience, and I understand that. It's just that, when you've spent hours perfecting those wall walks and those perfect time-manipulated combos, its a bit of a let-down when none of it comes on screen. Yes, it is an amazing, stylish and perfectly entertaining movie - yet it is not the movie of the game, but a poorly misunderstood spin-off. The dreams of a creed were misinterpreted and misunderstood, sadly willfully.
One note about video gamers. They hate to be misunderstood. Prepare to be Pwned, soon.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Incredible Truths
I have always wondered how the animals that roam the road, and I mean the ones that necessarily have to use four legs and not the ones that choose to, often characterize the local flavor. Not the cuisine, the flavor of the place, so to speak. You know, the kind of thing that makes a guy yell his gizzards out selling eggplants and what not at 6 in the morning, clearly misguided into believing that decent people wake before 8. Or, if you will, the kind that makes that little meter go kaput, and instead force you to engage in some intellectual exchanges regarding time, distance, and space - if the Auto has any for you or not. Chennai has dogs and Trichy cows. The whole of Kerala, of course, has fish. Any smart alec comments about fish not being on roads will be met with the curt, cutting and sharp retort that roads aren't in Kerla, as much as rivulets.
In this vein it must be mentioned that my current whereabouts has pigs on the road. The type that were never taught hygiene, grunt, choose to play right in the way of diligent people minding their businesses early in the morn. and of course, eating everything in sight. The astute observer would no doubt have, well, observed, that I spend most of my life in such a set-up - the inmates of Lapis are notorious for their upkeep, or lack of it. Yet I mean pigs in the literal . Actual, flat nosed, oink-oinking, soon to be sausage types.
Speaking of pigs, I was called one, with numerous titles attached, by a close friend yesterday. The issue was a trivial one, simply a case of a slip of hearing. I was pretty confident that she mentioned a Canadian Godzilla, but when I ventured to suggest that Godzilla, being Japanese, would have been exported to a score of countries and that hence, she was as likely to find a Canadian Godzilla as a Sudaneese Godzilla, I was promptly called an extremely well qualified pig.
Further investigation revealed that she had, in fact, spoken in a tongue known only to signboards and bus conductors in a certain cosmopolitanu cityu.
A note on the 'u' concept. If highly placed sources in the government are to be believed (meaning the guy fixing the telephone pole) the 'U' movement was a direct marketing retort to the 'I' movement. While the 'i' stood for intelligence, individuality and incorrigible-overkill, the Naidu's and the Krishna's sat together and decided that since the Indian way always puts the guest above self, ours would be the 'You' movement. For marketing reasons (and because SMS is the next big fad after Buddhism, Power Yoga and Waging Expensive Wars) this became 'U'. Further, one family, being of kind, generous and slightly dull disposition, said that since they had U's almost everywhere, from cheppu to sudoku, ceded the chair of the movement, the lantern of progress and what not to the other. Thank U very much, they said, and merrily went about repainting signboards.
In this vein it must be mentioned that my current whereabouts has pigs on the road. The type that were never taught hygiene, grunt, choose to play right in the way of diligent people minding their businesses early in the morn. and of course, eating everything in sight. The astute observer would no doubt have, well, observed, that I spend most of my life in such a set-up - the inmates of Lapis are notorious for their upkeep, or lack of it. Yet I mean pigs in the literal . Actual, flat nosed, oink-oinking, soon to be sausage types.
Speaking of pigs, I was called one, with numerous titles attached, by a close friend yesterday. The issue was a trivial one, simply a case of a slip of hearing. I was pretty confident that she mentioned a Canadian Godzilla, but when I ventured to suggest that Godzilla, being Japanese, would have been exported to a score of countries and that hence, she was as likely to find a Canadian Godzilla as a Sudaneese Godzilla, I was promptly called an extremely well qualified pig.
Further investigation revealed that she had, in fact, spoken in a tongue known only to signboards and bus conductors in a certain cosmopolitanu cityu.
A note on the 'u' concept. If highly placed sources in the government are to be believed (meaning the guy fixing the telephone pole) the 'U' movement was a direct marketing retort to the 'I' movement. While the 'i' stood for intelligence, individuality and incorrigible-overkill, the Naidu's and the Krishna's sat together and decided that since the Indian way always puts the guest above self, ours would be the 'You' movement. For marketing reasons (and because SMS is the next big fad after Buddhism, Power Yoga and Waging Expensive Wars) this became 'U'. Further, one family, being of kind, generous and slightly dull disposition, said that since they had U's almost everywhere, from cheppu to sudoku, ceded the chair of the movement, the lantern of progress and what not to the other. Thank U very much, they said, and merrily went about repainting signboards.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Delhi is full of gas..
I wouldn't think there are many places that have both humans, and fuel being doled out by the kilo. It is thus that I looked up to count my lucky stars, promptly getting blinded by the midday sun, when I saw a sign that said, Gas - 21.70 Rs/Kilo.
To put it in context, for all you lovers of Mr.Bean jokes sniggering away, Delhi, by the account of one fine young gentleman, who provides excellent company from Noida to Gurgaon, and even drives a cab, has 85% vehicles running on CNG. That's a LOT. Being of the shrewd, calculating, 16teraflops-and-counting-processor types, I asked him, "How much mileage doth thou revievest?".
What I wanted to as, is of course, obvious. But thanks to the CBSE's terrific Hindi teaching pattern, where we learn to speak like we're at a Hindi dubbed high-tea bash, thats how the poor fellow heard it. In any case, he was sporting enough to smile and say, "8 kilos to 100 kilometers". Some frenetic processing ensued where I determined the square root of infinity, before concluding that this was, in short, aces. No wonder then that I spent 40 mins waiting in queue at a CNG bunk.
Another interesting observation... the CNG pumps are all automatic. Meaning you can plug it into your cylinder thingy, and keep holding the button. Some complex thermodynamics ensures that the thing doesn't blow up or overflow. In fact, even saw a few readings do a small dance routine at 5.67 kg... 5.66kg... 5.67 again... ah yes 5.6 at last.
One last, completely rad thing I noticed. Heard of how the sun never set on her Majesty's empire and all that jazz? We'll, for a democracy we aren't doing that bad. The sun rises at 5.30ish and sets at 19.30ish. Dinner is served at 21.30. I rest my case.
Like Obelix would've admirably put it, "These Delhi-ites are crazy!". But darned good looking, too. So we forgive them, as we have forgiven so many others, and just thank the Sun god for those extra hours of light.
To put it in context, for all you lovers of Mr.Bean jokes sniggering away, Delhi, by the account of one fine young gentleman, who provides excellent company from Noida to Gurgaon, and even drives a cab, has 85% vehicles running on CNG. That's a LOT. Being of the shrewd, calculating, 16teraflops-and-counting-processor types, I asked him, "How much mileage doth thou revievest?".
What I wanted to as, is of course, obvious. But thanks to the CBSE's terrific Hindi teaching pattern, where we learn to speak like we're at a Hindi dubbed high-tea bash, thats how the poor fellow heard it. In any case, he was sporting enough to smile and say, "8 kilos to 100 kilometers". Some frenetic processing ensued where I determined the square root of infinity, before concluding that this was, in short, aces. No wonder then that I spent 40 mins waiting in queue at a CNG bunk.
Another interesting observation... the CNG pumps are all automatic. Meaning you can plug it into your cylinder thingy, and keep holding the button. Some complex thermodynamics ensures that the thing doesn't blow up or overflow. In fact, even saw a few readings do a small dance routine at 5.67 kg... 5.66kg... 5.67 again... ah yes 5.6 at last.
One last, completely rad thing I noticed. Heard of how the sun never set on her Majesty's empire and all that jazz? We'll, for a democracy we aren't doing that bad. The sun rises at 5.30ish and sets at 19.30ish. Dinner is served at 21.30. I rest my case.
Like Obelix would've admirably put it, "These Delhi-ites are crazy!". But darned good looking, too. So we forgive them, as we have forgiven so many others, and just thank the Sun god for those extra hours of light.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Blank
There is absolutely nothing to write about. Not to say my life is static. That too.
Just that in this melange of interviews/exams/birthdays/treats/train rides, somehow you realize that 4 months have given you the slip, each quicker than the previous one. Jocularity about language proficiency seems old, stale and stupid. Goodbyes seem childish for summer, yet inside each of us there's this small gear creeping - how'l it be next year? If 3 months can evoke a small sense of longing and sadness, what can 2 years, or 5 or 10 do?
Some bridges you can cross when you come to it. Others you jump headway into the river below and pray that it takes you to good places. I'm guessing passing out of college is the latter! The integral part of that statement being, when you come to the bridge, you jump. Any earlier, and you look like an idiot. With such impressive words of self-admonishment, I ground myself. Even as a few aircrafts whiz over my head to Germany.
As for myself, I leave for Gurgaon on Tuesday... taking with me a lot of luggage, confusion, disappointment, excitement, the usual circus. "All are here, the old familiar faces" said VS, and how true.
Anyways, at the risk of sounding overtly sentimental, goodbye all. Bon voyage, et al. Get me something back from wherever you're going, and for god's sake come online. Cheers, ye' idiots all!
Just that in this melange of interviews/exams/birthdays/treats/train rides, somehow you realize that 4 months have given you the slip, each quicker than the previous one. Jocularity about language proficiency seems old, stale and stupid. Goodbyes seem childish for summer, yet inside each of us there's this small gear creeping - how'l it be next year? If 3 months can evoke a small sense of longing and sadness, what can 2 years, or 5 or 10 do?
Some bridges you can cross when you come to it. Others you jump headway into the river below and pray that it takes you to good places. I'm guessing passing out of college is the latter! The integral part of that statement being, when you come to the bridge, you jump. Any earlier, and you look like an idiot. With such impressive words of self-admonishment, I ground myself. Even as a few aircrafts whiz over my head to Germany.
As for myself, I leave for Gurgaon on Tuesday... taking with me a lot of luggage, confusion, disappointment, excitement, the usual circus. "All are here, the old familiar faces" said VS, and how true.
Anyways, at the risk of sounding overtly sentimental, goodbye all. Bon voyage, et al. Get me something back from wherever you're going, and for god's sake come online. Cheers, ye' idiots all!
Friday, March 26, 2010
The Great Divide...
I had the privilege of reading a book titled "Why Men can't listen and Women can't read Maps" more than a year back. For the average man, usually on the wrong side of egotistic and macho, the book is nothing short of sacrilege, say, like getting tickets to Rambo and being made to watch SATC. That said, the book is hilarious and a must read for everyone. It teaches you a few things about life, not least (and this to my fellow NITTians) how to sight adichufy machi! Note though that the only reason I don't feel too hard done by that book, as a guy, is because it was authored by a married couple, and come on, give the guy some credit. I can imagine how many cold dinners and lonely nights went into WMCLAWCRM.
Descriptive acronym.
Anyways, the reason that came up, from the dusty little one-way pit that sits in my hippocampus - a veritable blast from the past, is the conversation para-quoted below...
Yup... It's a wonder how two people who meet and like each other actually get through to marriage, and not least that trial by, around and over fire that's done over two days they call a Hindu Marriage! So here's wishing Jan and Avi a very very happy married life!
P.S: I'll get you the book your first anniversary ;)
Descriptive acronym.
Anyways, the reason that came up, from the dusty little one-way pit that sits in my hippocampus - a veritable blast from the past, is the conversation para-quoted below...
Wife getting ready for a very important function kinda like a 3 year old's kid brother's birthday party: "Get that red color sari with the brown border will you?"
Husband who had no idea that this was in his job description: "Huh?"
Wife who is now starting to get impatient and exasperated: "The one I wore to my mom's cousin's in-laws' beautician's fourth nephew-thrice-removed's wedding!!!"
Husband who has just realized the gravity of the situation and has turned the TV off: "Oh yeah that one. Wasn't that a red color sari with the green border?"
Wife stuck in the middle of make up having smeared kajal 0.7 microns too thick on the left eyebrow as compared to the right: "That was my my mom's cousin's in-laws' beautician's third nephew-four times-removed's wedding!!!"
Husband still in the midst of processing huge chunks of string input using an O(n^2) searching algorithm with no history-based pre-processing: "Oh."
Wife considering divorce: "Forget it. I'll take it myself"
Husband considering bachelorhood: "Okay."
Husband who had no idea that this was in his job description: "Huh?"
Wife who is now starting to get impatient and exasperated: "The one I wore to my mom's cousin's in-laws' beautician's fourth nephew-thrice-removed's wedding!!!"
Husband who has just realized the gravity of the situation and has turned the TV off: "Oh yeah that one. Wasn't that a red color sari with the green border?"
Wife stuck in the middle of make up having smeared kajal 0.7 microns too thick on the left eyebrow as compared to the right: "That was my my mom's cousin's in-laws' beautician's third nephew-four times-removed's wedding!!!"
Husband still in the midst of processing huge chunks of string input using an O(n^2) searching algorithm with no history-based pre-processing: "Oh."
Wife considering divorce: "Forget it. I'll take it myself"
Husband considering bachelorhood: "Okay."
Yup... It's a wonder how two people who meet and like each other actually get through to marriage, and not least that trial by, around and over fire that's done over two days they call a Hindu Marriage! So here's wishing Jan and Avi a very very happy married life!
P.S: I'll get you the book your first anniversary ;)
Monday, March 8, 2010
MacroEvent, MicroPlans
Micromanagement: When the kodai is the color of the pustagam is the color of the visiri is the color of the small spot on the veshti that is actually a kungumam stain.
Also Micromanagement: When the daily affairs of 15 people involved however remotely with an event are mapped into well defined time slots so as to turn them into skin-breathable robots purely for the sake of sanity of the event organizers.
Now that we've got that out of the way, I invite all my lovely readers to my funeral, which is slated to occur at exactly T hours, where
T = t0 + t1 + t2
to: Time at which author's mom views post
t1: Time taken for aforementioned mother to stare at the screen in disbelief
t2: Time taken for author to be fished out from under the bed
Ah well. Weddings bring out the best in people. The house is a mess of color, invitations and frayed nerves. while the telephone is equally excited. Some things are common to all Indian (South Indian) (TamBrahm) (Iyer) weddings - there must be at least one problem of critical importance for every day from D-30 days, all servant maids must decide to go on strike/pilgrimage/hunger fast for women's empowerment for a sum total of 1 week starting from D-20 days, and, well, you really have to keep shopping till D day.
Other things, of course, are peculiar to tech-savvy, charted accountant ruled, micromanaged and macro-thinking households. Like Excel sheets, scheduled reminders, VOIP chats with bride and groom, bemused younger brother of bride, etc. Need to update gifts sent/received by that dude who lives in Wassupripet? Just pivot around that district, sort them in order of name, and pull up that reference from column J. Voila! Organization in 1,436 easy steps...
Aaah... Weddings are so much fun.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
And it went on and on!
That session was followed immediately by a soulful rendering of "Happy Birthday" again, with an added bonus - the Tamil version. Drop by on your birthday for more details! Then came the cake - a big group had gathered around it, and everyone lifted the lid of the cake, only to drop it in a hurry. A hushed tone fell over the proceedings as I neared the place, while people looked at each other, each pointing at another. I opened the lid, to find the following words written...
"Happy Birthday Sharu! (Ladies Man)"
There are worse ways to get teased in public, I would say! Anyway, after a brief break when I beat up the guy who was responsible for that nonsense, the proceedings resumed. Another brilliant card from two classmates who I bore to death everyday, and the Coup De Grace was a special, hand-painted "Reverse Glass Painting" of Krishna.
Needless to say, I was in heaven. I treated everyone present at Juicy and Bakery, simultaneously making the Juicy Akka and the Bakery people feel extremely excited about this generous idiot who was giving them awesome business... and then left to the Basketball court for another round of bums + cake from the team.
Later, I treated a few people at Sangeetha's, and towards the end of the meal was further surprised by a really sweet card! With a grin plastered on my face, I went back to hostel. Yet the day was not over, as another completely unexpected wish, and yet another one in the wee hours of the next morning ensured that the smile didn't go anywhere.
It was, like a card said, the perfect birthday. Loads of love to all of you who made it possible! The tough part, of course, was waking up the next day a normal person. With friends like this, you'd have a year between two birthdays, instead of a birthday after every year...
"Happy Birthday Sharu! (Ladies Man)"
There are worse ways to get teased in public, I would say! Anyway, after a brief break when I beat up the guy who was responsible for that nonsense, the proceedings resumed. Another brilliant card from two classmates who I bore to death everyday, and the Coup De Grace was a special, hand-painted "Reverse Glass Painting" of Krishna.
Needless to say, I was in heaven. I treated everyone present at Juicy and Bakery, simultaneously making the Juicy Akka and the Bakery people feel extremely excited about this generous idiot who was giving them awesome business... and then left to the Basketball court for another round of bums + cake from the team.
Later, I treated a few people at Sangeetha's, and towards the end of the meal was further surprised by a really sweet card! With a grin plastered on my face, I went back to hostel. Yet the day was not over, as another completely unexpected wish, and yet another one in the wee hours of the next morning ensured that the smile didn't go anywhere.
It was, like a card said, the perfect birthday. Loads of love to all of you who made it possible! The tough part, of course, was waking up the next day a normal person. With friends like this, you'd have a year between two birthdays, instead of a birthday after every year...
The guy who knew nothing at all...
Life has a funny affinity to Irony. It takes great pleasure in presenting situations so dramatic, counter-intuitive and so perfectly opposite, that it can never be just coincidence. On any other day, I would have wondered why a friend suddenly asked for company to the water cooler. On any other day, I would have come right back and checked my bag to see everything was in place.
In short, on any other day, a small golden colored, glittery parcel would not have found its way into my bag, and waited 30 minutes for attention.
Impatience dictated that I carefully peel open the package while class was in progress. Out slipped a note, and the handwriting made me jump down to the signature, where I found the name of the only person who could write that way. I opened it, to find a deep blue tie. Which brought my tally of ties owned from the rather unmanageble number 0, to the much more pragmatic, 1.
The class ended, witha round of Class Rep bums by the northies!, and I left to meet the one who gave the tie. She said,"Lets walk and talk na!", and i dutifully follow. We talk about some random stuff, as is usual, and move towards SC to get her a juice. On any other day, I would have noticed that another friend would have messaged by now, that this one never drinks juice before a meal, or that we were heading toward the area of campus most frequented by birthday parties. On any other day, I would not have gaped like a goldfish, when 35 peeople got up form their chairs, and proceeded to give me another round of bums.
In short, on any other day, a small golden colored, glittery parcel would not have found its way into my bag, and waited 30 minutes for attention.
Impatience dictated that I carefully peel open the package while class was in progress. Out slipped a note, and the handwriting made me jump down to the signature, where I found the name of the only person who could write that way. I opened it, to find a deep blue tie. Which brought my tally of ties owned from the rather unmanageble number 0, to the much more pragmatic, 1.
The class ended, witha round of Class Rep bums by the northies!, and I left to meet the one who gave the tie. She said,"Lets walk and talk na!", and i dutifully follow. We talk about some random stuff, as is usual, and move towards SC to get her a juice. On any other day, I would have noticed that another friend would have messaged by now, that this one never drinks juice before a meal, or that we were heading toward the area of campus most frequented by birthday parties. On any other day, I would not have gaped like a goldfish, when 35 peeople got up form their chairs, and proceeded to give me another round of bums.
Shock and Awe
The time is 1.15 AM on 25.02.2010. I am sleepy, very sleep. I am also very cranky. My sister called from the US, and the line died on me. And nobody was wishing me.
You see, 25.02.2010 is my 20th Birthday.
Thus miffed, I decide to consign in the choicest of words the intellect and plans of my hostel mates to the dustbin of failure, and sleep. The clock ticks slowly, but I am unable to sleep. I slip into slumber eventually. And then it happens. The heavens crack, volcanoes erupt, a girl squeals and other similarly unbearably noisy events occur in concurrence. I open my eyes, the clock puts the time at 2 AM. And then I noticed an angry horde beating down my door. I rise, and with me, rises the most pleasing tune any ear can hear, above the din that begot it.
"Happy Birthday to you!"
What followed was 20 minutes of the most chaos my hostel has seen. Cakes were cut and thrown, cards were given, so were gifts, bums were doled out till yesterdays dinner threatened to inquire what the matter was, and water balloons thrown. Whattanidea, saarji! Shock was in the house, and he was blowing the roof off!
That done, I bathed, removing the sticky blue, foul smelling and itch-causing concoction they called 'adhu', and returned to find a beautiful custom-made purple card with silver glitter sitting atop my pillow. You could spot a girl a mile away, I tell you. First was the card the guys gave, of course... 20+ awesome wishes on one mega card. And then the gift, a perfect one, a book of poems/prose by Shelly. Then the purple card.
Details will be omitted. Safe to say, it involved an amazing friend, an awesome photo and an unbelievably sweet and honest poem. And me in awe.
So I slept, and waited for the morning, when on all previous 19 editions, my birthday actually had begun.
You see, 25.02.2010 is my 20th Birthday.
Thus miffed, I decide to consign in the choicest of words the intellect and plans of my hostel mates to the dustbin of failure, and sleep. The clock ticks slowly, but I am unable to sleep. I slip into slumber eventually. And then it happens. The heavens crack, volcanoes erupt, a girl squeals and other similarly unbearably noisy events occur in concurrence. I open my eyes, the clock puts the time at 2 AM. And then I noticed an angry horde beating down my door. I rise, and with me, rises the most pleasing tune any ear can hear, above the din that begot it.
"Happy Birthday to you!"
What followed was 20 minutes of the most chaos my hostel has seen. Cakes were cut and thrown, cards were given, so were gifts, bums were doled out till yesterdays dinner threatened to inquire what the matter was, and water balloons thrown. Whattanidea, saarji! Shock was in the house, and he was blowing the roof off!
That done, I bathed, removing the sticky blue, foul smelling and itch-causing concoction they called 'adhu', and returned to find a beautiful custom-made purple card with silver glitter sitting atop my pillow. You could spot a girl a mile away, I tell you. First was the card the guys gave, of course... 20+ awesome wishes on one mega card. And then the gift, a perfect one, a book of poems/prose by Shelly. Then the purple card.
Details will be omitted. Safe to say, it involved an amazing friend, an awesome photo and an unbelievably sweet and honest poem. And me in awe.
So I slept, and waited for the morning, when on all previous 19 editions, my birthday actually had begun.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Assignment Infinity
4.00 AM
If you're wondering what the heck I'm doing up this late (mind you, its up this late, not up this early), I have one word for you - Dumb luck. Any person who points out to me that that was two words is going to get punched in the nose.
I sat down to do this AI assignment, about a century back. Gathered all the material, questions, pen, paper, chewing gum, water, earphones... the works. Then I assiduously read through the entire relevant material, some 40-odd sides of pure written torture, an atavism to medieval, S&M devices - so devious its intent, so perfectly soporific its execution. After a round of lightly flitting through the text, followed by some dipping, some reading and some soaping up, I was finally ready to give it a go.
That was about 90 years back.
What followed was a nonsensical waste of time, every second of which questioned my determination and intent to NOT copy the assignment. After getting stuck on a particularly troublesome problem for quite a bit of time (think 2.5 hours) I chanced upon a studious type on the micro-waves, who proceeded to tell me that the sum in question had no solution that anything short of a supercomputer could predict. She very worriedly informed me that she estimated the problem would take 50 cycles to solve, and my inquisitive glances confirmed that she meant evolution cycles. The rest, unlike what they say, is not nearly as much history as anatomy, coupled with a good deal of swearing.
I can't understand why my wonderful teachers set assignments they obviously have no interest in correcting, and make us waste our time. During a Cycle Test week no less. I would at least have watched F.R.I.E.N.D.S.
If you're wondering what the heck I'm doing up this late (mind you, its up this late, not up this early), I have one word for you - Dumb luck. Any person who points out to me that that was two words is going to get punched in the nose.
I sat down to do this AI assignment, about a century back. Gathered all the material, questions, pen, paper, chewing gum, water, earphones... the works. Then I assiduously read through the entire relevant material, some 40-odd sides of pure written torture, an atavism to medieval, S&M devices - so devious its intent, so perfectly soporific its execution. After a round of lightly flitting through the text, followed by some dipping, some reading and some soaping up, I was finally ready to give it a go.
That was about 90 years back.
What followed was a nonsensical waste of time, every second of which questioned my determination and intent to NOT copy the assignment. After getting stuck on a particularly troublesome problem for quite a bit of time (think 2.5 hours) I chanced upon a studious type on the micro-waves, who proceeded to tell me that the sum in question had no solution that anything short of a supercomputer could predict. She very worriedly informed me that she estimated the problem would take 50 cycles to solve, and my inquisitive glances confirmed that she meant evolution cycles. The rest, unlike what they say, is not nearly as much history as anatomy, coupled with a good deal of swearing.
I can't understand why my wonderful teachers set assignments they obviously have no interest in correcting, and make us waste our time. During a Cycle Test week no less. I would at least have watched F.R.I.E.N.D.S.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Love and Cranial Recession...
Note: For and introduction, read this:
http://thoughtsbynitte.blogspot.com/2008/12/roses-are-red-yellow-and-white-too.html
So its here again, the time of the year when people run around trees, hold ridiculous heart shaped balloons, give the florist's margins a boost and generally exude an air of ineffable felicity. Contrary to popular belief, recession has not (if NIT-Trichy was a case study) hit anyone hard. Like a Tamil movie director would say, Love has prevailed.
Reliable sources confirm that there were as many as 913.1 roses sent in college yesterday. The final .1 was apparently a result of someone playing 'She loves me, she loves him more' with rose petals. As tempted as I was to dispute this figure, the sheer brilliance of it as a topic to rant about stopped me. I mean, if any place could manage this, my college could.
NIT-T is, well, a sort of a danger zone for girls. The last government advisory on personal safety purportedly included a special mention about this campus in Thuvakudi, and the danger of rabid, starved dogs therein. I'm guessing that they mean us guys here. The complete nincompoops who actually believe, on the pretext of optimism and romance, that sending a girl a card and a rose is the perfect way to start a romance. The girl in question would promptly proceed to either, a) Swoon b) Develop a desperate longing for the guy's company c) Throw roses around and hug her pillow smiling or d) All of the above.
I could snort my nasal cavity clean.
In the danger of being called a heretic/pessimist/party-pooper, I categorically renounce the practice as rubbish, hummus and bio-degradable waste. I see no point in the entire exercise except to allow very very freaky guys to exhibit their desperation to be heard in a manner so cliched and abused, that it's probably gonna cost them that small chance they had. When a girl gets a hundred or fifty roses, and she obviously can't classify all of them as genuine, I'd say there's a good enough chance she'll classify them all as nothing but the convenient product of hormonal imbalance.
On the positive side, an expedient lady could probably keep her room pleasant smelling for weeks.
A case study of love and cranial recession.
http://thoughtsbynitte.blogspot.com/2008/12/roses-are-red-yellow-and-white-too.html
So its here again, the time of the year when people run around trees, hold ridiculous heart shaped balloons, give the florist's margins a boost and generally exude an air of ineffable felicity. Contrary to popular belief, recession has not (if NIT-Trichy was a case study) hit anyone hard. Like a Tamil movie director would say, Love has prevailed.
Reliable sources confirm that there were as many as 913.1 roses sent in college yesterday. The final .1 was apparently a result of someone playing 'She loves me, she loves him more' with rose petals. As tempted as I was to dispute this figure, the sheer brilliance of it as a topic to rant about stopped me. I mean, if any place could manage this, my college could.
NIT-T is, well, a sort of a danger zone for girls. The last government advisory on personal safety purportedly included a special mention about this campus in Thuvakudi, and the danger of rabid, starved dogs therein. I'm guessing that they mean us guys here. The complete nincompoops who actually believe, on the pretext of optimism and romance, that sending a girl a card and a rose is the perfect way to start a romance. The girl in question would promptly proceed to either, a) Swoon b) Develop a desperate longing for the guy's company c) Throw roses around and hug her pillow smiling or d) All of the above.
I could snort my nasal cavity clean.
In the danger of being called a heretic/pessimist/party-pooper, I categorically renounce the practice as rubbish, hummus and bio-degradable waste. I see no point in the entire exercise except to allow very very freaky guys to exhibit their desperation to be heard in a manner so cliched and abused, that it's probably gonna cost them that small chance they had. When a girl gets a hundred or fifty roses, and she obviously can't classify all of them as genuine, I'd say there's a good enough chance she'll classify them all as nothing but the convenient product of hormonal imbalance.
On the positive side, an expedient lady could probably keep her room pleasant smelling for weeks.
A case study of love and cranial recession.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Score: One in a thousand...
It is tough to write about this movie without being sardonic. Ayirathil Oruvan lives up to its name - on a scale of 1000, it would receive a grand score of 1, and that is because of unintentional comedy.
The movie is a ridiculous waste of time and money. The gore content is terrible, so too is the Apocalypto-style costume design. No motives are provided, no explanations either. The movie simultaneously tries to pander to B/C audiences and be intelligent, alluding to legends and doing away with intelligible dialogue for a good 20 mins in the second half. It also tries to simultaneously explore and master a genre too large for either. Guilty too it is of showing a character simultaneously heroic and pusillanimous, with no shades in between. In short, the movie suffers from an identity crisis - it is neither the unformed vision of a master-director, nor the structured product of a commercial house. From a cast that boasts the wildly talented Karthi and Andrea, and the oh-so-sexy Reemma, apart from Selvaraghavan, known for his engrossing (albeit controversial) movies, the movie is not only terrible, but a mockery of their talents.
The plus points - exchanges between the lead trio are enjoyable. One feels that had the movie taken the course of a survival flick, with the trio weathering a hostile forest and a jungle tribe while fighting and understanding themselves, the end result would have been positively terrific. Reemma is admittedly gorgeous, though in my honest opinion Andrea beats her hands down without trying. For example, the part in 'En maela aasai dhaan' where she makes to remove her top was easily THE most smouldering part of the movie, including the numerous fires and concomitant killings.
The background music, though a bit loud at times, was well rendered. Re-Recording was par excellence, and the music in general was enjoyable. The pseudo-carnatic bit with the King and the Intruder was enjoyable to this untrained ear, and "En Maela" was frankly groovy. All other songs were passe, and where the hell was "Maalai Naeram"?
Acting was good through the movie, and camera work was amazing also. Graphics were a bit childish, though a laudable attempt.
AO is an example of how a film that is stretched out too long can sometimes take a direction completely opposite what a director may have intended. It is also testimony that however talented your cast and crew, the bottom line is the script - if you do not invest time in fleshing out a script for a movie of this magnitude, chaos will result. It saddens me that the first major foray by Kollywood into this genre tells you what exactly not to do.
Highlights:
Final word: Avoid. At all costs. Maybe if the world was ending and you wanted to badly see a Tamil movie before you died, you could watch this. Even then, I would recommend Vaettaikaaran.
The movie is a ridiculous waste of time and money. The gore content is terrible, so too is the Apocalypto-style costume design. No motives are provided, no explanations either. The movie simultaneously tries to pander to B/C audiences and be intelligent, alluding to legends and doing away with intelligible dialogue for a good 20 mins in the second half. It also tries to simultaneously explore and master a genre too large for either. Guilty too it is of showing a character simultaneously heroic and pusillanimous, with no shades in between. In short, the movie suffers from an identity crisis - it is neither the unformed vision of a master-director, nor the structured product of a commercial house. From a cast that boasts the wildly talented Karthi and Andrea, and the oh-so-sexy Reemma, apart from Selvaraghavan, known for his engrossing (albeit controversial) movies, the movie is not only terrible, but a mockery of their talents.
The plus points - exchanges between the lead trio are enjoyable. One feels that had the movie taken the course of a survival flick, with the trio weathering a hostile forest and a jungle tribe while fighting and understanding themselves, the end result would have been positively terrific. Reemma is admittedly gorgeous, though in my honest opinion Andrea beats her hands down without trying. For example, the part in 'En maela aasai dhaan' where she makes to remove her top was easily THE most smouldering part of the movie, including the numerous fires and concomitant killings.
The background music, though a bit loud at times, was well rendered. Re-Recording was par excellence, and the music in general was enjoyable. The pseudo-carnatic bit with the King and the Intruder was enjoyable to this untrained ear, and "En Maela" was frankly groovy. All other songs were passe, and where the hell was "Maalai Naeram"?
Acting was good through the movie, and camera work was amazing also. Graphics were a bit childish, though a laudable attempt.
AO is an example of how a film that is stretched out too long can sometimes take a direction completely opposite what a director may have intended. It is also testimony that however talented your cast and crew, the bottom line is the script - if you do not invest time in fleshing out a script for a movie of this magnitude, chaos will result. It saddens me that the first major foray by Kollywood into this genre tells you what exactly not to do.
Highlights:
- Karthi's acting
- Andrea's stunning (albeit completely underutilized) mix of acting and looks
- Reemma's Tomb Raider outfit
- BGM
- Scale of production
- The amazingly talented army that uses wooden shields with holes, and runs towards barbarians who specialize at melee combat.
- Reemma's hilarious shoot-and-move scene with the snakes
- Lactating blood *yuk*
- The threesome in the cave!
- The small bit, right at the end, that says, wait for it, "To be continued"
Final word: Avoid. At all costs. Maybe if the world was ending and you wanted to badly see a Tamil movie before you died, you could watch this. Even then, I would recommend Vaettaikaaran.
In the CSE department, where the shadows lie...
It was a hot day. A hot, sunny day. A hot, sunny, sweaty day. A hot, sunny, sweaty, worthy-of-numerous-more-such-adjectives day. The point is, I was irritated. It was a Wednesday, which was a Friday, since the Thursday in question was a holiday. Also because I had shifted the Friday classes to Wednesday, to give all us rustic dudes a long weekend to wear crazy costumes, paint ourselves in myriad colors and go around shouting 'Pongalooooo Pongal'. The point of course, is that sitting in class on any day that precedes a holiday is pure torture. Then again, of late, sitting in class is pure torture.
My department is something of a paradox. The paradox, of course, is that it exists. It's also a very interesting setting for statistical analysis - what are the odds, you wonder, of having the most inane minds in the world cooped up in a single department? Irony would also find himself at home - it is, inexplicably, among most vaunted department in college.
That's not to say we don't have good teachers. It is to say we have too many bad ones.
Anyway, the point being that sometimes the drill gets to you, and you do crazy things. Some people gesticulate, others pinch the guy next to them, others sing and still others appreciate them. Most scribble and nod idly at the teacher. Many message. A few even finish off their con-calls during particularly insipid times. Reports claim that a minority even try paying attention, sick with the world and wanting deliverance.
I decided to put all that irritation to good use, and write a couplet every class I feel bored. Ergo, this, the first in the series affectionately and optimistically titled, Rhyme Sine Dine. The title for this one is, "The one with bananas and tails"
The one with bananas and tails.
He will move mountains
Swallow whole seas
Maybe once we wean him
Away from his trees.
His grading is clairvoyant
Do not whine and weep
The first semester will say
What the last one keeps.
Ignorance courts incompetence
Ego is strife
Us inured - In his classroom,
This is life.
My department is something of a paradox. The paradox, of course, is that it exists. It's also a very interesting setting for statistical analysis - what are the odds, you wonder, of having the most inane minds in the world cooped up in a single department? Irony would also find himself at home - it is, inexplicably, among most vaunted department in college.
That's not to say we don't have good teachers. It is to say we have too many bad ones.
Anyway, the point being that sometimes the drill gets to you, and you do crazy things. Some people gesticulate, others pinch the guy next to them, others sing and still others appreciate them. Most scribble and nod idly at the teacher. Many message. A few even finish off their con-calls during particularly insipid times. Reports claim that a minority even try paying attention, sick with the world and wanting deliverance.
I decided to put all that irritation to good use, and write a couplet every class I feel bored. Ergo, this, the first in the series affectionately and optimistically titled, Rhyme Sine Dine. The title for this one is, "The one with bananas and tails"
The one with bananas and tails.
He will move mountains
Swallow whole seas
Maybe once we wean him
Away from his trees.
His grading is clairvoyant
Do not whine and weep
The first semester will say
What the last one keeps.
Ignorance courts incompetence
Ego is strife
Us inured - In his classroom,
This is life.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Kutty: Big heart, small movie...
Coming home for a festival is partly driven by the lure of the movies. And going to the movies is partly driven by the as-yet unfulfilled desire to see a mature, intelligent and engrossing mainstream Tamil movie. So it was, that after watching Kutty, the feeling was not so-near-yet-so-far as we're-getting-there.
"Kutty" stars Dhanush and Shriya. To be perfectly fair, it also stars a Telugu-film script. However, unequivocally, the star of the show is Dhanush. A rousing performance - in right parts lively, loquacious, childish and, particularly in the climax, tear-jerking. Where he is let down, though, is everywhere else - the co-stars are undoubtedly terrible, the BGM makes a mockery of things and the editing people clearly went on leave. The movie is at least half an hour too long, and not a single song was required (nor appreciated). In a nutshell, this is a Dhanush show -a feel-good movie that, like his previous, Yaaradi Nee Mohini, weans him away from the street-urchin type roles and establishes him as an entertaining, talented and more importantly today, tolerable actor.
The story is heart wrenching or absurd, depending on if you're a romantic or not. The pampered, buff, athletic and cigarette sporting blockhead-with-a-stubble Arjun (some model who strayed onto the sets, clearly) decides he 'wants' Gita (Shriya) to love him. When she, in an act of Tamil cinema blasphemy, refuses, he is incensed and threatens to jump off a very tall clock tower (His 'fakes' in this scene are priceless). An intelligent choice to draw a crowd, as the time is perhaps something most college students do diligently strive to know. Anyway, a crowd of students (mostly female) implore Gita to oblige him, "It's just one I love you!" which she does. There enters Kutty - a happy-go-lucky, well meaning and charming. The rest of the movie deals with Kutty doing everything to express his love for Gita, getting on Arjun's nerves, being the selfless dude who lets everything pass for his 'lovers' sake etc etc etc.
The character sketching is terrible. The portrayal is worse. While Dhanush, as mentioned before, does a splendid job, even Kutty suffers from neglection - Who is he, where are his parents, who's that old man (who gets to hand-feed Shriya medicine)? Gita is shown initially to be sensitive and sensible, yet increasingly becomes a raving, stereotypical filmi girl who changes character over the course of a song. Shriya's acting has not changed much, meaning she still looks gorgeously constipated when trying to cry. Arjun was, clearly, abandoned as a gone-case and hence no scriptwriting time was wasted on him. The character of Shruthi was woefully under-developed, as 'best friend of the girl', she does nothing except be the butt of Kutty's jokes (until the climax, at least)
A special mention about Shriya's costumes in the movie - while probably the most (and best) clothed she has been since her movie debut, one wonders how she packed so many clothes, and matching earrings, into a bag that small. Ideas are welcome - I struggle with my luggage every few weeks and am always receptive to novel ways of packing. Further, her night-attire was frankly ridiculous. Nobody in the world would wear that much make up to bed, and, ahem.. welll... to be subtle, sleeping was never such an uplifting experience.
A small kostin. With her hairstyle and costume, and frequent references as 'machi', most moviegoers were stumped - was it a he-friend, or a she-friend? Either way, no laughs were wasted at her (the Lollu Sabha heroine's) expense.
The music was horrible through the movie. Every song reminded me of Santosh Subramaniam, the last Devi Sri Prasad movie I cared to hear. The BGM was *TERRIBLE* and many a touching scene were spoiled by a long, lazy, high-strung, mundane violin solo.
The accent of the actors (or should I say, of the dubbing artists) were unbearable. Coupled with inane dialogues and plastic faces, things got pretty irritating round the middle. Arjun probably looks good, though his standard expression would burn quite a few calories, with him flexing muscles and squinting when delivering every dialogue. His gesticulations and screaming was frankly irritating, and can't filmmakers see that even Prakash Raj has killed off his Ghilli routine? ("Dei... Neee...Enna sonna? Enna Sonna? Nee enna sonna? *snore*) The only other notable performer was Arjun's friend, the same person who was in Vaettaikaaran, if I'm not wrong.
The camera work was amazing... rich and colorful. Editing was good when it was done, but towards the end one got the feeling the editing team went on leave - the second half was just too long-drawn.
Kutty is small movie with a big heart. With better casting, better acting, better music and stricter editing, this could have been one of the great candyfloss movies. As such, the movie is passable, and after his amazing (though slightly overboard) performance in the climax, which, for the first time for a long time gave me a throat-lump in a Tamil movie, one comes away feeling that the movie is a must watch, just for Dhanush.
"Kutty" stars Dhanush and Shriya. To be perfectly fair, it also stars a Telugu-film script. However, unequivocally, the star of the show is Dhanush. A rousing performance - in right parts lively, loquacious, childish and, particularly in the climax, tear-jerking. Where he is let down, though, is everywhere else - the co-stars are undoubtedly terrible, the BGM makes a mockery of things and the editing people clearly went on leave. The movie is at least half an hour too long, and not a single song was required (nor appreciated). In a nutshell, this is a Dhanush show -a feel-good movie that, like his previous, Yaaradi Nee Mohini, weans him away from the street-urchin type roles and establishes him as an entertaining, talented and more importantly today, tolerable actor.
The story is heart wrenching or absurd, depending on if you're a romantic or not. The pampered, buff, athletic and cigarette sporting blockhead-with-a-stubble Arjun (some model who strayed onto the sets, clearly) decides he 'wants' Gita (Shriya) to love him. When she, in an act of Tamil cinema blasphemy, refuses, he is incensed and threatens to jump off a very tall clock tower (His 'fakes' in this scene are priceless). An intelligent choice to draw a crowd, as the time is perhaps something most college students do diligently strive to know. Anyway, a crowd of students (mostly female) implore Gita to oblige him, "It's just one I love you!" which she does. There enters Kutty - a happy-go-lucky, well meaning and charming. The rest of the movie deals with Kutty doing everything to express his love for Gita, getting on Arjun's nerves, being the selfless dude who lets everything pass for his 'lovers' sake etc etc etc.
The character sketching is terrible. The portrayal is worse. While Dhanush, as mentioned before, does a splendid job, even Kutty suffers from neglection - Who is he, where are his parents, who's that old man (who gets to hand-feed Shriya medicine)? Gita is shown initially to be sensitive and sensible, yet increasingly becomes a raving, stereotypical filmi girl who changes character over the course of a song. Shriya's acting has not changed much, meaning she still looks gorgeously constipated when trying to cry. Arjun was, clearly, abandoned as a gone-case and hence no scriptwriting time was wasted on him. The character of Shruthi was woefully under-developed, as 'best friend of the girl', she does nothing except be the butt of Kutty's jokes (until the climax, at least)
A special mention about Shriya's costumes in the movie - while probably the most (and best) clothed she has been since her movie debut, one wonders how she packed so many clothes, and matching earrings, into a bag that small. Ideas are welcome - I struggle with my luggage every few weeks and am always receptive to novel ways of packing. Further, her night-attire was frankly ridiculous. Nobody in the world would wear that much make up to bed, and, ahem.. welll... to be subtle, sleeping was never such an uplifting experience.
A small kostin. With her hairstyle and costume, and frequent references as 'machi', most moviegoers were stumped - was it a he-friend, or a she-friend? Either way, no laughs were wasted at her (the Lollu Sabha heroine's) expense.
The music was horrible through the movie. Every song reminded me of Santosh Subramaniam, the last Devi Sri Prasad movie I cared to hear. The BGM was *TERRIBLE* and many a touching scene were spoiled by a long, lazy, high-strung, mundane violin solo.
The accent of the actors (or should I say, of the dubbing artists) were unbearable. Coupled with inane dialogues and plastic faces, things got pretty irritating round the middle. Arjun probably looks good, though his standard expression would burn quite a few calories, with him flexing muscles and squinting when delivering every dialogue. His gesticulations and screaming was frankly irritating, and can't filmmakers see that even Prakash Raj has killed off his Ghilli routine? ("Dei... Neee...Enna sonna? Enna Sonna? Nee enna sonna? *snore*) The only other notable performer was Arjun's friend, the same person who was in Vaettaikaaran, if I'm not wrong.
The camera work was amazing... rich and colorful. Editing was good when it was done, but towards the end one got the feeling the editing team went on leave - the second half was just too long-drawn.
Kutty is small movie with a big heart. With better casting, better acting, better music and stricter editing, this could have been one of the great candyfloss movies. As such, the movie is passable, and after his amazing (though slightly overboard) performance in the climax, which, for the first time for a long time gave me a throat-lump in a Tamil movie, one comes away feeling that the movie is a must watch, just for Dhanush.
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