logged.inside.my.head

Breakdown

2011-06-03T03:25:00.007+05:30

I've come to know the cold
I think of it as home
When there ain't enough of me to go around
I'd rather be left alone
But if I call you out of habit

I'm out of love and I gotta have it
Would you give it to me, if I fit you needs
Like when we both knew we had it
But now the damage's done
And we're back out on the run
Fun how ev'rything was roses
When we held on to the guns
Just because you're winnin'
Don't mean you're the lucky ones

- Guns N' Roses

It ain't cloudy anymore

2011-05-21T00:53:00.005+05:30

It was just a cloud, high in the sky. Looking down at you. Imposing, inviting, waiting. Meandering in the vastness of oblivion. It floats there calmly. Not a sound but if there was one, it would be from the harp-laden angel within. You can reach it, bask in its fluffy heavenly glory but you will never have it.

As it gently wafts by, it disappears over the horizon right in front of your transfixed eyes.

And all it leaves behind is the searing heat that drains you dry.

I miss that cloud!

What Are You Looking At,Eh?

2011-02-24T10:07:00.002+05:30

Closed Distance...

2011-01-24T19:52:00.015+05:30

Words. Rounded up and beaten. Cut, chopped and made mincemeat of. Restricted by distance and denied of the epiphany that lies across the stretch of land and albeit only a tiny expanse of water that the world can storm, it moves there thousands of miles away from where it should be, where it could be. It meanders through a minefield of thoughts, stepping in gently after a good sleep, during a good sleep, when awake, and vitiates the existence that continues without the presence of the flesh and bones it needs.

There is no hope, not yet, just a glowing green dot from a radiant image.

Real Estate Is Not An Industry

2010-07-02T01:26:00.006+05:30

It is an unregulated entity giving the utmost freedom to capitalize on human needs and to make humongous profits. It is dominated by a few well-suited corporate-style hungry wolf packs and on the other end of the spectrum, defines itself through paan chewing, uncultured, Hindutva-spewing, nincompoops who have understood the business of making money by scourging on a piece of land.

And did I mention, they are more or less unregulated?

This Is You!

2009-11-08T03:06:00.005+05:30

Humans! How I despise them. With their big brains and their opposable thumbs. Simians on two feet, that’s what they are. Complicated their own lives with their mores. Docked on the moors is more like it. Neither on land nor the sea. Stuck in the peaty smell of everything they survey. Imploding constantly with their own ideas. The feeble survive. The meek shall inherit the earth. Like cockroaches after a nuclear fallout. Scavenging…

Bomb them back to humanity I say.

See It, Believe It

2009-09-03T03:42:00.005+05:30

As the eyes search down in the vast expanses of vanity, the light shines, emanating the divinity within. It’s not hard to see but the ignorance of the world is not so blissful. It is a waft of approaching stimuli to all senses. Eyes hypnotically follow every movement, the gentleness of it, and the subtlety of it. Spotted from far away, like the searching glare within the dry grass blades somewhere in the Serengeti. Its presence is completely unaware of prying eyes, or at least that is what it leads to believe. Patient and resilient, it carries across the daily trudge of miles of the day, until it turns around for its abode. It carries with itself the frugal fragrant imposition of its existence which slaps thine face for acknowledgment.

Everyday is like being in the open desert under the scorching sun. The sun doesn’t take much away but is indeed incommodious. The Brobdingnag sweep of the desolate wasteland leads to anything but Rome. So like a fawn meandering and spiraling through the landscape, it time and again falls right next to you.

A voice unfolds reserving its space, slowly and steadily, until it alters brainwaves to accommodate the sweet siren voicing at pre-determined intervals day-after-day. Till it alters the metabolism, like a slow drug, till you can’t live without it, till the body twitches with withdrawal symptoms. And then it rings…

Budget 2009 Is An Investment For Long Term Growth

2009-07-10T23:55:00.010+05:30

The Real Estate sector does not necessarily deserve incentives all the time. The three stimulus packages before were more than enough.
“The investment in infrastructure for the growth of economy is critical” said Mr Pranab Mukerjee in his budget speech. India will aim for a growth rate of at least 9 per cent per annum over an extended period of time and try and increase the investment in infrastructure to more than 9 per cent of GDP by 2014.
The Finance Minister took a leaf from President Barack Obama’s inaugural speech, when the President of Change pragmatically stated “Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. They are serious and they are many. They will not be met easily or in a short span of time.” Mr Mukherjee drew parallels by stating, “Members would appreciate that a single Budget Speech cannot solve all our problems.”
Investment in infrastructure is not a short term recourse for growth, it is a macro-view for stability through connectivity. Heavy emphasis was laid on infrastructure, both in rural and urban areas.
It was suggested that the Infrastructure Finance Company Limited (IIFCL) will cater to infrastructure by refinancing 60 per cent of commercial bank loans for Public-Private Partnerships (PPP) in critical sectors over the coming months.
The Jawaharlal Nehru National Urban Renewal Mission (JNNURM) schemes allocation has been upped by 87 per cent. With close to Rs. 4000 crores allocated for housing and providing amenities to the urban poor. This portrays the affordable housing schemes by private developers as a joke.
The Rajiv Awas Yojana (RAY) intends to make the country slum free in a five year period is something to be sceptical about; a similar promise which could not be delivered by the Government since the last election.
The Indira Awaas Yojana (IAY), for rural housing, is proposed to be increased by 63 per cent. The proposal is to allocate, from the shortfall in the priority sector lending of commercial banks, a sum of Rs.2,000 crore for Rural Housing Fund in the National Housing Bank (NHB). This is expected to boost the resource base of NHB for their refinance operations in rural housing sector.
Mumbai, now in its fifth year of Venetian-like floods, can look forward to the Brihan Mumbai Storm Water Drainage Project (BRIMSTOWA) with an influx of funds of up to Rs. 500 crore to “expedite the completion of the project.”
Furthermore, steps were provided to reach the unbanked and under-banked areas of the country to ensure a brisk circulation of the financial system to regulate the economy from all quarters.
The only cake for Real Estate, albeit half-baked, was provided to the construction sector, with a proposed full exemption on goods manufactured at site including pre-fabricated concrete slabs or blocks, when used for further construction at site.
Politically, it is advisable that the allocation and incentives are favoured towards the rural sector, a major vote bank for the Congress, or even the malignant state of infrastructure, including metros such as Mumbai. Rural development will mean equitable distribution of wealth, investment, higher standard of living and job creation in areas which have been neglected. This may also deter the rural-to-urban population migration easing pressures in urban areas.
The world is still rotating on the financial crisis and investments to struggling sectors like real estate, for instance, will absorb any incentives with little to show. Influx of capital in any sector will give a less-than-expected disproportionate ratio to the output. And ideally, market forces should govern their status. It is then advisable that the basic idiosyncrasies of the country are strengthened during these times.
Dissent for the budget is mainly on the Income Tax slabs voiced by the middle class section of the population but then again there is no key financial crunch in India although the economy has slowed down. Liquidity options are cautious than anything else. Furthermore, the three stimulus packages announced by the Government pre-elections, from December 2008, are enough enticements for housing loans and consequently the real estate sector. Failure to capitalise means that they were treated as bench warmers.
Section 80IB (10) which provides tax benefits to developers who provide for housing aimed at weaker sections was under-utilised and hence was not renewed. And rightly so.
Housing for the poor has been taken up by the Government themselves through institutions like the IAY and the JNNURM, leaving private developers out of the opportunity to make hay through volumes. Remember affordable housing schemes, anyone?
Historically speaking, the Great Depression on 1929 had similar solutions. It purported that concentration of an economy in only a few areas, be it geographically or sector wise, is detrimental and thus chose to inculcate a wider range of the economic spectrum across the country. President Franklin Delano Roosevelt is believed to have restored the economy with concentrated efforts towards labour and upgrading the infrastructure at a national level.
On the Indian front, regulations can be relaxed as and when required. Provisions can provided and exceptions can be made. But today is not that need of the hour. The budget is good. Wait and see.

Meltdown!

2009-04-13T17:09:00.004+05:30

The sudden loss of cranial shutdown was attributed to the constant barrage of information gored vilely in the deepest chambers of neurons. Sparks dissipated into a mere semi-liquid mass of gooey output. It did spark though, like a mini-nuclear implosion collapsing under its own microns. And like a man-made disaster the big red button was pressed, lights flashed, sirens blared, evacuation followed down to the hatches of what only can be termed by your imagination. A lifeless pitiful body remained staring at the window, hands by its side, legs curled up, face hanging and mouth open to the bugs of the outside world.

"Bet'chr Ass Man, Guns N' Roses! Rules....Then That Cobain Pussy Had To Come Around & Ruin It All."

2009-03-02T15:09:00.009+05:30

Guns N’ Roses! Guns…N’…Roses! They evoked a chant from the ravenous, inebriated puffed, riot inducing, high decibel volubly wired craniums that formed the electoral support for the stage.

Axl Rose is an acronym for Oral Sex and Slash is a Nigerian-Jewish-Brit hybrid, but enough of their trivialities. They were anti-establishment, anti-anti even. They screeched their existence, and then added heavy drumming and the electric streamed through their fingers and said “You’re in a jungle, baby. Wake Up! Time to die!”

The world hasn’t changed much. They were the notified punks of the 80’s, the era’s brand ambassadors. They spoke about that time, how grunge it was, how intoxicating it was, how loud it was, how nostalgic it would be, and a stark reminder of how empty it is now.

Axl’s hoarse shrieking laid low setting up as a precursor to the enticing runaway solos by Slash; mix it with a balladic piano of Dizzy Reed, the bass of Duff McKagan, might it be added; heavily underrated, the rhythms of Izzy Stradlin, the percussions of the discarded Steven Adler and his replacement Matt Sorum.

Guns N’ Roses, like most of the bands of the 80’s, were known for their on-stage antics, from the St. Louis riots in 1991 to the sane pleas of pacifying the crowds “we don’t want people passing out and having to go to the hospital” (Mr. Brownstone from Live Era ’87-‘93).

The rift that was between Axl Rose and the original band, currently Velvet Revolver sans the lead singer Scott Weiland, is still on a high and will collude against a reunion. Communism has fallen and so has the band, the voracious appetite for era is now just a grand illusion.

Contemplate

2008-12-08T04:16:00.008+05:30

The sage atop a snowy peak freezes in the endorsement of enlightenment. He froze his blood blue and he froze his nose pink, his toes were black and ready to disembark on a journey detached from his transcendent thoughts. He froze time as well because time was cryogenically relative to civilization and the only wise words he heard was the bleating of a mountain goat.

The wind picked up speed which formed a low pressure in the atmosphere in which he was enclosed. His parched eyes were ready to pop out from his sockets, ready to fall in line with his toes. The incline would make them travel farther than his toes might drop off. Rolling down further down to the chasm, his eye-balls would serve a tempting ready-to-eat fast food snack for a hungry pack of wolves. The mountain goat was the main course.

His skin had leather like gleam and his mammary papilla was hard as a diamond cutters tools. He was not in one with nature though; he realized this as he could not hibernate. His stomach growled with hunger. It had already digested the butterflies he had nourished a few hours ago. His concentration strewn, he robotically reached in his bag, and as his elbows creaked, the punishing grinding of gears in his joints, his fingers sent vague signals to his numb yet semi-enlightened receptors in his brains.

“Are those my testicles?” he pondered. His body was numb, at certain places. He mustered enough courage to withdraw his hand, with the fruit on the tips of his fingers, as he finally he realized that his testicles could not have possibly walked to his satchel.

He opened his icicle infested eyes and as he lost his eye-lashes in the process he noticed he was holding a peach, frozen hard as a rock like those lay beside him. The dogs that now stopped growling started howling. And he knew his stomach was close to his balls and he could not afford to “release the hounds”.

He took one bite of the frozen delight and swallowed his teeth. He could feel the warmth of the blood inside his mouth. It is difficult to find an analogy to describe what he felt, but “parting is such sweet sorrow”.

With the dogs neutered, he sat there. He sat wondering. Why? Then it hit him. Like a clap of thunder that would make a cat jump. A single bolt of lightening strayed across the brazen sky and toasted him. He was done. He fell, buttered side down. His heart beat a faint beat like a slow ballad barren of love. He looked up to the heavens and raised his voice, with his fist wallowing, he shrieked “Aaaaargh! That hurt!” Looked left and right as if crossing the street, paused for applause and sat down cross legged.

With one eye in the sky and the other one waiting to fall off, he felt the warmth in his body. His body was a prison he felt. A prison for all his desires and he needed liberation or enlightenment, whichever came first. But he eventually decided he needed to urinate the little ice cubes that were forming in his bladder first. He passed the elephant through the needles eye and then there was a moment. A surreal moment of peace and tranquility surged through his body. He had done it, he thought. He was there. Atop a peak, one with nature, one with himself and life itself thereabouts round the corner.

It was a long and onerous journey uphill. He stomped and he grazed without a faintest idea that he may resemble a goat. His beard and long hair were his ever increasing constant companions. A flow, a pattern emerged. The pointed end of his beard resembled a compass which directed his senile pleas to march towards the opposite direction. He had left it all behind, people and their social ineptitude. He had met a donkey on the way to the stony pass which led to the foothills of the mountain. He had gazed into the stubborn eyes of the lazy beast. The sage said, in the most childlike eager tone, although laden with a bit of subtlety, “Hello”. The donkey mustered up its head, away from the desolate ground below, where it had its vision fixated in a magnifying point of deep thought. “Hrrrmph! Hee Haw!” it answered. As if to say, “Hee Haw”. They looked at each other like they were a separated military unit lost during the peak of a civil war, looking at each other in an untrustworthy manner, trying to figure who was the one who was brainwashed. Then the donkey, without any indication, turned his head away, like a scorned lover trying to hide its embarrassment.

Incomplete...

"Kzzht! I Am Dead! Over And Out!"

2008-09-26T02:41:00.006+05:30

Your first day with a new game is like your first day of a new term at school. Everything seems new and fresh. The introductory lectures, the first few easy chapters – the training camp, an odd new face – characters, the books – the ammo, the teacher – the sensei, the strategies, the odd bullet in your head, losing your partners...wait it gets much worse...nonchalant team mates, incompetent tactics, connectivity issues and finally the complete and utter failure!

And none of it was your fault!

Angela’s Ashes: A Memoir

2008-09-26T02:12:00.007+05:30

Angela’s Ashes is the 1997 Pulitzer Prize winning memoir of an Irish-Catholic childhood of the life of Frank McCourt. A recounting life of abject misery, poverty and torment which young Frank could only observe, borne by his mother Angela.

The book recounts surprising number of details through the eyes of a child born in America, the Land of the Free, but withheld by the depths of Depression, forcing the family in the plunge of Limerick, back home in Ireland. McCourt describes as to what he perceives the plight of his siblings on the steps of heaven, a constantly out-of-work over zealous patriotic inebriated father, apathetic kin, an indifferent town and the endurance of it all by one Angela, Frank’s mother.

The book is widely Frank McCourt’s memories in his early years and it not only reflects in his writings but also in a strong empathetic feeling generated as a reader towards his early days. Throughout the tragedy which can be called his life, his mind reflects, nay meanders, towards a silver lining. Be it in stealing apples or getting the proud satisfaction finding work in his adolescence.

Moreover, the grim tale encompasses definitions of what can bring the odd smile to the readers face. The book in all its subtlety is satirical at times. To think a boy in his youth can conjure why Jesus Christ was not born in damp Limerick, lest he died of the consumption, tells you why Frank McCourt can bring out the sun amongst the dark side that were his childhood years and more impudently it set about his literary skills to blossom.

The book was adapted as a movie in 1997 and although notable facets of his life are truncated, the core of this book has been captured and its essence flows in the dull and dreary scenes embossed forever on the readers mind. Read it and smile with an odd tear in your eye.

“My Phone…Rather Want An iPhone”

2008-09-25T17:09:00.008+05:30

Cell phones have evolved to a vast array of services normally found in your Personal Computer. Samsung has found itself delved in this upcoming deluge in the world of upgraded communication devices.

The Samsung i710 is their attempt at just another SmartPhone. The handset looks, in the simplest of ways, smart. Its simplistic appearance makes it all the more appealing. It features, among others, a 2 Mega Pixel Camera powered by Windows Mobile 5.0 for Pocket PC.

The touchscreen is not at all bad and responds easily and without any feelings of constrictions due to its large 2.8 inch display. All applications seem to be well organized and permits customized menus and free allocation for its short cut keys. The camera also offers clean images of desired resolutions and minor editing options. Images captured in low light or in the night are surprisingly not a letdown considering there is no flash, something that should have enhanced its cumbersome capability. The sound quality is a bit to be desired, for you can only unleash its influence through the prescribed headphones.

The Microsoft Office feature spells out where the phone can be utilized at its best. Word and PowerPoint, although a bit basic, provide to be worthwhile on the move. Excel, on the other hand, lies on a similar page although using Excel may prove to be a bit of a handful as the display, although copious, does not seem to be large enough for this software. And disappointingly, Office only supports its 2003 cousin.

The handwriting recognition facet which can be used both for Office as well as basic SMS is tempting and lives up to its expectations and more importantly is fun to use. Other than this other basic features include MMS, Email, Bluetooth, Video and Audio for capturing and playback, a Memory slot and Java support.

Maybe asking for a Radio would have been a bit too much, but then again it also lacks WiFi which would have rendered the piece close to priceless. At least that is what I would like to believe. Moreover, the battery power is a bit weak and it may find time and again depleting itself to half its life with half the day gone, assuming you use most of the features it has to offer. Coming to its looks, the chrome plating on each of it sides, which gives a nice finish, comes off very easily taking most of the phones gloss away. But that may not be its worst attribute. Ever find yourself in an area with weak connectivity where other phones cling on to its last bar with its teeth. This doesn’t. This just gives up just before you reach such an area.

All in all, it has its fair share of frustration driving behavior which most of modern technology encompasses but then again there are others such as the HTC Touch which may offer the same as the i710 and just a bit more for just a bit less.

Life Goes On…

2008-09-17T01:50:00.008+05:30

You are born; adolescence breeds indoctrination of social stigmas and those receptors you may or may not concur may lead you to a path of a content life or abject misery, or perhaps a permutation and combination of both.

What ends in a padded cell with a straight jacket is actually the beginning, of not an uncultured presence, but the transcendence of unadulterated thought. A thought devoid of infestation and subjugation, perhaps to democracy, a contest against ideologies, an antonym of measurement, a rebel of the rebellious, yet a non-conformist.

But, these are subverted by the very humanity that breeds it all. So don’t just free your mind…just loose the bloody thing!!!

Bite The Apple…Again!

2008-09-12T01:14:00.007+05:30

“We are stuck with technology when what we really want is just stuff that works. How do you recognize something that is technology? A good clue is if it comes with a manual.” – Douglas Adams

The iPhone is here. But several philosophies propose that some unforeseen facets do not want it to stay. Launched at a time when inflation is trying to shoot the moon, political turmoil flipped like pancakes and exploding bombs playing hide and seek. All of this comes at a whopping cost of the middle class man’s monthly pay packet.

Critics and pundits and others who prey on this fabrication of capitalism have taken to this like vultures to an after-buffet dessert. It has a lot of features but they work in an undulated exasperating fashion. A Nokia 3500 Classic for instance is available at 1/5th the cost of the iPhone yet offers a lot more. The iPhone can play videos but can’t capture one, you can’t send an MMS unlike the 3500, and all you settle with is a pitiful and Spartan 2 mega-pixel camera, the same as in the 3500. The Bluetooth in the iPhone does not allow exchanging our precious illegal mp3’s either, again a service rendered by the 3500. The Bluetooth is only there for headset support. And both phones offer Email. And yes you may argue that the iPhone has 3G but it’s in a country without the appropriate network.

On Vodafone, the phone is expensive and the call charges are similar to what is offered in their standard tariffs and Airtel is unequivocally on the same page. It is turning out to be a classic case of duopoly. What it needs is a bit of competition in the market to get the prices down a bit. Then there is the 3G Network itself. The Department of Telecom has announced that it may hike the 3G spectrum usage charges to telcos making the road more knotty than it already is and couple that with the poor sales of the handset with both Vodafone and Bharti Airtel and you have a recipe of oversights. Vodafone introduced the 8GB and the 16GB versions for Rs. 31, 000 and Rs 36, 000 respectively. These were then slashed by Rs 1, 500 as Vodafone and Airtel together only managed to sell 1, 500 in the opening week. (Does this mean that they would slash prices down by Rs. 10,000 if they sell 10, 000 in a week?) Vodafone customer services are not surprised when asked whether the prices will come down further. The standard verbiage then follows, “I am sorry, I am not aware of that…”

Steve Jobs, the father of the iPhone, once got fired from his own company. He tried and succeeded and now earns more than you and me and the guy who fired him. The iPhone seems to be on a similar path.

In spite of all the above …the iPhone is truly a piece of art. It’s like the bastard love-child of Picasso and Michelangelo, smearing your ear with its tongue dipped in paint. It is a masterpiece, a looker. You have to be an ant to appreciate its grandeur, so you may walk around it and look up to it. It is a Pink Floyd concert, complete with strobe and pschydelia all on your fingertips. It is the Genesis of the very philosophy of l’art pour l’art. It is sleek, tender and seductive and it beckons to be used. The display looks clean and captivating while the interface is a crèche to use. Above all and aptly, it is an iPod you can talk from.

It’s like owning a 300kph Ferrari in Mumbai. Sure, people might say that it is impractical and that the roads are inadequate to unleash it, just like the iPhone 3G on a 2G network. But hey, at least you own a Ferrari. It works, and that is what matters. Forget logic; don’t reason; just indulge. Go buy it!

The Pole Missed The Pole

2008-08-19T18:24:00.009+05:30

[15th March 2008]

Qualifying began at Albert Park, Melbourne for the Australian GP on Saturday 15th March 2008. Memories were still afresh of the three way title race of 2007 where Kimi Raikkonen pulled off a fascinating conclusion. A championship 21 years in the making since another three way battle between Nelson Piquet, Nigel Mansell and Alain Prost in 1986 with a similar outcome.

A few cars made its way onto the track and placed a bookmark as to which cars would lay down the rubber for the top end duopoly. The three teams to set interests on were, other than the ones at the top of course, on the basis of off season practice and testing were Red Bull and Toyota and also Force India for obvious reasons.

Over the course of the season, Red Bull, Toyota and Renault are expected to battle for mid-field supremacy, a place which proves consistently entertaining, when the Ferraris and McLarens abruptly decide to devise a perfect package which insipidly, at times, hog up uninterrupted race wins. Hopefully, without traction control this season, and consequently considering the numbers of cars which looked twitchy and gave armfuls of opposite locks during the entire Qualifying session, the season may prove to be a juggler’s delight.

Q1 saw Lewis Hamilton getting his McLaren twitching twice in a single lap, one occasion when held up behind a BMW. The BMWs did not particularly impress in the first session either with Nick Heidfeld locking up and Robert Kubica's run interrupted by Raikkonnen's inlap. Heidfeld eventually came good though but did not look strong enough. Hard compounds may be the attribute here. The Ferraris did not seem to be bothered as there was no reason to be. Felipe Massa finished 3rd and Raikkonen 5th. Hamilton finished 10th and Fernando Alonso 14th, another snobbish display of the guys on top. Nelsinho Piquet Jr and Sebastian Bourdais sadly did not make the cut and Giancarlo Fisichella disappointed a billion fans with no fault of his own. Kazuki Nakajima moved on to the next session though.

Q2 saw the potential birth of a possible inter-team rivalry, when Raikkonen could no longer take a part due to a fuel pressure failure. This leaves Massa a lot of freedom to concentrate for the rest of the session and perhaps for the race, and hopefully a thought that can fuel another Hamilton vs Alonso of 2007. The weather was hot and Kubica was drowsy as pictures were shown of him in a drink & drive state in his car. Mark Webber, married to a demonic wife called bad luck, had his brakes explode and crashed backwards into the barrier. Alonso was heard addressing about a lot of understeer and consequently with a subtle hint that he would not win the championship this year. Hamilton and Massa both looked fast but Hamilton’s lap was far from neat (read: aggressive). Ruebens Barrichello classified 11th and Honda were insane with subtle contentment. Toyota and Sebastian Vettel moved to the final session.

Q3 saw both the McLarens having a bit of an off track excursion which may have lost them a few hundredths of a second which can be accredited to a heavy fuel load added with an aggressive drive. Hamilton set a clean lap to get a pole. But the driver of the day was the sleepy Kubica, who even though went a bit off the track due to a very aggressive take of turn 12, managed to control the car well and settle for P2.

Move Over, The House Is Honking

2008-05-30T06:22:00.009+05:30

There was a purpose of the Tata Nano, besides the obvious monetary gains. What was the first probable thought that crossed your mind when you heard of it? Ah, there’s a small little appliance which was needed in times of blind eyed dumbfounded pedestrians crossing, newly discovered craters and the odd excavations. Something that would free the air of congestion so you could probably smoke some more to that smog deprived lungs. A green car in maybe bright yellow, to cool the infernal summer days. What a pleasant little thought and small little prayer for the Tata’s. A small car with a halo. That was always the answer.

Now, in lieu of this new found enlightenment, the real question is, why on earth would you want a Toyota Innova? That is if you are not a Mr. Hilton or Mr. Marriot, of course, to ferry across truckloads of clients and customers. Otherwise I do not see the point of it.

If you are looking for a big car - and when I say big I imply that you are trying to say that you may be a geek with no resources or lateral thinking to work on it so you might as well meander in something really large to hide your inconspicuousness –then why won’t you go for the Lexus LX 40, Toyota Land Cruiser Prado or even an eye candy; the Range Rover, or even better maybe look up a car magazine. Why go around in an upgraded hearse? You are not doing really well to hide your ugliness you know.

7 Seats did I hear. Never, and I mean Never, have I seen this yatch-on-wheels at full capacity. This is even when it has a red ‘T’ within a circle branded on its rump. It has the turning radius of a planetary orbit. They say it is an MPV. I could find another use for it. Road blocks or maybe a speed bump for a Hummer. And please do not vouch for practicality. Because if you are practical, then please by all means by a Van. It can sardine more people in and they will also be place for a small rocket launcher, should you choose to start the Mumbai riots again. And if you are looking to curb your costs, maybe you should have stopped reading after the first paragraph.

Yes. I know that other cars do have imbecile drivers which may conjure up the similar results. But let me put it this way. In a Lexus LX40, with its high mounted drivers position, you look up to them, literally. You hit the road and think “Ah! It is a Lexus making a U-Turn” whereas the Innova “Uh! Are they setting up a road block? Is the city in any trouble?” I mean it is a 7 seater but there is only one inhabitant, the driver. That is a field day for an environmentalist. He might as well travel in a Vietnamese moped. Honest, how many times have you seen this at full capacity? And I mean all 7 seats.

Give yourself a week. Notice all the Innovas you do on the road. Check how many of them have disrupted your already miserable point A to B trip and for how many people was it worth in that piece of junk.

And what should do you do about it? Do what I do. Just loathe at the sight of it.

I Am On The Verge Of Death

2008-05-28T07:41:00.004+05:30

It is mighty hard to summarize and quantify something that has been lost. It is like death, where your whole and content life passes in front of your eyes in a fleeting second. Except that these are not seconds but weeks or months. It is like the dawn of a new day, except that you had been up whole night lying in a dream only to realize that you have to close your eyes and face the ironical darkness of reality. You are therefore blind as the sun embarks on a journey showing the path to the other half of the planet.

You vouch just for a smile; actually a hint of one would suffice. That valorous turn of the head, eyes searching for your existence validating your existence. The touch that makes you feel a sense of reality that you are very close to the intangible.

It was not a dream but you are now very sleepy. And even if the next few hours may lie in the disdainful comfort of the mattress, with a promise of the same dose of reality during those lifeless and pitiless hours, it may be considered that have just woken up and have got to go to work.

This is not a Shakespearean propaganda of the ill fated, promised to meet his maker. This is not a discouraging discourse of a dissertation of a disappointment. This is not the mating call of a lost African mammal. I am therefore not a depressed homosexual Victorian poet high on cocaine. These are just words from corpse flying in the air with the flies that enjoy it.

A Contribution Of The Unemployed

2008-05-20T00:12:00.004+05:30

There has been enough political banter over the rising cost of, I don’t know, everything. The economy is another keyhole for the peeping toms of politics and inflation is the naked wife in the bed of your worst enemy.

Don’t get me wrong, I have absolute faith in the resolve of the administrators of the country. There is the reformist Manmohan Singh, Mr. Finance P Chidambaram and the likes of I-most-definitely-have-a-plan-to-get-everything-right Montek Singh Ahluwalia, who in my book, are the right technocrats for the right country.

Over the last few years, or even the last few months, we have had a bullish trend in the stock market, a booming service sector and the richest men in the world trying to suck other nations dry in the name of globalization. They have laid some tracks for a runaway train. But the question is where is it heading?

I do not see any aim in the growth that we are insipidly coming across. Why? There are still farmers despondent and stuck in a tunnel with no signs of a low watt bulb. The evils of democracy do not measure that there are only pockets of development. What for an instance would curb consumption? Consumption is like the plague which consumes your precious and hard earned money into the capitalistic grinding machine. In the pre-liberalisation era income was low, so were savings and so were investments. Although most of the savings did not supply the banking system, but were mostly found in the digestive systems of the cupboard drawers.

Then there was education. Most of the population, 10-15 years back, between ages 18-25, were keeping themselves literate as a form of investment. Not only this investment has blossomed but also the same age group today has found itself employed. It’s of course not their fault that they had an opportunity, but is the same money they earn is spent on further economic investments you suppose? No.

Would it be largely possible, a neurotic brain that links liquor with urination, Nike with Michael Jordan’s leaps, utilizes them in a sport that involves two minutes for a delivery only to find the batsman timidly defending it, that he thinks that the money that he earns leads to a summarized decisions in the private sector. Honestly, the monetary and fiscal policies are not going to change this, just as the fattest democracy in the world has displayed all its shortcomings but for a strange and vivid reason, it has worked. The economy is not going to be in shambles for the next decade and we can be all fat, greasy and obese and obtuse in the head like how the Americans are. We have our DLF Premier League and we shall never lose our politics.

Those are my two paise. Hope it doesn’t contribute to the increasing money supply.

"How May I Help..."

2008-03-21T08:55:00.005+05:30

A degenerative condition, the brain suffered and the thoughts faded. Words drooled off and the tongue had dried. The immortal was imprisoned in a never-ending loop of ironical pattern of words, words he liked, but not those in the prison. Impaled in a prison where he was greased up, ready for penetration. There was no hope or faith left, just the bicycle with its rusted spokes with a missing seat. “Up yours!” it beckoned, “right where the sun don’t shine”. Click! These were the sweet words which ended most of the conversations. Other synonymous and broadly consensual words followed. This was the most diplomatic it got with a thorough gentleman’s agreement in place.

It’s all over now. No sweet goodbyes.

There’s Something About…

2007-11-16T15:41:00.003+05:30

Another day lies in ruins of the tumultuous decisions that needed a course and a direction worthy of an infant imagination. Maybe it is the motor skills or maybe it is the gratification of absolute stupidity which overpowers simple human thought.

It starts with an appalling ride constantly on the brink of a back breaking and laborious journey on a beastly yet trivial destination. The paradoxical ride to a glory withheld within the confines of absurdity. The next 540 minutes belong to comatose induced subjugation, a pitiful state of oblivion. And miraculously, there is an odd sign of life. Far away in the corner, there lies the reason of an electrifying resurrection, the kiss of life, a chance of resuscitation, but the time is grueling and we could only pray for the time to end.

And so it ends. …538…539…540…A final cardiovascular jolt and the zombie is no more. Instead there is a lost kid trying to find its way back through a crevice of disparaging pain. But it does complete it. It is the final touch to result in a carefully grafted deliberation. It then just lies there, like the calm before the storm, except that there would be no storm. And although it may be dark, that is the only sign of light.

At the end of it all, it is the orifice on the face which come together, and spread wide and far from the valley of tulips to the serene brook which blankets the vanity of the disdainful existence that is me.

Mackichan Hall Superstar

2007-10-12T00:56:00.002+05:30

Hardly a month passes by in which there is not something new in Mackichan Hall. What was merely a bold idea of the Rev. Dugald Mackichan yesterday has launched into reality today. The achievement would not be possible without creative thinking. There is an image of Mackichan Hall that is firmly set in many Wilsonians. Having said that, Mackichan Hall is a home away from home. Academics are merely related to books but this hostel offers a kind of pragmatic perspective which is unmatched simply due to the congregation of students not only from different courses but also from various parts of the country. Secular, isn’t it?

Ubiquitous languages, sixty odd rooms, sixty odd students, one spectacular event. Mackichan Hall has put itself on show, is even showing off a bit. There are captivating examples to be found in its pavilion, on the stages and at various events: the imposing instead of the ironic, vision instead of tradition.

The Hostel is unlike any other as it grooms its residents from day one. Every resident absorbs and inculcates the soul of this archaic settlement. And this experience is enhanced by dynamic and seasoned ‘inmates’ who work together in the furtherance of the revered nomenclature.

Mackichan Hall is a management course offering unpaid internship. A close student-student interaction helping in developing case studies and research projects: about life! It is the invisible lubricant that propels the wheels of life. Social networking is one key advantage spiritually attained here. The ultimate enlightenment!

It’s a show, a window onto the world, an attractive landmark - Mackichan Hall has it all. Stroll around it and you will get the feeling that everything is interconnected. The world of Mackichan Hall, a network of thoughts, like the spreading roots of trees. The structure of this exhibition is designed to be transitory in nature and, by the end of the year, all that will remain will be the memories.

Yours truly is a student of economics, as a major, and what I have gained from this home away from home is: efficient allocation of resources, monetary management, a working example of the investment multiplier and human resource development – ignore the jargons!

I am a Mackichan Knight. What’s your excuse…?

5th February 2005

http://www.mackichanhall.com/

"We The Lab Rats..."

2007-10-04T20:42:00.003+05:30

http://sabrang.com/news/2007/11sep07.htm

Mumbai has changed since the 1992-93 riots. I was 10 at the time and since that day I had always feeling that the city lives on the starting gun of a tense predicament of a volcanic violence about to erupt anytime. It was said of the September 11 attacks that the action was a resultant of an apathetic junk culture that prevailed in the country for almost a decade where the OJ Simpson trial and the Clinton sex story grabbed the headlines monotony. In case you have missed the previous statement, I'll reiterate, Apathy. Ten years of oblivion and then the American Dream was introduced to Freddy Kruger.

The Mohalla Committee is an acknowledgement of a convenient divergence and distraction from the mainstream ideology of the proper channelised look towards the riots. It sounds like a 15 minute session with a psychiatrist where the only concern is how the sessions are to be prolonged. Once the session stops, the only question would be - What would be the withdrawal effects?

Suketu Mehta, in his book 'Maximum City', has put the city on show the actions in front of eyes our are superficial and intentions are well concealed. Has anyone wondered why the hell Madanpura (an area of Mumbai Central) has stored anti-aircraft guns for and where and how in blazes do they come in from?

What was the motive? "You could keep the guns as long as you do not use them..."

I felt that this was an important question which will never be answered and blind estimations consider the imperativeness of the Mohalla Committee.

It has been 15 years on since the plague but I would always wonder - What about the rats that carried it?

Silence

2007-10-03T20:16:00.004+05:30

Opinions are like heat-seeking missiles, revenue of mere reinforcement of the thoughts you would agree with. Look the other way and you would enlighten yourself with the blinding eclipse of a reflective contemplation.

Hush…

Peaceful, serene thought provoking and with the air of a distinguishable anomaly from a noisy abnormality, paints a picture of a canvas so vivid and vibrant like those of the empty spaces on a clear blue sky. The endearing wait is for the rain clouds, expected past the sunlight on this clear blue sky, to light the sky with a noisy clap and crack it open and let it run like a leaky faucet. Drip, drip is the subsequent sound of annoyance. God is the only plumber and he has thrown away his wrench. The water rises to the neck and chaotic scenes subdue parched minds.

A feeble yet annoying drip leads to a chaotic drowning.

So please feel free to Shut Up!

Good Morning Everyone!

2007-07-17T22:00:00.004+05:30

Waking up early in the morning, when the sun beckons the start of a day which promises to be as miserable as the darkness of the night before, the first thing that pops in the head is who the blazing hell made getting up a egregious exercise.Of course, the typical day begins sanitizing the madness which is entrusted upon by a vision so poor that an eagle in the high sky may drop down and starve. This is followed by reasoning the very reason of why there should be a social conformity which involves the erroneous perception of might is right. If the law of the wild would be applicable, then maybe I would I have been dead and the idea of a Mowgli would not be so funny.

Basanti Was A Figment Of Somebody's Idealism

2007-06-13T04:34:00.008+05:30

Seemingly aimed at a key demographic, the film negotiates a fine tuning between direction, a first-class amateur work and the clichés and banalities of Hindi movies. Amateur is not the best compliment but I can be politically correct with a simple word ‘first-class’. The film rolls out within the confines of specific events in the country’s history merging time on precision points. But this individualistic inspiration tapers down to quite a disappointingly hurried second half and an even much hastier end. It’s like a well written book which is just too thin. It could have done with something more…something more incoherent maybe!

There were a few aspects of the movie that bothered me but not to the extent that would make me lose my sleep.

- Like, the movie was a walking trumpet for NDTV, a news channel that covers stories like the frostbite cold Delhi and the complimentary benefits of a warm cup of tea. This is when the winter toll rises to 36 odd.

- Like, the firang was there in the movie to tone down the anti-British trend.

- Like, when the RAF during the protest and the Commandos in the end behave like no-mercy-Russian-cum-Chinese-ruthless-anti-terrorist-squads.

- Like, there were times when you wondered, the MIGs are not the only source of redundant deaths in the military?

I kept pondering...

As you may have noticed, all these questions are inconsequential. You HAVE to look at this movie as a different product. When the trend of the Bhagat Singh movie series make you speculate that whether he died for the country or was it for pure commercial appeal, a twist of lime in Rang De Basanti called Retro Patriotism stirs the senses. It is a movie in the end, something that has to be digested with a bucket of popcorn and cola. Watch the movie, go home, forget it, and go to work the next day. Movies don’t work in India.

An Angel

2007-06-13T04:33:00.002+05:30

The loss of an artist and the performance. The theatre is in ashes, barren. The only thing that rises is the smoke that smothers the lungs.The picture is remorseless but thoughtful subdued by the thick air around it. It is quick and sharp.An angel fallen from the sky, wings clipped, unable to blossom. The blissful ignorant is damned to hell for eternity.It’s an art form, aesthetic. A picture indescribable with a thousand words, so hard to comprehend yet so pleasant to watch. The comprehension lies in its subtleties which overwhelms its defining moments.The answer to everything. The question need not be asked. It’s a crime not to appreciate, murder. To ignore it is to be blind. The skin might as well rot; the birds might as well stop singing, no fragrant flowers. Your senses are rendered impaired and numb.It is a climatic change. You feel it. It is when the sun shines or the heavens open through the light showers. It’s a mixed contrast in a complete package.

Me, Myself And "I"...

2007-06-13T02:58:00.004+05:30

…Mumbai, I still prefer Bombay. Yes, it is I who prefers it as a Bombay. However, ‘I’ is just an alphabet: a vowel to be precise which like any other alphabet is lost in a torrent of twenty five other inscriptions. ‘I’ is a special epistle, a fact most of us are aware of, but ‘I’ like any other alphabet is not the most important glue that binds the written sensibilities of the written language.

‘I’ as a sovereign word speaks for itself; it speaks for you not to mention the ME and MYSELF. It doesn’t really help, other than giving others the inkling that YOU are an arrogant brat.

Politically speaking and socially rationalizing; Democracy nurses the infant individuality and that individual sucks at the sovereignties teat. When my idealism pushes me away and leads to me the temptations of a socialistic or communistic identity then that would be the result of a sovereign limitation. Hence, “I” am greater than the very knowledge of your peripheral existence.

300

2007-06-10T02:07:00.006+05:30

It lives, a comic book lives. Frank Miller’s laudable essence capturing novel on paper with colours splashed on the screen by Zack Snyder directions, the 117 minutes is a carefully grafted piece of art.

The mythological story revolves around 300 warriors against an army of zillions but with a lot more exaggerations that you would be tempted to believe. With a dab of a paint brush, scenes are articulated with the right level of hues. A bit of amber and a bit of Navajo white, spread across an askew easel on a peach canvas. The colours may be a bit dull, but I find the rainbow unimaginative. You do not as much anticipate as to what would happen next inasmuch you would turn a page. Every scene is worth a thousand words, every speech is grand, every fight is bloody worthwhile, the love is true, the honour is compassionate, the evil is dark, even the six-pack abs keep you glued and wondering, the history is compelling, the myth may be a myth, the story may be surreal and you would end it with the glory itself.

The movie maybe marmite. You either like it or you don’t. I should not describe the movie as my thoughts are not as nouveau niche as to what I had witnessed. If you are planning to skip the theatre and wait for the DVD, I suggest you start smoking and wait for cancer instead. For all those who would appreciate the hard work involved in the movie, value it for all the right reasons. If you walk out stating that the decapitations were “cool” and “awesome”, or dawdle on the political message of the movie (It’s based on a comic book for God sake), I would be waiting out with Spartan spears ready to pierce your heart and soul.

Miami Vice

2007-06-10T01:58:00.002+05:30

The movie was hard to understand, not because the plot was intricate - if there was one - but it gave you the sensation of being a retarded kindergartener with the attention span of a toothbrush.

There were times when you empathized with the director, producer and even the crew that held up the boom mike, because they furnished the intuition that they were threatened into making this movie - failure to comply would have ensured death. If I can tone down my discontent and absolute contempt for this sorry excuse for a movie, I can at best describe it as ghastly.

The script and the subsequent plot emerged from pieces of crumpled Work-In-Progress scraps thrown out into garbage cans by directors who were too mortified to make it into a movie. But then Michael Mann had time to kill and lives to waste and audiences to mortify with redundancy. And yes, it was a typical Michael Mann movie, a lot of time for contemplation, for those who have seen his previous works, 'The Insider' or 'Heat'. But this was way too slow and agonizing. I did contemplate though, to watch the movie in Fast-Forward.

Colin Farrell was screaming Goldilocks and Rapunzel with hair which looked as natural as a Red Indians prized scalp. I am pretty sure that he was to go in for a 'presence' look. And Jamie Foxx gave an appearance that was reminiscent of an actor who was working hard just to remember his lines. They made the Ferrari, the Bentley and the Mercedes look like props creditable of a banana peels. And if you have seen this movie, please do quench the thirst of my curiousity. I would like to know the precise time where Li Gong (Isabella) drove you up against the wall, with her sentences devoid of articles. Yes she did stay in character you may argue. Yes I do see my blood on the wall I may add.

I cannot bother to go on further why this experience was so horrid as I had acquired the attention span of a toothbrush and I can only digress now with pitiless references of this movie to new and interesting diseases. All these thoughts came in the first half of the torturous audio-visual piles. However, there should be an evolving plot, a brilliant idea perhaps to a perfect end, as there was the other half of hope to develop, an artifact of amusement. But hope has always been a sin.

A Stage, nay, it was a military institution where all the players were merely following orders, speculating when they would get their next pile of millions of dollars. You could actually picture this when Mr. Foxx was trying to multitask on remembering his lines and put up an appropriate facial expression to match the mood. He was a long way off, probably off in a yatch in the Pacific. And I would have no remorse if he had drowned. To make it interesting let us add Mr. Farrell in the equation and rewind to him making man-love to Mr. Foxx when they had their lungs filled with salt water. You see, not only do I digress but I sin.

I have already had a word with God and he won’t give me my two hours back. Save yourself, retribution is at hand.

Not once did the movie imprison my imagination or sent my pulse racing. It did not present any prospect to me to be wide eyed, or give a jaw dropping effect. And if that is asking for much, I broke the DVD into two.

The Meaning Of Life: Dissected And Analysed

2007-06-10T01:45:00.005+05:30

The couch potato lost his remote and yelled out to his estranged wife in the kitchen “What is the meaning of Life?”

He had had a wonderful life through some torrid times. His life was equivalent of a Shakespearean comic-tragedy – if there was one. He had survived the harsh extremities of the life span of his batteries.

And so it began: an arduous journey through a painstakingly, fingers-to-the-bone work out of the biped’s second digit of his right hand. A click followed a zap, and like a creation conversely and contradictory to his life’s governing principle – say like the laws of physics – his dreams flashed before his eyes. The envisioned dream was at his finger tips, momentarily, like a condemnatory King Nothing, executing orders and like a lawful, civilized and well-governed society, his wishes brought him success and rewards. He was content. But content he was only by the will of God alias the cable guy who could only grant him so-many channels to choose from depending on the prayers, payable in dollars and cents, he offered.

A punch of calories kept him sustained. The resultant body fat was good for the winter and for his health benefits. He had served his biological purpose with two kids lost in the vicinity of his vacant backyard. He could not figure out where he was heading. His subjects, the infrared diodes, exercised sycophancy to monotony. He could pray a bit more but he would lose his fat.

He looked up to the dear devil which had always been there for him. El Diablo, as he playfully preferred, had been in the nook and cranny of all his deepest thoughts. In times of despair he had provided the devil his workshop, and in return increased the productivity levels of adiposity.

The first rays from the magic box beamed tranquility. Our obese, father-of-two, soon-to-be divorced protagonist relaxes on the groove, that he had carefully articulated with the paintbrush that was his behind, on the couch. This is what his kingdom looks like…

Tranquil lounge music leads us to a young dashing gun with a pair of aviator sun glasses starts his life as a Park Ranger on the Rocky Mountains keeping out anti-socials and preserving wildlife. Here, he is one with nature, at peace most of the times. His heart beat is at a pleasant 72bpm ensuing a pulse racing dare-devil camaraderie when duty beckoned. He clawed as far as the mountain clawed – from the United States to Canada. Political boundaries made little sense to him unless the border (read: guns) dictated terms.

All was well till a rabid Grizzly Bear was out for Cheerios, deciding it could do without the morning newspaper and milk and decided that breakfast would be adequate with Mr. Ranger’s tenderized yet muscular limb somewhere near Mount Timpanogos.

It was an irony worth a thousand words. A semi-bleeding torso with a missing member flowing blood was reminiscent of a serene stream bringing life to its embankments or in this case some maggots and flies. His pain and cries of help echoed across the tranquil scenic beauty. His voluble and articulate decibels were at times downed by the local fauna. A colorful and vibrant chirping bird was oblivious to his endeavor. The only empathy was the unsuccessful mating calls of the moose which probably was on the next menu for the great Grizzly, maybe for lunch, the main course with a bit of garnish on the inside; Bon Apetit.

A short wobbly intro tells us that he bled a bit but survived. There was always prosthetics he pondered, as did the fetishist Marilyn Manson. His optimism was that of the people of Hiroshima on August 6, 1945-“さとる、あの雲はシルバー･ライニングがつけてるみたいです …” (Satoru, it seems as though there's a silver lining attached to that mushroom cloud...). A lot of flashing images and a few bouts of epilepsy later constituted a deeper meaning of his journey. He had to listen to the sounds, he could ignore the visuals. A simple case of elimination and he swayed some more. A trigger of neurons and some chemicals calmed him just as the serene beauty of the tranquil meadow that was near Mount Timpanogos. Of course, the stimulus was different at his dichotomy of his life thus far. These were, however, not two extremes. Well at least not his MTV. They were two different sensations. Music was secondary and taken for granted. Musical chords he may not understand but the beats were embedded in his thoughts like a 1930’s typewriter, stern, rigid and assertive. He could see himself playing his guitar in the air like the swaying hands of a morning raga. Entwined wires on the back stage from heavy duty speakers, like serpentines from the head of Medusa (or Marshall), embodied his devil ridden psychedelic quest. The reflex that was endowed on him to throw the remote on his TV, right when Richard Marx made a tear-jerking romantic proposal, was held back by the fact that the proximity to his remote was his only savior. Music, he liked it or not, had always been his companion. If only he had his iPod so he could lambaste John Denver's Rocky Mountain High to soothe the savage beast.

But nothing can take away the tranquility of his cross border terrorism [screeeeech!!!] or was it Transcendentalism, he forgets. Then there was Ice-Hockey. Yes, who needs the new age Manson when all the action in the world was available within the confines of the rink? Grrrr….Hell, he could use his prosthetic to smash the goaltender’s teeth. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t have John Denver by his side. Or he could be in a cocoon of a cockpit driving around in a circle at a quadrillion miles per hour and extract the same joy that a four year old experiences on one of those dizzying merry-go–rounds at the local fair. Or maybe he could try and match the enduring energy, vigor and lively levels of Golf. Or maybe a few more diodes can expand his periphery. This was not Rome and there was no Colosseum, just some big brands speeding and expanding across the screen dreadfully prompt and an enthusiastic yet a low bass voice commands you to “Drink that cola, smoke that cigarette, Mr. Grizzly here’s your Cheerios…” There were hours of legalized lunacy. But that’s OK; his lawyer is in the Caribbean.

Since his dissection of the theory of avoiding the newspaper in the morning, he considers an abortion. It’s a new world and men can have babies, stamped and approved by the special seal of the United States of America. He is now with Oprah a.k.a. I-have-a-boring-life-so-I’ll-pick-my-neighbours-nose-and-televise-it (come to think of it, so does the US Government). The daily weather announces and proves that it would be easier to win the million dollar lottery. “Bright and sunny sky with signs of nimbus…” He looked outside the window and wondered whom he should pay to shovel his driveway. George the Second makes another candid appearance and gives hope to millions of his fellow countrymen. You can be President even though you might be a grammatically incomprehensible nincompoop. And there’s a lot more where that came from. He has taken the Freedom of Speech to a new level, a level that should have a bullet torn across the tumor that is his brain.

The electricity then says “you didn’t pay the bill”, and our man who starts from the Rocky’s to I-have-a-big-nose-Oprah and George-God-Save-Us, concludes that his channel is off air. He yells out to his estranged wife in the kitchen “What is the meaning of Life?” chokes on a potato chip and dies.

The Mr. Potato man,was born, destined to die. So, it didn't make a difference what he did in between or how many channels he surfed on the idiot box. All that matters, or rather should matter, is the Alpha and the Omega. But the Alpha sunrise begins from someones Omega sunset. So all hope of your existence would be lost, unless you are one Adolf Hitler. Ravaging Europe perhaps with an extended arm and a miniscule moustache.

So YOU may have found your remote and switched to a third channel. I think it’s a bit late and you should be off to bed. You may die in a few hours time or maybe in a few decades. You do not exist for me, so turn the page…

Static.

…cut to commercial…

P.s. Adolf Hitler was a bad, bad man. He killed millions.

Unlearnt

2007-06-10T01:22:00.007+05:30

Unlearn v. (past and past part. unlearned or unlearnt) 1 forget deliberately. 2 rid oneself of (a habit, false information, etc.).

Apparently the word does exist. What it is asking you to do is to ignore the lessons of the past and commit more blithering mistakes to get yourself noticed. Something on the lines of “No publicity is bad publicity”

It would have been a more eloquent excuse in school, imagining myself that it would add up to my check list of “The dog ate my homework”, “I was sick” and the usual “I forgot”. But there was this substitute subversive yet discreet new word, unlearnt. What a fine addition to the vocabulary. I could picture myself romping home with a pat on the back for making an effort to learn something so atrocious and getting away with it. But that would have been a dream or I would be high on cocaine.

Either way a futile exercise, to coagulate something so heinous into a brain that would not accept something far less complicated like the Theory of Relativity.

That brings us to another question. Sticklers, what are they for? Where are the grammar police when you need them the most? Oh wait! They are busy wondering that why the hell in the scorched heavens did they bring about a word such as the 'metrosexual' and then coined it as the worst word that came up in which ever year it came “out”. That’s a pun by the way.

Why do things have to be complicated? Is it so that the discovery of the ineffectual questions would lead to self-actualization and then self enlightenment? Or is so that the more questions you have the more you sell.

Now, if I want to unlearn something by definition, I hear the best thing to do is to get a scalpel, extract your brain with it and then feed it to the pigs. The word is out of context and disorder and should be executed with a lethal injection after electrocution of course. And maybe the guillotine would follow and let’s not forget the pyre shall we.

I have a lot of words around recently. For instance:

'Unlearn' - Grammatically correct because the dictionary says so. Sad to agree but it will never be a part of my tongue.

'Misselling' - The guy who came up with this word probably got asphyxiated with the speeding lights in the middle of the road released a huge amount of serotonin and then God rest his soul.

'Upselling' - Coined by the editor of Balbharti and Yuvakbharti (for all those cultured by the Indian education system)…

For me it would be another day in the office. By day, accepting turd and conditions, (No, that is NOT terms and conditions) and by night fighting injustice in my mask and cape. Of course nobody bothers and the crime rate is high.

Mr. Pablo Escobar here I come.