In search of myself

DIY Shutter Release Cable for Canon EOS 450D

2009-12-27T09:04:00.003+05:30

Thanks Chandasa, for having sparked this in my mind. I knew a shutter release cable would help me get self shots, and also some bird shots from our garden.

So this is what I started with:
1. earphone socket pin, that of Nokia 1108 series' size
2. 3-stranded wire, 3m long
3. a 1 to 2 audio extension cord
4. soldering gun
5. sodering metal
6. a push-to-on switch
7. a toggle switch

The key was to get this pin, for it is considered to be an 'old' one, and what I got was actually an extension pin, from mobile EP socket to a normal full size EP socket. Even this was after having spent about 45 minutes in the electronics market in Pune (Pasodya Vithoba).

I tried opening the pin to get wire connections directly, but the intricate soldering arrangement was an immense hurdle right there. Thankfully I had a full size extension cord, which I could use. I put the pin back together, taped it to one piece, and turned to the extension cord.

It has a ready made arrangement for the purpose we have: a 3-lead pin to go to the camera, and 2 combinations (ground-L1 and ground-L2) to go to the 2 switches. One for half click, one for full click.

Chopped off the two extension pins, and extended the cord with the 3m long wire I had got. The green went to the ground, black to one live, and red to the other live. Ensured to use plenty of insulation tape at the joint, to prevent any shorting.

What I now had was a 3+ m long wire, with one end as a 3 lead full size EP socket pin that could fit into the mobile extension I bought, and the other end with 3 leads hanging free.

To test which combination of leads should go to which switch, testing was the way. Put the pin into the camera, switched it on, and tried shorting the 2 combinations (red-green and green-black). Turned out that black was for half click, and red for full.

The push-to-on switch went on to the half click combo, and the toggle on the full click one. What I had finally in my hands as a control was this:

And there it was, my virtual remote control to my camera, because of the sheer length of the wires I had chosen.

Here is the deal, in terms of cash:
1. The mobile to full size EP socket extension pin: INR 40
2. The 3 m long wire with 3 strands: INR 24 (8 per metre)
3. The 1 to two audio extension cable: INR 20
4. Soldering metal: INR 40 (I still have LOADS of this left, still adding it to the cost)
5. The 2 switches: INR 15 (10 for toggle, 5 for push to on)
6. Petrol to go all the way to the market and back: INR 25 (approx, conservative though)
7. My time, 2 hours in total, with current remuneration rate: INR 250

Total: INR 414, v/s the $25 cable Canon sells.

A long cable arrangement: INR 44
Two switches and an extender: INR 55
Having family awestruck by controling a $1000 camera with a self made cable: priceless.

Gulmarg With 'Old' Buddies

2009-12-25T18:12:00.008+05:30

Pestered with articles and phone calls describing the beauty of Gulmarg and Pahalgam, I decided to give it the benefit of doubt. Going to the taxi stand was told to be the best idea. What was not, was that Bengalis (no offenses please, I derive the feeling associated with this from my year-long stay in East Bengal) could wait until even the last seat of their shared taxi got occupied.

I was the one. Although I cannot deny the fact that such situation did help me by reducing my travel expense, I was much annoyed by the constant high amplitude high pitch conversations, often monologues, delivered by one Mr Pal (or Roy, I do not remember now). Needless to say, those were studded with wisdom pearls, from Sanskrit and obviously other travel experiences. These included trips made earlier on exactly the same dates or to exactly the very same destinations, or with exactly the same (except me of course) company. Gosh, I was with the regular travel company of theirs!

As though this was not enough, it started drizzling. I was hell bent on defining my own happiness despite the possible oncoming slaughter of my dream vacation, and excluded the ‘I hate rains’ thing from the definition. A prop to that was our driver being benevolent to warn us against the horse riding business touts at Gulmarg. Alternative arrangement suggested was to walk straight to the cable car. Another and an amazing one was that a place called ‘Bakshi’ served the most amazing parathas I had had before I went to Sonamarg. Crisp-ish, nicely cooked with soft stuffing, the paneer paratha was more than enough for me to stand the flak of the horse ride touts, aimed at me for they thought it was me who educated my co-travelers, weaning them away.

A 2-km long walk, a thousand metres high haul and a 5 hours drive in total – all in rains, was what filled the time until 4pm, and I was back to the Swiss Hotel to tell Altaf about how the trip to Gulmarg sucked.

Nevertheless, I had quite a few gems that day: connecting with Rafique, our driver; seeing an apple tree with more apples than leaves; and having walnuts sold by the roadside like ‘wada pav’! The evening was as free as it could have got – no bag packing, no tidying up, nothing. I was warm and cozy in holding my steaming tea-cup in the living of Swiss, watching ‘Behind Enemy Lines’ with Fayaz and Altaf.

Then was a solitary night again, totally bent on spending a lazy lazy next day, after a Shikara ride early in the morning.

Return trip to Gulmarg in a Toyota Qualis: INR 300
Return ride in the world’s highest cable car: INR 300
Knowing 15-odd words of Bengali and being thought as a small brother by Bengalis: Priceless

Traveloner for a (be)Cause

2009-11-16T08:53:00.003+05:30

Finally it was happening. I was still skeptical about having some problem, constraint, limitation or sickness or the other. This was how it had been for all the things I had really, really wanted to do. When they would finally happen, I would not be able to go.

But this time was different. I had to go. Ladakh had to have me. Srinagar had to have me. For what seemed like eternity after I watched the Nat Geo Adventure episode on Khardung La, the itinerary was made, with tickets booked. 2 of us were to travel to Jammu and then by road to Srinagar. The other 3 would join us in Srinagar and then we would go to Leh.

Problem, if not you, who is my friend? My initial travel mate had to back out because of inevitable family situation. I was alone. This was still OK, except for the fact that I did not want to travel on roads for 49 hrs all alone. So minor change in itinerary at a negligible cost, and I flew to Srinagar on Aug 25^th, the Tuesday. So before the 3 friends – Chacha, Roger and Motar-Motar reached Srinagar, I had 5 days all to myself.

This was the first time I was traveling all alone for pleasure. That too to such a place (international cordiality galore!). The specter of skepticism engulfed me right as I emerged from the airport and looked for the bus to take me to the city. Relentlessly looking under the seats of the passengers (and regretting that I was not able to see under the driver’s seat), I constantly felt on the verge of dying, my earlobes were piping hot, and I was ready to be at the centre of a bus explosion. The bus was exactly like the ones shown exploding in the movies. This still didn’t keep me from appreciating both – the military presence and the greenery. Finally I was at the interchange between the airport shuttle and the city Auto network. First thing – get a map, and I was actually surprised by the fact that I got it exactly for the price printed on it. The city map only fueled my ubiquitous suspicion further – it was not to scale. The auto guy on top of that, gave excuses such as ‘Ramadan ka mahina hai’(It is the Ramadan month) and charged me 1.5 times what was written on reasonable for that distance on most travel forums.

The destination was Hotel Swiss. An awesome welcome by Fayaz and Altaf instantly relaxed me. What made me further feel home was their impeccable confidence about what I should be doing in Srinagar, and offering the in-house bicycle for sauntering around.

What followed were a quick nap and a quack snap.

And with sprinkling off the burden of such a laden day, around the gardens and the suburban streets of Srinagar, it was a cold, starry, light night.

Another One

2009-07-27T07:53:00.002+05:30

It was that time again. Shouting my name and address again and again at the call taxi reservation desk over phone, then at the driver for having gone in an irrelevant direction, then to giving him directions, trundling my bag to a place on the main road for having given up hope that the driver would ever make it to my doorstep.

After the usual Murphy-influenced check-in procedure (literally, this time I changed 3 queues after the counters at each of them developed some problem or the other) and the zero noise frisking, (I love it when I wear my track pants or the Thai trouser that doesn’t need a belt – the guy goes mad searching for a metal beep where the belt buckle usually sits and it takes him a while to figure that the detector is perfectly alright and that I am actually not wearing a belt – so in the end the detector does not make even a single beep. Not even the calibration one.) there was still 40 minutes’ time left for the boarding, thanks to the last minute series of delays announced by our good(?) old national carrier.

Then something happened which made me wish I were cruising. Uss, Chandasa, Random Access, Mugga, yawl know what I am referring to, right?

I noticed a godforsaken aquarium close to a nondescript advertise-carrying pier in the waiting area. The area was teeming with people, as most of the airlines had chosen to go easy on their schedule. Anyway, the aquarium called for such a qualification because literally not even the children were giving its existence a dingo’s liver. I decided to have a closer look, and noticed how the air bubbles stuck to some underwater plant looked like silver beads. Then I noticed a fish trying to wrap itself in another structure (do not know whether it was plant or an animal or non-living, but it had long-ish tentacles and may have served as a blanket to the fish in question).

The interest kept me there for about 3-4 minutes when I suddenly felt a slight increase in the temperature of the air around me. Shifting my focus further deeper into the aquarium glass, I saw there were 5 people standing behind and around me, staring at the aquarium. Most, I could sense, came looking at others staring into the aquarium, and I was the seed. After the initial tide, some started giving a running commentary: “look at this shitty fish, it doesn’t wanna swim!” etc.

After a while I decided to go closer to the boarding counter. Surprisingly, without even an announcement, a huge queue formed behind where I and a couple of others were standing just like that. We all stood there for at least 20 minutes before an official boarding announcement was made.

Surprising? I do not know. I stood only because I did not find a place to sit closer to the boarding counter. The people forming the queue were sitting comfortably right next to the counter, and still chose to stand up in the queue for 20 minutes without an announcement! Fortunately there weren’t any to go and teach the airline staff not to make people stand in a queue like that, because they would have gotten shouted back at: “there has been no announcement, why are you here?”

On second thoughts, it would have been a good thing to have that question asked.

An Out of Turn Post

2009-07-07T14:17:00.002+05:30

For those whom I have been telling that a couple of posts are in the pipeline, especially the priceless series, this is gonna be out of turn – it deserves to be.
For the simple reason that this incident starkly held itself out in the tide of hectic, ruthlessly meted out series of events over last about 2 weeks. The pinnacle was this: 3 take offs, just as many landings, origin airport entry at 1515 Bangladesh Standard Time (1345 IST), destination airport exit at 2310 IST.

All in the middle of what appeared to be a never-ending bout of cold and cough. The doctors at NSCB International Airport didn’t do much out of a youth conjuring up a mix of haughtiness and ignorance towards Bengali, in reality just trying not to speak much and make the cough evident, fearing being quarantined.
I already had a tiding about the excruciating pain the 2 flights (hopping to Pune) were going to inflict upon me, more so the landing part. The first flight had not been such a pain because it was just an ATR – this is a hindsight realization of course – since that is the only difference I found in the two flights.

It was true, even as I was wishing it wouldn’t be. I managed to scrape through the first landing, but quickly realized I was not in for another one, lest my ears should bleed or something. They were making weird noises within already.

Weighed the risk of me appearing as just another desperate guy trying to suck up to the air hostesses; but the pain took over the better of me. I could hardly hear what was happening around me, and I would rather have preferred to be pressed between two walls of thorns at 1000 Pa, than withstand that kinda pain in my ears.

What followed was a very genuine schedule of taking care of me, first by suggesting various mechanisms (blowing within, opening jaws wide) and then giving me some warm water and even chewing gum from their personal belongings.

This was probably professionally demanded of them. But what really was impressive was that I was being watched, and as I twitched in pain during altitude changes, contemplating summoning the cabin crew by pressing the button, she was already by me, asking me if it was still paining, ready with a cup of warm water. This happened so many times I was convinced I literally made her go the ‘extra mile’ trying to yank me out of pain.

Awesome it was, to see how chewing gum was handed over to me, nicely wrapped in tissue. Not one, not two but full four tablets of gum, which is exactly what I had to use to go through the extreme pain. The warm water was in a paper cup, which was in another paper cup, to make the grip more secure against the heat. I was also particularly instructed to hold it carefully as I took it from her.

Wondering if I was so impressed because I was helped in pain, or if it was such a good thing on the contrast of the badly knit fabric of the day, or just by the absolute virtue of the experience, or whatever – here it is – hats off to you, don’t know if you are reading this, nor do I know your name or anything.

Keep the good work up – it is much needed.
Cheers!

The Priceless Series 1 of 3: Smoke after Near Death Experience

2009-06-01T20:37:00.003+05:30

Much ado had already been exercised about what time to go, if at all to go, where to go, if at all to go, where to have lunch on the way, if at all to go, and if at all to go. Finally it boiled down to an emotional blackmail originated from yours truly. Retaliation by the lazier ones was carried out by providing pretexts to the tune of unavailability of ‘scapegoats’ to share the car fare in order to take the bike (my demand), and negotiation yielded that we all go in a car so that everything gets solved (hello? I wanted to ride!).

Sacrifice.

So far, so good. It looks better by the minute (actually by the dozen of minutes) as the intended driver keeps calling every now and then and saying he is “almost there and will be reaching in ten minutes” for five and a half hours. He was successful in making us wait in anticipation. The original altercation resumed.

The ado about whether to go at all was back to anvil. Calculations were quickly carried out; a simulation was quickly run with soft copies of maps (with the vision, that was planted in our brains) as to guess where we would be if we started in how much time, and before much mayhem broke loose, the driver arrived with the other two teammates laden in the car.

Then we made them wait for 10 minutes as we packed our bags.

More simulations saw these items in our carry baggage:

Camera, camera, chips, aerated cold drink, camera, cake, biscuits, camera, cigarettes, camera, camera, camera.

In the much comforting and soothing sunshine of 1245 hours of an end-April afternoon, we set out, only to be lovingly asked by the accomplice who arranged for the car: “Guys, there’s no AC in here. No problem, right? We can smoke in the car that way”.

A triumphant beam shone at us, which was returned emphatically.

And so it started. All this while we were too busy handling our belongings and trying to cope with the extremely excruciating heat to notice what the driver was up to.

With (reportedly) over 20 years of driving experience, he cared for nothing on the road. Neither our car (looking at the way he wrung the steering, jostled the gear shaft, rammed the throttle and slammed the brakes), nor other cars (instead of beating, my heart was ‘attacking’ to pump blood), nor the road nor the terrain (only if I had had buttermilk before starting, I would have surely yielded some churned butter within 15 minutes of the ride).

The loyal friends they were, my compadres attempted hard to strike topics to divert my mind off the driving activity. Finally there it was – something related to ‘when is a smoke best enjoyed’ – options were: post coital, after a scrumptious meal,…

“O.H. M.Y. G.O.O.D.N.E.S.S.!” I gasped, and it surely was what I thought the end of my life.

The moment before, we were travelling at 80 kmph, behind a car in the left of the two-lane undivided highway travelling at 75, a truck coming in the opposite direction in the other lane within ZERO distance at 90, and our best friend – the steering man – decided to overtake the car.

The rush in the head subsided, which was also the sign of the fact that we were alive.

…or after a near death experience?

“Pass me the lighter please” Random Access said. The Toning Down One & I were not smoking. Random Access and The Thin One shared a smoke.

And despite being the members of the V-gang, it was unanimously decided that no matter what, a smoke after a near death experience was t.h.e. b.e.s.t.

Dilapidated taxi for a day: Rs. 1380

Cigarettes for two: Rs. 8

Validating for oneself that smoking after near death experience is the best: Priceless.

The Prequel to the Priceless Series

2009-05-11T17:33:00.003+05:30

Thursday, yes, the one before Labour Day. An afternoon in office fraught with frustration of not having the next day off, topped with the anticipated emptiness staring right in my face, threatening to beset me over the full 2-day weekend.

Tunneled g-talk to rescue, like many of the smuggled things.

me: wait man, I am coming. Let me just book the first bus available. RedBus right?

And I was off to Bangalore within 1 hour. This was the most impromptu and shameless (in terms of escaping work) plan I had ever been a part of. A plan, I thought.

A 7.5 hrs journey in an AC bus with windows that could be opened and kids hell bent on trying an open-window with AC running combination in close proximity of mine saw me landing on an awesome Bullet.

Hostel life revisited, with just the right bits of fruits and fart sessions thrown in, and no sooner had I hit the bean-sack than slumber engulfed me. As one of my buddies (who also happens to be the owner of the Bullet) says, “All the best naps are belong to us if we are in hostel atmosphere”. I experienced it.

Then came the day, after almost 2.5 years, with breakfast buddies getting back together, over nicely home-made maggi with lotsa butter (much to the dismay, horror and taste-fancy of the Bullet owner).

Ticket to Bangalore from Chennai: Rs. 408

Pav Bhaji for 3 at Udupi Gardens: Rs. 127

Crashing on a beanbag with 10-headed chaos around: Priceless.

To Yawl

2009-05-03T22:42:00.002+05:30

I wish all of these could be written and read at the same point of space and time. The point being that these are in no particular order.

The Tall One: Listening to him is like listening to myself, just a bit more enlightened.
The Bony One: Seeing him laugh like a kid at my trifling narrations is probably the closest I have been to divinity.
The Not-so-cushioned-anymore One: The passion mixed with the newly introduced Bullet character is to be cherished for sure.
The Torn One: Inspiration, camaraderie and empathy personified.
The RAndoM One: The real expert who is ever ready to grasp, even from a rookie.
The Thin-undestructible-Brother: One of the rarer occasions of new found resonance.

The Default-uncle: Always bettering all the past times put together.

The Newly-turned-fluffy One: Always been through before the situations I find myself in - churning out panacea for me.
The Pink One: Online communication had never mattered so much to me.
The Brother-Mother-duo: Home away from home can't get any closer than this.
The Minus-cate One: Head on shoulders, down to earth intelligent cents, despite being the cynosure the twisted way.
The God-sahab: Both the goldsmith and the blacksmith in sau sonaar ki, ek lohaar ki.

And so many more I cannot put down to right now. Will keep adding. Fortunate to have the opportunity to put this up.
Really.

High (on) Life!

2009-04-28T14:05:00.005+05:30

A Nawaz Khan road, off the New-N-Gambakkam High road
Helped me lead this life. The mantra is
Don't worry (about the nautanki poltus) and be happy.
Do pub hopping, Go to karaoke nights & attend jazz concerts with foreigners,
Put pseudo cultural dialogues, eat burgers, pastas, sandwiches, pongal
(especially in dingy buildings and atop open roofs)
And talk of the lost heritage of the territory while traveling in blue board buses,
Where people die traveling in buses, make statements like
"I was dying to travel in public transport"
"It is so much fun, you know otherwise you are always in AC cocoons",
While making sure with yourself you have left the AC in the room on.

So you shall have fun of your life here.

I am not a local.
Locals are different.
They talk of greater verity and PE deals while coming out of The Temple.
I never go to such places.
(The non locals make such statements about local places)
There is more to it folks!

You attend pseudo-childrens' book launches
Listen to stories told by aunties doubling up as research scholars and tripling up as authors, and
While all the parents at the ceremony are asked to join,
You say you are yet to experience the sublime feeling,
And then come out, and
Discuss the truly wonderful body language of the story teller cum author
Over a cup of health drink, such as chinese green tea
Or fresh tender coconut water
Under eco friendly shacks
Made up of freshly cut trees

Sometimes my eyes speak too much though
And then there they are, telling me
(on me asking what they do)
"I am a designer artist..
and a mother of 2"

Vicissitudes of (high) life.

Being Felt..

2009-04-08T09:57:00.004+05:30

Amidst the hall, waiting to be explored. Lights flooding in a way to enhance the flawless complexion created an aura, adding to the charm. The light shone off from the curves and the dimples, titillating the visual senses of all around.

It was beyond the working hours for the dealer, and people were allowed only to have a look, and touch. "Can this be opened, I want to feel the inside" said some, only to be answered with a negative by the security guards.

"Fantastic colour, no?"

"It's a neatly done job!"

"Petite, yet sturdy!"

"Must be powerful for this size!"

"Oh come on, this is not small!"

Exclamations filled the place, pervading the sweltering atmosphere, as the AC was switched off after working hours. Some touched the front, some the rear, and some gauged the top with palms lingering all over. Some knocked all over gently, waiting for the noise back, trying to judge whether the material was just 'fake' like plastic. And most of them were surprised to see it was not.

"Wow! Solid-bodied!"

"Must be just as safe as the others!"

More exclamations.

The people continued to feel, touch and glide their palms all over its body just like that, and as it was time to go, we left the Tata showroom on the Mount Road, after having stored the Nano in our senses..

Encounter with Chennai's Public-Private Transport

2009-03-22T20:39:00.002+05:30

After having spent 5 years in Chennai, I always thought I knew this about Chennai:

1. Autowallahs are a PITA, they will not let go of an opportunity to rob you, but maybe business if you refuse to be robbed.

2. Buses are damn cheap to travel in, just that you need to get used to claustro-crammia that is induced by such travel.

3. MRTS is a perfect leisurely mode to travel, proven by its frequency.

Being back here 2 years after I passed out, some opinions were bound to change/ get strengthened. How? Here's:

Haggling became a pastime of mine, with the autowallahs conjuring up the most inexplicable excuses for charging what they were. So much so, that an argument of mine with one of them led to my dissecting his business model which accounted for the rent of the vehicle (vandi baadai), his time value, his food and of course fuel expenses. At the end of it, I proved to him that he was charging me at least 40% more than what he should have, and told him that I would never take his auto again, he being such a robber. "OK saaar, praablam illai" is what I got in return.

On the other hand, I met one who straight away said INR 30 for going from Spencer's to Hotel Savera (don't know if it is the right one, still this guy was far better than the ones who were asking for 60 for the same distance!). Towards the end of the journey my mind was so full of appreciation for the middle aged chauffeur of mine, that I felt like giving him an extra 10 bucks, discarding this thought for the fear of 'distorting the market'. In hindsight, I think I know why honesty is not the best policy around these days, if one looks for money at least.

And then there were social worker autowallahs, giving way to EVERY urchin/ beggar/ lay people trying to cross the road in front of our auto, so much so that sometimes they went an extra mile to block the way of the bus coming after us.

Another one did business in the same area as my office, and kinda remembered how much I paid him the first time I took his auto. The next time I came across him, I was wiser and realised I paid 10 bucks extra the first time. "What sir, last time you paid me 40, why 30 this time" said he, when I approached with a relatively rationalised proposition.

The pinnacle came when I got back at a number of them, offering weird figures like 37 rupees, 29 rupees, 46 rupees, when they asked for integer amounts rounded up. This was of course supported by the pretext that I had a few coins, and no change, and I needed to pay him all that I had etc. That also brings us to the fact that getting change from autowallahs is a task tougher than probably getting your credit card complaint resolved by the customer care professionals. Somehow the timing that I took autos was always on the wrong stars for me. In the morning of course he has just started, so he has no change, and in the evening, when I think he has done a day's business and must have change, it is time for a new guy on the duty!

By now, I think I can solemnly make a statement that this time I have never let an autowallah go in Chennai without striking a conversation with him - mostly a cribbing one, but still.

Then there were buses. I think I have figured out that the cleaner, better looking buses are easier to travel in, since they are costlier than the normal(!) ones and the masses do not really prefer this mode of mass transit.

One thing that has surprised me the most is the MRTS. Every 20 minutes starting at a wee hour in the morning until some 1030 in the night, I found the MRTS train indeed useful for commuting. I have a hunch that they kinda cheat on passengers by giving them tickets for the Beach when they want to go to Chintadripet (about 4km closer), but that does not take away even one little bit of its merit.

So far, so good, and the takeaways from this sojourn of mine in Chennai are:

1. The autowallahs are MAX PITA, and one should start haggling and shouting and scowling at them and telling them how one would be better off walking to the destination than wasting money on them, to bring down the prices at least a little. If you are a pretty girl wanting to travel in an auto, I reserve my comments about the edge you have.

2. Yes, buses can be used sometimes too.

3. MRTS rocks.

Wild Discovery

2009-02-26T09:39:00.003+05:30

“Even Zarvana Bhaban and Gurugun Idly Shop are totally commercialized, and they don’t even know what south Indian taste is”, shattered my ideas of great south Indian food, at the remark of a very senior (and hence incredibly credible) source of mine. Quite despairingly though, he had to rush for a meeting and we didn’t happen to meet for the actual whereabouts of great south Indian food.

Enter another source, not as senior, but knows the buttons of his phone. “Oru guest irruke, nalla south Indian food vennum” were the words I thought I heard.

“OK sir, I shall try this place definitely tomorrow.”

So this place, the ‘Mylai Karpagambal Mess’, tucked away close to the Mylapore Shivji Temple, fell at the end of my 3-odd km jog, through the morning chores of the vegetable vendors, the corner snack vendors and many others (this is otherwise along either the RK Road or the TTK Road, rife with the rich-white-collar-I-need-to-get-in-better-shape individuals).

0650AM: “Are you open yet?”

“Time.”

“How much time?”

“20 minutes.”

I go jog another km, and by the time I am back, this place is completely transformed, with the fragrance + smoke of the incense sticks pervading each corner of a tungsten-lit dining hall.

Out of the 10-odd Tamil words that I know, I had to yank out a couple that would help me ask him ‘what was hot and could be served immediately’. This was thanks to him asking me whether I wanted chilled or room temperature, on me asking the same in English.

Exactly 63 seconds later, there it is, pongal, with cashews and black pepper, with a finger-touch of ghee on top. I had not forgotten how divine it is to have pongal with vada and sambar and chutney, and so have made sure two big crisp vadas with small coconut pieces and black pepper embedded, awaiting being a part of the treat.

Looking around, I infer it is a sin to ask for spoons etc, and decide to be a part of the crowd, gorging using my hands.

“Hot; careful”.

This was new. I had never been to a place where I paid for the food and still received this homely warning. Maybe it was because of my clothes, that told him I didn’t fit, and needed extra instruction.

Almost guessable towards the end: no tea; only coffee or milk. I try the former, much to my delight – getting what I think must be the authentic coffee Discovery T&L crew go gaga about.

0731AM, I am out, on my way back to my room, planning to take an auto whose driver I think says “dbd bdbd anjun idhu naallakurtnangilam first poittrukkam” when I try to bargain.

Stomach full of celestial treat – no mood to haggle more.

Here I am, getting ready for office, and of course, to convey extreme gratitude to our Sir, Mr ALS.

Are 'goo'd things in life free, forever?

2009-02-24T12:52:00.002+05:30

Sign in with your Zoozle account: ______.xxxxxx MB of inbox space, and counting!
I always used to wonder – how do they afford it, man?

The number after the decimal point kept increasing, and never in the last 3 years I have been on it, had the idea of connecting this to the number that appears AFTER signing in come to me – “you are using 2790 MB of your 7298 MB quota”.

So, I got about 0.9 GB, or 900MB of mail every year. And going by the numbers that keep changing on the sign-in screen, the space addition is like this:

4 bytes per second ,
that is 14400 bytes per hour ,
that is 345.6 kB per day,
that is 126.144 MB per year.

Solving a simple linear equation to find out when the inbox space will be filled up (126 MB per year above the current space of about 7GB, and 900MB of incoming mail for that much period) tells me, it would be about 8 years, when my mailbox will be full.

Now, I have been using my zmail pretty sparingly (I have other mail addresses, and also an office address which I happen to use extensively these days), and also for all I know, the rate at which the space increases, has been declining (I remember about a couple of years ago, the space shot up from 2GB to 5GB in nothing).

So mine could be a below-average case.

Considering an overall average case being 5-6 years (taken to fill an average z-mailbox), here goes:
What if zoozle asks for say US$ 0.50 (yes, just 50 cents) per month to keep the mailbox intact? And we are not even talking about the associated services that come with the zoozle account!

Would you pay it, rather than shift (literally forward each of the mail) the entire mailbox to some other (existing/ searched for) address of yours, which is free (at least at that point of time)?

Would almost-millions of people who hold this z-mail account pay it?

Do I still need to wonder?

Confessions of a Frequent Flyer Mind

2009-02-19T10:39:00.004+05:30

Fastforwardasmuchaspossible: Drive from home to airport, get printouts of tickets, get ALL baggage screened, help scurrying elderly find the right X-ray counter, stand 53^rd in the check-in queue, get boarding pass, switch off mobile, take out laptop, do security check, restore items, call mother, go to seat, remember not having asked for aisle seat (yet again), adjust AC duct in vain, all at 7AM.

As Nury Vittachi once said (don’t worry if you do not know him, I knew him only after I went to Dhaka), life flying a lot is not easy. And I am not even a businessman.

So it was this one ViceJet flight, from home to Delhi. On arrival, after having struggled through the usual “whether luggage first or loo” crisis, I find my bag indeed forsaken on the baggage belt, gaping wide open, some unmentionables trying to get out of it, despite all the plastic-bag packing of those.

Wondering worth how much I have lost if the father-gifted perfume is flicked; I look helter-skelter for the ground-handling manager. And there he was, with a walky-talky, seemingly controlling the operations happening around.

“Please wait for 5 minutes, sir, I shall help you with this” he sprayed at me, when I complained in a look-this-is-the-calmest-I-can-be-now manner. “Why don’t you sit there”, he pointed at a chair in the waiting area.

For a change, my instincts told me something useful, and I took his cell number. After a wait of about 15 minutes and about 2 frenzied calls to him as soon as he used to disappear from the crime scene, he finally came to the rescue.

Upon confirmation that it was only the broken lock, I knew how relieved I must have looked, looking at him.

Now came the crucial part. The c’-word. “The lock cost 100 rupees, right? I shall just send someone and get you a new lock sir.”

And send, he indeed did! Calling the main counter, he explained the situation to them, sent a boy to them to collect the cash and buy a lock for me. I was kind of impressed.

Twenty minutes later, I have lost my patience. Efforts to check in to my next flight over the phone have gone in vain, and I do not want the lock to be the cause for not boarding my next flight.

“Look boss, just pay me the cash, I will manage the lock myself.” This time I was authoritatively instructive. A feeble attempt he made, to call the boy back only with the cash, only to find out that the boy had not collected the cash from the counter at all!

I was in my argument gear, and convinced him that it made perfect sense to pay me the cash from his pocket and keep that the boy returned with.

To my and the by-standers’ extreme despair, the ground manager had nothing but INR 70 in his pocket, and I insisted that he pay me that, and indeed, to my I-do-not-know-what-feeling, I-t-o-o-k-i-t-a-l-l!

One Two Tango?

2009-01-18T21:45:00.002+05:30

"OK, let's start with preparation. Feet crow's together, next to each other, not this way, but this way" - there she was, in probably her 40's, five-five at max, supple or even a little lanky even for that height I'd say - trying to get us started.

It was four of us, two each of guys and ladies, and Hiro, before asking us to get our feet crow's together, had complimented us on our heights - 'it's good to have guys such as you here'.

And as I stood there, observing myself in the mirror of her studio, wondering what on earth would crow's feet ever mean, her name came to me, once again, right from my gmail inbox. Hiro Yasabahashi - Japanese! Japanese! I shouted in my mind, just like Eureka! Eureka!

So it was close together! The entire dear rooked so simpre now! (Trust me, I had to go back to substitute 'entire' for 'whole' lest I would not have been able to afford this l-r thing!)

And then I was able to concentrate on the rhythm she was teaching us - srow, srow, quick-quick, srow, srow, quick-quick...

At the end of one hour, we were able to do about 12 steps of it - Tango.

So far, so good!

Bikram and Betaal (in IT Land)

2008-12-31T14:27:00.002+05:30

Bikram turned his back again on the banyan tree, this time laden with Betaal with the white billowed hair-mass (mess?) of his. After exactly what seemed like 4 minutes, Betaal had it and started working his way around the fact that he was under arrest."Bikram, as usual, I do not have to tell you that if you open your mouth to utter even one word, I shall flee your back and will return to my place on the tree".

"Hmph" sighed Bikram, of course without opening his mouth.
A while later, Betaal shot: "Do you use MeScrewloft Weird to work with your documents?". Bikram could see where it was headed to. He could not help but answer that. After all, he made a living out of it!

Thinking 'Stupid fellow. I can answer yes-no questions without opening my mouth. What a condition and what traps! Huh!', Bikram nodded, for a 'yes'.

"Do your documents sometimes contain figures?" - Betaal.

'I am almost half way up there, just a security check and I am done. Keep 'em the y/n questions coming, buddy' thought Bikram and nodded for a 'yes' again.
"Then tell me, Bikram, the great conqueror of the Cubicles and the Cabins, the brute force formatter of MS Weird documents, the collector of soft copies, why do sometimes the captions of some figures or tables inserted in the documents appear in separate text boxes? Why aren't they adjacent to the object being captioned, as just text specially formatted?"

...

"If you do not answer me, despite knowing the answer to this question, mind Mr Bikram, you shall forget all passwords/ PINs of yours, including the one to the mail account of yours you have mailed all other passwords to."
Bikram could sense the danger looming large. He had little choice. A heaved breath.

"It is because the objects under question are not 'in line with text'. This is the text wrapping option that appears in the 'format' tab of the object. Once in line with text, the captioning becomes easy and streamlined, and the captions start appearing as text specially formatted. Alternatively, one can cut the caption text from within the referred text box and paste it close to the object under question, if inevitable, and then delete the thus empty text box."

"Yoo hoo! You who! Here I go, Bikram, see you again, soon! Ta-ta! T-a-t-a!"

And Betaal fled, to the original place of his, hanging upside down from the banyan tree...

One Day Without FireFox

2008-10-20T07:06:00.004+05:30

"Firefox is already running, but not responding. To open a window, you must close the previous windows."

Using IE, I constantly got this feeling of being a mere mere mortal (brethren, I have Chrome installed too, but guess what, Chrome makes me feel worse).

I missed you, FireFox.

Sunday?

2008-10-10T12:42:00.003+05:30

The sunshine on Sundays is still different. Just that instead of gazing at the deep azure skies with fluffy satin clouds strewn all over and thanking my luck to have shown me 'the light of this day', I
wonder when was the last time I had such a moment of leisure on a Sunday (Albeit I don't have to stretch my memory too far. It has been only 2 months since). Four years have passed by, and the innocence really needs to be returned to sometime, except that this is such a cliche that I would rather keep it for some other time.

"Do you have a passport?" is how it all started. With an extreme-disappointment-eliciting "I applied in Jan, it should be with me any time", I started to really push around for the passport to positively come to me. After numerous 'nashta pani fundings', there it was, the beautiful Godsent in deep navy blue colour, with the Government of India Logo on it. I could not believe my eyes, nor the fact that my wings were no more clipped, and I was a free bird in the globalised corporate world skies, or so I thought.

Along came my first foreign assignment, the one that made everyone I told raise their eyebrows so much it would have put macaques to shame - Dhaka, Bangladesh. Yes, that one.

"Can't you like shun it?" dad asked.
I said it is an international assignment!
"Ok", said dad.

"Can't it be Pune instead of Dhaka?" mom asked.
I said it is an international assignment!
"Yeah right, International Assignment", said mom.

"Will you be coming home often?" sis asked.
I said it is an international assignment!
"Ok, but try your best, hmm?" said sis.

So there I was, on the Delhi International Airport (Limited), saying things like "I might be in India in August" to my friends on phone, and feeling weird as I did it.

Coming to the Sunday in question, the system that saw me making major adjustments with itself was that of having Friday & Saturday as weekend and Sundays the start of the week.

Finally, finally in my life I was able to see the light of the fact that all calendars I had seen had one red S at the beginning of the week before M and one red S at the end of it, after F. Just that this S at the beginning of the week was more blue than red.

So there I am, making the best of the seamless working system we have evolved (India works on Friday and half Saturday, the work flows to the team stationed here on the Saturday, and lo! Work gets full time processing Sunday onwards!).

And so far so good, apart from little things here and there like lack of reliable and safe public transport, lack of variety in vegetarian food, and lot of access to the kitchen of the guesthouse where we stay - it is fun!

Things their mom did not remind them to tell you about the new bang-a-lure airport

2008-05-31T15:15:00.004+05:30

Much curiosity (read confusion) beset me, as I was set to travel to and out of Bangalore on the last weekend of May. Having booked my flight tickets for a Deccan flight through Cleartrip, I had just made sure there was ample scope for confusion, as both agencies reported different dates of inauguration of the new airport, and it was only when I boarded the bus to go to the new airport that I believed one of them. In the meantime, there were loads of messages to me, each agency asking me to ignore all their previous messages, and the gist of all of them was that I would either depart from the new airport or the old airport. It was really profound.

The first thing that came to my mind when I thought about the new Bangalore airport was the comparison to its counterpart in Hyderabad. Having been to the Hyderabad airport, I started expecting similar comfortable and reasonable facilities to go to the airport, etc. How I wish I knew what was in store for me, though!

Bangalore international airport limited (IMHO, the last word has more to do with the comfort level the whole airport deal offers, than it has to do with the Companies Act), quite unlike its Hyderabad counterpart, is probably only a worse managed facility than the old HAL one.

For the unsuspecting souls, let me clarify - the new Bangalore international airport became functional on the 24th of May, after many postponements and much ado. And for all I knew, this was only the beginning.

It started with this - how far is the new airport from the city anyway? Ok, 40 odd km, but how much in advance should I start? How long will it take to reach there? Mails were rife that it would take about 120-150 minutes to reach there, from the area of Bangalore I was in (Domlur). Now, I had a flight to take at 1030, and that meant that I had to be at the airport latest by 930 and 2 odd hours of travel meant that I had to start at around 7.

Enter friends who have been staying in Bangalore for a while. According to them, the road to the new airport would pass through some of the busiest and the most traffic-congested areas of the city (tell me one which is not, for a change) and one could never tell how long the traffic could be held up. The stakes are too high to take a chance - an air ticket worth about Rs 4,000. So I decide to start at around 6AM. And no, this timing was not as per my will. It was the safest time to start at, when the BMTC bus would depart from Domlur too. Thus, to be at the bus stand in Domlur at 6AM, I start at my place at 530AM and naturally, since there would be no autos around that time, I call the city taxi who charges me a minimum of Rs 150 to go to the stand. The hole in my pocket has just only opened.

Still not sure whether I am at a right place and seeing the right scenario, I finally see a red BMTC bus that at least looks good from outside with huge windows and a low platform, emblazoned trippily with an airplane with a smiling face which ends up looking like a tilted dolphin with straight wings. Ok, so I am not at least lost, I think.

It is time to board the bus, and there, my first jolt - the luggage has to be carried inside the bus, and kept on the racks there. Interestingly, the separation between the horizontal bars in the vertical direction, confining the luggage, is more than the width of even a large suitcase. Thus, the suitcases etc of poor unsuspecting creatures keep falling as the driver enjoys the power steering of the bus, and traffic free roads of the lovely morning. Needless to mention, the number of seats that can be accommodated in the bus has been greatly reduced because almost half the space in the bus is reserved only for the raining-luggage racks.

There has been an e-mail from Kingfisher that the new airport can be reached by so and so modes which include expensive taxis (600 rupees types) and this BMTC bus which supposedly charges 135 rupees from Domlur to the airport. But to my surprise, the swanky in-situ printed ticket reads Rs. 150 in the system-y dot matrix font, and there, my second jolt.

All this time, I am too busy noticing the ill designed luggage racks and lamenting the more expensive than mentioned ticket, to see that the seats in the bus are no more comfortable than any of the normal city buses, and this essentially shatters my dreams of being able to catch a quick nap on my way to the airport, as I have hardly slept the previous night. I try to work around it, only to my despair.
I can obviously not lean on my co-passenger, because he is not my elder brother.
The rail of the next seat is too close to put my crossed arms on it and to rest my head on them.
The back of the seat is too short and the rails too hard to lean backwards and let my head rest on it.

So there I am, sitting stick-straight all throughout the journey to the airport, only strengthening a lesson I have come to learn - when you are partying and not sleeping well at nights, avoid planning journeys so that you have to go directly to the office from the airport.

As I sat straight like a good boy (that is what they taught us at primary school - good boys sat with their backs straight and hence everybody liked them), I imagined the hell of a time I was going to have at work, with lack of sleep and to my realisation later, a good breakfast.

It was 725 AM and I suddenly found myself hauling my bags out of the bus at the new airport! This was magic! I was full 3 hours early for my flight, unlike what I was told both by my friends and the official mail.

I thought I would take this opportunity to explore the airport premises.

The first good thing that struck me was that wherever one needs to cross a road in there, appropriate elevations are made which act as both speed breakers and the necessary platform to trundle your trolleys seamlessly. I read a white-on-green board which said 'Plaza Restaurant' and decided to check it out. The first board showed an arrow towards the exit and the parking and going that side only had the taxi-wallahs and the BMTC people asking me relentlessly if I needed a ride.
Upon turning according to the arrow on the second direction board I met, and crossing something that was about 150 metres of paved parking cum walking area, I found myself close to some aviation service building which was closed. So they have not started operating everything yet, I thought, turning back to enter the airport.

Quite contrary to my imagination of the efficiency of the airport, there was a HUGE queue to enter the airport, and this is not even the check in counter. Finally my turn came, and the security guy there yelled "All dwomeshteek pyasenjars pleej yooj dee aadar yentrance".
I wondered what the literacy rate amongst the passengers would be, for the airport people not to put even one slightest mention of separate entrances for domestic and international passengers. And interestingly enough, they both landed the passengers in the same foyer - Deccan check in counter staff literally rubbing shoulders with Singapore Airlines, because the check in counters are all crammed into this very foyer!

So there my turn came yet again and upon entering, I find this sneaky UDF counter tucked into a corner of the foyer saying "please pay your UDF here". News you can use - I remember having read about this UDF thing in the newspapers. More unsure of whether I do not have to pay that than I have to, I decide to stand in the queue. But then it strikes me - there is a gargantuan crowd waiting to check in, and this sneaky UDF queue was so small! How could that be? So I leave my place in this queue to approach an airport staff member to ask if everyone (domestic as well as international passengers) was supposed to pay this UDF. I am told that it is to be paid only by the international passengers for now. Again, no mention of that on the board either! What if I had ended up paying the fees? Would they have refunded it before 2030 AD?

Trudging to yet another queue (my third in the last 30 minutes) to check in, I bask in the feeling of having huge unsupported spans of tall ceiling above me, huge structural glass panels around and the entire grand scene of the squeaky new airport, which has started sinking in only now, after all the disappointment. But the passing time only tells me that it would only be a break in the disappointment ordeal.

The security check upstairs from the check in counters is fairly smooth, for there are no long long queues there, yet. With sequence 1 (naturally, no one had yet come to the airport for my flight) assigned to me, I set out to cater to my next crisis - food hunt. Naturally I have had nothing till now, that is 825 AM because I started before any restaurant or anyone, for that matter (except my mother, oh mother!) could give me a breakfast.

We all know that stuff is costly at the airport. What Bangalore (I am not calling it that stupid looru name. I hate it) teaches us anew is that even on spending that much amount, one is hardly guaranteed any good quality material. Before passing through the next meandering long queue at Barista counter, I have surveyed everything available to eat at the airport, and have zeroed in onto a sandwich and a tea at Barista, since that appears to be the cheapest option. So there it is, one sandwich (that is made of 2 slices and some veggies with white sauce) and one cup of tea, worth Rs. 170. Next problem: where do I sit? All the places are full of people! There are executives (or so looking people, nicely dressed in suede suits and sparkling shoes and having thin framed reading glasses) sitting and relishing an elaborate breakfast thereby professing their purchasing power, and then there are people who do not want to have anything but a tea and pass the remaining time until their boarding - which is quite a while, since a lot many people have ended up like me, misled by the estimates of the time taken to reach the airport.

So I finally settle down at a seat so close to the garbage bin that it is evidently empty till now. Trying everything possible to turn as far away from the bin as possible to have my breakfast, I log on to the free wifi there - at least something to help me kill time - since there are no comfy seats on which I can catch a nap, yet again.

I feel a little better after whining about the airport to my online friends then (just the way I am feeling now), and it is almost time they announced my boarding. It is 950 AM now. The LCD screen shows flights departing only till 1015, and till 1020 the display does not change. After playing the ball in dodgeball of the Deccan circle, I finally learn that my boarding is through one of the three gates that are displaying boarding information for the Coimbatore flight departing at 915 AM.

"Sir, sequence no.1 has already boarded. Shit (she actually said that)! How did this happen? Can I see your ID card please?" I am let go after my ID card is checked, and there ends the airport ordeal.

What follows is the airline ordeal, with Deccan taking its sweet time to finish some of their 'paperwork' and the flight finally taking off 35 minutes after the scheduled departure time.

Upon arrival, I find my check-in bag badly damaged. This has inductively led me to conclude that the latest high-tech in-line baggage checking system at the bangalore airport works like this:

So fellow people, lovers and country men, please try to avoid flying to/from Bangalore as much as possible. As for me, the weekend I spent there was worth much more than this trouble, so no (more) complaints.

She

2008-02-27T12:27:00.004+05:30

She

Was the satin in my dreams.
The leap across the limpid stream.
The nap in the mountains, under a dense mango tree standing in the shining sun.

She

Was the first breath taken in with the nose after a long swimming lap.
Was the first rain on the cracked earth of a long scorching summer.
Was the first albatross spotted after a sail through a grey storm.
Was the first sunrise in the Arctic after the 6 month long night.

Did I love her?

I wonder.

Thirty Three Hours

2007-11-10T12:48:00.000+05:30

I watch the outside like telly, through the one way mirror.

Imagine what the breeze outside must be like,
sitting in the 22 degrees of the AC.

Conjure the rustling sound of leaves,
listening to Linkin Park on my mp3 player.

Try to imagine the feel of the calves romping in the fields;
cuddled in my Indian Railways' quilts.

Strive to remember what pedaling a cycle was like;
cursing my legs aching of sitting too long.

The dark clouds endeavour to rake up the strongest memory of mine, the smell,
the fragrance of wet soil;
but alas!
My olfaction is already stifled with my Archies Zero One.

Did I want it to be like this?
I try to find an answer, able to see but the clock,
reminding me only of how I could not get a flight ticket!

2007-02-11T09:43:00.000+05:30

पर्वा मारत्याला म्हणलो होतो मी. ह्याची लक्षणं काही ठीक दिसत नाहीत म्हणून. पण ऐकलं नाही माझं. गेला बाराच्या भावात म्हणजे कळेल.

आणि नारळाच्या झाडापासून लांब रहा हो, नाहीतर उगीच घोर. नही म्हणजे फ़ारसं काही नाही, पण उगीच विषाची परीक्षा कशाला पहायची? उदयिक सकळीच भैरोबाला दिव्याचा नैवेद्य दाखीव, म्हणजे सगळं नीट होईल बघ.

आणि देवाचं करणं सोडू नकोस. आपला पाठीराखा आहे तो. नाहीतर म्हातोबाच्या कोपानी आतापर्यंत सगळं खलास झालं असतं. तुझे आबा आज हयात आहेत ही खूप मोठी गोष्ट आहे बघ.

चौकी?
पिंपळाच्या पाराच्या फ़ारच नजदीक आहे. नदीवरून थेट दिसते आर-पार अगदी. जीव थोडा थोडा होतो बघ दर वेळी. काय करावं अगदी सुचत नाई. डोक्यात सहस्त्र मुंग्या कवायत करतायत की काय वाटू लागतं.

दुसरं काही नाही रे, निरोप येतोय मला. फ़ार काळाचा सोबती नाही मी आता.

नमीची काळजी घे. तुझ्या भरवश्यावर सोडतोय मी तिला. तिला जितकं शिकायचंय शिकू दे हो, भिकंभटाजवळ मी बक्कळ पुंजी ठेवली आहे. फ़ीची बिलं दाखवलीस की तो तुला लागलीच देईल हो पैसे.. काही काळजी करू नकोस.
आणि तिला जरा त्या बबन्यापासून दूर ठेव. त्याची नजर वाईट आहे.

गेलास का तूही मला सोडून! अरे मीच आहे रे इथे, नको असा सोडून जाऊस मला, अरे तू तरी नको, तुझ्या विनवण्या करतो रे मी.

जगणं नुसतं असह्य झालंय बघ आता. माझ्या तोंडात गंगा तरी घालशील ना रे? दुसर्या कोणाला मी असं हक्कानी सांगू ?
सांग ना रे मला. आज तरी सांग. फ़ार वेळ नाही राहिलेला माझ्याकडे.

तो बघ, तो बघ!

अपशकुन! अपशकुन! माझी वेळ आली रे आली जवळ. आता काही काही उरलं नाही. सरिताला भेटलास तर तिला सांग, मी तिच्यासाठी आमरण झुरलो रे, आमरण झुरलो. मुंबईला जाऊन तीही फ़ारशी सुखी असेल असं मला वाटत नाही, पण तरी तिच्या कानावर घाल, कमीत कमी तितकंच तिला सुख. कुणीतरी आपल्यासाठी झुरावं असं प्रत्येकालाच वाटत असतं. लग्नं वरती ठरतात हे तर सगळेच म्हणतात. माझा नाही विश्वास. सगळ्या पळवाटा आहेत. सग्ग्ळ्या पळवाटा आहेत. कुणात धमक नसते असं पतंगासारखं झुरून, जळून मरण्याची.
मी मानतो मी जीवनात फ़ारसं काही केलं नाही, पण सरिता माझं उद्दिष्ट होती रे, काय सांगू तुला? तिच्यासाठी मी द्रोणागिरि उचलून आणला असता, पण हनुमानानी तो आधीच पळवून नेला म्हणून, मी हतबल होतो रे, मी हतबल होतो.

अरे असं नुसतं म्हणून कधी काही साध्य झालंय? माई म्हणायची "अरे, नुसता ठोंब्यासारखाबसू नकोस रे, कष्ट कर. देवानी हात पाय दिलेत ना धड, उपयोग कर त्यांचा." पण मी कधी तिला आदर दाखवलाच नाही रे,
आणि आता फ़ार उशीर झालाय.

फ़ार फ़ार उशीर झालाय. गलबत खूप खूप खोल पाण्यात गेलंय. आता सहन होणार नाहे अजून. उडी मारायची पण धुगधुगी उरली नाही आता.

आता फ़क्त वाट पाहणं हाती उरलंय. फ़क्त वाट पाहणं.

मला अजून आठवतंय. दादांनी पण मला एकदा सांगितलं होतं "रघ्या, अरे जीवनाची काही शाश्वती नाही बघ. आज आहे, उद्या नाही. जो वेळ मिळालाय तो कृपा समजून नामस्मरण आणि कष्ट करण्यात व्यतीत कराव म्हणजे झालं."

मी तेंव्हा संध्या करायचो नाही. सगळं थोतांड वाटायचं मला. मी त्यांना एकदा म्हणलो पण होतो "दादा, तुमचं आयुष्य थोडं राहिलं म्हणत असाल तर एक वेळ मी ऐकेन. पण मला काही हे सगळं तुम्ही ऐकवू नका हो."

तसंच झालं रे, तसंच झालं. माई जीवनाच्या कातरवेळी एकटी पडली, तरी मला ते नाही दिसलं. सरिता छाती फ़ाडून सांगत होती, तरी मला ऐकू नाही आलं.
मी वहावतच गेलो. अजून जोरात. भोवर्यापाठोपाठ भोवर्यांत. कधीही परत न येण्यासाठी. आणि हाती काय लागलं?

जिला आपल्याच पोटच्या पोराचं क्रियाकर्म करावं लागावं अशी माता
जिला आपल्याच भावाच्या अस्थी विसर्जन कराव्या लागाव्यात अशी बहीण
जिला आपल्याच प्रियकराचं कलेवर चितेवर चढताना बघावं लागावं अशी प्रेयसी.

कुठे फ़ेडीन रे हे पाप मी? पृथ्वीवर तर नक्कीच नाही. आता तेवढा वेळच नाहीये.

2006-12-17T10:28:00.000+05:30

Sunday

The day with a different sunlight. Although I do not know whether it is the intensity, the clarity or just the feeling, what I do believe that it is just - different. One reason for the sunlight being different is that it takes me back to my childhood days, when the weekends used to mean a load of homework given by the teachers at school, saying "you have a day and a half to do this" which often used to be to the tune of solving an entire book full of exercises. Nevertheless, thanks to an artificially elicited diligent effort on Saturday afternoon, the Sunday used to be free from all that burden riding my mind.
Surprisingly, this was one day that never saw my mother waking me up. For the simple reason that she never needed to. Up at 6 AM, all geared up for the once-in-a-week's-time walk to the derelict granite quarry at the top of the Chatushrungi tor, I shriek out the code signal to get my compadres out of their snug apartments.

All this for the pinnacle of both the walk and the hill, marked by the sunrise, whelming all of us neo-teenagers with immense pleasure. The sunshine now starts getting hotter by the minute. The stomach notifies that it has been empty for long enough now. Accelerated more by the hunger than by the slope downwards, the dispersed teen is now back home. Picturing what must be stewing in the kitchen, I knock, and with the dropping bolts, a deep puff in - Pav bhaji.

Aai remembers it from Tuesday!

Holding back till the feast is now a herculean task, and aids to divert attention from the roaring hunger include Sindbad Ki Safarein, Potli Baba Ki, Duck Tales, Talespin and Jungle book (There is a whole lot to say about the childhood TV, but some other time).

Finally it comes - crispish golden baked pav and coriander, onion and a dash-of-lemon garnished bhaji with lots of butter. After the stuffing relish, it is time for all of us to get to our weekend schedule - my reading, dad's market stint, little sister's little-family-of-hers simulation and ma's thorough house cleaning.

Relics from the past (mostly in the form of books - they were my only friends for a while) show up as the house gets cleaned and rearranged - old Chandoba's, Diwali special issues of Kishor, Saaptaahik Sakal and books I once made my parents buy for me and never read. Yay, more stuff to read!

Dad is back now, and I am already with my hands elbow deep in the market bag to check out what he has got.

Lunch, after mom is done with everything, is just a formality, with a little rice and dal. As the rest of my family opts for a siesta, it's my time for revamping my riding machine - the 18 speed Shimano Index System fitted BSA High Lander Bull Fighter - hands on the gear box, with screw drivers to tweak it, in addition to the routine overhauling and oiling. Almost done with it but for a test ride, and I am already imagining myself blazing past the University of Pune traffic lights on the slope towards the city.

Shadows now elongate and it is the time to get out to the field. I yank my bat out of its long cover and join the noisy team for a 10 overs quick match till 'Bad Light'.

Come dusk and mom is already on the lookout for me - "Tejas, fast. We are to go out". I dart home and hurriedly dress up, bickering with my younger sister for an unobstructued view in the mirror. After a short stroll through the market for ma's daily needs shopping and sugarcane juice with dad "till she is done", I am home and glued to the TV again. (Discovery of India, Surabhi and Alif Laila - the 'some other time' stuff).

A dinner along with all this and it is the time to sleep, picturing the incidents in the books and ruminating how I could have saved my wicket if I had not tried hitting a sixer the second time.

And in spite of all this, I look forward more to Saturday, because it is the messenger of the Sunday on its way!

2006-02-16T14:12:00.000+05:30

Analogies

The other day, I was just wondering what I think about other people. That turned out mostly what I want them to be. Then it occurred to me- if I can think that way, everybody else must also be thinking the same about me!

I want people to be like low maintenance loving machines. Handle them roughly, do whatever you want to them, ignore them, insult them, and DON'T give them the lubricant of apologies. The fuel consumption- the concern, the involvement from your side has to be minimal (or should I say optimal?) And still the output- the love has to be maximum.

But then, everything comes with a price tag you see! Such machines are either way too costly to have, or their working is not guaranteed.
How inappropriate it would be for such a machine to actually stop working without warning, or to leave you, probably?

Then there are some, which consume too much of the concern-involvement fuel. The maintenance is also very high. You have to keep on tightening the nuts and bolts with the spanners of courtesy, to lubricate them with affection, to wash them with apparent love, to polish them with the rags of cuddles.

Nevertheless, it pays off. The love you get in return is overwhelming. The way affection flows, the way they become possessive is just divine! How otherwise would you expect someone as practical, as utilitarian, as selfish as a Human Being to be like this?

Also, there are machines which are absolutely maintenance free, but still give you a lot of output. The only thing is that they can not be owned as such. But then same is the case with me! When I am maintenance free, I am almost impossible to own! And when I am owned, my maintenance costs are dreadful!

But is it all this simple?
I think this is just these 4 years of Engineering that I have been doing speaking here.

Well but then it isn't totally illogical. Is it?

2006-02-16T14:07:00.000+05:30

Relativity

Today has been one of the very bad days I have had this semester.

Losing one third of the total marks in a quiz.
Getting an assignment to design, analyse and assess an entire small scale infrastructure project in 10 days.
Getting blasted by the Senior VP of Infrastructure Finance and Leasing Services.

What more does one want to get excruciated? Phew!

While I was trying to call the SVP, I got what appeared to be just the normal "busy" tone. But as it turned out, it was an interruption in his conversation for as many as 16 times. He calls back on the phone from which I was trying.

"Hello, WHO are you?"
"Hello sir, this is Blakaranamamba speaking from IITM. Did my professor mail you regarding the data I need for the seminar assignment?"
"No, I did not get any mail. We work on a client relationship basis. I can not go on passing data on to people like that. And HELLO, please try to learn that the busy tone is an interruption in the conversation of the other person. He is busy. Please try to understand that."
"Sorry sir, I am really sorry for that."

Hang up!

It was like we are in different galaxies, separated by millions of light years. What appears to him is not the true present, what appears to me is not the true present situation there. And we can not even communicate this to each other, because we are way too far off from each other.

Now, how was he to know how the busy tone appears on the other side when he is busy talking to someone else? How was he to know that it was NOT possible to distinguish the busy tone form the call waiting tone?

My professor should have mailed him.
I should have made sure that my professor had mailed him.
He should have known that there must be some problem with this tone because of which this guy went on calling, and would not have done it otherwise.
I should have stopped calling the moment I felt there was something wrong here.

3 galaxies. Millions of light years apart. Never will the correct information be interchanged. Never will the minds meet.

What will happen for sure is that whenever the VP thinks of my professor or Blakaranamamba, He will frown.

The way I accepted that we can never know what is actually going on right now in the Sombrero galaxy, I accepted this also.

2005-11-02T02:35:00.000+05:30

I wanted to vent this out for long, but somehow the time did not come. The reason I say I wanted to vent it out is, I can not take it any more. I have to get it out of my system. Though I am not sure whether writing all about it will help, but as it goes, hope floats. (or does it?)
It started right since I first thought about it, and is still going on.
What I am talking about is, the identity crisis.
I remember once there was this casual chat with one of the professors of our college, and he asked me- "What do you want to become in your life?" And pathetically enough, I did not have an answer!
Perhaps all I could have said was "I want to become happy in my life", but somehow I did not even say that, and the professor seemed both surprised and kind of disappointed, while all others were saying things like "I want to become a CEO of a great firm" and all.
It is like I have woken up from a dream. A dream where I am the hero, excelling at academics, having immense intelligence, vast knowledge of things none would ever imagine a guy of my age to have. But then comes the time when I feel I should wake up.
When I was 5, I did what 10000 people of my age did.
When I was 10, I did what only 5000 of them could do.
When 15, I accomplished something that was limited to as few as 1000 people.
When 17, I did what only 500 people of my age could do.
When 21, I have done what 8 other people around me have done, (or probably less)
And now is the time I think I should do that NONE else has ever done.
But what?
I do not know.
This is what bugs me day in day out. Sleepless nights are spent on the same thing.
"What next?" is a nightmare.
Sometimes I strongly think, that the dream I was having was MUCH better than what I am experiencing right now. I try hard to get back to that state, but am never successful.
Is it possible to start sleepwalking through life once again?
I wonder. I really do.