Where am I?

In the infinite horizon of time and space, where do I exist? Do I exist? Does space really end? Where does the earth exist? Questions or bizzare ideas like this seem to have captured many a coffee drinking mans attention when they could have blissfully been talking about the best girl nearby. Closer home, for another set of 40 insane folks have probably become more insane trying to make an idiot box(err, sorry, not the television. My laptop is not intelligent any more!) understand the ultimate question of mankind, “Where am I?”

There are some projects which help you learn, some which are fun, some others which are plainly impossible and some others outrightly boring. But helping a laptop blabber,”I am near Data center. You are facing a god dammed wall. Please get lost” was a challenge which breached even these sacrosanct limits. Frustration, angst, anger it sure produced, but also bucket loads of fun. In an otherwise lifeless college where you can find groups of students huddled together talking about some loop which has run a time extra, another few who share a hi-five every time they are able to ping to their neighbors computer and the rarest of rare who while away their time in the most useless of ways, just like what am doing! But in IIITB, projects make strange bedfellows, or rather floor fellow! And you find yourself rubbing shoulders with the scholars from CEEMS lab et al! Of course, they ended up building an “ intelligent” system as the course titled suggested, “Principles of Intelligent systems”. Err, well, I of course ended up barely completing it. Intelligence of course, I shall add a dimension to perception to console myself.!

But seriously, what can a project do? Its 2 am in the night and you find the owls sweeping the first floor for the slightest bit of clue that they can swoop about the first floor! And in such times, you cannot help but feel an asshole. The only comfort that one finds is in watching others code work, or rather not work! How does one feel when you teach a system a thousand times, BOSS, we are sitting near reception and like a spoilt brat, says “You are near the toilet!”. How many times, I felt like slapping the laptop? For many a seconds, I have even pondered over breaking my five year old relationship with her.

And if this was not enough, you have a professor who can troll you behind imagination. Just image yourself standing in a facultys room and the laptop says, “I am at the toilet!”. And the man laughs and says, “Yes, that is probably catching the wrong signals.!”. All this while, he is obviously silently noting it to find a grade which is the lowest amongst all. And while you are depressed that your solution is not working, he tells everyone.”Good! Good!”. You start wondering, if they changed the definition of good somewhere in the last year! And for all the crappiest code that we write, Mr. Prof asks a student to get into the lift and ask,”Where am I?”. If you thought this was it, here comes his next move? Peeps right into the camera, gets his image into it and asks, “where am I?”.Pretty sure, the “trollolololo” music is playing in some corner of his head. Move three, Turn your laptop upside down, take a picture and as you would know have guessed, “Where am I?” And if you think, your prof. Was the only one to troll you. There is not a bigger troll than the laptop which you carry everyday, the one whom you love everyday! Did it forget the day when I affectionately named her “Highbury”! Wonder if it really cared for all the love!

And the laptop sure did benifit from the whole experience. Imagine taking a one and half kilo ass with you everytime and ask it a simple question,”My dear boy, where are you? ” And it says, very proudly, in a heavy American accent, “UnKnown Region”. DAI! And if this was not enough, someone asked me, did you do a GUI? DAI, From when did blind people started seeing a GUI! And then another fellow remarking about the project,”This project had componenets of networking, image processing and speech processing!”. Calling the location was apparently speech processing. DAI!

Yet, all is well, that well, ENDS!

Away,Far Far Away

She looks pretty.There are lots of men around who swear by her.Radiating elegance, in pink and green,in beautiful camelCase few men would want to leave her. But somehow, her graceful indentation does not look my cup of tea! Rather ,coffee should I say?Or even more precisely,Java?

How often I want to run away from technology! As i key in my words in my lab on a laptop, I would prefer putting pen to a paper under a street light away from the glare of familiar faces. In a few months, even the sanity of the college would be lost. Do i want to get into the big,bad world of corporate? Perhaps,Not! I would love a badder world. An internship in one of Mumbai's famed gallis under any of the dreaded Dons is something I dream of. Something out of the world.

The underworld has always fascinated me. And more so now. Rather than rehearsing one of those scripted lines wearing a tie, I would love to wear a handkerchief on my half opened chest. While, we try so hard to be cool,the underworld oozes sexiness. Salim langda, Viru Kallia, Papu Thingna, Halkat Venkat, err, ok, the last one is yet to make an entry into Mumbai. Nevertheless, I would so love to talk to them. God, please can I intern there?

Talk of all the pay packages in the best colleges of the country. 40K per month? 50K? 60K? Underworld shall surely pay you more! Atleast I assume so. While smuggling so many gold biscuits, boss, can't I siphon one home? Enough for a year, i suppose, especially with the gold prices soaring. Talk about the hafta culture. For how long do we get exploited from the shopkeepers? Time to settle some score. God,please can I intern there?

With all the placement season around, it is tiring to hear people in the canteen talking about the other guy's company being better than theirs. And talking about profiles! To me, it all sounds the same. Boss proposes, fresher disposes! How would it matter if you are writing 4 lines in Java or in some other language? I actually feel, the Java vs C debate has become bigger than the Hindi vs Tamil debate. Pretty sure, even a freshers profile in the underworld demands you to murder a couple of people, call a dozen people and threaten them with the choicest of expletives in Mumbaiya hindi.Java and C are so passe. I wonder if they have different postings like on-site,off-site for different projects. Writing a couple of research papers would probably not even earn me a place in Wikipedia. Leave alone Wikipedia, not even on TV9 or Aaj Tak. One murder, or maybe a couple of them and pretty sure I would have more photos than Rahul Gandhi in this country.

10 years later, where do you find yourself? If you really ask me, the mirror. (PJ?, All right!) Team leader? Somehow just does not sound cool. Imagine being a gang leader instead. Chased by rival gangs every night, your blood being the aim is sure to give more thrills than fearing a french beard boss who is behind your head! And yet after many nights with coffee and code, I doubt if you would ever be wanted by your company or in some cases like mine, in home too! Here, there is a chance when even the Government of Inda might declare, “Most wanted”! Yes, Most wanted! Depending on your hardwork, as i hear, you could even be wanted by international organizations like Interpol, Federal police too! International fame in a company? Bah!God,please can I intern there?

I wonder what are the requirements for a job there? Resume, I have! A strong willed personality, Hopefully yeah! Mumbai-Hindi? Not really, but I can hopefully learn it on the job!Prior work experience? Yeah, more than 15 years of killing people with poor jokes! Projects undertaken? Hmm..Killed a mosquito a long time ago!

Hmm, if only you could write a recommendation letter for me!

Typically, what we do is...

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When i was three, I wanted to be my dad.When I was five, I wanted to be a conductor. When I was seven, I wanted to be Shri Ram. When I was nine, I wanted to be Shiva. Sometimes Rajnikanth,sometimes Tendulkar. So many times in life, I have practised cricketing strokes with a stick in hand imagining the blue sea cheering for me at the Eden gardens. Often, I found myself at the Azad maidan being a politican. But somewhere, firmly deep inside, I was always told I would be an engineer. I never revolted. I was never passionate about being one either. Once in a while, I have wondered what I would be doing if not an engineer? Arts? Commerce? But I would still be studying.

But, did I really become the engineer that I wanted to become? Unlike most other professions, I never knew what being an engineer was. During my bachelors, I thought more about life,love and being forever alone. And forever alone, I am, still!:) Yet, there was always a feeling somewhere deep down that I would be an engineer some day. It was almost like it was written in the stars. At the cusp of formal academics(hopefully not,yet it seems the inevitable.), I really wonder if I can ever call myself an engineer.The more i watch the inhabitants from the corporate jungle, the more they repel me.

I wonder when do normal become 'corporatorized'! Infact, every company seems to be an equation of the form:

Input: intelligent, sane people.

Output: homogenized, obnoxious corporates!

Function contents:

1. Train them.
2. Train them.
3. Train them.

So what really happens to corporate people? And, I am afraid my views may dramatically change in a couple of months. And i want to capture my image of a corporate inhabitant before my model gets damaged by the impending conversion.

Let me first describe how these species look in common life

Name: Homo-corporatiens

Found in: the deep deserts of electronic city, WhiteField in big numbers.

Distinct characteristics:

Irrespective of the sex, they are characterized by a distinct identity card proclaiming their name, company and a photo of them taken when their hair was much darker and better looking. Not sure why they hang around with it even when they are out of the campus, but they do! Mostly tucked around the neck, but some cards can be found hanging around the belt too. The junior members will usually flash their local Android phone at the slightest pretext and the senior folk use their blackberry to either send mails,telling they will be late to the meeting or flirting with the prettiest juniors! Otherwise, the men folk usually wear a formal shirt with the neck button also buckled in decently and a shoe. These things, supposedly help their productivity. It's more easier spotting the women folk though. If you find a woman in a kurti or a formal shirt, mokkai pottufying with a guy on phone or atleast covering her ears with an earphone, as if the common folk would otherwise ask her the time, then be sure, this is one of the corporate ladeezz!!Of course, the highest probability of finding them in areas which traditionally do not belong to them are in the Volvo buses!

Languages known:

A highly esoteric and grammer less form of English which has evolved over the years in the far away lands of America is widely spoken across all sects of the corporate hierarchy. The accent might sound stylish, but unfortunately, it stops at that. Typically, words like “typically, what we do at our organization is....”, “platform as a service, mindlessness as a service, service as a service(OK, they dont know what does service really mean!)”, “we, at the industry deal with problems which involve scales or a few millions blah blah!!” are used once in every two sentences. And yeah, they usually can't speak without Microsoft ppts! Some of the richer buggers use Apple and all! But, you know can afford to sleep in a presentation if you see the logo of the company and he starts talking about “What we primarily do in our company is!”. Ok, every company spokesperson (or technical lead, as they call themselves) tells we are no. 1 in blah blah, no.2 in blah blah. All i know is it's all blurred. Everybody in the corporate world is no. 1 only!!

ooooo and how do i forget the women folk!! Especially, the HR people. For them, employees are never people. Some are folks. Some are blandly called resources. RESOURCES? WTF! OK, but seriously, why do these women have to wear some stupid looking formal shirt to look formal? And yeah, please stop talking about “grooming” skills again. Broom will come in hand, ok?

Probably, in a couple of months, even I will be one among them. Probably, one of my juniors might curse them. Or maybe, not. So is life!

It's not all that bad!

If to compliment is divine, to crib is  human! And crib, we can! Or is it only we, Indians who do it? The other day, I happened to share my dinner with a very pretty Swedish lady (I really love talking about her!:P) and she said, all they ate back home was potatoes and meat!! Only boiled potatoes and meat?? Terrible, I say.

In fact, so many of our dinner conversations seems to  start and end with cribbing. But that apart, there are so many kinds of people when it comes to food. The first breed, is of the Shashanka ilk! He believes that canteen food is evil,pure evil. Tell me,  have you ever seen him eating  in the canteen for 3 consecutive days? Pretty sure,you can't. Thats a different story that he can be officially credited for creating the “White Revolution” in our college. I genuinely think he has a credit account with Cafe Corner where he seems to reside when in the hostel!

The second is the asshole type! They really dont have an opinion of their own. When they sit with a dal eating fellow, they will outrage against the poor quality of dal without eating it ofcourse and rave about how dal is prepared in their village. Yeah, village! Oh, I forgot, there is a certain variant of this population for whom the views are shaped so that they mirror that of their favourite gals! Well, anyway, once an asshole, always one.

Then there is the so called “rational” fellow. In chaste English, he begins, “Dude, why do you think we need 2 sabjis!I mean why can't we just have one sabji and get fruits or so. You see it's more healthier.”. Please, don't ask me where he ate yesterday evening. Of course, am going to tell you. Hogs at Subway and talks about health in the canteen. Ok, now I need some protection since this guy stays only a couple of doors away.Anyways, boss you should have gone to the food committee meetings, no?:P

The fifth type! Their views have are private only to  their friends. Occasionally, they might like what others post on FB. But their mouths open only to eat and not to talk! Yet, they always want Vamsi to take on others. And papa, Vamsi. Anybody uses an app to find out who is his enemy and his name pops out first.

And the last is probably, the worst. It's me. He knows no taste, no likes. All he needs is curd. And since, I have no regrets with the current food, I can continue to afford writing!

Pray tell me who are you!!

There,there they go again. Under the august garb of red and yellow, a few pieces of glass will go to the bin today. A few expletives will be exchanged with the English speaking junta. Auto-wallahs will start pretending they dont know Tamil. Jobless fellows will become jobless forever. And now, they are stoning WIPRO? Really? Err,wait, Did they even touch the KSRTC?

Yella ok,pa? But dear vandalizer, who are you? Where did you learn Kannada? You speak so well and you pretend to be a Kannadiga!? I still believe you are an agent of destruction sent by envious states. Yes, you folks, whoever support the strike, you cannot be Kannadigas. I am a Kannadiga,by choice and I know the pride that runs through my veins when I stand at the Chennai bus stand and watch people trying to get into the “Rajahamsa” leaving the poor SETC Ultra-Deluxe buses alone. And you people who strike,even felt like stoning our very own KSRTC? Would someone from this glorious state break the bones of his own sister? For all the things that Karnataka stands for,KSRTC is one of the most glorious symbols i have known and any man stopping it's operations too is a traitor. KSRTC for all i know is not just a transport vehicle and even the mention of it as a mere government carrier is but trivial. For me, it's one of the lifelines of Karnataka and every single blow on the buses is a slap on the face of every Kannadiga!

Oh brother, the yellow and red stripes deserve better shoulders than your's!

And stoning WIPRO? Hell,yeah! Shows you have never read newspapers,never seen news channels. Yeah, the corporate community might not speak Kannada. Agreed.They speak C,java,python,English-vinglish. But,ever bothered to open BBC? When Infy became the first Indian company to be listed in NASDAQ, ever felt what it was when the world knew that a company headquartered in namma Bengalooru could rise to international levels? Ever felt the pride when Obama refers to India as Bangalore in software context? As one of my uncle says, Bangalore has become the simha-swapna for the Americans. I really cant help believe you are destructive agents sent only to malign the image of Karnataka. Why would someone stab himself!

I cannot help but feel pathetically bad about our very own men rampaging against us. It takes enormous sacrifice to build a state. But destruction is only a 'stone's throw away. We all love Kaveri,but can we sacrifice our beloved Karnataka for it? Isn't the price a tad too heavy? Have we lost faith in the democratic process? From when did we leave the red and yellow and turn to black?

Out of all things to feel bad, for a state which is known to stay ahead of time, have we come to a situation where we have to protest in a method which was most relevant a hundred years ago. To talk of it, we were the first city to have electricity in the country. Bangalore, please dont tell me no! We are probably the only city which has IISC,IIM and a proposed IIT. To come to this level of intellectual poverty? It is time for us to fight back. Fight back from the people who have hijacked the state and attacking it's very own people.It's time to define who is a Kannadiga!

We have just finished 50 glorious years of independent existence. A hundred is a long way to go. The warning signs are there everywhere! For all those who really love the state, isn't it time we reclaim it back from the hooligans?

Hiisssss, Koi Hai

Long, shiny, mysterious,dangerous, five years ago, she first kissed the sands of Yelahanka, the land of air birds and lakes. For all the terrror that she sent across my spine, I loved standing behind the wall to watch her crawl, glide,fly and slide. Elegance was no more a word in dictionary for me. She was elegance.

Every evening, when I closed my eyes, her shrill hiss completed my world. Was it sheer fright,an eagerness for it to encore.Reasons nonetheless, I started longing for the sound. The same sound which still haunts me, to this date. It isnt a hissing sound any longer. Like a river, which changes form, colour,size and sound, the metamporhisis of hiss was much more enchanting and confusing. It was sweet melody. It was nectar to the ears. And at times, poison to the heart. Now, I have lost words. Yet, I know it's her. Probably, I do not hear it any longer. I can only feel it within my heart. Yet, it's as loud and clear as I heard it so many summers ago.

Yet, she was but another animal.Then why her? The dark emotions which she carried with elan. The jealousy,envy,competition,blood and lust is what made her more interesting than others. Magic looked real. The world looks dumber,when it shares frame with her. And trust me, India is not a land of snakes. But, a land of snake charmers.

Illadvised, I too tried becoming one. My tunes, she never heard. Her hisses, I always heard. Yet, if there is anything in this world which it makes it the lovely place it is, is the sense of challenge, the extra-ordinary gut when you know you are doing the impossible,yet the reward for what if I really won? Helping us get up every day. Does my words make you feel I was trying to pet a snake?

No, a snake is wild and therin,lies its beauty. She was an obsession. A muse for my poetry, a subject of my creativity and object to pour my love on. For a real snake charmer, it really does not mind if the world is amused or otherwise. That is the world you know. In his world is a small snake. Terrified not by her,but only by the thought of losing her.

And it is not the bites that a snake charmer would care. The snake poison is now blood. It is not the thought of someone stealing away the snake. Yet, there is a day which is tough to digest.

No, it was not the hissing back, or the fatal bite. But when she decided to finally show the tail side to me. For once, the grace in her locomotion was missing.Silently, when she slid back to where she came from. For all my thoughts on me being a charmer, I was in a trance.

The trance might be broken. Yet she is the hottest cold blooded animal I have ever seen. I call her X.

Traveller's Dilemma

A drop on my eyes to wake me,

And the lock in my heart said SHE,

The yearn for ages, was it over,

To know the length of time, ask a lover,

Was the mist in my eyes or the glass,

So beautiful a sight,so gorgeous a lass,

When my hands kissed the mist,

A grand fury arose, Oh Christ!

For how long, a grand wait it was,

The pain that was, now bliss it was,

No romantic violins, no songs, not a word,

Just the sound of raindrops, my lord,

It was never meant to be you and me,

It was always meant to be we,

Is an eternity enough to cast lust filled eyes,

Behind the clouds, is the mighty sun filled with lies,

Where you all these days my dear?

My hair has grown wiser,in fear,

Are you twenty?Are you thirty? Will you grow old?

Thee, you are gold, timeless gold,

Thee is heaven's address on earth. 18Th cross,Malleshwaram,Bangalore.

If not Mtech, then..

It's still dark. For some bru coffee drinking, bespectacled fellows, furiously hitting the keyboard, its still a few hours away before they can call it a day or rather good night. There are a few who need to leave the comfort of their beds to work for a master who is a few seas and an ocean away. Some kids are jolted out of their dreams with their first crushes because they have to prepare for for a 3 syllabled exam like JEE,CET,PMT,AAA,BBB,CCC etc!

Its a phase in life for them. Its a way of life for me. Long mane, sometimes flowing, sometimes tied into a bun. Face painted. Reading the most esoteric of works ever written by mankind everyday. Not everyone though is sure, if they were written by mortals. A non payer of tax. Revered by some. Branded a fraud in other quarters. I play with fire. Eat in calories considered fatal by the men in white coat and a stethoscope. Earn filthy money, Yet, I don't demand any. I have the smallest of wardrobes and the simplest too. Perhaps,some “normal” folks too wear it once in a blue moon or a no moon day should I say.

Swamiji,Panditji,Bhattji,Gurukal,Shastrigal,Vadhyar or whatever I may be called. I would have been a so-called priest. If only, I was not doing Mtech.....

One of the most convenient aspects of Indian tradition is the ease with which your sins get washed away. Five years back, when I stepped into an engineering college, like lakhs of other innocent kids, little did I know how grave a sin I would commit. And four years in college, sure the punishment big.Yet , to be completely sure that I had washed away all my sins, the first to-do list after engineering would be to tonsure my head, sell my jeans to the nearest utensils-for-dress fellow and take bath in the holy Ganga once.

Four years of trying to make a program run 0.1 seconds lesser than what it ran before can surely result in permanent tonsure(read baldness). Speaking a language which only a computer can understand has made me forget the language of love! And the reward for the 4-year ordeal is life-long imprisonment in one of the cubicles of a giant company. And the Indian middle class has a specific nomenclature for landing a job in one of these cubicles. Its called, “uska life abhi settle ho gaya”!

Being a computer science graduate, I am much used to throwing jargons. In the same vein, one of the pre-requisites of a marriage is a settled life. Priesthood is a turbo-drive towards settling in life. The only place where tens of thousands of rupees is offered as “bhiksha”!

Income Tax Hikes? That is the last thing to bother about. Petrol hikes? Increase the conveyance allowance.Having studied marketing religiously in the summer semester, boys after all being mere products in the marriage market(“finished” products once they get married) need to differentiate in order to find a suitable buyer. (buyer need not imply dowry money!) Having an introduction which says, “Hi, am Amith! I work in ADB corporation, I work on C, C++ (I know they sound more like grades now.)” is the worst a 25-something guy can have these days. Every other Tom,Dick and Harry starts with the same introduction. Will my mane and the rather obscure profession help me in the marriage market? Mostly no, Nevertheless, there is no harm in trying.

And perhaps, my most favored way to pass time in the afternoons would be gossiping about the technology students pondering over a “,” they missed in their code which is giving them sleepless nights. Ironical it might sound, but instead of paying fees, I would be paid fees for the poojas in the very college that am studying. For all my criticism of engineering, it might not have entirely been a waste of time since the engineering education would surely help me connect more with the IT crowd who could well be the biggest donors for this poor Brahmin.

Nevertheless, the life of priest isn't as rosy as it sounds. No more train tickets to home every weekend, every festival. A festival inevitably has to be celebrated at a client's place rather than my home. And it's not only the festivals. While a doctor may or may not have treated a patient in his death bed, its the priest who has to make sure his spirit reaches his right celestial abode. At least that's what people think. And most importantly, that's what we live on. Sometimes, isn't it cruel for me to hear a broken mother's wails? How do I go home and play with my kids after the funerals?

Being a priest is so much like being a doctor. The famous patients,sorry the big clients are the big fishes. Assuming in one year of “service”, I did manage to land a few of these big fishes, standing in line for the passport office might look a distant dream. Rather, I would have enrolled myself in a soft skills course to learn the art of “Kaapi” drinking with the officers. Like a doctor, work timings too are never fixed. And sometimes, people think we are philosophers too!

Since a year of making my chance, and standing against my parents, relatives and friends, I can proudly say that I have made a right choice. From 4.30 am, when I wake my eyes up till 10 pm when I close them back, its a life of principles. A life where every minute, every second, I can see myself as one of the torchbearers of Indian tradition. Once in a while, when i see my old friends earning a couple of lakhs more than me, there is a small feeling of having to go back to my second home-computer science. The biggest reward would be to sit back, observe the mad rush and live in another world. If only, though.

Summer of ’96!

The mercury reads 30 degrees. It is still a good 10 degrees lesser than what is in a place where I spent most of my summer before the first trace of black graced my face. Coca-cola was unheard of.  Rasna was the only “cold” drink we knew and Rasna making was a huge task in itself. But, before the clock stuck 3, granny would be there with 2 tumblers of Rasna, carefully filling both the tumblers with the same quantity till the last drop. One drop extra in either of the tumblers and hell would have broken loose.  The sense of competition was not restricted to the quantity alone. Sometimes, we drank to finish first. Sometime to finish it just before 4! The competition never mattered. We had to fight. And, we LOVED it.

                Long before Friendship Day forced us to buy worthless bands, update status on FB, wish even the “hi-bye” friends. Long before we knew, “A friend In need is friend indeed”. Much longer before crushes came and screwed our lives. Much before we knew what a best friend was, each one of us has had a best friend. Our cousins.  It’s only later that we realize, who our first best friends were.

                The relation between cousins is mysterious and sometimes even misunderstood. It might lack the intensity of a sibling relationship, the raw emotions between a mother and son, the cuteness of a father and his darling daughter and the understanding between couples. Yet, there is a certain charm in the fleeting meetings with our cousins. They tease and fleece you, care and scare you and if lucky, even love you. This is probably because the relationship is safe from the curse of time. Before, our egos take over, its time to say good bye! Or, does time mysteriously shrink itself when in the company of cousins? I know not the answer, but the validity of the question.

                We never chose our friends. And neither are they our parents to whom we owe our life. Yet, they seem so much like us. They fight with us for our share of grandparents and yet, fight together for our grandparents! On one hand, parents try to make the cousins share bed and even bathroom (rather there were no bathrooms and we bathed in the pump!) in some cases. At the same time, they compare us with the elder cousin who always scored 100/100 in maths and conveniently choose to ignore him when the case for love marriages came. Yet, we learnt to lock jealousy in a far attic whose keys we have lost.

                Like all of you I had my cousins whom we met every summer! The tantrums, the fun, the fights, the scars!  For some of us, they are the first ones to whom we revealed our first crushes!

                Summer is here. But, I need to go leaving behind my cousin. Back when he was a kid, I remember him earnestly asking my mom for an old trouser of mine to wear. Today, I want to ask his mom for a piece of him, to keep in my heart.

Time to reach for the handkerchief.  Wear the glasses, pick the bag and walk on.

Bleeding Red, Bleeding Gold. But bleeding KingFisher?

Its hard to imagine a trivial misunderstanding because of a guard could give a community an identity, a language holier than thou and pride everytime we are quizzed-”Where are you from?”.

“Karnataka”.

Circa 390-415 CE. A certain MayuraSharma from the Kadamba clan embarked on a spiritual journey along with this grandfather, also his Guru to Kanchi to master the Vedas. Owing to some misunderstanding between a guard at Ashvasanstha (a place of horse sacrifice),a quarrel arose in which Mayurasharma was humiliated. There was born the seeds of revenge against the Pallavan empire. From their erstwhile capital of Banawasi, the flag with Genda Bherunda fluttered for the first time. Today, it occupies a place of pride in every bus ticket, in every government ensemble. Genda Bherunda stands for Karnataka.

It seems strange that I was supporting a team which masqueraded to represent Bangalore without the two headed mythical Genda Bherunda as the logo! Even a very creative logo could have stammered in comparison to The Genda Bherunda but having to contend with a logo which is used by a liquor company? Surely, Karnataka deserves better. The initial excitement of seeing Bangalore play on world stage has surely faded into a steady disillusion with the owners,BCCI and most importantly with the fans. Indeed, its amazaing to watch Chris Gayle tear bowlers to all parts of the park. But taking a step back, not for a moment do I feel He is representing Karnataka. Not for a moment, would I want Virat Kohli to lead a Karnataka team. The state which has nested and craddled the various profound schools of philosophies like Dvaitha(Udupi), Advaitha(Sringeri),Visishadvaita(Melkote) has to represented by a team owned by liquor dealers, captained by a Delhi brat who is'nt shy to flash his middle finger at the drop of the hat.

But wait, dont dismiss me with a simple “Why dont you support your Ranji team and just shut up?” Thanks, I do that. I follow my team. I followed my team last year at Gangothri Glades in Mysore, when the stadium got behind Manish Pandey. Ah, Days! But in IPL, is the world stage. Would not it be wonderful, if there were atleast six players for Karnataka in the playing XI? We would not even care about the results if the team did a decent job of representing us, the true inhibatitants of Karnataka on the world stage. Thanks for all the Washington RedSox cheerleaders from US. But, we would like the Yakshagana artists to entertain us better. And a theme song in “Game for Life”? There is no denying that, unless some other clubs (especially a certain club, whose players wear an obnoxious yellow(:P)), we have never been trying to prove our slum love.

Do this Vijay Mallya, for us. Keep your liquor advertisements out of a team that we love. We love RCB, but with the guilt that it does not represent us. Neither can we hate RCB, for the last name says “Bangalore”. While matches in Bangalore will definitely help you fill the coffers, Mallya Sir, what about our brothers from other parts in Karnataka. A couple of matches in Shimoga,Mysore and Mangaore will surely help build trust.

While, we do want to see foreign players in the league, we want them as players representing my city and not a franchisee called RCB. Not that we expect a Gayle to learn Kannada (of course, it would be pleasant if he tried doing so.), but to see a superstar like him being captained by a Kannadiga would do a world of good to fans. And for a land, which has given birth to Javagal Srinaths, Gundappa Vishwanaths, Venkatesh Prasads, lack of talent is a reason as genuine as lack of funds cited by the government for every charitable work.

By the way, for a name, Royal Challengers? Thank you.

LOL! TTYL, CYA, BYE

After the first week of my college, I made a strong note to myself - “I shall not rag my juniors!” and some more lofty idealistic notions. That was till, when I got ragged. Even amongst the 70 of us crammed into a bus, my senior Raghu could scavenge for the last of the juniors left 'un'ragged. Getting ragged in some senses, was like losing your virginity. There are two phases in a junior's life. Before getting ragged and after getting ragged.

You know a guy is not ragged, if you see him sneaking silently into canteen with a couple of friends and escaping without a trace. He is happy to sit in the front in the company of the teachers whom he despises from morning 7am to 4pm. Again, from 5pm till the next 6:59am, she turns a vixen! But that hour in bus, in the teacher, he finds his comfort, kind safety from the evil raggers! Alas, some day that back seat is forced and Raghu has had his prey. The more difficulty in obtaining the prey, the tastier it is, they say. And yeah, dont they love the caged ones who are more animate! And there I was, on the 10th day of college, I did a simple cut to “I shall not rag my juniors!”. COULD NOT WAIT FOR MY JUNIORS TO ARRIVE.

And arrive, they did. And rag, i Did. Or, so thought I. For two years, I occupied the central place in the last seat, the place reserved for the ring leader. He is supposed to be the rude master, the kind soul if the ragged soul sheds a tear, shoots trouble on seeing the teacher's glance behind, share numbers to help the junior! Yeah, most importantly, he has to VASOOL sweets! Phew!! Happy I was, following some Nitte tradition of “Introduction in resume format”, “Bhaw Bhaw tables”, “Proposing a boy/girl”(Of course, I made the little hotter gals propose me!:P) and “THE NITTE SALUTE” for the kirrik boys. However, cliched it sounds, Years passed by!!

It was the fourth year. The baton had to be passed. I shifted to the window. The folks whom I ragged came to the centre. I could sense the same enthusiasm which had clouded me when I was studying algorithms and datastructures. I was more than happy to bide my time looking at the other buses and casting a passing glance at the ragging sessions. Nothing much had changed. The tradition was much alive.

Until, she came.

Suddenly, I saw a gal who was not scared of being ragged. Neither was she desperate to be ragged. She was not scared. Neither, was there arrogance in her eyes. She was a little beautiful too(:P). I could already see some of my juniors turning pink,everytime she spoke to her. Her English smacked attitude, but her tone, humility. I could sense, she was upmarket. But, her home was near mine. I thought she was a Tomboy. Until, she cried in front of me.

Here was a person, dripping with irony. Yet, unmistakably, she was attractive.

It didnt take long for me to start talking. Thats an advantage a senior enjoys. A junior is usually, obliged to talk to a senior. Soon, we used to walk home together and halt at the last point common to our walk back home. We used to stop for a short while. Just that, half an hour soon became too short for us. And till date, she believes, she jacks me royalllllly!

For the first time, I could see the lines between a senior and a junior blurring. And we were 365*3 days apart each other. And, much much later, close friends later, in another couple of minutes, the person for whom I stole minutes at home to have a quick word is finally leaving her teens. For the first time, there is a tiny feeling of she getting older. To me, she was always the kid. Yeah, she plays the granny too.

Yet, I do not find a better way to wish my beloved friend than this.

“Happy Birthday, Jenny!”

PS: This is what she texts me these days for which I have my complaints.

Nafraat Achcha hai.

India, the land of KamaSutra? Umm,it houses Kurushketra too. One of the biggest wars in the eternity of mankind was fought here. Irony, that it might sound, the land is now considered holy and the spilt blood noble. Haven’t we Indians always celebrated war? Or shall we say,a fight? There are countless Dharmayudh(s), the war between the good and the bad or between the holy and evil, fought with so many people and even with ourselves. They say, you cannot be a spectator in a Dharmayudh. You are either black or white. You will vanquish or be vanquished.

            As a nation, we have always liked to fight. The challenge, sometimes against our self is consuming and the feeling of overcoming it, is more special. Yet, wouldn’t be better if we could fight on TV? Wouldn’t a simulation satiate our desire for blood? Sport, by no stretch of imagination, is war.  Yet, it is Dharmayudh, for there are no spectators. The biggest rivalries are not fought on the hallowed twenty yards of Wankhede or Chinnaswamy stadium. Those are the canvases where the Tendulkars and Dravids weave their magic. The biggest rivalries are fought in the packed stadiums. Have a doubt? Get a DVD of Dada leading PWI in this IPL. Hear Edens roaring torn in heart between its Prince and KKR. For every shot on the ground, there were a million shouts for and a million against. These days of course, we have Twitter and Facebook to rant in.

            And for this, I find IPL more interesting. Switch back to World Cup’ 11, I have watched the match in various surroundings.Nothing seemed to change. We all wanted India to win. Yeah, my friend was a Sachin fanatic. My mom, too. Dhoni was my man.  All the arguments started and ended with players.  It was forgotten if we, yeah WE, won. Losing a match did make us captains, selectors, coaches, cricketing pundits and sometimes an umpire too. Everything apart from a spectator. Still, all my misgivings over IPL nevertheless, it is more FUN. When you have dad supporting CSK,mom MI and myself RCB you know you every 6 from Gayle will be met with a sigh.

            And I didn’t add the main course yet. Welcome to FB and Twitter. The same friends who supported India during the world cup victory, have suddenly crossed swords. Gayle and Kohli might fight for their dollars. For me though, they are fighting for my bragging rights. There is a definite satisfaction, every time I see CSK fail. And to think of it, I dont hate CSK for winning the league a couple of times. Its CSK, which has the maximum presence in Bangalore after RCB. The battle might well be between Dhoni and Kohli now. Kohli,now. Come July, I shall be back to supporting Dhoni. For now, he remains my sworn enemy. I love this banter. Thank you, IPL.

He scores when He wants

If he was a four-legged creature, he would be a leopard. If he could fly, which he does so often, he would be a butterfly. If he did dance, he would be a peacock. Run everybody does, dance everybody does, fly too, many attempt too, but few have done in it style, that this man does it when he wears the red and white shirt, Robin Van Persie.

            Ask a cricket fan, and he will tell you, how much more elegant the left handers could be. To attribute Persie’s elegance to being a lefty would be injustice to the the great man’s talent. Born to artists, Persie’s canvas is the green grass in a football ground and in Emirates, how often he has transformed into something bigger, something more elevating. In some ways, this season the number of goals that Persie has scored diverted the attention from the artistry that he employs to dazzle the opponents.

            Being a part of an artist family, Persie would well know numbers are poor ways to measure success. For a man, who has so well expressed himself on the football ground, he lies on the threshold of a big decision to make. Should he chase numbers? Or, should he chase love? A chance at glory. A chance at living in the hearts of The Emirates faithful for a lifetime. Sports does not lend itself to rational thinking. Sometimes, the most instinctive decisions are the best ones and the heart often makes better decisions than the brain. Persie has two choices now. Either, he could decorate his cupboard with medals. Or, He could be content with seeing his poster in the bedroom of every Gooner and a special place reserved for him.

            When he arrived as a youngster from Feyernood, not many teams bid for him because of his Balotteli like reputation. Even in times, when Arsenal was frustrated with injuries which regularly affected Persie, Arsenal respected his talent. Tonight is a chance for Persie to redeem himself. To repay the faith that Arsenal have reaped on him.  To say no to a truckload of dollars from the oil country is going to be tough. But to earn the shouts of “Persie, Persie” at the Emirates is tougher.

            A chance to remain a good player. A chance to become a legend.

King Persie, Ball is in your court. Gooner Forever.

The dawn of The Apocalypse

THE glories of our blood and state
         Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
         Death lays his icy hand on kings:
         Sceptre and Crown
         Must tumble down,
         And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

 So said, the greatest of men, who never tasted death,nor would they. Ironical as it may sound, the immortals found death fascinating. For them, death was just a play of thoughts, food to brood on for hours in darkness, ammunition enough to make generations weep. Much as these men could make death sound romantic enough, the more unfortunate ones are fortunate enough to know death more closely. Death for us is seasonal. I have died many times in the last few years. It might disguise itself in arcane ways.Yet, not so tough for mortals like me to find my hands shaking, brows breaking in sweat. The death bells have started ringing. In a grad college,death is known by the calender. The dusk of the semester is the dawn of the apocalypse.
The end of the semester is a great leveller. To watch the kids who knew not was darkness was for three months, who conquered the angel called sleep, who so beautifully seduced you everytime you opened the notebook, the ones who knew not what was life was for three months, to watch their face glow in the end of semester is a joy indeed. And then, there were some other people. The ones who knew not how to tell a NO. They never disappointed sleep everytime she courted him, their mind tried to drag their fingers away everytime the fingers went over the words t,w, i, e, r to write “twitter”, the ones who impulse always made them tell “hello” even though, somewhere at the back of mind, they knew the other person has finished his work. Truly, the end of the semester does even it out all. The inner guilt of not competing enough is consuming. For every person who drops in to say, “our project worked only at the last moment!” and watch him heave a sigh of relief, there is a river am forced to swallow down my throat.
This is not the first time I have felt this, and probably not the last time too. Its in these times, we promise ourself, “Come next time!”. I am waiting for the next time from the past 22 years. Elusive, she is! Nothing truly pinches you more than a walk across the wing where you stay. To see rooms bolted, lights switched off and to see people sleeping is a rare sight. Probably, they are sleeping after a hard day’s work. Err, a hard semester’s work. In a few more days, all the lizards will have to leave their habitation. The bags will be dusted. The clothes will adorn the bag which has locked itself for months in the cupboard. The tickets are already booked, i hear. The smiles have already started to break. It wouldnt be long before,they call all their near ones whom they resisted talking to for months about them coming back. Smells of victory there.
 For them, the holidays will mean vacation. For me, its a wait.A wait for the semester to begin. For me, its a wait for another chance to redeem myself. The end of the semester is not death in itself. Its only the ringing of the death bell. Its much worse than death itself. Infact, death can only relive the pain and release you to the next birth. The feeling is terrible, when you can see the writing on the wall, however dark life is. You know in this dusk, it wont be long before the moon washes the earth with milk. Yet, that hope, false hope that I mistaked dusk for the dawn.

Accused everywhere!!

I call myself @accusedengineer on Twitter! One of my close friends, calls himself @accused_iyer! Oh yeah, after the infinite amounts of plagiarism, I shall absolve myself by citing him as the source of inspiration for my Twitter handle! Inspiration nevertheless, I was intrigued by some of the memes doing rounds, “What, my parents think I am?”, “What my freinds think I am?”, What my girlfriend thinks I am!!

When will people ever know what I am?! Not that, I care. But sometimes, It hurts when people have a notion of me which is better than my real self. And obviously, I wont live to please their idea of me. And the vicious circle of people getting hurt starts!

But seriously, my introduction itself builds a wrong image in people’ s heads! Hi, Am Rahul. I am from Bangalore! All is fine till then.Then the dreaded question: Whats your native? Am a Tamilian! Therein, forms the image of a Sun TV watching, sambar loving, Hindi bashing image of mine! But heavens, I am anything but this. Yeah, I do have many Tamilian streaks. I love filter coffee. I love curd rice.I do love Vadivel, Vivek, Santhanam and yeah, am a Vijay fan too. But more than, am proud of the fact that I share my blood with the genius of Ramanunjam, the Anands and the ARRs.

Err, did I tell am full bred Bangalorean? Not really, there too! Somehow, people from all places except Bangalore have mapped the image of  a Bangalorean to a gum chewing, Manchester United jersey wearing, blond streaked dude with some hot gals for company. Oh yeah, did I forget people assume us to possess some costly gizmo and with near zero disdain for money! Sorry once more! I am a Bangalorean. Yes, My English oozes Bangalore. However, thy respect for Victorian English shall persist, love the da’s, the le’s , the chumma’s and the ganchalis!As a Bangalorean, love the Darshini hotels more than the fancy malls. But being middle class, am willing to walk the extra mile(yes, i mean it literally from college to home!) to catch an ordinary bus than travelling by the volvo!

In India, another prejudice is caste. In some ways, its not totally away from reality. And as my friend’s dad rightly calls him, accused iyers we have become! Mom calls at 8,”Dai, today Saraswati Puja da! Thala ke ellam kulli da! “. All we hear is Saraswathi and Puja! Pun intended!

But seriously, being Iyer does not mean no-world knowledge knowing, ghee eating, Veda reciting no-girl seeing nerd. Neither are we any good in maths. Again, am a fuzzy iyer. Once in a while, I do my sandhya Vandhanam. Once in a while, I watch Shakeela doing her jalwa!

And last but not the least? Engineering? Am ghanta engineer! The other day, my aunt was trying to get her vehicle to start, when my gracious grandfather interrupts! “Fret not, my dear daughter, I have a grandson, equal to a thousand lions, who has mastered the Vedas, err, sorry engineering. Thee shall transform your vehicle into a 1000 horsed chariot, now”! Aye, dude. I am no mechanic! Not that this has happened, but I can very well see my cousin in a year’s time asking me to solve the Towers of Hannoi problem given a C compiler! Wonder, if he really knows what I did during my engineering.

Not that I really fret over what people think about me. Perhaps, everbody lives in a parallel world. Perhaps, being accused is better than being convicted.

 

Yahppa, Finally He retires....

Lord's, Eden Gardens, Rawalpindi, Adelaide. Isnt it obviously evident that in this soil and the honourboards of these stadiums has The Wall etched his place in history. I have missed two more important places. One, St. Joseph's school,Bangalore and second, in my heart. I know, am just amongst the countless writing a tribute to The Wall, I would be immensely guilty if i failed to do so today. I know I can never match the elegance of a la Rohit Brijnath nor can I measure upto the brilliance of a Sidvee.

Yet, Dravid, I dont know how much you have influenced world cricket and how much lesser will cricket be a gentleman's game from tomo? All i know is, you are responsible for getting my grades from A to B in a couple of exams. You made me the most boring batsman in my gully. Did

i stop? Do you realise, how many times I had to be the object of ridicule when you struggled to save the match for India? Yes, you played your heart out. But, for an area where I spent my childhood, you were just another good player.

When I started watching cricket, you were never my idol. I think I was 6 when I really started watching cricket. Sachin was my idol,yes he too he is still today. I was rather forced to become your fan. In those dusty gullys of Pune, where all the kids had to watch cricket together in a certain shop or hunt for a home where 'cable' was provided, when you made that 96 in Lords, I was converted into a Rahul Dravid, quite forcefully by my friends. I should have been 7-8 then. We both share our first names. And from therein, I became the Dravid of my area.

That evening onwards, I started behaving like you. However, I saw you on the stadium. I tried the crouched stance. I avoided audacious shots. I stopped getting out. Years later, during the summer holidays of 8^th standard, with my cap firmly on head, just the way it decorates your head, I did not get out for 3 and half hours,before our moms yelled at us to get back into our pavilions! My 'Dravidification' was complete that day.

Dear Dravid, Why did you have to be so perfect?You are just not the perfect idol. There is not a single instance where, I can bunk my studies and reason it to mom, saying Dravid did this too. We know, you were the best allround student at St. Josephs. I wish, you were like one of those other overpaid starlets, who could do anything for money. We know, you shot your first ad for your dad's company. Jammy, my boy! I wish you were one of those who sported a tatoo. I never got into an argument for a run out or a catch, even in my local cricket for I never saw you drop your gentlemanliness a bit during the game. Oh yes,and how do I forget this? You've bowled, batted and even kept. You've done every thing that your team wanted. Why? You could even sit out of the team if they ever wanted you to!

But still, these are only the fringe effects of my obsession with you. The bigger malice, The bigger damage is I have stopped watching cricket these days. Slowly, one dayers started getting boring.How much ever, the adage that cricket is bigger than individuals, Its not enough to convince me. I fear for my passion today. Test cricket was. Every time, an opener fell. I was nervous. I was not happy to see you on the pitch soon. That frentic energy to see you. That nervous prayers. That relief to see you go past every milestone. That gasp when you teach us what discipline means by grinding out each bowler. That unmeasurable feeling of seeing the opposition bowler frustrated. That feeling of pride when I could tell the person sitting and watching next to me, “This is how you play the shot, my boy!”.

I dont know when I shall watch test cricket again. I might have scored a few lesser grades, wasted a few more hours. Yet, you have made my teenage and the two years after it, much much better than how it could have been.

P.S: This blog post is for my 10th std. benchmate Alisha Shah, whom I have troubled her much during my 10th. I can understand how much you would be pained.

Yo Baayce, I no Soup Boy, I playBoy!

Back in 1973, 10 years before India won the first World Cup, you would be forgiven if you didnt know what Mark Grannoveter first said. In a seminar paper, Grannoveter challenged the world to publish in the American Journal of Sociology that its through weak links that important decisions like jobs, marriage decisions are made. And boy, he made some solid arguments in his defence. So said he, folks within our inner circle are exposed to similar kind of information and are interested in similar things. Its only through 'others' that new inventions flow in.

Neither are my shoe's size big enough to challenge him,nor my tiny brains smart enough to do it. But for a past few days, I have this vague thought running through my mind. Who makes you *happy*? Your parents? Siblings? Best Friends? Probably, you might think in the affirmative.But,i beleive these are the people for whom you exist. These are the people who make life meaningful. But its the new crushes,the new friends make life happy,more exciting than the previous night.

Infact, I find the dearth of literature on the impact of new friends or rather newer people in our life appalling. While we have spent reams of paper, glorifying, celebrating, reminiscing and singing peans about the beautfy of the best friend, often undeservedly, wonder why we have not had the time to acknowledge the time to the new friend! Infact, more often than not, best friends always have tears associated with them, either by joy or through tears of seperation.

In fact, I beleive a teenager's life is not made interesting by the numerous girl friends that he professes to 'maintain' but because of that new crush. That crush who just recently smiled at you in the canteen, on whose sight your heart misses a beat. About whom you can bitch about without being scared of being caught. That period when you get to know her, when you have all the topics in the world to talk about. When “whatelse?” never entered our conversation. When you only ask for a treat, knowing fully well that it was not going to come any soon. When you start the lightest flirting without knowing her reaction?When you have to impress her to garner attention! When you have to put on your smiling cloak to mask the tears inside. To impress her. Those are the times.

With a best friend, i find it strange when they miss them. We know them too well to evenr miss them. We know exactly their reaction in certian situations. But its in the uncertainity lies the thrill. Its in these moments when you do not expect anything from anyone, that you are really on your toes. Being new, sometimes, you find their jokes absolutely pathetic. Sometimes absolutely brilliant. Its infact, this uncertainity which makes it so romantic. So beautiful.

So, the next time you say a hi! To me, Be careful, here is a guy who knows your importance.

Noteplease: The writer of the blog is a handsome young man of 23. :P

When I was a duffer....

I hail from a lower middle class family in India. And am, proudly kanjoos. But,am even more proud of the fact that I have always returned back people's debts. She gave me love. I gave her my life. She made me her close friend. I made her a part of me.

But, Ive never done something that she has done for me. Writing a blog post for me! Never wrote it for the fear of our friendship of becoming jinxed. I have heard a lot about people saying that the enormity of a friendship is percieved only when it becomes a memory. Perhaps, I wish it were this way. I knew, how much she meant even when we were the thickest of friends. And that enduring fear of losing someone close finally drove to losing her, atleast I guess so. Would'nt I love if God had other plans?;)

Today, I am not scared of losing her. And this is not an obituary piece to our friendship. When people say, someone has become a part of you,its probably because its just 'cho chweet' to say so! I mean it. Listen to my questions, “tired eh?” That eh, comes from her. The next time, I say uh huh, you know whom to blame for. A part of her is living in me. And I will probably, keep it till my receding hairline becomes grey.

Do i miss her? No, I do not. Have I 'got over' her? I do not know what that ever meant. Friendships are never made to be forgotten. The next time,I meet somebody with her name, I shall not fail to mention , I once had a best friend with your name. I miss her not, because I am not going to talk to her. I would miss her, if i knew, if all this was only a void in time and she would one day come and tell me, “Everything will be fine dude!”.

Never have I met a person, so honest.So brutally honest. That was the thread on which our frienship was built. A thread which resembled a rope in full gait. Sometimes, we were like puppies. Cute and sweet. Sometimes, I was chalk and she was cheese. Sometimes, I was rude and she was sweet.Most times, she was rude and I sweet..;) (After all, I am writing it.). Sometimes I felt, she should have been called Meenakshi, for those beautiful fish like eyes. Yes, to sum it all. When she was the fish, I loved to be the water.

Is it ego that I do not apologize for 'something'?(something,because there is nothing to apologize for!)Nope, and she knows it better than most of you who will read this. Do I hate her? Nope, you never hate your best friends. You only hate the times that made us apart! Am I scared to talk to her? Perhaps.

People say,rather she says this a lot. Whatever, happens, happens for good. True, these days I no more fight. Infact, the guys in my college are frustrated after all their rudimentary attempts to infuriate me. I have good friends now too. They have always existed. A mistake,I made then.

Yet, there is nobody to call me a duffer now....

To love or to not to.

"Any intelligent fool can make things bigger and more complex... It takes a touch of genius --- and a lot of courage to move in the opposite direction." - Albert Einstein

If Noah Webster could browse the blogosphere today, the tubes in his thought machine would have probably suggested him to erase words, whose meanings have been thoroughly abused by the folks who sound English when their lips move and the fingers press. And probably, he would have had to stress himself to love love. Infinite reams of paper later, thousands of routers away, cultures which have heard of others only through the idiot speak, love is still spoken by all, understood by none.

Neither am I going to try to define love,even if you let me do it. Yet, love to me is belief. A belief which transcends the boundaries of logic and rationality, a belief more powerful than the mersmising words which teach you love. And belief in a human is a curve which wants to hug the ground every passing day.

I am a cricket fan. Long ago, when the only thoughts that disturbed the dance of cricket in my mind was the stick of my Hindi maam, when girls were “other” students in class, I loved cricket. Back then, when I didnt know what was form or class, I believed Srinath would hit a century every match. I loved Sachin off course, but that was not due to the majestic cover drive or the other worldly pulls. A reason for which I did not know the answer.Never, felt why I had to justify why i loved Sachin.

Sometimes, when we are drowning in the sea of pessimism, which we so easily mistake it to be the river of statistics, logic and common sense, to see the day is refreshing. Makes you feel, there is life outside the sea too, where you can mistakes and still live. One such day was 72 hours ago. Down under, dusted, obituaries written, the bodies of the once revered Indian superstars were waiting to be recieved in the Indira Gandhi National airport New Delhi. To say,they rose like the phoenix from the ashes would be cliched. It was something else. I had to bribe myself to believe that this was the same team which was so pathetic.

While, the logicians and experts will formulate a theory to confine the Indian victory to their words, I am happy to believe. Love, i thought is similar. It was as simple as the game played on Hobart soil. Sometimes, its good to grow young. Throw a tantrum. Love someone. Tell her the same. Its a new sun that rises everyday. Forget the dark moon which engulfed you yesterday night.

To live, you have to love, to beleive.

Sher Da Punjab

In those days, there was no flash mob. Or probably, even if it had existed I was blissfully unaware of them. Six days after my 12^th birthday, on the 13^th July 2011, at around 12 o clock in the midnight, there were a lot of people on the road. Some smiles. These were the ones who didnt follow cricket. But that day was different. It was not the sense of joy or relief one experiences after winning a match.

It was revenge. Genuine revenge. The pent up anger took the form of fanatic chats of “Bharath Mata Ki Jai!”.That was the first time, I had seen a flash mob. Those days when cable tv could be found only in the hotel at the end of the street provided the catalyst. Two young men had made the day for a million men, memories for a million days and bedtime stories for million kids yet to be born. One of them was Yuvraj Yograj Singh, who would later be known as The Prince of Punjab. Sher Da Punjab had finally arrived.

He not only lived our dream, created dreams for us and many a nightmares for the bowlers spread across the seven oceans. Stuart Broad for one will like to forget his name soon. Even on that day, I did not bite my nails. Today, I am. That day, he fought for me. Today, its a battle he is fighting alone. A battle against cancer. An innings where he does not have Kaif for company.

It is in moments like these, we tend to realize how hollow our life is. An India-Pakistan match is finally just a jugalbandi between the bat and the ball. A match lost only makes you stronger to defeat. They say, form is temporary. What in life was ever permanent? Class, OK.

It also tells us so much about men who are deemed succesful in life. Perhaps, its never so cliched to say it often takes a moment to lose it all.

But Yuvraj, has a chance once again to epitomize the rising of a pheonix from Ashes. We lost the Natwest to England. Yuvi won it for us. We dumped him for poor form. He came back. Won the World Cup for us. Now, he needs us. No, he does not need blogposts like this. But, this he can do. But those exasperating reports in news channels covering every hair of the injury he surely can do without. He also can surely do without his parents being peppered with questions like “Kya aapka beta vapas khel payega?” The audacity that the newsmakers exhibit is sure something to behold and wonder on.

Perhaps, for the fighter that he is, the comebacks that he has orchastrated all fell into the realm of mere mortals. Yuvraj was made for something bigger. He had always this sense of occassion. One more comeback, yuvraj for your fan.

Our hearts are bleeding red. It needs you to wear the blue jersey back for it to bleed blue again. Till then, my nails are getting shorter....

Equations betrayed, emotions empowerd

Sometimes sitting alone in the room helps. The eerie calm around. The locks in all the rooms where your eyes can survey. The mental picture of all smiles and the lines of code in college. Feels like a man lost.

Perhaps, in moments of solitude such as these is when a lot of floss is seperated and better conclusions emerge. But when you are lost and your hands are stamped by hundreds of others as they stamp it and make their forward, you probably think wrong. True, there are friends to whom you can always pour your heart out. But words are far too rare now.

The logic that I once mastered and could convince others cannot convince me today. Probably, now I understand I never had convince that somebody. They just gave that smile to convince me about my effort.

Words are shunted deep inside the throat and goes deeper with every time the saliva is swallowed. And when it comes, it comes out in a burst. I am in neither of these stages. The incomprehensive lines probably tell my state. I am trying to vomit out grief before it assumes epedemic propositions.

However, you have friends, these are those days you want to be left alone, confined to the four walls. And for a change, Murphy's law does not strike me today. As always, loneliness is calling me for a walk.

Probably, I should allow emotions to capture me. Probably, I should sleep. Probably, I should talk to someone. Probably, I should my work.

But for now, I am going for dinner.

The Professor's Coffee, The Burger from My Benchmate And My Sister's sweetness!

An irrational decision. Work Thrift. Futile Time. The apprehension of staring into the kingdom which you thought you owned to be conquered by younger shoes. The fear of the smiling face who know you, but you forgot his name.

The joy of reminiscing the time troubling the keyboard, frustrating the teachers, teasing the friends. My decision was made. So many reasons and people to tell me to spend another day tapping the keyboard,copying the code and cursing the lecturer. Logic into the dustbin, the smile back on face, the best clothes in the wardrobe back to where it belongs, i muttered,”Alma mater beckons!”.

48 hours little did i know, I would be spending a day in the far corners of Yelahanka, the lakes away from the din of the corporate world. Away from all the code who continue to bug with you although people still say the bug is in the program! And yeah, those TV ads which show your alma mater covered with leaves, black and white, broken desks, those walls where you wrote your name and that place where you used to chat with your crush do not come rushing back. On the contrary, its so much good to be coming back as an alumni.

The same teachers who scolded you,slapped you suddenly wear an adoring smile. The “submit your blue book ” replaced by a sweeter “What you doing?”. But the icing on the cake has to be a lecturer buying me coffee. The same hands which once fined me now buys me a coffee. The coffee did taste a lot better. Yeah, the old caterer was finally replaced.

Buildings change, teachers change, your college changes, you change. But these bloody friends. They still pull your leg the same way they pulled your leg when your waist size was a couple of inches lesser, when your head were not weighed by the past 3 year's experience. Never mind, the odd quip about our secret 'adda's that we had in our not so big college, the talks still remain same.

But if there is something that has really changed are the juniors. Yeah, my juniors. Rather, our juniors. Six months is a long time in engineering life. Although, only 2 lines of resume is what you add in that period, so many chapters in life are written during those four years. Hearing their stories of increasing projects and assignments does invoke that little sarcastic pleasure in us! After all, didnt we too go through the same phase where we cursed our teacher every hour? Yeah, the same teacher whom I came all the way to meet. A few genuine problems, too which all we could was give an elder brother's shoulder. A few words, which did sound wise. Although, their young faces gave the same reaction that we used to when our elders advised us. I had become the boring fellow, that I had warned myself against. To their credit, the juniors did try to hear with intent whatever nonsense we spoke!

A small regret of not being able to meet someone special. Nevertheless, the end of the day, sweet! My sister had brought me a chocolate. But the sweeter gift was she accompanied me in bus till home. Sheer sweetness.