Smile ek, memories anek

Masochism comes in many forms. And one of them is to take a bus from office to home at 6 pm to travel 30 kms. Never mind, the small stretch of Graphite India, notorious as India's biggest free parking facility.

The bus made its way out of the office through a narrow lane when London's cousin clouds hesitantly opened up after threatening from days and cheating the meteorology department for weeks. The traffic was threatening to swell. And I cursed myself for boarding a Volvo.  It wasn't because it was creaking but I could not smell the fresh scent of rain. The chill of AC only reached as far as the skin, unlike the breeze accompanying the rains which touch the soul.

Most other passengers were captive to their mobiles. Some to their wives who were perhaps travelling in another bus like them. Perhaps, they were talking about the pesky co worker in their office. Or the wife warning her husband not to look at the pretty new intern.Left to myself, I opened up a book.  It was only a few words before my mind just flew back to the window.

In the 90s, there were only a dozen cars in India and yet I thought there were different cars plying on the road.  Today, there are hundreds in the market and yet they all seem the same. White, black, red, yellow they all crawled ahead of us.With a laptop bag for company, these collar button clad drivers seemed to race ahead of my bus. And I continued staring aimlessly across the window, as in life. And another bus came and stood besides mine. Like freshly ironed uniformed school students standing next to each other for a Physical education drill.  Amid the passengers lost in their own worlds was a woman lost in her book. Fictional or otherwise.  In between this, my bus threatened to leave the other bus behind. But only for a few feet. Now it was their bus turn's to play jugalbandi. Her eyes never left the book and mine never her.

And when i was least expecting it, her eyes met mine. Or that is what I thought. But, she most probably saw the book in my hand and smiled. I thought she smiled at me. She smiled at the book. These books I tell you get loved more by women that we poor men get. Being the chivalrous gent, I returned back the smile with double the interest.

And she burst out laughing. As her bus started picking up speed, she showed the cover of her book through the window. We were reading the same book. Her bus left me with an embarrassed smile for the rest of the journey.

Tin Factory to Whitefield

Even if it was only a couple of days back, my memory fails to register the bus number through which I travelled. Being written Kannada challenged, but adequately comfortable in the tongue I asked the friendliest looking face in the bus, Whitefieldu hogattha? This reminds me of my first years in Bangalore, when I first asked a shy “Mathikere hogthara?”  to a rather bemused commuter. Much more assertive now, I received a rather warm but slightly hurried reply, “Hoggathe banni” (Goes, come in) from the conductor.

                I trudged inside and sat comfortably in one of the first gents’ seat in the bus.  Those familiar with the topography of a BMTC Parisara Vahini bus would identify the first gents’ seat peculiarly housing another seat opposite it. Like it or otherwise even if it most often the latter, one would be forced to appreciate the half shaved face in front. The situation is even more acute to the minority population which does not have the luxury to fiddle with a Whatsapp or a Temple Run.  I had to make do watching the temple of an old man. After multiple failed attempts by passengers to proxy the conductor’s whistle, the bus slowly entered into the road only to stop again with all the other vehicles in the road.  At least, the bus had company. A panting school boy boarded the bus and sat down with a violent thrust that only tired people are capable of. Gopalan High School, his uniform read and the pencil moustache hinted at the lad studying in pre University College. This age is better remembered for its second crush and the first one sided love affair than the Irodov problems which most of us fail to understand, leave alone remember.

                “Pass thorsi, ticket thogoli” said the conductor and nonchalantly walked behind much before I could dig out my pass from the bag. As any experienced commuter would testify, the first announcement by the conductor is only for commuters to keep their wares ready and sit with a 10 rupees waiting for the conductor to come back. So, did he. He scantly seemed keen to look at my face in the pass.  After punching a few holes, he looked at the school boy’s face which exactly meant, “Your turn”! The boy in turn removed a 50 rupee note.  These bigger notes always tend to bring out the growl in the conductor and he yelled a very predictable “chillare kodi”.  Apology written over all his face, the boy looked around in his pockets to find none. The conductor wouldn’t budge on his demand. It was his territory after all. And he walked away towards the ladies section, with an air of having conquered his little duel with the little boy. The ruffled boy flashed his 50 rupee note to an onlooker who was eying it all. Not me, someone else who replied a polite no. He then enquired the man standing next to him, who twitched his lips. The desperate boy now looked at the man next to me. “Illa”, he said and stretched his hands deep into his pockets to pluck a 10 rupee note and handed it over to the boy. The boy was totally puzzled. The conductor just walked by. The boy mumbled something to the man who assured him he didn’t want the money back. The conductor was totally ashamed by his high handed behaviour and tried explaining that this was how he ensured commuters carry many ding-dong sound making coins in their packets. As the conductor left for his next round, the boy once again dug deep into his bag. And this time, his hands did not return empty.

                One, two, three,….  seven of them. He removed mint chocolates and forced it into the hands of the benevolent donor who was grinning from ear to ear. And so were all of us onlookers. Sometimes, good things happen in Tin Factory and Whitefield too.

A demonstration of non-linear reduction of estimate through bargaining principles

                It’s tempting to start with an abstract, followed by an introduction, a section on literature survey and make a pointless conclusion about how our method is 0.002% more efficient than the neighboring researcher’s method. But disruptive outcomes deserve better treatment and hence this post on one of the most “productive” meetings that I have attended. Wait, did I tell a “productive meeting”? Wasn’t that phrase universally accepted as an oxymoron now?

                If productivity is measure in rupees, then 11 lakhs saved in 2 and hours has to be one of the most productive hours. As a part of a tech fest in office our department had to set up a stall and we were promised 5 lakhs to do it. As is our wont, we drew elaborate drawings in our mind, scribbled a few of them on the board and went to the contractor. And said, Boss kitna chahiye?

                2 days later in a hurriedly convened meeting, the contractor meets us and demands 18 Lakhs! 18 Bloody Lakhs for a stall we thought in unison. And the castles in air or rather our stalls in air came crashing down. Were it to be our friendly National market, it would have been easy to bring down the cost through the standard Indian method of bargaining. The standard Indian method I hope you are all aware of and I shall reiterate it for the convenience of the disadvantaged. Fix up the price you think the product is worth, say X. Let the quoted price by the shopkeeper is Y. Y would obviously be >> than X. Start demanding the product at a rate (X-(Y-X)). After n rounds of iteration, the shopkeeper eventually gets rid of the item to you with curses muttered so that it would fail in a day or two.

                However, the comparatively posh environment of JFWTC and the august company of our co-workers was restraint enough to avoid an exhibition of the above mentioned method to bargain. This proved to be the “pathfinder” to a novel attempt at bargaining. In this method, each component of the sum total is separated out such that no item is a combination of two or more primary components. This is important as every component in our bill has to undergo a GRC* transformation which reduces its price non linearly.

                Back to the bill. The contractor opened a very professional looking excel sheet to show us the bill. Somehow, I have begun believing that the word “Microsoft” brings a lot of monetary luck. Gates became the richest man. Wielders of Microsoft powerpoint and Excel always seem more blessed with their bank accounts than the poor ones who see more numbers regularly in their Matlab screen.  The first item was ostensibly titled “creative charges”. And it costed us a whopping 35k. Inspite of our protests that most of the design being provided by us, contractor seemed in no mood to relent. Our complaints were dismissed off with little reason but good English and we moved forward to the next item. To the walls of the stall. Off went the fancy material and in came the flex. A few lakhs chopped and yet, we were unsure if that could make any difference. The molten cabin was replaced by their more humble cousins. Bar chairs were thrown out. Every table debated.  Some of the ideas were ridiculous. Of course, I must admit that the the higher the degree of ridiculoulessness the more you could be sure they belonged to me. Like doing away with the platform! Finding the colour which would cost the least.  And after finally after nearly removing everything, we arrived at the magic number 7.7! From 18 to 7.7 at the end of two hours. Ofcourse, we got complimentary headphones at the end of the ordeal. But the best bit of bargain had to be not letting the contractor not buying drawing paper. We promised to get them from the stationary store in office who is obviously going to throw a very curious (but hopefully not a dirty) glance when we order 500 drawing papers in a single shot. And the lovely catch by Sudhanya in not letting the games to be bought by the contractor to avoid 22% of taxes.

In my next visit to National market, hopefully this experience will embolden me to scare the wits of the shopkeer!

The dark night!

          

A geek. A programmer. A thief. As he was fixing the last of the bugs in his baby, he noticed something strange in the compiler output:

Last Compile on 12 October, 00:02

The numbers seemed mysterious. But within seconds the entangled strings in his brain were threads he could stitch together. But, he could not waste any time. And he slipped out of his home like a snake. The light in his room was consciously switched on and his favourite music played like an orphan. Its admirer had slipped out stealthily into the dark.

            Her home was only a couple of streets away. On a fine Monday morning, all it would take is a few tens of steps and a  million curses for making him walk all the way to her home when she could have come home in a bike. 5Th cross to 8th cross was all it took. She used a bike often and flaunted it even more. And she teased him for this and more. He liked the teasing too. But was far too egoistic make public his pleasure. He recollected her best joke in recent days as he dragged his feet towards 8th cross.  As he reminisced the conversation and marveled at her wit for the nth time, the sight of Rama stopped him in his tracks.

            Rama was the friendly neighbourhood dog. By the day. By the night, it drew a more ferocious avatar. And in the company of its friends, Rama was death incarnate for our man. Trembling, he stood there for a second. A little more. Going back was not an option. Not anymore after Rama had seen him. Any scene of weakness gave an extra bout of strength to the adversary.  Instinctively, his fingers motioned

            kill

NOTHING. Except the deep stare back from Rama.

            Kill -f     

Rama's languid demeanor now seemed to change. A hapless victim seemed to be waiting.

And in one final throw of dice, our man's fingers are typing furiously at his imaginary keyboard.

            SUDO KILL -F

And his habitual cry of “F*&K YOU!” got the better of him. The final move done. Rama and his comrades were in the game. Letting out a loud bark, the pack tested its feet in the dark. Our man knew nothing but to run. It was all adrenaline or testosterone for him now. And he ran in the direction of her home. All these years of running behind girls had finally helped him in such dire situations as he found his comfort behind a car near her home. And he managed to recite a Gayatri Japa of which he barely remembered a few words.  The most sincere prayers are heard from the tongues of those in mortal fear. 

After enduring the entire trauma, he was still unsure of the futileness of his mission. Should I go back? He reckoned. He had dreamt of this day for a year as he climbed his way to her room through the rear door. Parents with a girl never seem to learn their lesson even after watching so many films. And he see stood at the balcony seeing her face content in sleep, he was confused and wondered. She seemed mysterious. Was she the same girl who never seemed to smile? She even looked innocent for a moment. When the sun was shining bright, she was evil. Pure evil.

It was strange. He made a small hissing sound, “Shhhh, Shhhh” Careful enough to not wake her abruptly. It was not the fear of consequences of being caught sneaking into their home, but he did not want her to wake up in panic. He wanted it to be beautiful. And sure, she woke up. And came looking till the balcony. And in the first abrupt motion of the night, he grabbed her ears and whispered, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY”

            The thief stole her heart. 

B grade

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As a child, when I was asked to write an essay on “Myself”, I could fill up sheets, or atleast lines about myself with ease. However, yesterday when I was trying to fill my bio in a popular so called social networking site, I could not manage a word. And I thought, maybe a couple of lines were not enough to describle someone as dynamic, as charming, as smart, as witty as me!

Or did I? A little more introspection, a couple of cups of coffee later, another long ride without the phone disturbing me I realized, perhaps my life was drowned in the large ocean of medioricity that the most apt bio would be “Just another guy!”. Back when I was a kid, my world was too small to realize it. My world was amma, appa and me. My cousins were yet to be born. I was my parent's world too. That was when I thought I was maybe, different and even better than others. Learning to write “A” would have made my parents so proud of me.

A couple of years later, when I learnt to read faster than others, I wondered if I was perhaps a little different, or even better than others! Those were the days, when in a film I only saw the hero and the villian. Romance made no sense to me. Comedy only understood in parts. And immediately, I could put myself into the hero's shoes.I could see myself coming out victorious in every battle that I fought. Only the villians changed. When I saw cricket, I imagined myself as Sachin pounding bowlers all over the park.When I saw Cartoons, I was Mowgli. I was the hero.

As time passes by, you realize not everyone is a hero in life. Some of the characters just make up a movie. The hero's brother, the villian's sidekick who goes to fight with the hero only to land up in a fruit stall with a broken nose, the friendly shop owner in the film, the doctor, the onlooker on the street. It is only now I realize, I am one of these characters. And am sure, there are many others who too play similar roles. Infact, most people in this world play these characters. We live for those two minutes in a three hour film when we get our friends to the theatre to excitedly show them our role which never altered the script of the movie. Far later, when the lights are off and we can listen to our voice carefully, there is a slow voice telling, You cannot rest my boy! Yes, your role does not alter the movie and that is why you should not rest. There is always someone else to play yours! The hero can rest.

In a college, the A graders are the cynosure of teacher's eyes, subjects of envious glances from peers and well respected. There is also a another group which sits in the last row usually bunking classes and make their presence felt in the only way that they know when they are present. While the intended target of their paper rockets might be the lecturer, they actually hit the girl's hearts with undiluted precision. Most of them are also good in all matters outside classroom. But there is the overwhelming majority like me who lay trapped somewhere in middle. Not the best in studying. There is always this cousin who is better than you in Math, the friend whose English speech is notches above your writing skill, the neighbour who codes stuff for which you took ages and the batchmate who makes you look a fool on the football ground.

But, as I write this, I seem to have found a new found identity for myself. I am the B grader, and a perennial one at it. That guy with spectacles, who makes his way into the class five minutes before it starts, understands a little, goes to play only to concede a stupid goal, that guy whose code you can bet never is the most efficient. That guy, who is omnipresent in every class., I am the B grade boy. After all, for every Sachin Tendulkar, that are nine Sanjay Bangars toiling away in a nondescript ground somewhere in Rajkot.

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.

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.