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.

The Social Kolaveri!

Last seen, 15 million and counting! The number of hits that Kolaveri garnering smashing all records gathered hitherto by any Tamil song or for that matter, ANY hindi song. Add to this the millions of hits on the duplicated ones and the thousand Kolaveri remakes!! Indeed, Kolaveri this!

But a more interesting number that I came across was the 1 million hits that Ra.One gathered! One million numbers is no speck in the dust but one million after the umpteen times we had to change our TV channels just to force SRK's advertising blitz out of our living rooms meant million numbers isnt all that an Himalayan number.

Enough data and stats for me to rattle some keys on my laptop and waste some of your productive time. The small computer science brain inside tells me this could quite be an epoch in the history of advertising's chequered history. What started in olden Egypt in the form of papyrus rolls, today is a multi million industry and so often a bad 'branding' and reputation could spell the death knell for any company. So often, we have to come to remember a brand not because of the product that it is, but because of an inspired piece of brilliance that an ad film maker would have come up with.

But today, like never before, all the traditional advertisement mediums like print and television are in grave danger of losing their relevance. From a computer science perspective, these mediums represent a one level tree with the second level being constructed only through word of mouth which has a much lower probability compared to the social networks like twitter and facebook.

No doubt, the future of advertising lies in social advertising. But, it would be interesting to know if its really quality material that spreads viral through the social network. Or would we be pushed into a dark world where only the popular rules the roost? Can the social network be hijacked by the marketing gurus to feed us their content?

Personally, I beleive the the viral growth of social networks has led to quality products being given a fillip because of word of the mouth.Or is it really? Or will only the materials which pleases the mass be audible to us?

An exciting period in advertising surely this!

A geeks marriage invitation!

Swing, Speed and Flick!

On a dew kissed night at Eden Gardens, Irfan Pathan was finding his feet back. He had just removed one of the Pakistani openers and the snakes of run rate had just started to raise its hood. The air got denser by cries of the famous Indian cry, “Jeethega Bhai Jeethega,Hindustan Jeetaga!”.The Youhanas and the Younis Khans were the only roadblocks between India and victory,or so did we all think.

A certain 20 year old had other plans. His strokes brought back memories of that left handed wrist artist Saeed Anwar, whom Pakistan missed badly. But, we Indians thought, this lad, like most Pakistanis who would sparkle lighting the hopes of millions only to fade soon. By night, the 90,000 strong crowd had fell silent, a lakh televisions sets which were destined to watch star sports were instead watching start tv. So many more remotes broken. Salman Butt delivered what he promised at the start of innings. Alas, if only he could deliver what he promised at the start of his career.

While, all the former greats laud the decision of the the wise men in a bid to save cricket from falling into corrupt hands, as a cricket lover, I feel cheated. Cheated, I was, not because of the million black notes. Not because of playing with my emotions. Because, Salman Butt, you promised us much more. How much more, I do not know. In sports, its these junctures of careers which are most romantic and there is so much for a fan to expect. A three years later, the scandal would have only blot your character. However, important it is to him, it isnt to me!

I am from India. And a huge fan of Salman Butt. Yes, he has played with the emotions of a million neighbours. He deserves to be punished. But, when he leaves, he leaves behind an untold story. A story, with careful build up,numerous pitfalls and a pheonix rise. So many questions? Would he have eventually become the 'great' batsman that was being predicted? Would he barge his way his way into the pantheon of Zaheer Abbas, Inzaman Ul Haq? Or would he end up the Shahid Afridi way? Form,fitness,focus. Nothing is permanent in cricket.

Yet to think of it, its not Salman Butt who is punished. Its the millions of his fans who lived as him. The millions who waited with bated breath for his signature wristy cover drive, the patient nudging of singles. Its we, the fans who are punished. Its our dream which remains unfulfilled. While its true that no mortal in this world is indispensable, its equally true every human is special in his own special ways. For us, Salman Butt will remain the quintessential Pakistani star who promises you so much only to deceive us in the end.

A broken dream. Wish its only a nightmare. Hope the Sultans of Swing and Speed are back. Those silken wrists!