tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-143439722024-03-07T01:50:26.220-08:00Dont You Dare Psychoanalyze me ,Bastard!Puerile Profundityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05928271227442644712noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14343972.post-81391492599910591552018-05-26T06:31:00.003-07:002018-06-24T13:11:44.957-07:00Familial mysteries <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span data-originalcomputedfontsize="22.66666603088379" data-originalfontsize="17pt" style="color: white; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The corridor just outside the room I slept in extended about 40 metres to my parents bedroom. The shuttered rooms abutting it on either side added another hurdle in the nightly all ghost steeplechase from my room to theirs. I feared the locks on one of the several doors would be rendered inconsequential and door would creak open behind me. Looking back, details on how the lock opened (melting away or using a magic key controlled by the supernatural or a clean break in the metal) was never important and neither was what I expected to come out of the room. </span></div>
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<span data-originalcomputedfontsize="22.66666603088379" data-originalfontsize="17pt" style="color: white; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The door opening was one of the easier challenges. The more serious one was avoiding running into the apparitions that walked the corridor. They followed strictly time bound mathematically determined paths and I simply had to wait at the mouth of where my room joined the corridor. At some point the distance between me and my parents room was clear and I would make a run for it because of course one of the doors could open up behind me. The apparitions I saw seldom repeated so I’m not sure if the path they followed was circular or if our house just lay on a nighttime ghoul highway. </span></div>
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<span data-originalcomputedfontsize="22.66666603088379" data-originalfontsize="17pt" style="color: white; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Over summer holidays we would go to my grandparents house which unlike the house we lived in was in the centre of town. But the nighttime sojourn would repeat here as well even though I didn’t sleep alone. The run here would be from my room to the fridge in the dining room along a more complicated path. I would need to run 20 or do meters to the end if the atrium and take a right and run another 10 meters to the fridge all the while opening doors carefully so that I didn’t wake up my cousins or their parents. There were no unpopulated rooms along the corridors but I still needed to be mindful of the apparitions. I don’t remember now if I saw them there so even if I did they must have been a more docile variety. </span></div>
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<span data-originalcomputedfontsize="22.66666603088379" data-originalfontsize="17pt" style="color: white; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Having run across the corridors I would now be at the fridge. Door open the non air conditioned summer midnight sucked the air from the fridge with such ferocity that the compressor motor would start to whine. I would stand in the cool yellow light gulping water or coke straight from the bottle. All the while I would be torn about looking at the wall-hanging just above the fridge. The curious within would want me to look up to see if it had changed. The sensible would want me to keep the bottle back and quietly retreat, my eyes focussed downwards. </span></div>
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<span data-originalcomputedfontsize="22.66666603088379" data-originalfontsize="17pt" style="color: white; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">In the week that my last grandparent died I went back to the house. The fridge was still on. It wasn’t the one from my childhood and it had one of those sensor systems that shut down the compressor when you had the door open. So no more whining from the motor to tell me when it was time to keep the bottle inside and go back to bed. Taking my time I ended up looking at the artwork. </span></div>
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<span data-originalcomputedfontsize="22.66666603088379" data-originalfontsize="17pt" style="color: white; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The framed photo is a merge of a close-up and a full body-shot with the closeup done in sepia. The body-shot is of a wind blown woman in the dark of the night wearing a sleeveless dress that goes just below her knees. The photo loses focus around her feet so we don’t know if she is barefoot or what surface it is. Her hair fall below her shoulders and the tips are waving in the wind. She’s turned away from the camera and so we can’t see her face which is in the dark. Just below the body-shot is the closeup. It’s a symmetric face with features that are too perfect to be attractive. The hair is parted in the middle and straight but the detail again fades just below the shoulders so we can’t compare to the body-shot. We don’t know if these are the same women but across the high cheekbones and slender cheeks there roles down one solitary tear. It’s been going undisturbed for some time. There’s a long trail where it’s started below the eye and it’s now reached the cheek just behind which would be her first premolar. The eyes stare straight at the camera. They’re full of anger and foreboding but also fear. She’s about to do something and we can’t say what it is. We don’t know which world she is in and if that world has a passageway to where we are. Is she scorned in love? Did the couple go to a party where she ran into her lover’s paramour such that it was impossible to ignore? Was she killed and only now realises she is dead? </span></div>
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<span data-originalcomputedfontsize="22.66666603088379" data-originalfontsize="17pt" style="color: white; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The only answer we do have is the certainty that she will accomplish because she is in the right. Is it because no story I’ve ever read or heard ends in a wronged woman failing to get her way. The vengeful Durga in a dress. </span></div>
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<span data-originalcomputedfontsize="22.66666603088379" data-originalfontsize="17pt" style="color: white; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">It’s the only piece of art that survives my grandparents. There’s other pieces in the drawing room but like the replica of the Taj Mahal those are the standard issue non-risqué collectibles for the Indian middle class of their era. </span></div>
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<span data-originalcomputedfontsize="22.66666603088379" data-originalfontsize="17pt" style="color: white; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">This print however was chosen. Against odds, against tradition (there is some cleavage). Hanging above the fridge it looked at us while we thirstily drank water on those summer nights or sat down for meals on the family table. Against the muted protests of children and grand children it held its place. The frigidaires below it came and went. The seating arrangements for meals changed as children grew up and left and grandchildren arrived. Countless generations of Asian house geckos hibernated behind the frame in those cruel winters. But the print kept its place. </span></div>
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<span data-originalcomputedfontsize="22.66666603088379" data-originalfontsize="17pt" style="color: white; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">In her final months my grandmother had stopped talking. And I was indifferent. There was nothing I needed to ask her that I didn’t know. She was an ordinary mother to ordinary children who had ordinary children of their own. The family had ordinary fights. Didn’t we all know enough about ordinary lives? Hadn’t Proust, Knausgaard and Naipaul written in enough detail about lives like hers? </span></div>
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<span data-originalcomputedfontsize="22.66666603088379" data-originalfontsize="17pt" style="color: white; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Behind the sheen of her rule abiding and tax paying did she wait for someone to come ask her why she liked that photo? Was bringing up the print a test for her to find a kindred spirit to whom she could bare all without risking judgement? I wonder if I’d looked past the marble elephants in the atrium at the framed print above the fridge while she was still able to talk what secrets I might have found. </span></div>
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Puerile Profundityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05928271227442644712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14343972.post-63216378301122023962014-10-05T11:28:00.001-07:002015-03-09T09:39:32.782-07:00Adventures in Cwmfforest<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm talking to the Taxi Driver at Abergavveny station. He looks like a fatter version of Robert de Niro. This trip could be fun. </div>
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"I need to get to this place close to Brecon bunkhouse. I have no idea how to pronounce this though." I say and hand him my phone. </div>
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"That's google." He says. Taking time to pronounce the ohs. "Its not really a word, is it?" He adds and smiles at me like he understands. Its kind of like the smile me mum gives me while she's wondering how I'll make it in the real world. </div>
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Before I can be taken aback by how retarded he needs to be to assume an English speaking Indian in the UK with a smartphone would not know about google my politeness kicks in. I tell him I mean the word below google. </div>
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"Oh, that's Cwmfforest." He says not being helpful at all. </div>
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"Cumforest? " </div>
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" No. Cwmfforest." </div>
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"Cummforest?" I emphasize the mmmm and don't even try to not laugh. If I don't know about google its surely excusable I don't know about cum. </div>
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After a long silent ride the taxi driver tells me is only 10 minutes to the fforest. Thing is I'm not a bad guy. So I need to accept this olive branch. I already have a few jokes ready for taxi drivers. Like is it solipsistic in here, or is it just me? Or when the meter is about to hit 30 tell them I have treskaidecaphobia. And then wait for them to correct me. But I decide to be more sociable. So I ask him something I've been meaning to ask a taxi driver all along. If they really eat the taxi driver burger at GBK. So I ask him </div>
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"Have you been to the Gourmet burger kitchen? "</div>
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"Why would you do that?" </div>
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This is turning out to be like a first date but thankfully we are already in cumforest. (Which sadly is not like my usual first dates).</div>
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<b>The Real Purpose</b></div>
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I might as well come to the real purpose of my trip. This is under appreciated but a man needs to be ready for anything. Over time I've realised a lot of people look to me for support and guidance. And I'd like to be there for them. Especially in case of an alien-zombie attack. This might sound far fetched and it really is. However, I took the pains to scavenge and map out cummfforrest for its alien-zombie attack survivability and so I'll detail it below.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeYVu_ebYFPnYhwrNKS9OtSg3myoy9Mx5ceEQ1FlTBGsiLYu1C5Eh7yyWyq65HbjN85Rp8LNWzHC7_E-GYX1e4opOnqazvWuo_Jk5lZszAfp9AI25s08RLwIjekAefyTvGc_Bpvg/s1600/IMG_20140923_201941.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeYVu_ebYFPnYhwrNKS9OtSg3myoy9Mx5ceEQ1FlTBGsiLYu1C5Eh7yyWyq65HbjN85Rp8LNWzHC7_E-GYX1e4opOnqazvWuo_Jk5lZszAfp9AI25s08RLwIjekAefyTvGc_Bpvg/s1600/IMG_20140923_201941.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe_LXSSU5GYdir_tvDRVj7ZMHvS9-6wk-2JuPd9SeoWC5tGiWBPd4aivhuxl67i8lpzyIVlVbWs46ItZXJg2NUQ0t0qFXrVXB6mqs3RZ0J2uFxSYb5MoBJgnkTxkExnbkEknrIew/s1600/IMG_20140927_022601.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe_LXSSU5GYdir_tvDRVj7ZMHvS9-6wk-2JuPd9SeoWC5tGiWBPd4aivhuxl67i8lpzyIVlVbWs46ItZXJg2NUQ0t0qFXrVXB6mqs3RZ0J2uFxSYb5MoBJgnkTxkExnbkEknrIew/s1600/IMG_20140927_022601.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<i>Life might be fun right now but an Alien Zombie attack is never far away</i></div>
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First thing you need in case of a AZ attack is a man or woman who can maintain clarity of thought in those troubling times. And I met old Mike who runs the stable and bnb in Cwmfforest. Mike is the guy who'll have no issues calling a spade a spade when zombie shit hits the proverbial alien fan. He's not the guy who'll squirm because the zombie was some time ago a neighbour or friend. He'll give you a loaded shotgun and say, " go after them son. Today we celebrate our independence day." That might sound bullshit right now but that's what you need to hear heading into that darkness. Clarity.<br />
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The second thing you need is a transport medium that has a good field of view and ability to go over rough terrain. This is where Mike is also your man.<br />
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At the right angle his tractor's front end loader is a comfortable seat with amazing armor protection and view.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeL9XbCDbHk31ikdg3C48r8dj1JxpMgyNFzEm4-i08qWYjLYSe8UnVtfqT3-lhb0syZYNQLH-ylW3b8y_wEgxzio8gRgcryxNAXVyUq8HB8NLD26LnNXbYtwW-F3x6F90aVRhGsw/s1600/IMG_20141005_104152.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeL9XbCDbHk31ikdg3C48r8dj1JxpMgyNFzEm4-i08qWYjLYSe8UnVtfqT3-lhb0syZYNQLH-ylW3b8y_wEgxzio8gRgcryxNAXVyUq8HB8NLD26LnNXbYtwW-F3x6F90aVRhGsw/s1600/IMG_20141005_104152.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The right angle for the front end loader</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSe-Ezrd-yYRTjrMV2bqfs1qwZQKjySUp1VUCFtONsABA-dn5qKRI1yABsmDLwz0EQKfeejK0TOKViLzCb8iSeDXfLfJW2MddZval6rNLcRJ95xQNfWNuDDWP7e2FhXbnhfNpDrA/s1600/IMG_20141005_104209.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSe-Ezrd-yYRTjrMV2bqfs1qwZQKjySUp1VUCFtONsABA-dn5qKRI1yABsmDLwz0EQKfeejK0TOKViLzCb8iSeDXfLfJW2MddZval6rNLcRJ95xQNfWNuDDWP7e2FhXbnhfNpDrA/s1600/IMG_20141005_104209.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clear view on both sides to be able to use your shotgun</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhToqJVgHoM4mGslbryYxBgZnERAM1J_Erx9b-RkwDdPEGhN_82N2IeTOAVoD1VQmA305EJcWC_SCNI-C533jzsH7xST9xCu8tmhy9jIaKMOc8wRCmGdfcM8fKDqYyNxWhC55NTHQ/s1600/IMG_20141005_104422.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhToqJVgHoM4mGslbryYxBgZnERAM1J_Erx9b-RkwDdPEGhN_82N2IeTOAVoD1VQmA305EJcWC_SCNI-C533jzsH7xST9xCu8tmhy9jIaKMOc8wRCmGdfcM8fKDqYyNxWhC55NTHQ/s1600/IMG_20141005_104422.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quiet Happiness in the loader. One that can only come from knowing you can handle any Alien Zombie attack</td></tr>
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Of course there might be no fuel left which implies no mechanical transport. In which case food and water are going to be in tight supply too. But Mike has horses. Which solves two of the problems. What's left is fresh water and Wales has enough of that. Get to a high enough vantage point to locate water and locate those Alien-Zombies to track out a path.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCTiIXmLIHFptlQuQah6t0aOiv95BBfVmwROv-h7j5gfaF3NHpP7JRNua38TP-0CzCIKcH-ej2cUOBybYAeOs428YoT6Tu_aSw_xgWiLJZoRD9b-lMsrjSsx715SaDPvTHmnveXQ/s1600/IMG_20141005_151558.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCTiIXmLIHFptlQuQah6t0aOiv95BBfVmwROv-h7j5gfaF3NHpP7JRNua38TP-0CzCIKcH-ej2cUOBybYAeOs428YoT6Tu_aSw_xgWiLJZoRD9b-lMsrjSsx715SaDPvTHmnveXQ/s1600/IMG_20141005_151558.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Although this is a good photo, its the wrong way to scope for fresh water. Both horse and rider are looking in the same direction, leaving the off side open to an AZ attack<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha8-KmRI14PplXfjlvlsh7yU9rp6gb08ldethHap49BbN709PnQBAFO2Xs22TaWZrEDLufvlhMuMXWVn4wi638ihcbgb6xRK4385LKMZXisVera8btz1F3P7XYl77CaoIe3ySMnw/s1600/IMG_20141005_151433.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha8-KmRI14PplXfjlvlsh7yU9rp6gb08ldethHap49BbN709PnQBAFO2Xs22TaWZrEDLufvlhMuMXWVn4wi638ihcbgb6xRK4385LKMZXisVera8btz1F3P7XYl77CaoIe3ySMnw/s1600/IMG_20141005_151433.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Both sides covered. Good job, warrior.<br />
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Having sorted out my hideout and way to supplies, I was a rested man. But not for long. I realized Alien-Zombiness can spread quickly to animals as well.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wales has 4 sheep for every human being. If the AZness spreads, they could be your worst enemy.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Also cows. Worst known Zombies. They so slow you'd never know when they've turned Zombie.</td></tr>
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Also your own horse could be a Zombie. Which is fine.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just ensure, there is someone else in front. Also try to be really light on your horse, so he doesn't know you're on it. (he's a Zombie, so by definition not very clever.) Let me know if that doesn't work. LOLS.<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Lastly always make time for a beautiful sunset. It'll make fighting Zombies worth living for.</span></div>
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Puerile Profundityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05928271227442644712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14343972.post-62843093478007944102014-06-27T14:51:00.001-07:002014-06-27T14:59:10.478-07:00Howrah Station: A Paean (/n. pay-n)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Howrah Station is the second last stop on the way to Salvation, AR. Your space ship will stop momentarily although intolerably for what seems to be nothing more than "a spot of time voyeurism, old chap". Time moves on, water flows under the bridge (to be covered later), you move from stalking one ex to the next on facebook, but Howrah station stays unchanged, unmoved. Uncompromising, sordid it looks on from under its piss stained walls mocking at development and your break neck speed. Millions of inconsequential folk routinely use it to get somewhere but it has nowhere to go. No friday night parties, no walk of shame the next day. (if this is making you think about sex, you maybe need this: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/howrahcallboy.howrah.5">A friend in Howrah</a> )<br />
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Whatever, don't know where that was going. Right outside gate number 5 of the station, however, is an old lady who has been selling weed for the last few decades. (an obvious digression is to discuss the economics of selling lame drugs in India, which is pretty much a job for a lifer with none of the upside or sexiness that selling drugs in the west entails, but that's for later. It's too early in a blog post to digress. In para number 2.)<br />
The weed surprisingly is not that old. Often one finds, weeded fiends queuing along ticket counters, making those thick crooked human lines. He has no ticket to buy but inquiries to make while the inquiry counter sits deserted, alone. The inquiries seldom add up to much but like most human conversation are regressive at best. "where does this train go?", "what train", "this train that I'm the engine of" and he walks away alone mimicking the engine and the only limb of a train that knows not where it goes while others in the queue look on.<br />
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Howrah also has a sandwich shop. As an ode to the Bengal famine that swept this land in the 1940s, the sandwiches are mostly insufficient and unappetizing and named more for who makes them rather than what they contain. The chicken sandwich for instance is made by a chicken that was once destined for the slaughterhouse, but grew out of the meat machine hierarchy owing to its perceived culinary skills. Coming back to the sandwich, however, these are disappointing even after a bad case of the munchies.<br />
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The station comes replete with its own suspension bridge. The suspension here referring to the disbelief one feels at the sheer mass of people crossing it in a mulling about I have nowhere to go way. That bridge is proof humanity overtook nature in a way that was never intended. The river was put fat and wide between the station and the city to prevent mass droves of I.F. from crossing over to the other side. And one has his doubts resurface. Did I pay the old woman too much for this weed? It doesn't seem to be working.<br />
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Puerile Profundityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05928271227442644712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14343972.post-5564287140871309542014-05-01T14:41:00.002-07:002014-05-01T14:42:00.717-07:00How to write a Caravan Cover Story (in 10 easy steps)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Caravan. <em>Noun. </em>a vehicle equipped for living in, typically towed by a car and used for holidays. OR a group of people, especially traders or pilgrims, travelling together across a desert in Asia or North Africa. <br />
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What does either of those two meanings have to do with a "Journal of Politics and Culture" one might ask?<br />
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Good question. Understanding that is part one of what it takes to be a Caravan Cover Story (CCS) Writer. The allure of the unanswer-ed/able question. Ask a question that floats in the Cosmic Universe of soft-headedness and distracts the reader momentarily from wanting to scratch that wart between his balls.<br />
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Anyhow, you too can be a successful CSS writer by following the 10 easy steps below and see your name at the end of an article followed by an italicized eulogy - <br />
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[You have skipped the article to see if this is in fact Chetan Bhagat, only to be disappointed/shocked]<br />
"CSS Writer : <em>Has been facing the glass ceiling in his own publishing firm for the past 10 years and has now decided</em> <em>to pen an extremely long article for </em>Caravan<em>, which due to reasons unknown his own firm chose not to print</em>.<br />
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Step 1: Take a super zoomed in photo with your friend's SLR, preferably with the protagonist not looking at you but sideways or into the distance (Sunset?!), especially prefer low angle shots.<br />
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Step 2: Start off with an incident that seems perfectly normal like meeting people for lunch but make the items eaten sound exotic, change chicken to chicken a la onionesque, dal to lentil soup, roti to naan bread. Make yourself and the protagonist sound like men of taste. The reader now feels honored to be sharing part of your tasteful existence.<br />
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Step 3: Make a few impossible to verify claims at the outset of the article, like Manoj is the fastest atheist rickshaw puller in the town of Muradabad. Italicize <em>Muradabad</em>. Also add conditioners like arguably, maybe and supposedly to snatch away any possibility of a factual debate.<br />
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Step 4: Make historical references to incidents that happened a long time before the median reader's age. These might have nothing to do with the CCS but are good nevertheless. Who doesn't like a useless tidbit of History.<br />
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Step 5: Make it long. Very long.<br />
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Step 6: Use a long list of characters in each article. Use names interchangeably. Call Manoj by his first name and last name in different sentences. Confuse the reader, make him feel he is too dumb to understand the article. Make him concede defeat and share the article on facebook before he can read all of it.<br />
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Step 7: Go back to the protagonists childhood, discuss how his friends from school remember him (which of course is unbiased, because, hey!, who is jealous of a friend Caravan is doing is a cover story on).<br />
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Step 8: Throw in some lines that appeal to the by now beaten out brain pulp of the reader, like, Manoj thought the sky was bluer but he was happy. That night he called himself the Blue King.<br />
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Step 9: End with a vague statement that means nothing, is open ended and makes the reader wonder (but in one particular direction) so he thinks he arrived at the conclusion himself but surprisingly so did everyone else.<br />
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Step 10: Manoj now knew the reason the large hadron collider was not built in Wasseypur. Sorry<em> Wasseypur</em>.<br />
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Puerile Profundityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05928271227442644712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14343972.post-55607503567270682712014-03-09T14:35:00.000-07:002014-03-09T15:19:03.959-07:00A Prayer for Rain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Bhopal was always going to be a difficult movie to make. Greats like Oliver Stone have tried (and it seems so far) given up.<br />
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The body count is known. What happened that night in Bhopal is known. The after effects and the legal battle and it's results are known. The pittance paid as compensation is known.<br />
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What makes it a tricky movie to make however is on the assignability of blame. Did the Indian workers cut corners without complicity from senior management in the States. Or was it in effect sabotage as carbide claims? Or as my MBA friends would like to tell me was it something as lame as poor communication?<br />
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The movie acknowledges that confusion but also seems ambiguous in the adoption of its decided stance ( which I assume is to not claim it knows who is to blame).<br />
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There is a certain confusion in the representation of how seemingly senior level management decisions are taken by junior functionaries. One scene has the operations chief (my guess as destinations aren't made very clear) decide to turn off the freon pump that could have been used on the fateful night to freeze off the methyl isocyanate to save costs.<br />
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This seems unlikely to have happened without management knowledge and rather a lack of management knowledge would render the action pointless for the operations chief.<br />
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Apart from this major flaw the movie does have some great moments of brilliance. The effect of the bridal mare running through a deserted dimly road with birds dropping from the sky is haunting in its beauty.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_aDvxse9Lf_w7T3Z8wN7U9DJUMQA-IrhQeowt0cvfHjF85PY9Ciy4y-o3wjMslhAhXMTNCEUmtrORU2K0-cL9EIdMCVA3HVPaV5HSYhmb345l9wLI2cKxqVJIur_JdNDZ3P1dA/s1600/A+Paryer+for+rain+Mare.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_aDvxse9Lf_w7T3Z8wN7U9DJUMQA-IrhQeowt0cvfHjF85PY9Ciy4y-o3wjMslhAhXMTNCEUmtrORU2K0-cL9EIdMCVA3HVPaV5HSYhmb345l9wLI2cKxqVJIur_JdNDZ3P1dA/s1600/A+Paryer+for+rain+Mare.png" height="161" title="" width="400" /></a></div>
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It is a very human story with several glimpses, acknowledgements and understanding of human fallibility. The visionary CEO who falls for his own faith in himself and trusts others from humble backgrounds like his to do as well with limited resources as he did. The clever greaser ( played by the co author David Brooks himself) who believes that if certain precautionary procedures can be waived using money then they weren't important anyways. The rickshaw puller who makes employee incharge of safety in a matter of days and still needs someone else telling him that doesn't bode well for safety overall.<br />
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The acting could be bettered. Rajpal Yadav tries to shake off his comic stereotype and succeeds to some extent, but Kal Penn's Indian accent is a bit too labored. Martin Sheen comes off as almost likable, but then he also managed that when he killed my childhood hero Col. Kurtz.<br />
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Is it a movie worthy of the Bhopal tragedy? No. But I doubt a movie can be.<br />
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Puerile Profundityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05928271227442644712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14343972.post-28644184734260088042014-02-03T14:36:00.001-08:002014-02-04T07:32:59.342-08:00The actor and the role<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Was watching this documentary on Egypt's revolution last night and thought I saw someone familiar.<br />
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Aida El Kashef who plays Aliya in Ship of Theseus (below) is apparently a revolutionary of some significance back home. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU0EuthKhr5qg19II6UNd84CNxY_jOqPjNzYlgiquoW6JtqaqlKIganOBGijLtxzT7hy7JofpRLFKXZrnlLzACVGwAO5ip5P7k6Qd9YUxMagoaf6Wp0lqnvGRqhMe2LyjDT5u2OQ/s1600/sot-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU0EuthKhr5qg19II6UNd84CNxY_jOqPjNzYlgiquoW6JtqaqlKIganOBGijLtxzT7hy7JofpRLFKXZrnlLzACVGwAO5ip5P7k6Qd9YUxMagoaf6Wp0lqnvGRqhMe2LyjDT5u2OQ/s1600/sot-2.jpg" height="182" width="320" /></a></div>
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There's of course a certain quirkiness that Aida brings to her role in SoT, a certain rebelliousness which is hard to miss. Very well crafted role or conversely excellent choice of actor. Going over interviews it seems like the script came before the actress in this case. How much of the script and role changed with her being part of the project is hard to deduce but I would think it would be significant. Aliya is not a helpless handicapped in the movie but a rather strong and unreasonable sort who is quite clear in expressing her disdain of her partner's (and I believe, the audience's) patron-ization. </div>
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Which made me wonder how that strength of character (which is as much as I can make out from her outwardly characteristics) helps or impedes a real life revolutionary. A very hard analytic look on their (Aida, Khalid Abdalla (kite runner) & friends) revolution does seem to have achieved only precious little and is somewhat of a let-down compared to what transpired after having successfully deposed a despot who ruled for 30 years. Compared to all the ideals, the application really does suck balls. From accepting victory way too early to giving up before really having a constitution, errors of planning and strategy abound in the revolution.</div>
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And that's what makes me wonder, in a movie as in life, where does uncompromising get you? In other words, can you be the actor for every role or would you much rather make engineer every role for your act?</div>
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Puerile Profundityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05928271227442644712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14343972.post-2343796461605140762012-06-16T05:38:00.001-07:002012-06-16T05:38:45.861-07:00GI-tsch-F<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It has been 25 years of the <a href="http://www.theatlanticwire.com/technology/2012/06/25-year-history-animated-gif-gif-format/53608/">GIF</a> (this article best read with<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKTgHsmH8RY"> this</a> in the background). The article questions if there'll ever be a Mona-Lisa among GIFs. Now, in my humble layman art admirer opinion a GIF could be a Mona Lisa in one of two ways, by being as great as the Mona Lisa is (in a purely technical art-form way) or by being perceived to be as great as is the Mona Lisa (in other words, popular).<br />
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The Mona Lisa, technically, is admired for being the first to allow for an imaginary landscape behind the subject and in its use of an aerial perspective, essentially viewing things from afar.The GIF, at least the first one, would be similar in its break from standard practice and its technological advancement. Like the Mona Lisa, the GIF has mostly been an expression of the mediocre, in terms of beauty and not ideas, also like the song you've probably been listening to. Lastly, and this might also be the least, the GIF has a penchant for losing details through overcompression just like the excessive cleaning made the Mona Lisa lose her eyebrows.<br />
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Coming to popularity, I'm not sure if in another 300 years, GIFs could be jostling for space inside the Louvre, but if they do, this one could probably make the grade.<br />
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</div>Puerile Profundityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05928271227442644712noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14343972.post-2326792437280472782012-06-10T05:29:00.001-07:002012-06-10T05:29:56.365-07:00I Know, Right?!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This can't be right. I smell a rat everytime I read the Times of India. I used to think, it probably had something to do with where the ToI newspapers were stored overnight and how they got to my house (rat-infested aircrafts and trucks), but even the online version smells of rodents. I can now put my finger on it (thanks ipad touchscreen). The below recently published article, is what the rat-smell is all about. ToI stinks, of rats.<br />
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<a href="http://articles.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/2011-12-14/india/30515406_1_india-and-china-henry-kissinger-indo-pak-war">Yes, ToI is a shamless mouthpiece for the USA</a><br />
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The following describes why ToI has that inescapable rat-smell:<br />
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Disregard for History:<br />
1971: Nixon finally makes a public announcement of a trip to China, after Kissinger has been there secretly many times. Even as a presidential candidate, Nixon makes no small bones of his imminent interest in finally setting it right with Mao's new china, ending what would be 25 years of separation. (why the term the manchurian candidate didn't stick to him, we won't know).<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSppw5bxdnijFIgCIKcjlKFqkpl1fL7-GJ4MIwFxjImMhxDQEx2xCe2HLkDjAeq4LfdHopGZiXkXiqMfps85LdPeZB_UHVknXatGUVt_9PwYUp669HARCxCsiYnQVM8r-LY8whXQ/s1600/StarTrek_starship_Enterprise_NCC1701A_firing_phasers_freecomputerdesktop_wallpaper_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSppw5bxdnijFIgCIKcjlKFqkpl1fL7-GJ4MIwFxjImMhxDQEx2xCe2HLkDjAeq4LfdHopGZiXkXiqMfps85LdPeZB_UHVknXatGUVt_9PwYUp669HARCxCsiYnQVM8r-LY8whXQ/s320/StarTrek_starship_Enterprise_NCC1701A_firing_phasers_freecomputerdesktop_wallpaper_1024.jpg" width="320" /></a>Before and during the 13-day war, the US stations the USS Enterprise (sadly not the pictured here) in the bay of bengal to<strike> cajole India to not press ahead with hostilities ,</strike> boldly go where no <strike>man</strike> New-Yorker has gone before.<br />
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The US supplied F-5s, 86-s and 104-s to Pakistan, routing them through, hold your breath, Libya, Jordan, Iran and Saudi Arabia. According to many experts, a prime reason for arming Pakistan at this juncture, other than to test out their new fighter jets in combat, was to express to China what a bonafide ally the US could be.<br />
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So while all of this was happening, Mr/Ms. Josy Joseph of the ToI expects us to believe that in the face of finally warming relations with China, a very cordial relationship with West Pakistan (Nixon to Yahya: <span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">nobody has occupied the White House who is friendlier to Pakistan."), and a war that the US opposed no end, proved amongst other things, by the USS Enterprise and its position, the US would have come out in India's support against China? Incredulous, unbelievable rat stench.</span><br />
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A reading of the entire article doesn't support the Headline</div>
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To be fair, their own article suggests loopholes in the support suggested by the US. Towards the end, in fact at the very end, where the ToI doesn't expect any of its readers to reach:</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #3f3f3f; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">"However, the chances were that if the present situation escalates into a conflict, it would be very hard to tell who is to blame. Thus, if India sent two divisions of irregulars into East Bengal and Pakistanis sent four such divisions into Kashmir, it would not be a situation in which the US could possibly help even if China threw its weight on the side of Pakistan," Kissinger told Jha, according to the ambassador's letter.</span>
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But at this point Josy (of the ToI) probably stepped in thinking, "Well, yeah, but that doesn't mean if India had sent 1.5 divisions of irregulars and Pakistan sent 4.2 (i.e the 1:2 ratio Kissinger talks about is maintained on the favorable side) they wouldn't know who is to blame!"<br />
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ToI Editor: "I know, right?!"<br />
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Incredulous, unbelievable, dead-for-20-days, plague-like rat stench.<br />
</div>Puerile Profundityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05928271227442644712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14343972.post-1149191595990966892006-06-01T12:52:00.000-07:002006-06-01T12:53:15.993-07:00<span style="font-size:180%;">Being Friends with Jim<br /></span><br />It was quite an odd pair, me and him (or Jim) I mean. I having been reared, for the most part, in the company of two very strong women; he rarely makes friends with ladies. His taste (or luck) in them is impeccable, though, I must add. So here we had one man not very aware or proud of his sex and the other whose pride in it was practically his only distinguishing feature.<br /><br />It saddens me when I think our first meeting could have happened long before it actually did. I would begin jogging near around the place he usually stood and finish close to him as well. All the while he would be there, warm and mysterious. It’s so amazing, when you get down to thinking about it, why it took so long. We had several common friends, we needed each other, at least I needed him. I guess back then he just wasn’t my type.<br /><br />But I love what he’s done to me ever since I started seeing him. He makes me feel like my physical abnormalities (read my thighs) are my biggest strength. He made me feel comfortable about the pimples on my face, the rashes on my hands. Ever since I met him I’ve cared about them lesser and lesser till the fact that I stopped worrying about them at all made me feel they were badges of honor. Yes, so I might have pimples, unkempt hair, stubble, tanning skin but he taught me to pay greater attention to the man inside. It’s a small price to pay for being a guy, the ugliness I mean.<br /><br />I love Jim’s gang as well. Since the first day, not only did I feel like I belonged but more than that I felt like I was a flag bearer of the club who’d lost his way but was back again.<br /><br />He has been amazing to my body. I can feel the muscles move, can see the sinews stretch in the mirror, can see the stretch marks on my anatomy. It’s incredible how my chest now heaves with each breath. Though I’d really like those changes to be a bit more apparent outside of the tights as well.<br /><br />The guy’s, Jim I mean, company comes with an attitude. I no longer move aside when I might be on the same course with another thing (person, animal, cars). My professors scare me less; authority lost all meaning a while back. Jim’s amazing for anger. Work it up all day and the angrier you are the more you’ll like him and the better will he treat you.<br /><br />Making love to him is sultry. He leaves me breathless, each single time. Sweaty and tired, my mind though never slows down unlike other sessions of lovemaking as I’ve heard. There’s this pain though that shoots through me every time we leave the benches sodden. So I ask the guy who sometimes shares Jim with me and who has known him longer<br />“Does it still hurt?”<br />“Yeah, baby! Every time.”<br /><br />Love you, bitch. Just wish we could spend more time together.Puerile Profundityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05928271227442644712noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14343972.post-1149191549938953572006-06-01T12:50:00.000-07:002006-06-01T12:52:29.956-07:00<span style="font-size:180%;">The Birth of Song</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br />In a land not so distant but a time quite so there was a villa on the middle of the flight of a hill. It housed, other than the vassals, a benign knight of a decent reputation and a young maiden of about eighteen who was rumored not to be his daughter. The knight’s fame was earlier born out of his abstinence from the political developments of what had vaguely been his days. In the days that we talk of, though, his name figured only in discussions centered about his daughter. This daughter of his was exceptionally beautiful in a small way because fewer people had seen her than had heard of her. <br /><br />This account begins with the first of what was going to be a series of sleepless nights for her. The knight was woken earlier than daybreak by loud sobs. Not being one easily excited he walked the distance to see her crying, without shedding a tear, whilst staring out of her room and passageway into a very ethereal darkness. The day passed as usual. She was a tad more fidgety, avoiding whatsoever other eyes. The next night passed the same way for her though there were not to be any of those fits that had woken her father the previous morning. As the days passed her countenance became more and more clam but her red bleary eyes would give away the tribulations of those long bothersome nights.<br /><br />For in each of these she would rise from bed as the moon fell on her pillow. She would walk in to the passageway and channel her eyes towards the nave of the valley below. Her eyes would briskly move to where each light that went out had been and then rest back on the center. Each night the last light would be the one of the singular cottage set at the very top of the opposing hill.<br /><br />Many doctors, quacks, priests and magic men visited the villa in those somber days drawn as much by the knight’s wealth as by hearsay of her beauty. They would leave deeply impressed by both but never managing to put the damsel to sleep.<br /><br />One very dull night saw a friend of the knight’s at the villa’s gates. The knight and he talked of the place they thought the country was headed, of wars won and lost and all the while she stared at the candles on the dinner table. He took surreptitious glances at her but did not manage even for a fleeting moment to draw her gaze.<br /><br />Thoughtful and ponderous the visitor stepped out of his room around midnight to see the knight’s daughter gazing at the few lights that remained. Soon only the last light, the one of the cottage remained. Walking over he whispered “Staring at the night?”<br />He went on while she looked at him. His beard and scars seemed to melt away taken in her by her with his words. “About lights that go out they sometimes just let you see the darkness that surrounds us.” He stopped sensing someone behind him.<br /><br />The daughter lay awake on her bed listening to the footsteps of the traveler on the floor next to hers. First it was anger then a sudden happiness and soon his footsteps hit the floor so rapid and unpunctual that she could no longer place her finger on any one emotion. A mixture of elation, guilt and fright. She wafted to sleep afloat on her love of the music and what was probably the music of love.<br /><br />About lights that go out, yes they do let one see the darkness around him. But it is traveling the road that leads nowhere that the most satisfying of human endeavors come about. It is in traveling that darkness, that void, devoid of the world’s preconstructed truths, its lights that one is most apt to do the things that mean anything.Puerile Profundityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05928271227442644712noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14343972.post-1139599255887353442006-02-10T11:18:00.000-08:002006-02-10T11:20:55.903-08:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Breaking the stereotype and doing a bad job of it<br /></span></strong>The worst accompaniment to any star-studded interview: gratitude. I think it came over the SFNA team because the session originally scheduled for 4 pm was postponed so many times we were thankful it was happening at all. That feeling was reinforced by noticing the very fidgety GR team members. This atmosphere of sycophancy prevented a lot of the correct questions from getting asked. The members of Euphoria though still managed to give away a lot of themselves. Dr.Palash Sen shattered to pieces the image one has of an artist in general and of a rock star in particular.<br /> The interview was set over dinner and Palash joined us towards the end of it. We asked him as the others questions he had previously been asked and he replied with what were expected answers. It started off well with Palash telling us why he hates being a musician. The aura that one associates with a rock star prevents him from actually getting to know the real person behind the microphone and that according to Palash was something he did not like. Later in the discussion however Palash tells us why singers like Rahul Vaidya and Abhijeet Sawant shall have only fifteen minutes of fame. As their lives are so publicized, with scenes of them cooking along with their moms, they shall never have an element of mystery surrounding them and so very soon they shall just fade away from the public’s memory. Right, Dr. Sen! So you do not like an aura being placed around you but you’d still have it because it helps rake in the moolah?<br /> He tells us he always wanted to be an English rock star so we ask him what triggered his departure from that dream. Who would listen to us then is his very ready reply. Like no one would accept a ‘black’ playing the sitar he says people would never be receptive of an Indian singing in English. Ever heard of the band Parikrama, sir or Orange Street for that matter? As he broaches on the subject himself the question remains unasked. What audience would groups like those ever manage to garner asks he a bunch of guys in Delhi another in Bombay but what about guys like you in Kharagpur? Just because we invite someone twice does not necessarily mean you are all we ever listen to!<br /> From a reliable source who attended Euphoria’s concert at Delhi we came to know the supposedly exclusive song from their new album which they sung here had already been played before there and there as well had been preceded by those very same lines.<br /> Talk about contradicting yourself within the span of one question. On being asked how he feels about coming back to Kharagpur the second time Palash responds with the obvious “great” and then continues about how packed the schedule of the band is and how they accept very few offers to do stage shows. In other words “Kgp should be so thankful I agreed to come back when I am actually so busy.” He goes on about how after Kgp they leave for Bombay then Hyderabad followed by Cochin then Ahmedabad and Chennai and Delhi.<br />“For video shoots for your new album Sir?”<br />“Oh no for concerts”!? <br /><br />Its still tolerable when banshees scream because you expect them to but it demands a rethink of the basic principles of life when innocence turns sour.It demands a rethink when fairies cry,when unicorns bleed.When heroes die.Puerile Profundityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05928271227442644712noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14343972.post-1130612553807079112005-10-29T12:00:00.000-07:002005-10-29T12:07:08.860-07:00<strong>I dont normally write on this blog articles I may have written for Scholars' Avenue.But I guess I'll make an exception this time since this is in all probability my last report for the paper. </strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Work Hard Party Harder</span></strong><br />The ZOnal Convention of the National Association of Students of Architecture, colloquially ZONASA is not another fest. Three grueling days see colleges of architecture from across the eastern zone of the country compete in competitions ranging from face painting to design of steel structures. It is a very apt and holistic test of a college’s caliber.Leave a group of archi guys anywhere though and you’d find fun lurking somewhere in the background. Every evening as the sun set on the densely wooded campus of BIT, Ranchi the strobe lights would begin to gleam. The arena would transform into one huge disco (inhabited by pathetic dancers, I must add).KGP rocked ZONASA ’05 from the onset. With an extraordinary display of talent in the casual events, we placed No.1 with a tally of 42 points at the end of day 1.College 2 was nowhere near at a distant 28. Day 2, though, was slightly disappointing with KGP conceding the lead by a miniscule margin of 4 points. The obstinate KGP spirit came to the rescue. By the end of the night cries of ‘KGP ka tempo… High Hai’ drowned out tempo shouts of any other college even though we were heavily outnumbered.Day 2 had been tiring, especially for the senior batches. I had expected most of them to retire to the dorm after 8-10 hours of design. The amazing brio, in the arena that night, I guess stemmed from the relief of a job stupendously done. And no one would have dared miss the performance put up by the first years at the culturals that night. They rocked, perfectly!Day 3 was short with the valedictory ceremony scheduled for 2 PM. Never in the wildest of fancies had anybody expected the results that followed. KGP was kept busy with wins in all ranges of events. Call us IITians one-track-minded now! CET Bhubaneswar lifted the trophy for the best college at ZONASA ’05 with KGP losing by just two points. Too close to call, you could say.Nobody can deny that the heavenly show was a team effort. But I think everyone would agree to a special round of thanks to the dep fourth years and the faculty (who excused participants from classes for the duration of the fest).…Yo archade02! ...Yo archi! ...Yo KGP!Puerile Profundityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05928271227442644712noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14343972.post-1124039255930621162005-08-14T09:35:00.000-07:002005-08-14T10:13:39.046-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;">The debate that never was.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">The motion: A Strong Dictatorship is Better than a Weak Democracy.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong>I chose to speak against the motion and in favor of democracy a gift our forefathers had toiled so hard for.</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />"I see no reason why failures and imperfections be inherent vices of a democratic set-up. Dictatorial regimes too have made their own share of mistakes. Mistakes that have been infinitely more gross, infinitely more difficult to undo.Given a choice between a decadent democracy and a more disciplined dictatorship I would still opt for the former.<br />Democracy ,if only in concept, envisions a perfect state based on the twin pillars of equality and justice.It allows for a peaceful, bloodless revolution every few years. Ours might not be perfect democracy but it is evolving and I think it deserves its times ,after all, the Raj faded just yesterday.<br />Compare this to a dictatorship where one man wears too many hats.Coming from one particular class,creed and culture he is expected to take actions representative of his entire diverse population. Populace that does not agree with his state of mind is bound to suffer.<br />Several of my worthy opponents claim that a dictatorship leads to a better law & order situation. But how can that be? In a soceity where the whims and fancies of one person become laws, where is the notion of justice? Justice here is reduced to an arbitrary concept applicable differently to people he likes and to people he does not.<br />Another point raised in the favor of dictatorships is that it makes for good economics.I have to disagree.Dictatorships invariably tend to be nepotistic. In an age which sells ideas an atmosphere of fear is hardly conducive to new innovations.Also in a global arena dictatorships shall always have a fuedal, autocratic image which can hardly be a good thing for trade negotiations.<br />No dictatorship can tolerate a free press because well we all make mistakes but while in a democracy the government is comprised of human beings its not the case with dictatorships. A dictator is expected to be God, to be above the infirmities of all common human beings.<br />Some say a dictatorship is more accountable as the blame of all decisions lies with the dictator.If the people in an information-deprived envioronment do realize their leader has made a mistake,who is going to bring him to justice?Accountability here is pretty much an eyewash.<br />I concede democracies are more expensive to maintain.Elections, campaigns,larger governments and corruption do take up a huge part of a nation's resources.But a choice between my freedom or my money is as obvious as black or white.No grey areas!<br />When democratic governments make mistakes people elect new ones.When dictatorships make mistakes they turn into irreversible,ghastly feilds of hate,torture & death.I dont think Ill ever risk such an outcome ,like that of a Nazi Germany, for an illusive promise of better governance.<br />To end i would like to quote Mr.Gandhi :"When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love has always won. There have been tyrants and murderers and for a time they seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall -- think of it, ALWAYS."<br />"Puerile Profundityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05928271227442644712noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14343972.post-1123176404111289122005-08-04T10:25:00.000-07:002005-08-08T04:07:31.970-07:00<span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>Dance of Death</strong></span><br />Most of the things that I find beautiful and those which I continue to savor later on have a common virtue. This is that they are subtle, on the verge of being inconspicuous. I have found, in my moments of infirmity; stark, in-your-face beauty to be glamorous as well but such moments always leave in me an indelible feeling of guilt. That (or my tumid tummy) was probably the reason why I was skeptical about my first visit to a bar being the ‘moment of a lifetime’. After all bars are not places you go to to discover what a person might be underneath his/her epidermis. All that mascara and gloss are too reflective for insight I guess.<br />The bar that we went to is on a height (physically and metaphorically) from which you can appreciate the whole of south Delhi nightlife. Zipping cars, reverberating music, large groups in party clothes and party moods. My friends, as expected, melted onto the dance floor as soon as we entered. Being reserved, shy (and a very bad dancer) I decided to stay far, as far as possible, from the uninhibited crowd. A sharp laugh rose above the din. Yes the essentials were all there: gorgeous dark eyelids, very red lips and auburn curls.<br />“Wow, takes the cake for being blatant”. I thought to myself. Before I started soliloquizing on if there is actually ‘too much of a good time’ she caught my eye again. The blue sleeveless bobbed out from among the cluster of people. Probably I would have noticed those bouncing curls as well if it had not been so dark.<br />I moved closer till I had a decent vista of her. She was largely slender except for her arms and calves which gave very telltale clues of her recent visits to a gym. Now there are few things I like better than ladies who work out. It tells me of this passion that they would have for life.<br />And that passion was pretty much obvious from the way she danced. Her arms went sideways with her fingers ready to snap. A pout from which to feed the world with her endless reserve of kindness. I could make out her faint silhouette against the light in front; I could make out her gyrating bosom, the tendons on her thighs, the straining of her calves. The colitas of her head bounced and swung. Everytime she moved with the music it felt as if her heels were stepping on some long asleep part of me. It was excruciating. But then not all pain is painful! She turned around though all I could make out were her fingers weaving invisible nets over her head. Then her arm shimmied down.<br />“Come on Eddie, we gotta go! My parents are fucking back.” I turned sideways to my very paranoid host. Whatever.<br />I wonder about her from time to time, wonder who she was, wonder if she saw me; wonder if death is similar to what I felt that day, wonder why she stopped dancing, wonder if I knew her. No, that is quite impossible. I would know that back from a lot of others.Puerile Profundityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05928271227442644712noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14343972.post-1121790077604188632005-07-19T09:14:00.000-07:002005-07-19T09:21:17.606-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;">He Spoke Love</span></strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I did not quite realize when I left him behind. But then he was always the languorous one, slow and sentient. He is never one of those noticeable types and that is probably why I don’t concede to him, or myself the fact of what he means to me. It seems so naïve and sissy to let him know that. But, that opportunist, he melts into tarmac, spreading himself too inconspicuously thin whenever I might need him.<br />I was going to prove today different. Going to prove I could be complete without him. That I did not need any more of his gifts. More than anything I needed to prove to myself that I did not need him to tell me, show me, make me aware of the subtle gratifications around me. That I could feel like I wanted nothing more, wanted to be nowhere else, without him.<br /><br />The opposing flows, in one of the city’s busiest precincts left a void that seemed interesting. As a grudging admissal of his omnipotence I agreed to let myself think on his purported lines. “Beauty is contrast.” He had said. So the macabre could be beautiful I concluded.<br />The spectacle the void held and which everyone else seemed to be ignoring was in utter contrast to the rest of its surroundings. It very well satisfied my callow standards of connoisseurship and my insatiable buds of taste. Something about the retard shrouded in delinquency mocking a hungry dog with a dead sparrow, eyes still open, held me for a moment and then I held made myself hold me with a grin, of scorn. And when that realization did set in, I grew fearful and despondent.<br />I went back all the way, but he was long gone.<br /><br /><strong>Requiem for a schizophrenic</strong><br /><br />He is my shield against the world, which I conjure when he’s not around. He would always take the coldness, which I could feel now, on him.<br />Fleeting along the hilly roads my sleep was broken to a voice I thought I was familiar with. But with the tone I was not. It sounded tired, cynical and mistrusting. She Who had once been my goddess, given to a cruel turn of time and worse: having given up. Some thing rose up within me as tears floated down her cheeks, now withered and lineated. The sparrow’s eyelids refused to flutter, no matter how hard I tried. If I could just have had his hands to close its eyes and not see my own face reflected in them. I waited but he didn’t come. The cold fog glossed its eyes.<br />I would never let him go this time.<br /><br /><strong>A setting for eternity<br /><br /></strong>“Why do you pick me, tired but restless traveler?” asked the flower of four white petals of me.<br />“To keep you in my book so that I may remember you all those years later.”<br />“When you shall look at me all those years after I shall not remind you of myself but of this journey that you are on for I shall seem out of place. I shall remind you of the other traveler who looked just like you and went this way a time not long ago.”<br />“Describe him better.”<br />“Of body, I need not for he looked just like you. Of mind, I cannot, save tell you what he said when I danced the Sun’s beams off my petals into his eyes:<br />“Tempting flower, I shall drink you in here and now but I shall not take you with me for you belong here in the street of hundred flowers. I shall remember you but without the hope of holding you forever. You are momentary as is this feeling that you give me and I am glad for that and not sad for the rest of the moments that you could not be with me.”<br /> I don’t think you should or could have me”.<br />With that the four petals dropped one by one and left in my hands a virginal stump whose pollen irritated my nose when I sniffed them. I felt close to him. The sun rose higher and the tears on Her cheeks glistened as dew, the sparrows lids fluttered. I felt closer to him and it felt nice.<br /><br />I could see his silhouette against the Sun now. All what separated us was the frozen layer on what turned in summers into a waterfall. Skeptically, I watched a few sheep walk across the steep slope. How naïve and foolish, they are! I could not help wondering. They probably don’t even realize they would be dead if they slipped on that ice. Then it was my turn. I stepped on that ice but it seemed harsh and hard just because I had expected something softer. It did not offer me even the hint of a grip; of course it owed me nothing. Tremulous with my feet curling up within my shoes, I thought I should turn back. Then he turned to his side, saw the sheep below, turned his eyes towards me and then back on the sheep.<br />Sometimes in life you need to be naïve and foolish. You need to trust blindly. You need to do things and not analyze them. My feet opened up and I walked across in a few confident, insouciant steps. We trekked on, me behind him and content.<br /><br />Some people call him my naïveté, I don’t think it accurate. But then no one word can be. You may call him whatever you wish to but I’d still never let him go.Puerile Profundityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05928271227442644712noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14343972.post-1121789585297675832005-07-19T09:10:00.000-07:002005-07-19T09:13:05.300-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;">When three KGPians go out for a night</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>Prologue<br /></strong>The pangs of rebellion. That’s what began it all. Pressure (or the seeming lack of it) has varied effects on people. I like to think that I, myself and my band of brothers deal with it by negating it to the stature of muffled yelps of a mongrel that you hate anyway. It might seem very escapist but then I rarely take anything that seriously. So what the hell if its escapist? Guys, it’s FUN.<br />On a moderately warm day in March in the year of our lord 2005, the aforesaid band experienced a slight ruffle. A splinter was sleeping, another trying to live a hero’s dream through their optimistically imaginative brains. For another though it was stifling. We needed a new kind of dope. But what new source of gratification might one find in our sleepy little hamlet?<br />Myself, Mr. Puerile Profundity, my pals the Ponglassian and the Honestly Rapturous moved to the Lounge aka Cheddis (something’s better on the other side). On the way<br />Back a solemn reality struck us in the face: our sleepy hamlet was huge. Hell, it even had its own airstrip.<br />We three knights of the empire of Hedoniss had just found our life’s purpose or better still we were ready to reclaim what had once been ours: our life and the fun that came along with it.<br /><br /><strong>Present Day<br /></strong><br />We are walking along the path that links the air-conditioned torture chambers to the abodes of the propagandists of the world’s newest faith. The phase shift between the old and the new being not that luculent and we being the obfuscated children of a taciturn, conformist generation are allowed the luxury of being logical or illogical as time suits us. We want to be illogical (or probably too fiercely logical) at this time and so are. It strikes Ponglassian that wells go deep down to hell and (ohmigod) Samara (from ‘the ring’) is supposed to haunt the one among the cluster of trees. We want to be gullible, we want to believe, we want to be afraid and so when we see a well next to a deserted temple, we just don’t care about the trees. They are there somewhere in the background, but hey, everything aint perfect.<br />After we’ve scared our skin to Goosebumps comes the finishing touch. Honestly Rapturous sees a pale hand on the well’s sill illuminated by a flash of lightning. In retrospect, I wonder why she left us alone. I guess she naively presumed smokers don’t make good parents. (For the faint-hearted, the insipid and the unimaginative: there was no lightning.)<br /><br /><strong>Onwards<br /><br /></strong>Faint whistles tell us patrols can see us, so we switch off our torches. Its pitch black, we can see no cattle paths, the treeless wilderness stretches out in front of us like eternity. Guided by the light of an inconspicuous moon we make it to a stonewall twice higher than any of us. It seems freaky as such but our fear reaches its zenith when a spark lets us appreciate the gate. <br />Rusted but strong it is held by a chain turned over so many times it seems to be a mile long. Like someone’s been making sure the monster inside stays there. Mr. Rapturous though kills the fright (if you could do that) By observing that no matter how many turns a chain turns you still need to break it at just one point to allow the gate to open. HR immediately regrets his words after the reception of a (actually two) sardonic thanks. Made to whimperingly stand aside like the seeker in a hide-and-seek game who counted to hundred alright but counted too fast he entrusts his levels of adrenalin to the two masters of the game.<br />The patrol though has moved away. They’re probably despondent after watching us on the threshold of knowing their best-kept secret.<br />Things are about to get better (or worse). Ponglassian switches on his torch. The beam though falls at an angle quite incomprehensible (destiny!). There is no reason why the beam should point to where it does. It isn’t where either of us was looking; it isn’t even where either of us had looked. It is one silly angle. Though what it illuminates is awesomely unsilly. It reveals wall after wall of brickwork with each cell about a human being in height and two in width, which extends along an arc as far as our torch can help us fathom.<br />I had always suspected as much. If our hamlet had once been instrumental in suppressing a revolt of a phenomenal magnitude surely the six dingy cells near the old building couldn’t suffice as they had us believe<br />(But then they even had us believe the library was a fun place, remember the long queues for the library card just after registration? But that I’m afraid is another story). <br />And wasn’t that darkness that hung between every two walls the silhouette of a rotten carcass of a champion of our causes? Assuring them (as ourselves) that we’d come back on a brighter day and in a calmer state of nerves we decided to end our soirée. The journey back home didn’t take quite as much time as the one described above. Not surprising, considering the patrol finally caught up with us. (For the faint-hearted, the timid or the dead, the light of the subsequent day revealed the walls to be supports for a meter wide sewage pipe. How unexciting, right? But then as Mr. Poe would have said excitement is the spice of life, You cant have too much of it.)Puerile Profundityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05928271227442644712noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14343972.post-1121789167083926952005-07-19T08:54:00.000-07:002005-07-19T09:06:07.086-07:00<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2460/1295/1600/nude.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2460/1295/320/nude.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Poule<br /></span></strong><br />Conventional upbringings don’t always<br />lead to conventional people<br />A case in point: Poule.<br />A non abusive father<br />A temperate mother<br /><br />Inconspicuous at school<br />Selective with friends<br />not exigent enough to be disliked<br />at college.<br /><br />A harlot, definitely.<br />A coquette, probably.<br />A lucrest, remotely.<br /><br />A narcissus for few<br />An inamorata for some<br />A vent for the rest<br />but never in love.<br /><br />A voyeuring soul<br />fed by the slightness<br />of human nature<br />fed by how things so<br />worthless to her could arouse<br />passions so intense in others.Puerile Profundityhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05928271227442644712noreply@blogger.com1