So Nescafe is still like that tomb which despite all its affluence and glamour, still signifies hopelessness. But here it is again, as I call it, as Shakespeare might have called it, the ‘ides of aug.’ the day when we came to know the meaning of that Spiderman dialogue “with responsibility comes power”, the day when Raisina Hills, seemed to be ours, the day when Mall Road seemed more Indian, the day , frankly speaking , when we got independent.
It’s a different kind of festival, celebrated more by law, than by heart. That’s why , we the descendents of Aryans like to treat it as holiday, nothing else. A holiday which is more or less cloudy, a holiday when the most powerful man (the P.M.) comes at the most powerful looking place (the Red Fort) to utter the most powerful words of his life with perhaps the weakest will, the weakest intention. If that is the irony, or pure logic(of power politics) I cannot say, for me its been a tradition, repeated 40th time when I was born, and this time ....62nd time, when I am, perhaps at the most crucial point of my life.
Traditions , yes , they are something good old mathematicians, called axioms, great rulers called rules and the flamboyant bureaucrats call them sections, points, “which come under IPC so and so”. So we have been following traditions,right. Traditions of hoisting flag at sharp 8, tradition of watching an odd movie as a matinee show, and then sleep/make love according to ones requirements for a brighter tomorrow.
Everything above is logical , it happens, it does execute on that rainy August 15 , we wake up, we hoist the flag we watch movie, sleep ,make love, except for that last few words, ‘brighter tomorrow’. Now that is a bit miraculous, a bit illogical, as those mystics might have said, beyond language, beyond words.
Because , for all the other things the mission was one the target was one, me, I, our ego. Simple logic. For that last thing we have to be a bit altruistic, a bit generous, we have to be miraculous. Miracles, as the great Yogis say, let yourself become infinite, let yourself feel that ever so constant light, that ever so constant divinity, and materialize or dematerialize, a child’s play.
But are we, in that situation, or lets put it like this, what if we are in that situation. When we are able to be above all ego, when we are weightless ,when we are able to feel what Kashmir feels when each hour its childen are attacked ruthlessly, what those martyrs feel when they see that those who planned an attack at our parliament are still roaming around freely, when we are able to see the thousands of swords that have risen in revenge against “god knows what” in the North East. Then we will be able see that solution that way, of breaking the rules, cracking the tradition, modernizing the orient, making a way for the 200+ year old IPC to go to the gallows so that peace may be born the next day.
Then it will all become mathematics, having , in Tagore’s words a clear stream of reason, reason for everything, a secure Mumbai, a beautiful Kashmir, and a prosperous North East.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
LIFE AFTER DEATH
DAY 1 : There was a big lock outside. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, a total , abysmal atmosphere. I was missing her throughout the 2 months. No doubt I was disappointed, but waited for another , brighter tomorrow.
DAY 2 : Again a lock, now everything, in and out was becoming jittery. Omens were being produced and reproduced before me. Something unusual was to happen, I knew that.
DAY 3: Nothing was normal around that place. Everything , it seemed ,as if, was implying to a mis-hap. That place where I used to find her, was not normal. Some guys stormed in, something stormed out. I tried to drift my attention away,only to find it pinpointed there . My thoughts conjured up this time, something unusual was happening.
DAY 4: It finally happened, the doom’s day finally came , and judgment ,at last arrived, all the penultimate restlessness resulted in an ultimate assault. It was gone, that reddish grace was no more , that bombastic atmosphere was killed by some abstruse enemy of mine. My love, my Nescafe , finally was gone ,don’t know why, don’t know where, but……gone.
They say, I don’t know why, “TIME HEALS IT ALL”. Does it? Or time itself is like that old grandpa whose camaraderie with tensions, socio-political wounds, is an obscure yet profound truth. Or even it is not a truth globally, for me, it has been locally, a mantra. If I recall the 3 years of my college , right from those ragging season, to this year of penance at Shastri Nagar, I have been drowned in tension. Tension, sometimes, it seemed act as a soother for me.
It was all a matter of questions, arising baselessly in me, until I found a tacit answer. ADDA LAAL BAADSHAAHON KAA”. A place, where I tended to forget all the syntax and semantics of life. That cup of coffee, bina pani , was as pure as those last wine drops of Jesus. That red bricked border of hers, where I tested many dreams, most of them finally rested in peace. Those sips, which used to take us to soaring heights of magnanimity, just to relinquish, for a split second those awful tensions.
DAY 5: That white blank space is still visible to me. That coffee is doing a razzmatazz in my mind as I, newly formed day scholar, is having a bout with my tiffin. And at last as I gulp down my last bite, I see a structure being carried in front of me, to the other side of the canteen. That bright red Nescafe was being shifted to the other side. “In a better style”, somebody said,”in a better way”.
A sudden feeling arose, what type of, I can’t tell, old days were laid to death last day, only to be buried today, so as to give birth to a small set of memories. There was a ticklish, feeling, a perfect combo of excitement, nervousness, pain, and joy. Perhaps now, I was understanding my inner turbulence after becoming a Day Scholar. My love , the Classic Coffee of the Nescafe, had , by taking a reincarnation, taught me the ethics of time. Time , I understood,was healing in form of wounds. It was giving answers, in form of more complex questions.
DAY 6: The new Nescafe is being constructed, and I as a Day Scholar am eating my Tiffin ,calmly.
DAY 2 : Again a lock, now everything, in and out was becoming jittery. Omens were being produced and reproduced before me. Something unusual was to happen, I knew that.
DAY 3: Nothing was normal around that place. Everything , it seemed ,as if, was implying to a mis-hap. That place where I used to find her, was not normal. Some guys stormed in, something stormed out. I tried to drift my attention away,only to find it pinpointed there . My thoughts conjured up this time, something unusual was happening.
DAY 4: It finally happened, the doom’s day finally came , and judgment ,at last arrived, all the penultimate restlessness resulted in an ultimate assault. It was gone, that reddish grace was no more , that bombastic atmosphere was killed by some abstruse enemy of mine. My love, my Nescafe , finally was gone ,don’t know why, don’t know where, but……gone.
They say, I don’t know why, “TIME HEALS IT ALL”. Does it? Or time itself is like that old grandpa whose camaraderie with tensions, socio-political wounds, is an obscure yet profound truth. Or even it is not a truth globally, for me, it has been locally, a mantra. If I recall the 3 years of my college , right from those ragging season, to this year of penance at Shastri Nagar, I have been drowned in tension. Tension, sometimes, it seemed act as a soother for me.
It was all a matter of questions, arising baselessly in me, until I found a tacit answer. ADDA LAAL BAADSHAAHON KAA”. A place, where I tended to forget all the syntax and semantics of life. That cup of coffee, bina pani , was as pure as those last wine drops of Jesus. That red bricked border of hers, where I tested many dreams, most of them finally rested in peace. Those sips, which used to take us to soaring heights of magnanimity, just to relinquish, for a split second those awful tensions.
DAY 5: That white blank space is still visible to me. That coffee is doing a razzmatazz in my mind as I, newly formed day scholar, is having a bout with my tiffin. And at last as I gulp down my last bite, I see a structure being carried in front of me, to the other side of the canteen. That bright red Nescafe was being shifted to the other side. “In a better style”, somebody said,”in a better way”.
A sudden feeling arose, what type of, I can’t tell, old days were laid to death last day, only to be buried today, so as to give birth to a small set of memories. There was a ticklish, feeling, a perfect combo of excitement, nervousness, pain, and joy. Perhaps now, I was understanding my inner turbulence after becoming a Day Scholar. My love , the Classic Coffee of the Nescafe, had , by taking a reincarnation, taught me the ethics of time. Time , I understood,was healing in form of wounds. It was giving answers, in form of more complex questions.
DAY 6: The new Nescafe is being constructed, and I as a Day Scholar am eating my Tiffin ,calmly.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
TIMES OF TRAINING 'n' ASHES......QUITE STRAIGHT THOUGH
These vacations were real hectic, after a “one on one” heavyweight bout with the deadliest of all papers, with a hope of apocalyptic results, I was all set to be drowned in a sea of training, where some more Loch Ness were ready to gulp me down. But as the archaic saying goes ‘Time and tide waits for none’, so happened in my case. It all went, bringing with it, MJ’s death, the master, with whose ‘Dangerous’ I inaugurated my course of English music, the typhoon of dance, the Aristotle of songs, the connoisseur of style went away, in ,perhaps, the most stylized way.
The last eight days of the vacations, or probably the only days of my vacations, were spent watching that recurring “My daddy strongest” act of Jackson’s daughter. That crying phenomenon served as a fulsome week’s package for our agencies.
The politically more important salami that made a handsome sandwich for the news guys was ‘article 377’. Gays are now in vogue, lesbians are rollicking hard, heydays for straights. Long gone are those days when guys like Turing committed suicide and gave way for trademark of companies like Apple*. The most HOMOgenous of all decision resulting in the STRAIGHTest of all debates.
“Pappu pass ho gaya “ was the champ in one-liners until “Article 377 pass ho gayaa…. “ went way ahead of the former. As my chronic struggle for getting in the general compartment of the train continued this time, I still managed to get inside swimming through massive pool of enormous bodies,and as I peeped out to get some Oxygen ( with its faintest hope), I got ready for facing the “ now a clichéd “ grin and listened that “ now an over clichéd” …”article 377……”. I realized that my back was in close contact with a man’s trouser and so temporarily, yet affirmatively , I was declared a gay.
One more great news of the term, esp. for me as I have a soft corner for England , was the Ashes, and a convincing , determined win at Lord’s. Its not that I hate Australia, as I have rolled over the googlies of Shane Warne big time. But c’mon man, now everybody wants a change, and who does not enjoy, Freddie Flintoff savaging the middle stump and KP hovering for a towering six. Though we never saw that six, but still I enjoyed that ‘voodoo’ of Lord’s (as one commentator had put it that way).
And as time again has started jogging down the track, lets hope for a safe haven for MJ’S soul, great life of all the homos and c’mon England “ whip’em hard”.
*Alan Turing was the revolutionary Computer Machinist who is undoubtedly the father of modern computing. Fate proved him to be a straight. And as he was a code breaker with England in World War days ,it was not considered apt to give him independence, so he was given Solitary Confinement”, and within an year he subjugated and killed himself by mixing poison with apple. The time when his body was recovered , a half eaten apple was there, and to commemorate the great scholar Apple kept their symbol that way
The last eight days of the vacations, or probably the only days of my vacations, were spent watching that recurring “My daddy strongest” act of Jackson’s daughter. That crying phenomenon served as a fulsome week’s package for our agencies.
The politically more important salami that made a handsome sandwich for the news guys was ‘article 377’. Gays are now in vogue, lesbians are rollicking hard, heydays for straights. Long gone are those days when guys like Turing committed suicide and gave way for trademark of companies like Apple*. The most HOMOgenous of all decision resulting in the STRAIGHTest of all debates.
“Pappu pass ho gaya “ was the champ in one-liners until “Article 377 pass ho gayaa…. “ went way ahead of the former. As my chronic struggle for getting in the general compartment of the train continued this time, I still managed to get inside swimming through massive pool of enormous bodies,and as I peeped out to get some Oxygen ( with its faintest hope), I got ready for facing the “ now a clichéd “ grin and listened that “ now an over clichéd” …”article 377……”. I realized that my back was in close contact with a man’s trouser and so temporarily, yet affirmatively , I was declared a gay.
One more great news of the term, esp. for me as I have a soft corner for England , was the Ashes, and a convincing , determined win at Lord’s. Its not that I hate Australia, as I have rolled over the googlies of Shane Warne big time. But c’mon man, now everybody wants a change, and who does not enjoy, Freddie Flintoff savaging the middle stump and KP hovering for a towering six. Though we never saw that six, but still I enjoyed that ‘voodoo’ of Lord’s (as one commentator had put it that way).
And as time again has started jogging down the track, lets hope for a safe haven for MJ’S soul, great life of all the homos and c’mon England “ whip’em hard”.
*Alan Turing was the revolutionary Computer Machinist who is undoubtedly the father of modern computing. Fate proved him to be a straight. And as he was a code breaker with England in World War days ,it was not considered apt to give him independence, so he was given Solitary Confinement”, and within an year he subjugated and killed himself by mixing poison with apple. The time when his body was recovered , a half eaten apple was there, and to commemorate the great scholar Apple kept their symbol that way
Monday, July 27, 2009
TO ALL THOSE WHO ASKED , “WHY LEAVING THE HOSTEL?”…A TRUE ANSWER
“YEH RAATEIN NAYI PURAANI….AATE…..AATE JAATE…..
LIKHATI HAIN….KOI KAHAANI…….”
Nights for me are something sort of an oasis when I am a thirsty one all alone in a lonely desert. Where I quench my thirst, I fulfill my heart. Nights are like a fresh morn where it all seems to be new, like a laborious noon, where a kind of ‘wanabee’ spirit rolls down my mind, alas, like that gorgeous twilight where after all the trials and tasks done , heart lives up and says ,…..”C’MON LET’S PARTY’
This time alone in my room, and incidentally in a dark night, my mind lingers on to those days which perhaps, made me start discovering the life that I was made to live beforehand. Those days of hostels , of those rooms, of those lobbies, and of course that awful mess-food, those days that perhaps will never come again as I have dropped them in the aisles of history (reasons I’ll tell later.)
If I roll back myself and start recounting those days, the moment that tops the list contains a letter of a mother and I ,a freshly ragged son of her reading it, a point where he understood what that home he left behind was for him, what that letter and those feeling inscribed in the blue ink were. I was wearing a filthy uniform , but that was the last day (or moment) that I was pure, and knew what relations actually meant.
Friends ,or rather partners, no, shall I say mates…..or I don’t know ,perhaps beyond language, they were guys, who acted as parents, as girlfriends, as something unimaginable. They are still there….yes….they are…its just that ‘I’M NOT’. Still remember those sleepless lobbies, where the night crawlers (all of us), used to crawl away days, nights, weeks, away from all the hindrances, all the struggles, all the realities..perhaps.
Hostel for me was like a school, a school where I learnt what life was, what I was, what the near ones whom I had left far behind were, what home cooked food was …….. It was fun; it was all like a riddle whose answers I knew beforehand until….
Until I realized, that this was the fun I was not supposed to have, this was the riddle I was not supposed to solve. I was somewhere in a huge, long mango orchard and I well knew that perhaps, that it was the arid Sahara that I belonged to, or rather I deserved. I wanted to prove something, I wanted to prove that I can convert my Sahara into a fruit orchard, wanted to prove, that I can take a decision, struggle with it, but stick to it, hate it again, but ultimately gulp it down so that the reality can be digested. This was all I wanted to prove to myself.
So I took it, and am out of the hostel, of that PMC, of those night strolls, of many things. Electricity is not there this time in my rented room,, everything out and out dark, sweat flowing like a distant Campty, but somewhere inside, a faint lamp , of introspection, is burning, burning low , burning slow, but burning deep, burning steady. And somewhere along that low battery radio, in some distant channel a song is being played………
“YEH HAUNSLA KAISE JHUKE…..YEH AARZOO….KAISE RUKE……”
LIKHATI HAIN….KOI KAHAANI…….”
Nights for me are something sort of an oasis when I am a thirsty one all alone in a lonely desert. Where I quench my thirst, I fulfill my heart. Nights are like a fresh morn where it all seems to be new, like a laborious noon, where a kind of ‘wanabee’ spirit rolls down my mind, alas, like that gorgeous twilight where after all the trials and tasks done , heart lives up and says ,…..”C’MON LET’S PARTY’
This time alone in my room, and incidentally in a dark night, my mind lingers on to those days which perhaps, made me start discovering the life that I was made to live beforehand. Those days of hostels , of those rooms, of those lobbies, and of course that awful mess-food, those days that perhaps will never come again as I have dropped them in the aisles of history (reasons I’ll tell later.)
If I roll back myself and start recounting those days, the moment that tops the list contains a letter of a mother and I ,a freshly ragged son of her reading it, a point where he understood what that home he left behind was for him, what that letter and those feeling inscribed in the blue ink were. I was wearing a filthy uniform , but that was the last day (or moment) that I was pure, and knew what relations actually meant.
Friends ,or rather partners, no, shall I say mates…..or I don’t know ,perhaps beyond language, they were guys, who acted as parents, as girlfriends, as something unimaginable. They are still there….yes….they are…its just that ‘I’M NOT’. Still remember those sleepless lobbies, where the night crawlers (all of us), used to crawl away days, nights, weeks, away from all the hindrances, all the struggles, all the realities..perhaps.
Hostel for me was like a school, a school where I learnt what life was, what I was, what the near ones whom I had left far behind were, what home cooked food was …….. It was fun; it was all like a riddle whose answers I knew beforehand until….
Until I realized, that this was the fun I was not supposed to have, this was the riddle I was not supposed to solve. I was somewhere in a huge, long mango orchard and I well knew that perhaps, that it was the arid Sahara that I belonged to, or rather I deserved. I wanted to prove something, I wanted to prove that I can convert my Sahara into a fruit orchard, wanted to prove, that I can take a decision, struggle with it, but stick to it, hate it again, but ultimately gulp it down so that the reality can be digested. This was all I wanted to prove to myself.
So I took it, and am out of the hostel, of that PMC, of those night strolls, of many things. Electricity is not there this time in my rented room,, everything out and out dark, sweat flowing like a distant Campty, but somewhere inside, a faint lamp , of introspection, is burning, burning low , burning slow, but burning deep, burning steady. And somewhere along that low battery radio, in some distant channel a song is being played………
“YEH HAUNSLA KAISE JHUKE…..YEH AARZOO….KAISE RUKE……”
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
WHEN A MANGO TURNED PRO....
SUMMER OF ’09 … warm and sweaty…. Summers always have been the same story ,of heavy electricity loads, pepsi, those funky chocobars and “not so” funky Dermicools. One thing you can’t forget if you hail from this heveanly part of the state of U.P. are those mangoes….those glib.,Yellow,smooth, acts of ecstacy. Mangoes , to me, have been , like a savior, like a friend,like a wife. Now like a savior, because mango only came for my rescue when I was mercilessly raped by these tropical villains. Friends , as I had spent those countless summer afternoons with this yellow cutie and believe those noons were as pleasant as that night of first love. And of course as a wife because it gave me everything…..pain (when not there), pleasure (when there ), support (against that sun when it was inches away from my mouth).
But come this summer and I was devoid all the three. I became alone, lost a friend and consequently became a widower. Why….well…”AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT, WHEN INDIA SWEATED, ME (WITH 2 MORE) WERE SET TO PERSPIRE IN JAIPUR. We were there for a networking course. That meant something , in fact many things, like downloading , uploading ,webhosting, but where was my fruit, my love , my life, my mango. It was not there, all downloading seemed empty, uploading seemed fake. All the virtual world of web was turning unreal for me. Until…… love finally spoke, it finally excecuted and gave me the reward. Next day, in the lab , with all the state of the art facilities , I got a username “M A N G O” Now …I don’t have words to describe it, 600 kms from my home , 600 kms from those dussehries , I got my love, though as a username but I got it. I was now all set , to climb up the virtual world….how wrong I was ..in fact how unknown I was …..
They say that this whole holy world is just a mere probability of interconnections, some times its there , sometimes it is not. For me this web world of internet was something identical.
So now I ,as a mango for the next 25 days, started gearing up , lets say for the inevitable. The next day, now it might be a cliché but I have to say that the sun rose for me, and me only ,the rays of the sun , pinching me , forcing me towards ruthless labour. That smooth sunshine inspiring me towards professionalism. Yes that’s the word, “being PRO”. The course, in a certain sense was null and void, ‘coz all I got in those tests were null and void, i.e. zero. 10 zeroes in a row. Physically I was exhausted, that sprawling Jaipur campus no longer enchanted me. Mentally , I was down in the dumps but from one anonymous part , I was all spiriited up, and that too unanimously.
For me those zeroes and those failiures were not emptiness , but a ‘suchness’ one cannot describe. Yes,I was unknown before as that virtual world was a real professional world we were climbing to. I guess this generation z (or z++) is quite crazy about professionalism , but perhaps while approaching that , we tend to loose it…..loose it all. There is a thin line between professionalism and practicality. We , quite often tend to forget that. Being practical , is more or less like being ‘I’, like being a mango, which is eaten by that mango itself, there are no ways, there are no possibilities, everything is for a specific reason, for that ‘I’. While being ‘pro’ was being true. True to the profession , true to the world , to the almighty. Those, are the professionals who behave like an ‘I’, serve the ‘you’ and targets the ‘us’. Those 10 zeroes and loads of internet told me all that as with each of them I was getting up close with my goal but not emotional towards it. I was getting truthful for it, not selfish.
These 2 things , Internet and the mango , told me a lot of things. There is hardly a day I pass without tackling my fingers over the address box, internet’s like a friend . like a mate sometimes, but for the net I am nothing more than a login id ,a code. Why? because its true , its pro it seves ‘you’ and targets ‘us’. Similarly the mango, my love whom I adore. But for it, I am just one of them , whom it has to serve, from season to season, orchard to orchard.
So now, back home , with dusseharies , bustling around me, I was in them, eating enchanting , caressing them all this time , a bit professionally.
But come this summer and I was devoid all the three. I became alone, lost a friend and consequently became a widower. Why….well…”AT THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT, WHEN INDIA SWEATED, ME (WITH 2 MORE) WERE SET TO PERSPIRE IN JAIPUR. We were there for a networking course. That meant something , in fact many things, like downloading , uploading ,webhosting, but where was my fruit, my love , my life, my mango. It was not there, all downloading seemed empty, uploading seemed fake. All the virtual world of web was turning unreal for me. Until…… love finally spoke, it finally excecuted and gave me the reward. Next day, in the lab , with all the state of the art facilities , I got a username “M A N G O” Now …I don’t have words to describe it, 600 kms from my home , 600 kms from those dussehries , I got my love, though as a username but I got it. I was now all set , to climb up the virtual world….how wrong I was ..in fact how unknown I was …..
They say that this whole holy world is just a mere probability of interconnections, some times its there , sometimes it is not. For me this web world of internet was something identical.
So now I ,as a mango for the next 25 days, started gearing up , lets say for the inevitable. The next day, now it might be a cliché but I have to say that the sun rose for me, and me only ,the rays of the sun , pinching me , forcing me towards ruthless labour. That smooth sunshine inspiring me towards professionalism. Yes that’s the word, “being PRO”. The course, in a certain sense was null and void, ‘coz all I got in those tests were null and void, i.e. zero. 10 zeroes in a row. Physically I was exhausted, that sprawling Jaipur campus no longer enchanted me. Mentally , I was down in the dumps but from one anonymous part , I was all spiriited up, and that too unanimously.
For me those zeroes and those failiures were not emptiness , but a ‘suchness’ one cannot describe. Yes,I was unknown before as that virtual world was a real professional world we were climbing to. I guess this generation z (or z++) is quite crazy about professionalism , but perhaps while approaching that , we tend to loose it…..loose it all. There is a thin line between professionalism and practicality. We , quite often tend to forget that. Being practical , is more or less like being ‘I’, like being a mango, which is eaten by that mango itself, there are no ways, there are no possibilities, everything is for a specific reason, for that ‘I’. While being ‘pro’ was being true. True to the profession , true to the world , to the almighty. Those, are the professionals who behave like an ‘I’, serve the ‘you’ and targets the ‘us’. Those 10 zeroes and loads of internet told me all that as with each of them I was getting up close with my goal but not emotional towards it. I was getting truthful for it, not selfish.
These 2 things , Internet and the mango , told me a lot of things. There is hardly a day I pass without tackling my fingers over the address box, internet’s like a friend . like a mate sometimes, but for the net I am nothing more than a login id ,a code. Why? because its true , its pro it seves ‘you’ and targets ‘us’. Similarly the mango, my love whom I adore. But for it, I am just one of them , whom it has to serve, from season to season, orchard to orchard.
So now, back home , with dusseharies , bustling around me, I was in them, eating enchanting , caressing them all this time , a bit professionally.
Monday, May 11, 2009
EXAM TIME-3..Tanny and and an affair with his (E) book
I know I am not that big of a blogger (am I ?). OK I am not, but so what…..i try to start my write-ups in a different way. But this time I am caught, caught in a big fishhhhhh……
.
.
[This was what I got through when I looks at just 1 post in the month of may..but the experiences of the second week made my fingers ….travel round the keyboard as under……]
Don’t know him ,never even thought about him..he is some protégé of Berkeley..California university. Made some system called the MINIX., and yes married some Dutch(poor she..tch tch..). so that’s it,nothing more, NOTHING MORE , till came the networks subject, and got just 3 mins of swashbuckling intelligence in a 3 hour long paper. So what was to be done, I thought of buying some intelligence from this Dutch’s husband. Well , he was ….Andrew S. Tanenbaum. T. A..N E…N….too tough a name , lets call him..”Tanny”.
So Tanny wrote a book on Networks, and I had to study,for that I had to have a book, which I had not, so I had it have it, technically speaking, I was out of one book and had to buy it. You know buying for me is a tough task as I carry a euphemistic wallet with not so euphemistic “ only 50 Rs. in it”. Now I was at the crossroads of taking a “udhaar” (sorry don’t know the the right English) …then going to the bookshop, and getting success in galore or just….walking towards the gallows of the backpaper. Talking of the udhaar I got nothing, neither the udhaar nor the book shop.
What I got was a network phobia, what to do…all those protocols …what to do….those layers that were like piling up likelayers of my grave….what to to….and then tired with all those what to do’s , my trembling hands went to that Brin’s and Page’s miracle GOOGLE ..and typing some free ebook and passing through the seas of links ….at last found 1 Rapidshare link. And so I found a real friend, as if rescuing me in those gallows like a counter terrorist, I found Tanny’s book, without udhaar and the shop. They use to call it the E-book. So a new relationship…was in the making…
This e-book of mine , was a strict disciplinarian ,like Tanny I guess. I have this knack of feeling a book, touching its pages with full passion…but this time when tried to do it with this book, it said,”DON’T TOUCH, we’re here for study so don’t be PHYSICAL.” Unlike all my books at the almirah, kissing dust at every nook and corner, this new aristocrat friend of mine resided on my Rs 40,000 prized possession ,the lappy. And we used to look at each other , and just look,….sometimes scrolling , just to feel that we were alive. This e-book thing was turning out to be a boring marathon. No flutter of pages, no division of books, no pride of the possession of a thick book. Just scroll, read ,scroll, read…..
Prior to this event, I used to develop an emotional bondage with books. I used to be filled with passion when buying a new book, smiling on seeing the attractive paperback, elated on finishing each page, celebrating while finishing it all,even crying on torn pages. But this time I was just, as I said before scrolling, scrolling. I was like a man who married a lady who took over my mansion and now I was just..scrolling and scrolling. Also I had to digest the wide eyed looks of all the mates on seeing me and my electronic partner together.
So 10 days got over until a paper came whose real BOOK I had and I just caught hold of the book, and instead of reading its content , I held it and cried and cried.
(The deluge has not yet ended, still operating with that e-book( electronic name for studying), lets see what happens in the paper.)
.
.
[This was what I got through when I looks at just 1 post in the month of may..but the experiences of the second week made my fingers ….travel round the keyboard as under……]
Don’t know him ,never even thought about him..he is some protégé of Berkeley..California university. Made some system called the MINIX., and yes married some Dutch(poor she..tch tch..). so that’s it,nothing more, NOTHING MORE , till came the networks subject, and got just 3 mins of swashbuckling intelligence in a 3 hour long paper. So what was to be done, I thought of buying some intelligence from this Dutch’s husband. Well , he was ….Andrew S. Tanenbaum. T. A..N E…N….too tough a name , lets call him..”Tanny”.
So Tanny wrote a book on Networks, and I had to study,for that I had to have a book, which I had not, so I had it have it, technically speaking, I was out of one book and had to buy it. You know buying for me is a tough task as I carry a euphemistic wallet with not so euphemistic “ only 50 Rs. in it”. Now I was at the crossroads of taking a “udhaar” (sorry don’t know the the right English) …then going to the bookshop, and getting success in galore or just….walking towards the gallows of the backpaper. Talking of the udhaar I got nothing, neither the udhaar nor the book shop.
What I got was a network phobia, what to do…all those protocols …what to do….those layers that were like piling up likelayers of my grave….what to to….and then tired with all those what to do’s , my trembling hands went to that Brin’s and Page’s miracle GOOGLE ..and typing some free ebook and passing through the seas of links ….at last found 1 Rapidshare link. And so I found a real friend, as if rescuing me in those gallows like a counter terrorist, I found Tanny’s book, without udhaar and the shop. They use to call it the E-book. So a new relationship…was in the making…
This e-book of mine , was a strict disciplinarian ,like Tanny I guess. I have this knack of feeling a book, touching its pages with full passion…but this time when tried to do it with this book, it said,”DON’T TOUCH, we’re here for study so don’t be PHYSICAL.” Unlike all my books at the almirah, kissing dust at every nook and corner, this new aristocrat friend of mine resided on my Rs 40,000 prized possession ,the lappy. And we used to look at each other , and just look,….sometimes scrolling , just to feel that we were alive. This e-book thing was turning out to be a boring marathon. No flutter of pages, no division of books, no pride of the possession of a thick book. Just scroll, read ,scroll, read…..
Prior to this event, I used to develop an emotional bondage with books. I used to be filled with passion when buying a new book, smiling on seeing the attractive paperback, elated on finishing each page, celebrating while finishing it all,even crying on torn pages. But this time I was just, as I said before scrolling, scrolling. I was like a man who married a lady who took over my mansion and now I was just..scrolling and scrolling. Also I had to digest the wide eyed looks of all the mates on seeing me and my electronic partner together.
So 10 days got over until a paper came whose real BOOK I had and I just caught hold of the book, and instead of reading its content , I held it and cried and cried.
(The deluge has not yet ended, still operating with that e-book( electronic name for studying), lets see what happens in the paper.)
Friday, May 1, 2009
EXAM TIME-2 ..OF MIDSEMS, IPL AND NETWORKS
Teacher : How many states are there in India?
Student: 8
Teacher: Name them?
Student: Punjab Kings, Delhi Daredevils,Kolkata Knightriders, Deccan Chargers, Chennai Superkings,Bangalore Royal Challengers, Rajasthan Royals and Mumbai Indians.
Now your chance , what would you expect teacher does, a slap, a tooth busting punch,or a scolder ,well all wrong , it’s a shot of Rs 100 in the table on a match between KKR and CSK by the teacher. Quite a cliché now but “such is the madness of IPL these days.”
And back in our island, our hos, we are in a situation where we got to realize that the difference between 12 in the morn and 12 in the dark is just that the former is white and the latter is pitch dark as the ” sleeping factor ” has been taken by a chronic devil called Midsems. Period where we get indulged in a 5 days relationship with books, fall in love with the notes ( of others’ of course..) and marry all those booklets that give you a fizzer that these are the Q ‘n’ A that there in the papers.(the otherwise always happens though ,but you see it’s a marriage).
But you know the IPL , phew…..its like South Africa are the exam centres, and the match statistics are the questions, of course Lalit Modi being the paper checker. The tradition seen in the matches is the one following which Azharuddin missed in centennial test by a whisker, of course BETTING From 5 to 50 to 100 to 1000 everything for you players. Its all happening out there. Even the smoking of Marlboro Light by SRK is talked with as much delight as a sixer hit by Tendulkar.
So coming back…. apart from the festival that we are celebrating from 4:30 to 12:30 in the night (IPL). We get to remember that we have our midsems too, of course sometimes this chronic devil gives us the taste of its blood. So it was our Networks paper , morning 8 ‘o’ clock, we reached the centre containing the madness of the game played last night, but then, ooh then, what to tell?. Seriously how can you describe a paper 3 hrs long and you know just the 3 mins portions of it.
Well that paper was an incident as most of us , the normal guys had to pass the 3 hrs- 3 min of that paper without moving the pen. Apart from few scribbles of some protocols, some of us were( esp me) were there thinking about the chicken that we were to have the same evening, some were practicing their shots with their wrist cum bat just emulating the hero of last night . And some tch tch tch for them who were trying to spend half of their time in the toilet.
So these days with Midsems on and IPL blazing , networks also rolling somewhere near, its all happening here in this outlandish campus the other way round….yes we are “:watching xams and writing matches.”
Lets see what happens in the endsems.
(P.S. : Humble appeal to ICC not to keep any INDIA matches in that season.)
Student: 8
Teacher: Name them?
Student: Punjab Kings, Delhi Daredevils,Kolkata Knightriders, Deccan Chargers, Chennai Superkings,Bangalore Royal Challengers, Rajasthan Royals and Mumbai Indians.
Now your chance , what would you expect teacher does, a slap, a tooth busting punch,or a scolder ,well all wrong , it’s a shot of Rs 100 in the table on a match between KKR and CSK by the teacher. Quite a cliché now but “such is the madness of IPL these days.”
And back in our island, our hos, we are in a situation where we got to realize that the difference between 12 in the morn and 12 in the dark is just that the former is white and the latter is pitch dark as the ” sleeping factor ” has been taken by a chronic devil called Midsems. Period where we get indulged in a 5 days relationship with books, fall in love with the notes ( of others’ of course..) and marry all those booklets that give you a fizzer that these are the Q ‘n’ A that there in the papers.(the otherwise always happens though ,but you see it’s a marriage).
But you know the IPL , phew…..its like South Africa are the exam centres, and the match statistics are the questions, of course Lalit Modi being the paper checker. The tradition seen in the matches is the one following which Azharuddin missed in centennial test by a whisker, of course BETTING From 5 to 50 to 100 to 1000 everything for you players. Its all happening out there. Even the smoking of Marlboro Light by SRK is talked with as much delight as a sixer hit by Tendulkar.
So coming back…. apart from the festival that we are celebrating from 4:30 to 12:30 in the night (IPL). We get to remember that we have our midsems too, of course sometimes this chronic devil gives us the taste of its blood. So it was our Networks paper , morning 8 ‘o’ clock, we reached the centre containing the madness of the game played last night, but then, ooh then, what to tell?. Seriously how can you describe a paper 3 hrs long and you know just the 3 mins portions of it.
Well that paper was an incident as most of us , the normal guys had to pass the 3 hrs- 3 min of that paper without moving the pen. Apart from few scribbles of some protocols, some of us were( esp me) were there thinking about the chicken that we were to have the same evening, some were practicing their shots with their wrist cum bat just emulating the hero of last night . And some tch tch tch for them who were trying to spend half of their time in the toilet.
So these days with Midsems on and IPL blazing , networks also rolling somewhere near, its all happening here in this outlandish campus the other way round….yes we are “:watching xams and writing matches.”
Lets see what happens in the endsems.
(P.S. : Humble appeal to ICC not to keep any INDIA matches in that season.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)