Step by Step

2006-02-04T10:27:00.000+05:30

You and I

If you found that you were me
You’d be undoubtedly confused.
You wouldn’t know how to row
Against the currents that you know.
You’d want to write a book
And pen a witty tome
Or maybe be a crook
And steal an island home.
But every time your eyes
Fall on the thing you prize
A whiff of something new
Lights another fire in you.
Does all this chaos worry you?
Or does the upheaval excite you?
Would you rather this the storm?
Or have it be the norm?
Either way is fine
‘Cause it’s not you;
It’s me.

2005-11-14T08:35:00.000+05:30

The Charm of Rhyme

Few professional partnerships prompt audiences to exclaim "Woah Siva Shankara!" And then there are the elite amongst these that have moulded the collective consciousness of their time - Woodward and Bernstein, Laurel and Hardy, Calvin and Hobbes, Van GauGau and Total Raja, Ebert and Roeper, Butch and Sundance etc.

Woah Siva Shankara!! Van GauGau and Total??? *

Yes, it's true, you may not be fans, you may not like their brutal honesty in the face of adversity, you may shudder and cower at the sight of them (more likely that of Van GauGau - I mean, just look at him; ugh!), you may not agree with their dark and sordid un-bubblegummy world view, you may not care for their adjectives (un-bubblegummy??), but we hope that at the very least they'll have you break out into a smile.

Without further ado, here are the few remaining saved masterworks of the delectably delinquent Van GauGau and Total Raja. **

____________________________________________________________________________________

(from gaugau’s account: during the heydays of Shakey’s love)
The following are Shakey's feelings which i am having to air ... because he's too
drunk to type ...

A Ditty for Aditi…

Whiskey, rum, gin and Sherry
What a mix; you make me merry
Khatti like mango Karry
let us take the bombay ferry
we'll together open a dairy
we r a couple, like Tom and Jerry
i am the wild crazy strawberry
u r the sweet and red hot cherry
i know u think i very scary
but i am not just some tom dick or harry

to cut it short ...
my lovely fairy...
will u me marry ?

Total and Gaugau with feelings from Shakey (7510)
and dirty lines from Toxie
____________________________________________________________________________________

(during Gaugau’s joos rampage: the first EVER juice abt Ampy)

Ampy
I think you're so Vampy
You make my heart go Yippity-Dampy
In front of you other girls look so trampy
In Europe we'll meet up in the town of Bratislampy.
We can live in a Red Indian tepee
Just like my granny and my Grampy.
That's it. I'll tune in to < >'s Winampy.

G(au)rumpy

p.s. < > this space for sale. RJs pls contact 7506.
____________________________________________________________________________________

(gaugau’s bongali proposal to mun^2)

Aami tumoko bhalo bhashi ...
tomi amar Roshogolla ..
Tomi amar Mishti Doi ..
u are better than CPI and CPI-ML ...
ee na cholbay... ee cholbay na ...
tumi amar hobay .. right here right naw ..

Ghau Ghau Moshai
__________________________________________________________________________________

(more crap during the gaugau rampage)

Oh my Vanashreee...
Lets run around a tree...
Lets go to FR and get pepsi free ..
u be mine, urs i'll be ...
dum de da dum de de..
On SPSS i'll plot a a scree
in ur love i make bad poetry

urs
Gombie
__________________________________________________________________________________

(the first in the series of gaugau’s pre-exchange blues)

Tigress tigress burning bringht ....
in the wimwi day and nite ..
u are perfect, u r right ..
tum pe main marunga fight ..
I am Clinton u are Albright
u r the jeans that fits me tight..
ok i sleep now goodnite.

William gaugau Blake
____________________________________________________________________________________

(the one direct from the heart)

Sonalisa Sonalia ...
I'll go to the Louvre and repaint the Monalisa ..
i'll go to Italy ... but i'll see u in Pisa ...
Your face will be there in the anchovis on the pizza....

If u say, i'll cancel my Visa...
(Bach jaye ga mere baap ka thoda paisa ;)
nahin koi tumhare jaisa ...
Sonalisa Sonalisa

Vincent Van GauGau
____________________________________________________________________________________

For Deepthi, written before Gaugau embarks on his epic exchange sojourn to Italy.

deepthi rajeshwari tatineni
you are my feni
you are my one and onli
won't you give me compani
on these days that are raini?

ditch that silly bf - ugh! popat!
with that silly little army-style crewcut
and nothing to compensate for all that
but that itsy-bitsy tight butt

auug, I mean... forget it, I'm your man
after I come back from europe
we can get together and do the can can
and this time I promise I won't screw up.
____________________________________________________________________________________

(the last one before the exchange)

Ladies
I'm throwing me a farewell party. Bow wow!
First come first serve. Now now,
None of that fighting, dishum dishum pow pow!
Form a line. No pushing, shove shove.

Bet ur asking who what when where how. How-
rah Bridge, Saturday night. Bring pigs, Bring sow. So W-
e'll have ourselves a super duper luau. Luau?
Hawaian feast basically. Good chow. Ciao,

sincerely
Gau Gau

____________________________________________________________________________________

(hahahhahaha. The Rap song - hot on the heels of mass listenings of LudaKrishna. From Total's account)

For Once... I am Short of Words

I walk through the forest,
i look at a tree...
i ask my maker
whatay devine mystery...

i have red many a pages of history
from Tolstoy to Dostoyevsky...
i have drowned my pains..
some times rum sometimes whisky..

i want to repent for my wonton ways...
no more horses no more gays...
no more shrieks and no more brays ..
a one woman man i shal be
no more handcuffs no more flays
no more parties or one night lays
i have emptied my fridge..
it got no more baffle trays.

getting bak to da point ..
baby here me so...
i aint got no..
saaa tiss faak shunn
lets cut the crap
this aint no time for rap ..

im so geeky im so classy,
i'll be the kid, u be my lassy,
i think u r of the best pedigree,
dont complain to pgp...
they may take away my degee
ohh i love u so vanashree

also found filigree ... fit where applicable.
+++++++++++++++
Blessed are the geek
For they shall inherit the earth.

- Total 5:5
_____________________________________________________________________________________

(one more from the stable of Shaky)

The mathematecian's problem

Suppose there is hairy* mathematician in D1510,
who for ever and ever has been a singleton..
let us also assume he has the bigest biceps on campus ..
and he did it 73 times on the informals stage...
we are talking about push-ups here ...

Furthur let us question his virility...
takeing the right hand limit to infinity,

Vinu: wow panky !! this problem is quite seminal !!
Dolly: Panky darling u r sensational !!

Shakey: Shut up u two minions !! the questions is....
what is the closed form solution to the Derichlet Integrel?

Chakra: Abe lekin ye juce kahan hua !!

Shakey: Abe bewakoof ....
cant u see it is all part of my strategy (the subject i love) ...
Obviously ne girl who has red thus far is the one for me
come baby spank me ...
waiting is ur panky !!

ps.

i'll be the roop ...
u be my rani ..
i just hope..
it's u vaani..
if u say no ..
i'll give up juice and drink onli paani !!

LOVE
PANKY

* poetic licence

____________________________________________________________________________________
(from Slippy’s account: in anger at his having made me wake up unnecessarily at the unearthly hour of 8.45 to attend a non-existent AMDA class)

Deepthi Meri Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan

Tu meraaaaaa Xena
Main tera Sabrina

Chalo hum dono jaadu kar sakton
Phir is duniya mein aaa jaatoon

Tumko dekhe Angrezi bhool jaaton
Aaon yeh bakwaasi Hindi mein karen mulakaaton

Hum dono Pcom ko chod jaaton
Fine ke paisa se, aao
Diu jaaton.

Yourj truli,
Slippi.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

(from Inja’s account: following her harrowing showdown with the HHM Prof.)

I love everyone…

But the stupid HHM prof.
I hate to scoff
But he's countrier than Anta
I hate to rant. Aaaaa!!
But he's dumber than Gobu
I hate to Sob. Ooooh
But he's hairier than Challa
I hate that fella'
He's stubborner than Lakshman
Thank God his classes are all done
He's idioticer than Tharki
And to top it all, very ugli.
He's irritatinger than Total
I hate him hate him hate HHM. So tell
Him he ain't nobody's boss.
I need to call someone... Booooooooooopooossssss.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If electricity comes from electrons does it mean morality comes from morons?

____________________________________________________________________________________
THE END
____________________________________________________________________________________

* Here's who to throw the muck at:

** Taken from the archives of the Juice NB, DBabble, IIM-A Server, 2004-05

2005-10-15T12:35:00.000+05:30

On Change

When the sun sets
Over flags
And anthems
And rhythms
And seasons
And spices
And lines.
Are you back at home?

You are still the same

In the rain
An umbrella was offered
And it was pouring
And well intentioned.
But refused
nevertheless.

YOU ARE
In the train
Empty seats were proferred
Yet you remained
Standing.
Out of habit.

NO DIFFERENT

When the smoke clears -
The same desires,
Fears,
And dreams,
Endlessly
Haunt you.

And when the sun rises
Over colours
Over sand
And wind
And new places
Strange faces.
Familiarity
Dulls the pain.

2005-07-19T23:31:00.000+05:30

Crystal Gazing

I observe him endlessly; he is the beginning and the end, search for signs, always seeing the reflections and drawing the comparisons. I look at old photos, see the semblance. I pick up the phone; "Docto…??", quickly interrupting "Umm, just a minute". We go to a concert. Amma sits between us but my eyes wander nevertheless. I see the way his hand rests on his chin. It is the way I rest my hand on my chin. I see that he searches, as I do, for patterns in the notes, tries to understand how the instrumentalist converts this purely sequential, mathematical progression of notes into this. This. THIS. This thing, indescribable, spellbinding, indecipherable, encapsulating, omniscient, it's all around us, blocks out all our other senses, and we are both caught in a rapture, slaves till the player stops. The show is billed as a duet; Mandolin Srinivas and his younger brother who also plays the mandolin. As well. Nearly. They are both brilliant. But Srinivas is something extra, a tad of genius shining through with his every pluck, every pick. I throw a dart of communion to Rajesh.

After the show, we argue about the dinner venue; but he makes it difficult, puts the onus of choice on me. I have no energy to play this game; throw up options one after another, while he shoots them down, slowly brings out his constraints, one after one after one after one, all the while getting more annoyed at my lack of understanding of him. He orders a plate of Cholle Bature. I do too, but I add a plate of Idly Vada. He lays out the table, one tumbler of water for him, by the side, pills in hand, asks if I need a tumbler as well. I do of course, who doesn't, but I say No.

The dishes arrive; I dig in, eating furiously, ravenously, none of that etiquette-workshop roll-the-noodles categorize-the-spoons for me. I love the feel of this place. I love the crowdedness, the crowd itself; mostly labourers returning from construction sites, garages, factories, workshops, housewives bringing their children home from tuition classes, dance lessons, theatres, wherever. I am one with them, one amongst them, we are all one mass of happy eaters. He is finicky if he does not find a spoon to eat with; a remnant of his days in America. He loves the place. The people. The ideology. He is far more enthused about my new job in the farawayland than I am; takes out maps, atlases, marks out streets and residential areas, scans websites, emails friends, plans out routines. He dreams up ways of repaying his alta mater, giving back to it what he feels is owed. Tries to pull me in, outlines his vision, his ideas, shows me the presentation he made to the graduate school, the spreadsheet outlining the financial outlays he intends to make from his own purse. I am impressed, both by his insight and the uniqueness of his plan. But I can't, won't, don't show it.

He tells me about the various hotels, places to stay in Boston. I am not listening, shut myself out. I am not him. He of the piercing eye is not I of the piercing eye. He of the sharp nose is not I of the sharp nose. He of the bald pate is not I of the balding pate. Earlier, I used to be NOTHIM, !HIM, deliberate, the exact opposite, a pole apart, smoke if he does not, quit if he does, Luddite to his techie, geek to his Luddite, Yes if he is No, No if he is Yes, Maybe NOT if he is Maybe. Today, I am not him. He of the engineering faith is not I of the engineering nonchalance. He of the diligence and the preparation and the forecasting and the creation of supports and fortresses and barriers and the protection is not I of the randomness, of the I-want-to-find-a-way-wherever, the laid-backness, the opening up of new vistas, the breadth of the ocean.

In the evening, we take a long walk around the park. There are clouds in the sky; the sun is covered, and there are no shadows.

2005-07-06T23:51:00.000+05:30

On Possession

An invisible fence;
A magician's ropes,
To blind our sense
And entangle our hopes.

Maybe love is a pullover
To don on wintry nights.
Possession a means to lower
Us. From such dizzy heights.

2005-06-26T19:28:00.000+05:30

On Tag

Here I am, 13 days down the line, realizing that I've been tagged by Shyam. Tag - one of those unfortunate words that has inane negative associations (in this case that repellent non-character stand-in of Rachel's from Season 5(?) of Friends). Anyhow, here we are...

1. Books I own:

I generally disown more books than I care to own; so the ones I own tend to fall mainly under the category of those that I think I'll feel the need to re-read in future. Which, come to think of it, is in fact what I like to tell myself; in reality, there are scores of books I never intend to read again lying around in my house. Mostly contemporary fiction is all I can say I guess.

2 & 3. Books I recently bought and am reading now:

(Note the ingenious way in which I have used my mastery of the intricacies of the English language to condense the above two points)

In reverse chronological order of purchase:
a) The Shipping News by E. Annie Proulx.

Mostly I bought this book because I love the sound of her surname. Proulx. P-R-O-U-L-X. Prowlx. Prrooooooooool. Proox (if the L were silent) or maybe Proouhx. It would be cool if both the L and the X were silent, making it Proo, which in retrospect, sounds kinda stupid.

All this is to say nothing of the book of course. The blurb on Amazon will do a better job of that. (As you can see I am a mosht humble fellow.)

b) Humboldt's Gift by Saul Bellow.

I'd been meaning to pick up this book - Bellow's ruminations on the meaning of death - for ages and when the fella went ahead and popped it himself, it seemed an appropriate time to reach out for this Bellow.

c) Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy by John le Carre.

Found this when I was looking for THe Spy Who Came in From the Cold at Blossom book store on Church Street, which with its somewhat-organized rows of second-hand books has finally made the propriety of novels an affordable and practicable idea. Le Carre took the fantasy out of the spy novel, and while I love his depth of characterization and his control of plot, I still find his style tiresome and more than repetitive.

d) A Brief History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson.
Awesome book. Jesht blady AWESOME! Rekindles it the interest of mine in science.

e) India After Independence by Bipin Chandra, Aditya and Mridula Mukherjea.
THis one is the second part of the trio's massive effort at tracing the history of the nation since the happenings of 1857. The first part was the prescribed text for Dilip (Prof. Veerraghavan)'s elective on the Indian Freedom Movement. More readable than the std-issue History textbooks of school, the book is excellent in putting the development of India in perspective.

4. My Favorites:

I won't attempt to name them all, but here's the partial list:

a) All About H. Hatterr by G.V. Desani.
This is, sadly, the forgotten, Lost masterpiece of Indian fiction in English. So forgotten in fact, that the book has been out of print for lenghty periods when works of much lesser radiance have found their way onto the shelves of the Crosswords and the Landmarks. It has long been argued that Salman Rushdie's gumbo-jumbo-East-West-fusion-vaunted use of language is inspired by Desani's work. This of course is a fact comfortably ignored by the commercially sharp Rushdie who, save for a solitary acknowledgement of Desani's influence on his style made sometime in the late 1990s, has preferred to ignore comparisons between the two authors at all other times. Which has all worked out quite brilliantly for him, considering that Desani, who wrote his book in 1953, and then went on to renounce material life to learn and train for seven years in a specialized form of yoga and went on to become Professor of Philosophy at the University of Texas at Austin in the 1970s, never had the chance to press his claim. Desani and Rushdie are miles apart in terms of themes covered and Desani is the purer given the fact that the theme of the work - a farcical satire on the tradition of spirituality in India - bends, melds and generally accepts the verbal ingenuity of their style in a much more graceful manner than Rushdie's gimmicky treatment of vaster themes. All About H. Hatterr is undoubtedly the smartest, most enjoyable book I've ever read.

b) The Works of Lewis Carroll.
It's difficult to point out a favourite amongst these but Phantasmagoria, his hilarious poem on the world of sprites and other-worldly affairs is the one I find most enjoyable to read.

Quickly, before I die of exhaustion, The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway, The english Patient by Michael Ondaatje, Free Fall by William Golding, Oscar and Lucinda by Peter Carey, The Harry Potter series and of course Calvin. And Hobbes too.

2005-06-04T01:19:00.000+05:30

On the Danger of Idle Thought

From endless midnight meanders
To staid, social, prim handshake
Is the distance of a month.
Thereabouts anyway.

From the edges, corners
Of concernless presumption,
To thingsIshouldhavedone-damn-it-damndamnwhenIhadthechance thoughts
Is the river between us.

It's been a while.
Standardized days,
Rank. And some file.

2005-05-03T12:08:00.000+05:30

Diversion

In

rivers, hats, eyes (cats')
mirrors, screens, edges, beams
hedges, screams, bone, shivers
iron, stones, brick, phones, concrete
inks, paint, dyes, neckties
buttons, threads, spines, lines
whiskeys, beers (Foster's), wines
bottles, dials, watchstraps, earrings
channels, treadmills, chocolates, smiles
signals, glares, menus, glances
needles, doodles, needs, desires
wicker, candle, spoons, stances
bookstores, parks, someone else's larks
sands , refusals, pockets, touches
corners, shadows, tremors, coffee
words, pro-nun-c-a-shuns
stories, fictions, oceans
history, secrets, mystery, dusks
scratches, bruises, dawns, feathers
ochres, mocha, streets, lanes
welcomes, parting, waiting, mountains
pleasures, errant limbs, measures
dinners, brunches, sinners, saints
losses, deserts, my lonelinesses
shoulders, hungers, lightning showers
yesses, nos, dresses, stresses
hours, concerts, two towers.

in what shall I immerse myself
to forget these
traces of you. everywhere.

2005-02-22T16:02:00.000+05:30

On Death

In the last class of the course on leadership, the professor made us think of epitaphs for ourselves - what the world would say of us if we were to pass away today. All I could think of was...

Here lies Total,
Died in a hotel.

Pretty bleak.

So I tried coming up with a few alternatives.

1)
Here lies Total,
Lived in a hotel.

Subtle difference. Not quite there though.

2)
Here lies Cue,
Choked on his stew.

As you can see, my attempt at changing the name didn't have the desired effect either.

3)
Here lies Cue,
Never had a clue
On what to do
Hope he has an adventure
Off in the wild yonder blue.

This might have been fitting near the end of my college days.

4)
Here lies Gautam,
Who fit in with the crowd
Once.
Remembered how he'd fooled them
Hence died, laughing out too loud.

This would go well for the cynical Gautam of years ago, I suppose.

5)
Tried eating stroganoff

(Mushrooms! Blast 'em!)
Something few
Live to tell

The tale of.

Here lies Total
On top of Cue
On top of Gautam.

Fitting considering my aversion to mushrooms and vice versa.

I really like this exercise.
Now, to throw myself to the lions.
Comments? Epitaphs??

2005-02-18T23:03:00.000+05:30

Of Winter Monsters

My favourite Calvin strips are the ones with Calvin in bed, fretting over the monsters under the bed and hiding in the closet. (Once I figure out how to post pictures on a blog I'll insert one of those here. Till then, please to imagine one such.) Unlike calvin, I had an elder brother who comforted me (mostly) and protected me from my monsters. But on occasion, I'm glad I got to sleep alone and dream up such wonderful things.

There are vile bats living in my room
Black and hairy, terribly unruly.
I huff and puff and sweep and broom
But it's only Prince that they find groovy.*

Here's a tyrannosaur in the corner
Waiting to jump me in my slumber
If I should turn but for a minute
He'll have me on his breakfast skillet

Now this bedspread springs to life
Adding insult to my strife
With evil intent thick and rife,
Attacks me, sharp as a kitchen knife.

The toothbrush too joins the chorus
And drags along the plastic lotus
The pencilstand takes on the onus
Conductor of the magnum opus.

"Ammaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!". Footsteps. Doorknob. Lights.
Suddenly, nothing. Everyone's acting cute.
Back in their places, even the ghastly passion fruit.
Amma thinks I'm making it up - "Crazy sights",
Hugs and kisses, "Sweet dreams, you naughty brute",
Footsteps. Doorknob. Darkness.
I think she's in on it. God, bless
Me, and get me through these wintry nights.

* For almost all of the last year, there was a small, untroubling bat that lived in a corner of my room. It fed on God-knows-what, mostly my clothes I think, especially anything remotely resembling a butterfly or lizard(that, in combination with Sidin, will account for the loss of all my Goan shirts), and was mostly harmless. Every night at around 3 a.m., it would get hyperactive and start shrieking, restless, and probably hungry I guess. More than the academics, I think it is responsible for the complete annihilation of my sleep cycle. I tried many things to rid myself of it, all in vain, and finally, defeated, and with maybe a tinge of morbid curiosity about rabies, I just carried on with my life, noisy shriek and all. One day, it happened - Prince, with no less a song than Batdance, turned up on the Winamp shuffle, and Cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die, I swear it, the bat shut up to listen.

It became a daily ritual after that.
3 a.m. Glass-breaking, shrill shriek from the bat.
3 - 3:30 a.m. I ignore the spoilt brat. Defiant shrieking in return.
3:31 a.m. I give in. Vicky Vale. Time for the Batdance.
3:37 a.m. Peace and quiet.

I shifted room at the end of the year, however, and I hear from the current occupant, that the bat left too. Pretty soon, I missed the guy, and I kind of figured he'd left my life. But it's 3 a.m. now and up in the corner, I can hear a shrill shriek. And the little fella's (I hope it's the same guy) is welcome here. Time to root out that favourite number of his. After all, one can always use a little excitement in life, no matter how batty it may be.

2005-02-17T22:37:00.000+05:30

Google has finally failed me. In a movie I saw a few hours ago on the leadership lessons of Don Quixote, the filmmaker - James Marsh, Emeritus Professor at Stanford University - speaks the following luminous words and attributes them to what I heard as the work of Ibsen.

Whoever you are,
Be with all your heart.
Not piece by piece,
Nor part by part.

I've been Googling for it for the last hour or so in an attempt to read from the source. Sadly, not only is the text of the source not available, I can't seem to find any reference when I add the keyword Ibsen either.

If any of you who read this should know of the source, do let me know.

2005-02-09T14:14:00.000+05:30

Arguments of Merit

For an irritated Neville :)

There is a yearning I used to feel (and still do) for equality, for meritocracy, for justice and opportunity – graduation from college, school, finding a job, all of these junctures tested my understanding of these issues. Somewhere along the line, I think I got all these issues mixed up and I'm still trying to unthread the tangle here. Meritocracy is a question of judgement – it implicitly includes a standard, a parameter of judgement – and concerns itself with the issue of procedural justice in passing judgement. Opportunity is more directly a question of equality – it is far more fundamental; before one can quibble over the process of evaluation, one must be given the chance to be evaluated.

So clearly, the question of meritocracy does not, will not arise till the basic conditions of equality of opportunity are satisfied – it’s almost a natural progression. So, is it not natural then that the question of equality of opportunity having been addressed, a society MUST necessarily move on to trying to establish meritocracy?

______________________________________________________

A Short(?) Aside

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.
- W.B. Yeats: 'The Second Coming'

Those are the immortal words that are printed on the first page of 'Things Fall Apart' - Chinua Achebe's novel on the effects of colonization on one African village, and on one man, Okonkwo, in particular. Achebe writes in English but the novel has a distinctive African voice and one is quickly, easily, drawn into the rich, beautiful world he describes. Achebe’s writing is intoxicating; Okonkwo’s hopes and desires become the reader’s, his urges mirrored in our own and the ultimate tragedy of his life – that he is forsaken by his own people, his beliefs and values shattered – leaves a deep scar on the reader.

Achebe writes with an agenda - to demolish the myth perpetrated by the mass of European literature, and in particular Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, that represented Africa as the 'dark continent' - backward, uncivilized, and savage. And he succeeds brilliantly; Achebe establishes clearly that pre-colonial Africa possessed a rich 'civilization' - the village life he describes is structured and meaningful, with an elaborate socio-political system establishing rules and hierarchies for ascendancy in society. At the end of the novel, one is left with a distinct sense of loss at the wiping out of the civilization he describes and distaste for the unwavering, inevitable sanitizing spread of the powers of European colonization.

There is one particular aspect of the civilization Achebe describes that is relevant to the subject of meritocracy. Consider: Okonkwo, despite or perhaps because of the precedent set by his father, a lazy, debt-ridden dreamer, rises to a position of power and status in the society solely on the basis of his own achievements. Never is he judged for the sins of his father and similarly, never will his own son, be judged on the basis of the deeds of Okonkwo. It is thus clear then that the system is meritocratic. In comparison to the historical caste system in India, the system Achebe describes is highly progressive, modern.

Yet, despite all of this, the civilization falters, stumbles and finally crumbles, with nary a conflict, a small uprising. Achebe never addresses the reasons directly, but there are hints. There is great dissatisfaction within the society – probably because the structures are too rigid and the great inequality in recognition of different qualities. Okonkwo’s own son, a man of few qualities by the standards of the traditional society, converts to Christianity to make a better life for himself. When Okonkwo kills a colonial in disgust at his condescension, he finds no support in his kin for his actions though what he does would be considered heroic in the strict sense of the traditional value systems.

So gradually… no, not gradually, but with vicious speed, savage insensitivity, with furious condescension, the new replaces the old and a world, an ancient and beautiful world, is annihilated.
________________________________________________________

The answer (to: Why did the African civilization fall without a fight? What led to the dissatisfaction of the people?) seems then not to lie merely in lack of opportunity, or in questions of meritocracy alone.

I used to be all Gung-Ho about meritocracy; but slowly, surely the flip side of the coin seems to reveal itself to me – justice and judgement hinges on the parameters one chooses to use to evaluate someone/something by and this brings to the table the entire gamut of issues of perspective – one man’s meat is another man’s flesh. In addition, meritocracy, or rather procedure, can get boring.

Consider: McKinsey & Co. has probably THE most rigorous selection procedure of all the companies coming to campus for placements. They put the candidates through a rigorous set of case studies and interviews built to highlight different characteristics they wish to evaluate. There is no question that it’s as fair as it gets – but my friend Peau posits that even here there are problems. Essentially, he raises the question of whether one can train oneself to ace the test even without possessing the actual qualities; can one fool the test? The answer seems to rest on whether the candidates know in advance what the procedure tries to test. If so, not only can one fool the test, but provided the carrot is large enough – a job with McKinsey, entrance into an IIT – everyone is encouraged and taught to follow the same patterns of thought. In short, it kills diversity in thought – and that, is very very very boooooooooooring.

2005-02-03T14:00:00.000+05:30

Fitting In - The Six Sigma Way

On Dec. 23 last, I finally made the switch from the mess facilities on campus to the customizable (more on this later) services of Jai Singh - 9825633613 (as advertised on the notice board)'s South Indian dabba.

My prior experience of Mr. Singh's Dabba had been limited to a meal shared with Pareau, Sidin and fa-T over a year ago. Which means I ended up with approximately a bite and a half of idly and one teaspoon of sambhar mixed with two pinches of tenga* chutney. Those of you who know Pareau, or Sidin, or fa-T will hopefully sympathize. In time, however, I got to hearing more and more about Mr. Singh and this dabba. Mostly enthusiastic reviews; but once I heard Sudduochio Mumbai-bred Ramakrishnan (He of the "Hakka-noodles is good for the stomach" fame) recommend it as good stuff, I decided it would probably be in my better interest to stick with the mess a while longer. Eventually, however, neither the sheer weight and number of recommendations nor the disturbingly high levels of hair and oil, or possibly just hair-oil, in the mess food could be ignored - my tayir-saadham raised stomach groaned and grumbled and ached, very literally, for a change. In one fell swoop, I cut the umbilical to my nourisher of old.

Naturally, I had doubts regarding the abilities of a man named Jai Singh to provide an authentic steaming pongal or an aromatic pooshnika kootu. These worries were partially tided over once I realized that Jai Singh was indeed none other than an enterprising Jayasinghe, with ancestral links to our Sri Lankan neighbours. But as things would have it, JS's grinder had broken down only a week before I signed on and thus I waited patiently, longingly, day after day after yearning day for that first elusive bite of anything with a remote semblance to Amma's rasam. In the meantime, I subsisted on a daily, stifling, unvarying routine of: Lunch - 5 rotis, one curry (either beans or brinjal or some other veggie that one frequently observes mangling Calvin to death in his cartoons), one large serving of rice and one large cup of a substance somewhere between dal and sambhar, tilted slightly to the dal side on most days. Dinner - much the same as lunch. To make matters worse, JS is hardly the equal of the Bombay Tiffinwallahs in service - customization means sticking to custom to him and many a time I've been left waiting in the lurch for lunch or dinner, stomach grumbling, having to scrounge out a last-minute meal at the mess or order out.

Despite all of these shortcomings, I've thoroughly loved my experience with JS and his dabba over the last five weeks. I have little in way of explanation. The austerity and simplicity of the meal and presentation - it arrives either in a steel case (the kind most Madrasi school-children used to carry around in my time) or in a sheer unpretentious, plastic insulating box - have a large part to play I think. On occasion when I've shared my dabba, I'm transported back to lunch break in my school in Bangalore, with arms and legs and elbows and knees engaged in dynamic criss-crossing pattern, in a desperate attempt to land Ajitabh's cheese sandwich or Dhivakar's vaddam while protecting my own fried rice. Scooping out a handful of rice (I own neither spoon nor fork) has the scintillating effect of putting me in direct touch with the shared lives of a thousand other dabba-eaters around the country - Prabhadevi office-goers, Nariman Point bankers, Law Garden babus, Navi Mumbai construction workers, and of course 40 fellow students here. There is some very personal quality about a dabba that reminds me that I belong somewhere. That I fit in.

Till next time... my brinjal curry is here.

2005-01-31T02:12:00.000+05:30

The Roots of Intelli-Rank

My friend L and I recently realized that at some point of time in our lives we employed a similar mechanism to categorize our friends. The system was based entirely on a ranking of 'natural' intelligence as we perceived it. It took into consideration almost nothing else - no points for loyalty, similarity of interests or any of the other usual suspects. It seemed to work pretty well for some time, laying out clearly the boundaries of interaction with everyone I knew; helping me decide who between Marcel and Daniel got to know whether I liked Danielle or Gabrielle, whether I took the bus home with Ganja or Paddy, who I shared my idlis and grilled sandwiches with et cetera.

Clearly the system is fatally, tragically flawed; exactly the kind of character flaw (I imagine) Woody Allen would take pleasure in exploring. However, before I hit the doldrums of a Manhattan-esque Allen figure, some environmental factor kicked in to alter my outlook. The process was almost entirely subconscious - I do not think I ever sensed the change in any way while it occured. But it did. Quite naturally.

After some debate, L and I concluded that the roots of the system lay in our own insecurity about our intelligence. I further theorize that the foundations of this inecurity were cast in stone by the historical emphasis of Indian society on acquisition of knowledge. This bias is hardly a secret - the hierarchy of the Indian caste system, with the Brahmins at the top of the pyramid, is well recorded (I recently read Gurhcaran Das' opinions of the impact of the same in his wonderful book "India Unbounded"). For all practical purposes, the caste system has broken down, in urban India, in all spheres of life. Everywhere that is, excepting our education system. One of the hidden untold effects of the reservation policies we follow is the psychological fallout it has on blooming scientists, budding artistes and the rest of our youth.

The deadly link of graduate education forecloses employment opportunity and this results, quite naturally, in constant pressure to focus on one's academic achievements. Almost everything else is thus inconsequential in the minds of the typical Indian middle-class parent. Thus, on a class excursion to Ooty in the ninth standard, as we boarded the train, I was taken aside by mother and warned of the potential dangers of mixing with Nikhil, the acclaimed class trouble-maker. The fact that Nikhil was also probably one of the most creative and naturally intelligent persons in my year (and loads of fun besides) never got through to Mom. Or more likely it did, and was thrown aside assumed inconsequent. Thus, cousins Akshay and Rahul, the one a smiling giant at the tender age of sixteen and the other a diminutive but tenacious dance enthusiast, are together thrown together into the same JEE coaching centre and have to come to terms with the way their twelfth-standard world judges them - purely on academic achievement.

Is it any wonder then that L and I, doubtless like so many other Indians, developed this inane rationale for judgement? The creative freedom of IIT, I think, helped transform that part of me. And I'm glad. But one wonders about the thousands who haven't had the benefit...

2005-01-30T01:36:00.000+05:30

This however is by me. Let sleeping ghosts lie.

Endgame

Today this rocket'll be my weapon of choice
Or maybe a silver bullet through the heart
I'll do it without the slightest noise
With strength and grace and samurai poise.
I suppose then I'll use a poison dart
For subtlety too must play a part!

Sheaake it uuup baby; twist and shout
Paint me red and call me Supertramp
You left no shadow of a doubt
That we could work it all out
I'll shoot and kill and gen-o-cide and stamp
Out the memories of yesterday's ramp!

Now; that Stryker's got his blood-scent on me.
But Pan and I and Fly'll form a nexus
And we'll have ourselves a jolly killing spree
And I'll have Stryker get on his knee
Dance and preen and do his trademark flexes
Before I reach out and kick him in the solar plexus!

Strange such bloodshed can end in peace
Of mind; all to free the demons chained inside
A balm to calm and slowly ease
The pain of a happy summer breeze.
Erase. Rewind. It’s time to move on, beside
Time that part of Me that I call You died.

2005-01-30T01:08:00.000+05:30

Ok. This is NOT written by me - it's penned by my witty namesake friend Paro aka Julie.

Just had to put it here for posterity.

And now I hand over to the one and only Mr. Chandrasekharan of the Chennai Coastal Non-Prevention of Cat Cruelty Society.

A Dedication

To nobody in particular.

Shall I a witty poem pen
or a charming story write?
or an eight part invention in the style of Bach compose
and top it with a fugue?
What if I a Mona Lisa paint,
with an expression of mystery unsurpassed?
Or summon the finest architects
and build you a Moulin Rouge?

Shall I the depths of the Earth plumb
to find you a diamond rare?
That conveys forth, no less true than divine word,
your irradiance 'yond compare.
And would you care to have immortalized
your mellifluous maiden name,
by dedication in clear white marble, no less,
that would make the Buonarotti weep in shame?

And should not this poem have an interlude
that rhymes not with the rest?
For you will want, no doubt, times without
my usual cheerfulness and zest;
Should boredom strike, you can simply cry
"Rearrange!" and reorder or request.
And change will be done, fear thee none,
I am greater than or equal to the test.

What brand of philosophy should I make my own,
what branch of science create?
What primitive school of thought shall I help advance,
as yet inchoate?
What style of writing shall I adopt,
what delicate balance in tonality and prose?
What seraphic agent beyond human ken employ
to star in my metaphors?

What dangerous, death defying task must I accomplish?
(pardon my literary device)
Which unholy nexus would you have me exploit,
which nepotic string pull?
What fickle insight must I comprehend,
what greater truth realize?
And what earnestness in feeling achieve,
that I may convey all this to you in full?

P'eau

2004-12-31T01:47:00.000+05:30

Faith

Voice: Deep, confident, with a touch of remorse.

Just take the bait.
Stop playing the fking romantic.
This is here, now.
So make it stick.
Take the vow,
True love? (take a bow)
Sorry man; it ain't worth the wait.

Voice: not gruff. Not even deep. Yet captivating, smooth. Urban, unsure.

Play it straight?
Yeah, maybe you're right.
I mean, this is nice.
You know, all sugar & spice.
But call me stupid, unwise,
It just feels all too white.
It's all too clear; within sight.
So maybe it's a call for one more fight.
Just one last roll of the dice.
Keep the faith.

2004-11-27T03:39:00.000+05:30

Desire

I need one serving of stability
A place to call my own
Somewhere I can feel at home
Something to lay claim to
To settle my hot-wired head.

I DO NOT need this sense
Of orphanage. It's not loneliness.
And it ain't unwillingness
To listen or be social.
I ain't looking for companionship.

I (I and I) want
A single-minded ideal
Like a cigarette
To burn in its time
The ashes to make a mark
Something clear; stark.
To make it all seem like a big deal.

2004-09-30T02:21:00.000+05:30

Yog I.C. on the Chief Nuisance of Fame and the Development of The Land

The first in a series of contemplations by the renowned thinker Yog I.C. on life.

Fame has its difficulties; not the least of all on one's gastric sensibilities. For the better part of two decades (till that red-letter day in the forests of Gir when Ms. Lopez-Garcia-Samuelson-Ramirez-Mishra, taken by my Being, took it upon herself to bring the world to my doorstep),I had survived happily on the simple diet of nuts (for the full details of my highly acclaimed weight-loss diet, pls refer the book 'Nuts for the Nuts' authored by my devotee Sri Sri Sai Sri Sai Sri who has recently abridged his name to Sri Sai Sri Sai Sri on the basis of numerological calculations).

In the words of my Chinese master, Sun-Lau -
"When fame comes knocking
Stomach; Be ready for a stocking"

In my youth, I was lax and paid no heed to these words, taking them at face. But it is clear now that what my master must have meant was
"When fame comse knocking
Stomach; Be ready for a socking".

As a man not entirely comfortable with the intricacies of the English language, Sun-Lau was prone to mixing up his footwear terminology in such manner.

So it must be understood that I was not quite ready for the flood of culinary delights that were to come my way in the months following the publication of my best-selling tome on the benefits of asceticism to one's respiratory system - "A Breath of Strife". The inevitable followed - countless, endless interviews with the journalists, appearances on the morning chat shows, photoshoots for the girlie magazines - and with it, my diet became severely stressed. It is not everywhere that one is likely to find the kind of nuts that one is accustomed to in the forests. And so I sacrificed my sromach to the altar. To put it more bluntly, neither paneer-bhurji-a-la-Kashmir at the Governor's house nor the Thai platter at the Star Club had a soothing effect on my bowels.

Many things have changed in the cities of this great land since I ventured into the forests over two decades ago - cricket and sex are now literally everywhere, sometimes (on television) together, and the seedy bars I used to frequent in my days of solitude are now offering a much wider range of alcoholic beverages and even imported brands of cigarettes. Sometimes I fear that all of this - modernization, globalization, capitalization (or was it capitalism?) - has gone a step too far. Twenty years ago, I went into the forests to find peace and enlightenment in nature.
Now, what with National Geographic and Discovery bringing nature into one's living room, and the concurrent increase in the levels of hedonistic pleasure available in the cities, I wonder if an enterprising young man (such as I decades ago) would be able to tear himself away from this life. What a loss to the world if this implies that we can have no more of the type of acclaimed ode to agriculture authored by my disciple Sai Sri Sri Sai Sri, brother of Sri Sai Sri Sai Sri, titled "A Call to Farms".

Anyhow, reader, take heart. For as Sun-Lau remarked upon getting his first credit card,
"Change is only a problem for those stuck in the world of cash transaction."

2004-07-10T19:01:00.000+05:30

Rev Radio

My friend Neville oh-so-wanna-be-Joshua Clemens lays claim that my enthusiasm for blogging has diminished.

Not true I say.
Not true at all.

This cycle of blogging is but natural.

So what has been taking up my time of late??*

For one thing, I've just started hosting a revolutionary radio request show on my college network.

The revolutionary idea I had was this: Every night, I invite a few of my friends over to my room and over the course of an hour I proceed to mock-interview these people and poke fun at many other people. I also intersperse the talking with great music that one is unlikely to hear on radio.

One hour of great music + hilariously unprofessional RJing = great fun!

And I named this revolutionary concept show 'Revolution Radio'!

Now I think I'll name myself Guevera as well.

Anyhow, it's an underground show cause my guests and I tend to say pretty unparliamentray things.

For example, Anta and Challa addressed my privileged audience as "Bhaiyon aur Behen Ke laude". Needless to say, that was a difficult show to pull off. Esp. the few minutes where Anta so desperately wanted to detail the defecation mechanism of his room neighbour Chepi!(*)

Not good for the ratings I thought. But interestingly, not only did they not fall, on the next night I had significantly more listeners.

So that's what I do on the show now. Trash talk. And swear. Give the people what they want. It's a load of fun.

Apart from that, I've finally started tending to my duties as the Lit. Coordinator.
My first step is to form a team so that I can delegate my work and get back to my radio show.
That I do tomorrow.

So yes, despite what anyone claims, I am busy.

cue.

(*) .mp3 recordings of the show are available for free distribution with me. So if anyone's interested in hearing four IITM suitable-boys laughing loudly, do send me a request.

2004-07-02T04:13:00.000+05:30

Reincarnation?

I remember reading that the reason Einstein gave for pursuing physics rather than mathematics, in spite of having a natural inclination to mathematics, was as follows:

Old Albert said that Young Albert was so enthralled by problems in mathematics that he would spend weeks in solitude working out solutions to many beautiful little problems he came across. But to Young Albert, in mathematics, all problems - every unsolved partial differential, every paradox of the theory of the infinite, every intractable contradiction of alternative geometries, EVERYTHING - appeared intricately beautiful. And thus EVERYTHING was equally attractive; meaning Young Albert could find no basis to look into one class of problems in preference to another.

And therein lay the catch; for obviously not ALL problems in mathematics were equally important and Hilbert's list was as yet non-existent. Meaning that the blinding uniform beauty of mathematics threatened Einstein's desire for purpose. The rest is now the history of relativity.

So there - in this simple dilemma - ends the similarity between Einstein and myself.

Now consider the differences:

Foremost, Einstein had the advantage of the slight matter of a few more grey cells than I possess. Meaning that ultimately it probably wouldn;t have mattered what he chose anyhow.

Secondly, Einstein's options were pretty limited:
a) Change the world of mathematics
b) Change the world of physics
Regardless, change the world.

I on the other hand, must take into account:
a) X-boxes and Playstations?
b) Crossword and Oxford and Strand?
c) World Bank and WTO?
d) ICICI Prudential?
e) TAS

Definite justification for belief in reincarnation I think.

2004-06-23T01:32:00.000+05:30

Conundrums

A guest lecturer conducts a course intended to instil the entrpreneurial spirit into students here.

Many things about the course are repulsive.

For example: It is said that the lecturer - an alumnus, a well known and highly successful entrepreneur - figures prominently on a list of top defaulters in the nation. His business strategy reaks of opportunism - businesses bought and sold at the faintest trace of a profit, not a care given to the fundamentals. He speaks proudly of (and even preaches) various ways to "manipulate" company balance sheets to extract suitable loan terms from lending institutions. The greatest slight, however, is still to come: Confidently, as if it were the plainest and most obvious thing in the world, he states that the three greatest desires of man are money, power and sex.

Naturally, reduction of desires and pursuits to such primal levels rests uneasily upon the minds of students intoxicated with beliefs of superiority.

An institution that stresses the importance of ethical standards in business has surely made a gross error then in choice of lecturer. Or has it?

Consider...

Most students in my institute are pretty much guaranteed what would be considered well-paying jobs that will allow them to lead highly comfortable lifestyles. Jobs that will allow them to slip into the mainstream of vast corporations and do the willing of their bosses for suitable compensation.

Therein then lies the danger of losing entrepreneurial potential in a silly tradeoff for the comfort of safety.

So in comes the man on the street, the man with experience, to drill it into the potentials that better ways of achieving their ultimate objectives exist outside the world of corporate life. Nipping the bud and stemming the rot of stifled ambition.

Point taken. End admired.

But must the methods be so dirty? So gloriously painful?
And if so, how does that reflect on us, the students?

Means hated.

Interesting aside...

It is not a strecth, I believe, to think that the institute has considered and favoured other means of conveying the message. Yet this is the method they have chosen. It is also, not a stretch then to believe that the reason for this choice is the impracticality of other means.

Bringing us to the case of ethics in sports, which I discussed with many friends here.

Stand taken by Challa:
Never walk in cricket. Never admit a handball in football. Never do anything to jeopardize the goal - victory. The errors even out. The means are dirty but justified by the noble end.

My original stand:
Walk in cricket. Take the first step to cleanse the sport. The end cannot be noble if the means are not.

The repartee:
History remembers only the ends. Not the means.

And my repartee:
In our lifetimes, we don't live for history. And how we will be jusged by history is beyond our control. What is remembered now is the means - and NOW is far more within our influence than the future.

2004-06-18T23:49:00.000+05:30

My TermPlan

Very broadly, some of the things I hope to get work done on this term, in no particular order.

1) An online newsletter for the Institute - with as convenient and accessible forum as Dbabble around, viability is limited. But Dbabble, by its nature tends to limite students to reactionary viewpoints and brief opinionated columns; a newsletter might provide scope for sounder analyses.

2) My Website. Yet to draw up a timeline for this. But tentatively, within a month should have a Beta up and at 'em.

3) Related to above: My general internet and media skills. Flash, Photoshop, Audio editing, the works.

4) Company research. Need to know where to go once I get out of here. And how to get there.

5) My own writing skills, I aim to experiment with different writing styles - poetry, essays, comedy, short story, science-fiction.

6) Book Club. How do I get a room for these books and make sure it doesn't die out in a year or two?

7) Lots and lots of travel.

But that I've mentioned already.

2004-06-17T02:04:00.000+05:30

Abstraction and Escapism

A lot of people, of late, have told me that I write in an abstract manner.

I know it for a fact; but the why of it still evades me.

One way of looking at it is this:
Abstraction is merely the mutant manifestation of some remnant of a once-existent escapism.

Wow! That sounds very intellectual. I am pleased.

2004-06-16T15:16:00.000+05:30

A Brand New Beginning

What's changed?

The food, buildings, professors, classrooms, classmates, groups, rooms, dorms (though not mine, yet), my computer and a hundred other things in ways minor and trivial.

But some things have changed perceptibly, observably, consciously and clearly. Among them:

1) I no longer have vague notions of heroics and minor delusions of grandeur or illusions about myself - I know now exactly where I stand; and not in academics alone. My feet are Fevistuck to the mezzanine. Let's hope it doesn't go crashing down.

2) Following from the above:
My attitude towards people; let's call it a shift from naive optimism to a stance of optimism tempered by selfish demand.
More effective I think for everyone.

And what hasn't changed?

The good dream. If anything, my conviction on matters such as friendship have only been strengthened.

That's not change; that's progress.

Post-script: The Gods have smiled upon me. Finally. Sundays through Wednesdays completely free for the next two months.
So here I come, all ye near and dear.

2004-03-14T01:11:00.000+05:30

The Morning After

Another Saturday spent doing nothing

Had a wonderful dream last night.
Heroes, villains, sidekicks, femme fatales, the works.
The following scene is my favourite...

A woman(an angel?) emerges from a blinding white background
I can't make out the face
But she looks straight into my eyes
And then they have me
They've got me
The eyes
I cannot focus on anthing else
(Why would I want to?)

And I begin to walk toward the woman
Slowly, focusing on the eyes

Jhuaaagh!
(that sound implies a blinding light... henceforth remember that)

Blinding light!
When I open my eyes again
There's darkness all around

But in the distance I can see the faint glimmer of the overwhelming light
But no woman
No pupil to lead me
And this then leads into the next sequence...

Swoosh!
(a casemat goes flying past... yes really!)

The villain enters.
And then
Everything's white again.

2004-03-13T02:24:00.000+05:30

Justice.

That's the reason this blog exists.
As cliched as that.
As simple as that.
As honest as that.

A short Lyric.

In a passion of ungrace
She left me for dead
My heart ablaze
With the things she had said.

But now I've come around.