Ramblings of a disused brain

Red light vendetta

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 09 Jun 2012 22:35:00 +0000

There was this peanut back in school. He was and still is a really, really nice person. Well respected, highly educated and all that sort of thing.

He was also talented and was one of a few pioneers from our school to be selected to represent the school... abroad! Now that was a big thing back in the day.

These days going abroad is just slightly easier than making an infant sleep through the night. OK, I admit, I was lying there...its a lot easier.

However, when this happened, it was really, really tough. Only film stars on shoots and cricketers went abroad for work. So, our man went to OZ land representing the school. So with all the hero worship and fanfare, he set off for a 3 week trip to the land of the unknown, also known as Australia. At a time when email and IM did not exist for the layman, we heard nary a peep from him while abroad.

One fine day, he returned. I say 'twas a fine day, but it actually was a pretty sucky day, raining and all. The full wrath of monsoon was unleashed upon Ooty.

As was the convention back then, the conquering hero and a couple of other teachers gathered in our house to discuss important matters such as the state of the nation. On this particular evening, the flavour of the day was about Australia. I was, as usual, 'accidentally' overhearing the conversation while [pretending to] study(ing).

The much travelled man was regaling the audience with tales of Aussie Awesomeness. Roads you could eat off of, the smooth roads that didn't have a single pothole, the way traffic moved in perfect harmony, no honking, cleanliness and all the lovely, paved sidewalks on which only people and pets walked. I mean I was surprised there weren't even any cows on the road. It had my pre-teen mind in a whirl wondering where they kept all their cows.

Of the many tales that were told, one stuck to my head. I'm not sure why or what made it stick, but it stuck. He mentioned that there was this super advanced traffic light that was controlled by the pedestrians. Push a button, traffic stops, you safely cross the road, the light turns green again. At the time, it was cutting edge, the stuff of science fiction. Indulge me, while I explain why. Drivers in India love playing whack-a-mole. You know, the funky game where around 8 or 9 moles randomly pop up and you take a hammer and whack 'em on their heads to win a point? Road users in India love playing this game, except for one major issue. While you can find cows, donkeys, buffalo, elephants, goats, dogs, humans and all members of the animal kingdom on the road, I honestly think you cannot find moles on Indian roads. There may well be places where moles roam freely on the road, but I haven't seen one. So, our eager drivers settle for the next best thing, humans.

If you cross the road in India, expect to be run over. Setting this expectation is vital to survive as you can then get your survival instinct to kick in and cross safely by deftly sidestepping the lorry hurtling towards you.

So with this being the road crossing experience I had, hearing about automated pedestrian operated traffic lights was epic. Unbelievable even. Hearing that traffic actually stops when the light turned red made it even more fairy tale like. In fact, being the teacher that he was, he said he tested the system to check if the vehicles stop every time by pressing the button a few times without actually crossing the road. Apparently, they did stop and nobody jumped the light or honked at the Indian guy pushing the button and standing by the side looking very amused.

Fast forward a couple of decades and here I am. England. England, as you know, loves its pedestrians. In fact, councils here go out of their way to ensure pedestrians rule the road. So much so, the average high street in England would not look very different from the diagram below:

There is always a sea of red because of the pedestrian traffic lights. The lights are red, so all the vehicles in front of you brake, so all their red brake lights are flashing at you. It often feels like a blood bath. And, yes, they are all pedestrian controlled.

Getting stuck at the bottom of a wall of traffic on Wembley high street the other day, this story came back to me. It was no fairy tale, it was a nightmare! I imagined our man trying out all lights, starting with light #1 and running to #2 and so on, ensuring all lights stayed red! All of a sudden, whack-a-mole looked like a promising game to play...

Wired, an electrifying post...

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 01:38:00 +0000

Lil' bubba came a-visiting 3 months ago. Boundless joy and unlimited laughs then started teaming up with sleep deprivation and endless nappy changes (for the lady, that is!). *Takes a bow*

While the feller was in his mom's tummy sprouting legs and hands (and undoubtedly, a tail), one stream of constant advice I received from well wishers, nosy do gooders and friends alike was to baby proof the house before he popped out and said howdy-doo. Being the confident uncle of 4 that I was, I would instantly dismiss the suggestion.

My dismissal was not based on carelessness, arrogance or laziness. It was based on experience and confidence. You see, I'd seen 2 nieces and 2 nephews grow up and was in close range when 1 of each grew up. I was quite sure that babies didn't start getting mobile until around month 6 (if they are really keen and sharpish in achieving their mobility). If my son was blessed with my genes (even 5% of mine would suffice), he wouldn't start moving for at least 8 months to a year.

Logic then dictated that I do not have to move a finger until month 5 after birth. Why waste effort in moving stuff and hiding wires right now, when, between the time the mess was cleared and the time the stuff becomes useful, they would only get messed up again or be a hassle. As perceptive as I am, I can feel all dads and males reading this nodding in agreement at flawless logic and all females shaking their heads at the male of the species.

You see, in addition to reasons outlined above, there is another reason. Please be aware that this reason is ancillary to reasons outlined above. A by-product of the logic, if you will. You see, the wires around the entertainment centre in my house don't look far off from this:

Ideas elude the old noodle. When the TV is connected to the set top box, things are straight forward, but my TV is connected to the set top box through the xbox, which is connected to the Kinect and DVD player, which is connected to the home theatre system, which connected to the laptop to TV lead and laptop speaker adapter.

For all the innovations mankind has come up with, it has not come up with a product that can act like a banyan tree and power all other gadgets connected to it. So each has a wire running to the product it is connected to and each then runs to the wall socket. Did I mention that the xbox also has an additional wire running across the room to the internet router. I might add that the internet router is all the way across the room because it was placed there by the landlord, helpfully.

The lady hasn't helped the matter either. In a mistaken, lovey dovey gesture at the start of our wedded life, I thought I would be romantic to take her to Ikea to impress her. Big mistake. We came home with a couple of lamps that now needed to be plugged somewhere.

I also believe I've mentioned before how I've got wires snaking their way to and from my laptop as well.

For a wireless world, that's a hellavalot of wires!

I may not have done a very good job of describing the situation re: wires very well, but the image should help matters.

While on the topic of wires, I would like to take a minute and digress. Baby proofing an apartment, as I view it, consists of doing all it takes to keep little hands from sticking little fingers into little holes called plug points, ensuring naughty little hands stay out of stuff that they have no business getting into in the first place and ensuring little faces do not do a face-plant and even if they do, there isn't anything that would cause said face-plant to result in damage to said face or floor. Feel free to enlighten me about things I have not considered in the comments.

One of the things I have mentioned while considering baby proofing is keeping fingers out of plug points. This is where I take exception to the British health and safety system. Health and safety has dictated that all plugs in Britain conform to a three pin (hence earthed), square (square plug point holes do not bode well for round fingers trying to invade the hole), be moulded (broken plugs are not a hazard anymore) and resist coming out of the socket should the wire be tugged or tripped on. Now, wires that resist plopping out of the socket when tripped on mean they will trip and make trippee fall.

Also, in a case of astonishing oversight, all plug points in this place seem to be no more than 10cm from the floor. Anyone familiar with toddler or kids will know, they tend to be taller than 10cm. My question is, why would anyone place a hazard within reaching distance of a kid and then go about designing the most fool proof and complex mechanism to ensure kids don't get into them? If plug points were placed, say around the 5 foot level like it is back in India, doesn't this automatically solve the problem?

Thank you for allowing the digression, this needed to be said. Just had to get it off my chest.

Back to the story. With all these wires that needed de-wiring, I have no clue where to start. It's almost like the wires have a life of their own and resist any attempt at re-organisation. They've also developed such a deep bond among themselves that it feels almost criminal separating themselves. It's almost as cruel as separating lovers who are in passionate embrace. Only, this is more of an orgy than lovers.

I've been planning this for a while and now that bubba's been here for 3 months, I only have 2 months left to accomplish the task. There is, however, a problem here. You see, I now know why folks asked me to do this before he came. I have no time whatsoever. My life now is an endless rush between office, home, diaper, supermarket, diaper, playing, office and home.

All the 'planning' I've done has had one benefit though - I have thought of all angles. One of which is questioning why this needs to be done at all. Hear me out. The issue with shielding kids from all dangers a parent can think of, is that the child doesn't have the opportunity to learn. When we grew up, there was no health and safety. One learnt that sticking fingers into plug points resulted in an unpleasant sensation, so one didn't do it. The same way, one learnt that some places are not meant to be broken into. How are kids of these days going to learn if we keep removing hazards? Do they not deserve a well rounded, practical approach to parenting? Which is why, I've decided the wires stay.

Tea, coffee, chai, vada...

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 18 Sep 2011 17:40:00 +0000

I usually don't eat a lot. I'm happy for people who know me to disagree, but that's besides the point. I'm more than happy with my 3 sq. meals a day, sometimes even 2 are more than sufficient. However, I become a different animal altogether when I travel.

I'm not quite sure what harmone travel ticks off, but the moment I hit the road, sea or air, I start eating. It's almost like my stomach sends a petition to the brain. I think I've even figured out what the petition says:

Memo for internal use only

Issuing department: Stomach and surrounding areas in collaboration with Tongue and Co.

Intended recipient: Brain

Dear Brain,

We note with a great amount concern that our ecosystem, i.e., the human we inhabit, is showing signs of increased movement. This, to us indicates that the human is travelling. As you are, no doubt, aware, travelling results in a great deal of action and involvement of other organs. To give you a few examples, the eyes are flooded with new information and sights, the ears are treated to new sounds and the skin, overall, senses new things such as weather, clothing etc., we, the stomach and surrounding areas in collaboration with Tongue and Co. (hereinafter referred to as "the petitioners") do not get any action at all until the destination is reached. Even there, depending on the human, we are sometimes provided with the same old food to process.

This results in daily taunts and bullying of the petitioners by the rest of the body. Unable to tolerate this anymore, we hereby humbly request you to issue an order to make the human feel like eating during travel.

Thanking you,

Yours sincerely

The Petitioners

Having received this petition, the brain, which happened to be in a particularly good mood, what with all the new sights and sounds of travel that it was suddenly reminded of, issued an order. A standing order, no less. The order stated simply: Granted. Human to feel like eating at all times during travel.

Whether that is the sequence of events, I will never be sure, however, it is pretty close to it, that I'm positive.

Ever since I can remember, I've always felt the urge to eat DURING travel. Whether it was during trips around the Nilgiris with my father on the old Avanti Kelivinator, or annual holidays to some place in India, travel became associated with eating. My father would take care of that. He would buy more or less anything and everything vegetarian to eat and he would buy it often.

Back then, the best trip I could think of would be on a train with a pantry car. That automatically ensured a steady supply of food. With a huge variety of food dished out by the IRCTC (the catering arm of the Indian Railways), the whole trip was filled with vadais, masala vadais, samosas, bread omelette (all time favourite, more on this below), all variety of dosas, idli (not very often, as it was not my favourite food), puris, tea and coffee (the coffee used to taste really bad, but we'd drink one anyway). Every major station would vastly improve the list to include parottas (also a fav.), biryani, varieties and varieties of rice.

The ideal trip was by Inter-City Express from Coimbatore to Chennai or Bangalore. This particular train had a very good pantry and the journey was only 6-8 hours long, which meant you could eat all of the above in 20-30 min intervals and not have to repeat the process till the return journey starts, a few days later. Besides, the cost was also sustainable as a whole day of eating would typically set us back around Rs. 150, this level of spending couldn't be sustained on longer journeys. Longer journeys meant the first day or two were covered by food from home, typically puries and my favourite type of potato curry, which we've helpfully named picnic curry, followed by biryani, puli sadam and thayir sadam which my mother would have packed and kept ready. These journeys were all about family time, with such a lot of food to be polished off!

Later on, as I grew older, the tendency to eat while travelling did not wane. Any road trip I took would be interrupted by food stops roughly every hour and a half. I remember one particularly adventurous journey from Coimbatore to Chennai (a distance of around 525km). I had managed to evade parental radar and travel by motorcycle. I left home at 5 a.m.

With the initial adrenalin kick of taking such a long trip on two wheels and the fact that I wanted to put enough distance between myself and Coimbatore before what I had done was discovered, thereby rendering an order to ask me come back to base and take the train futile, I made it non-stop to Salem, a distance of 150km in 3 hours, which, for the state of roads at the time, was faster than taking a bus and just half an hour slower than the train. As I entered Salem, I had to take the ring road to continue along the highway towards Chennai. Around 10km into the ring road, stomach and its henchman decided enough was enough. They had put up with me and kept quiet up until that point simply because of the control adrenalin had over them. With Salem breached, there was no way a return to base order would come now. They decided to erupt in protest and I became despertately hungry. Helpfully, there was a Saravanaa Bhavan in the vicinity and I started my first pitstop. Turned out to be a longish one since it took me the best part of an hour to start the bike up again.

Satisfied, I hit the road again and from then on, I would stop at every town that had more than a tea shop. Remember, I mentioned that at Salem, I was faster than a bus? Going by that logic, I should have reached Chennai around 3pm that afternoon. When I actually pulled into Chennai, it was well past 7pm, closer to 8, in fact. Around an hour of that delay could be reliably attributed to enjoying nature. The rest is all food.

The love of food during travel did not end when I left the shores of India to start my first job at Dubai either. Needless to say, I munched my way through most of the first flight of my life. Once there, I fell in love with discrete little tea shops that dot the highways of the middle east. These are all, invariably, run by a bloke from Kerala. These guys have the knack of making the best every omelette sandwich.

At this point, I feel obligated to differentiate the famous bread omelette of the Indian Railways and Gelf omelette sandwich. Please indulge me here. The bread omelette, is made up of 2 thickish slices of the softest white bread I have eaten in India. For some reason, I have not been able to find bread of comparable softness outside the railway. I do not, for the life of me, know why. Anyway, between these slices, there would be some ketchup and a perfectly spiced omlette made from 2 eggs with very finely chopped onion, tomato and green chilli. That is it. Nothing else. The Gelf omelette sandwich on the other hand was not exactly a sandwich. It consisted of a piece of malabar parotta, the layered, fluffy one, which would be made into a roll. The stuffing was a perfectly spiced omlette made from 2 eggs with very finely chopped onion, tomato and green chilli. That's right, the omlette was the same taste, not complaining though!

On the average trip of 200km in the UAE, I would make around 2.5 stops. Bear in mind that my average driving speed then was 100kmh, so that's 2.5 stops in 2 hours...just saying.

The UK is no different, the only difference being there is no one food that I can look forward to. Every 20 miles on the motorway, there is either a Burger King, starbucks, Costa or some such equally bland choice of food, but I still hit the brake every 2 service stations!

Moral of the story... this is an appeal to any enterprising Malayalee reading this post, my request is, the UK sorely needs an omelette sandwich and chai shop. Please invest!

A royal affair of sorts

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 11:22:00 +0000

I have three words to describe the events of 29 April 2011. Oh my God! Sure they got married, sure they are the future king and queen of the United Kingdom and sure it was a bank holiday (thank you for that BTW). But by golly! Did the TV channels take it upon themselves to make sure not one soul on this planet with a television or even access to a television gets to see this extravaganza.

I am not here to comment on the wedding, its lavishness or the craze surrounding the affair (OK, maybe I will comment on the craze, it is after all, too tempting to pass up!). I will instead draw parallels (or, rather, lack of parallels) to my own wedding, which as you may recall, was a pompous and much celebrated affair of equal magnificence, albeit restricted to the town of Chidambaram. You see, I think my wedding was a touch more grand. I am not delusional, nor am I conceited. I state facts here. Only facts. Here's why:

Kate rolled up to her wedding in a rather old looking car. It may have been a custom modified Rolls Royce, but to quote my mother, "she is coming in an old car only, can't they afford a newer, more luxurious car?" I on the other hand rode into my wedding in a horse drawn carriage. Not one horse, but two horses drew said carriage.
What's more, poor William was already situated within the Abbey when Kate arrived. I had the pleasure of picking up milady and riding to the wedding hall with her (you see, the old Rolls had no space in it to accommodate Wills). How romantic was that!
All Kate had on their way to the Abbey was crowds of people cheering and shouting. I, on the other hand, had fireworks, crowds, traffic, dancers, James Band, friends and relatives leading me to the hall, surely you can't beat that!
Their wedding started at 9:51am on 29 April 2011 and all proceedings will be complete at 2:50pm on 29 April. Mine, on the other hand began at 6:00pm on 6 December and finished at 1:30pm on 8 December! You cannot deny that a longer celebration is a bigger celebration!
The church had pin drop silence when the wedding was going on, meaning the slightest noise could have potentially disrupted proceedings. At my wedding, you could have exploded a bomb outside the hall and it wouldn't have been heard, for the noise level inside the hall was significantly higher than a jet plane at full blast.
Most importantly, when the priests prayed to the Lord to bless the couple, everyone could understand what the Lord was being requested to do. At my wedding, considering all chants were in Sanskrit, not one soul knew what sort of deal was being struck with our multitude of Lords for our well being. It is a well known fact that a secret, undecipherable message is far more exotic than an open and understandable one.
Even more importantly than the most important point, although the world at large knew these folks were getting married, not one poster or banner marked the occasion. It is a well known fact that my and milady's photographs were plastered all across Chidambaram just to announce this!

As I have undeniably proved above, my wedding was better than one fit for a king! So there.

Now for the crazies.

Watching the invitees flock into the venue, one trend just could not be ignored. All men were in uniform, not of the ceremonial kind, but of the fashionable kind. They all wore dark suits/tuxedoes, white shirts, bows and polished black shoes. To boot, they all had sorry..er, solemn looking faces like they were going to watch someone beat a puppy. The women on the other hand, all wore elegant gowns and dresses that set off their looks like nobody's business, however, for some reason, it seemed to me that they were all pulled through a hedge of some sort on their way to the Abbey, what with the fancy "hats" they wore! I mean, a hat that looks like a set of antlers doesn't really qualify as a hat does it? Just a sample for your viewing pleasure:

Talk of analysis, the BBC commentator actually got emotional about the fact that Kate was wearing a particular designer's dress and that quote it was a proud day for fashion unquote.

And the bets! God the bets! Will it rain, will Kate wear this designer's dress or that, will Will kiss Kate on the cheek or lips when they appear at the palace! Come on!!

All said done, here's wishing the young couple a long and happy life as a couple! Like their vows said, may they be together till death do them apart!

Look! On the TV, is that a show? No, it's a megaaaa serial!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 25 Apr 2011 17:26:00 +0000

The folks were visiting. Which can, among other good things, mean one thing. Soaps. Not the kind of soap that scrubs away at dirt to leave you squeaky clean, but the kind that scrubs away at your soul and leaves you torn between wanting to kill the villain, the hero, the director and/or yourself. Also fondly referred to by the apt moniker, mega serials. They truly are mega and run for years. What's commendable is that they are run for anywhere between 2 to 5 years on a wafer thin story line that changes and takes u-turns at the drop of a hat. Not u-turns of the '24' variety, but u-turns never-the-less.

These soaps thrive on stereotypes. The protagonist, usually a youngish woman is down trodden, abused and considered inferior to the man. Add a stereotypical mother-in-law, a rude sis-in-law, lousy husband, a lousier father, abusive mother and you have the template for virtually every soap on every channel. For variety and garnishing, you can change the name of the character, the type of torture inflicted on the poor sod who stumbles into this family and the thought is that a riveting program has already taken shape - in the writer/producer's head at least. All that remains is addition of the constant drone of background music and repetitive dialogues with random sound effects and the producer is assured of a 5 year-seems-like-a-25 year contract with any channel. Humour and banter do not exist in this paradigm, the only thing that matters is to inflict as much pain and sorrow on the heroine as possible to still allow the program to be broadcast before the watershed timings.

I have only one question to the fine folks behind all this suffering. Why this kolaveri?

I mean, is it too much to ask if I want to come back from a long day at the office, plop onto the couch and let the idiot box take me away to a place that is joyful? After spending upwards of 8 hours fighting battles at work, I really do not want to solve problems for anyone other than my own family members. I really, really don't.

Why is it that there is not a single soap in India that has happiness/joy/comedy as its main agenda? Does that mean nobody in India is happy? I seriously doubt it. Or is it that only sorrow can be stretched and stretched until eternity?

I hate comparisons, but the mind simply cannot ignore sitcoms like MASH, Friends, Everybody Loves Raymond, King of Queens, Big Bang Theory, Rules of Engagement etc., that made people laugh for years on end and continue to delight generations. Sure, there were sob fests like Bold and Beautiful, Sex and the City etc at the other end of the spectrum, but the important thing is that there was choice. If I choose to laugh watching Indian serials, I can only laugh at the abusrdity of the situation facing the heroine who is crying up a river!

While on topic, I also suppose I should whinge a bit at the dialogue writing. Consider this situation:

The herione is contemplating the actions of the lousy husband, unable to believe why he did what he did and is doing so in the midst of her friends (3 in number).

I will now attempt to write dialogue the dialogue the way I urge do the magnanimous thing and look beyond my poor dialogue writing skills and focus on the message, try and be the bigger man/woman/child in this case.

Normal/comedy soap

Heroine: "Why did that lousy son-of-~*@"h did that? Why? Why? Why?"
Friends: *shrug shoulders* "Maybe he was pissed with you or something?"

The megaaaa-serials

Episode #1:
Husband does what is to be whinged about.

Episode #2:
Herione wistfully thinks of what he did, which includes a detailed flashback of what happened, return to Episode #1.

Episode #3:
Heroine meets friend number 1 and remains wistful. Friend #1 asks her "Why so glum chum?" Heroine recounts what happened. Flashback ensues, return to Episode #1. Heroine finds recollection too much to digest, sobs a bucket load of tears.

Episode #4:
Heroine meets friend number 2 and remains wistful. Friend #2 asks her "Why so glum chum?" Heroine recounts what happened. Flashback ensues, return to Episode #1. Heroine and Friend #1 find recollection too much to digest, sob a bucket load of tears. Viewers mop their moist eyes.

Episode #5:
Heroine meets friend number 3 and remains wistful. Friend #3 asks her "Why so glum chum?" Heroine recounts what happened. Flashback ensues, return to Episode #1. Heroine, friend #1, Friend #2 and viewers find recollection too much to digest, sob a bucket load of tears.

Episode #6:
Heroine recounts what happened. Flashback ensues, return to Episode #1. Heroine then asks Friend #1, "Why did he do that, Friend #1?" Friend #1 has no response to provide, no answers to give, so cries some more.

Heroine then asks Friend #2, "Why did he do that, Friend #2?" Friend #2 has no response to provide, no answers to give, so joins Friend #1 and cries some more.

Heroine then asks Friend #3, "Why did he do that, Friend #3?" Friend #3 says, "Maybe he was pissed with you or something?" and finds that too difficult to digest so cries, all of them cry for 5 minutes not able to comprehend why a husband would be pissed with the perfect herione.

Viewers begin playing with a loaded revolver.

See how subtle plot variations and changes to story were incorporated? See how the serial was run for an entire week and the viewer didn't even notice that happening? I can hear the producer laughing all the way to the bank. "Lousy Englis fellows," he thinks, "don't know how to make money!"

It's a good thing gun licensing is very strict and controlled in India, everything happens for a reason.

IMHO, though, the biggest winner of them all are the glycerine companies. Last I heard they were raking in profits from supplying the 'tears' to the producers of mega serials.

Pardon me...you're going to get the book thrown at you for that!!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 13 Feb 2011 19:48:00 +0000

Allegedly, a whole bunch of things give it to you. Potatoes, beans, raw bananas, lentils to name but a few. Sometimes not eating anything also results in the same fate. Old people get it, so do young ones. Even tiny toddlers barely out of the womb are not immune to it. That's right, I'm talking about wind. Not the kind that blows in one's backyard, but the kind that comes out of one's backside. Yep, the humble, taboo fart.

Everyone has to pass wind every now and then, yet no one would stand up and say they let one loose when the immediate area surrounding the gathering gets smothered in toxic gases. It's a natural body function, yet we cannot talk about it, just like the one who cannot be named in Harry Potter movies. Everyone knows he exists, but refuse to acknowledge it in the vain hope that not acknowledging his presence somehow makes him go away. According to women's magazines and movies, men are comfortable letting a few rip when in the midst of other men and women do not talk of such dirty things. However, I have not met such men and thankfully have not been in the midst of a demonstration.

Before you all wiggle your noses and head for the close button on the browser, let me assure you, I have no intention of analysing or discussing the nuances of different varieties of wind. I'd like to think I am above such frivolities.

As part of my random reads, I came across this link from a friend on Facebook. I really pity the people of Malawi. They are all going to have to develop a whole new gas free diet. However, more than the people of Malawi, do you know who I pity more? The policemen and women of the country. Not only are they going to have to go after hard hitting criminals, they're going to have to book petty farts as well. Literally.

As I think about the d(r)aft proposal by the Hon. George Fartless Chaponda, a number of visions are popping up in my head:

Scenario #1:

Picture a busy market place. People bustling about. Window shopping, actual shopping, shop lifting, shop keeping and the like. Constable DC is going about on his beat. DC is a vigilant man, and he knows the law like the back of his hand. He hears a noise. It's unmistakeable. Someone had just broken the law. No alarms going off, no guns in sight, not a single person violated. However, the law is broken. DC jumps into action.

He uses his astute skills of observation and directional hearing to isolate the direction in which the noise came from. He quickly swirls to his right and notices 25 people within 5 feet of him (the market is bustling after all). He is confident the decibel level and frequency of the noise mean it cannot have been further than 5 feet away. What should be do now? DC lines all 25 of them up. After some quick thinking, DC decides his first approach had better be direct questioning and asks, "Alright, I know there was wind passed by one of you lot. You know who you are and you better 'fess up or else...", he finishes with a threat. One dramatic pause later, he is none the wiser, not one soul speaks up. He looks at their faces and realises he's dealing with a serial farter here. Any other person would have broken into a sweat by now.

All 25 of them are cool as a whistle. 24 of them because they have nothing to worry about and 1 is really good at breaking the law. The next approach in the book issued to all policemen and women, 'the police guide to catching farters' comes to DC's mind. He starts questing suspects one by one. DC has been extensively trained in the matter at the special summer course they had over 3 days in the beach resort of Dickbey (a fine resort, thinks DC as he remembers the 3 days spent in luxury at the training resort). He asks each of them what they have eaten since 5am the previous morning, after all, what goes in, comes out. By the process of elimination, he is confident he has reduced the number of suspects from 25 to 10.

The next process is the 'tummy tap'. A gaseous tummy has a distinctive tap. This further reduces the number of suspects to 2. DC looks long and hard at the two of them. One of them starts showing the strain of hiding illegality and blurts out, "OK! It was me!" DC is a happy man, he's got his criminal and issues the penalty notice. Justice has been served. A thousand guilty can go free, but one innocent man shall not be punished. Never mind the 3 shops that got looted while DC was interrogating the suspects. A happy DC returns to his beat and prrrrrrt. "Here we go again!" says DC with a sigh and lines up suspects.

Scenario #2:

A council meeting is taking place. A fierce debate is raging around the level of state subsidy to be given to universities. Members of the public are watching from the viewing gallery. The fate of the city hangs in balance, it is, after all this city is famous for its educational institutions. Suddenly the lawmakers are silenced by the foul smell wafting down from the viewing area. The police are summoned to the scene of the crime. No noise was heard by anyone in the vicinity. This was a 'silent' one. All usual techniques of interrogation prove fruitless and not one person comes forward with a confession. The councillors decide that it is time for an emergency session. Trivial things like education can be left behind and they jump right into a discussion on how to deal with silent farts. 12 hours later, a resolution is passed. In the event a silent fart perpetrator does not confess to the crime, the entire gathering in the vicinity of ground zero will be penalised.

Scenario #3:

One of the suggestions Mr. Chaponda gives is to go use the restroom to fart. Queues outside restrooms in the highstreet become quite long with people waiting to get into the restroom. Things are getting quite impatient with people anxious to relieve themselves. Meanwhile, at the entrance to the restroom, an enterprising young man has set up a stall, charging an atrocious amount for a pair of ear and nose plugs. People going in snap them up like nobody's business, it is wild in there after all...

Scenario #4:

In other news, police are now being issued with air quality meters, after new research finds that the air quality around a fart perpetrator's backside contains lingering effects of the offending gasses, this sensor picks this up, thereby allowing police to easily convict perpetrators of this heinous crime. Police are now following people around town sticking the sensor on their backsides in order to comply with the law.

Interesting times...!

Padi padi, iPad!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 19:25:00 +0000

I've been pottering about with the iPad for a smidge more than 4 months now, after the missus very kindly gifted me one for my birthday. I'm not going to say anything other reviewers who have been smitten with the thing have not said. I am going gush about its virtues and how 'cool' it is. Never before in the history of mankind has a single company generated so much interest among layman. No, scratch that. I'm sure folks behind the invention of fire, the tyre and sliced bread generated an equally high level of interest.

Every since I laid my hands on a device at an Apple store, I've wanted it. Sure it's only a bigger version of the iPhone, without the phone. That is the point, see, it's a bigger version of the iPhone.

Everything is simple and everything just works. Sure, there are the odd bugs that bug me, but nothing that would cause me to lose interest.

It's convenient and handy. Can be taken everywhere and I do take it everywhere I go. Here's a short list of the places I've used the device:

On the sofa,
In the garden
in the train
In a car
In a flight
On the john
On the bed
In the bath (note: take extra care not to drop it into the water)
I'm sure you're seeing a pattern here...

I take the thing everywhere I go. In fact even when I sleep, it's always near my pillow. Before I'm dismissed as a weird person, a conclusion that, no doubt, several of you will hasten to do, I only take it everywhere because it's not out of place in any of the places I've taken it so far!

So what is it that's had me go ga-ga?

the screen, the deliciously crisp screen. It's perfect for emails, browsing the net, watching movies and playing games. Everything is so clear and visible. Although it is little more than a slab of glass and plate at the back, it feels sturdy and incredibly well put together. There are no moving parts, which means panel gaps and rough edges are something the device has not heard of.

iPad apps. As a policy, on my iPhone, I do not buy applications. Apps just shouldn't be bought. If app X costs £4.99 and can do 'n' number of things, I am quite happy to download 'n' free apps that in total perform 'n-1' functions. Until the iPad came along. I'm now happy to pay for apps that just look so awesome! In fact, I have a subscription to the Economist that I was all set to cancel. The reason for wanting to cancel the subscription was quite simple. It's a weekly magazine and I've had the subscription for approximately 8 months. There are roughly 32 unopened issues lying in wait for my father to come and read. You do the math. Just as I was about to hit the cancel subscription button on the website, along came the Economist iPad app and an announcement that subscribers to the tree killing edition get all areas access to the app included. I thought I'll give it a whirl and boy! I've read every issue that's come out since the app was launched! The paper one still comes in each week, but now I put it away unopened without even a pang of guilt!

When something looks as good as it does on the iPad, I ALMOST don't mind paying to get it!

email. I don't need to say anymore, but neither computer based email clients, online email or mobile email can come anywhere near the email experience on the iPad.

games. Specially driving games. These are supremely awesome to play and just so engaging!

eBook reader. The Kindle can do one thing, which it does brilliantly. The iPad does several things brilliantly and this is one of them. Not only do you get a choice of e-readers to select from (iBooks, Kindle among others), you also get an amazing screen to read on! I don't even want to say anything about the blog reading experience on it. Suffice to say I wouldn't read blogs on any other device if I could avoid it. (not elaborating just saved readers around 15 minutes of time!)

battery life. It just goes on and on! Even with my obsessive use, it goes roughly 2-3 weeks between charges. The one time I tried my darned best to make it run of out juice in one sitting, I ran out of juice before it did!

engaging. On a recent trip to the US, I (of course!) took it with me and what a boon it was! We went on this road trip from San Francisco to San Diego with my sister's family. The niece is an active bubbly little bee and during the whole 10 hour drive, all she needed was a couple of hours to nap and unrestricted use of the iPad. She drew, drew some more, played scrabble, angry birds, cross-n-knots and what not! We didn't hear a peep from her the whole drive.

I don't blame anyone for thinking, based on that I've said above, that I'm incapable of finding fault with the device. I can and I have. Big ones.

eBook reader. It's a lousy eBook reader. Aha! I know your eyes just shot up a couple of centimetres on the screen to see the exact opposite of this sentence written on things I like. That's right, the very same advantage I found is my biggest disadvantage. The Kindle can do one thing and it does so brilliantly, the iPad, on the other hand is a master of all trades. It can do several things in a way most ordinary computers would struggle to do. When iOS 4 was released, it unleashed the beast within with multi-tasking. Now it is impossible to read a book on the iPad. Before one page is done with, one feels like playing a game, checking facebook, checking emails, reading blogs, random news items and the like. There's too much packed into this. I just cannot focus. On a Kindle or other dedicated reader, a book is all you can read and that's what one ends up reading.

Then there is the screen. Brilliant and amazing as it is, it just cannot hold water against the e-ink display of dedicated readers. As amazing as it is, it is just not easy on the eye. Much as I would love (and still do), I just cannot see myself curling up with the iPad and blasting my way through a book the way a paperback would do. The 'ol eyes would simply put their feet up and announce an early retirement. In a dark room, even the lowest power setting is too bright.

Apart from two of its biggest advantages turning into its biggest disadvantages, I am smitten by this little stroke of genius and I know for sure that when Mr. S Jobs comes back and announces the iPad 2 and fixes the things he deliberately left out just to make sure iPad 2 can include them and be 'all new', I will miss the camera that would change the face of video chat.

Finally, I suppose huge thanks are due to the missus for uniting me with the pad... iPad :)

An argument goes up in smoke

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 19:10:00 +0000

I'm the sort of bloke who spends spare time reading about this and that. Nothing strange about it, but the 'this' and that I refer to is hardly entertaining. I like reading about obscure projects, products, reviews. I also follow cars across the world. One of the things being thrown about like rubbish out of a house in the Yewnited States of America is being carbon neutral. Never before has being neutral been so much in vogue.

I had seen the term being thrown around quite a bit over the past few years and I thought it was one of those crazy green things like you pay to have a sapling planted in the Amazon rain forest if you fart in the UK or something like that. Turns out it's that and a lot more. Pretty complex stuff this. To cut a long story short, there is a company that finds guys/gals who don't fart much and hooks them up with more gassy individuals and makes a tidy sum in between. One sets off the other and all that sort of thing. However, I'm not in the mood to cut long stories short and hence you get the whole 9 yards.

Let's start by setting the scene here. Person A, living in the UK wants to do the following:

drive a car
take a train
drink coffee
not freeze to death
take a holiday
switch on a light
use the toilet
watch TV
use a bicycle (yes, cycling is not pollution free, not according to these nutters. The cycle is manufactured in a CO2 belching factory and talking of belching, I would say they've even successfully measured how much CO2 we emit while puffing and panting our way up a hill).
you get the drift.

Any activity performed by human beings is now contributing to global warming (err, sorry Climate Change) because we all emit tonnes and tonnes of CO2 each year and we're heating the place up (please don't ask me why London is still so cold, I do not know). Wanting to do something about climate change is a very noble and essential thought. Sure going green costs money and sure, it's not an easy thing to do.

Coming back to our case, getting Mr. A to be carbon neutral.

Scheme 1: The beginning

In the case above, person A would, in order to rectify the harm caused to the environment, walk/ride/drive/swim/fly down to the nearest IKEA, get a sapling, for a round sum of £15, that has been flown into the UK from Timbuktu and plant it in his garden. That sapling would then be tended to by A and in around 20 years become a tree that eats up CO2 and spits out Oxygen.

However, apart from IKEA, which flew the sapling in from T'tu no one else makes a profit. In steps the carbon trader Z, who, would tell Mr. A that in exchange for a 'paltry' £30, she will contact her middleman Y in United States, who would contact his middleman X in Mexico, who would contact his middleman W in Brazil, who will contact a farmer friend of his, a Mr. Poor Farmer, to plant a sapling in the Amazon rainforest, which would immediately offset the carbons emitted by A for the next 3 generations. Mr. A is very happy, feels his farsightedness has saved the planet and goes about smugly driving a gas guzzler to the grocery shop, which is around the corner. Mr. A need not worry about tending to the sapling, he need not worry about protecting the sapling from random creatures eating the tree that is supposed to save 3 generations of his, or from other random farmers clearing the very bit of forest this sapling has been planted in. He's paid money for something and has delegated his responsibility.

Scheme 2: Evolution

This went on for a while and then our friendly neighbourhood carbon trader Mr. Z saw her income drop, there were too many new entrants jumping onto the trading bandwagon, which pushed prices down and there is only so much of the Amazon that can be replanted without it resembling a paddy field.

One day, Ms. Z met her wizardly f(r)iends in the financial services sector, the ones that deal with derivatives and swaps. Soon after she saw them, she came back to her house and found it smelling of food that she had forgotten to put in the freezer. She immediately whipped out her can of room freshener and lo and behold! The smell vanished!

Ms. Z didn't come first in her university for no reason; she quickly put two and two together and came with the answer. Not four, but twenty two. Thinking out of the box and all that fancy stuff.

She jumped onto the internet and found a news item on Google about this factory in China, belonging to Hu Plc that suddenly became environmentally conscious and had replaced all its internal combustion power plants by thousands of labourers using a bicycle pump to blow air into a turbine, which would spin to generate electricity to power the factory (there was no green intention to the move, 1000 labours worked out cheaper than 1000 tonnes of coal, so the switch was made). She called that factory, rustled up the 5 words of Mandarin she had googled before the call and convinced them to calculate how much of CO2 they saved. They came up with a random number, let's say 1 million tonnes of CO2 per year. This made our heroine Z a happy camper.

She got busy with all her contacts, including our very own Mr. A and told them, "Earlier, you paid me money to do something, now I refuse to do anything. However, I do know a company that is doing something about the environment. Hu Plc is a responsible corporate. Realising they are polluting the environment, they have taken concrete, bold and pioneering steps to reduce their carbon footprint. Having invested millions of dollars in reducing their carbon emissions, they are keen in passing on any benefit they get from saving the environment. They have agreed to set off the saving they have achieved in carbon emissions against the CO2 you continue to irresponsibly emit by driving your car all over the country. So if you pay me £100 per year per car, in lieu of the CO2 you are emitting, I will use that money to buy carbon credits from Hu Plc, who, in essence are willing to bear the blame for YOUR pollution!" she finished with a tear in her eye.

Mr. A was suitably impressed by the fact that someone else now bears his cross and pays up. Z then pays Hu Plc a grand sum of £40 for the trouble it is taking to be named in the scheme. Z's profit had just shot up from £9.95 (£15 from Scheme 1, less commissions to Y in the US, X, W of £5, £0.2 each to the blokes in Mexico and Brazil, less £0.1 to Mr. Poor Farmer who actually planted the sapling) to a grand sum of £60. Hu Plc was very happy as it had not only saved money on not using coal, it had a 1000 labourers to exploit and also this dumb person Z from UK who thought the whole scheme was designed for environment friendliness and paid £40 for it! As for Mr. A, he was even happier than scheme 1 because his CO2 emissions were taken care of immediately as opposed to 20 years in the future, so he can continue to pollute and better still, not get affected by it, because someone else was not polluting for him! Win-win situation.

Scheme 3: The present

Scheme 2 seemed a good racket and Z saw money pouring into her coffers. More people starting the same racket didn't seem to affect profits adversely since more people were buying into the premise that getting someone else to be responsible for them was better than them having to take responsibility. However, the government and regulators didn't seem to be very helpful and insisted that the carbons NOT emitted be audited and checked to ensure that if a million tonnes was saved, not more than a million tonnes of carbon credit was sold on to offset not more than a million tonnes. In other words, supply of carbon credit became limited, which restricted sales. This pushed prices up, which was good, but profits were not adequate since the cost also went up. Z, after all, had a lifestyle to fund. She had become used to this lifestyle.

The next Eureka! moment for Z came when she had gone to the shoe shop for a spot of shopping.

As she used her credit card to pay for the £5,000 Gucci shoes she had just bought, she thought about when her credit card bill was due and if she needed to move some money around in the next few weeks to ensure money was in her account to pay the bill.

Then it hit her. "Of course, I use my credit card to buy things with money I don't have right now. I use future income to pay for my present lifestyle!" she thought. "In the same way, if I find a company that is GOING to invest in becoming green, I can use the carbon they are GOING to not be emitting and sell it to the losers who want to pollute more now!" She hurried home clutching her Gucci pumps, all the while drafting the next killer argument to put forward to the likes of Mr. A...so began her love affair with Carbon Futures trading, a scheme which not only generated a ton of money, but also removed the problem of limited supply of carbon credits. Pay for the present with the future. Win-win situation all over again!

The end.

I am all for going green and helping companies that genuinely want to go green for the good of the environment. We owe it ourselves and our future generations to save the precious planet we are in. We only have one place we can call home and that one place is increasingly becoming a hostile place to live, and that is largely due to us. However, I do not believe the solution is for ordinary citizens to simply pay money to pass on the responsibility of getting something done. That way we are just passing the buck around and not enough people do things for the betterment of the Earth. Saving the planet is an individual responsibility. We all have to play our part in it. If Mr. A planted the tree himself, he would feel attached to the tree, guard it from predators and ensure he does his darn best to see it grow into a large tree that helps clean up the environment around the very area he is polluting. If he pays someone to do it for him, the responsibility is just not there. It only shifts the onus of doing something to someone else. That, is my humble opinion.

Leftist arguments

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 16:04:00 +0000

Nope, not a politically motivated post. Now that we've got that out of the way...I'd indulged in some pond hopping over Christmas and decided to grace the US of A with a flying visit (pun totally intended!). After much uncertainty due to the white stuff. I'm not talking about the white stuff that lands one in jail, the white stuff that lands one in hospital. Wait, that white stuff also lands one in hospital, okay, I'm talking of snow.

We managed to sneak out of the British Isles through a small window of opportunity that the weather afforded us. Landing in the US, I couldn't help but notice one thing right away. The US likes to do things the exact opposite way to the rest of the world. This attitude hit me in the face right at the airport.

I'm usually accustomed to waiting in lines at the airports I've landed in for 'passport control', or immigration. Except for Indian airports, I'm always standing in line at the 'non-residents', 'immigrants' or foreigners queue. In the US I stood in the 'aliens' queue. I understand that the US is a world away from the rest of the world. Being a 10 hour flight from any place outside North America must have certainly contributed to this impression Americans have that they are a separate planet. I am, however, obliged to inform America that I have referred to the latest Google maps and NASA earth-from-space photography, both of whom are US registered entities, and America is still located on planet Earth. I have read somewhere that an alien is usually a person who isn't domiciled on the home planet, so, I humbly submit that I am not an alien, but a foreigner.

After entering planet United States of America, the excitement of the inter-planetary travel hit old bladder hard and I walked toward the 'rest-room' to empty said bladder. Out of sheer force of habit, I walked into the room on the left, only to get told off by one of the ladies who surprised me by being in the men's room. Turns out the ladies 'rest-room' was on the left and the blokes on the right, while I am used to vice-versa. Maybe I am being too picky or thick headed. Once I got into the right toilet and finished my business, I reached for the flush handle, on the right side of the cistern and didn't find one there. Of course, the handle was on the left! During the whole time I was in the States, I would religiously grope the right side of the flush before actually flushing. Having done my business and thoroughly washing my hand, I went out got into my BIL's car, and naturally it was left hand drive.

Now there is a school of thought that thinks left hand drive is the natural one and that the rest of the world is bonkers to drive on the other side. You will find that school to be mostly in America. There is another school of thought that things driving on the right side of the road is, well, not right. I am neutral about this and don't mind either, having lived in America aping Dubai and in Britain and its erstwhile colony. So this is not so much a gripe, but an observation.

The journey between the airport and home was completed without incident. On coming home, I found all switches to be in the on position, but no lights seemed to be on. So I assumed that for all its sophistication and industrial development, the place had a power cut. Then it hit me. On is off and off is on. What the world knows as the universal on position, is the off posish there.

All this got me thinking. Why would this happen? Why would everything, even the most mundane of things be the exact opposite of what the rest of the world considers normal? My thinking and groping later, I came to a plausible reason for this. When the old geezer Amerigo Vespucci did the hop across the ocean back in the 15th century, he must have been pretty peeved at matters the way they were done in Europe. He thought, "Right, I've now discovered my own continent. I'm going to do things my way here. And that way is to do things in a manner contrary to how the rest of those fools in Europe do it." And there folks, is how America came to be the way it is. I'm positive. Astute observers would no doubt, point out to me that in the 15th century, there were no cars, no electricity or immigration or indeed toilets. My explanation covers this too. The tradition established by Amerigo has been carried on by generations after him, who, no doubt, often visited Europe to make sure they were doing everything the Europeans didn't.

Happy New Year folks!

Divine warnings

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 25 Oct 2010 14:38:00 +0000

People often seem to think there is a link between climate change *cough global warming cough* and pretty much anything modern humans do. I do too. Something is messing about with the planet's weather and I guess it is time to invite Hardy Boys and Scooby Doo to find out exactly what's fooling around with the weather.

I have known this to be true ever since I owned by first bicycle at the tender old age of 6 (of course, I owned a cycle even before that, but I was never responsible for its upkeep, or rather, maintenance in running condition. Admittedly, I admit I might have been responsible for the disintegration of quite a few of my earlier cycles, but again, such an admission would be tantamount to digression from the topic, so I withdraw said admission.)

In the late 1980s and early 1990s, climate change was the product of insane disaster mongers who claimed to think weather patterns were changing. The topic wasn't even fashionable! In such an environment, how did I, at the tender age of 6-7, realise something's wrong with the weather? I may not have termed the phenomenon as climate change or even global warming. I suppose in my fertile mind, it was more of global warning (scratch that, divine warning is a closer fit).

Had someone asked me to define what this divine warning is, I might have said its God's way of saying I should not waste water by unnecessarily washing myself or my bike. Allow me to explain.

I have been jinxed with the rains since that age. It would pour cats and dogs each and every time I wash my vehicle. Without fail. The day I decide to restore the colour of my cycle/car/bike back to the colour its maker had bestowed on it, it would rain. No ordinary wetting of the land, mind you. It would be torrential. I would normally choose a day that is bright and sunny to perform said ritual. No matter how sunny the day begins, the moment I finish washing and drying and decide to take my gleaming ride out to air, clouds would rumble in and it would pour. I learnt then that this is a divine warning. As I grew older, I began to think the rains were merely an acknowledgement of me being active. A divine celebration of sorts. So I thought maybe this is a message from God that I should be lazy and outsourced my washing activities. That didn't help either. The vehicle would be wet and dirty by the time I got back from the garage after a good scrub down.

Around 2000, I learnt that the best form of defence is offense, so I began washing my bike even more frequently, in fact, at one stage, it was a continuous process. I would wash, it would rain and I would wash again and it would rain again...you get the drift. The resultant flooding drowned large parts of Meena Estate, which I refuse to be held responsible for.

At wit's end, I decided to flee the country. Maybe going to a country where it rains for 2 or 3 days in a year would break the jinx. So I went to Dubai. My calculation was correct and the jinx with the rains had been broken. My incessant washing did not turn Dubai into a fertile region. However, there was another problem. Just like the suits at CO2 Inc., discovered it isn't so much as global warming but climate change, I discovered my jinx was never with the rain, it was with nature. In Dubai, there would be sand storms. I would wash my car and the next day it would be covered in dust as if someone had emptied the contents of their vacuum cleaner on my car. The dust bowl that is the Arabian Desert would let out an almighty belch and attempt to convert the city of Dubai back into the desert from which it arose. It was horrible. It would lie waiting for me to part with Dh 25 for a car wash. And then pounce.

I realised then that it there is no point fighting nature and gave up all hope of ever having a clean vehicle. Keeping it clean and admiring it for the few hours it remained clean was all I could do.

Having failed with the rains and dust, I decided I might as well go to a place where it rains more often than it shines and moved to the UK. True to its reputation, it would chuck it down each time I washed, but that's alright, I knew it was coming and more or less got used to a dirty vehicle. Nature had decided to test me and I had failed. I had given up.

Just when I soulfully decided to get used to the notion of a perpetual dirty vehicle, I decided that for one last time, I would pay to have my scooter washed. I paid the money and took possession of a gleaming scooter and looked up and lo and behold! No clouds. In fact, it has been 2 weeks now and it hasn't rained. In all my time in the UK, it hasn't been rain free for 2 weeks in a row. Nature is cruel, I tell you, she's just taunting me with that can of wax to shine my scooter before she chucks it down again, but I'm going to be one step ahead of the game. I am never going to wash or wax my scooter again; maybe it will never rain in the UK again...

Endhirun

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 16:37:00 +0000

October is usually a monumental month in India each year, day 2 of the month marks the birthday of the Father of Nation - monumental mostly because booze is not available in the 'open' market on that day, day 23 marks the birthday of the Father (mine, of course!) and with Diwali in the vicinity, festivity is in the air.

2010 was different. India was grappling with two other epic events. CWG or Common Wealth Games (not sure what is 'Common' about wealth or what games have to do with Wealth, but what would I know, I'm not a cricketer). And a couple of days before that, the release of Robot a.k.a.for.tax.reasons. Endhiran.

The amount of hype and hoopla surrounding the release of this movie boggled the 'ol noodle. The thing with all Rajnikanth movies is that there is always going to be an atmosphere of festivity in the air, expectation even. Expectation, not of a good movie or *gosh* a story, but of entertainment for the masses. He normally does not disappoint (*cough* 'Baba' *cough*) and the masses' mass hysteria is often appeased. This time though, there was a critical difference. Gone were the trademark introduction songs where he astounds one and all by doing completely varied things like ride a motorcycle, horse, cycle, bus, auto-rickshaw or something equally varied before the ol' song and dance around what his name is and what his beliefs are for that movie. Sterling stuff, all that. None of that in this movie. None at all. Zilch, Nada.

Once cannot accuse the old top of not doing anything different in this movie though. For instance, there was not a single scene of him smoking a beedi. He was also playing the role of a geek and technocrat in this movie, something that must have been hard to pull off for a guy who is in his elements in more labour intensive roles. He has also proved that he is a man of his words. Back in the nineties, he wowed the world by warning all baddies that anything he says needs to be compounded by a factor of 100 in order to comprehend the magnitude and seriousness with which he says anything. Now he's proved he backs that by making one robot which multiplied itself a 100 times to devastate Chennai. Kudos.

For a movie that has been set in 2010, the story is about as watertight as a piece of gauze. Due to reasons of health and safety, I am not going to review the movie. I would say, though, that had the story been set in 2050 or something that establishes it as science fiction, I may have enjoyed it a bit more.

Just like Chitti the Robot is amazing, I find his creator's car, the Mercedes CLK convertible amazing. In the movie, it appears to have powers that even Chitti does not have. For example, when Chitti gets behind the wheel for the first time, he drives the car straight into the median, which, among other things, takes out the front right fender and most of the front bumper, but by the very next scene, when they pull into the good scientist's house, the car is gleaming and spotless - it has the powers of self healing! How cool is that. Then there's the scene where Chitti snatches Aishwarya from her wedding and takes off in the Merc, a whole army of Indian security forces materialises in seconds and dumps an entire years' supply of bullets in the general direction of the car, and yet it still chugs on, old faithful, what! I simply loved the way the car could do wheelies, jump over bridges, drive over trucks, get shot at by everything except nuclear bombs and still outrun all badies. I resolved at the movie that my next car would only be bought if it could do at least 1 of the above, its no point owning an automobile that is going to go kaput the moment you run over a nail or run into something as silly as a wall.

On a side note, I don't know what all the fuss about security at the CWG is all about. In the couple of minutes it took Chitti to reach the main road from the wedding hall, an entire army materialised. If that level of security could be provided to an individual who is just a scientist, i.e., not a movie star or politician, then sportsmen have no need to worry. Its all safe and secure.

In order to see the movie about the robot that can only be destroyed with an axe, the wife and I took our chances against the elements, risking life, limb and dry clothes, only to return disappointed. The Gods were chucking it down with a vengeance in bleary old Blighty on the Saturday night that we decided to venture to Cineworld. Cineworld, I might add, is exactly 6 minutes and 30 seconds away from home on the trusty old Burgman. 6 minutes and 30 seconds is all it took for us to get soaked to the bone, the rain was that heavy. We dripped and sploshed our way into the theatre, stood in queue for a further 5 minutes and only on reaching the counter did we notice that all shows for that day were sold out. So we sploshed and soaked our way back home and all but sat in the washing machine to dry out.

The next day, we decided to combine exercise with strategy and ran the 3 miles to the theatre at 10am, only to discover we were the first souls onsite. Not even theatre staff were around. Not recognising the signals from the Gods, we waited. When staff finally arrived onsite, we virtually lynched them and found a couple of seats on the only show available - 8:45pm on a Sunday evening. Notwithstanding the fact that we would be sleepy and tired the next day, we went for it.

Having fulfilled various social commitments, we ran late for the show and anxious to get a good seat, we skipped dinner and went straight in. Around 3.5 hours later, we staggered out, none-the-wiser. To his credit, God gave all the signals and short of hitting us on the head with a kitchen sink and putting up a large neon sign over our heads asking us not to be so over-enthu in going to the movie, he did everything else. I mean, if torrential rain, closed cinemas, sold out shows and lack of food cannot dampen our spirits, what can.

In common with all Rajni movies, we expected too much and this time, we did not get what we bargained for. So Enthiran, for us, became E(zhn)thu run (get up and run). Perhaps if we hadn't been sucked in by the hype, if we hadn't gone through all that trouble to watch the movie, we might have enjoyed it. Perhaps.

P. S.: Couldn't help but wonder, how many tonnes of Botox would the lead pair (or should I say trio) have consumed?

PDAs and a desperate plea for help!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 19 Sep 2010 21:02:00 +0000

I suppose I would do well to clarify right upfront that this post has nothing to do with those new-fangled devices called PDAs, the ones that become obsolete the minute you chuck a truck load of hard earned cash in order to acquire them. What this post is about is public displays of affection. Don't get me wrong...I'm no prude. I enjoy the sight of a loved up couple as much as the next guy. In fact, I would even go as far as saying the act turns me on a notch or two.

Having established that, there are still some displays that are too much for me to handle. Having to deal with the couple involved often brings out a long dormant animal in me. More so when said canoodling happens in the morning rush. With all my thoughts focussed on tasks to be accomplished that morning, how many clients are going to be blowing a gasket or two, with me being at the receiving end of the explosion, the last thing I want is to have to deal with a couple who can't stay away from each other, their bodies inter-twined snake like and the air that we breath not even trying to come between them, for there are no gaps.

The most discomforting part is the role I am forced to play in this sordid affair, having to go where air finds it impossible to go! It seems unfair that in order to listen to some music, one has to spend 5-10 minutes separating right ear bud from left.

Mr. Right H Phone and Ms. Left E Phone may be having an affair, but that doesn't give them the right to seek the pleasure of each others' company every spare minute of the day. If a human being were to behave in such a manner at their place of work, they would be searching for a job faster than you can say, "What ho!". Not headphones, they can canoodle with impunity, impervious to people or objects around, children or adults.

I can virtually see my readers nodding in agreement, for they have, I am positive, had to deal with the frisky couple on a daily basis. I ask you, how do you manage to keep them apart? This is a plea from a man who is fighting a losing battle, a call for assistance, a wounded general calling for back-up...help me keep the left and right earphones of my headphones apart, untangled and available for use as soon as I take them out of my pockets. Thank you.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 14:11:00 +0000

Poor Handkerchief
2nd Shelf, Any Cupboard
Every house
Earth
EX7 1NCT

12 August 2010

Dear P. Handkerchief,

It is with regret that I am forced to inform you that owing to more convenient alternatives and changing priorities, your position has been rendered redundant.

As you are aware, your position was the number 1 choice in the following areas:

- Cleaner #1: the ubiquitous paper tissue has replaced you with its simplicity, ease of use and convenience of dumping the used product into the nearest dustbin (or street, depending on which part of the world we are talking about). You will agree with me that this is better than carrying you around in our pockets and handbags, all wet and soggy, until you are washed again. The public do not seem to mind the additional impact on trees being cut down to make these tissues.

- Portable air conditioner #1: until the early part of the naughties, you were used in hot areas as an impromptu fan to cool your owners. A dab here and a dab there would help clear out beads of sweat for more refreshing sweat to come out and cool the skin. This has been replaced by air conditioned environments (cars, buses and buildings) and again by paper tissues. The public seem to prefer wiping sweat with a tissue rather than you, I suppose, due to the fact that with a fresh tissue, one is confident that the only dampness in the tissue is their sweat and not other bodily fluids you might have accumulated in your fabric.

- Romantic #1: gone are the days when the ultimate act of chivalry a man could do was to hand you over to a woman in distress, a woman in tears or to revive a swooning woman. The days of chivalry are gone. Some woman see obtaining services of a man out of chivalry as slightly lower than begging and frown on it. Men are now confused about which women to be chivalrous about and which ones to be just men.

- Simplicity #1: in the years past, a man's pocket would hold a wallet, some loose change, house-cum-car keys and you. A woman would have the odd make-up items, comb, mirror, powder, 3 blue pens, 3 black pens, 2 pencils, a calculator, change of clothes, spare shoes, house-cum-car keys, the kitchen sink and 3 of you. Now, in addition to all these, both sexes have to carry, in addition to all of the above, at least one mobile phone, a tablet computer and sometimes a laptop. With the additional weight and space required, I'm afraid you were seen to be least indispensable.

As I have had to painfully point out above, all of your key market areas have been lost to newer and more convenient rivals. I am, therefore, left with no choice but to let you go.

Your service to mankind will be dearly missed. If, in the future, the trend is reversed, I look forward to hiring you again.

I wish you all the best in your retirement in a dusty corner of the cupboard.

Yours sincerely,

Man and Woman
Partners

Mankind LLP

Scrub scrub...

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 14:31:00 +0000

I like guidance. It provides one with a much needed sense of direction. Good guidance channels our energy, moving us out of headless chicken mode to a measured, planned and systematic mode.

Timely guidance is even better, it's a light house on a dark and lonely night at sea, the one sign-board 50 meters before an extremely complicated junction that nudges you onto the right path. It's not only humans who guide other humans, animals do it too, I've seen hundreds of hours of programming on Discovery Channel in which a bear or cheetah or lion teaches it's young on the art of hunting, killing and generally on how to not be hungry.

I have always benefited from guidance, both timely and otherwise. My family and friends have all guided me and protected me against many of the pitfalls of adulthood. I've even received guidance on how to identify good and not so good guidance. In fact, among the things I relished the most in my move to the UK was the amount of guidance given to me by my new employers on the different tools and facilities available. There was a good amount of overload, but it helped immensely, especially after my harrowing experience at Dubai where I was given a laptop and asked to come back with the deliverable!

Why am I waxing eloquent on guidance, one may ask. Well, Mr. One, here's why. A recurring theme of this blog has been to point out places where the developed nations' attitude to advice and guidance has been overdone, prime examples being the hot coffee advisory, 'station floors are slippery when wet' announcement on the Tube when it starts drizzling (which is all the time here!), 'ladies and gentlemen, in this hot and inclement weather, it is advisable to carry a bottle of water with you at all times' when its warm enough to touch 15 degrees. You get the drift. Recently, however, I saw some guidance which rendered all this as valid. What I saw rocked my foundations and made me doubt the very faith in my survival as a human being.

It was a normal day, routine to the point of being boring. I was going about my business like I always do. While going about my business, I wanted to do some business, so I paid a visit to the gents. Job done, all smooth so far. I popped around to the wash-basin to wash my hands and admire my dashing good looks and I saw this:

I do not remember anyone telling me HOW to wash my hands since 4th grade and I felt terribly insulted even at that tender age that my father thought I should be taught how to do such a basic thing. Dad, being dad, would simply ignore me and drone on about the importance of cleaning between the nails and scrubbing behind my palms.

As always, a few things immediately came tumbling into my head.

I was in this large company, which prides itself in the quality of people it hires. There is apparently a rigorous recruitment process involving multiple rounds of vetting and filtering. People walking in through the doors of this company are considered, by any stretch of imagination to be half-wits at the very least. This being the case, does the company really think it's employees don't know how to wash their hands?
I immediately looked around the stalls looking for similar instructions on how to use the rest of the toilet. Obviously, if the company thinks people don't know how to wash up after, they surely don't think employees are capable of using extremely complicated gadgets like toilet paper and flushes
Since the spread of disease is a real threat, will the people who fail to wash their hands be reported and investigated? You know, just to ensure that they were just being silly and the failure to wash hands properly is not a malicious threat to the peace and harmony? In other words are they going to be investigated to rule out a dastardly Al Qaeda plan to inflict pain and suffering?
The diagram itself looked pretty confusing to me. Assuming I am at the lower end of the spectrum in the target audience, how is this going to be implemented? If I need to be told how to wash my hands, I should probably have issues with understanding anything more complicated than the alphabet.

Needless to say, I was so taken aback and insulted at being patronized so blatantly that I washed my hand without referring to the diagram. Just as I finished, I looked up to smirk at the picture when I saw the part about 'estimated time taken to complete the procedure - 40-60 seconds'. I'd done it in around 30 seconds. I felt naughty. Perhaps there is a camera hidden behind the mirror that records the time taken by each person and anyone taking less than 60 seconds is reported. I suppose I would have to get used to watching my back for the rest of my life now...

Standing still

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 14:46:00 +0000

I've been having quite a commute for the past couple of months. 40 miles. Each way. Good news is that the Sun seems to have been fairly frightened by my threats to take legal action against it and its cronies, the British government and nature, so its been more regular in its daily duties. As an added bonus to appease my fury, its even thrown in a fair deal of warmth as part of the package. So riding has been enjoyable, but for the miserable network of inter-connected potholes that we in London call roads (more on the roads later).

A bulk of said commute is on the motorway/highway. This is where I usually have the most fun. As I buzz along happily at 65-70 mph, I have time to sit back, take in the scenery, observe the sights and sounds of life in the fast lane. From trucks laden with freight to cars laden with kids (I'm not quite decided on which type of cargo is more difficult to handle - goods or kids, but that's not my problem is it?), there is one thing in common. They're all in a tearing hurry, looking highly purposeful and generally giving me the impression they're trying to get to some place. But that's probably just me.

The readers of this blog are all astute folks and would have by now raised a very pertinent question. If I was hurtling along at a not so sedate pace of 70 mph, how is it that I'm able to see all these things? Do I have hidden super powers that I didn't have before? Has the power of a highly sharpened vision been hard coded into my DNA and is that surfacing now? None of the above. My only response to these questions would be to refer said astute readers to a good friend of mine Mr. A. Einstein. He was a popular lad, so I don't think he needs much of an introduction.

When normal folks like me have a theory, its promptly dismissed as rubbish, mallarky, bulls*it or variants thereof. But when A. Einstein proposes a theory, the world listens. In this instance, I am talking about the blokes theory on relativity@@.

It's like this: while I'm buzzing along at 70 mph, the rest of the world seems to be thundering along at 80-85 mph. That leaves me with a feeling of standing still in a fast moving world and that is what leads to profound thoughts such as the ones described above. Make no mistake, this relativity is a rather tricky customer. On more than one occasion, I've felt that I'm literally standing still. Had I been in a car as opposed to a bike, I would be forgiven for taking my seat belt off, opening the door and stepping out to catch a breath of air, only to realise I'm still moving at a rate of knots that is extremely unhealthy to skin, bones and internal organs.

Looking at all these folks race down the motorway makes me think about what the hurry is? Isn't the journey as important as the destination? Since when did getting to a place become such a chore? I've always enjoyed taking the long route home. Slowing down and taking in the scenery rejuvenates me and recharges me. I arrive feeling fresh and ready to take on the day between the time I park and reach the office, after that, all bets are off! There have been several times when I wanted to flag down a car or two and ask them where the fire is and why they're in such a hurry, but have controlled myself for fear of being run over, if not accidentally, on purpose.

In any case, the moment traffic slows to a crawl at one of London's infamous jams, it's me who is the subject of relativity, for I would be scurrying down the road much faster than any other vehicle!

@@ I am a poor student of commerce, so I have readers, God and A Einstein (not necessarily in that order) to kindly forgive me if I have gotten the theory of relativity all wrong.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 13:13:00 +0000

I'm back! I suppose I've been conspicuous by my absence these past couple of months**. An explanation is in order.

I'd like to say that I've been at the International Space Station, due to which I was cut off from the internet, but I can't. It's now possible to Tweet from space, so blogging shouldn't be an exception either.

I'd like to say I've been deep underground cleaning up the mess that BP created in Florida, but then chances are I'd have been on every TV channel worth its salt, and I haven't been on any TV channel, worth its salt or not.

I'd like to say I've been upto a lot of different things, but no one would believe me, so I'd like to say I've been lazy, bereft of the will or ideas to blog and halleluiah! its a miracle, everyone believes me.

I am back and I will find that Will To Post (must be French, funny name that) and be more regular.

** P.S. I've gone out on a limb here by saying my absence has been noticed. This may be construed in a sense, as me saying I've been missed. So if anyone reading this is now thinking, "Hmm, that's funny I didn't notice that this guy's not been posting for a few months!" I have only one thing to say: "KA!!!" *with tongue stuck out in your general direction*

Has China invaded Chennai?

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 10 May 2010 16:20:00 +0000

One of the weekly rituals that the wife and I indulge in is to give the old cooker a break and head out to eat at London's finest. Well, finest within reason of course. The old pockets are rather dusty, shallow and unlined at this point. Finest with a budget. Budget finese. One gets the drift. One of the places we frequent is a nice little Indian restaurant called Tulsi. Unlike other 'Indian' restaurants in the UK, this one actually serves Indian food. None of its dishes are named Madras. Or Curry. Or Chicken Vindaloo.

So it is that when the mind desires north Indian food, the mind directs the legs in the direction of Tulsi. During one such visit, an item on the menu caught our attention. It was catchily named Idli Manchurian.

While at school, I was famous for one thing, being bad at history and well, pretty much every subject that called itself a science. However, even I know that an idli has never been involved with China. Heck, only in the last 30-40 years has the humble idli had the guts to go beyond the borders of South India. In much the same way that it is well documented that is not possible for idlies to have visited Manchuria and gotten romantically involved with local dishes, it is well documented that Indo-China relations have, at best, been strained. So even if an idli managed to sneak across the borders, this unholy matrimony could have never happened.

I suppose the same argument can be given for almost every other Chinese dish, such as 'Gobi Manchurian' and 'Mushroom Manchurian'. However, one can also argue that 'Gobi' is simply Hindi for a cauliflower and a cauliflower is something that is global, so Gobi Manchurian could very well be a desi name for cauliflower made in Manchuria. The same goes for mushroom manchurian. It's not particularly hard to envision a cook in China picking up a mushroom and plonking it in a wok of manchurian sauce just to see how it tastes. However, an idli is an idli in any language and I am sure ingredients that go into idli batter are not the same ones that go into rice pancakes.

While I have analysed and ruled out the possibility that an idli made it to Manchuria, there is a school of thought that considers the reverse to be possible. After all, China is the de facto supplier to the world. Everything is manufactured in China now. So, is it possible that in this global invasion, China surreptitiously slipped some of Manchuria's finest into South India on a covert mission to covert South Indians to their way of eating? It is a distinct possibility.

It remains unclear how and where this fusion of the Chinese staple and South Indian staple happened. However, one thing is clear; it was created by a genius. The spongy idli perfectly soaks in flavours, juices and manchurian sauce and the resulting taste stays inside the idli until the last bite. Unlike gobi manchurian, which has fried cauliflower with flavour around it, the flavour resides inside the idli. Delicious. I cannot help but wholeheartedly endorse the alliance. Long live the idli manchurian.

Democracy...

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 10 May 2010 15:59:00 +0000

Almost everyone outside of the US of A and I'm sure several hundred people within the US (those who are actually aware that the US is not the only country in the world) will be aware of the elections that just went by in the UK. The same people would also know that the next government does not have absolute majority and all that good stuff.

For me, this election was a first in a couple of areas:

- I voted for the first time in my life
- In the 6 years I have been out of India, this is the first election I have been a part of.

In true essay style, I will now elaborate on each of the above.

My first vote...

In donkey's years, I'm more than 2.5. I have been in the voting age group for give or take 9 years. Until yesterday, I had never set foot inside a voting booth. I know that statement probably comes across as an incredibly irresponsible and undemocratic statement and I only ask that you hold off on passing judgement until I set out my defence. I may have reached the wizened age of 18 many moons ago, but I have spent a six of the 9 years since then outside India, 3 of which were in the UAE, where the words election and democracy would hurt the sentiments and beliefs of the people of that country. From there, the story moves to the UK, where for some reason unknown to me, the government lasted until now. Strange then, that my first experience of voting is in a country I am not yet a citizen of, have no cultural ties to and the only common aspect between said country and me is that the forefathers of the citizens of this country ruled over the forefathers of my country! While in India, I wasn't allowed to vote because I didn't have a voter's identity card and for some reason, the people who manned the election booths thought my general appearance was, let's say, suspicious. Therefore, I was promptly turned away from the booth.

So it was that I trooped into the election booth at St Joseph's recreation centre in Wembley, all eager and enthusiastic to cast my vote and decide the fate of the UK for the next 5 years. I cast my vote alright, no 11th hour hesitations or nervousness. I was the picture of confidence all through. I did have a major gripe though: nobody placed a mark of identification on my index finger to prove I had voted. One of the things I had most eagerly looked forward to was to showing off the little dot that is usually placed on the right index finger to prove that one had actually voted. No such thing in the UK I'm afraid. They are a trusting bunch of blokes. I could have confidently walked in there and voted all over again and they wouldn't have batted an eyelid.

Obviously, being the honest bloke that I am, I didn't.

My first election outside India...

Until last month, I thought elections in any democratic country would be the same. A huge exercise involving thousands of people to rally the masses, huge campaigns, riots, posters, advertisements, riots, heavy security, leaders travelling the length and breath of the country seeking votes, riots, mudslinging and did I mention riots?

Much like the British attitude to driving, there was none of that here. There were 2 pages dedicated to election coverage (which focussed only on the three main Prime Ministerial candidates plus little titbits of information on other goons in the race) and 24X7 coverage of election campaigns on the news channels, which one cannot watch for more than 30 minutes. Not because they are uninteresting, no no no no no, it's because after 30 minutes, the remaining 23 hours and 30 minutes of programming is one endless loop of the first 30 minutes.

There were a few banners, but none of them in places where you wouldn't find any other advertisements. So, while driving along, you would see an awful advertisement asking you to the 'cool' thing and buy a can of Coke and the next one would be one asking you if you wanted the crooks of Labour party to loot you again. I missed not seeing every available wall in the country painted with party graffiti. I missed seeing posters upon posted lined up on every wall that did not have graffiti on it. There were no election rallies, hundreds of thousands of drunk people did not congregate to listen to one leader bad mouth another (gives me the impression that the only time hundreds of thousands of drunk people congregate here is to watch football, but I could be wrong). Instead, leaders here went to visit old age homes and schools. Hardly the target market, if you ask me. None of the annoying features of an Indian election were present here and I missed that, only because, I think an election should be as feverish and celebrated as a world cup, since it only comes every 5 years!

The came Election Day. Can't say it dawned bright and sunny for it rarely dawns that way in this country. It dawned alright. Life went on. No indication of an election under way. Police were conspicuous in their absence. There were no queues anywhere and even when I went around to cast my vote at 8:30 PM, there were around 20 people in the booth (including the booth officials I might add). Voting itself was a simple affair, no identity card needed. Walk up, give your address and if your name is there on a list, you can vote. So I could have voted as James Pandurangan and no one would have batted an eyelid, as long as there is a James Pandurangan in the neighbourhood.

On the whole, I went into election season expecting fireworks, loud fireworks and I all I got was a soggy pop, from a soda can. Don't care though, I got to vote - lack of an identification mark notwithstanding!

Hair raising issues

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 24 Apr 2010 22:58:00 +0000

The birds are chirping, the sun is shining (as much as it is allowed to shine in this blessed land). Life in general appears to be under an illusion of smoothness. Then this trinket of information comes along.

Before I'm judged for being a snob who cannot be kind towards the men and women who beautify and keep the old top trim, I would like to say in my defense that I'm not that person. I don't blame mis-informed people for jumping to that conclusion simply because I said it's not worth paying 20,000 quid for a haircut. I hold Velusamy in the highest of high esteem. I think he did a sterling job of keeping Mount Coconut trim. And he did it at 0.0003% of the cost of the £20,000 bloke. You don't need a barber to be able to sing and dance, you merely need one who can wield a pair of scissors to lop a lock of hair off, while steering clear of one's ears and other peripheral gadgets and attachments. If he can do said lopping with sufficient finesse to give an appearance of uniformity and style, that is a bonus. Like Velusamy.

I think this current crop of 'celebrity hairstylists' are a useless bunch of blokes. Not only do they charge you an arm and a leg, in addition to the Earth and the Sky, they don't actually chop any hair, simply make a floopy mess of it and send you on your way, while leaving you significantly out of pocket.

Consider this. I googled for funny photos of people who have had electric shocks and a typical sample was this:

It is widely known and accepted that one of my virtues is that my research is thorough. So I followed that up with a consultation with Google on photos of stylish haircuts. I came up with this:

I cannot, for the life of me, differentiate one from the other.

When I was growing up, one of the things which traumatised me the most was that my parents would never, ever be happy with the length of my hair unless my scalp was visible and in the event I got into a fight with the friendly neighbor, I would not be weakened by hair that could be yanked by said friendly neighbor. I've tried, as all adolescents do, to rebel against this style unfriendly policy and have my hair cut 2mm longer than specification, only to be marched back to the barber for a top-up. I must say though, that this was never a problem with Velusamy. He had only one style and that was to lop off my locks to the exact length my parents wanted. No more, although less was appreciated. He would do a uniform job, and this was more desirable than the job my sisters would do when I was even younger. Yes, I am reliably informed that on more than one occasion, my sisters have practiced their hair cutting skills on me. I thankfully have no direct recollection of this dastardly act.

Coming to the topic of this post, my interest in hair dressers/barbers/saloon artists/hair stylists (call them what you will) was piqued by an interview on rediff.com of AR Rahman's hair dresser. I am a fan of ARR and all that, but anyone who has seen him will immediately be able to tell 2 things:

for all the money he has made and success he has seen, AR Rahman is yet to invest in a solid comb. Like all geniuses, his hair is unkempt and untidy. No complaints, just an observation.
looking at the length of his hair, one would wonder if this hair stylist of his simply seats him on a saloon chair, nips out for a tea, comes back and gets his cheque for whatever obscene amount he charges AR Rahman for the 'haircut'.

If you click into the link, you would also find pictures of other celebrities whose hair this bloke's 'dressed'. Almost all of them have uncut, unkempt hair.

Thanks to the way I've been brought up, a hair cut is a monthly evil that must be dealt with as just that, a monthly evil. Hair once cut, should not bother you at all for 20 days, after which the odd comb may be introduced and 10 days from the day it needs a comb, the hair is put back where it belongs - the floor of a saloon. So, pardon me for not seeing style nor fashion in unkempt hair. The only benefit I see of spiky hair is in self defense, much the same way a porcupine uses its quills.

The bike of my dreams...or not

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 28 Mar 2010 14:52:00 +0000

I've always been a bit of a dreamer. Dreams of both the day and night variety have visited me while I've been awake and while I've been sleeping.

I've always had some recurring theme to my dreams - either I'm falling endlessly or some such thing. I've rarely been surprised by my dreams, until last night.

Last night, I dreamt about riding my scooter. Nothing out of the ordinary here. However, the strange thing was that I noticed that the ride was distinctly bumpy and not comfortable at all. Rough road or a road in India, one might helpfully deduce. No. When I looked at the 'road of my dreams', it was a road that one can only dream about, clean, blackish grey, freshly laid and smooth as a Persian carpet. This led keen ol' me to take a peep under my scooter and I instantly found out the source of the bumpy ride. The wheels were square and I was bouncing along end on end, resulting in aforementioned ride quality.

I've heard that all dreams signify something. I cannot, for the life of me, understand why I would 'reinvent the wheel' and ride on square wheels. If this signifies that I will find a new way of doing something that's been done in a particular way for eons, I am worried. On several fronts. Square wheels are a pretty lousy form of locomotion and if this is indicative of a 'new way of doing something' then I can be sure its not a very suitable way of doing it, unless the objective is to ensure all users of said new method have suicide wishes and a few extra bones hanging about just to rattle and break. It's not at all efficient, I tell you.

I have been trying to make head of tail of this since the time I had it and I am not very happy to report that I am no closer to finding out even remotely why I would have such an 'innovative' dream.

So here's a call to all expert dream interpret my dream and give me ONE good reason why I should dream about square wheels. Thank you very much.

The master blaster in me...

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 15:45:00 +0000

Reading all the hoo-hah about a certain Sachin Tendulkar scoring a double hundred and this, I thought it might be prudent for me to share with one and all, my own 'Master Blaster' days.

I suppose a 'setting the scene' paragraph is in order. I was brought up in a boarding school. For the avoidance of doubt, I must clarify that the operative word is 'brought' up in a boarding school, as opposed to 'went' to a boarding school. It was home, you see. Like all boarding schools, this one would be closed for almost three and a half months of the year. For a majority of these months, the only souls on the entire 750/900 acre (size varies depending on who you're talking to), there would be a sum total of 5 families on campus. Including ours. That included 6 (b)rats that the pied piper called holidays could not get rid of. At the disposal of these brats were approximately 8 tennis courts, 3 basketball courts, 4 badminton courts, 1 swimming pool, 1 club house with 2 snooker tables, 2 table tennis tables and 3 carom boards, and roughly 10 play grounds. Cricket was the favoured sport of this band of brothers with the occasional peppering of seasonal games such as football, basketball and tennis (depending on which tournament was on TV at that time). This post is about Cricket.

Sidin, being the Genius that he is, has brought up the 'what exactly is a one day cricket match' question. In our case though, these matches were more likely 'day into night' cricket matches. You see, one day cricket matches just say one day, they do not specify 8 hours. Hence we would commence proceedings at the crack of dawn (usually around noon) and go one until one of the following happened:

a) one of the mothers came after us wielding a particularly stout stick
b) one of us lost a tooth and/or an eye
c) we lost all the balls and would need to retire in order to grovel and beg for a few more the next day from Manick or Raju, the sports room in-charges
d) a massive disagreement between teams resulted in a sulky cancellation of proceedings, and most often,
e) it became so dark that even with the aid of the lone streetlight at the end of the ground, it would become impossible to see a yellow tennis ball coming towards the batsman/fielder at speed, resulting in a wicket or boundary, which quickly degenerated into situation under (d) above. On the rare occasions that we would play like real men, with a cricket ball, we would call it quits as soon as (b) above happened. You see, we had only 1 pad per team, no gloves and no helmets, and several budding pace bowlers.

Keen and alert readers that you are, you would have, by now, no doubt, raised an eyebrow in protest saying a cricket match would require atleast 22 people. Not ours. All we needed was an even number of blokes and even when that wasn't possible, we would manage admirably by either having a floating team member or even better, convincing the weakest player that he wants to be an umpire since he is the fairest, most keen eyed and technically knowledgeable bloke in all of Lovedale. Usually worked like a charm.

That said, however, 6 people are not even near the full complement required to field a full ground. That instantly ruled out Top Flats, which was the largest ground in the northern hemisphere at that altitude, or something like that. In order to give the fielding team a fair chance, the most likely choice was the basketball court just below Prep School. It was the perfect size if the batting team also did part time fielding. However, it's size did have some disadvantages, a well placed hook could get a boundary and hence 4 or 6 runs depending on which part of the boundary wall the ball hit (the upper part being a 6), but more importantly, it could also:

- get one in trouble with Ms. Jerry Nash of Girls School if one hit the ball too hard and so much as touched a window of Girls School
- get one out if you hit hard enough for the ball to cross the boundary wall. To any ball wanting to escape the relentless throwing and hitting, crossing the wall was the ticket to freedom, for it is, to this day, virtually impossible to retrieve a ball that went into the dense undergrowth beyond the wall.

If this team comes across as an amateurish team, now would be a time to change opinions, for I am about to introduce some of the most (in)famous bowlers in the history of Cricket.

Ganesh, seeing this gentle giant thunder down from the boundary wall is a sight to behold. With the arrogant laziness of an elephant and pretty much the height of said elephant, this guy would unleash the ball from a height of 9 feet. A normal ball would come across to the average 4 feet batsman as a life threatening bouncer. Needless to say, the lone pad would be in huge demand every time this bloke came to bowl with a cricket ball. Injuries which can be brushed aside for the next day's match were fine, any further absence due to injury was a risk not worth taking. Ganesh was also the senior most bloke in the squad.

Renju. Next in seniority, he would try to bowl pace and to be honest, at that age, it did feel like pace! However, he was nowhere near the life threatening pace Ganesh wielded.

Sudhakar. This guy was a regular part timer and said he was a swing bowler, but it was more like a slowish straight ball.

Praveen - Yet another part timer. This bloke was (in)famous for chucking allegations a la Muthiah Muralidharan. Many a times he has left the ground in a huff because one of us appealed against his chuck...er, bowling.

Shibu - Renju's kid brother, until he began to realise he was being played, he would be the preferred umpire and when he realised should be playing, rather than being played, Shibu tried his hand at spin bowling. To his credit, on several occasions, the ball did reach the batsman before being smacked out of the ground. It was this quality of tempting the batsman to smack the ball to smithereens that made Shibu a prolific wicket taker.

Me. You could replace my name in Shibu's profile and it wouldn't be too inaccurate.

Now that I have introduced the bowlers, I should introduce the batsmen:

Ganesh. I have already established that this bloke was/is tall. While his height was a definite advantage in bowling and fielding, it was sometimes a liability in batting. You see, in order to ground the bat, Ganesh would have to bend over in half, but then again, it was not possible to bowl him a bouncer, the highest any of us could reach would be his hip, which he swat with disdain. He could also cover the length of the pitch in around 3 footsteps, and was hence adept at taking quick singles.

Renju. Was a decent middle order batsman, he was like Rahul Dravid, would take root at one end and pretty much stay there until a fight broke out. As I write this, I wonder if he can be called middle order. He would usually come in one down (which means he'd step in after the team lost one wicket). I suppose calling him middle order is correct since coming in at number 2 in a team of 3 does make it middle order!

Sudhakar. He could hold a bat and swing it, at times connecting the ball in the process. Pinch hitter would accurately describe him.

Praveen - memories of his batting prowess elude me, primarily because he would get into a fight over his bowling action and leave in a huff before he could bat nine times out of ten.

Shibu - for as long as I can remember, Shibu was only as tall as a bat, hence he wasn't the most effective tool in the box from a purely logistical perspective, but he had an uncanny ability to connect ball and bat and was capable of dropping the bat and scurrying between wickets like Jerry (not Ms Jerry Nash) running from Tom and was a dependable bet to get runs.

Me. For the record, I was slightly taller than Shibu. Under poor lighting conditions, I was more than capable of somehow connecting ball and bat, however, enthusiastic cheering from my team mates would often get the better of me and I would often smack the ball into the jungle, which led Ganesh to give me the nickname 'Master Blaster', a name which to this day sticks...

Aah, fun times :)

The cold Sun

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 15:14:00 +0000

I was wondering the other day, it's a good thing these scientist types changed their panic attack headlines from 'Global Warming' to 'Climate Change'. Any reference to global warming would attract a well aimed, powerful and solid kick to the referer's bottom. Allow me to explain.

Thanks to my undying efforts, the world now knows what greeted me the day after I bought my scooter. The underlying hope at that point in time was that this too would come to pass and in a fortnight the sun would come out of hibernation, provide heat and light and all that. What a load of BS that turned out to be.

It's now more than a month since said scooter entered the household and the Sun has been as lazy as ever. The bloke can slumber like a bear in hibernation, I tell you. It began getting cold and nippy way back in November. The days are getting longer now, but they sure as hell ain't getting any warmer.

When I first moved the UK, one of the major draws, for me, was the rain. This is a fact I've had to justify to every single person that has ever asked me why I chose to leave a sunny country like Dubai and come to wet and dreary UK. The normal reaction to this statement is to look at me like I have just eaten a live crocodile. Some even look at me like they did when they found out there is no Santa Claus. Once the initial shock of my statement passes by, they eventually recover and in less than 2 days, they return to their normal selves and dismiss me as an eccentric madman. I found their line of reasoning for such a reaction a bit on the cuckoo side, but I understand it better now.

Coming from a country where rain hits the headlines and only does that around 3-4 days in a year, it felt good to have regular rain again. It felt good back in the day, but like they say, too much of a good thing soon turns bad. It's rained around 3-4 days a week for the past 4 months and I've had my fill of rain, thank you very much. The temperature gauge on the dash of my scooter has forgotten what it is to be in double digit temperatures and my digits have forgotten what it would feel like to have two of their namesakes get together in the context of a weather discussion.

Even the hardy British folks seem to have stopped grumbling about the weather, probably in the vain hope that they would somehow appease the weather Gods into blessing the place with more moderate weather. No luck on that front either.

Then we have these blessed statisticians, who keep reeling off numbers that say this has been the coldest winter since records began. Since my records began, each winter has been colder than the next, according to these statistics.

It is now bright and sunny outside, but there is no point in going outside, for the Sun in this part of the world only produces light and does not bother with heating.

The other day, I was watching an advertisement by these infernal litigation lawyers, and I am seriously contemplating if there would be any point in suing the Sun, the Solar System, the UK Government (for the UK being where it is on the planet). The reason for the lawsuit? Discrimination against the people and citizens of this cold and wet country...

Update:

Funny thing happened. As with all other posts of late, this one was taking a healthy snooze in the Drafts folder for the past couple of days. I was mucking about with the weather widget on my phone and out of a whim, I googled the coldest city on Earth and came up with Yakutsuk in Siberian Russia. The current temperature as of the time I posted this is -32 degrees Celcius. Further reading up on this desolate brought up this article. God just dished out some top-of-the-line perspective didn't He?

A Christmas story...in spring!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 18 Feb 2010 20:30:00 +0000

Over Christmas, I'd been taking a much needed break from work and literally chilling out at home for 10 days (the weather was below freezing!).

For all the freedom and independence the media has in the UK, it's surprising that only two major providers of TV entertainment are present in the market - Sky and Virgin. Sky requires a dish antenna and my apartment has banned the use of dish antennas on its premises sighting aesthetic reasons. That left me with the grand choice of 1 when it comes to powering my TV.

While I am tempted to whinge about how much Virgin is ripping me off, I will control myself, for this post is about something else. I am not much of a sports fan, so that eliminates the content of around 120 of the 140 channels that Virgin provides. The only other worthwhile channels are Comedy Central, Dave (only because they have endless re-runs of Top Gear) and Discovery.

Now that we have that out of the way, said break was spent predominantly zoned out in front of the telly and the set-top box stuck firmly stuck on Comedy Central. I was watching an interesting episode of Everybody Loves Raymond and his cuckoo family. For ELR aficionados, this was the one where Frank sends an anecdote to Readers' Digest and gets published. He then walks around with a note pad trying to identify other quips he can send in, now that he is "published"!

Watching it reminded me of myself. In the early days of this blog, I wore the same shoes as Frank B. Frank walked around with a tiny notepad while the notepad in my tiny mobile phone was where I'd jot down amusing things that happened every day in my life. At one point, there were more ideas than the inclination and will to write!

As I 'matured' in the blog trade, I began to make a mental note of things that were blog-worthy. Once again, I noticed that I was flooded with ideas. This made me a very happy man, for ideas are exactly what the doctor ordered for a writer, but I found myself sorely lacking when it came to actually translating those ideas into a post that made more sense than, say, this one.

The end of that episode featured Frank hanging up his boots as a 'published writer'. I wonder if I'm headed to the same fate...am I going to hang up my boots because I can't translate ideas to posts? I don't think so, as long as I can come up posts on how I can't come up with posts :).

What do you say readers?

Condemned....to learn religion!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 18 Feb 2010 18:49:00 +0000

Ah, good old Gulf News, never fails to provide a juicy titbit or two.

This one is about a Saudi bloke who decided to marry 6 women and got busted. It gets murkier. This nutter worked for the Vice Police.

Apart from the obvious wise cracks around Vice Police itself not being vice free and the practice what you preach comeback, this is worrying on multiple grounds.

Saudi Arabia, as a self appointed protector of the Faith, has a force known as the Commission for Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice. The charter for this force is simple - make everyone who sets foot on Saudi soil adhere to the strict rules imposed by it as protector of the Faith. This force has absolute powers and is able to arrest anyone, anywhere and for reasons as flimsy as a lady showing 2 centimeters of skin from the soles of her feet when she fell down flat on her face.

The poor sods who get arrested for these 'offences' are humiliated, punished, whipped and in general made miserable.

Back to our bloke. His story is that he's married six women when he's only(!) allowed to take on 4! The story is worrying from several angles because:

the bloke works for the Vice Squad and he does this!
he claims he had no idea that 4 was the maximum - this coming from a person who is in charge of implementing said rule is even more worrying
then comes the punishment he was given:

120 lashes
travel ban for 5 years
memorise the last 2 sections of the Qu'uran.

How can a punishment be a punishment if it involves memorising Holy Scriptures? Doesn't it defeat the purpose of if 'Protectors of the Faith' consider it a punishment to learn what their religion says?

Reminds me of my good friend, Mr. 23rd Pulikesi. Among the many gems he doled out as punishment, was one where a court dabari (crier) was punished with repeating Pulikesi's praise for a week. While getting fed with kollu (horse feed). Once a day...

Strike 1, 2, 3...you're out...of this aircraft!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 07:46:00 +0000

Flights don't scare me. I'm no dare devil either. I can be scared quite easily, however, in all of my flying experience (totalling a grand 6 years), I haven't been scared of air planes. Awestruck, yes, petrified, no. From the time I looked up in awe at the huge Boeing 747-400 cargo liner that used to land on my sister's house in Bangalore (her house then used to sit next to the airport compound wall facing the runway), I'd always wanted to fly in the 747 simply because it was then the largest commerical passenger aeroplane in the world.

Until my first flight in 2005, all I had to go on were reports from near and dear on how the interiors of a plane looked. Most of the reports pointed in the direction of a similarity between KPN Travels buses and a flight's interior. Turns out that description was not entirely inaccurate, the only difference being the seats in KPN buses are more comfortable, recline more and have a lot more leg room.

To date, I have yet to fly in a 747-400, but lost interest in flying in it after Airbus announced the A380, all desires to fly shifted loyalties to Airbus. I followed all programs on Discovery channel on the making of the Airbus A380 and knew its vital statistics by heart. Again awestruck, not scared of its ability to stay in the air.

All that changed a few days ago. With me extricating bricks from intimate places not once, but thrice in one flight.

On the rare occasion the office sends me on a business trip requiring the use of a commercial airliner, I jumped with joy when my ticket from London to Dubai listed the aircraft as A380-800. Finally. I thought it would be a cruise, what with its superior leg room in cattle class and all. Note the operative word cattle class. Apparently, in my company, one needs to be arthritic and old (read: Senior Manager and above) to fly business class. The recession, I tell you.

I checked in at the airport and there it stood, huge and majestic, although one might argue that from angles, the plane looked like it could lose a few kilos. The area above the cockpit also made the plane look very old - it was completely bald.

The plane had made a hash of first impressions by coming into the airport over 25 minutes late. Airline staff helpfully attributed it to congestion in Heathrow and we all know what a busy airport Heathrow is, so impressions were promptly restored.

Once the interiors were cleaned up from its previous flight, we all shuffled in and I made myself cozy in the seat, not at all spilling out of the seat and also appreciating the decent bump in leg room. The plane eventually made it to taxi stage around 30 minutes behind schedule.

As with all planes, the captain introduced himself on the PA and helpfully told us the flight plan, speed, altitude and flying time. I have multiple issues with this information doled out by chauffeurs of the air.

flight plan: I know where I'm coming from and I am aware of where I am going. How you propose to take me there is entirely upto you, I trust your judgement. When I get into a bus from Coimbatore to Chennai, some drivers/conductors helpfully tell you it will stop at Salem, Dindivanam and Chengulpet bypass. That is helpful; I don't think any driver of a bus in any country will tell you the bus plans to be on NH47 for 200kms before turning onto NH45 for 300kms. If a pilot tells me the flight I'm on is from A to C with a stop at B, I will be mildly interested. What we usually get is that the flight is from A to C and flies past B.

speed and altitude: the airshow monitor constantly displays this information, thank you. I suppose, it's a good thing S Athai doesn't know any pilots. If she did and she flew with them, she would ask them to slow down to 30kmph (chapter 3 last paragraph!) if the pilot discloses the speed as "we'll be cruising at 875kmph."

flying time: When a ticket is bought, the normal practice is for time departure time and arrival time to be displayed. Please let me know if we're going to be late, I'd appreciate that, thank you.

There are people to say this friendly banter is to develop a rapport between the passengers and the pilot. I refer these people to the relationship between bus driver and passengers.

Anyway, the pilot gave us information on flight plan never-the-less. The flight was to fly over UK, Europe, cross over into Asia over Turkey, Baghdad, some sea and then onto UAE airspace.

Baghdad? No one mentioned that to me earlier! It might have actually been more helpful if there was an armed escort of the non-hijacker variety on board! I decided to keep a look out for incoming surface to air missiles, just in case. Brick extrication #1.

Around an hour into the flight, at some point over Brussels, helpful pilot uncle came on the PA again and said, "it appears passengers in the upper deck of the aircraft, please accept our apologies over the noisy flight you've been having, it's because one of the seals in a door on the upper deck is a 'bit' faulty. We are in touch with our base in Dubai on actions to take over this. In the meanwhile, please accept our apologies for the noise. Instantly, images of me being sucked into the atmosphere by rapid depressurization of the cabin since the door gave way flooded my mind. I remember being optimistic by thinking that at least, I wouldn't have to look out for missiles if we fell out of the sky before Baghdad came. Please Mr. Pilot, if the danger is not imminent, i.e., we're going to die in 10 seconds, please tell us something else. I strongly recommend a placebo. Something as mundane as, "will the passenger who has eaten one too many beans in the upper deck please step into the toilet, the noise is deafening" would have helped immensely. Brick extrication #2.

Somewhere between Turkey and Iraqi airspace, we ran into turbulence. To an already paranoid mind, this didn't do any wonders. The ride comfort on the flight suffered and both the interior and ride reminded me of KPN Travels more and more. To make matters, eagle eyed as I am, I noticed that the altitude had dropped from 33,000 feet to 27,000 and speed had decreased from 875kmph to 800kmph. Brick extrication #3. This is when pilot uncle truly made himself useful and said we're flying lower and slower in order to smoothen out the ride. Relief flooded back in, only to be replaced by more dread, for we were now over Iraq and flying lower! Brick extrication #3b. Thanks to G Bush and his cronies, it appears Iraq is fresh out of surface to air missiles and we made it to Dubai over 1 hour late and I had to scramble in the 15 minutes left to make my connecting flight, which thankfully, was as boring as any other flight I have taken.

Suddenly, my appetite for flying in the largest aircraft in the business has been satiated. I wonder why...