Outgrowing

We outgrow to grow,

or do we?

Then we cling on to what we outgrew,

don't we?

Growing pains are unavoidable,

so they said.

Mention growing back pains,

they never did.

We sprouted wings to belong;

for we are a pack.

Now we wish those very wings away,

to walk the earth.

My advice?

Outgrow.

If only to know what you outgrew.

The man who taught me everything

Remember the old Raymonds ad? Where it's the teacher's final day at the school and the children are giving him a farewell?

The gift wrapping says, 'To the man who taught us everything.'

I had such a teacher too, 'the man who taught me everything' - at least, he tried.

I've seen him in only one attire; a khadi shirt and mundu ( I've heard he spun them himself, but could never confirm this with him.) Having worked all over Keralam as an educationist, he was well known for his unshakeable integrity and principles.

I would be confused though, when his non-violence gave way to outbursts at errant wards. This conflict was resolved when, years later, he confided with a twinkle in his eyes that it was always an act. One should never lose their cool, but may act like you've lost it for some positive end effect. True Gandhian.

He, along with my parents, taught me that it's more important to grow into someone you could live with, than into someone who's successful.

Amazingly determined, he could be. One evening, all of us at home were (pleasantly) surprised to see a frail old man walk in through our gate armed with that signature benevolent smile, walking stick in hand. Long back, he had promised he'd visit us some day. Paying no heed to his health, he had coolly boarded a bus and come over trusting his instincts to find the right address. True to form, he refused Dad's plea to drop him back, and caught another bus home.

What analytical thinking I can do today, I owe a large chunk to him. What I do for a living, graphics programming, is a blend of two things I love - math and language. He taught me what those two meant to each other. Why it was important that I know the etymology of 'rational number' (from 'ratio') so that I never forget that such a number is one that can be expressed as a ratio. I doubt I ever will. Or that Pythagoras' theorem begins "The sum of the squares on..." and not "The sum of the squares of...", thereby fixing in my mind forever the geometric meanings of numbers and the historic significance this association had to the Greeks.

Every time I break down a problem, every time I craft a solution, every time I surprise myself with an elegant answer, I grow surer that the seeds were sown in that red-oxide laden class room bathed in evening sunlight where one teacher gently led our hands in molding and shaping ourselves.

Thank you, N Divakaran Nair, 'sir'.

Writer's Block

Tore out a piece of my heart today

It's been hanging loose for a while now

Just that I completed the act today

And I *know* writer's block, at this moment, now.

A Dayum-ing Discovery

A manuscript found in the attic of Pablo Neruda's erstwhile home has confirmed what to many of us was plain as daylight.

The truth behind his famous poem 'Tonight I can Write the Saddest Lines'.

The manuscript confirms the fact that the original was written by Neruda while he was working as a contractor for a well known software company of the time. No names. Originally titled 'Tonight I can Create the Weirdest Bugs' , this was re-written by Neruda later to cater to the more mainstream non-geeky audience.

This, of course, made business sense as the mainstream poetry loving audience is a superset of the 'geek' part( that sentence should tell you to which part Yours Truly belongs).

The manuscript (actually a tape backup) is faithfully reproduced below.

Analysts point out that the heart rending incident of his module being taken away from him ( for reasons of stability ) and getting reassigned to a colleague created an indelible impression on the young Neruda.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tonight I can create the weirdest bugs.

Write, for example, 'IF todayIsFullMoon THEN CrashAndBurn()'

The build goes on, and the loops never end.

Tonight I can create the weirdest bugs,

I made the bugs, and sometimes my teammates too.

Through nights like this I hammered away at the keyboard,

I tore my hair out again under the endless call stacks.

They made the bugs, sometimes I did too.

How could they have not, for they had to work with my code too.

Tonight I can has create (cheese)bu(r)g(er)s

To think that I have lost the reference. To feel that I have lost the handle.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without coffee.

And the irony falls to the cheek, like cow to pasture.

What does it matter that I cannot get my module to compile,

The night is long and my manager is not with me.

The same electrons making some code run (elsewhere),

The night is starry, but tonight my code won't run.

This is all. In the distance someone is snoring. In the next cubicle.

My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her (my module).

My search tries to find her as though to refactor her,

My heart looks for her, and there she is - assigned to somebody else.

The same electrons, making the same code run (but,)

The environment, of that time, is no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her

My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before I joined.

Her curly braces, her indented body. Her infinite loops.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her,

Development is so short, maintenance is so long.

Because through nights like this one I banged my head against her

my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last core dump that she makes me suffer

and these the last bugs I create in this job.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The re-written (and better known) version is freely available, e.g here

Thank God Neruda is gone, otherwise my body would never have been found. Though I do have a sneaking suspicion that I face the same threat from people who read this.

The Definition of Sehwagology

The first time I came across "Sehwagology" was in Kuttappan's Blog. Being a fan I quickly soaked the word up and set upon using it like Maslow's Hammer. Seems only the word is new, its essence was captured years go by C L R James in his seminal "Beyond a Boundary". Reading the book, I was struck by how perfectly James' vision matched Sehwagology. Here is James.

"Some young Romantic will extend the boundaries of cricket technique with a classical perfection. He will hit against the break so hard and so often that the poor bowlers will wish he would go back to hitting with it. He will drive overhead and and push through any number of short-legs, as W. G. used to do, so that a whole race of bowlers will go underground for fifteen years as they did once, and once more emerge with new tricks. Some of the new tricks, it is already clear, will be old, such as pace, sheer pace, pace as new as the pace at which Kuk ran three miles in the Australian Olympics. Our Romantic will do these things or other things - what
he will - and the big battalions will follow in his train. We shall extol his eyesight, his wrist-work, his footwork, his audacity, to which some nationalist fanatics will add his ancestry and climate. He may come from Pudsey or South Sydney, Nawanagar or Bridgetown. But wherever he comes from, and whatever he does, he will be
doing what W. G. did - so reshaping the medium that it can give new satisfactions to new people. "

This piece written in 1963, I propose as the definition of Sehwagology.

An Attempt

Below is a poem/song by M D Rajendran ; it burned me at 2:00 in the night(morning?) and I *had to* do something with it. Decided to invoke that much dreaded thing - a translator's license. Here goes... if this doesn't come out well, apologies upfront to MDR - your work is truly beautiful.

ഋതുഭേദ കൽപ്പന ചാരുത നൽകിയ
പ്രിയ പാരിതോഷികം പോലെ,
ഒരു രോമഹർഷത്തിൻ ധന്യത പുൽകിയ
പരിരംഭണക്കുളിർ പോലെ,
പ്രഥമാനുരാഗത്തിൻ നന്മണിച്ചില്ലയിൽ
കവിതേ പൂവായി നീ വിരിഞ്ഞു...

സ്ഥലകാലമെല്ലാം മറന്നു പോയൊരു
ശലഭമായി നിന്നെ തിരഞ്ഞു,
മധു മന്ദഹാസത്തിൻ മായയിൽ എന്നെ
അറിയാതെ നിന്നിൽ പകർന്നു,
സുരലോകഗംഗയിൽ നീന്തിത്തുടിച്ചു
ഒരു രാജഹംസമായി മാറി,
ഗഗനപഥങ്ങളിൽ പാറിപ്പറന്നു
വെൺതിങ്കൾപ്പക്ഷിയായി മാറി...

വിരഹത്തിൻ ചൂടേറ്റു വാടിത്തളർന്നു,
നീ വിടപറയുന്നൊരാ നാളിൽ,
നിറയുന്ന കണ്ണുനീർത്തുള്ളിയിൽ
സ്വപ്നങ്ങൾ ചിറകറ്റു വീഴുമാ നാളിൽ,
മൗനത്തിൽ മുങ്ങുമെൻ ഗദ്ഗദം മന്ത്രിക്കും
മംഗളം നേരുന്നു തോഴീ...

Now, Yours Truly has a go at putting MDR's thoughts in English...

"Like a gift made even more beautiful
by the change of seasons,
Like the ecstasy in an embrace
that lingers as a tingle,
Sheer poetry; you bloomed; a flower
on the branch of my first love.

Drawn to you like a moth,
knowing neither time nor space
I melted into you without knowing;
in the magic that was your smile,
Splashed about in the heavenly Ganges,
felt a king among swans
Soared along the trails of the firmament,
an alabaster moon-bird.

Wilting in the heat of parting,
the day you shall bade goodbye,
when dreams; their wings clipped,
shall fall along with tear drops,
my chant drowning in impending silence
shall be, "All auspices, my love""

ഇനി ഞാൻ ഉറങ്ങട്ടെ; ശുഭരാത്രി :)

.

I can see myself turn to stone
I touch myself and feel the cold
Am I getting where I wanted to be?
Life now is nothing like what it was...
Was it me who turned myself to stone?
Or what Gorgon turned its gaze on me?