Irrelevant Tangents

The man who taught me everything

2011-12-15T00:39:00.003+05:30

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

2011-01-06T23:49:00.005+05:30

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

2010-08-25T01:25:00.006+05:30

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

2010-04-10T23:41:00.004+05:30

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

2009-09-11T03:13:00.004+05:30

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 :)

.

2008-10-11T21:44:00.003+05:30

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?

Half a Life

2007-06-10T18:58:00.000+05:30

To live Half-a-Life,
To cry at every step.
To bite tears back,
at every turn,
To yearn for joy,
when there's none.

To cry while you smile,
not knowing what's next.
Hoping that the poet's pendulum,
swings back; but never forth.
To live Half-a-Life,
To cry at every step...

To drown it in a glass,
To hide it behind a puff,
To get stoned till you get stoned.
But these are mere thoughts;
Can't even do that... mine is Half-a-Life.

To yearn for loneliness,
in spite of the terror that it is.
Cutting yourself off
from your only, only love,
always afraid of what's next.
To live Half-A-Life,
To cry at every step...

To peck at my intellectual fodder,
only to put up a facade.
To act the cool dude while,
simmering, whimpering within.
To fly off into the sole solace,
of vicarious pleasures, realities,
only to live abstractions of full lives.
To live Half-A-Life,
To cry at every step...

To feel inadequate, impotent,
confused, dazed,
only to finally give it up.
Decisions are now outta my hand,
trusting the eternal wisdom of love,
the infinity of grace.

Who knows, it might become more than Half-A-Life;
Who knows, I might even smile at every step.

PS: 1. The phrase 'poet's pendulum' refers to Sreekumaran Thampy's famous song
"സുഖമൊരു ബിന്ദു,
ദു:ഖമൊരു ബിന്ദു,
ബിന്ദുവില്‍ നിന്നും ബിന്ദുവിലേക്കൊരു
പെന്‍ഡുലമാടുന്നു“
‌‌- ശ്രീകുമാരന്‍ തമ്പി
[ Happiness is a point,
so is Sorrow,
Life is a Pendulum,
swinging from point to point.]

2. 'The Infinity of Grace' is a book by O V Vijayan( ഓ വി വിജയന്‍).

Mahatma Gandhi and Why Australia Won't Win the Next World Cup

2007-05-13T23:04:00.001+05:30

No Glenn McGrath (Adieu, Pigeon).
No Adam Gilchrist (The ICJ throws him into the cooler for violating the Geneva Conventions).
No Ricky Ponting( Bad case of Tennis Elbow. Come on, it's only fair).
No Mr. Cricket(He goes into depression 'coz his average goes below 60 ).
No Brad Hogg( God... I'll have to find out something even for Hogg. Sigh. ).

The Aussies won't be able to cope with sub-continent conditions. They'll get an acute case of Delhi Belly.
We bait them with Shilpa Shetty and have them arrested for kissing in public.
Above all, the Law of Averages(which has been, of late, sinking to new levels of incompetency) catches up with Australia.
See, there's no way they can win the next World Cup.

Okay, who am I fooling... sigh. They'll do it again...

But wait. Here's the perfect plan. People the world over have been burning midnight oil trying to figure out the perfect tactic against the Aussies. We Indians always had it under our collective noses, but only never saw it for what it was.

The answer is Mahatma Gandhi.
We are talking about non-violence here.
In the run-up to the world cup, all cricketing nations should agree to practice cricketing ahimsa against Australia. They should get on to the field all right, but should gracefully(and meekly) lose every match. Every catch should be dropped, every wicket gifted away and every run should be a stroll (not that India need to put in any special effort). Thus, Australia will be completely denied of any competitive International Cricket and will be so rusty by the time the next World Cup arrives that even Bermuda's Under-17 team oughtta be able to push them over.

[Silence]

[Sobs]

I don't see any other way.

[Silence]

[Hysterical Laughter. Curtains.]

PS: 1. This post is dedicated to NickTheGooner who asked me if I had run out of nonsense to blog. I had to prove him wrong.
2. No squash balls were displaced from their natural habitats and/or harmed during the writing of this post.

Profundity

2007-03-08T20:42:00.000+05:30

'Nothing ever becomes real till experienced - even a proverb is no proverb to you till your life has illustrated it.'
- John Keats

I was watching an interview of the world famous director Adoor Goplakrishnan on Manorama News. The interviewer asked him what his daily prayer was. Adoor's reply puzzled me a bit. He said that it was 'ഇന്നെനിയ്ക്ക് പെട്ടെന്ന് ഉറക്കം വരണേ...’ which loosely translates to 'God, let me fall asleep as soon as I'm in bed...'. I thought then how strange (and even trivial) a prayer it was.

[Cut to a night-scene about one-and-a-half weeks later]

Yours truly has the privilege of actually experiencing a 'sleepless night'. Well, not in the literal sense - I did eventually fall asleep - but it was torture till then. You might have read about 'sleepless nights' - the quintessential literary cliche - but have you experienced one? Only then will you understand the profundity in Adoor's prayer.

Being a programmer wannabe, I can't resist the temptation that is recursion; so here goes.
'When I understood how profound Adoor's prayer was, Keats' words that I quoted in the beginning recursively proved themselves.'
[Don't you feel like killing me? I usually have that effect on people [big grin] ]

But seriously, I believe that is what profundity is. To make unpretentious statements that anyone will be able to identify with at some point in their lives. It does not come easy, takes a lot of insight and probably is one of the hallmarks of true greatness.

Very difficult that achieving profundity is, it's probably more difficult to be profoundly humorous. You need insight plus a sense of humor. Rare combo indeed. Try Calvin and Hobbes, you'll see what I mean :) . And for darker humor try O V Vijayan's ‘ഇത്തിരി നേരമ്പോക്ക്, ഇത്തിരി ദര്‍ശനം’(A Little Humor, A Little Insight) or 'എന്റെ ചരിത്രാന്വേഷണ പരീക്ഷകള്‍’(My Experiments with History).

Yours truly is now signing off with a quote which he believes to fall in this category.

This statement made in 1958 is growing in profundity, especially in today's context,(see the year in which he wrote this down!)
"It remains a canon of modern diplomacy that any preoccupation with oil should be concealed by calling on our still ample reserves of sanctimony."
- John Kenneth Galbraith,
'How much should a country consume?', 1958.

Me, My College and the People I Love

2007-02-02T21:48:00.000+05:30

It has already started biting into me, the fact that we'll be going away; away from the canteen, away from the lobby, away from the acacia forest, away from that long corridor in the main building. I'll never forget an image I have in my mind. Had to go to college on a Sunday, and by chance I was at one end of the main building corridor... and I could see straight through to the other end, nobody was walking the corridor, not even the omnipresent "couples" sitting along it. To make the experience even more visceral, the wind blew some leaves across. I suddenly felt alone, like I was in a house that had just seen a death, a loss. At that surreal moment, I truly understood what CET and its people meant to me.

[Note to Self: Just 4 precious months remain after today. This is a time like no other; never before, never after. Keep this in mind, always.]

Three Things That Go Well With The Sunday Mornin' Cuppa

2007-01-14T10:59:00.000+05:30

Ah, one of those little pleasures of life that we all look forward to; hot Sunday mornin' cuppa(coffee is my thing) with something to meditate on. The ideal time to get up is about 7:30-8:00'ish when diffused sunlight starts pouring in through the curtains onto the bed. It's pretty cool, the sun hasn't gotten angry yet and with some luck, there's a bird or two chirping outside. Heavenly!
This setting brings us to the question of what goes well with heaven, what can one chew on? Here are three personal recommendations:

1. Ram Guha's column in 'The Hindu Magazine'
Ramachandra Guha is a social historian by profession and currently writes the column "Past and Present". But it was his original column "Cricket Lore", that had me hooked. I have wanted to write like many people, and Ram Guha is definitely one of them. His style is lucid, un-pretentious and anecdotal, with an uncanny knack of prodding your imagination ever so slightly to get you to think. I have meticulously collected his "Cricket Lore" columns over the years and populated a scrap-book with them. Just flipping through it is boundless joy. Thank you Mr. Guha for those wonderful Sunday mornings.

2. The Music of M S Baburaj-P Bhaskaran
My apologies to non-malayalees who haven't had the privilege. Also, my sympathies to malayalees who could have, but haven't. You have all missed something truly divine. True believers will know what I mean.
For the past 2-3 years, saturday nights have had a special meaning for me, and at least one preson reading this blog will know what I mean. Sunday morning being the "morning-after", many times I had the blues and the music of Baburaj and the poetry of Bhaskaran would perfectly fit the mood. Bhaskaran master's lines overflow with romance tinged with sadness and Baabukka's music is probably inspired by his deprived childhood spent on the street. Here's a sampling, you be the judge.

ദുഃഖങ്ങള്‍ക്കിന്നു ഞാന്‍‌ അവധി കൊടുത്തു
സ്വര്‍ഗ്ഗത്തില്‍ ഞാനൊരു മുറിയെടുത്തു
വിധിയും ഞാനും ഒരു കൂട് ചീട്ടുമായി
വിളയാ‍ടാനിരിയ്ക്കുന്നു... വിളയാടാനിരിയ്ക്കുന്നു...
[I gave leave to all my worries today,
and took a room in heaven.
Here I am; a deck of cards in hand,
Gambling with fate...
Gambling with fate...]

or

ഒരു പുഷ്പം മാത്രമെന്‍ പൂങ്കുലയില്‍ നിര്‍ത്താം ഞാന്‍‌
അരികില്‍‌ നീ എത്തുമ്പോള്‍‌ ചൂടിയ്ക്കുവാന്‍‌
ഒരു ഗാനം മാത്രമെന്‍‌ ഹൃദയത്തില്‍‌ സൂക്ഷിക്കാം
ഒടുവില്‍‌ നീ എത്തുമ്പോള്‍‌ ചെവിയില്‍‌ മൂളാന്‍‌
[A singular flower, I shall leave
on my bunch of flowers,
to adorn you, at the end of my wait,
when you finally come.
A singular tune, I shall treasure
in my heart of hearts,
to hum for you, at the end of my wait,
when you finally come.]

3. Looking Out of the Window
Simple as that! Just look out of a window with coffee mug in hand. The only pre-requisite being that you need a strategically placed window. It should ideally open into greenery, not concrete noise. I'd give my window a 7/10; open back area, lots of green, and the backside of a thekkath( a small temple). Also, nobody should be looking back at you, unless of course, it's the situation mentioned below ;-)

ജാലക തിരശ്ശീല നീക്കി ജാലമെറിയുവതെന്തിനോ
തേന്‍‌ പുരട്ടിയ മുള്ളുകള്‍‌ നീ കരളിലെറിയുവതെന്തിനോ...
-യൂസഫലി കേച്ചേരി, ‘ഖദീജ’

PS: If you see garbled text in between, it does not prove that I have been watching mindless Bollywood movies or been listening to Himesh Reshammiya; only that you need to install a Unicode Malayalam Font like AnjaliOldLipi

What's In A Name?

2006-12-16T10:10:00.000+05:30

For books and movies at least, Lots. Many times you don't know anything about the book or the movie and yet the title catches your eye, you make a tentative exploration, get slightly interested and then you are pulled into it. A creative, effective title is probably the best advertisement. It's not a catchy play of words or high-brow literature that I am talking about here; the key here is - intrigue. The title should pique your curiosity just that little bit to get you started...solely on your curiosity, not on the book's reputation. From that point onwards the writing takes over and it's upto the writer to sustain intereset.
Probably the best three investigative stories in Malayalam cinema have been 'mukham (The Face)' by Mohan, 'yavanika (The Curtain)' by K G George and 'kariyilakkatupOle (Like a Zephyr of Dry Leaves)' by P Padmarajan. It doesn't take much to see which title is the one I'm gonna wax eloquent on. 'Like a Zephyr of dry Leaves'... doesn't it perfectly capture and enshrine the narrative technique of a whodunnit? Just like a pile of dry leaves caught in a wind, the configuration keeps changing, patterns keep emerging, teasing you, tempting you to read something into it... the title says it all.
Probably, I should mention one more title that got me exploring, 'A Clockwork Orange' by Anthony Burgess, later made into a cult classic (banned in India!) by Stanley Kubrick. I never read a review nor did anyone recommend the book to me. It was the title that got me interested. What did the author mean by that phrase? I originally thought that it was used to describe a mechanical contraption that was 'orange' in colour.[ I can already see you sneering at me... but come on, at least I was being imaginative :) ]. The book addressed a complex moral question; Man's freedom of choice between right and wrong. In the book, the protagonist Alex has almost incurable criminal tendencies. A new treatment is tried out on him whereby he becomes incapable of doing anything bad. He no more has the freedom to choose between right and wrong, he simply has to do right. The title puts it beautifully... an orange is something with juice and vitality, an orange that runs like clockwork or a wound up toy just wouldn't be an orange anymore. Ditto with Man, if he HAD to do right, without choice, without having to think, like clockwork, he wouldn't be Man anymore.
There's one last thing, I was still thinking 'But why did Burgess choose an orange? An apple would've been just as fine. Maybe better. "A Clockwork Apple", is as good, I say.' I did a bit more research and this is what I found out. Burgess lived in Malaya for a while and 'orang' in Malaya means 'Man'(as in the etymology of orang-utan)! Only true genius can pack so much into three words... economy thy name is Burgess.

PS: There are so many other titles I'd like to dwell upon... like P Padmarajan's 'innale (Yesterday)' and 'nomparaththippoov (The Flower of Sorrow)'; Harper Lee's 'To Kill A Mockingbird'; James Patterson's 'Along Came a Spider'; M T Vasudevan Nair's 'raNTaamoozham (Second Chance)' among many others. But that's for later; when I'm once again in the mood to rant.

A Tale of Two Hearts: An Emperor is in the Streets

2006-12-08T18:55:00.000+05:30

'Here is an emperor, walking the streets like a common man'
- Harsha Bhogle,
During Sachin's painstaking 55 against SA at Centurion

All the more reason to love the man, I say. They say he is past his prime; NO he isn't. How many 'emperors' or 'kings' would have had the humility to play out that innings? I can't imagine Mr.I V A Richards playing that innings for his desperately out of form team. Any other player in Sachin's mould would rather have played an agricultural swipe and gotten out. Agreed, Steve Waugh or Dravid might have played that innings, but what made that innings special was that it came from an 'emperor', not a workman. The innings struck a jarring note visually, but that's only because we are not used to see our superhero minus his powers. And what is more intersesting is the convoluted logic that Sachin bashers dish out to 'prove' that he's not good. When Wisden published their list of the Top 10 Test Innings of All Time, Sachin didn't find a mention. When questioned, they announced that his 136 at Chepauk agains Pakistan was 'considered' but was not given the nod because India didn't win the match. India lost that match by 12 runs and Sachin got out when India were 17 runs short. How stupid is that? What they missed was the context. India were playing Pakistan, a 5th day pitch, square turner, he was battling intense back pain and was wearing a belt to fight it. Just suppose that the tail had wagged and scored those measly 12 runs (cover-drives through fine leg or pulls through third slip or whatever), would Sachin's innings have become any greater? Then probably it'd have become one of the best innings of all time I suppose. Blah! I rest my case . Down under(pun intended) is Stout Heart No.2 (a rather under-rated Stout Heart I must say...)

A Tale of Two Hearts: Keep at it, Colly...

2006-12-08T18:40:00.000+05:30

'He is also a cricketer from the top of his helmet to the studs in his boots. When we met, I mentioned I once lived not far from his home. "I know that place," he said, "lovely pitch." Nothing about the port, parks or the statue of Queen Victoria; everything about the cricket ground. I like that in a man.'
- Ted Corbett,
On Paul Collingwood

This Stout Heart was battling away for some pride against the Aussies while Sachin was walking the streets. He had made 206 in the first innings at Adelaide and was last man standing on 20* when the Poms did a Team India-esque collapsing act in the second innings. Well, we Indians can totally empathise with the Englishmen in this regard. But look at the silver lining fellas... we at least have some lion-hearts to cheer about :)

PS: I am not forgetting Kumble or Flintoff or Dravid. It's just that I'm very, very depressed ..sigh..

Theory of a(n Almost) Dead Man

2006-12-04T12:35:00.000+05:30

Exams are here; well almost
Like always, I'm nowhere
They are round the corner
Blink! And they'll be on me
The alarm bells are ringing,
Time is flying like 'tis got the skitters
But this time, the omens are stark
portending doom! doom! doom!
The dark signs are here for me to see
Cable TV is out! Sheesh!
The phone's dead! Jeez!
Where's an escape hatch when I need one?
Ah well! There's always that little friend
That little friend who I got in college
My only respite in those long lectures
The soulmate who just wouldn't leave me
My escape hatch beckons me...
My soft, cozy bed, here I come!

Note: 1. If the character portrayed above bears similarities to anyone living or dead, it's completely intentional. And I believe that the most number of such specimens can be found in CET.
2. 'Theory of a Dead Man' is a music band. Sorry, couldn't resist the lure of the pun :D
They can be found here

The Lament

2006-11-26T22:08:00.000+05:30

'The art of Trumper is like the art in a bird's flight, an art that knows not how wonderful it is. Batting was for him a superb dissipation, a spontaneous spreading of fine feathers.'
- Sir Neville Cardus,
On Victor Trumper.

I have never seen Trumper bat. I have never even seen footage of him batting; in fact I don't think any exists. But, how then did I fall in love with him? How then did I start admiring him? A singular essay was responsible; my favourite essay on cricket, 'Never Another Like Victor' by that superb cricketer-turned-writer Jack Fingleton. This, is the power of writing, the power of a lament. A passage of writing gets a soul of its own when it's a heartfelt lament. If a lament connects with the reader, it has the scope to make her look into herself and identify with the sense of loss that is evoked. Consider what Cardus had to say about Trumper:
"His grave, in a churchyard outside Sydney, is to this day covered by fresh flowers."
That single sentence probably gives you the measure of the man, the fact that he could not have been ordinary.

Strangely another of my love affairs was also with a dead man. And it too sprouted from a lament. 'Hitch On, Hoopy Frood' by Mitali Saran was on the unexpected passing away of Douglas Noel Adams(DNA), the man who taught Science Fiction to laught at itself. The way the lament sank in, prompted me to delve into the fascinating worlds Adams had created... Oh and how I loved it! The most evocative lament on Adams I've read though is the one by that popular evolutionary biologist, Richard Dawkins. These self descriptive lines tell it all:
'This is not an obituary; there'll be time enough for them. It is not a tribute, not a considered assessment of a brilliant life, not a eulogy. It is a keening lament, written too soon to be balanced, too soon to be carefully thought through. Douglas, you cannot be dead."
Well, you read this and you think, 'man...to evoke this kinda response this guys musta been somethin else!'. He was. If this sounded disrespectful, I don't care, because DNA wouldn't have cared, he'd get it.

One last lament before I hurry off to some simple, yet slightly complicated pleasures of life . This is not on a person, but rather an institution - Carribean Cricket. I might have slighlty more to say on it, particularly on 'King' Richards and Sir Gary Sobers, probably in a future post. I am letting Walter de la Mare take over here...his words echo cricketing fans' feelings all over the world.

'Something has gone, and ink and print
will never bring it back,
I long for the great days again,
When the kings in white were black.'

May you never have to write a lament!

PS: 1. As of writing, we might be seeing a carribean resurgence through Gayle and Lara; but a cricket team is made of ELEVEN men.
2. I originally saw this Walter de la Mare poem in a Carribean lament published in 'The Hindu'.

2006-11-26T21:54:00.000+05:30

"Hello, World"

What better opening salvo than this for a programmer? Well this blog is what its title suggests, really random thoughts poured into a melting pot to finally(hopefully) get some distilled wisdom. Wait wait wait, gimme a moment, "distilled wisdom" is not a tall claim - because I'll largely be collecting other peoples's works, quotes and thoughts here. Nothing original...I don't wanna contaminate this blog with something original from ME.
This will probably reflect my passions... cricket, music, literature, quizzing, programming and lots more.
Feel free to flame me for wasting your time :-)