College started again. Thank God. I now have an excuse to avoid AIESEC work. Luckily in the past few days, due to pitifully tiny amounts of sleep, I have actually managed to get a lot of work done finishing up the things on my To-Do list. It was growing really really long. And I was getting overwhelmed. Unfortunately, my to-do list failed to include reading for classes. :( SO that I have to do now.
For once, I had a wonderful weekend. It was just me and Dad. Fed up of AIESEC work, I shut my comp and didnt open till late Sunday night to find loads of mails in the inbox. However, that is not the point of this story. The point is that it was a fantastic day.
We went to this Italian Bazaar thing they have going down at this place called GammelStrand (which in Danish means Old Beach). And it was magnificent. I felt like I was a tourist on holiday to Europe being enchanted by the sights and sounds of Mediterranean markets. We went around tasting wine, eating gelato, buying foccacia, buying olives and pasta and sun dried tomatoes, lemoncella. All food, pretty much but that was the fun part. Btw have you ever tried Lemoncella? It is this citrusy kinda liqueor they have in Italy and it is (no other word for it) 'magnifico'.
After that, we wandered around and over to Strøget (translated it means the streak). It is basically this touristy, up market pedestrian street right at the heart of Copenhagen. Lined with shops on both sides, this street is always packed on weekends. It is the place you come to when you are tired of the loneliness and silence of your house to reassure yourself that other people do live in this city as well.
So we walked up and down Strøget, window-shopping, trying to reach shops before they closed at 5. My Dad ended buying some candied fruit which, shockingly was too sweet even for my taste. And I bought a blueberry lollipop just for kicks because it had been ages since I had one and I must say, the charm is still there. It is the most fun thing. I wonder, though, what the inventor of the lollipop was thinking when he said to himself, "Why don't I put a candy on a stick? That will sell."
We reached the Town Hall Square only to realize that is Gay Pride Weekend and so there was a huge concert going on there. We were surrounded by people holding the rainbow flags of gay pride and generally, making merry. Loads of fun. We headed back, as we were kinda tired, and on our way home, we came across two drag-queens, dressed in very tacky ballerina outfits, the kind 5 year old girls enjoy wearing for days on end. They were in very high spirits and carry placards, with slogans on them such as "Free Gucci handbags - now". They ended up overtaking us and so the whole way home, we had front row seats to view their antics to scandalise other shoppers. They ever harassed the street artists they passed. It was hilarious.
And then we came home and watched a nice, old, black and white Hindi movie (most of which are really nice). Nice, old Dev Anand movie. sigh.
Good times, indeed.
Tuesday 28 August 2007
Sunday 8 July 2007
Wodehouse saved my life
Here's a reproduction of an article written by Hugh Laurie that appeared in the Daily Telegraph on Thursday 27 May 1999 which coincided with the reprinting of many PGW books in the UK. You can Read it on their site
TO be able to write about P. G. Wodehouse is the sort of honour that comes rarely in any man's life, let alone mine. This is rarity of a rare order. Halley's comet seems like a blasted nuisance in comparison.
If you'd knocked on my head 20 years ago and told me that a time would come when I, Hugh Laurie - scraper-through of O-levels, mover of lips (own) while reading, loafer, scrounger, pettifogger and general berk of this parish - would be able to carve my initials in the broad bark of the Master's oak, I'm pretty certain that I would have said "garn", or something like it.
I was, in truth, a horrible child. Not much given to things of a bookery nature, I spent a large part of my youth smoking Number Six and cheating in French vocabulary tests. I wore platform boots with a brass skull and crossbones over the ankle, my hair was disgraceful, and I somehow contrived to pull off the gruesome trick of being both fat and thin at the same time. If you had passed me in the street during those pimply years, I am confident that you would, at the very least, have quickened your pace.
You think I exaggerate? I do not. Glancing over my school reports from the year 1972, I observe that the words "ghastly" and "desperate" feature strongly, while "no", "not", "never" and "again" also crop up more often than one would expect in a random sample. My history teacher's report actually took the form of a postcard from Vancouver.
But this, you will be nauseated to learn, is a tale of redemption. In about my 13th year, it so happened that a copy of Galahad at Blandings by P. G. Wodehouse entered my squalid universe, and things quickly began to change. From the very first sentence of my very first Wodehouse story, life appeared to grow somehow larger. There had always been height, depth, width and time, and in these prosaic dimensions I had hitherto snarled, cursed, and not washed my hair. But now, suddenly, there was Wodehouse, and the discovery seemed to make me gentler every day. By the middle of the fifth chapter I was able to use a knife and fork, and I like to think that I have made reasonable strides since.
I spent the following couple of years meandering happily back and forth through Blandings Castle and its environs - learning how often the trains ran, at what times the post was collected, how one could tell if the Empress was off-colour, why the Emsworth Arms was preferable to the Blue Boar - until the time came for me to roll up the map of adolescence and set forth into my first Jeeves novel. It was The Code of the Woosters, and things, as they used to say, would never be the same again.
The facts in this case, ladies and gentlemen, are simple. The first thing you should know, and probably the last, too, is that P. G. Wodehouse is still the funniest writer ever to have put words on paper. Fact number two: with the Jeeves stories, Wodehouse created the best of the best. I speak as one whose first love was Blandings, and who later took immense pleasure from Psmith, but Jeeves is the jewel, and anyone who tries to tell you different can be shown the door, the mini-cab, the train station, and Terminal 4 at Heathrow with a clear conscience. The world of Jeeves is complete and integral, every bit as structured, layered, ordered, complex and self-contained as King Lear, and considerably funnier.
Now let the pages of the calendar tumble as autumn leaves, until 10 years are understood to have passed. A man came to us - to me and to my comedy partner, Stephen Fry - with a proposition. He asked me if I would like to play Bertram W. Wooster in 23 hours of televised drama, opposite the internationally tall Fry in the role of Jeeves.
"Fiddle," one of us said. I forget which.
"Sticks," said the other. "Wodehouse on television? It's lunacy. A disaster in kit form. Get a grip, man."
The man, a television producer, pressed home his argument with skill and determination.
"All right," he said, shrugging on his coat. "I'll ask someone else."
"Whoa, hold up," said one of us, shooting a startled look at the other.
"Steady," said the other, returning the S. L. with top-spin.
There was a pause.
"You'll never get a cab in this weather," we said, in unison.
And so it was that, a few months later, I found myself slipping into a double-breasted suit in a Prince of Wales check while my colleague made himself at home inside an enormous bowler hat, and the two of us embarked on our separate disciplines. Him for the noiseless opening of decanters, me for the twirling of the whangee.
So the great P. G. was making his presence felt in my life once more. And I soon learnt that I still had much to learn. How to smoke plain cigarettes, how to drive a 1927 Aston Martin, how to mix a Martini with five parts water and one part water (for filming purposes only), how to attach a pair of spats in less than a day and a half, and so on.
But the thing that really worried us, that had us saying "crikey" for weeks on end, was this business of The Words. Let me give you an example. Bertie is leaving in a huff: " 'Tinkerty tonk,' I said, and I meant it to sting." I ask you: how is one to do justice of even the roughest sort to a line like that? How can any human actor, with his clumsily attached ears, and his irritating voice, and his completely misguided hair, hope to deliver a line as pure as that? It cannot be done. You begin with a diamond on the page, and you end up with a blob of Pritt, The Non-Sticky Sticky Stuff, on the screen.
Wodehouse on the page can be taken in the reader's own time; on the screen, the beautiful sentence often seems to whip by, like an attractive member of the opposite sex glimpsed from the back of a cab. You, as the viewer, try desperately to fix the image in your mind - but it is too late, because suddenly you're into a commercial break and someone is telling you how your home may be at risk if you eat the wrong breakast cereal.
Naturally, one hopes there were compensations in watching Wodehouse on the screen - pleasant scenery, amusing clothes, a particular actor's eyebrows - but it can never replicate the experience of reading him. If I may go slightly culinary for a moment: a dish of foie gras nestling on a bed of truffles, with a side-order of lobster and caviar may provide you with a wonderful sensation; but no matter how wonderful, you simply don't want to be spoon-fed the stuff by a perfect stranger. You need to hold the spoon, and decide for yourself when to wolf and when to nibble.
And so I am back to reading, rather than playing Jeeves. And my Wodehousian redemption is, I hope, complete. Indeed, there is nothing left for me to say, except to wish, as I fold away my penknife and gaze up at the huge oak towering overhead, that my history teacher could see me now.
TO be able to write about P. G. Wodehouse is the sort of honour that comes rarely in any man's life, let alone mine. This is rarity of a rare order. Halley's comet seems like a blasted nuisance in comparison.
If you'd knocked on my head 20 years ago and told me that a time would come when I, Hugh Laurie - scraper-through of O-levels, mover of lips (own) while reading, loafer, scrounger, pettifogger and general berk of this parish - would be able to carve my initials in the broad bark of the Master's oak, I'm pretty certain that I would have said "garn", or something like it.
I was, in truth, a horrible child. Not much given to things of a bookery nature, I spent a large part of my youth smoking Number Six and cheating in French vocabulary tests. I wore platform boots with a brass skull and crossbones over the ankle, my hair was disgraceful, and I somehow contrived to pull off the gruesome trick of being both fat and thin at the same time. If you had passed me in the street during those pimply years, I am confident that you would, at the very least, have quickened your pace.
You think I exaggerate? I do not. Glancing over my school reports from the year 1972, I observe that the words "ghastly" and "desperate" feature strongly, while "no", "not", "never" and "again" also crop up more often than one would expect in a random sample. My history teacher's report actually took the form of a postcard from Vancouver.
But this, you will be nauseated to learn, is a tale of redemption. In about my 13th year, it so happened that a copy of Galahad at Blandings by P. G. Wodehouse entered my squalid universe, and things quickly began to change. From the very first sentence of my very first Wodehouse story, life appeared to grow somehow larger. There had always been height, depth, width and time, and in these prosaic dimensions I had hitherto snarled, cursed, and not washed my hair. But now, suddenly, there was Wodehouse, and the discovery seemed to make me gentler every day. By the middle of the fifth chapter I was able to use a knife and fork, and I like to think that I have made reasonable strides since.
I spent the following couple of years meandering happily back and forth through Blandings Castle and its environs - learning how often the trains ran, at what times the post was collected, how one could tell if the Empress was off-colour, why the Emsworth Arms was preferable to the Blue Boar - until the time came for me to roll up the map of adolescence and set forth into my first Jeeves novel. It was The Code of the Woosters, and things, as they used to say, would never be the same again.
The facts in this case, ladies and gentlemen, are simple. The first thing you should know, and probably the last, too, is that P. G. Wodehouse is still the funniest writer ever to have put words on paper. Fact number two: with the Jeeves stories, Wodehouse created the best of the best. I speak as one whose first love was Blandings, and who later took immense pleasure from Psmith, but Jeeves is the jewel, and anyone who tries to tell you different can be shown the door, the mini-cab, the train station, and Terminal 4 at Heathrow with a clear conscience. The world of Jeeves is complete and integral, every bit as structured, layered, ordered, complex and self-contained as King Lear, and considerably funnier.
Now let the pages of the calendar tumble as autumn leaves, until 10 years are understood to have passed. A man came to us - to me and to my comedy partner, Stephen Fry - with a proposition. He asked me if I would like to play Bertram W. Wooster in 23 hours of televised drama, opposite the internationally tall Fry in the role of Jeeves.
"Fiddle," one of us said. I forget which.
"Sticks," said the other. "Wodehouse on television? It's lunacy. A disaster in kit form. Get a grip, man."
The man, a television producer, pressed home his argument with skill and determination.
"All right," he said, shrugging on his coat. "I'll ask someone else."
"Whoa, hold up," said one of us, shooting a startled look at the other.
"Steady," said the other, returning the S. L. with top-spin.
There was a pause.
"You'll never get a cab in this weather," we said, in unison.
And so it was that, a few months later, I found myself slipping into a double-breasted suit in a Prince of Wales check while my colleague made himself at home inside an enormous bowler hat, and the two of us embarked on our separate disciplines. Him for the noiseless opening of decanters, me for the twirling of the whangee.
So the great P. G. was making his presence felt in my life once more. And I soon learnt that I still had much to learn. How to smoke plain cigarettes, how to drive a 1927 Aston Martin, how to mix a Martini with five parts water and one part water (for filming purposes only), how to attach a pair of spats in less than a day and a half, and so on.
But the thing that really worried us, that had us saying "crikey" for weeks on end, was this business of The Words. Let me give you an example. Bertie is leaving in a huff: " 'Tinkerty tonk,' I said, and I meant it to sting." I ask you: how is one to do justice of even the roughest sort to a line like that? How can any human actor, with his clumsily attached ears, and his irritating voice, and his completely misguided hair, hope to deliver a line as pure as that? It cannot be done. You begin with a diamond on the page, and you end up with a blob of Pritt, The Non-Sticky Sticky Stuff, on the screen.
Wodehouse on the page can be taken in the reader's own time; on the screen, the beautiful sentence often seems to whip by, like an attractive member of the opposite sex glimpsed from the back of a cab. You, as the viewer, try desperately to fix the image in your mind - but it is too late, because suddenly you're into a commercial break and someone is telling you how your home may be at risk if you eat the wrong breakast cereal.
Naturally, one hopes there were compensations in watching Wodehouse on the screen - pleasant scenery, amusing clothes, a particular actor's eyebrows - but it can never replicate the experience of reading him. If I may go slightly culinary for a moment: a dish of foie gras nestling on a bed of truffles, with a side-order of lobster and caviar may provide you with a wonderful sensation; but no matter how wonderful, you simply don't want to be spoon-fed the stuff by a perfect stranger. You need to hold the spoon, and decide for yourself when to wolf and when to nibble.
And so I am back to reading, rather than playing Jeeves. And my Wodehousian redemption is, I hope, complete. Indeed, there is nothing left for me to say, except to wish, as I fold away my penknife and gaze up at the huge oak towering overhead, that my history teacher could see me now.
Things aren't exactly ooh-jah-cum-spiff, old boy...
What ho! old bean...
Lately, I have found solace from my work in my wonderful old favourite novels of P.G. Wodehouse. And if that isn't enough childhood reminiscing, I have also had recent cravings for all the old British boarding school books we used to read as kids - Mallory Towers, St. Clare's and even Harry Potter. In fact, my whole childhood, I always wondered why my mother never got me any scones home for tea at 4, why we never played lacrosse, why I never got treacle pudding, and why I had to bathe in the mornings instead of before bed time.
But coming back to Wodehouse. Good old Jeeves and Wooster... I wish I had a Jeeves in my life - a gentleman's personal gentleman to clean up the mess of my life. Unfortunately, I am not a gentleman (though I might be as chivalrous as one sometimes). But Wooster and I do have a lot in common. For example, I, too, am a bumbling idiot. All this make the stories really come alive when I read them.
And of course, how can I forget darling Lord Emsworth, one of the most obtuse and lovable old literary characters ever created. I remember the first Wodehouse story I ever read was an Emsworth where he shoots his impossible, incorrigible secretary Rupert Baxter in the posterior with his grandson George's airgun. After reading something that hilarious, you would have to be inhuman to not be hooked. I feel bad for poor old George though. They tried to dump him with a tutor (that too, a tutor in the terrible devilish human form of Rupert Baxter) in the middle of the summer holidays.
Another situation I can relate to considering the fact that I am in it right now. I have summer holidays right now but it sure doesn't feel like it. I have been doing more work than in actual school days. This is not good. The sanctity of aimless mind wandering that occurs during the summer holidays will be lost. If this is not stopped, the future of the youth might be doomed. Oh no! And this is why things aren't exactly 'ooh-jah-cum-spiff', old boy...
Lately, I have found solace from my work in my wonderful old favourite novels of P.G. Wodehouse. And if that isn't enough childhood reminiscing, I have also had recent cravings for all the old British boarding school books we used to read as kids - Mallory Towers, St. Clare's and even Harry Potter. In fact, my whole childhood, I always wondered why my mother never got me any scones home for tea at 4, why we never played lacrosse, why I never got treacle pudding, and why I had to bathe in the mornings instead of before bed time.
But coming back to Wodehouse. Good old Jeeves and Wooster... I wish I had a Jeeves in my life - a gentleman's personal gentleman to clean up the mess of my life. Unfortunately, I am not a gentleman (though I might be as chivalrous as one sometimes). But Wooster and I do have a lot in common. For example, I, too, am a bumbling idiot. All this make the stories really come alive when I read them.
And of course, how can I forget darling Lord Emsworth, one of the most obtuse and lovable old literary characters ever created. I remember the first Wodehouse story I ever read was an Emsworth where he shoots his impossible, incorrigible secretary Rupert Baxter in the posterior with his grandson George's airgun. After reading something that hilarious, you would have to be inhuman to not be hooked. I feel bad for poor old George though. They tried to dump him with a tutor (that too, a tutor in the terrible devilish human form of Rupert Baxter) in the middle of the summer holidays.
Another situation I can relate to considering the fact that I am in it right now. I have summer holidays right now but it sure doesn't feel like it. I have been doing more work than in actual school days. This is not good. The sanctity of aimless mind wandering that occurs during the summer holidays will be lost. If this is not stopped, the future of the youth might be doomed. Oh no! And this is why things aren't exactly 'ooh-jah-cum-spiff', old boy...
Monday 11 June 2007
Moon River
Moon River, wider than a mile:
I'm crossin' you in style someday.
Oh dreammaker, you heartbreaker,
Wherever you're goin', I'm goin'your way.
Two drifters, off to see the world.
There's such a lot of world to see.
We're after the same rainbow's end,
Waitin' round the bend,
My huckleberry friend,
Moon River and me.
"The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of.”
I'm crossin' you in style someday.
Oh dreammaker, you heartbreaker,
Wherever you're goin', I'm goin'your way.
Two drifters, off to see the world.
There's such a lot of world to see.
We're after the same rainbow's end,
Waitin' round the bend,
My huckleberry friend,
Moon River and me.
"The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of.”
Tuesday 29 May 2007
Calvinisms... Not Protestant theology but another kind
Lately, I find myself finding a Calvin and Hobbes strip to explain everything in life. Why should economics be left out of that?
Saturday 19 May 2007
The Joy of Description
Have you ever had the pleasure of reading Katherine Mansfield? Or P.G. Wodehouse, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Louisa May Alcott, Jules Verne for that matter? Or so many other authors of similar caliber? One distinctive trait that all of them have is a wonderful tendency to describe situations, scenes, sensations, emotions, people and life, in general in great loving detail. It is as though they took the time to notice these things, or rather, they took the time to imagine these situations in such vivid details and mention them. This is so much more pleasing than the present situation where the eloquence of people has been reduced to words such as 'stuff' and 'things'. Such a shame!
This is not exclusive to just the written word, but also in songs. Nowadays, most songs have lyrics that even a 3rd grader would find simple. Not only has this afflicted the English music scene, but also international ones. Love messages have been translated into short, abrupt vulgar passages like "I freaking, fucking love you." Does no one have the time to describe anymore?
Don't say it was red. Describe it. What shade was it? Was it crimson, burgundy or was it maroon? Was it the kind of crimson that you see when you hold red wine out in sunlight? Or was it the kind of crimson that kings of yore wore?
Don't just say it was a nice day. Say "The sky was a clear, beautiful azure blue. The trees were freshly dewed, green and swaying gently with the breeze as though they were waving a friendly greeting to old friends. Birds flew overhead and cried out in joy. It seemed as though they were trying to say, "God's in his heaven and all is well with the world." I stepped outside into this wonderfully orchestrated display of 'La Dolce Vita' and couldn't help but think what a nice day it was." It truly was such a nice day but the person you were speaking to never realized because you reduced heaven to a standard order social response.
So, please dear reader, I request you, the next time you have to narrate an incident or write lyrics for a song, take your time and express yourself at your leisure. Describe it lovingly, leisurely in all detail and share the moments with everyone else.
This is not exclusive to just the written word, but also in songs. Nowadays, most songs have lyrics that even a 3rd grader would find simple. Not only has this afflicted the English music scene, but also international ones. Love messages have been translated into short, abrupt vulgar passages like "I freaking, fucking love you." Does no one have the time to describe anymore?
Don't say it was red. Describe it. What shade was it? Was it crimson, burgundy or was it maroon? Was it the kind of crimson that you see when you hold red wine out in sunlight? Or was it the kind of crimson that kings of yore wore?
Don't just say it was a nice day. Say "The sky was a clear, beautiful azure blue. The trees were freshly dewed, green and swaying gently with the breeze as though they were waving a friendly greeting to old friends. Birds flew overhead and cried out in joy. It seemed as though they were trying to say, "God's in his heaven and all is well with the world." I stepped outside into this wonderfully orchestrated display of 'La Dolce Vita' and couldn't help but think what a nice day it was." It truly was such a nice day but the person you were speaking to never realized because you reduced heaven to a standard order social response.
So, please dear reader, I request you, the next time you have to narrate an incident or write lyrics for a song, take your time and express yourself at your leisure. Describe it lovingly, leisurely in all detail and share the moments with everyone else.
Thursday 17 May 2007
Flow
Recently, (and those of you who know me can vouch for this) I have been caught in a maelstrom of activity due to the volley of family visits to Copenhagen. Thanks to these visits I got to visit the Danish Design Centre's exhibit call Flow. It is about consumer responsibility. For those of you have not visited it, I highly recommend it. It really is an eye-opener.
It is designed like a supermarket with products lined along the shelf. However, none of the products have any brand to distinguish them from any others. All products are equal, plain white with just a label with the name of the product. This is not a supermarket where they sell regular products but rather what society needs.
Milk cartons containing 'tolerance', cream cartons containing '1/4th pint of unconditional love', boxes containing 'commercial-free space', perfume bottles containing 'good vibes', cigarette packets containing 'addiction liberators', cans containing 'meaningfulness' and 'silence', medicine boxes containing 'stress killers' and 'time for each other', and disposable syringes with 'collective consciousness'.
I think that last one is really significant. I wish we could all inject our society with collective consciousness. In the exhibit, they quote Anne Lappe, "Everytime you spend money, you are casting a vote for the kind of world you want." I guess democracy is everywhere, huh?
It is designed like a supermarket with products lined along the shelf. However, none of the products have any brand to distinguish them from any others. All products are equal, plain white with just a label with the name of the product. This is not a supermarket where they sell regular products but rather what society needs.
Milk cartons containing 'tolerance', cream cartons containing '1/4th pint of unconditional love', boxes containing 'commercial-free space', perfume bottles containing 'good vibes', cigarette packets containing 'addiction liberators', cans containing 'meaningfulness' and 'silence', medicine boxes containing 'stress killers' and 'time for each other', and disposable syringes with 'collective consciousness'.
I think that last one is really significant. I wish we could all inject our society with collective consciousness. In the exhibit, they quote Anne Lappe, "Everytime you spend money, you are casting a vote for the kind of world you want." I guess democracy is everywhere, huh?
Monday 23 April 2007
Ten Commandments for a Respectable Academician
This is something I wrote ages back in middle school. Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, it is still applicable in my life. So here goes...
- Thou shalt sleep in class.
- Thou shouldst be wholly present in body and soul for all class activities that consist of annoying thy comrades & harassing the professor.
- Thou shalt indulge in gluttony when it comes to the lunches of thy comrades.
- Thou shalt hate some of thy neighbours.
- Thou shalt propagate this holy message by means of desk correspondence or notes.
- Thou shouldst not be caught propagating the holy message.
- Thou shalt never commit the paramount sin - paying attention.
- Thou shalt never be seen taking notes as God spake unto Gates and said, “Let there be Powerpoint.”
- If thy heart be pure, thou shalt never whisper or talk in class – thou shalt leave.
- Thou shalt worship us, the authors, as thy creator and cower before us in fear and obedience.
Clouds in Cars and other Conversations
Since I was young, I have had a great number of interesting experiences with clouds. There was one infamous incident where my family and I were on a car driving up in the mountains on our way to Cherrapunji, the place which receives the most rainfall on earth and we drove so high up into the mountains that fog entered our car. Later of course, my parents converted that story into an adorable anecdote of childlike innocence by saying that a cloud entered our car and I tried to catch it. According to their version, they then informed me that I was told not to squeeze the cloud too hard otherwise it would begin to rain.
My favourite thing to do when it rained in Bangalore was to go up on the roof. Of course, what I did on the roof varied with the time of day or night that it was. If it rained in the afternoon, I liked to go up there and just stand and look melancholy. Whereas if it was night, pitch black and there was a thunderstorm, I loved to stand on top of the rock platform. Sometimes, I would even copy my brother, who would look up and yell, "Is that the best you can do?"
If I was in school when it rained, I would go and splash in all the little puddles that I came across. And dance, twirling endlessly and then of course try and sing opera.
Of course, here in the West (where I am right now), they don't appreciate rain. Here, rain is something to avoid. Something to shelter from. They have never experienced the joy of the first rain after months and months of dry and dusty summer heat. Of summer hail. Of that wonderful fresh earth smell. If there is one thing I would love to share with anyone, it is that smell, that fragrance. It is heaven on Earth.
My favourite thing to do when it rained in Bangalore was to go up on the roof. Of course, what I did on the roof varied with the time of day or night that it was. If it rained in the afternoon, I liked to go up there and just stand and look melancholy. Whereas if it was night, pitch black and there was a thunderstorm, I loved to stand on top of the rock platform. Sometimes, I would even copy my brother, who would look up and yell, "Is that the best you can do?"
If I was in school when it rained, I would go and splash in all the little puddles that I came across. And dance, twirling endlessly and then of course try and sing opera.
Of course, here in the West (where I am right now), they don't appreciate rain. Here, rain is something to avoid. Something to shelter from. They have never experienced the joy of the first rain after months and months of dry and dusty summer heat. Of summer hail. Of that wonderful fresh earth smell. If there is one thing I would love to share with anyone, it is that smell, that fragrance. It is heaven on Earth.
Tuesday 20 March 2007
Circus Librarius
Yet another day, yet another endless book of graphs and figures, and of course time wasted (cough cough.. i mean, studying) in the library. The CBS Library at Solbjerg Plads is a fascinating place. With such striking architecture, it is a wonder that people are able to concentrate.
Today, I had the luck to acquire a prime seat in the library, with a fantastic view of the whole place. It was a seat on the ground floor facing the heart of the library. From it, one could stare at all floors at once. While I was sitting there, it occured to me that this fitted the image I had of the imperial pavilion at one of the Circus Maximus (Maximii ?!?) of Ancient Rome. Only I wasn't the Emperor. I was more like the Emperor's flunkie who stood to the side and ran errands for 'His Imperial Majesty.'
I don't how the entertainment I had compares today with the Circus Maximus of yore, but I have to say that this was pretty fun as well. The most amusing sight has got to be the people who I like to call the 'Seat Snatchers'. They are the people who enter the library and beginning scanning the place for an empty table to sit and study at. For those who already occupy tables, it feels like they are unsuspecting gazelles at the local watering hole being watched by a tiger who has just come off a vegan diet. You feel watched. Unsafe. And though you may stare back defiantly, the Seat Snatchers continue to circle like hawks, unperturbed by the discomfort they may be causing you. And then, just as they are about to give up the hunt, someone crumbles under the pressure (well, not really... possibly that someone just has a class to attend, but that doesn't sound half as dramatic, does it now? ) and gets up to leave. Then, the hawks swoop down together. It is a race to see who gets there first. The winner sits down, exhausted from the hunt, but trimuphant nonetheless and stares back at his competitors in a most humble manner, so as not to provoke them further. And the rest continue the hunt.
The other form of amusement at Circus Librarius is the Mobile Dash. It is fiery competition of determination and sheer speed between man and mobile phone. When everyone has finally settled into their seats, and is getting down to work, someone's mobile phone will ring loudly and unexpectedly. Most mobile phones nowadays have that feature where their ringtone gets louder gradually. Like a petulant child tugging at your trouser leg, it demands your attention, "Listen to me! NOW!!" And so they cry (or in this case, ring) , softly at first - so soft that only your neighbours can hear you, then louder and louder. The whole point of the Mobile Dash is to get out of the Library limits before the ringtone is loud enough to be heard by everyone on all 4 floors. It is indeed, a hilarious sight to see someone immersed in sheaves and sheaves of paper, suddenly turn red and purple with embarassment as the first strains of their embarassing ringtone choice float across the library. Then it is a mad dash leaving paper trails behind, tripping on computer cords all in a desperate attempt to get out of the library before everyone in CBS know that everytime you have a call from home, you hear La Cucaracha.
So what are you waiting for? Come to Circus Librarius today. You won't get much studying done, but who wants that anyway? Right? wink...
Today, I had the luck to acquire a prime seat in the library, with a fantastic view of the whole place. It was a seat on the ground floor facing the heart of the library. From it, one could stare at all floors at once. While I was sitting there, it occured to me that this fitted the image I had of the imperial pavilion at one of the Circus Maximus (Maximii ?!?) of Ancient Rome. Only I wasn't the Emperor. I was more like the Emperor's flunkie who stood to the side and ran errands for 'His Imperial Majesty.'
I don't how the entertainment I had compares today with the Circus Maximus of yore, but I have to say that this was pretty fun as well. The most amusing sight has got to be the people who I like to call the 'Seat Snatchers'. They are the people who enter the library and beginning scanning the place for an empty table to sit and study at. For those who already occupy tables, it feels like they are unsuspecting gazelles at the local watering hole being watched by a tiger who has just come off a vegan diet. You feel watched. Unsafe. And though you may stare back defiantly, the Seat Snatchers continue to circle like hawks, unperturbed by the discomfort they may be causing you. And then, just as they are about to give up the hunt, someone crumbles under the pressure (well, not really... possibly that someone just has a class to attend, but that doesn't sound half as dramatic, does it now? ) and gets up to leave. Then, the hawks swoop down together. It is a race to see who gets there first. The winner sits down, exhausted from the hunt, but trimuphant nonetheless and stares back at his competitors in a most humble manner, so as not to provoke them further. And the rest continue the hunt.
The other form of amusement at Circus Librarius is the Mobile Dash. It is fiery competition of determination and sheer speed between man and mobile phone. When everyone has finally settled into their seats, and is getting down to work, someone's mobile phone will ring loudly and unexpectedly. Most mobile phones nowadays have that feature where their ringtone gets louder gradually. Like a petulant child tugging at your trouser leg, it demands your attention, "Listen to me! NOW!!" And so they cry (or in this case, ring) , softly at first - so soft that only your neighbours can hear you, then louder and louder. The whole point of the Mobile Dash is to get out of the Library limits before the ringtone is loud enough to be heard by everyone on all 4 floors. It is indeed, a hilarious sight to see someone immersed in sheaves and sheaves of paper, suddenly turn red and purple with embarassment as the first strains of their embarassing ringtone choice float across the library. Then it is a mad dash leaving paper trails behind, tripping on computer cords all in a desperate attempt to get out of the library before everyone in CBS know that everytime you have a call from home, you hear La Cucaracha.
So what are you waiting for? Come to Circus Librarius today. You won't get much studying done, but who wants that anyway? Right? wink...
Wednesday 14 March 2007
A Bad Case of Examotitis
Symptoms: Dark circles under the eyes, insomnia, extreme caffeine dependency, memory of a goldfish and tea strainer combined, jitteriness, lack of appetite (or in some cases, extreme hunger), and a bad temper.
Yep. The past few weeks, we have been down with a bad case of examotitis...
Don't you miss those days when you could pelt the boy sitting in front of you in the examination hall with a tiny rolled up millimetre of paper torn from the corner of you question sheet to mouth exaggeratedly to ask for the answer to question 1, part 2)b): What is the difference between the free cash flow model and the something equities model?
Or all the times when you have contemplated writing some key formulae on your hand so you wouldn't forget them?
Or the good old "oops-I-dropped-my-pencil-I-need-to-pick-it-up" trick and then while you are down there might as well ask your neighbour for the answer anyway?
Technically my exams aren't over yet but soon... Soon... This time around our exams were case exams were we had 72 hours and 48 hours to solve them. Piece of cake I thought. We will plenty of time to finish and we can research the answers on that storehouse of useless information - the Internet...It is almost sad how disillusioned I was by the end of it.
The problem with open book exams like these is that the pressure is enormous. You can never tell anyone that you didn't know what the answer was, or that you had a temporary lapse of memory or that you got so nervous you made a careless mistake, or even that you wrote the wrong answer for the wrong question. You have to be perfect and you know it. The thought that comes to your head when you are struggling with it is, "Well, I have all the sources I could possibly want. If I miss anything, it will just be do to my laziness to look for it."
Many things can go wrong in such an exam. There is an immense potential for distraction in such a long period of concentration. After spending 10 hours in a day trying to solve a certain problem of bonus calculation, your attention wanders hopelessly fascinated by any small thing like a gold fish in a new aquarium...Picture yourself sitting there thinking of a goldfish and making funky fish faces with only 4 hours till deadline.
A fun thing that can happen as a result of such intense work is that you feel bonded with your team and a culture emerges with its own symbols and rhetoric. I experienced this for real in our group for our MCS exam. We were stuck trying to think of a solution for a particular aspect of our case. Finally, after 2 hours we had a breakthrough. Group member 1 got so excited that she threw her hands up joyously and exclaimed that group member 2 (the girl who came up with the solution) was the "King". After that epic moment of exultation, it became official that the highest praise we could each other was that of "King"liness.
In the end, all the arguments, pounding fists on the table during arguments, constant nitpicking were all forgotten in favour of proud moments of shining teamwork. And of course, we can't forget the sense of wonderful satisfaction and accomplishment that is part of the package. All in all, a very "King"ly feeling indeed...
Yep. The past few weeks, we have been down with a bad case of examotitis...
Don't you miss those days when you could pelt the boy sitting in front of you in the examination hall with a tiny rolled up millimetre of paper torn from the corner of you question sheet to mouth exaggeratedly to ask for the answer to question 1, part 2)b): What is the difference between the free cash flow model and the something equities model?
Or all the times when you have contemplated writing some key formulae on your hand so you wouldn't forget them?
Or the good old "oops-I-dropped-my-pencil-I-need-to-pick-it-up" trick and then while you are down there might as well ask your neighbour for the answer anyway?
Technically my exams aren't over yet but soon... Soon... This time around our exams were case exams were we had 72 hours and 48 hours to solve them. Piece of cake I thought. We will plenty of time to finish and we can research the answers on that storehouse of useless information - the Internet...It is almost sad how disillusioned I was by the end of it.
The problem with open book exams like these is that the pressure is enormous. You can never tell anyone that you didn't know what the answer was, or that you had a temporary lapse of memory or that you got so nervous you made a careless mistake, or even that you wrote the wrong answer for the wrong question. You have to be perfect and you know it. The thought that comes to your head when you are struggling with it is, "Well, I have all the sources I could possibly want. If I miss anything, it will just be do to my laziness to look for it."
Many things can go wrong in such an exam. There is an immense potential for distraction in such a long period of concentration. After spending 10 hours in a day trying to solve a certain problem of bonus calculation, your attention wanders hopelessly fascinated by any small thing like a gold fish in a new aquarium...Picture yourself sitting there thinking of a goldfish and making funky fish faces with only 4 hours till deadline.
A fun thing that can happen as a result of such intense work is that you feel bonded with your team and a culture emerges with its own symbols and rhetoric. I experienced this for real in our group for our MCS exam. We were stuck trying to think of a solution for a particular aspect of our case. Finally, after 2 hours we had a breakthrough. Group member 1 got so excited that she threw her hands up joyously and exclaimed that group member 2 (the girl who came up with the solution) was the "King". After that epic moment of exultation, it became official that the highest praise we could each other was that of "King"liness.
In the end, all the arguments, pounding fists on the table during arguments, constant nitpicking were all forgotten in favour of proud moments of shining teamwork. And of course, we can't forget the sense of wonderful satisfaction and accomplishment that is part of the package. All in all, a very "King"ly feeling indeed...
Saturday 10 March 2007
हिंदी में पहला ब्लोग। वाह, भाई वाह!!!
आज मुझे सज्मुच घर कि बहुत याद आने वाली हैं। हिंदी में लिखने का मज़ा ही कुछ और हैं।
पिछले हफ्ते कि ही तो बीत है कि मैंने हिंदी में चिठ्ठी लिखने कि कोशिश की और वो भी ४ साल के बाद। मै इंटरनेशनल एकोनोमिन्च्स क्लास में बेठे बेठे बोर हो चुकी थी। हमारी अध्यापिका कि नाम हैं कुमारी अनेत्ते बूम और गेर्मन्य कि रहने वाली हैं। हर क्लास, वो हमारे कक्षा के बोर्ड पर न जाने क्या क्या लिख जाती है और हमे सुला देती है और मै उसके मनपसंद शब्द "इन प्रिंसिपल" को सुन सुनकर तुंग हो चुकी थी। चिठ्ठी लिकने के बाद मेरे मन ko थोड़ी सी शांति मिली। मेरे दोस्तो फिरंगी दोस्तो को भी काफी मज़ा आया मेरे चिठ्ठी को देखकर। उन्हें येह देवंगीरी स्क्रिप्ट बहुत अच्छा लगा।
पिछले हफ्ते कि ही तो बीत है कि मैंने हिंदी में चिठ्ठी लिखने कि कोशिश की और वो भी ४ साल के बाद। मै इंटरनेशनल एकोनोमिन्च्स क्लास में बेठे बेठे बोर हो चुकी थी। हमारी अध्यापिका कि नाम हैं कुमारी अनेत्ते बूम और गेर्मन्य कि रहने वाली हैं। हर क्लास, वो हमारे कक्षा के बोर्ड पर न जाने क्या क्या लिख जाती है और हमे सुला देती है और मै उसके मनपसंद शब्द "इन प्रिंसिपल" को सुन सुनकर तुंग हो चुकी थी। चिठ्ठी लिकने के बाद मेरे मन ko थोड़ी सी शांति मिली। मेरे दोस्तो फिरंगी दोस्तो को भी काफी मज़ा आया मेरे चिठ्ठी को देखकर। उन्हें येह देवंगीरी स्क्रिप्ट बहुत अच्छा लगा।
The Road to Bliss
In my opinion, one of the most peaceful places in India (and trust me, it is not easy to find a peaceful place in a crowded country like India) is in the innermost sanctum of the Tirupathi temple, nestled in the hills of Tirumala, in Andhra Pradesh, in South India. I am not really a religious person and I generally hate all pilgrimage temples as they have a tendency to be dirty, touristy and disappointing. However, there is something about Tirupathi. One cannot ignore the devotion, the faith that devotees show. People journey from far and wide to pay their respects to the Lord of the Seven Hills and so would we.
When my family and I lived in Bangalore, we would undertake this journey quite often. It would take five hours to drive there with two pit stops on the way for breakfast and lunch. We would leave at some ungodly hour of the morning, or so it always seemed to me, before the sun had even risen.
There would be the usual last minute arguments that we always had in our family. My father would be ready first while my mother tried to wake up my brother and I, in a manner that allowed no arguments. While I would shower, my mother would hammer away at my bathroom door, trying to get me to hurry up. Once I was out, I would get the music we would need for our road trip ready. Soon all our efforts would be directed towards trying to get my brother out of the bathroom. Once he had emerged, all red and steaming from the hot shower, he would proceed to assess all my selections of music and promptly change most of it. This would enrage me and I would begin to squabble. Meanwhile, my parents would have begun loading up the car.
Finally, after my brother and I managed to reach a suitable compromise, he would proceed to wear his shoes. My brother wearing his shoes was something so fascinating to watch that it actually requires its own paragraph. The way he went about it, it seemed to be an arduous task, requiring utmost skill and concentration, something best left only to the professionals. He pull on his socks with such the inifinite patience of a practiced, veteran monk, who has been contemplating the meaning of life for the past 40 years under a tree in the forest. All the while, my parents would be multitasking - handling the last minute packing, making sure the maid finished her work and left, getting me out of my music library, reading the morning newspaper and finishing their cup of tea. By the time, my brother got to tying his shoelaces, our family would be almost 15 minutes late from the time we had originally planned to leave, and my father, the lone long-suffering punctual soul in our family, would have reahed the end of his patience (not that his patience was very long) and yell at my brother to hurry him up. This was, needless to say, a well-practiced tactic, that never worked. My brother would look up and then look back down with such a calm demeanour and in what seemed like a deliberately slower manner, tie up his laces with such concentration and at the same time, convey his disdain for the barbarians hurrying him up.
Finally, after all this drama, we would be ready to leave. Before anyone's journey we had this tradition of saying a quick prayer at our family altar and embracing the one leaving (in this case, hugging each other in an overly melodramatic manner). And in that one minute in which we said our silent prayers, all was forgotten, all was forgiven and everything was fine. Then we would pile into the car altogether. My brother and my father would have their ritual argument over who would get to sit in the front seat while our driver looked on in amusement. And then, we would be on our way.
At first, no one spoke, no one played any music. Everyone was just lost in their own thoughts. Then as we got out of the city and unto the highway, we would turn on the radio and listen to whatever was playing until we drove out of range. After that, it would be yet another squabble for the music.
Approximately, an hour and an half after leaving the house we would reach our first pit stop - a highway restaurant/motel called Woody's, a little outside Kolar. We already knew what we wanted to have - Masala Dosa. After this little break, we would continue on our way. Again, we would have a period of silence. Only this time, the silence would be broken not by music but by a game of 20 Questions. For those of you who don't know this game,the objective is simple. One person thinks of a famous personality and then the other players have to ask him/her 20 yes or no questions about this personality and they have three attempts to guess the personality. Of course, the advantage of playing with your family is that they know you so well that the questions tend to be very obscure like, "Does this person appear on that show that we watch on that channel that you hate?" or even something like, "Is this person that you are thinking about related to usand visited our home recently?"
Eventually, we would tire of the game and silence would fall on the car again. Then as I would protest the silence and plead for some music to be played. My brother and I would be on one side, begging for 'our' music to be played while my father and our driver would be the other team, demanding music from their era to be played. Of course, there would ba a lot of verbal assaults on their age during this argument by my brother and I, while the other team would question the integrity of our music and question its status as music and not noise. Our driver would enjoy this squabble. He would join, hesitantly at first, but eventually he would get his way and we would play the music that he liked.
Our mother, was delightful fun on all these roadtrips. She never joined our squabble over the music because she would usually be asleep during those parts of our journey. During her naps, we would cruise along the highways at speeds of 160 km/hr (which is pretty fast for Indian roads) until she awoke and took one look at the speedometer. With a sleepy utterance of "आस्थे, आस्थे ।" (Slow down, slow down), she would go right back to sleep. This was repeated once every twenty minutes and it had an effect which lasted 5 minutes in total each time.
Once we reached Tirupati town at the foot of the Tirumala hills, it would be time for lunch and our second pit stop. Again we had a regular restaurant we visited and a regular lunch that we ate. It was all like a ritual. After lunch, we would pile into the car again to begin our ascent into the hills. This would take around an hour. Our attempts to play some music would immediately be squashed by our mother who would in her usual worried tone, tell us to shut up and let our driver concentrate while he drove around the sharp hairpin bends in the ascent. And usually, we would obey, lapsing into our own thoughts yet again.
Eventually we would reach the top - Tirumala town itself. Tirumala is a noisy, dirty, touristy little town that always seems to be bursting at the seams. People used to queue for miles along the city, actually in cages to get into the temple and inner sanctum, to walk past the 7 gates of Vaikuntam. And for what - a two second glimpse at an bejewelled idol and then a hard shove in the back to get people to move on in the line. Within these two seconds, people would cover a whole palete of emotions, from joy at finally reaching their long journey's end, to exultation at having finally been granted a vision of their beloved Govinda, to ecstacy, chagrin when the pushers push them on, deviousness when they try to con the pushers into letting them stay on for a second longer, anger when this tactic fails to work, resignation as they move on, and hope as they turn around to catch a glimpse of the Lord for the last time. All this happens in a timespan of just one minute. Now, of course, there are no more long queues and cages. Technology has made them redundant. Instead now the Lord's devotees are given a wristband stating the time of their 'darshan' and they are required to show up at the temple's gates at the said time. But the pushers still remain and so does the emotional rollercoaster.
I have had the good fortune to have been blessed with a viewing of one of the many other services. The one that I enjoy the most is the Abhishekam, that is the service wherein the Lord is bathed with buckets and buckets of milk and then massaged with sandalwood. It takes place early in the morning at around 2 or 3 a.m. but no one complains about this. It is well worth it if one gets to sit in the Lord's presence for almost an hour.
The inner sanctum is so peaceful and His presence is overwhelming. I had always planned a list of things that I wanted to say to the Lord when I saw him, but once you reach there, once you reach that inner sanctum, all words are lost. One loses track of one's thoughts amidst the chants of Om and Govinda. It is almost like a trance state with no thought.
On my last trip to the temple, I undertook an experiment. I was resolved to say my prayer in front of the Lord when I got there and finally, I realize why that is not possible. When you pray, you tend to close your eyes to concerntrate your thoughts on what you want to say, ask and thank for. But in Tirupathi, after having fought just to view the Lord, to get a split-second glimpse of him, you just can't close your eyes when you get there. For in the time when you might pray, the next time you open your eyes he may not be visible anymore. I appreciate my father's explanation for this phenomenon. According to him, the Lord knows what you need better than you do and therefore when you are in His presence, words and thoughts are no longer necessary. All you need is that calm overpowering reassurance which is what you get indeed.
People say that you only journey to Tirumala if the Lord has called you. You can plan all you want but if he hasn't called you, you will never reach him. He must call. When you reach the inner sanctum, a wonderful feeling of calm that envelops you (even despite the pushing crowds). A feeling that you have reached your journey's end and He will take care of things now. A feeling of such security and comfort that one can only feel when one is truly at home, like the feeling on gets in one's mother & father's embrace. And that's when you truly realize, or atleast I did, that through this whole journey together with my family, through all our squabbles, through all the masala dosas we ate to get here, to get this 30 second glimpse, none of those things mattered. Eventually, what mattered was that we were here together and of course, that emotion is too powerful to express so like most other emotions, it is lost in silence and never said.
And just for that small realization, that 30 second insight into your life, that tiny taste of true inner peace, it is well worth the trip. It is bliss.
When my family and I lived in Bangalore, we would undertake this journey quite often. It would take five hours to drive there with two pit stops on the way for breakfast and lunch. We would leave at some ungodly hour of the morning, or so it always seemed to me, before the sun had even risen.
There would be the usual last minute arguments that we always had in our family. My father would be ready first while my mother tried to wake up my brother and I, in a manner that allowed no arguments. While I would shower, my mother would hammer away at my bathroom door, trying to get me to hurry up. Once I was out, I would get the music we would need for our road trip ready. Soon all our efforts would be directed towards trying to get my brother out of the bathroom. Once he had emerged, all red and steaming from the hot shower, he would proceed to assess all my selections of music and promptly change most of it. This would enrage me and I would begin to squabble. Meanwhile, my parents would have begun loading up the car.
Finally, after my brother and I managed to reach a suitable compromise, he would proceed to wear his shoes. My brother wearing his shoes was something so fascinating to watch that it actually requires its own paragraph. The way he went about it, it seemed to be an arduous task, requiring utmost skill and concentration, something best left only to the professionals. He pull on his socks with such the inifinite patience of a practiced, veteran monk, who has been contemplating the meaning of life for the past 40 years under a tree in the forest. All the while, my parents would be multitasking - handling the last minute packing, making sure the maid finished her work and left, getting me out of my music library, reading the morning newspaper and finishing their cup of tea. By the time, my brother got to tying his shoelaces, our family would be almost 15 minutes late from the time we had originally planned to leave, and my father, the lone long-suffering punctual soul in our family, would have reahed the end of his patience (not that his patience was very long) and yell at my brother to hurry him up. This was, needless to say, a well-practiced tactic, that never worked. My brother would look up and then look back down with such a calm demeanour and in what seemed like a deliberately slower manner, tie up his laces with such concentration and at the same time, convey his disdain for the barbarians hurrying him up.
Finally, after all this drama, we would be ready to leave. Before anyone's journey we had this tradition of saying a quick prayer at our family altar and embracing the one leaving (in this case, hugging each other in an overly melodramatic manner). And in that one minute in which we said our silent prayers, all was forgotten, all was forgiven and everything was fine. Then we would pile into the car altogether. My brother and my father would have their ritual argument over who would get to sit in the front seat while our driver looked on in amusement. And then, we would be on our way.
At first, no one spoke, no one played any music. Everyone was just lost in their own thoughts. Then as we got out of the city and unto the highway, we would turn on the radio and listen to whatever was playing until we drove out of range. After that, it would be yet another squabble for the music.
Approximately, an hour and an half after leaving the house we would reach our first pit stop - a highway restaurant/motel called Woody's, a little outside Kolar. We already knew what we wanted to have - Masala Dosa. After this little break, we would continue on our way. Again, we would have a period of silence. Only this time, the silence would be broken not by music but by a game of 20 Questions. For those of you who don't know this game,the objective is simple. One person thinks of a famous personality and then the other players have to ask him/her 20 yes or no questions about this personality and they have three attempts to guess the personality. Of course, the advantage of playing with your family is that they know you so well that the questions tend to be very obscure like, "Does this person appear on that show that we watch on that channel that you hate?" or even something like, "Is this person that you are thinking about related to usand visited our home recently?"
Eventually, we would tire of the game and silence would fall on the car again. Then as I would protest the silence and plead for some music to be played. My brother and I would be on one side, begging for 'our' music to be played while my father and our driver would be the other team, demanding music from their era to be played. Of course, there would ba a lot of verbal assaults on their age during this argument by my brother and I, while the other team would question the integrity of our music and question its status as music and not noise. Our driver would enjoy this squabble. He would join, hesitantly at first, but eventually he would get his way and we would play the music that he liked.
Our mother, was delightful fun on all these roadtrips. She never joined our squabble over the music because she would usually be asleep during those parts of our journey. During her naps, we would cruise along the highways at speeds of 160 km/hr (which is pretty fast for Indian roads) until she awoke and took one look at the speedometer. With a sleepy utterance of "आस्थे, आस्थे ।" (Slow down, slow down), she would go right back to sleep. This was repeated once every twenty minutes and it had an effect which lasted 5 minutes in total each time.
Once we reached Tirupati town at the foot of the Tirumala hills, it would be time for lunch and our second pit stop. Again we had a regular restaurant we visited and a regular lunch that we ate. It was all like a ritual. After lunch, we would pile into the car again to begin our ascent into the hills. This would take around an hour. Our attempts to play some music would immediately be squashed by our mother who would in her usual worried tone, tell us to shut up and let our driver concentrate while he drove around the sharp hairpin bends in the ascent. And usually, we would obey, lapsing into our own thoughts yet again.
Eventually we would reach the top - Tirumala town itself. Tirumala is a noisy, dirty, touristy little town that always seems to be bursting at the seams. People used to queue for miles along the city, actually in cages to get into the temple and inner sanctum, to walk past the 7 gates of Vaikuntam. And for what - a two second glimpse at an bejewelled idol and then a hard shove in the back to get people to move on in the line. Within these two seconds, people would cover a whole palete of emotions, from joy at finally reaching their long journey's end, to exultation at having finally been granted a vision of their beloved Govinda, to ecstacy, chagrin when the pushers push them on, deviousness when they try to con the pushers into letting them stay on for a second longer, anger when this tactic fails to work, resignation as they move on, and hope as they turn around to catch a glimpse of the Lord for the last time. All this happens in a timespan of just one minute. Now, of course, there are no more long queues and cages. Technology has made them redundant. Instead now the Lord's devotees are given a wristband stating the time of their 'darshan' and they are required to show up at the temple's gates at the said time. But the pushers still remain and so does the emotional rollercoaster.
I have had the good fortune to have been blessed with a viewing of one of the many other services. The one that I enjoy the most is the Abhishekam, that is the service wherein the Lord is bathed with buckets and buckets of milk and then massaged with sandalwood. It takes place early in the morning at around 2 or 3 a.m. but no one complains about this. It is well worth it if one gets to sit in the Lord's presence for almost an hour.
The inner sanctum is so peaceful and His presence is overwhelming. I had always planned a list of things that I wanted to say to the Lord when I saw him, but once you reach there, once you reach that inner sanctum, all words are lost. One loses track of one's thoughts amidst the chants of Om and Govinda. It is almost like a trance state with no thought.
On my last trip to the temple, I undertook an experiment. I was resolved to say my prayer in front of the Lord when I got there and finally, I realize why that is not possible. When you pray, you tend to close your eyes to concerntrate your thoughts on what you want to say, ask and thank for. But in Tirupathi, after having fought just to view the Lord, to get a split-second glimpse of him, you just can't close your eyes when you get there. For in the time when you might pray, the next time you open your eyes he may not be visible anymore. I appreciate my father's explanation for this phenomenon. According to him, the Lord knows what you need better than you do and therefore when you are in His presence, words and thoughts are no longer necessary. All you need is that calm overpowering reassurance which is what you get indeed.
People say that you only journey to Tirumala if the Lord has called you. You can plan all you want but if he hasn't called you, you will never reach him. He must call. When you reach the inner sanctum, a wonderful feeling of calm that envelops you (even despite the pushing crowds). A feeling that you have reached your journey's end and He will take care of things now. A feeling of such security and comfort that one can only feel when one is truly at home, like the feeling on gets in one's mother & father's embrace. And that's when you truly realize, or atleast I did, that through this whole journey together with my family, through all our squabbles, through all the masala dosas we ate to get here, to get this 30 second glimpse, none of those things mattered. Eventually, what mattered was that we were here together and of course, that emotion is too powerful to express so like most other emotions, it is lost in silence and never said.
And just for that small realization, that 30 second insight into your life, that tiny taste of true inner peace, it is well worth the trip. It is bliss.
Sunday 25 February 2007
The World
Lately, I have been toying with the idea of making my blog like a travelogue atleast until it hit me that I haven't really been anywhere for me to write my impressions of. I suppose I have been far enough to write some stuff but enough to make a whole blog on it - I am not so sure. But now I feel that maybe it doesnt have to be that I have been there. It could be that I have heard something about it or something like that.
We were talking about going on exchange the other day and one of my classmates, Alona was suddenly very taken with the idea of going on GLOBE. In the GLOBE program one gets to go to Hong Kong for a few months and then to North Carolina for another couple of months, hence the name. And I was discussing my options. Lately, I feel as if the world has opened up for me. I want to go everywhere and see everything. Even on those non-luxury holidays which is definitely a first for me. Trekking through Patagonia, or climbing some mountain somewhere is as good as lying on beach getting a massage.
I wish I had a job that involved travelling to different countries like the hosts on Globetrekker. They seem to have a good enough time I suppose. Visiting the whole world. Its not really that big a place and I have realized it doesnt have to be big to be different. Even a small country like Denmark can have diversity, albeit very little diversity but diversity nonetheless. I want to see this small/big world.
We were talking about going on exchange the other day and one of my classmates, Alona was suddenly very taken with the idea of going on GLOBE. In the GLOBE program one gets to go to Hong Kong for a few months and then to North Carolina for another couple of months, hence the name. And I was discussing my options. Lately, I feel as if the world has opened up for me. I want to go everywhere and see everything. Even on those non-luxury holidays which is definitely a first for me. Trekking through Patagonia, or climbing some mountain somewhere is as good as lying on beach getting a massage.
I wish I had a job that involved travelling to different countries like the hosts on Globetrekker. They seem to have a good enough time I suppose. Visiting the whole world. Its not really that big a place and I have realized it doesnt have to be big to be different. Even a small country like Denmark can have diversity, albeit very little diversity but diversity nonetheless. I want to see this small/big world.
Thursday 22 February 2007
Innocent Intelligence
I just re-read one of my favourite parts in Vikram Seth's novel, 'A Suitable Boy' and came across a line about how the most lovable thing about intelligent men is their obtuseness and abstracted behaviour. I found this so true.
I know a lot of smart guys. In fact, I know so many that it is a problem. My brother is one, my best friend is one, my uncle is one and so on. Quite recently the best example I saw of an obtusely smart gentleman was my Macroeconomics professor. He spends ages just re-checking his notes when he is taking class that all his lessons are puntucated with these huge awkward gaps and only the noise of shuffling papers. And then, of course, the other most adorable trait of such people is that they are so easily distracted by something that fascinates them. As long as it is worthy of their attention, they are captivated by it and babble incoherently in some form of intelligence speak that no one else can understand.
The best part about such people is that, usually they seem to be the most innocent and calm in the face of well, ignorance. If you tell them that they don't know what they are talking about, they will patiently listen to your point of vies and then rally against you in the friendliest possible way. The fact of the matter is that they are the most genuine people you will ever find.
I know a lot of smart guys. In fact, I know so many that it is a problem. My brother is one, my best friend is one, my uncle is one and so on. Quite recently the best example I saw of an obtusely smart gentleman was my Macroeconomics professor. He spends ages just re-checking his notes when he is taking class that all his lessons are puntucated with these huge awkward gaps and only the noise of shuffling papers. And then, of course, the other most adorable trait of such people is that they are so easily distracted by something that fascinates them. As long as it is worthy of their attention, they are captivated by it and babble incoherently in some form of intelligence speak that no one else can understand.
The best part about such people is that, usually they seem to be the most innocent and calm in the face of well, ignorance. If you tell them that they don't know what they are talking about, they will patiently listen to your point of vies and then rally against you in the friendliest possible way. The fact of the matter is that they are the most genuine people you will ever find.
Monday 12 February 2007
Red Wine and Chocolate
I'd like to dedicate this entry to my greatest downfall of all - food. Food is like something so sacred, so hallowed. When I was young, my parents would guilt me into eating my vegetables by reminding me that their were so many children out there in the world who didn't have any food at all. That point of view is still around in my head. I suppose its true. One shouldn't waste something so precious, but then when have humans been acknowledged for their wisdom. We are a notoriously foolish species.
It is hard to describe the sensation of taste. How can one begin? I once saw in a film starring Meg Ryan and Nicolas Cage (I think it was City of Angels) where Nicolas Cage is an angel and he asks Meg Ryan to tell him what a pear tastes like. And that notion greatly appeals to me. We never seem to describe that sense enough.
If I had to describe chocolate, how would I? If I had to describe what it tasted like.. When you taste it, you are immediately taken by the bite it has. It has a certain zing to it, not as in a lemon zing, but a more subtle one. One filled with warmth, and sweetness. Atleast that is what I think.
Lately, I have been greatly taken by the idea of a nice red wine and some nice dark chocolate. There's a pick-me-up for any depressed soul. I am definitely not an expert on red wines though I wouldn't mind learning. Atleast that is one thing that has enough people to describe it - the typical stereotype of spitting, swirling snobs, hoity-toity people. However, wine is the common man's drink and always has been.
It is hard to describe the sensation of taste. How can one begin? I once saw in a film starring Meg Ryan and Nicolas Cage (I think it was City of Angels) where Nicolas Cage is an angel and he asks Meg Ryan to tell him what a pear tastes like. And that notion greatly appeals to me. We never seem to describe that sense enough.
If I had to describe chocolate, how would I? If I had to describe what it tasted like.. When you taste it, you are immediately taken by the bite it has. It has a certain zing to it, not as in a lemon zing, but a more subtle one. One filled with warmth, and sweetness. Atleast that is what I think.
Lately, I have been greatly taken by the idea of a nice red wine and some nice dark chocolate. There's a pick-me-up for any depressed soul. I am definitely not an expert on red wines though I wouldn't mind learning. Atleast that is one thing that has enough people to describe it - the typical stereotype of spitting, swirling snobs, hoity-toity people. However, wine is the common man's drink and always has been.
Wednesday 7 February 2007
Blogs
Yet another blog entry filled with tongue-tied confusion. I always start off by saying that I have loads to write about but it always turns out that either I don't want to share that stuff or that I am too lazy..
I am envious of those people who can turn even the smallest events in their life into a fantastic blog entry. I was just reading a note Vivi had left on Facebook about how he likes sushi and the time they made sushi in his office. Such a small event and it made for such an enjoyable read. That was my plan as well but somehow it never manages to happen.
Lately, I have been loathe to write anything. My regular mails, my regular diary has stopped. And I don't know why..
I am envious of those people who can turn even the smallest events in their life into a fantastic blog entry. I was just reading a note Vivi had left on Facebook about how he likes sushi and the time they made sushi in his office. Such a small event and it made for such an enjoyable read. That was my plan as well but somehow it never manages to happen.
Lately, I have been loathe to write anything. My regular mails, my regular diary has stopped. And I don't know why..
Wednesday 31 January 2007
An introduction of sorts
It is truly fantastic - this transition from child to adult.I guess one doesn't realize it when one is firmly on one or the other side. But this intervening period when one is able to understand both perspectives - that is truly fantastic. It gives ones thoughts an amazing duality, which is both confusing as well as refreshingly, clear. And the best past is that it occurs in almost every thoughts.
This is what I hope to record in this cyber logbook of sorts. Life, from the nursery side to the real world side. Hopefully, this will include lots of observations and picturesque descriptions about seemingly mundane things which come alive when described in these perspectives.
Hopefully...
This is what I hope to record in this cyber logbook of sorts. Life, from the nursery side to the real world side. Hopefully, this will include lots of observations and picturesque descriptions about seemingly mundane things which come alive when described in these perspectives.
Hopefully...
Monday 1 January 2007
Breaks coconut on blog...
Here is small tiny paragraph I wrote to honour this blog...
"The wind calls to you. A light breeze rustles through the leaves and the bougainvillea. It whispers a promise. The grey clouds above thunder, and lightning flashes overhead. The heavenly drops begin to fall. As the parched ground beneath you sighs, an earthy fragrance embraces you. It is heaven and earth all at once in the monsoon verandah. Child, you are home at last..."
"The wind calls to you. A light breeze rustles through the leaves and the bougainvillea. It whispers a promise. The grey clouds above thunder, and lightning flashes overhead. The heavenly drops begin to fall. As the parched ground beneath you sighs, an earthy fragrance embraces you. It is heaven and earth all at once in the monsoon verandah. Child, you are home at last..."
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