I came across this string of commands written by someone on orkut:
# unzip ; strip ; touch ; finger ; mount ; fsck ; more ; yes ; umount ; sleep
Nice:-)))
Monday, July 31, 2006
Identity Crisis.
Identity crisis.
I woke up coughing. That should have been my first warning, because I am blessed with a peculiar immunity to common colds. I coughed up a gigantic clod of phlegm, the kind which Amrit is perpetually spitting into the nearest gutter. Amrit chain smokes. He knows it will kill him some day, perhaps sooner than later. He does not care, or if he does, has never showed a sign. I washed my face and looked into the mirror. The eyes which met mine registered shock. Hello stranger. The man who stared at me from the mirror had deep sunken eyes, a skin stretched almost taut over his forehead and cheeks and a spider web of veins below. This was not me. I was about fifteen years younger. I was plump in the way of overfed adolescent Bengalis, which not even three years of hostel food and ganja could remove.
By the time I had collected my wits, of whatever substituted for them these days, I had also managed to notice that this was not my room, this was not my bed, and that alien face also belonged to an alien body. Introspect. That was the greatest lesson which my father had tried to teach me, one which I only turned to when really stoned. I had just begun tracing out the events of last night when the door creaked open. This was another surprise, at the hostel; the door was usually banged open by my roommate Aniket, a horribly exuberant morning person.
The girl who shuffled in was obviously not Aniket. She carried in a tray of; I assume food gingerly, almost as if treading on eggshells. In a moment of insane abstraction, I noticed that she had the most beautiful, delicately boned hands I had ever seen. Then reality kicked in. That sari! I have only seen the sari worn this way by my grandmother and in period movies. She put the tray down and said, ‘eat something Kakababu, the doctor will arrive in a moment’. More confusion. I was saved from having to make any sort of reply by another coughing fit. This time what I spat into the basin was laced with pink. The girl looked concerned, but not surprised. Why?
I sat back and tried to remember last night. The Part II results had been declared. Far from the first class which everyone at home had expected me to bring home, I had failed. The everyone at home did not include me. I retained enough sense to recognize that I would probably bomb the exams. One usually does not do great on exams with God knows how much ganja inside one’s head. Ankit and Amrit had both scraped though. Aniket had even got a high second class. For a while, they had just stood around not quite knowing what to say. Then I said, ‘fuck it, let’s get stoned’. And we did. Like usual. Like always. In a moment of horrible clarity I saw what lay ahead. My father’s quiet disappointment; he never shouted at me. He would just tell me to try one more time and leave for work with his tiffin in that pathetic imitation leather bag, its strap shiny where it had scraped his shoulder for what, ten years? My mother would cry for a bit, but only late at night when no one could see her. I would spend the next six months running around the University asking for a re-evaluation. Nothing would change. I would then spend another six months applying for the exams as a private candidate. My friends would move on, get jobs, and move out, whatever. Relatives would at first, commiserate, then laugh. That job at the factory, assured to the eldest son of whoever completed thirty years of service would go to someone else, perhaps a fresh graduate. And in that moment of clarity, I did not wish to live this life anymore.
Someone shuffled in. I looked up to see an old man, obviously a doctor. Why obviously? That big rexin case, although, the only place I have ever seen it is in movies. And do doctors make house calls anymore? He took my pulse and measured my temperature. I was ordered to open my mouth and say ‘Aaaaaa’ I did. He pulled out a really antiquated looking stethoscope and listened to my laboured breathing. I was about to ask him where I was when he straightened up and said, ‘Bimal Babu, you have never been one to show fear. Your TB is in its final stage’.
I woke up coughing. That should have been my first warning, because I am blessed with a peculiar immunity to common colds. I coughed up a gigantic clod of phlegm, the kind which Amrit is perpetually spitting into the nearest gutter. Amrit chain smokes. He knows it will kill him some day, perhaps sooner than later. He does not care, or if he does, has never showed a sign. I washed my face and looked into the mirror. The eyes which met mine registered shock. Hello stranger. The man who stared at me from the mirror had deep sunken eyes, a skin stretched almost taut over his forehead and cheeks and a spider web of veins below. This was not me. I was about fifteen years younger. I was plump in the way of overfed adolescent Bengalis, which not even three years of hostel food and ganja could remove.
By the time I had collected my wits, of whatever substituted for them these days, I had also managed to notice that this was not my room, this was not my bed, and that alien face also belonged to an alien body. Introspect. That was the greatest lesson which my father had tried to teach me, one which I only turned to when really stoned. I had just begun tracing out the events of last night when the door creaked open. This was another surprise, at the hostel; the door was usually banged open by my roommate Aniket, a horribly exuberant morning person.
The girl who shuffled in was obviously not Aniket. She carried in a tray of; I assume food gingerly, almost as if treading on eggshells. In a moment of insane abstraction, I noticed that she had the most beautiful, delicately boned hands I had ever seen. Then reality kicked in. That sari! I have only seen the sari worn this way by my grandmother and in period movies. She put the tray down and said, ‘eat something Kakababu, the doctor will arrive in a moment’. More confusion. I was saved from having to make any sort of reply by another coughing fit. This time what I spat into the basin was laced with pink. The girl looked concerned, but not surprised. Why?
I sat back and tried to remember last night. The Part II results had been declared. Far from the first class which everyone at home had expected me to bring home, I had failed. The everyone at home did not include me. I retained enough sense to recognize that I would probably bomb the exams. One usually does not do great on exams with God knows how much ganja inside one’s head. Ankit and Amrit had both scraped though. Aniket had even got a high second class. For a while, they had just stood around not quite knowing what to say. Then I said, ‘fuck it, let’s get stoned’. And we did. Like usual. Like always. In a moment of horrible clarity I saw what lay ahead. My father’s quiet disappointment; he never shouted at me. He would just tell me to try one more time and leave for work with his tiffin in that pathetic imitation leather bag, its strap shiny where it had scraped his shoulder for what, ten years? My mother would cry for a bit, but only late at night when no one could see her. I would spend the next six months running around the University asking for a re-evaluation. Nothing would change. I would then spend another six months applying for the exams as a private candidate. My friends would move on, get jobs, and move out, whatever. Relatives would at first, commiserate, then laugh. That job at the factory, assured to the eldest son of whoever completed thirty years of service would go to someone else, perhaps a fresh graduate. And in that moment of clarity, I did not wish to live this life anymore.
Someone shuffled in. I looked up to see an old man, obviously a doctor. Why obviously? That big rexin case, although, the only place I have ever seen it is in movies. And do doctors make house calls anymore? He took my pulse and measured my temperature. I was ordered to open my mouth and say ‘Aaaaaa’ I did. He pulled out a really antiquated looking stethoscope and listened to my laboured breathing. I was about to ask him where I was when he straightened up and said, ‘Bimal Babu, you have never been one to show fear. Your TB is in its final stage’.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Home?
I have been off the net for a while. Having a whale of a good time generally. Let me define a good time, to make things clear. Yes, climbing mountains, looking at beautiful sights makes me happy, yes. However, I correspond to the description of ‘Ghorer Chele’, which means, I am happiest at home. And where is home? Home is centered in and around Calcutta, where my parents live. Calcutta was once somewhat unpoetically described as the ‘armpit of the world’. Calcutta is a gigantic swarming mass of people, mostly brown in colour, and speaking pretty much every language spoken on the subcontinent. It is home to the Communist Party of India (Marxist), Presidency College, Calcutta University, College Street, Chouringhee Lane, Rabindrasangeet and NazrulGeeti (two schools of music), Muslim leatherworkers, Hindu clothworkers, Jain businessmen, itinerant foreigners, the ubiquitous ‘bhodrolok’, the ‘jhola’ wielding ‘antelectual’ or intellectual, some of the best theorists in this part of the world, Flury’s, Mongini’s, Lord’s and other bakeries, Bedwin, Shiraz and other Biriyani places, Bihari rickshaw pullers, Oriya cooks, Bengali everymen, crazies of every description. Calcutta carries within its sweating ‘gallis’ and ‘paras’, a population greater than half of Sri Lanka.
Home is also at Bangalore, the city I was born and spent some rather raucous years in. Some of the raucous years were spent at the Institute, where I completed my MS (much to my shock and the dismay of some of my instructors). I believe that I am the only person in the illustrious history of the physics dept. who actually traced the entire grading curve from S (highest possible) to F (fail).
Home is also at Ann Arbor, a pretty little university town in Michigan where I have been working towards a PhD. (I use the word ‘working’ rather loosely). At the current moment, home is also where my Didi is. This happens to be Mainz, a town in Germany which I have never had the good fortune to visit. But Didi being there, that is also home.
Home is also Shillong, a really beautiful town in the foothills of the Himalayas. Shillong is the capital of the state of Meghalaya. Meghalaya literally translates to ‘abode of the clouds’, and it is indeed such; Meghalaya is the rainiest place in the world. Well, to be specific, the two rainiest places in the world at Mausinram and Cherrapunjee in Meghalaya which are completely undistinguished places, which are just really, really wet. Shillong was where I grew up and turned into the bitter person that I am. I blame the climate for it.
Home is also at Bangalore, the city I was born and spent some rather raucous years in. Some of the raucous years were spent at the Institute, where I completed my MS (much to my shock and the dismay of some of my instructors). I believe that I am the only person in the illustrious history of the physics dept. who actually traced the entire grading curve from S (highest possible) to F (fail).
Home is also at Ann Arbor, a pretty little university town in Michigan where I have been working towards a PhD. (I use the word ‘working’ rather loosely). At the current moment, home is also where my Didi is. This happens to be Mainz, a town in Germany which I have never had the good fortune to visit. But Didi being there, that is also home.
Home is also Shillong, a really beautiful town in the foothills of the Himalayas. Shillong is the capital of the state of Meghalaya. Meghalaya literally translates to ‘abode of the clouds’, and it is indeed such; Meghalaya is the rainiest place in the world. Well, to be specific, the two rainiest places in the world at Mausinram and Cherrapunjee in Meghalaya which are completely undistinguished places, which are just really, really wet. Shillong was where I grew up and turned into the bitter person that I am. I blame the climate for it.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
The holy men of India.
The Holy Men of India.
Take a short walk down Chouringhee, near Dalhousie, Sealdah or any one of the more busy streets of Kolkata and you will see a half naked bloke with shaggy hair begging on the pavement. Who is he? Who are the thousands of people like him? India has had Sadhus, Rishis and Muni. All of these words refer to sages, people who have talked about religion, science, philosophy, in fact, talked about everything. These men (yes, there have been few women in these ranks) are the Socrates, the Aristotle and the Immanuel Kant of India. The first criterion to the position of a sadhu is to give up wealth and all material possessions. The sadhu who bothers about his next meal is never going to be a sadhu. Such men have always a path so wildly different from that taken by the rest that we can scarcely comprehend their motivation, much less their rewards. For thousands of years, the most respected of these has been the itinerant Brahmin whose sole possession is his loincloth and his begging bowl. His call of ‘bhikhshan dehi’ (alms) brought him food and when needed, shelter. Why? Perhaps because the people who gave him alms recognized his greater understanding of all things. Such people have frequently come to the forefront of society and led others in times of need. The foremost of such sages in recent times has been Sri Ramakrishna Paramahansa, and the disciple who transcended him, Swami Vivekanada. Indeed, the father of our nation, Mahatma Gandhi was somewhat unflatteringly referred to as ‘that half naked fakir’ by the then Viceroy to the Queen. But leaving such greats, we turn our attention to the beggars on the streetside. Even in today’s commercial age, we see people stopping to drop a rupee or two into his bowl. One such person is seen every day outside the Sri Guru Ashrama, which is a place established by yet another sage. Every day on my way to college, I passed this bloke. I usually made it a point to carry some change to give him. He would raise the coins to his forehead and mutter something which I never understood. My father has long maintained that he is a sadhu of some accomplishment who simply prefers to remain incognito. This bloke sometimes talks to people only he can see with emphatic hand gestures. He laughs at their foibles and preaches to them. All I can understand is that he sees more than I do. Isn’t that exactly what a sadhu does?
Take a short walk down Chouringhee, near Dalhousie, Sealdah or any one of the more busy streets of Kolkata and you will see a half naked bloke with shaggy hair begging on the pavement. Who is he? Who are the thousands of people like him? India has had Sadhus, Rishis and Muni. All of these words refer to sages, people who have talked about religion, science, philosophy, in fact, talked about everything. These men (yes, there have been few women in these ranks) are the Socrates, the Aristotle and the Immanuel Kant of India. The first criterion to the position of a sadhu is to give up wealth and all material possessions. The sadhu who bothers about his next meal is never going to be a sadhu. Such men have always a path so wildly different from that taken by the rest that we can scarcely comprehend their motivation, much less their rewards. For thousands of years, the most respected of these has been the itinerant Brahmin whose sole possession is his loincloth and his begging bowl. His call of ‘bhikhshan dehi’ (alms) brought him food and when needed, shelter. Why? Perhaps because the people who gave him alms recognized his greater understanding of all things. Such people have frequently come to the forefront of society and led others in times of need. The foremost of such sages in recent times has been Sri Ramakrishna Paramahansa, and the disciple who transcended him, Swami Vivekanada. Indeed, the father of our nation, Mahatma Gandhi was somewhat unflatteringly referred to as ‘that half naked fakir’ by the then Viceroy to the Queen. But leaving such greats, we turn our attention to the beggars on the streetside. Even in today’s commercial age, we see people stopping to drop a rupee or two into his bowl. One such person is seen every day outside the Sri Guru Ashrama, which is a place established by yet another sage. Every day on my way to college, I passed this bloke. I usually made it a point to carry some change to give him. He would raise the coins to his forehead and mutter something which I never understood. My father has long maintained that he is a sadhu of some accomplishment who simply prefers to remain incognito. This bloke sometimes talks to people only he can see with emphatic hand gestures. He laughs at their foibles and preaches to them. All I can understand is that he sees more than I do. Isn’t that exactly what a sadhu does?
Saturday, July 22, 2006
They covered the roof!!!!
I have very serious objections to people at Shreya's covering the roof. To clarify things, Shreya's is the primary watering hole for us IIScians. There used to be a place called Ratna's which was just outside the YP market side gate. This joint was apparently a pretty great place where people also got great food apart from, of course ethanol in its various avatars. I have never seen Ratna's. The reason being that a year or two before I had joined, they had very inconsiderately closed the place. If you start a conversation about Ratna's with any Physics Dept. PhD or Intie of that time (upto the early 2001, I believe) they might start crying. This place used to be a depositery of the Institute scholarship (a very substantial part). Now it is an Iyengar Bakery. That is about the most insulting thing I can imagine. The great Borda (one of the all time greats in the annals of the Institute, known as much for his intellect as for his gargantuan abilities to imbibe) before leaving with his doctorate had declared an interdict on the Bakery. To this day, we do not buy anything from there.
Ok, I have been talking about Ratna's without ever having seen the place. So let me talk about Shreya's. This place is almost right at Yesvantpur circle. The roof is the best place to sit. On a Saturday or Friday evening, one can sit there and be surrounded by scientists of all inclinations. One cannot throw the bones of an 'Angel fish' fry in any random direction without hitting an IIScian. It was at this place that I was first introduced to Jaguar, which is a 'winey beer', a unique combination which, if compounded with a couple of shots of 8 pm whiskey removes all pain from life. Things like the experiment not working, the gurle who does not pay the subject any attention, the looming thesis deadline all become less important. The roof was bathed in the rather bilous and jaundiced yellow halogen light of the Yesvantpur traffic circle. This strange illumination grows on you though, and with smoke from some fifty odd Gold Flakes, Navy Cuts, Classics and the ubiquitous beedis, one saw precious little anyway.
Well, you get the picture, if you study Physics, Maths or any such thing, Shreya's is the place to be. Also Ecological Studies, various forms of engg and suchlike. I was a Shreya's a couple of nights ago. We were an old group, much depleted, but still active. Debu-da, Jethu, Jayanta-da, Jontu, Bhantu, Usman Bhai and me. Guess what, they had covered the roof!!!!!!!!!! Every line we spoke reverberated like nothing on earth. It was awful! But we still got sloshed.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Coffee @ TMSC
TMSC is the Tata Memorial Sports Club at IISc, which has mostly staffers as members. I don't know the economics of how they go about it, but these people also run a small canteen where we get reasonably palatable southie food at pretty cheap prices. They also make a rather smashing coffee. This concoction is made in a deep rich liquor form and stored hot. When we leg it to the counter and profer Rs. 2.25 (about 5 cents), the bloke gives us a leetil coupon. We then edge sideways by about a foot and try to reach the counter while reaching over the shoulders of what seems like a sea of eager coffee fanatics and profer our coupon and yell for a regular coffee. At such moments, one is likely to rub shoulders with a Physics prof. (TMSC is just outside the Physics Dept.), as in rub shoulders quite literally. This can be somewhat embarassing if the prof. in question is your own boss. The bloke pours out maybe a thimbleful of coffee liquor and then tops it off with steaming hot milk. The prize in hand, we leg it to the benches and start the adda. In years gone by, when the likes of Rangeet and Rana and others were around, we would pick a spot behind the solitary tree in the middle of the courtyard and light up. Juniors from the lab were on lookout duty; we needed a few seconds of warning to toss the cigarettes if a prof. turned up. I was at TMSC again, this time without the Rangeet or the Rana, and hence without smokes. Things have changed, lab members have changed; thankfully the coffee is the same.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
A good time to finish up old tasks
That is what my orkut profile tells me on this absolutely fine and beautiful day. That means I have to go back over many years and finish that Hindi homework that I never actually submitted in Class 9 (or was it 8?), I have to work infinitely harder through every year of my life after joining Presi to gain the respect of my peers and stop feeling guilty myself. I should also apologise to all those people whom I have hurt, inflicted unhappiness upon, in whatever small part through my whole life. That could take a while.
Finally, I shouldd track down those people whom I have considered to be a useless drain on the resources of the planet and erase their very existance. Than and only then shall my old tasks be finished.
On second thoughts, maybe I should just concentrate on finishing this blog.
Finally, I shouldd track down those people whom I have considered to be a useless drain on the resources of the planet and erase their very existance. Than and only then shall my old tasks be finished.
On second thoughts, maybe I should just concentrate on finishing this blog.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Keeping the Balance
Halfway from CIT road to Gariahat. This was in the happier and somewhat more congested days before the new flyover was built. Buses stopped for what seemed like eternity at Gariahat and the conductors wouldn't start until they had loaded enough sweaty, smelling, overweight calcuttans to actually violate maximum packing ratios known to solid state physics. In such situations, I sometimes found myself packed between two solid walls of human flesh and slowly having the air squuezed out of me. Sometimes it wasn't this bad. It was just bad enough that I could flex my knees. When I was at that trange extremity of tiredness when all I could think off was getting home, my hand would slip from its grip on the overhead rod and my knees would begin to buckle. At which point some well meaning bloke would prop me up and I would flash him a tired and sleepy smile of thanks. Yes, travelling under those conditions helped me develop pretty good balance.
This time around, I was on a CSTC bus from the Bypass to Garia. CSTC buses, as all Calcuttans know manage the incredible feat of roaring down impossibly crowded roads all the while straining and juddering as if the whole bloody contraption will collapse around its passengers. This gurle got on. I was hanging on for dear life, as the bus was cornering at accelerations more suitable to a Mig 29. She had a bunch of notes and a book on an arm, and a cellphone in the other. Into which, she was gabbing for all she was worth. She elbowed me somewhat unceremoniously in the ribs and made her way inside. I couldn't help thinking that some people have learnt to keep the balance, while I appear to have forgotten it.
This time around, I was on a CSTC bus from the Bypass to Garia. CSTC buses, as all Calcuttans know manage the incredible feat of roaring down impossibly crowded roads all the while straining and juddering as if the whole bloody contraption will collapse around its passengers. This gurle got on. I was hanging on for dear life, as the bus was cornering at accelerations more suitable to a Mig 29. She had a bunch of notes and a book on an arm, and a cellphone in the other. Into which, she was gabbing for all she was worth. She elbowed me somewhat unceremoniously in the ribs and made her way inside. I couldn't help thinking that some people have learnt to keep the balance, while I appear to have forgotten it.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Bombay to Calcutta
Arriving at Bombay.
We were stuck at the transit terminal from the international to the domestic termini. There was apparently a bus every forty minutes. It was sometime around that time that we learnt about the blasts. 7 bombs had been detonated in suburban trains inside a 11 minute span. At least one hundred and fifty deaths had been reported. There were no TV sets in the transit terminus. No bus turned up. There was some indication that a bus would appear in a few minutes, so we legged it to the gate and queued up. My buddy the seaman was insistent upon going out to the city, something I managed to dissuade him from doing. After a while we got irritated; no bus, and apparently no person responsible. Ultimately the bus turned up so late that when we got to the domestic terminus all the restaurants were closed, except for this shady one. I found myself at 3 in the morning sipping coffee and eating a somewhat unhappy looking samosa alone at a table and reading the P D James. And being hideously overcharged for it. Stuff that my socialist soul was writhing in agony at, but then, one has to eat.
Ultimately, I got maybe half an hour of sleep. I ended up wandering around the terminus, looking at the newscasts; all news of the blasts from location. I was mostly too tired for the shock to actually hit me. Anyway, my flight to Kolkata was at 6.50 in the morning. After clearing security, the airline chaps put us into a bus which traveled halfway across the airport to stop in front of a plane, which was the wrong one. We then drove back to a plane parked maybe twenty mts from the gate. the flight was wonderful, so much better service than the international.
We were stuck at the transit terminal from the international to the domestic termini. There was apparently a bus every forty minutes. It was sometime around that time that we learnt about the blasts. 7 bombs had been detonated in suburban trains inside a 11 minute span. At least one hundred and fifty deaths had been reported. There were no TV sets in the transit terminus. No bus turned up. There was some indication that a bus would appear in a few minutes, so we legged it to the gate and queued up. My buddy the seaman was insistent upon going out to the city, something I managed to dissuade him from doing. After a while we got irritated; no bus, and apparently no person responsible. Ultimately the bus turned up so late that when we got to the domestic terminus all the restaurants were closed, except for this shady one. I found myself at 3 in the morning sipping coffee and eating a somewhat unhappy looking samosa alone at a table and reading the P D James. And being hideously overcharged for it. Stuff that my socialist soul was writhing in agony at, but then, one has to eat.
Ultimately, I got maybe half an hour of sleep. I ended up wandering around the terminus, looking at the newscasts; all news of the blasts from location. I was mostly too tired for the shock to actually hit me. Anyway, my flight to Kolkata was at 6.50 in the morning. After clearing security, the airline chaps put us into a bus which traveled halfway across the airport to stop in front of a plane, which was the wrong one. We then drove back to a plane parked maybe twenty mts from the gate. the flight was wonderful, so much better service than the international.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Coming Home
Returning home.
I packed two changes of clothes and filled up the rest of the suitcase with chocolates and a few boxes of mashed potatoes in powdered form. Don’t ask. On Monday, after packing and repacking my luggage for the 459th time, legged it down to the lab. I got to doing stuff like assigning ten odd peaks and reporting to the bloke I work with. I then wrote tiny blog. Then I went home, listened to Fossils, had lunch and twiddled my thumbs until B turned up. B gave me a lift to the airport. The airport is all of half an hour’s drive away. I had taken prints from Mapquest and Yahoo, which came to a total of ten pages or so. Yes, I know what you are thinking. I had an e-ticket, so I decided to take no chances and get there well in advance. B dropped me off at maybe 3.15 PM. My flight was at 7.10 PM. Check in took all of two and a half minutes. Security check was slightly longer. Maybe ten minutes. The only part when I was slightly flustered was when the bloke told me to take off my shoes. Now my socks are slightly.. shall we say.. disreputable?
Anyway, I found myself in the terminal with a cool three hours to spare. And a PD James novel which had 390 something pages to be read. A simple straight six hours and forty minutes going at normal to slightly high speed. Five hours under high speed. Four under stressed conditions. I sighed, and put the book away. Time to explore the terminal.
Walkways.
The NW world gateway has walkways. These are moving roads meant for two standing side by side which run straight for maybe 70 mts. Really nice and sophisticated. I had some fun getting on those walkways and walking/streaming up and down. This is really smart. Like out of a science fiction book. In fact, totally out of a science fiction book.
The red electric tram.
There was an overhead electric tram between termini. I prefer to use the word termini as opposed to terminals. Terminals is pedestrian. Termini is somewhat more sophisticated. And the tram was red. Until that point, I was not aware of the deep unhappiness in what passes for my soul. This unhappiness was brought about due to the fact that one of my childhood ambitions had never been realized, and I guess, will never be. This ambition was to be a conductor on a big red double decker bus. Anyway, I was tremendously excited at seeing the red tram. I called a friend and told her as much and said that I am going to explore it. It was quite nice. It is entirely automated. The track edge of the platform is guarded by glass windows which have inset doors. The tram slowly lines up with the sliding doors such that suicidal/adventurous people cannot hurl themselves in front of an incoming bogey. This tram has no seats, but then it travels for maybe a few hundred feet.
The long wait.
There was a long wait. I called various people and expressed my views on red trams and other things.
The plane.
Was an Airbus A330. I had an aisle seat which some bloke wanted to exchange with another aisle seat. Aisle seats being much the same, I did; and found myself sitting next to this huge bloke. After figuring out how to use the handheld remote for the little seat mount TV, I started watching V for Vendetta. That movie has Hugo Weaving who gained infinite notoriety as Agent Smith, although I believe his greatest role was as Douglas Jardine (the bloke who invented Bodyline Bowling). Yes, Hugo spouting Shakespearean lines with aplomb while killing people. Neat. I never got through the movie. A combination of me being tired and the stupid remote conking out halfway through the movie. Yes, after a long flight I got to Schipol. There was a short wait for my connecting flight to Bombay. This was a crappy old DC10. These western airlines have a habit of allotting their bad old planes on the Asia side flights. The food was much better though. I was sitting next to this Dutch lady who does something concerned with fillums. As in teaches a course, is involved in distribution. Proper aantel and all that. So we got talking, and to my shock, she had heard of Rituporno, Aparna Sen and hold your breath.. Ritwik Ghatak (the greatest and least known Indian director). I remember once telling someone that international flights which originate or terminate in Calcutta or have Bongs on them will suffer from unusual crowding at the ends of the aisles where a bunch of Bong men will be bonding and complaining over the non smoking rules. Well, I got up to strech my legs, and this random chap asked me if I was a seaman. Turns out that he was a marine engineer and I looked like one myself. I had to tell him that no, I am a mere .. whatever. Anyway, we got to bond over several bottles (those tiny bottles on planes) of wine and by the time we entered Indian airspace, I was feeling no pain whatever. This chap was full of good advice on everything from food to marriage.
Bombay.
The plane came down over the Arabian Sea coast. Bombay at night is like an incredibly rich collection of jewels as seen from the sky. The moment the plane’s wheels hit the tarmac, the whole cabin erupted in cheers, clapping and whistles. My Dutch neighbour told me that this happens every time. Mera Desh Mahan!! I got to Immigration sweating like nothing on earth. Bombay on a sultry July night. Tired, somewhat dishavelle, dirty, unshaven, looking like a tramp I walked up to the Immigration officer with a huge grin on my face. He asked me the standard, ‘how are you today?’ To which I replied ‘AWESOME!!!’. This stopped him. He took one long look and asked me why. I answered, ‘Cos I am home!!’
I packed two changes of clothes and filled up the rest of the suitcase with chocolates and a few boxes of mashed potatoes in powdered form. Don’t ask. On Monday, after packing and repacking my luggage for the 459th time, legged it down to the lab. I got to doing stuff like assigning ten odd peaks and reporting to the bloke I work with. I then wrote tiny blog. Then I went home, listened to Fossils, had lunch and twiddled my thumbs until B turned up. B gave me a lift to the airport. The airport is all of half an hour’s drive away. I had taken prints from Mapquest and Yahoo, which came to a total of ten pages or so. Yes, I know what you are thinking. I had an e-ticket, so I decided to take no chances and get there well in advance. B dropped me off at maybe 3.15 PM. My flight was at 7.10 PM. Check in took all of two and a half minutes. Security check was slightly longer. Maybe ten minutes. The only part when I was slightly flustered was when the bloke told me to take off my shoes. Now my socks are slightly.. shall we say.. disreputable?
Anyway, I found myself in the terminal with a cool three hours to spare. And a PD James novel which had 390 something pages to be read. A simple straight six hours and forty minutes going at normal to slightly high speed. Five hours under high speed. Four under stressed conditions. I sighed, and put the book away. Time to explore the terminal.
Walkways.
The NW world gateway has walkways. These are moving roads meant for two standing side by side which run straight for maybe 70 mts. Really nice and sophisticated. I had some fun getting on those walkways and walking/streaming up and down. This is really smart. Like out of a science fiction book. In fact, totally out of a science fiction book.
The red electric tram.
There was an overhead electric tram between termini. I prefer to use the word termini as opposed to terminals. Terminals is pedestrian. Termini is somewhat more sophisticated. And the tram was red. Until that point, I was not aware of the deep unhappiness in what passes for my soul. This unhappiness was brought about due to the fact that one of my childhood ambitions had never been realized, and I guess, will never be. This ambition was to be a conductor on a big red double decker bus. Anyway, I was tremendously excited at seeing the red tram. I called a friend and told her as much and said that I am going to explore it. It was quite nice. It is entirely automated. The track edge of the platform is guarded by glass windows which have inset doors. The tram slowly lines up with the sliding doors such that suicidal/adventurous people cannot hurl themselves in front of an incoming bogey. This tram has no seats, but then it travels for maybe a few hundred feet.
The long wait.
There was a long wait. I called various people and expressed my views on red trams and other things.
The plane.
Was an Airbus A330. I had an aisle seat which some bloke wanted to exchange with another aisle seat. Aisle seats being much the same, I did; and found myself sitting next to this huge bloke. After figuring out how to use the handheld remote for the little seat mount TV, I started watching V for Vendetta. That movie has Hugo Weaving who gained infinite notoriety as Agent Smith, although I believe his greatest role was as Douglas Jardine (the bloke who invented Bodyline Bowling). Yes, Hugo spouting Shakespearean lines with aplomb while killing people. Neat. I never got through the movie. A combination of me being tired and the stupid remote conking out halfway through the movie. Yes, after a long flight I got to Schipol. There was a short wait for my connecting flight to Bombay. This was a crappy old DC10. These western airlines have a habit of allotting their bad old planes on the Asia side flights. The food was much better though. I was sitting next to this Dutch lady who does something concerned with fillums. As in teaches a course, is involved in distribution. Proper aantel and all that. So we got talking, and to my shock, she had heard of Rituporno, Aparna Sen and hold your breath.. Ritwik Ghatak (the greatest and least known Indian director). I remember once telling someone that international flights which originate or terminate in Calcutta or have Bongs on them will suffer from unusual crowding at the ends of the aisles where a bunch of Bong men will be bonding and complaining over the non smoking rules. Well, I got up to strech my legs, and this random chap asked me if I was a seaman. Turns out that he was a marine engineer and I looked like one myself. I had to tell him that no, I am a mere .. whatever. Anyway, we got to bond over several bottles (those tiny bottles on planes) of wine and by the time we entered Indian airspace, I was feeling no pain whatever. This chap was full of good advice on everything from food to marriage.
Bombay.
The plane came down over the Arabian Sea coast. Bombay at night is like an incredibly rich collection of jewels as seen from the sky. The moment the plane’s wheels hit the tarmac, the whole cabin erupted in cheers, clapping and whistles. My Dutch neighbour told me that this happens every time. Mera Desh Mahan!! I got to Immigration sweating like nothing on earth. Bombay on a sultry July night. Tired, somewhat dishavelle, dirty, unshaven, looking like a tramp I walked up to the Immigration officer with a huge grin on my face. He asked me the standard, ‘how are you today?’ To which I replied ‘AWESOME!!!’. This stopped him. He took one long look and asked me why. I answered, ‘Cos I am home!!’
Monday, July 10, 2006
Today on Orkut
My fortune on Orkut says that :
Today's fortune:
The time is right to make new friends.
This kind of stuff is dangerous.. you already have all these psychos out there on Orkut who come up with 'do yu want to make friendship with me' stuff and nonsense all the time.. and if anyone else got this, and decided to take this seriously...and in fact sent friend requests to everyone out there.. wel, we would be in a pickle wouldn't we? In fact, I am really glad for the existance of Orkut.. it has helped me get in touch with people I have not been in contact with for.. aeons!! Bt seriously, there are crazies out there....
Today's fortune:
The time is right to make new friends.
This kind of stuff is dangerous.. you already have all these psychos out there on Orkut who come up with 'do yu want to make friendship with me' stuff and nonsense all the time.. and if anyone else got this, and decided to take this seriously...and in fact sent friend requests to everyone out there.. wel, we would be in a pickle wouldn't we? In fact, I am really glad for the existance of Orkut.. it has helped me get in touch with people I have not been in contact with for.. aeons!! Bt seriously, there are crazies out there....
Going Home Today
There is a song by this bloke Protul Mukhopadhyay called 'Aami Bangalye Gaan Gai'. It is the usual 'I love my homeland song' which every culture has about a hundred of. Well, the thing about Protul is that he is a fifty something bank manager who also sings. And he sings as if he has no teeth. No he may or may or may not have teeth, but it sure sounds like he has no teeth. Anyway, the song is pretty awesome. And every time I came home from the institute, at about the time the train crossed Kharagpur, I always used to remember that song.
Anyway, i am going home today.
Anyway, i am going home today.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Tu Aashqui Hai and concerts long ago.
Some two years ago, with an entirely different cast of friends and enemies in the picture, I went to a concert. This was by Rhythmica, the institute music group. One of ther lead singers was a guy called Jayabrata. His nickname was 'tari' (on account of the fact that tari means country liquor which was his mainstay). But that is beside the point. I once had the pleasure of being in the same team as him (backing vocals only!!) and he always struck me as the most effortlessly brilliant singer I have ever personally met.
The song that Tari was singing that night was 'Tu Aashqui Hai'. I remember him grabbing the mike and singing the first line. At which point the audience erupted in applause, catwhistles, howls etc etc. He had to stop until everyone was quiet and then he started again. That was the best rendition of that song which I have ever heard. It has been my favourite song to this day.
I was logged on to raaga.com and listening to that particular song. Hence the nostalgia.
The song that Tari was singing that night was 'Tu Aashqui Hai'. I remember him grabbing the mike and singing the first line. At which point the audience erupted in applause, catwhistles, howls etc etc. He had to stop until everyone was quiet and then he started again. That was the best rendition of that song which I have ever heard. It has been my favourite song to this day.
I was logged on to raaga.com and listening to that particular song. Hence the nostalgia.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Chinese Junk Food
A Return to Chinese Junk Food.
Something I was long against. And for good reason too! Indians have a peculiar habit of eating Chinese food with Indian spices. This comes to a peculiar mixed breed cuisine which is neither here nor there. The ubiquitous little trolley with egg rolls and chowmien on any Calcutta street corner to me symbolizes early evening linners (something halfway between lunch and dinner). Not something that was ever very tasty, but just about kept me going till ten at night, at which point I would find myself at home and at dinner proper.
So, I was at the mall last evening. And really hungry. So what do I see but this Chinese junk food shop with this Chinese bloke waving at me (now that is a very welcoming gesture given that fact that it was a choice between this joint and another eatery, somewhat more posh, and all told, not as appetizing.) So I toddle along and exchange greetings with this bloke. At which point, he offers me a piece of Orange Chicken to taste. It was like nothing I had ever tasted before. It was sweet!
Then I just had to grab a bag of fried rice with mushrooms, chicken and something really interesting which I have no clue what to call. That was an excellent meal! And brought back all these memories of street food back home. (Which given the inevitable weakening of my immune system here, I should stay away from).
There should be a post later about Kati Roll, the famous shop on Chouringhee back home.
Something I was long against. And for good reason too! Indians have a peculiar habit of eating Chinese food with Indian spices. This comes to a peculiar mixed breed cuisine which is neither here nor there. The ubiquitous little trolley with egg rolls and chowmien on any Calcutta street corner to me symbolizes early evening linners (something halfway between lunch and dinner). Not something that was ever very tasty, but just about kept me going till ten at night, at which point I would find myself at home and at dinner proper.
So, I was at the mall last evening. And really hungry. So what do I see but this Chinese junk food shop with this Chinese bloke waving at me (now that is a very welcoming gesture given that fact that it was a choice between this joint and another eatery, somewhat more posh, and all told, not as appetizing.) So I toddle along and exchange greetings with this bloke. At which point, he offers me a piece of Orange Chicken to taste. It was like nothing I had ever tasted before. It was sweet!
Then I just had to grab a bag of fried rice with mushrooms, chicken and something really interesting which I have no clue what to call. That was an excellent meal! And brought back all these memories of street food back home. (Which given the inevitable weakening of my immune system here, I should stay away from).
There should be a post later about Kati Roll, the famous shop on Chouringhee back home.
Friday, July 07, 2006
The Other SIde of the Software Boom
The other side of the software boom.
Indian software people are amongst the best in the world, known for good quality work at low prices. Indeed, at this point, or best known export product is the ubiquitous software engineer. There is, however another face to this software boom which is hardly discussed, at least not at all in places where it may matter.
1.The medium term objective of large numbers of Indian engineers is to acquire software skills, and thereafter a software job.
2.Traditional engineering, as in the science of building things is hardly being practiced. As a result, there are hardly any electronics/semiconductor industries in India. Metallurgy, materials technology, etc are fields in which there is substantial scientific research being undertaken, but very few developments in industry.
3.The expenditure incurred by a student's family and by the taxpayer (the paltry tuition fees payed at state universities does not cover operational costs, much less salaries of faculties) is largely wasted.
4.The same requirements of a software job could be met by specialised software courses taught at professional schools or private centres like NIIT.
5.IT enables services (or ITES), the most prominent being the 'Call Centre' requires Avinash and Shreya to become John and Lucy during working hours and answer the calls of idiot customers in the US of A like the writer who cannot figure out how to eject the CD tray on their jazzy new laptop (assembled in China).
6.Call Centres recruit from colleges. (This one is actually funny, GE once came recruiting to Presi Physics Dept. for their call centre at Gurgaon. Presi Physics produces physicists, writers and the occasional Naxalite. No call centre people.)
7.Call Centres recruit successfully from colleges. What, pray is the point of a college education, knowing about the Harappan civilisation, or about Economic geology, if you end up with that kind of a job?
There are things which are fundamentally wrong with the Indian education system at the moment. College education must be made as expensive as it truly is for professional courses. The Humanities and the Sciences must be incorporated in the form of a liberal arts curriculum as is practiced at American universities. Finally, standardization of syllabi is something which is talked about, but rarely attempted. This should be remedied. In this, the sciences should take the lead (there are not that many ways one can interpret Maxwell's equations), and national level screening exams like the JEST, the NET and the GATE should be made mandatory for all university upperclassmen.
Indian software people are amongst the best in the world, known for good quality work at low prices. Indeed, at this point, or best known export product is the ubiquitous software engineer. There is, however another face to this software boom which is hardly discussed, at least not at all in places where it may matter.
1.The medium term objective of large numbers of Indian engineers is to acquire software skills, and thereafter a software job.
2.Traditional engineering, as in the science of building things is hardly being practiced. As a result, there are hardly any electronics/semiconductor industries in India. Metallurgy, materials technology, etc are fields in which there is substantial scientific research being undertaken, but very few developments in industry.
3.The expenditure incurred by a student's family and by the taxpayer (the paltry tuition fees payed at state universities does not cover operational costs, much less salaries of faculties) is largely wasted.
4.The same requirements of a software job could be met by specialised software courses taught at professional schools or private centres like NIIT.
5.IT enables services (or ITES), the most prominent being the 'Call Centre' requires Avinash and Shreya to become John and Lucy during working hours and answer the calls of idiot customers in the US of A like the writer who cannot figure out how to eject the CD tray on their jazzy new laptop (assembled in China).
6.Call Centres recruit from colleges. (This one is actually funny, GE once came recruiting to Presi Physics Dept. for their call centre at Gurgaon. Presi Physics produces physicists, writers and the occasional Naxalite. No call centre people.)
7.Call Centres recruit successfully from colleges. What, pray is the point of a college education, knowing about the Harappan civilisation, or about Economic geology, if you end up with that kind of a job?
There are things which are fundamentally wrong with the Indian education system at the moment. College education must be made as expensive as it truly is for professional courses. The Humanities and the Sciences must be incorporated in the form of a liberal arts curriculum as is practiced at American universities. Finally, standardization of syllabi is something which is talked about, but rarely attempted. This should be remedied. In this, the sciences should take the lead (there are not that many ways one can interpret Maxwell's equations), and national level screening exams like the JEST, the NET and the GATE should be made mandatory for all university upperclassmen.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
going home!!
I am going to the Desh. Will get there in one piece, NW airlines, monsoons and sundry other entities willing. Will continue to blog from the Desh if I get the time. If not, well, I wil lhave lots to blog about when I get back!!
against inequality
Reservations and inequality.
The Govt. of India is currently in the process of implementing various measures aimed at ameliorating the unfortunate lot of 'lower castes', and 'other backward classes'. The word 'Reservation' is one which has divided the country down the centre and lead to quite a bit of unhappiness in recent times.
I am not going to talk about the historical details of why reservations exist. But then,, maybe, I should. The 'lower castes' have been, for long treated awfully by the 'higher castes'. The wrongs against them were to have been corrected by a decade or so of remedial measures. This was the idea at the time the Constitution was written. But government after government found it convenient to keep reservations going without actually probing the efficacy of the process. There are numerous statistics pointing in both directions; numbers which show that at the grassroot level, changes have occurred and more people are being educated. Also numbers which show that some of our most prestigious universities have students who have been admitted under reservations and are barely keeping up.
The suggestion that the 'creamy layer' of people under reservations be excluded, on the basis of them not needing any further help was met with skepticism. In a country where people claim to have five extra family members in order to get some more rice from the ration shops, who is going to identify the creamy layer. And given the fact that it is this highly vocal creamy layer which is the cause of the current amendments, what are the the chances that an SC/ST/OBC will voluntarily sign his name off the reservation list. And some of our ministers have suggested that after implementing 30% or 40% or whatever reservations, the reduction in the number of general category seats can be made up by increasing the overall intake. Which will dilute the reservations to a lower percentage. Which must then be made up (to make things Constitutional). Which means we have to increase the intake further to accommodate more general category students. And so on. It appears as if I am alone in seeing an infinite loop here.
My 'umble suggestions:
1.Conduct an accurate and verifiable economic census.
2.Help people based on income. Not caste, not any other criterion.
3.If someone stops a 'lower caste' bloke from entering a temple/building/toilet/swimming pool, then jail the someone.
4.When someone receives help, let it be in terms of tuition fees for a school/college. Let them win a seat based on pure merit. Then the govt. can take over the financial burden. Allowing for quotas in the admission system itself simply dilutes the quality of students.
Reservations do not promote equality. At least not in their current form. The idea behind helping those who need help is a noble one. Unfortunately, it has been perverted to the immediate goals of those in power and their cohorts. It is time things were made right.
The Govt. of India is currently in the process of implementing various measures aimed at ameliorating the unfortunate lot of 'lower castes', and 'other backward classes'. The word 'Reservation' is one which has divided the country down the centre and lead to quite a bit of unhappiness in recent times.
I am not going to talk about the historical details of why reservations exist. But then,, maybe, I should. The 'lower castes' have been, for long treated awfully by the 'higher castes'. The wrongs against them were to have been corrected by a decade or so of remedial measures. This was the idea at the time the Constitution was written. But government after government found it convenient to keep reservations going without actually probing the efficacy of the process. There are numerous statistics pointing in both directions; numbers which show that at the grassroot level, changes have occurred and more people are being educated. Also numbers which show that some of our most prestigious universities have students who have been admitted under reservations and are barely keeping up.
The suggestion that the 'creamy layer' of people under reservations be excluded, on the basis of them not needing any further help was met with skepticism. In a country where people claim to have five extra family members in order to get some more rice from the ration shops, who is going to identify the creamy layer. And given the fact that it is this highly vocal creamy layer which is the cause of the current amendments, what are the the chances that an SC/ST/OBC will voluntarily sign his name off the reservation list. And some of our ministers have suggested that after implementing 30% or 40% or whatever reservations, the reduction in the number of general category seats can be made up by increasing the overall intake. Which will dilute the reservations to a lower percentage. Which must then be made up (to make things Constitutional). Which means we have to increase the intake further to accommodate more general category students. And so on. It appears as if I am alone in seeing an infinite loop here.
My 'umble suggestions:
1.Conduct an accurate and verifiable economic census.
2.Help people based on income. Not caste, not any other criterion.
3.If someone stops a 'lower caste' bloke from entering a temple/building/toilet/swimming pool, then jail the someone.
4.When someone receives help, let it be in terms of tuition fees for a school/college. Let them win a seat based on pure merit. Then the govt. can take over the financial burden. Allowing for quotas in the admission system itself simply dilutes the quality of students.
Reservations do not promote equality. At least not in their current form. The idea behind helping those who need help is a noble one. Unfortunately, it has been perverted to the immediate goals of those in power and their cohorts. It is time things were made right.
Against Corporate Junk Food
Anti Corporate Junk Food
One would have thought that with the arrival of a new computer, half my reasons to rant will disappear. One might also wonder at a person whose main rants are against silicon based objects (pun fully intended). However, and this is a big however, there are always things to rant about. In fact, at some later point, perhaps a blog on the uselessness of ranting, and then maybe another on the therapeutic values of ranting. Anyway, I have something new to howl about. Corporate Junk Food.
There are these companies which provide pretty lousy, mostly unpalatable and sometimes really unhealthy junk food to students/working people/other hurried life forms at medium to unreasonably high prices. Now don't misunderstand me here; I perfectly well understand the reasoning behind grabbing a burger from a MacD and running to class in the morning. People in the US of A are health conscious to the point that if there is a reasonable alternative within a day's drive, they will not eat at a junk food outlet. What completely drives me up the wall is the opposite attitude back home.
True, most Indians want to come to the US and if they do will die happy (why??), and anything 'phoren' carries the stamp of respectability. But MacD's???!!!! I mean, come on people, get a grip. You guys had several thousand recipes going at a time when the only primates on the North American mainland were those on trees. There is no such thing of lasting value in 'American Cuisine'. This is a civilization whose greatest invention is a blinkin' Cola!!! Understand this: food as defined here is something which gives you energy and keeps you going. FOOD as defined back home is an experience!! Think! Lachha parathas! Paper Dosas! Hyderabadi biriyani! Shorshe bata ilish machh! And intelligent Desis think that its 'cool' to hang out at a MacD and eat burgers. This, ladies and gentlemen, in a sentence summarizes the decline and fall of eastern civilization.
My friend Qi was telling me how hip Chinese folk pay big money to go and eat at a MacD, in fact, pay substantially more than the equivalent cost at, say Ann Arbor. I ended up thinking that hip Indian folk (read 'braindead losers with more money to spend than one should reasonably have') do the same. This is just plain sad. With good money in their pockets, these people do not have the good taste (and good sense) to avoid junk food. For these unfortunate nouveau rich fools, a nice Saturday evening out with the wife and kids involves a trip to a MacD where the idiot man of the family shells out big bucks for the privilege of feeding his equally idiotic offspring and wife oily French fries (which are neither French nor fries) and some really shady meat tucked between two slices of not even freshly baked bread.
And why this sudden rant? Well, some git on orkut has just created a community dedicated to a new MacD in Hyderabad!!! The ghost of the Nizam's chef is probably spinning in his grave!
One would have thought that with the arrival of a new computer, half my reasons to rant will disappear. One might also wonder at a person whose main rants are against silicon based objects (pun fully intended). However, and this is a big however, there are always things to rant about. In fact, at some later point, perhaps a blog on the uselessness of ranting, and then maybe another on the therapeutic values of ranting. Anyway, I have something new to howl about. Corporate Junk Food.
There are these companies which provide pretty lousy, mostly unpalatable and sometimes really unhealthy junk food to students/working people/other hurried life forms at medium to unreasonably high prices. Now don't misunderstand me here; I perfectly well understand the reasoning behind grabbing a burger from a MacD and running to class in the morning. People in the US of A are health conscious to the point that if there is a reasonable alternative within a day's drive, they will not eat at a junk food outlet. What completely drives me up the wall is the opposite attitude back home.
True, most Indians want to come to the US and if they do will die happy (why??), and anything 'phoren' carries the stamp of respectability. But MacD's???!!!! I mean, come on people, get a grip. You guys had several thousand recipes going at a time when the only primates on the North American mainland were those on trees. There is no such thing of lasting value in 'American Cuisine'. This is a civilization whose greatest invention is a blinkin' Cola!!! Understand this: food as defined here is something which gives you energy and keeps you going. FOOD as defined back home is an experience!! Think! Lachha parathas! Paper Dosas! Hyderabadi biriyani! Shorshe bata ilish machh! And intelligent Desis think that its 'cool' to hang out at a MacD and eat burgers. This, ladies and gentlemen, in a sentence summarizes the decline and fall of eastern civilization.
My friend Qi was telling me how hip Chinese folk pay big money to go and eat at a MacD, in fact, pay substantially more than the equivalent cost at, say Ann Arbor. I ended up thinking that hip Indian folk (read 'braindead losers with more money to spend than one should reasonably have') do the same. This is just plain sad. With good money in their pockets, these people do not have the good taste (and good sense) to avoid junk food. For these unfortunate nouveau rich fools, a nice Saturday evening out with the wife and kids involves a trip to a MacD where the idiot man of the family shells out big bucks for the privilege of feeding his equally idiotic offspring and wife oily French fries (which are neither French nor fries) and some really shady meat tucked between two slices of not even freshly baked bread.
And why this sudden rant? Well, some git on orkut has just created a community dedicated to a new MacD in Hyderabad!!! The ghost of the Nizam's chef is probably spinning in his grave!
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
About the tigerrrrrr
About the tiger.
My orkut profile claims that I am busy taming the tiger. To make things somewhat more clear; my boss has recently bought two new Macbooks for the lab. I am using one of them. The mac OSX.4 is called Tiger. And trust me, it needs some taming.
So coming around to this topic. My blog frequently deals with the love-hate relationship I have with my computer. With a Windows, all I have is a hate-hate. With a Linux, its a love-hate,which sometimes becomes a hate-love. Go figure!! Anyway, the new Mac OS is built on a commercial strength UNIX foundation. Which gives you the power of the command prompt. And that, of course is the entire point of the machine..
But the command line, or the shell comes with a few quirks of its own. Any UNIX machine can be a smart speed demon, in fact, my labmate D looks upon his Mac (and this is a bloody 2 processor G5 monster) as the next best thing after Starship Enterprise. But these machines are bloody finicky. Its not quite as simple as firing up Media Player and then hunting for files. The UNIX filesystem lets the experienced user do almost anything. It also acts as an apparently unsurmountable barrier to the novice (read Akash).
The biggest stumbling block is when the shell refuses to run a certain command for you. As in, tells you that you are barking nuts. Instead of pulling out my hair (which is currently not too easy, me having gone from longhair to skinhead) I used to go camp outside our IT expert's door. Now he has just shown me how to set environmental variables. Which may just be the cure to half my problems.
You don't know half of it. Right after getting the Mac, AND being told that the .cshrc has a path set for me to be able to run Matlab, Mathematica and all those good things from the prompt, I sftp'd a totally different .cshrc from a linux machine in. You know, the usual shortcuts, aliases.. and of course,now nothing works!! Panic. Go down to the expert. Get him to open up the .cshrc and freak out. 'Where did all this stuff come from'.. well, more egg on my face.
Regarding computers, there are two conflicting statements in my life:
1.A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.
2.Practice makes perfect.
My orkut profile claims that I am busy taming the tiger. To make things somewhat more clear; my boss has recently bought two new Macbooks for the lab. I am using one of them. The mac OSX.4 is called Tiger. And trust me, it needs some taming.
So coming around to this topic. My blog frequently deals with the love-hate relationship I have with my computer. With a Windows, all I have is a hate-hate. With a Linux, its a love-hate,which sometimes becomes a hate-love. Go figure!! Anyway, the new Mac OS is built on a commercial strength UNIX foundation. Which gives you the power of the command prompt. And that, of course is the entire point of the machine..
But the command line, or the shell comes with a few quirks of its own. Any UNIX machine can be a smart speed demon, in fact, my labmate D looks upon his Mac (and this is a bloody 2 processor G5 monster) as the next best thing after Starship Enterprise. But these machines are bloody finicky. Its not quite as simple as firing up Media Player and then hunting for files. The UNIX filesystem lets the experienced user do almost anything. It also acts as an apparently unsurmountable barrier to the novice (read Akash).
The biggest stumbling block is when the shell refuses to run a certain command for you. As in, tells you that you are barking nuts. Instead of pulling out my hair (which is currently not too easy, me having gone from longhair to skinhead) I used to go camp outside our IT expert's door. Now he has just shown me how to set environmental variables. Which may just be the cure to half my problems.
You don't know half of it. Right after getting the Mac, AND being told that the .cshrc has a path set for me to be able to run Matlab, Mathematica and all those good things from the prompt, I sftp'd a totally different .cshrc from a linux machine in. You know, the usual shortcuts, aliases.. and of course,now nothing works!! Panic. Go down to the expert. Get him to open up the .cshrc and freak out. 'Where did all this stuff come from'.. well, more egg on my face.
Regarding computers, there are two conflicting statements in my life:
1.A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.
2.Practice makes perfect.
just laughing here
I was reading in the bus stop this last Monday. I do not usually read at bus stops, but this one was rather well illuminated. And to say that I do not read at bus stops will be telling the truth, but not all of it. So what was I reading? Mot science related anything, in fact. I was reading 'How to be good' by Nick Hornby. Of late, I have been carrying some current reading material around for commutes. This may give you the impression that every one of my waking hours is used to the full. That is not the case.
So, I was reading at the bus stop. (Is it 'at' or 'in'?) There was this Asian bloke hunched over his laptop. (In the US of A, 'Asian' means of Mongoloid extraction) Now he may have been finishing a presentation, or checking on a calculation. Or he may be reading Sardar jokes (which happen to be the Desi equivalent of Blonde jokes; point to note: I don't know if there is an Asian equivalent of Blonde and Sardar jokes) Or he may have been watching some really shady XXX stuff. Who knows? And who cares, for that matter.
Anyway, I suddenly laughed aloud. After having read a rather funny passage (something involving deep marital discord, but let that pass for now) This bloke looked at me with quite visible alarm and sort of shifted away. Which was a little difficult to do without actually integrating into the brick wall, but he tried anyway.
Which brings me to a very fundamental problem. What is wrong with people laughing aloud in public? I mean, it was just a perfectly ordinary laugh, one that may be forthcoming from someone reading a funny book. It was not an evil chuckle, or what is infinitely more disturbing coming from a guy, a giggle. Nor was it a guffaw (something approaching, what we call an 'Attohanshi' in Bangla) Just an ordinary laugh. And look at the reaction I got!!
So, I was reading at the bus stop. (Is it 'at' or 'in'?) There was this Asian bloke hunched over his laptop. (In the US of A, 'Asian' means of Mongoloid extraction) Now he may have been finishing a presentation, or checking on a calculation. Or he may be reading Sardar jokes (which happen to be the Desi equivalent of Blonde jokes; point to note: I don't know if there is an Asian equivalent of Blonde and Sardar jokes) Or he may have been watching some really shady XXX stuff. Who knows? And who cares, for that matter.
Anyway, I suddenly laughed aloud. After having read a rather funny passage (something involving deep marital discord, but let that pass for now) This bloke looked at me with quite visible alarm and sort of shifted away. Which was a little difficult to do without actually integrating into the brick wall, but he tried anyway.
Which brings me to a very fundamental problem. What is wrong with people laughing aloud in public? I mean, it was just a perfectly ordinary laugh, one that may be forthcoming from someone reading a funny book. It was not an evil chuckle, or what is infinitely more disturbing coming from a guy, a giggle. Nor was it a guffaw (something approaching, what we call an 'Attohanshi' in Bangla) Just an ordinary laugh. And look at the reaction I got!!
calcutta buses
Buses in kolkata.
City buses in Calcutta, or Kolkata are mostly owned by private individuals. Whenever a regular, or a minibus says 'mayer aashirbaad' on the side (which means 'blessings of the mother') it usually means that the bus has been purchased with funds embezzled from some Durga Pujo budget (Ma Durga, of course being the Ma in question..). Well, coming to the topic of Calcutta buses. Calcutta, to begin with, is one of those few places I have been to where it is sunny enough so that you sweat copiously, while it is also raining. Don't ask me, I just live there. And when it rains, it bloody well pours.
Buses are put together rather shoddily. In fact, it is a miracle that many of them run. When it rains, the water dribbles into the side channels by the edges of the roof and splashes to the road. Theoretically. What actually happens is that some of it comes straight through those holes in the roof which have escaped the owner's eye (or in some cases,his wallet). Some of it comes through those channels mentioned, but by some peculiar magic involving surface tension and maybe quantum mechanical tunneling, finds its way into the face of the unfortunate bloke sitting in the last window seat. And of course, when it rains, the windows are shut. Which means you can't see where you are. And if you think you know how crowded a bus can get, you have no clue. I have traveled in buses where the pressure of people getting off at some stop just simply carries you inexorably towards the exit and off. Sometimes you are squished so tight that you are taken off your feet and simply hang suspended in midair between people. Right, so when the windows are closed, you have no idea where you are. So you strain to hear what the conductor is saying. And before you ask, no, we do not have those funky electronic devices in which a polite female voice says that you have arrived at North U and Fletcher.
May and June are particularly evil months. It is hot to the point that the tarmac on the road starts softening. Not kidding. I once spent a summer traveling to the BITM for a computer course. Gawd knows why. Not that I learned anything. Or maybe I did. Well, that is not the point. I hung on to the support rods near the roof when I couldn't get a seat. Which was most of the time. And the roof got soooo hot that the part of the heat transmitted itself to the support rod, which was, after all bolted to the roof. And part simply radiated off the roof. Inwards. With the net result that after riding in the bus a couple of times, my knuckles turned a peculiar shade of mostly black.. and the skin took on this leathery.. dead look. As if it had been burnt. Which, of course was exactly what happened.
Having said that, it is a miracle that the few million commuters actually get to work every day in the city. Creaking, bursting at its seams, forever on the verge of collapsing in utter chaos, the transport system in Calcutta manages. It makes very little sense to the uninitiated, but it is streamlined to maximum efficiency with minimum, and sometimes zero resources. And of course, everything has a reason. The autorickshaw line at Tollygunge stretches to pretty much half a kilometre at 7 pm on a weekday. And that is where a chaiwallah, a paan-beedi wallah finds takers. Somehow,it all makes sense.
City buses in Calcutta, or Kolkata are mostly owned by private individuals. Whenever a regular, or a minibus says 'mayer aashirbaad' on the side (which means 'blessings of the mother') it usually means that the bus has been purchased with funds embezzled from some Durga Pujo budget (Ma Durga, of course being the Ma in question..). Well, coming to the topic of Calcutta buses. Calcutta, to begin with, is one of those few places I have been to where it is sunny enough so that you sweat copiously, while it is also raining. Don't ask me, I just live there. And when it rains, it bloody well pours.
Buses are put together rather shoddily. In fact, it is a miracle that many of them run. When it rains, the water dribbles into the side channels by the edges of the roof and splashes to the road. Theoretically. What actually happens is that some of it comes straight through those holes in the roof which have escaped the owner's eye (or in some cases,his wallet). Some of it comes through those channels mentioned, but by some peculiar magic involving surface tension and maybe quantum mechanical tunneling, finds its way into the face of the unfortunate bloke sitting in the last window seat. And of course, when it rains, the windows are shut. Which means you can't see where you are. And if you think you know how crowded a bus can get, you have no clue. I have traveled in buses where the pressure of people getting off at some stop just simply carries you inexorably towards the exit and off. Sometimes you are squished so tight that you are taken off your feet and simply hang suspended in midair between people. Right, so when the windows are closed, you have no idea where you are. So you strain to hear what the conductor is saying. And before you ask, no, we do not have those funky electronic devices in which a polite female voice says that you have arrived at North U and Fletcher.
May and June are particularly evil months. It is hot to the point that the tarmac on the road starts softening. Not kidding. I once spent a summer traveling to the BITM for a computer course. Gawd knows why. Not that I learned anything. Or maybe I did. Well, that is not the point. I hung on to the support rods near the roof when I couldn't get a seat. Which was most of the time. And the roof got soooo hot that the part of the heat transmitted itself to the support rod, which was, after all bolted to the roof. And part simply radiated off the roof. Inwards. With the net result that after riding in the bus a couple of times, my knuckles turned a peculiar shade of mostly black.. and the skin took on this leathery.. dead look. As if it had been burnt. Which, of course was exactly what happened.
Having said that, it is a miracle that the few million commuters actually get to work every day in the city. Creaking, bursting at its seams, forever on the verge of collapsing in utter chaos, the transport system in Calcutta manages. It makes very little sense to the uninitiated, but it is streamlined to maximum efficiency with minimum, and sometimes zero resources. And of course, everything has a reason. The autorickshaw line at Tollygunge stretches to pretty much half a kilometre at 7 pm on a weekday. And that is where a chaiwallah, a paan-beedi wallah finds takers. Somehow,it all makes sense.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Why I do not like chain forwards
Stupid things people do online.
Now don't get me wrong here. I am not saying that you shouldn't do whatever it is that you do on the internet. Fine by me. Its a free country the last time I checked. But what really gets my ire, makes me angry and want to reach out into the screen, grab your foolish head, pull it out and scream obscenities are chain forwards.
Type 1: Lame arse chicanery: “my baby is dying of cancer/leukaemia/cystic fibrosis/she has a tail cos I am an incestuous bastard(for reference read A Hundred Years of Solitude) and AOL/Yahoo/Google/Microsoft/IBM/my neighbourhoof panwaala has agreed to give me a cent for every time this mail is fwded.” It costs nothing to fwd it, and you, my dear simpleton go ahead and do so cos you have this big list of people whom you have never called/ written to in the last two years, but shite! You fwd stuff to them!! Get wise. There is no one out there tracking how many times the mail gets fwded. Think about it logically. If AOL or anyone else felt like giving a cancer patient money, they would just go ahead and do so. Sure, they would also milk it for all it were worth, but not by sending chain fwds.
Type 2: click on this or die. Detailed explanation typically comes with a pic of Diane/Lucy/Shweta whoever.. a normal college girl who pissed off an evil spirit who then ate/raped/killed her. If you don't want the same to happen to you, please click and fwd to your ten best friends. Again: what nonsense is this? Go see the Ring for reference. Such things may/ may not exist. I do not dispute that, but for crying out loud, don't fwd it to me. I am NOT your best friend.
Type 3: variation of type 2: click on this/fwd to ur best friends and ur heart's desire will come true. If you do this in ten minutes, you will be married to the female/male/horse/dog/alien of ur choice. If you do this in one day, the aforementioned creature will contact u direct. Again, for those people sad enough to require help from the God of the Internet to fulfill their heart's desire, please keep me out of it.
Type 4: the only passingly decent kind: typical numerology. Add/multiply/divide something by something so many times and watch the pattern in the numbers. Sometimes, this is interesting.
Type 5: the very worst. Answer the following questions related to colour choices/ numbers, write down the name of the person you think of when u read the following.. and go thru the list.. and such and such is the person of ur dreams, such and such is the person you will hate.. yadda yadda yadda... Again, why bother? If you feel the need for divine intervention in your daily affairs, go to your temple/church/mosque/gurudwara/synagogue whatever and communicate direct with the higher being (read God/Shiva/Buddha/Allah/Ra) of your choice. This is called “prayer”. Do not incorporate the internet in your daily worship to gain divine favour so that you can sleep with or stay awake with your favourite human/animal/alien. In particular, I do not care a rat's arse about your love life or lack thereof. Do not send me stupid brain dead forwards which ask me to do any of the above, or variations of the same. If you can find the time to write me a personal mail, I will surely find the time to answer it. If you cannot, then kindly delete my name from your fwds list.
Now don't get me wrong here. I am not saying that you shouldn't do whatever it is that you do on the internet. Fine by me. Its a free country the last time I checked. But what really gets my ire, makes me angry and want to reach out into the screen, grab your foolish head, pull it out and scream obscenities are chain forwards.
Type 1: Lame arse chicanery: “my baby is dying of cancer/leukaemia/cystic fibrosis/she has a tail cos I am an incestuous bastard(for reference read A Hundred Years of Solitude) and AOL/Yahoo/Google/Microsoft/IBM/my neighbourhoof panwaala has agreed to give me a cent for every time this mail is fwded.” It costs nothing to fwd it, and you, my dear simpleton go ahead and do so cos you have this big list of people whom you have never called/ written to in the last two years, but shite! You fwd stuff to them!! Get wise. There is no one out there tracking how many times the mail gets fwded. Think about it logically. If AOL or anyone else felt like giving a cancer patient money, they would just go ahead and do so. Sure, they would also milk it for all it were worth, but not by sending chain fwds.
Type 2: click on this or die. Detailed explanation typically comes with a pic of Diane/Lucy/Shweta whoever.. a normal college girl who pissed off an evil spirit who then ate/raped/killed her. If you don't want the same to happen to you, please click and fwd to your ten best friends. Again: what nonsense is this? Go see the Ring for reference. Such things may/ may not exist. I do not dispute that, but for crying out loud, don't fwd it to me. I am NOT your best friend.
Type 3: variation of type 2: click on this/fwd to ur best friends and ur heart's desire will come true. If you do this in ten minutes, you will be married to the female/male/horse/dog/alien of ur choice. If you do this in one day, the aforementioned creature will contact u direct. Again, for those people sad enough to require help from the God of the Internet to fulfill their heart's desire, please keep me out of it.
Type 4: the only passingly decent kind: typical numerology. Add/multiply/divide something by something so many times and watch the pattern in the numbers. Sometimes, this is interesting.
Type 5: the very worst. Answer the following questions related to colour choices/ numbers, write down the name of the person you think of when u read the following.. and go thru the list.. and such and such is the person of ur dreams, such and such is the person you will hate.. yadda yadda yadda... Again, why bother? If you feel the need for divine intervention in your daily affairs, go to your temple/church/mosque/gurudwara/synagogue whatever and communicate direct with the higher being (read God/Shiva/Buddha/Allah/Ra) of your choice. This is called “prayer”. Do not incorporate the internet in your daily worship to gain divine favour so that you can sleep with or stay awake with your favourite human/animal/alien. In particular, I do not care a rat's arse about your love life or lack thereof. Do not send me stupid brain dead forwards which ask me to do any of the above, or variations of the same. If you can find the time to write me a personal mail, I will surely find the time to answer it. If you cannot, then kindly delete my name from your fwds list.
something awful rises again
Something awful rises again.
I saw a programme on skinheads in the US last night. It scared me. The creed they preach is one of unending violence and blood on the streets. Their's is a marriage of the Swastika and the Klan. They say that their race needs to be defended from encroachments made by other people, usually of different colour. What seems to be the heartening thing about the whole affair is that there are greater numbers of decent folk out there who view such people as an aberration.
Now I have to account for the fact that I suffer from the same middle class ennui that plagues most of the world, and that I view any journey upward as through legitimate channels and not by blood. But there are people out there, poor disenfranchised people for whom there is no affirmative action, people whose jobs have been outsourced and who do not have the education to get white collar work. What about them? Who is to blame for their lot? Is it the ubiquitous brown skinned or slant eyed people in whose countries their factories are being relocated? Or is the white/brown/black/yellow people who sit in corporate boardrooms and decide to shift the factories?
People talk about the 'creation of wealth'? How is wealth created? By building more cars that people do not need? Does wealth really trickle downstream or is the economy simply busy sucking money and giving it to the already bloated creamy layer? I don't know the answers, but I suspect that they are much more horrific than I can imagine.
I saw a programme on skinheads in the US last night. It scared me. The creed they preach is one of unending violence and blood on the streets. Their's is a marriage of the Swastika and the Klan. They say that their race needs to be defended from encroachments made by other people, usually of different colour. What seems to be the heartening thing about the whole affair is that there are greater numbers of decent folk out there who view such people as an aberration.
Now I have to account for the fact that I suffer from the same middle class ennui that plagues most of the world, and that I view any journey upward as through legitimate channels and not by blood. But there are people out there, poor disenfranchised people for whom there is no affirmative action, people whose jobs have been outsourced and who do not have the education to get white collar work. What about them? Who is to blame for their lot? Is it the ubiquitous brown skinned or slant eyed people in whose countries their factories are being relocated? Or is the white/brown/black/yellow people who sit in corporate boardrooms and decide to shift the factories?
People talk about the 'creation of wealth'? How is wealth created? By building more cars that people do not need? Does wealth really trickle downstream or is the economy simply busy sucking money and giving it to the already bloated creamy layer? I don't know the answers, but I suspect that they are much more horrific than I can imagine.
movies and movies
Horror movies and horror movies.
There aren't too many movies that can scare me. I have no serious objection to being creeped out; in fact, I welcome it. Well, I do raise rather strenuous objection to copious amounts of ketchup on the screen and lousy visual effects, but that is it. I will be happy if people make really scary movies. So let me talk about some that scared me. The Exorcist didn't quite get there. Maybe it was because I saw it with a bunch of friends, and the effect of horror is much, much diminished with company.
Horror old style, as exemplified by Hitchcock has an appeal which transcends improvements in technology. This is not a characteristic of too many western movies. But something like Birds has an touch to it which remains to this day.
Inspiration from the east: my personal introduction to eastern horror movies started with the Ringu. Now this is scary! There have been endless debate by experts whether the remake (Ring) is a greater movie or is Ringu. For my money, I would say that the original Jap version has more scare value. But maybe that is because I saw it first and when I finally got to see th remake, the conclusion was pretty obvious. But even accounting for that, here is some perspective. There is a certain quality in easterm movies, which is perhaps inextricably linked to eastern culture and the way people think. The persistent fatalism which is seen in so many Indian movies (although scarcely in the context of horror) is something that the west has not understood. The west has reigned by the strength afforded by science. The ability to bend nature to the will of man is fundamental in all that the west has accomplished. Thus, perhaps the very nature of submitting to forces far far greater to be fought, perhaps even comprehended is not something that goes across very easily. To be specific; Ringu offers the perspective of being steadily and inexorably drawn to something terrible, but completely inescapable. The Ring merely tries to do so. Fails.
There aren't too many movies that can scare me. I have no serious objection to being creeped out; in fact, I welcome it. Well, I do raise rather strenuous objection to copious amounts of ketchup on the screen and lousy visual effects, but that is it. I will be happy if people make really scary movies. So let me talk about some that scared me. The Exorcist didn't quite get there. Maybe it was because I saw it with a bunch of friends, and the effect of horror is much, much diminished with company.
Horror old style, as exemplified by Hitchcock has an appeal which transcends improvements in technology. This is not a characteristic of too many western movies. But something like Birds has an touch to it which remains to this day.
Inspiration from the east: my personal introduction to eastern horror movies started with the Ringu. Now this is scary! There have been endless debate by experts whether the remake (Ring) is a greater movie or is Ringu. For my money, I would say that the original Jap version has more scare value. But maybe that is because I saw it first and when I finally got to see th remake, the conclusion was pretty obvious. But even accounting for that, here is some perspective. There is a certain quality in easterm movies, which is perhaps inextricably linked to eastern culture and the way people think. The persistent fatalism which is seen in so many Indian movies (although scarcely in the context of horror) is something that the west has not understood. The west has reigned by the strength afforded by science. The ability to bend nature to the will of man is fundamental in all that the west has accomplished. Thus, perhaps the very nature of submitting to forces far far greater to be fought, perhaps even comprehended is not something that goes across very easily. To be specific; Ringu offers the perspective of being steadily and inexorably drawn to something terrible, but completely inescapable. The Ring merely tries to do so. Fails.
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