One mundane evening, nothing much to do
Exams start the next day, I ain't got no clue
Goin to get the 'screw'
Feel just so helpless, races past the time
What the heck! I don't care, I'll sit and rhyme!
Oh shit! Can't find a word that ends the next line...
In no mood to keep trying
Reason be damned, I'll just write 'Slime'
Flash of inspiration! Slime reminds of crime
Crimes that we commit over a lifetime
We hurt hearts, a million eyes left cryin
Why do we do it then?
Oh, its so bloody satisfyin!
What am I doing here, with my demented mind?
My brain's worth as much as many a folk's hind
Logic's lost, can't nowehere I find
Fight till the end they say,Yeah! I'll survive the grind!
I sit here, blog inanity
Inside the clock, the hands keep whizzing by
Let me get down to some work and fast!
Or else, gotta kiss my grades goodbye!
Monday, September 18, 2006
Friday, September 15, 2006
The Art of Criticism
Pay no attention to what the critics say. A statue has never been erected in honor of a critic. ~Jean Sibelius
A critic can only review the book he has read, not the one which the writer wrote. ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic's Notebook, 1960
Asking a working writer what he thinks about critics is like asking a lamppost what it feels about dogs. ~John Osborne
Quite apparently, critics aren’t the most endearing creatures to be found in this part of the universe; the underlying motivation for such dire emotions against them are not very difficult to understand. We, the living, have never really been able to submit ourselves to the irrefutable fact that our remarkable achievements and readiness to use technology have not necessarily rubbed onto our Maker, who still continues to be much retarded in technology-comprehending intellectual faculties and insists upon sticking to the age-old rudimentary processes of manufacture, which, of course, take ‘perfection’ completely out of the equation.
A critic can only review the book he has read, not the one which the writer wrote. ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic's Notebook, 1960
Asking a working writer what he thinks about critics is like asking a lamppost what it feels about dogs. ~John Osborne
Quite apparently, critics aren’t the most endearing creatures to be found in this part of the universe; the underlying motivation for such dire emotions against them are not very difficult to understand. We, the living, have never really been able to submit ourselves to the irrefutable fact that our remarkable achievements and readiness to use technology have not necessarily rubbed onto our Maker, who still continues to be much retarded in technology-comprehending intellectual faculties and insists upon sticking to the age-old rudimentary processes of manufacture, which, of course, take ‘perfection’ completely out of the equation.
Going back to the three quotes that flagged off this article, I’ve got a question to ask about them. What exactly did these men of influence and eloquence have in mind, when they made such sweeping statements about this much maligned fraternity? Are these statements any more profound than just blatant ‘criticisms’ of the critics? A classic case of not managing to practice what is being preached, eh?
Truth be told, there’s not a soul in this world, and never has been, who has at some point or the other, not dabbled in the joy and soul-stirring satisfaction of unrestrained criticism. We all do it. And when other people do it, we criticize them for doing it, and then continue doing it anyway.
Critics, I’ve decided, can be classified into two broad categories. There can be numerous other methods of classification, I accede, but for the purpose of this discussion, this one will do just fine.
1. The ones that do it with enough arsenals to cover their arses.
2. The ones that do it with all the exuberance and energy they can muster, but forget to zip up their own pants in preparation.
There is another category of critics; the kinds that’ll perennially crib about the taste, flavour and quality of the ice cream you so kindly bought for them, and eventually end up losing their rights to savour un-self-earned ice creams for the rest of their lives. This category is its own nemesis and therefore, we shall not spend time discussing their plight in the after years.
The former bunch, those that are well informed and battle-ready, are the ones that derive the pleasure of the game to the fullest. And they manage to provide considerable entertainment value to those around them too. These are the people, who make the criticisms as pinpointed, and often the most embarrassing for the critiqued, as they can and offer the most well thought insights to the most mundane events. Whether the insights are indeed of any value whatsoever, is of course an entirely different issue.
There cannot be any doubt, that such people have an inborn flair for the art. What varies, however, is the motivation. Some do it with honest sincerity and a genuine desire to aid improvement; some do it to take their inner frustrations out on unsuspecting victims and some do it just for the heck of it.
This sect can be as devilish or as helpful, as it chooses to be.
On the whole, the world needs them. Because, they are the ones that find faults where most others can’t. And finding faults in the prevalent best today is the first and, perhaps, most important step towards finding a new prevalent best for tomorrow. Yes, when all’s done and dusted, no one remembers their names, but that doesn’t make their contribution any less important.
The other, more abundantly available and generally more trigger-happy bunch is not half as potent. Their most significant contribution to society often turns out to be making a fool of themselves and being a source of amusement to the rest. You ask for their opinion on, lets say something you’ve written, and they’ll come up with such pathetic responses as “I don’t know, it somehow doesn’t feel right” or “I can’t really put my finger on it, but it just doesn’t seem to connect” or worse still, “Oh! What utter crap have you written!” You need not fear this species; it doesn’t take long for the world to figure out the true source of the ‘crap’.
I shall end here. Don’t let yourself believe for a moment that I ended so abruptly because I couldn’t figure out a better way of doing so. Its just that I want to allow everyone an opportunity at criticizing my work, for once, and to show how much I appreciate and encourage criticism.
Note: The objective of this exercise is to educate the reader on the benefits of accepting criticism from knowledgeable quarters and take no notice of those that come from other quarters. And not to take these matters as personal affronts. And treat them as friendly evaluation meant to help in the continuous betterment of skills.
And yes, I belong to the first category.
Truth be told, there’s not a soul in this world, and never has been, who has at some point or the other, not dabbled in the joy and soul-stirring satisfaction of unrestrained criticism. We all do it. And when other people do it, we criticize them for doing it, and then continue doing it anyway.
Critics, I’ve decided, can be classified into two broad categories. There can be numerous other methods of classification, I accede, but for the purpose of this discussion, this one will do just fine.
1. The ones that do it with enough arsenals to cover their arses.
2. The ones that do it with all the exuberance and energy they can muster, but forget to zip up their own pants in preparation.
There is another category of critics; the kinds that’ll perennially crib about the taste, flavour and quality of the ice cream you so kindly bought for them, and eventually end up losing their rights to savour un-self-earned ice creams for the rest of their lives. This category is its own nemesis and therefore, we shall not spend time discussing their plight in the after years.
The former bunch, those that are well informed and battle-ready, are the ones that derive the pleasure of the game to the fullest. And they manage to provide considerable entertainment value to those around them too. These are the people, who make the criticisms as pinpointed, and often the most embarrassing for the critiqued, as they can and offer the most well thought insights to the most mundane events. Whether the insights are indeed of any value whatsoever, is of course an entirely different issue.
There cannot be any doubt, that such people have an inborn flair for the art. What varies, however, is the motivation. Some do it with honest sincerity and a genuine desire to aid improvement; some do it to take their inner frustrations out on unsuspecting victims and some do it just for the heck of it.
This sect can be as devilish or as helpful, as it chooses to be.
On the whole, the world needs them. Because, they are the ones that find faults where most others can’t. And finding faults in the prevalent best today is the first and, perhaps, most important step towards finding a new prevalent best for tomorrow. Yes, when all’s done and dusted, no one remembers their names, but that doesn’t make their contribution any less important.
The other, more abundantly available and generally more trigger-happy bunch is not half as potent. Their most significant contribution to society often turns out to be making a fool of themselves and being a source of amusement to the rest. You ask for their opinion on, lets say something you’ve written, and they’ll come up with such pathetic responses as “I don’t know, it somehow doesn’t feel right” or “I can’t really put my finger on it, but it just doesn’t seem to connect” or worse still, “Oh! What utter crap have you written!” You need not fear this species; it doesn’t take long for the world to figure out the true source of the ‘crap’.
I shall end here. Don’t let yourself believe for a moment that I ended so abruptly because I couldn’t figure out a better way of doing so. Its just that I want to allow everyone an opportunity at criticizing my work, for once, and to show how much I appreciate and encourage criticism.
Note: The objective of this exercise is to educate the reader on the benefits of accepting criticism from knowledgeable quarters and take no notice of those that come from other quarters. And not to take these matters as personal affronts. And treat them as friendly evaluation meant to help in the continuous betterment of skills.
And yes, I belong to the first category.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Impressions...
‘Why do you write such depressing stuff?’, ‘Why does death figure so prominently in your work?’, quite a few people have asked me in the last few days.
The matter has been duly contemplated and discussed with a friend of mine, Raakesh. By the way, do visit this fellow’s blog – http://www.summa-iru.blogspot.com/. Some of the stuff on it is simply awesome. Don’t ask me what that name means. My ignorance on the origination and essence of it is rivaled only by my ignorance of the temperature on Alpha Centauri in 1763 AD.
In any case, I was talking about this enchanting discussion I had with Raakesh. Now, enchantment of the reader is not the objective of this piece of literature and therefore, I’ll refrain from going into a word by word account of the conversation. The crux can be put forth as simply the following statement:
Involving death in anything related to life is not a matter of choice. It is in fact imperative in its presence. Any discussion on life and its philosophies must find its logical closure in death.
However, in the interest of diversity in my blog, I’ve decided to write on an issue, slightly removed from death.
‘Nature is all powerful.’
So we’ve been told. I respectfully disagree. Or I don’t agree to it in totality, at any rate.
Nature is so hopelessly powerless in its ability to protect its own self against the perpetrations of men, and yet so astonishingly powerful in its ability to exact remorseless vengeance on them.
Interestingly, the same can be said about Mankind too.
That basically throws the ‘more powerful-less powerful’ theory safely out of the window. The battle is indeed, between equals.
Even more intriguing is the thought that the adversaries are so completely dependent on each other for each other’s existences. With the fall of one, the other must fall too. Some might argue that Nature will last beyond life. The argument is not incorrect, but then, what’s the point of nature’s being, if there’s no life?
‘Mother Nature loves us, cares for us, blah blah blah…’
Raakesh and I touched upon this issue too. And while we held diametrically opposite points of views, both our views were equally diametrically opposite to the one mentioned above.
For all the geometry-obsessed characters who’re jumping out of their seats in agitation against the apparent impossibility of this statement, here’s a clue: Go 3D. Go ‘Sphere’.
Raakesh feels that Nature just doesn’t care. It is in fact, entirely incapable of emotions. It is just a non-living, inanimate entity. Now he might be scientifically true to an extent, and perhaps even completely so, but as long as he’s not able to produce proof, I can allow myself certain creative and philosophical liberties and come up with an alternate interpretation.
I feel, Nature actually does care, but it cares for its own self esteem far more than it does for such mere trivialities as life.
Perhaps, it derives a strange sadistic pleasure out of its own destruction, by the living. For it knows that as it is pushed, inch by inch, towards its end, Mankind too, hurtles towards its own annihilation.
Just thoughts these. We’ll probably never know the truth of the matter.
The matter has been duly contemplated and discussed with a friend of mine, Raakesh. By the way, do visit this fellow’s blog – http://www.summa-iru.blogspot.com/. Some of the stuff on it is simply awesome. Don’t ask me what that name means. My ignorance on the origination and essence of it is rivaled only by my ignorance of the temperature on Alpha Centauri in 1763 AD.
In any case, I was talking about this enchanting discussion I had with Raakesh. Now, enchantment of the reader is not the objective of this piece of literature and therefore, I’ll refrain from going into a word by word account of the conversation. The crux can be put forth as simply the following statement:
Involving death in anything related to life is not a matter of choice. It is in fact imperative in its presence. Any discussion on life and its philosophies must find its logical closure in death.
However, in the interest of diversity in my blog, I’ve decided to write on an issue, slightly removed from death.
‘Nature is all powerful.’
So we’ve been told. I respectfully disagree. Or I don’t agree to it in totality, at any rate.
Nature is so hopelessly powerless in its ability to protect its own self against the perpetrations of men, and yet so astonishingly powerful in its ability to exact remorseless vengeance on them.
Interestingly, the same can be said about Mankind too.
That basically throws the ‘more powerful-less powerful’ theory safely out of the window. The battle is indeed, between equals.
Even more intriguing is the thought that the adversaries are so completely dependent on each other for each other’s existences. With the fall of one, the other must fall too. Some might argue that Nature will last beyond life. The argument is not incorrect, but then, what’s the point of nature’s being, if there’s no life?
‘Mother Nature loves us, cares for us, blah blah blah…’
Raakesh and I touched upon this issue too. And while we held diametrically opposite points of views, both our views were equally diametrically opposite to the one mentioned above.
For all the geometry-obsessed characters who’re jumping out of their seats in agitation against the apparent impossibility of this statement, here’s a clue: Go 3D. Go ‘Sphere’.
Raakesh feels that Nature just doesn’t care. It is in fact, entirely incapable of emotions. It is just a non-living, inanimate entity. Now he might be scientifically true to an extent, and perhaps even completely so, but as long as he’s not able to produce proof, I can allow myself certain creative and philosophical liberties and come up with an alternate interpretation.
I feel, Nature actually does care, but it cares for its own self esteem far more than it does for such mere trivialities as life.
Perhaps, it derives a strange sadistic pleasure out of its own destruction, by the living. For it knows that as it is pushed, inch by inch, towards its end, Mankind too, hurtles towards its own annihilation.
Just thoughts these. We’ll probably never know the truth of the matter.
Monday, August 28, 2006
An attempt at poetry, again.
Battered and bruised, O fallen knight
Gaping wounds and pain, thy life they tore
Embrace thou, the divine light
For thou can't fight no more
A tear, loved, shall drop
A pyre shall burn
The funeral, soon adjourn
The river hungry, shall carry thy forgotten urn
The war shall just go on
Evermore shall follow
The glory of gore set free
A day shall come, of judgement hollow
What will it matter to thee?
Gaping wounds and pain, thy life they tore
Embrace thou, the divine light
For thou can't fight no more
A tear, loved, shall drop
A pyre shall burn
The funeral, soon adjourn
The river hungry, shall carry thy forgotten urn
The war shall just go on
Evermore shall follow
The glory of gore set free
A day shall come, of judgement hollow
What will it matter to thee?
Friday, August 25, 2006
Life & Death
Every moment lived is a never ending battle for the continuation of existence in the next moment. And it has to be lived as if it is all for eternity. As if everything that is here, will continue to be here forever and beyond.
The palpable irony of it is, that we will ourselves to walk on, to keep fighting, knowing fully well that our minds can never be fooled by this illusion of eternity, that deep down inside, the knowledge of the futility of it exists in all of us.
And yet, superficial as the illusion is, it is our heart that so willingly embraces it. Its every beat is a cry of defiance, a sad battle waged, to prolong the illusion, to push back that which must arrive. Sooner or later.
Every moment passed by is a moment lost in time. Never will it come back again. Why then do we spend most of these moments in apparent disregard for its preciousness, for its uniqueness?
Because, disregard it is not. For, every human being on this planet, somewhere in the deepest recesses of his/her heart, yearns for that one moment of glory. One moment under the sun when the world, and sometimes the sun itself, touch the tips of their imaginary caps to acknowledge the value and beauty of the moment.
We all strive for it. Some strive harder than the others. Some strive with a passionate insanity that awes and eventually, overawes us. But the point is, we all strive.
And when that moment does arrive, all the effort, all the pain, all the moments of failure and apparent disuse, come together and erupt in a celebration of their importance to us. In that one moment, we become ‘forever’, we become immortal in death. We bask in that glory till the end arrives. And arrive, it must.
But the moment continues to live long after we have stopped.
The tragedy of death is not that we cease to exist for the world. It is that the world ceases to exist for us. That all that we loved and hated, all that we created and destroyed, all that we ever did, is taken away from us. And left in its wake, is the vast, unconquered kingdom of ‘nothingness’.
I’ve often wondered how death will feel like. Will I feel my funeral pyre when it consumes me? Will it be any different from the unconsciousness of sleep? Will I ever dream in death? Science will deny the possibility; the mind dreams and with death, the mind dies. But then, there lies the line that separates a science built on logic from a logic that is built by the unburdened optimism of the human heart.
The heart never lets go; we never let go. Till the very end. That perhaps, is the essence of life.
But we always lose. That perhaps, is nature’s ultimate manifestation of supremacy over humankind.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Electronic Commerce: Framework, Technologies and Applications – A book review
If anyone’s looking quizzically at this and trying to map the extent of insanity that my mind has reached to be reviewing a book such as this, I must tell them that their most dire estimations will fall woefully short of the truth. Although other parts of my brain continue to function as they’ve always done, the IT part of it has taken a turn for the positively maniacal off late. Thanks to the very book that is now set to be reviewed.
Electronic Commerce: Framework, Technologies and Applications is the definitive book on how to ‘globe’ on a subject which you’ve got some idea about and which you know most other people besides you, have absolutely no idea about.
Written in a rambling fashion that has nothing but utter disregard for punctuations or paragraphs, this book gives you every reason why you shouldn’t read it. Every chapter, be it five pages or fifty, is one single mammoth paragraph; the words inside are so crowded and their proximity to each other so proximal, that you start losing track of which line you were on, almost as frequently as a new Ram Gopal Verma movie release. I don’t know whether the knowledgeable author of this book harboured any illusions of writing an immortal classic, for those are the only books which bear similar printing performances and still manage to get away with it.
You never really understand why the book was written in the first place. The absence of proper audience analysis is painfully evident. If it was meant for technically bent minds, it is too superfluous and simple to excite them. And if it was meant for the not-so-technically bent ones that need to get acquainted with the basics of ecommerce, it is too elaborate and jargon-heavy. The jargons of course, are left completely to themselves and their explanation to the layman has not been considered of any importance whatsoever.
Then again, most of the content in this book interests and amuses you for all the wrong reasons. Some of the content is downright howl-arious. Sample these:
1. There’s this magnificent first chapter which introduces (?) the reader to ecommerce. It is a 43 page chapter and when you finally grumble and groan your way to its end, you find that it took the author 42 references to compile it.
2. Some of the references used are striking in their absurdity. Take for example – http://www.khoj.com/. For the blissfully uninitiated, this website is India’s answer to Google. I briefly contemplated the ramifications of some of us putting Google as a reference in one of our project reports; the contemplations were hardly encouraging.
3. This one must take the cake for the funniest line ever written anywhere. In its attempt to enlighten the reader to the advantages of wireless transmission, it tells you in absolutely clear cut terms
‘The advantage of wireless networks is that it doesn’t require wires’
Speechless, I was.
There are other glaring errors to be found aplenty for the more technically discerning. Radio waves being omni-directional, for example. Now I always thought it was the transmitter and the antenna that decided the directional attributes of a signal wave. Perhaps, I was wrong.
Not stretching it too far, let me just put it this way:
For everyone who wishes to have an inadvertently funny book to add to his/her collection, this is a definite recommendation.
For everyone who wishes to learn anything remotely relevant, reliable and usable about ecommerce – Please! Don’t even think about it!
In the end, this book tells you almost everything that you need to write a good, solid subject oriented book. By doing exactly the opposite.
Note: The identities of the author and the publication have not been disclosed on purpose. Humour is the sole intention of this post.
Electronic Commerce: Framework, Technologies and Applications is the definitive book on how to ‘globe’ on a subject which you’ve got some idea about and which you know most other people besides you, have absolutely no idea about.
Written in a rambling fashion that has nothing but utter disregard for punctuations or paragraphs, this book gives you every reason why you shouldn’t read it. Every chapter, be it five pages or fifty, is one single mammoth paragraph; the words inside are so crowded and their proximity to each other so proximal, that you start losing track of which line you were on, almost as frequently as a new Ram Gopal Verma movie release. I don’t know whether the knowledgeable author of this book harboured any illusions of writing an immortal classic, for those are the only books which bear similar printing performances and still manage to get away with it.
You never really understand why the book was written in the first place. The absence of proper audience analysis is painfully evident. If it was meant for technically bent minds, it is too superfluous and simple to excite them. And if it was meant for the not-so-technically bent ones that need to get acquainted with the basics of ecommerce, it is too elaborate and jargon-heavy. The jargons of course, are left completely to themselves and their explanation to the layman has not been considered of any importance whatsoever.
Then again, most of the content in this book interests and amuses you for all the wrong reasons. Some of the content is downright howl-arious. Sample these:
1. There’s this magnificent first chapter which introduces (?) the reader to ecommerce. It is a 43 page chapter and when you finally grumble and groan your way to its end, you find that it took the author 42 references to compile it.
2. Some of the references used are striking in their absurdity. Take for example – http://www.khoj.com/. For the blissfully uninitiated, this website is India’s answer to Google. I briefly contemplated the ramifications of some of us putting Google as a reference in one of our project reports; the contemplations were hardly encouraging.
3. This one must take the cake for the funniest line ever written anywhere. In its attempt to enlighten the reader to the advantages of wireless transmission, it tells you in absolutely clear cut terms
‘The advantage of wireless networks is that it doesn’t require wires’
Speechless, I was.
There are other glaring errors to be found aplenty for the more technically discerning. Radio waves being omni-directional, for example. Now I always thought it was the transmitter and the antenna that decided the directional attributes of a signal wave. Perhaps, I was wrong.
Not stretching it too far, let me just put it this way:
For everyone who wishes to have an inadvertently funny book to add to his/her collection, this is a definite recommendation.
For everyone who wishes to learn anything remotely relevant, reliable and usable about ecommerce – Please! Don’t even think about it!
In the end, this book tells you almost everything that you need to write a good, solid subject oriented book. By doing exactly the opposite.
Note: The identities of the author and the publication have not been disclosed on purpose. Humour is the sole intention of this post.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
The Nightmare
I see myself walk into a room. Bleary eyed, hair disheveled, what I’ve worn (I have refrained from using ‘Shirts’ and ‘Trousers’ for fear of being sued by those communities) looks as if its never known the existence of trivialities such as detergents and irons, my face (that otherwise handsome, charismatic face!) bears a striking resemblance to a particularly haggard bulldog.
The line of perception, for some strange reason, rotates a whirlwind 180 degrees and I see what I in the dream can see. The suffocating trauma of looking at as pitiful a creature as myself in the just described predicament, immediately vanishes, and is replaced by a queer mixture of barely controlled desperation and an even more pitiful sense of sympathy for the ‘me that is in the dream’.
The feeling is almost exactly replicated by those that I see. There in front of ‘me in the dream’, sit those seven magnificent specimens of men and women who, off late, have been so generous and unwavering in the creation of pain in my arse. My profs for this term.
I’ll not name any names here; I accept my duty of preserving the identities of such splendid people from the bottom of my heart.
I always find it amusing when people wish something from the bottom of their hearts. Isn’t bottom the place where all the filth accumulates?
Nevertheless, I’ll take the literary liberty of identifying this illustrious bunch of gentlemen and women by their initials and their tormenting specializations, so that the ensuing narrative becomes infinitesimally easier to present and childishly simple to comprehend (Phew!!! We writers have a tough job!!!). So here goes:
SCB – Management Accounting
HM – Economics
SS- Behaviour in Organisations
AB-Quantitative Analysis
DS-Legal Aspects of Management
BB-Information Technology in Management
NP-Communications in Management
They slowly draw closer to me, which I take, in the profound sleep-ridden clarity of my mind, as an indication of my dream-twin (we’ll call this fella, Bampi from now on) moving towards them. Presently, they rise a few notches on the screen. No symbolism involved here; apparently, my twin has found his way into a chair.
Oh shit!!! My mind suddenly fathoms the gravity of the situation. These guys are going to interview me! Why they should suddenly take time out to do so, is of course beyond the purview of the simplistic world view that I have been endowed with.
NP (With that perpetually encouraging and sympathetic smile on her face)- Good Morning!
Methinks- Oh! Its morning!
Bampi-Good Morning Ma’am!
NP-Let’s see if you’ve been practicing all that I’ve been telling you. Analyze your audience here.
Bampi: Uh-Oh! Umm….
SCB (With a voice and accent and overall demeanour that can be best described as, indescribable) -Why are you mumbling? What is the issue?
Bampi: I, err… I was just…
SCB- No. You’ve not read the case! You should be thrown out right now.
Methinks- Oh, please, please do it! I couldn’t be more grateful!
Bampi: No Sir, I… (And then better judgement prevails and he shuts up)
SS (With that fabulous Bih-inglish (Bihari English) accent)- Whai are you naat speaking? No caanfidench at aal! You are abviously naat a type A personality!
NP- No! No! He speaks well. I’ve seen him presenting…
SS- Oh that must just be a put aun! I am sure he ij in deep emotional labour when he prejents!
BB (With the forced US accent and a touch of hopeful contribution to his voice) - Perhaps, he doesn’t have the token and therefore can’t transmit right now, yes? (Looks around him at the blank faces and shuts up)
AB (Flashes a mischievous smile at Bampi) – No comments!
SCB- Why are we wasting time? We have a marathon session today. Let us be fast.
HM (With the customary meekness in voice and flexibility of the neck) – I mean! I mean, you see, we have to make it clear to him. He needs to answer. He needs to answer. He needs to answer. Right now his production possibility curve is practically zero.
AB- That is called limit tends to zero.
NP – Yes, of course he needs to answer.
AB – Then let the poor fellow answer
At this everyone starts looking at Bampi as if he’s about to drop either a priceless pearl of wisdom or a pellet of dried cow dung out of his mouth.
Bampi: Err…but what was the question?
HM tries to say something but SCB beats him to it.
HM- I mean...
SCB- See! He doesn’t know the issue! He has not read the case!
SS – He never doej. I haave alwayj faund him completely blank and frequently dojing aoff in class.
AB – Now that is not completely correct. His performance in my class is as follows
· He never sleeps
· He keeps looking here and there
· He never answers and has this enlightened smile on his face as if he knows everything
· And thankfully, he never missed class for a BIO quiz!
SS – Whaat are you trying to say here? BIO ij naat impaartent? You can never succeed withaout it. EQ ij more impaartent than IQ!
Methinks – I expected you to say that. After all, EQ is all you have.
DS (Fidgeting in his chair all this while, itching to say something but failing to form a coherent sentence…and finally!) – I do not know. It is written nowhere in the laaw.
Methinks- Did anybody actually ever write anything worthwhile in the law?
SCB- Please…please don’t waste time with all this. This…this is not the platform for this discussion.
NP- Alright. Let the boy speak. I am sure if we allow him to, he’ll come up with a ‘Yes’ presentation.
Bampi - ……..
BB- He’s just hopeless. Don’t think he’ll be able to state even A to Zee properly. His IP settings are all messed up. Too many collisions. Perhaps his brain uses ALOHA.
DS – IP? Does he even have any Intellectual Property? I do not know.
SCB – It was such a beautiful case and you didn’t read it! You are not fit to be in this place. Which idiot allowed you admission here anyway?
Methinks – One of you. Who else?
AB- If we take X to be the random variable for the number of times he’ll speak correctly, the probability will be zero.
Bampi – But…
SS – Naaw he want to put tha blame on as. It ij tha self-sarving bias.
NP – You had developed so much ethos, Kushal. You’ve let me down now.
SCB- He’s just trying to make stories here. He should be thrown out.
Suddenly, I hear a scuffle, find the bunch falling a few notches and then whoosh!!!…I am out of myself and can see myself in the dream again. And I see myself running for the door…
Somewhere in the background I hear this…
Last thing I remember
I was running for the door
I had to find the passage back to the place I was before
Relax said the nightman, we are programed to recieve
You can check out any time you like
But you can never leave
(From Hotel California – Eagles)
The line of perception, for some strange reason, rotates a whirlwind 180 degrees and I see what I in the dream can see. The suffocating trauma of looking at as pitiful a creature as myself in the just described predicament, immediately vanishes, and is replaced by a queer mixture of barely controlled desperation and an even more pitiful sense of sympathy for the ‘me that is in the dream’.
The feeling is almost exactly replicated by those that I see. There in front of ‘me in the dream’, sit those seven magnificent specimens of men and women who, off late, have been so generous and unwavering in the creation of pain in my arse. My profs for this term.
I’ll not name any names here; I accept my duty of preserving the identities of such splendid people from the bottom of my heart.
I always find it amusing when people wish something from the bottom of their hearts. Isn’t bottom the place where all the filth accumulates?
Nevertheless, I’ll take the literary liberty of identifying this illustrious bunch of gentlemen and women by their initials and their tormenting specializations, so that the ensuing narrative becomes infinitesimally easier to present and childishly simple to comprehend (Phew!!! We writers have a tough job!!!). So here goes:
SCB – Management Accounting
HM – Economics
SS- Behaviour in Organisations
AB-Quantitative Analysis
DS-Legal Aspects of Management
BB-Information Technology in Management
NP-Communications in Management
They slowly draw closer to me, which I take, in the profound sleep-ridden clarity of my mind, as an indication of my dream-twin (we’ll call this fella, Bampi from now on) moving towards them. Presently, they rise a few notches on the screen. No symbolism involved here; apparently, my twin has found his way into a chair.
Oh shit!!! My mind suddenly fathoms the gravity of the situation. These guys are going to interview me! Why they should suddenly take time out to do so, is of course beyond the purview of the simplistic world view that I have been endowed with.
NP (With that perpetually encouraging and sympathetic smile on her face)- Good Morning!
Methinks- Oh! Its morning!
Bampi-Good Morning Ma’am!
NP-Let’s see if you’ve been practicing all that I’ve been telling you. Analyze your audience here.
Bampi: Uh-Oh! Umm….
SCB (With a voice and accent and overall demeanour that can be best described as, indescribable) -Why are you mumbling? What is the issue?
Bampi: I, err… I was just…
SCB- No. You’ve not read the case! You should be thrown out right now.
Methinks- Oh, please, please do it! I couldn’t be more grateful!
Bampi: No Sir, I… (And then better judgement prevails and he shuts up)
SS (With that fabulous Bih-inglish (Bihari English) accent)- Whai are you naat speaking? No caanfidench at aal! You are abviously naat a type A personality!
NP- No! No! He speaks well. I’ve seen him presenting…
SS- Oh that must just be a put aun! I am sure he ij in deep emotional labour when he prejents!
BB (With the forced US accent and a touch of hopeful contribution to his voice) - Perhaps, he doesn’t have the token and therefore can’t transmit right now, yes? (Looks around him at the blank faces and shuts up)
AB (Flashes a mischievous smile at Bampi) – No comments!
SCB- Why are we wasting time? We have a marathon session today. Let us be fast.
HM (With the customary meekness in voice and flexibility of the neck) – I mean! I mean, you see, we have to make it clear to him. He needs to answer. He needs to answer. He needs to answer. Right now his production possibility curve is practically zero.
AB- That is called limit tends to zero.
NP – Yes, of course he needs to answer.
AB – Then let the poor fellow answer
At this everyone starts looking at Bampi as if he’s about to drop either a priceless pearl of wisdom or a pellet of dried cow dung out of his mouth.
Bampi: Err…but what was the question?
HM tries to say something but SCB beats him to it.
HM- I mean...
SCB- See! He doesn’t know the issue! He has not read the case!
SS – He never doej. I haave alwayj faund him completely blank and frequently dojing aoff in class.
AB – Now that is not completely correct. His performance in my class is as follows
· He never sleeps
· He keeps looking here and there
· He never answers and has this enlightened smile on his face as if he knows everything
· And thankfully, he never missed class for a BIO quiz!
SS – Whaat are you trying to say here? BIO ij naat impaartent? You can never succeed withaout it. EQ ij more impaartent than IQ!
Methinks – I expected you to say that. After all, EQ is all you have.
DS (Fidgeting in his chair all this while, itching to say something but failing to form a coherent sentence…and finally!) – I do not know. It is written nowhere in the laaw.
Methinks- Did anybody actually ever write anything worthwhile in the law?
SCB- Please…please don’t waste time with all this. This…this is not the platform for this discussion.
NP- Alright. Let the boy speak. I am sure if we allow him to, he’ll come up with a ‘Yes’ presentation.
Bampi - ……..
BB- He’s just hopeless. Don’t think he’ll be able to state even A to Zee properly. His IP settings are all messed up. Too many collisions. Perhaps his brain uses ALOHA.
DS – IP? Does he even have any Intellectual Property? I do not know.
SCB – It was such a beautiful case and you didn’t read it! You are not fit to be in this place. Which idiot allowed you admission here anyway?
Methinks – One of you. Who else?
AB- If we take X to be the random variable for the number of times he’ll speak correctly, the probability will be zero.
Bampi – But…
SS – Naaw he want to put tha blame on as. It ij tha self-sarving bias.
NP – You had developed so much ethos, Kushal. You’ve let me down now.
SCB- He’s just trying to make stories here. He should be thrown out.
Suddenly, I hear a scuffle, find the bunch falling a few notches and then whoosh!!!…I am out of myself and can see myself in the dream again. And I see myself running for the door…
Somewhere in the background I hear this…
Last thing I remember
I was running for the door
I had to find the passage back to the place I was before
Relax said the nightman, we are programed to recieve
You can check out any time you like
But you can never leave
(From Hotel California – Eagles)
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Of Anxiety and Stress
They finally made me do it. Write a blog on life@L.
My initial disinclination to write on the subject stemmed from two impeccable pieces of logic.
1. Half of the population in this part of the world has already had something to say about it. Blogs on life@L, are literally, all over the internet. And the good for nothing bloke that I am, don’t think I’ve got enough grey cells hidden amongst the abundant hay and dung (people prefer to call it ‘Bhoonsa’ in Hindi) inside my brain, to be able to infuse any perspective that can be perceived as even remotely fresh.
My initial disinclination to write on the subject stemmed from two impeccable pieces of logic.
1. Half of the population in this part of the world has already had something to say about it. Blogs on life@L, are literally, all over the internet. And the good for nothing bloke that I am, don’t think I’ve got enough grey cells hidden amongst the abundant hay and dung (people prefer to call it ‘Bhoonsa’ in Hindi) inside my brain, to be able to infuse any perspective that can be perceived as even remotely fresh.
2. I write crap. And even if crap is dressed in Manish Malhotra designer wear, it still continues to be crap. Take ‘The God of small things’, for example.
Be that as it may, now that I have willed myself to take the plunge, might as well do it as well as I can.
Life here is tough. Any alternate opinion can be confidently tossed out of the window without the addition of any undue weight on one’s conscience.
It actually started off quite innocuously. The first week wasn’t really too bad; at least for the ‘A’ section, where I’ve incidentally been dumped. We were prepared for the worst and the worst didn’t arrive. It was a classic case of bracing yourself for an imminent collision with a truck@60 miles an hour and finding instead, a bicycle@ 0.60 miles an hour.
However, the other sections had a slightly un-rosier picture painted for them. Suitably relaxed that I was, I found ample time and devoted ample thought to the predicament of those children of a lesser God, whose workloads were steadily and undeniably northward bound. Curiously, the situation reminded me of something I’d read all those years ago in 'Three men in a boat' (Hilarious book, that)
'I like work; it fascinates me. I can sit and look at it for hours.'
The ‘Children of a lesser God’ theory didn’t stand the test beyond the first week. The next week brought to my attention, rather painfully, that there wasn’t much of a difference between their God and mine, beyond the fact that their God had a more profound understanding of the theory of equitable distribution.
A fortnight into the term, Mr. Sapan Oza, a very good friend of mine, asked me - "What's the difference between anxiety and stress?"
"Anxiety is the fear of stress. And stress is that which shows you that the anxiety wasn't entirely misplaced.", I told him.
The sleep-less nights have begun to gradually degenerate into sleepless nights. There are assignments and presentations and projects and quizzes and tasks all over the place. But for the kind soul who included Quantitative Analysis in our first term syllabus, I would’ve struggled to find an appropriate term for the amount of work I have got to do. Now I can tell you that it is ‘Countably infinite’.
Let me end with some ‘Gyaan’. Amongst all the haphazard, crazy and seemingly arbitrary running around, this place does teach you something very important, something that helps you all through the rest of your life – Work is fun if you’re prepared to look at it that way. In fact, if you can’t think that way, you just cannot survive here. Or anywhere, for that matter.
‘When the rape is inevitable, lie down and enjoy it.’
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Just a thought - If the theory of rebirth is true, if we're truly just reincarnations, if its the same set of souls being recycled until they reach Nirvana...why does the population of the planet continue to increase?
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Short Story - The Game of Life
Kick off!
The loud piercing shriek from the referee’s whistle signaled the beginning of the most significant ninety minutes in Subroto’s life; the Final of the Nation-wide Under Grad College Football Cup was underway.
It was a pleasantly sunny December afternoon. A beautiful cool breeze blew in from the sea. The stadium was packed to capacity with supporters of both sides in equal attendance. Well, almost equal attendance. The home team support, Ogilvy’s College – Mumbai, perhaps enjoyed a slight advantage over the visiting Sterling College –Kolkata, Subroto’s team. But only just. The noise was intolerably exhilarating.
Game on.
The loud piercing shriek from the referee’s whistle signaled the beginning of the most significant ninety minutes in Subroto’s life; the Final of the Nation-wide Under Grad College Football Cup was underway.
It was a pleasantly sunny December afternoon. A beautiful cool breeze blew in from the sea. The stadium was packed to capacity with supporters of both sides in equal attendance. Well, almost equal attendance. The home team support, Ogilvy’s College – Mumbai, perhaps enjoyed a slight advantage over the visiting Sterling College –Kolkata, Subroto’s team. But only just. The noise was intolerably exhilarating.
Game on.
Subroto found himself a solitary figure, barring a couple of guys from the opposition who kept him vigilant company, and out of work for most of the first quarter of an hour. The ball seemed to have made up its mind to stay comfortably out of reach of his feet; if indeed that was the case, it wasn’t without reason, for Subroto had been absolutely remorseless with his kicks off late. No wonder he’d scored seven times in as many matches, two more than Ogilvy’s Jackson, the next best striker in the tournament.
Ogilvy’s College had assumed a position of absolute dominance very early in the game. And the tempo it had built up wasn’t showing any signs of diminishing in the near future. The game, for all its hype and hoopla, was turning out to be hopelessly one sided and confined for the most part, to Sterling’s half of the field. But, Sterling continued to cling on, Ogilvy continued to be denied. Half time – Goal less.
Ogilvy’s College had assumed a position of absolute dominance very early in the game. And the tempo it had built up wasn’t showing any signs of diminishing in the near future. The game, for all its hype and hoopla, was turning out to be hopelessly one sided and confined for the most part, to Sterling’s half of the field. But, Sterling continued to cling on, Ogilvy continued to be denied. Half time – Goal less.
Subroto had never had it easy in his life. Born into a poor fisherman’s family on the outskirts of Kolkata, he’d been exposed to the cruelty and toughness of life very early in his life. His earliest memories were watching with sleep-ridden eyes, his father go out to the river at dawn, waking up to the shrill abuses of his mother, fooling around with the other children in the mud and slime of the riverside, and coming back home, dirty and nauseatingly smelly, to the faithfully unwavering spanking from his mother. And sometimes, father too.
The mood in the dressing room was understandably gloomy. The players knew they were being outplayed and that the absence of a goal was more a case of delay than denial. The coach, industriously mindful of his duties and completely oblivious to the lack of attention he was getting, continued to blabber some incomprehensible, but apparently motivating, gibberish into everybody’s ears. None of the players really heard, nor did they actually care to hear.
Subroto went to the neighbourhood school till the fifth grade. It was a decrepit little building, he recollected, and the filth within and without was matched only by the repulsive quantities near his own home. But he studied hard and he studied well.
He went to better schools after that. Not because his father suddenly thought it to be the proper thing to do, but because Subroto managed to win the President’s scholarship award that year.
The only visible difference the second half had ushered in was the confinement of the game to the opposite half of the field. Sterling’s were at the receiving end again. And Subroto was as forlorn and out of luck as ever. Standing near the half line in ever diminishing hope of a breakthrough pass coming to him, he had ample time to contemplate the result and after effects of the game. The goalkeeper, Bhaskar, was doing extremely well, he noted. So were the four lion hearted defenders. But for them, they’d be 3 goals down, he figured. But the menace of Jackson continued to torment them.
“Its only a matter of time”, he said to himself for the hundredth time.
Even a permanent place in the football team had not come easy to Subroto. When he’d expressed his desire to participate, he was ridiculed and shooed away. Despite his brilliance in all activities, academic and otherwise, he still remained a poor man’s kid and a complete misfit in the up market college that Sterling was. But he fought on. He trained harder than ever.
And one fine day, his chance came. The then regular striker, Ranjit, suffered a broken leg and he was allowed to play. Subroto scored twice in that match, and was never dropped after that.
A particularly severe shot on goal by Jackson jolted Subroto out of his reverie. For what seemed like eternity, but was actually not even one second, he followed the ball’s searing path towards the goal with his heart in his mouth. He saw the goalkeeper dive with his arms outstretched and the ball going past him.
A roar from the Ogilvy’s section of the crowd, then silence, and then a roar from the Sterling fans.
Fortunately for Sterling and heartbreakingly for Ogilvy’s, the ball ricocheted off the left bar and founds its way into one of the defender’s feet. Intuition, something that had been honed by hours on the field, told Subroto that the chance had finally arrived. The defender lobbed the ball over the ring of players towards Subroto. A ten meter sprint forward and to the left, and the ball was at his feet.
Everything was a blur after that. Twenty yards into his run, Subroto encountered the first defender, side stepped him with magical elegance, before dribbling his way through two others. The crowd had become deafeningly still, they sensed something special in the air; a surreal feel hung over the stadium.
But Subroto didn’t notice any of this. He had managed to outrun the last defender quite comfortably and was screaming into the penalty area, even as the terrified goalkeeper moved forward to cut the angle. Subroto saw the goalkeeper coming forward, allowed him time to lunge, and then raised his left foot to shoot…
And then, the pain shot through his legs. He screamed in agony and…
He woke up with a start, wet with perspiration. His heart sounded like it was beating with a Dolby surround enhancement module. The image took a while to clear but it eventually did. He’d been watching the Football World Cup final, he recalled. And he’d fallen asleep. The television was still on.
He also recalled that day. The finals - His bike tire deflating - The rush to the garage – The frustration as he stood waiting - The tearing drive after that. And the truck.
On the television, he saw the Italian team lifting up the trophy. He banged the table in front of him in disgust. He had supported France. The initial fury passed and he sighed.
He picked up his crutches and helped himself to his solitary left foot. Slowly, he hobbled his way to bed.
He had never had it easy in life.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
A Tale of Epic Survival
There are times when you are inspired to write. On such occasions, the thoughts flow and the words flatter.
And there are times when you write for want of anything better to do. On such occasions, what flows is trash.
This is one such occasion.
Our preferences and un-preferences continue to evolve over the years. Every new experience adds, substracts and supplements to it. In my short stay at IIM hel(L), I've added a significant entity to my list of un-preferences. Organisational Behaviour.
The lectures on the subject are un-attendable and attendance is compulsary. The professor doesn't improve the situation one bit. Indeed, he actually contributes quite generously to making the lecture quite un-survivable. And therefore, one must find ways of sitting through the lecture with what apparently looks like rapt attention but is actually a farcical blank look of abject cynicism and supreme boredom.
This tried and tested facial expression and body posture failed me forty minutes into the lecture today. And to replace it with something acceptable, I started scribbling in my notebook. The result is this post.
Please forgive me for wasting so grossly your valuable time, for something as pathetic as this!
In the deepest recesses of the Human Mind
Brightness of the Hopeful Sun does Shine
Why do the shackles of the unseen then Bind?
T'was Us who cowered
And t'is Us who must rise against, The Combine
Our preferences and un-preferences continue to evolve over the years. Every new experience adds, substracts and supplements to it. In my short stay at IIM hel(L), I've added a significant entity to my list of un-preferences. Organisational Behaviour.
The lectures on the subject are un-attendable and attendance is compulsary. The professor doesn't improve the situation one bit. Indeed, he actually contributes quite generously to making the lecture quite un-survivable. And therefore, one must find ways of sitting through the lecture with what apparently looks like rapt attention but is actually a farcical blank look of abject cynicism and supreme boredom.
This tried and tested facial expression and body posture failed me forty minutes into the lecture today. And to replace it with something acceptable, I started scribbling in my notebook. The result is this post.
Please forgive me for wasting so grossly your valuable time, for something as pathetic as this!
In the deepest recesses of the Human Mind
Brightness of the Hopeful Sun does Shine
Why do the shackles of the unseen then Bind?
T'was Us who cowered
And t'is Us who must rise against, The Combine
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