we r the champions (ii)

(standing (from L to R) - raj, sandeep, senti, prasanna, yahoo, vivek, popa, l2, lp
don't know what he's doing - bobo
kneeling/squatting/sitting (from L to R) - fm, pogo, G, talli, deja, soody/shaggy, shampoo)

i've taken my bows and my curtain calls
you brought me fame and fortune
and everything that goes with it
i thank you all
but it's been no bed of roses
no pleasure cruise
- queen ( we are the champions)

this is the story of the champions. the story of a team that defined what 'winning' is. this is the story of footer@iitm.

footer@iitm began the year riding a wave of confidence. the gold that we brought iit madras after fifteen years was still glowing in the minds of most of the players. with that incredible win on 18th december, 2005, the team had been transformed from a no-star team to, as someone put it, an all-star team!! the team did attract some lavish criticisms for its 'seemingly' defensive tactics which was compared to that of the italian national team. but footeer@iitm was unfazed, and had set out to prove wrong every critic who saw the win as an abberation.

a glimpse of what footer@iitm was capable of was seen in the match against satyabhama in sportsfest. the win was remarkable, not so much for the fact that it brought us silver, as for the manner in which it was achieved. one goal down in a match against a seemingly superior team, the team fought back with a ferocity and confidence that the opponents couldn't cope with. the 2-1 win proved how much fight the team was capable of putting.

sadly, chaos reigned in the run-up to inter-iit with a chunk of the main players opting out of the tournament due to personal reasons. replacements were sought frantically. it was an opportunity for some, and oh boy, did they use it to prove themselves.

the problems were not over when we reached guwahati. it began with a terrible disappointment for me: getting injured in the first quarter of the first match that left me out of the field for the rest of the tournament. players got bogged down by the sudden change in weather - many of them taking ill. and yet, no one was able to stop our march to the final!! the match that we played against kanpur on the way to the final (in the semi-final) was one gritty exhibition of the team's skills and temperament under adverse conditions.

the final against kharagpur was one match whose memories would linger on for years to come.

footer@iitm was, but crippled. i was out because of my fracture, raj because of his anjle injury. yahoo and senti were unfit to play the entire match. what ensued in the next 2 odd hours was totaaal drama.

towards the end of the second half, me, raj, yahoo, senti, popa and vivek (for a funny red card!!) were sitting out. and we were to play with ten men for the rest of the match - a full 40 minutes.
the 10 men team now led by talli with l2 played like champions and not only managed to keep the now weary kgp players at bay, but launched some incisive attacks of our own.

after the extra time was over, the two teams were still in a deadlock with no goals scored from either side. 3 madras - kgp matches had been played in the last 3 inter iit's and all of them had been deadlocks, with no goal scored by either team! the better team had to be determined once and for all.

what unfolded before our eyes was a treat to watch!! iit kgp was decimated in the penalty shoot out with talli, g and prasanna netting in the only 3 penalties tht we needed to take. sandeep, our custodian, was one force to reckon with as he psyched their players to some nervous errors. iitm had achieved an unbelievable and unexpected feat - win gold for the second time, that too with a depleted, 'crippled' team!!!

so, this was the story of footer@iitm. it is incomplete without the memories that each player must have harboured in his own way, and that's the way it will be. suffice to say, it was an experience that culminated in tears of joy for almost all the players. others may see the team in different ways - 2 time gold winners, the team that got lucky, the star team, the ultra defensive team etc etc.

for us who have played for the team, it's different. personally, it was a defining moment in my foooter 'career' and i couldn't have asked for more. having played with and learnt from people like jet li, jimmy, bongi, mallu in the insti and ash from our own hostel for over 3 years, being a part of this winning team was coming of age for me. we had achieved something that had remained elusive to all those whom we have admired. it was a fantastic feeling indeed. i bet it has been one unforgettable experience for everyone involved with footer@iitm.

and finally, the secret. (well, it's not so much of a secret anyway.) iitm's winning strategy consists of 3 fundamental principles or acts which are -

• score and don't concede. could be just 'don't concede'. in the two years that we have been champions, footer@iitm has but conceded just one goal (in 8 matches) which is a remarkable feat in itself.
• listen to 'we are the champions' by queen before the match.
• take the right side of the players arena

ah! to be the champions!!!

p.s. this post is written with my 'un-fractured' hand. so forgive the capitalization (or lack thereof), grammar, etc.

Haha

Gunda II

If you are searching for the epitome of a pure Bollywood movie, go home and have a hot drink of coffee, or whatever you do when your search for the epitome of a pure Bollywood movie is over. For, I have here a movie that every bollywood movie strives to be, a movie that a Karan Johar or a Ram Gopal Verma can only dream of making, a movie that’s bound to leave every movie-goer’s every inch of the body taut, and itchy. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, let me present, without further ado, Gunda.

A lyrical masterpiece, the movie takes one through the atrocious underworld where villains commit heinous crimes behind the curtain of corrupt policemen and hypocritical politicians. “Cliché,” one might be tempted to dismiss. Wait, for Gunda has more to offer.

Gunda offers, among other things, flawless editing where scenes overlap, propelling the movie to new heights of alacrity. The two hour long movie leaves no scope for boredom to set in. The scenes, seemingly unconnected on the onset, knit together to form a larger canvas. Remember 21 Grams or Memento, anyone?

Gunda uses a powerful method hitherto rare in Hindi cinema. In many scenes, the actors face the audience while delivering a dialogue. Thus, while maintaining a realistic backdrop, the actors manage to address a larger audience, securing themselves a place in the larger canvas. One is reminded of the technique used by Fritz Lang in his movie, Metropolis.

The dialogues are replete with similes, metaphors and rhyme lending the movie a dialogic force. Viewing the movie thus becomes a lyrical journey.

Ah! The cast. Gunda boasts of such actors as the uber-versatile Mithun Chakraborty, who has acted in over 190 movies in roles as diverse as a Tamil coconut seller (Agneepath) to the Indian James Bond—Gunmaster G9 (Suraksha), and a pimp (Dalal) to Ramakrishna Paramhansa (Ramakrishna Paramhansa). Mukesh Rishi, remembered for his role as Inspector Salim in Sarfarosh proves why he is the coveted actor that he is. Not to forget Shakti Kapoor who proves his versatility in the role of a villain coping with gender confusion.

The protagonist is presented as a superhero in its subtlest form, not its essential Hollywood underwear-outside-the-pants counterpart. He is as human as any one of us, albeit equipped with superpowers that every hero would envy in superheroes.

The women, in the brief roles they get, form the crux on which the story revolves. One cannot but be impressed with their dynamic style, substance and vital statistics. The rape victims are quickly eliminated, thus saving the viewer from going through the tribulations that they would gave gone through.

The movie leaves a few questions unanswered, and some riddles that are bound to haunt one long after the movie is over. The repeated appearance of the airport as a backdrop makes one wonder if the director wants to depict something. Should we strive to 'take off' and escape all the dirt of this inhuman world, or try to clean it up ourselves?

Quotable quotes:

“Hum aise laashen bicha denge jaise kisi nanhe munhe bacche ke nunhi se pesaab tapakta hain—tap tap”

“Mera naam hai Ibu Hatela.
Maa meri churail ki beti.
Baap mera shaitaan ka chela.
Khaayega kela?”

“Kala dhanda karne walon ki maa, behn, beti ki zindagi ka koi bharosa nahi hota. Magar tune meri behn ka rape karke, bahut bura kiya. Bahut bura kiyAA..”

“Main hun jurm se nafrat karne wala.
Sarifon ke liye jyoti.Gundo ke liye jwala.”
“Tujhe banaakar main maut ka niwala,
teri seene mein kaat dunga main maut ka bhaala”

Gunda

“If it were not for Him, I’d have been an atheist.”
-God, on Mithun

"Dekh! Upar aasman mein! Ek pakshi hai…ek Hawaii jahaaz hai!.. Woh to Mithun hai!”

- Junta, on Mithun.

[Translated:
“Look! Up in the Sky! It's a Bird...It's a Plane... It's Mithun!”
- People, on Mithun ]

“On the number line of arbitness, Mithun is infinity.”
-Anonymous

“A guy who has acted in over 190 movies in a 30 year span has to be god.”
-Another Anonymous

“Mera naam hai Shankar – garibon ka dost, luteron ke dushman. Dikhne me bewada, daudne me ghoda, aur maarne me hathoda hun main.”
-Shankar, on himself.

“Dushmano ki laashon par bhangra karne wala kabhi langda nahin hota”
-Shankar

"Curiosity not only killed the cat, but threw it in the river with weights tied to it's feet.”
-Winston Churchill

“Hey, that’s my quote, you quote thief.”
-Terry Pratchett, on the above quote.

“Your quotes have got nothing to do with Mithun.”
-Oscar Wilde

“Include a quote of mine in your post da.”
-Talli

“For more quotes on Mithun, please contact the Guild of Mithun Quoters, P.O. Box 3 , Daryaganj, New Kotwali, New Delhi – 110 001.”
-the Guild of Mithun Quoters

“Ok, guys. Enough for now. I’m wrapping this up.”
-the author of this blog.

Shaastra coecelanth equivocate s zeppelin durbatuluk

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go (to durbatuluk)
I'm standing here outside shaastra
I hate to wake u up to equivocate

But the dawn is zeppelin
It's coecelanth
The taxi's shaastra
blowing his durbatuluk
Already i'm so lonesome
coecelanth

so equivocate and durbatuluk
tell me that u'll coecelanth
hold me like u'll shaastra (aaaaaa)
coz i'm leaving on a zeppelin
don't know when i will durbatuluk
oh babe, i equivocate

there are so many coecelanths, i've shaastra
so many times, i've zeppelin
i tell u now, i don't durbatuluk
every place i go, i equivocate
every song i sing, i equivocate
zeppelin about shaastra, durbatuluk, coecelanth
when i won't have to equivocate
about shaastra, i won't have to say

so equivocate and durbatuluk
tell me that u'll coecelanth
hold me like u'll shaastra (aaaa)
coz i'm leaving on a zeppelin
don't know if i'll durbatuluk
oh babe, i equivocate


john danawade
(I'm leaving on a zeppelin lyrics

Google wars

Coecelanth, shaastra, zeppelin, equivocate and durbatuluk are the words specified for shaastra's SEO competition.

A fishers' family

Nganthoi woke up, rubbed his eyes, and looked ahead into the day. It was dawn, and time to go collect fish from the net he and his father, Chaoba, had cast the previous afternoon. Nganthoi, like most children in his neighbourhood, had no particular liking for fish.

His neighbourhood comprised of a group of around ten floating islands on the lake. Each island was just big enough for a hut (for a family of five at most), and a garden.

In spite of the abundance of water in his surroundings, Nganthoi still did not know how to swim. His friends would smear his ego with taunts on his inability. But Chaoba was steadfast in not allowing him to learn how to swim. He wasn't allowed to stay away from his father's line of sight, and he felt cramped. He would be allowed to go on a boat only with his father, his mother or some of his friends that his father thought could be trusted. He was too old to be pampered thus, he thought.

Chaoba felt luck throbbing in his heart-beat. The previous day had been dismal; they had consumed the fish they caught themselves. As he pulled up the net with Nganthoi's help, he realized his premonitions had been right. It was a magnificent catch. Considering his job done, he sighed relief. It was now his wife's job to fetch a decent price for the fish, and from his experience, he knew she would.

As they docked into their island, the exuberant father and his indifferent son noticed the dhoti-clad sage standing in front of their house at almost the same instant. They had never seen a sage in their neighbourhood, and approached him with apparent surprise. The sage's eyes bore a blank expression.

Without speaking a word, the sage opened the bag that was hanging from his shoulders. Seeing its contents, Chaoba sent Nganthoi to fetch half a miruk of rice. No one spoke, and Chaoba stood, awkwardly staring at the door. When Nganthoi returned with the rice, the sage put his palm on his head, as if blessing him. A smile appeared on his face. For some strange reason, Chaoba felt the air become a lot less humid.

As Nganthoi withdrew his hand after emptying the contents of the miruk, the sage caught his wrist. The sage's face had assumed a look of consternation now. as he stared at the palm.

The sage uttered to no one in particular, "The next time the sun gets swallowed by Rahu, the shadow over this house will be darker. Be careful."

With this prophecy, the sage turned away and left the island on his boat - a boat that Nganthoi and his father had not noticed before.

Chaoba could not sleep for a subsequent three nights. He lay with his eyes closed on his bed, but knew he was awake. He continued his daily rut and told no one about his bout of insomnia.

Three days later, as he was having his lunch of rice and eromba, Nganthoi showed him a butterfly origami. Before Chaoba could finish praising his son on the excellent work those nimble hands had done, the origami started flapping its wings, and spending a bewildered minute or two inside the room, flew out of the window. That night, Chaoba slept like a log.

Days flew by, and the sage became but no more than a forgotten passage in the book of Chaoba's life.

Nganthoi, meanwhile had learnt how to swim with the help of his friends, in spite of the strict opposition of his father. He swam naked and made sure that he had completely dried himself before he wore his clothes. The day when he learnt how to do the backstroke, he could not hide the exuberance on his face. When his father enquired him of the reason for his exuberance, he lied, and attributed it to a game of marble that he had played exceedingly well.

The monsoons arrived, and the lake swelled with pride in the abundance of water it had. As fishing became more difficult, Chaoba worked harder.

Nganthoi 's concern was something else. It was breeding season, and the bulge in the abdomen implied, according to Nganthoi, that the fish was carrying millions of eggs. When he asked his father about the mechanics of eggs turning to small fish, Chaoba kept silent. Not because he felt it awkward to touch upon such a subject, but because he was ignorant of the piscine mechanics of giving birth. When one his friends told him that each egg would become a fish each, Nganthoi was so upset that he lost his appetite, and could not eat a morsel of his dinner.

His mood changed the next day, when his mother told him he could accompany her to the market where she went to sell the fish. While his mother sat in her allotted place selling fish, he would roam around. His favorite place was the toy shop, where he spent most of his time revelling at the numerous contraptions. He would then spend the next two or three days trying to make his own replica of something that endeared to him. Today, he saw a rifle that was a little longer than both his arms stretched out.

His mother was waiting for him when he went back. She bought him a kabok, and they headed back home. Midway in the journey, when they were in the middle of the lake, the place suddenly seemed to grow darker. Initially, they thought it was the clouds getting in the way of the sun. It turned out to be something else that was blocking the sun.

It was not a full solar eclipse, and Nganthoi, for whom this was the first ever, threw a slew of questions at his mother for some explanation on the spectacle. They continued to row.

In the distance, they saw Chaoba on the shore of their island waving his hand frantically. As they wondered why he was behaving so weirdly, their boat slowly steered itself to the left. The mother and the son stared at each other in complete bewilderment. Nganthoi felt a dampness in his shorts and when he looked down, saw water entering the boat from the side.

In the distance, they saw Chaoba diving into the lake.

You have two cows (2 cows)

[My tribute to the insti footer team]

Aravind G: He likes colorful cows. You will find him in cow races, cow jumps, or for that matter, any cow event that’s going on right now.

Yahoo! : Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Two cows.
Two cows who?
Moo. Moo.

Talli: Yeh kya haraamipan hai? Two cows ki maa ki ch***. [3 sentences down the line, the content is too ‘mature’ to be printed here!)

Praveen: See, macchaa, the funda of two cows is….(10 minute lecture)

L2[with an arm in slings]: Ek cow ne tang laga di peechhe se, aur ek cow ne dhakka diya.

Popa: Two cows, yaani do gai, two guys, matlab do aadmi..hahaha.

Om, senti: Cow1> what if cow2 scores an own goal? Tab to main kuch kar nahi paunga.
Cow2> (pained to the core and just short of hitting cow1) arre nahi karunga yaar.

Hati papa: Abbe, dono cows ke pair zameen mein ghus gaye the.

Coco: In cowland, these youthful bulls get seduced by despo cow aunties. These aunties with coconut shaped udders like bulls with thundering thighs.

Vivek: Main two cows se milne Delhi jaa raha hun. Shaayad late se aaunga ya bilkul nahi aaunga.

P.S. Can’t think of anything for the rest now.

Two cows - 1

Anger management

Of late, I’ve started finding faults in people more often that not. I get irritated at things that I would have normally dismissed as silly or unworthy of my attention/thought. In short, I’m getting pained. It’s not so much about people paining me as me getting pained. I see the virian virtue of empathy slowly trickling away from my blood. But I ask, is it for my good or bad?? And how do I even get an answer to this?

I hate to get angry. It makes me lose control over my emotions, or rather, an expression of my emotions. Often I’ve wriggled out of the misery convincing myself, and trying to convince others that I’m not angry, but just irritated. But how thin is the line that separates irritation from anger?? True, I do not break glasses or throw things at people or shout at people at the top of my voice. In the few times that I’ve been really convinced of my anger, I’ve expressed it in my own ways. Often in funny ways, as witnesses claim.

It’s an art to hide a range of emotions behind a blank expression; I am but a dilettante. And anger robs one of the canvas to dabble in this art. Some argue that masking one’s expression is a dishonest pursuit, a travesty of emotions. That they have a right to know what others think and feel. But then don’t we need to look at both sides of the coin?? There is, perhaps, a third side??

I know I’m a hypocrite at heart. But, does owning it cleanse me of the sin of hypocrisy?? Also, does a false claim of hypocrisy make one a hypocrite?? I make no attempt to answer.

I greet people I loathe with an equally fervent smile as I would someone I consider close to me. It is so well-knitted into my demeanor, only a VERY few would actually notice the difference. But I admit the difference, however infinitely subtle.

Now, someone having a sudden surge of curiosity may ask, “Why all this badinage?” I have my reasons, vague and contrived as they may seem.

Let me elucidate, with a tactful use of bullets, of which I have become a fan of late.

• S borrowed my all-out the night before. He wanted it for 5 minutes, or so he claimed. Now, when someone borrows something u really need and assures u he will return it in 5 minutes, u expect him to return the something in 5 minutes. He returned it the next night, through an intermediary. My night, however, was spent in the envious company of mosquitoes, covering myself in a blanket in this dreadful Chennai heat in a desperate attempt to thwart off their ruthless attack. The greatest human civilizations were built on the sound foundations of empathy, a concern for fellow beings. When that is not forthcoming, u start wondering where our own civilization is headed to!!
• I had to submit a letter to prof. S. Which I did. He refused to take it on the irrefutable grounds that the sheet was folded, at three places, if I might add. Hence, I had to get it typed by the guy in the office. The guy was supposed to come in another 10 minutes, and I waited. As 10 became 20, I decided to take my chances and asked S if I could use the comp to type it out myself. “Can you type?” he asked. “Well, I can try.” Much to his surprise I typed it out at a fairly decent speed and finished in a few minutes. Took a print-out, deleted the .doc file. “Fine,” he accepted. I heaved a sigh or relief, a huge one at that. As I started walking out of the building, Ma’am S called me back. Prof. S, scrupulous that he is, had noticed a profound fault in my letter. The letter should have been dated the day before. Couldn’t I just strike out the date and write the correct one. I’ve even got a pen with black ink. Better type it out. Hmmm..
  

Test

An embedded Youtube video. Let's see if this works...




P.S. In case it does, can someone strip and flog the guy with the headband??

Maria Maria!!

An event that surreptitiously went unnoticed behind the World Cup hungama was this year’s Wimbledon. Even Federer’s outrageous performance, which one journalist claimed to be the best performance on grass since Jimi Hendrix's in the 60’s, escaped the attention it deserved otherwise. What did catch my attention was something else.

There was something about the two women’s finalists. One had muscles, looks and build that had an uncanny resemblance to that of a man. The other, to put it subtly, was flat-chested. It was a dreadful disappointment for a lot of us who had been religiously following the performances of the Sharapova’s and Hantuchova’s and Vaidisova’s.

In the yesteryears, I didn’t care so much for the Monica Seles’s and Sanchez Vicario’s as I did for the Steffi Graf’s and Gabriela Sabatini’s. In recent times, the increasing ubiquity of the Russians in women’s tennis (that has surpassed that of the Baldwin’s in Hollywood) has turned out to be a boon in disguise. They have revived what was thought to be a lost element in women’s tennis – grace and beauty on court, with no concession on talent.

As much as we like to see Sharapova looking her prettiest self, we love to see her decimate her opponents on court with consummate ease. It is the fighter in her that appeals to us, and not her gold accessories, that are, but just accessories. It is when her immaculately placed forehands and neatly spun backhands leave her opponent bewildered that she looks her best. It is when her grunts reach a crescendo that her fans’ lubb-dubb of the heart starts a-thumping.

Strangely, the Sharapova’s and Hantuchova’s do not seem to carry all their grace off-court. In their public appearances, they do not seem to exude the same elegance that they do on court. Their appeal, sexual or otherwise, is limited to the court, and perhaps, rightly so. Though it borders on vulgarity to describe a Sharapova v. Sania match as porn as one over-imaginative blogger did a while back. Kourinikova, not much of a player as she was a teen-model, failed to impress for long. Her elegance (if she had any) never seemed to appear on court. (I won’t be surprised, however, if Herbert Herbert doesn’t agree).

At the end of the day, we want the best to win. Only the best. Is that asking for a lot??

Manipur Diary

• If there was anything that dictated the way I lived, it had to be the load-shedding routine. It was complicated, and my attempts to completely decipher it proved futile. Roughly, the current came at 8-10a.m., 2-4 p.m. and according to a complex method, it would be decided whether it would come again at 6p.m. or 10 p.m. which would last till 4 or so in the morning. With the monsoons arriving, one would have expected the situation to improve. It did. An extra half an hour was added to each slot, before and after.
• Each morning, by the time I wake up and finish brushing my teeth, my brother would be back from his two tuitions. At 8, when the load is unshed, I would laugh myself to an episode of ‘Whose Line is it anyway’. A heavy breakfast of rice after that. Lunch (chara wanba) is late. A game of footer with an airless ball in the evening with the kids. Late night: watching TV if the current comes, or read something otherwise. By 9, everyone is sound asleep and I am well alone, awake.
• There are 5 trees growing in our garden bearing 4 different kinds of mangoes. I had stripped a diminutive tree of red cherries of all its fruits, as and when they ripened. Now, the mango trees bore the brunt. Raw mangoes are the best when it comes to beating a post-afternoon-nap-lethargy. Add a few mint leaves, green chilli and salt to taste, and u have the perfect recipe to jerk u out of ur lethargy. Not recommended for those with a penchant for stomach upsets though.
• Books have been a good company for me this vacation. Apart from old Graphiti’s and etc’s, the Illustrated weekly of India’s, and Sputnik’s, I have been gorging on novels, finishing off all that I could lay my hands on. The list includes Two Lives, 2 John Grisham’s, short stories of Anton Chekhov, a Peter Straub ( Mystery), an Agatha Christie, Harold Robbins (one of his better ones), and one romantic novel (some Delinsky), and The Rule of Four. Thanks to W. for providing me with most of the books!
  
• The streets in the city (if u can call it one) are dusty, and clogged with ubiquitous, yet inconspicuous one-ways. They are sure to be missed but for the traffic policewomen stationed at these little alleys. I tried smiling my way through once, but the policewoman stuck to her job!! For an outsider (I felt like one myself) it can be a frustrating experience, finding one-ways where u least expect them. The junctions are manned by incompetent traffic policemen, and more often than not, the roads get clogged due to an extra wave or gesture of the hand.

• Football fever hit the place hard. From my 8 year old cousin to 60 yr olds, references to the ongoing finals were abundant. Dad, a staunch supporter of German football, would be annoyed when players of other teams don’t shoot and pass as the Germans would have. He was quiet when the Germans exited before the finals. My cousin studying in 10^th standard explained why she would watch only England’s matches – Frank Lampard. Her anecdotes on football mania at her school were amusing enough. My 8 year old cousin, who had taunted me for days when his left-handed Nadal beat my right-handed Federer in the French Open finals, would greet me in the morning with his own prediction of the day’s matches. His was an opinion I revered, Sarathi’s in Poknafam was not. He did write a decent book – Nungsibi Greece – but his extravagant use of words (and not much else) left a lot to be desired. One big disappointment during the finals was the failure of the electricity department to fulfill their promise of providing uninterrupted power during the matches. It left a lot of people irritated, and once again, devoid of trust in the department.

I'm happy!

Right now

Four years have passed since I entered this institute, and I hardly noticed how things have changed. As I look back and immerse myself in introspection, it seems like the I that was then and the I that is now are different, in ways that I'm aware and in ways that I'm not. Maybe a good way to judge this is to ask someone who knew me well before and haven't been in touch with me for the past 4 yrs.

With many people passing out and entering an entirely new chapter in their own lives, several existentialism dilemmas and issues have started to brew within and without us. With current debates going on the so-called excellence phenomenon on one side and cases of suicides and disillusionment of students with the system, these questions have never been more significant. Seemingly simple questions like ‘what now?’, ‘what have we achieved?’, ‘is it worth it?’ etc. that are digging up the philosophers in many of us. Not really surprising, if u think of it.

Everyone wants to different, in one way or the other. And everyone has a secret fear of getting subjugated to the annals of mediocrity and mundane existence. Two easy pointers would be the answers to the questions -

• Will we be really able to do what we like?
  
• Will we like what we end up doing?
  

I see many minds getting weary in the middle, thanks to the tug-of-war between an inherent desire to excel and distinguish oneself from others on one side and the external pressure of conformity on the other.

Paradoxically, it is hazaar tougher to get involved in something that u like to do. Not many people get so lucky. The maxim ‘Do not what u like, like what u do’ is a blatantly misleading statement; it’s subjecting a person to a life of superficial happiness and deep regret. That’s not what we want to end up doing. And the justified fear is in ending up doing so.

Another dilemma is the search for things that endear to u, that u can be passionate about. This leads to an iteration of experimentations and analyses in the capacity of each person. Experiments can go awry and analyses can be erroneous and there should be allowances for these. When the allowances are not coming, frustrations emerge. As I see it, parents and guides should be more accommodating at this stage than any other. The role of peers also can’t be undermined. Everyone wants to be accepted and yet, be different from others leading to ego clashes and the like. When u live with people from so many different backgrounds and with different personalities, u r bound to learn and adapt and condition urself.

I’ve been fortunate enough to get close to a Punjabi, a tam, a bong and a gult in the course of these years and of late, a sindhi and a bihari – all with strikingly different personalities and behaviour.. U know there are people u can count on, whom u can trust, and for whom u are willing to go out of ur way to accommodate them. It’s a pleasure to know these people. I’ve fostered numerous acquaintances, but these are a few prized ones. Unfortunately, half of them are going this time. And we are all going different ways, as far as I can see it It’s a feeling of weirdness, above loss, that’s encompassing me now. Hopefully, it will pass.

Getting acclimatized to hostel life was an entirely new experience; and I’m expecting that getting out of it will be another quantum jump. Mine was rather gradual as I had spent one more year in hostel in Delhi, but for most of the students here, it was a start. And as most of us were dumped in a single hostel, we were made to sort things out for ourselves first hand, with little help from seniors. What an experience it was! By the way, the affinity to the girls’ hostel did nothing much than serve as an occasional eye-candy. ( who can forget the way the two of us hogged the limelight when the soodest senior girls’ gang took us out for a movie treat!!)

Our first year saw another thing – us getting impressed by the so called gods in the institute. They were seniors to us and starting the second year, we began a long draught process of emulating the gods. The process continues till this day.

Whatever be the case, I’ve seen most of the people around me growing, maturing. Some disillusionment is evidently there, but overall, we are more prepared to face difficulties than we were four years ago. And much less susceptible to external stresses.

As for me, the funda is simple – make an endeavor to find out what endears to u. Stick to it and screw everyone and everything else. Altruism is one luxury we can’t afford, especially when u have to pay with ur life and happiness.

Many of my friends have entered and are entering a new procellous phase in their lives. My best wishes are with them. I have one more year to go, and I’m waiting, albeit a little less enthusiastically than I seem to on the onset.

Life’s like that.

Bird flew

The first reported case in Asia was by a Korean poultry farmer. One fine morning, he discovered that one of his chickens was missing, and innocently uttered, “Bird flew.” Den, dey thot da name wasn’t k3wL enuff, and ‘bird flu’ was born. Since then, birds started flying everywhere else, with the latest flights being sighted in France, Nigeria and Iraq, as reported by u-know-WHO.

Apart from birds, flying pigs have been sighted, though in much lesser numbers. Flying humans have been sighted too, but in very, very rare cases. But then, who wants to fly anwyay? Though it has not been specifically proved, some human flights have been linked to sightings of bird flight. Experts have advised to cook them and their eggs properly to render them flightless.

The term has been effectively used by PETA (Professional Extreme Tacticians in Air) to further their cause. They iterate that among the varied hazards of flying is that u can fly into an unassuming bird and drop dead any time. For quite sometime now, they have been distributing t-shirts that read –

Bird flu
Will u?

in the front and a picture of a dead chicken in the back.

One way to prevent flying of birds, apart from separating them from the flying flock and clipping their wings, is to employ bird flu waxing vaccine. It is supposed to make them inactive and unmoving. Apparently, chickens thus rendered, especially broilers, are extremely sensitive to fright and shock. Last heard, a marriage ceremony had left 99 chickens in a poultry farm dead the next morning. Consequent investigations showed that it had nothing to do with the fact that it was a Punjabi marriage. The case was finally dropped when it was discovered that the only survivor in the calamity was a dumb chick. And it was not a blonde even!

“Technology is to be blamed. It’s made us lazy; all we do is sit, eat and sleep. After sometimes, we won’t even be able to attend Punjabi marriages.” – a socialite.

“Birds fly, they don’t flew.” – George Bush

"Actually, they do." - Oscar Wilde.