Cogito, ergo doleo...

non-local fauna

2008-07-18T03:33:00.000-07:00

I was trying to sort out dinner in the kitchen the other evening, when I heard Shrik exclaim loud in the living room. I sauntered over.

"...the point of this ad. How many Indians would know what a skunk is, anyway?", he was telling Madhu.

I glanced at the screen, at an animated ad for a room freshener, and at the fluffy animal plugging it.

"Yep, that's a raccoon there, so you've proved yourself right," I said.

A rare, delicious moment of speechlessness followed.

"There is a skunk at the end of the ad, though," I added gently.

"The skunk at the end! That's what I was talking about!"

But I knew. And now you do, too.

Foosball and misunderstandings

2007-11-14T01:39:00.001-08:00

I had, earlier in the year, dragged Madhu to watch Resident Evil: Extinction, which I thought could not be worse than the previous two installments. I was wrong, and soon enough I found myself in the position of owing Madhu two movies of her choice. Which is rather scary when you know there is a Shah Rukh "I'm a Backstreet Boy" Khan movie lurking around the corner. Or the back street, so to speak.

So eventually, we found ourselves in the coffee shop at the movie hall, trying to fortify ourselves for the ordeal with lots and lots of caffeine. It is, in many circles, considered rude to speak with your mouth full, and therefore conversation flagged, and we gave our undivided attention to our coffees, except for Madhu, who was on the phone as usual, and Shrik "I don't have coffee at night: it ruins my sleep", who gazed into the distance, contemplating life, or perhaps his bed back at his place.

"Too much cricket in the media these days."

I looked up from my coffee to see Yoda folding her newspaper in disgust.

"It's the only sport India seems to support," she added.

"Yes, you don't see too much support for the Indian Foosball team," I remarked, with one of my subtle witticisms.

Yoda gave me a look.

"You don't see much support for the Indian any team!"

Shrik gave her a patient look, much like a father watching his toddler throw food.

"You don't see much support for any foosball team, Yoda, " he explained. Shrik is one of the few who gets my subtle witticisms, and vice versa. I have in the past explained to the others that great scientists and humourists like Wodehouse and Galileo, or the other way round, have been persecuted throughout their lives, but to little effect.

"Except maybe the Americans," Yoda stated, in a rare flash of insight.

"True," said Shrik, who had spent more time in the US than the rest of us, who hadn't spent any. "They probably have a few teams that compete with each other for a 'World Foosball Cup'."

We lapsed into silence, like a few trappist monks, except for Madhu, who was very un-trappist-monk-ishly talking nineteen to the dozen into her mobile.

At which point I remembered something of importance that I needed to tell Shrik.

"Hey, apparently Khushru heard your remark that we should be renting his place out for new year's eve, and said that we could just come over, no problems."

Shrik raised a puzzled eyebrow.

"I didn't say anything."

Yoda realized some clarifying was in order.

"I told him that Matto was the one who said it. And I told him that he should be renting his place out and earning a bit on the side!"

"So he confused the story and randomly added my name into it. Hm. Maybe he was tired", Shrik said, taking the philosophical view.

"He was not tired when I told him all this!"

"But maybe he was tired when he told me this last evening. You know, memory refuses to jog and all that..", I interjected.

"You mean, he told you that I told you all this yesterday? It was ages ago!"

"No, no, he told me all this yesterday." I explained. It's surprising how far one can stretch a little misunderstanding.

Yoda fell into a reverie, and we resumed the trappist monk routine.

Then she brightened.

"You know what, he must have confused the story and randomly added Shrik's name into it!"

Shrik and I exchanged glances, shaking our heads a little. Which is tough to do, actually. Requires some skilful neck-eye coordination.

"Maybe he was tired," I said, with another of my subtle witticisms. I have a lot of them, but like I said, hardly anyone notices.

"I'm tired," said Shrik, and left for home. The rest of us spent the next three hours flinching in the movie hall while Om Shanti Om tried desperately to entertain with self-parody. Which goes to show you... goes to show you something, I forget what, but you see it, don't you?

Paging buildings

2007-09-10T13:15:00.000-07:00

I finally have broadband installed in my house, which means I can now be rude to my sis across the room (be rude across the room, not my sis across the room - I have only one sis, even if she's across the room) on google talk, and type witty repartees faster than she can speak to me (across the room).

So this evening, My sis, Madhu, and yours truly (that's three of us - Me, my sis, and Madhu, though my sis is also Madhu, but the aforementioned Madhu is not my sis Madhu) were sitting at our respective laptops and while I was immersed in the archives of Wookieepedia, which, incidentally, all you people should check out, the two Madhus were doing random stuff like checking mail. Suddenly Madhu (not my sis) broke the silence.

"Wow, look at this hi-fi building paging!"

I knew about some really nifty buildings from Japan, but they never paged each other, as far as I knew, so I sat up and took notice. But my sister was quicker, though her hearing wasn't as good.

"My building?"

Madhu raised her eyebrows. This information needed a keen line of questioning, she decided.

"Eh?"

"Oh, did you say 'a building', or 'my building'?"

"My building?"

"Your building?"

"What?"

"What?"

I decided enough was enough. These silly girls were not even close to the nub of the issue. I intervened.

"How can buildings page each other?"

Both girls looked at me.

"She said Beijing. A cool building in Beijing."

"I said Beijing. A cool building in Beijing."

This was rich, I thought. Two girls giving me the frosty look, all because one of them can't pronounce Beijing properly, not to mention their own partial deafness. And "my" doesn't even rhyme with "your". And they completely missed the point about the paging. One must take a firm line with these things.

"Oh, ah," I retorted, pointedly.

And went back to Wookieepedia. Which, incidentally, you should check out.

Desmodromic valves

2007-08-11T03:52:00.000-07:00

I don't know why I call this post 'Desmodromic Valves'. For one, I am not going to write about desmodromic valves. Okay, maybe a little, because today was the day I found out what these valves are all about. To be brief (since I've already promised that I wouldn't be writing about them), they are valves with positive return mechanisms that make sure that the valve in an internal combustion engine returns to its original place, instead of the sissy mechanisms that rely on things like springs to do the job for them. Today was also the day I realized another major thing about myself - I heartily approve of the desmodromic valve principle, which makes sure stuff happens, instead of leaving it to spring resilience or gravity or the government or mom.

Talking about mom, she incidentally was visiting recently and tried once again to educate me on the art of cooking, but would not let me reason why. This time, she was educating me on the right daal-chawal technique.

"So you add lots of water to the lentils, add turmeric, and chuck it in the pressure cooker. DO NOT add salt. Add salt only after it's all cooked."

Now we engineers know there are reasons for each process, and phrases like "company policy" and "the ten commandments" do not faze us. We have, in the course of our education and career, learnt to perfect the process of probing into the depths of established processes and laying bare the underlying reasons by asking direct, well-chosen questions that put the finger on the nub, so to speak. Which is what I proceeded to do.

"Why?"

"Because if you do, you'll never get those lentils cooked."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Hang on. The whole pressure cooker idea is to elevate the boiling point of water, right? Now adding salt to water does the same thing. So combining the two should actually cook the lentils better, right? Right? Ha!"

Mom turned to my sis, who for some reason was standing around with a grin on her face.

"This is why you should do the cooking."

This is why Galileo decided to stay out of the kitchen and proceeded to invent the telescope, and Gustav Mees vented his feelings by developing the Desmodromic valve. I can't invent stuff myself, but I can drink beer. And I think I will.

CPR

2007-02-23T10:21:00.000-08:00

The last time I left my blog alone for this long, I got to the point where I found all my entries embarrassing, and after the one year it took me to figure out what my password was, I deleted the damn thing.

This time, I decided not to. No, not because I'm more shameless than I was four years ago - I more shameless than I used to be four years ago, but that's not it. It's not that I don't find the posts embarrassing. Nope, I do. Sometimes. But not as embarrassed as I should be had I been the director of "Ghost Rider", watching which Shrik and I laughed our heads off a few hours ago. And I haven't suddenly thought of anything earth-shattering to post, either. In fact, this post won't even rattle my own laptop screen, which finds itself mounted on a slightly loose hinge, and will have a natural frequency of about a tenth of the other laptops my colleagues have. I have not marinated in the bath, thinking about gold crowns, and therefore am not in a position to say "Eureka" like Shakespeare, or Archimedes, depending on whether you're a Bertie Wooster or a Reginald Jeeves fan.

The thing is, I have nothing better to do right now.

There. I've said it, and I hope it makes you feel better about yourself. Anyways, to fill in the gap since November, I still continue to have no life, my bike continues to be my significant other, my camera continues to be my mistress (I don't care what Freud thinks of my zoom lens), I continue to have accidents, meet weird people, have strange conversations with my weirder friends- often lubricated by alcohol - and when I find time from all this, try to pretend I'm working so I get paid at the end of the month so I can fill up my bike's tank and load film in my camera. In fact, nothing has changed, except that I'd become too lazy to write. I'd become too lazy to wash my clothes, too, but you don't have to wear your smelly blog to work.

Anyways, since I'm trying to revive this blog, I shall try to write about something. Now what shall I think of... hang on, I shall just ask Shrik.

Bad idea.

This is what just happened:

I leaned over to Shrik and jogged his brain a bit.

"What's the weirdest thing you can think of? Quick! One word!"

Blank look.

"One word?"

"All right, a phrase, then. Quick!"

Shrik looks at the wall for a while, and brightens.

"Martians hate pink."

See? Bad idea. But in the words of the immortal Adolf Hitler, "es muss gemacht werden", which, in a less ominous-sounding language, translates to "it has to be done".

Why would martians hate pink? According to Dr. John Gray, Ph.D, we would. From when we were babies, we were clothed in blue, and our sisters in pink. Unless you were brought up by a mom like mine, who, though she assures me that she did want a boy and all, still used to amuse herself by dressing me up in frocks and doing my hair into what she claimed was a ponytail, but what, from photographic evidence, looked suspiciously like a bonsai coconut tree. I was three. Ha ha, mom, you almost had me going there for a while. Twenty-five years, to be exact.

But we digress. Why do men, even the funny green ones from our neighbouring planet, hate pink? I'll tell you a secret - we don't. We love pink. We just don't like it on ourselves. There was this girl in college who used to wear these plain, pastel-coloured salwar-kameez in the lightest shades of pretty much all the colours, and she looked breathtakingly like a cool afternoon breeze. Now a cool afternoon breeze is not much if you're in Haridwar in December, but this was Trichy. In the summer. Not that cool afternoon breezes can be seen, but if they could, they would probably look like this girl. And pink looked lovely on her. My favourite was lime-green, though. See, there's another colour. I, for one, would not want to be seen dead in a lime-green salwar-kameez, but I don't hate it. The same as pink.

So there, Shrikman.

On stuff I keep forgetting to write down...

2006-11-12T10:43:00.001-08:00

...like the startling revelation I had about transcendental numbers the other day. I don't remember what it exactly was, but at least I now know that it's not about root canals. Which reminds me, I need to get that premolar looked at.

But, first things first.

Really sorry - again. This does seem like a rather dry year for me, overall. Can't think of anything to write most of the time. Sometimes I do think of things to write, but then I forget what they were. Rather difficult to remember details and fight a hangover at the same time. On top of it all, I am as geographically unsettled as that metal shot from the ball-bearing you put into the do-it-yourself jumping bean (which never jumps, I wonder why they called it that. They should've called it 'tumblebean' or something). Anyways, like the shot, I go to Pune, and by the time I finish unpacking, it's time to go to Haridwar again, and vice versa, or the other way round.

Anyways, I have grown slightly older since the last post, see? So perhaps, instead of telling you about the strange things that happened to me (which would fill a small book, if only I can remember all of them), I shall share the wisdom I have gained over the past few months. Oh, well, what the heck - I'll make it 'over the course of my life'. Not much of a difference, anyway. This is why you should keep writing these things down.

So. There you go, a few nuggets. Don't spend it all in one place.

1. That transcendental number thingie. Though I don't remember the exact detail that made me go 'hey, I didn't know this!'

2. Buy black-and-white film whenever you find it, and expiry dates be damned.

3. If you are getting introduced to a cute-ish girl by a friend, and you have this official name, and this friend introduces you by your nickname, and the girl gets confused and asks you what she should call you, NEVER, repeat, NEVER say "you can call me anything you like". Nope. NOT smooth. Unless you're Brad Pitt, in which case you can even say "Me Tarzan" and get away with it.

4. Never crack jokes to mum about doing anything remotely insane with your career.

5. If your bike does not like you wearing khakis, and gives you a hint by dumping you on the gravel unceremoniously, listen to it. Do not buy another pair of khakis to replace the ones you just tore. Guess what will happen if you do.

6. Never spray-polish your motorcycle seat. It looks all nice and shiny, but hit the brakes, and you'll immediately know why it was a mistake. Especially if you're a guy.

7. When, in Haridwar, you find yourself griping to your friendly-neighbourhood ENT surgeon about the unavailability of alcohol in the city, and the doctor, in a gesture that, on judgement day when trumpets sound, will firmly ensure his passing through the pearly gates, offers to get you a bottle of whisky using his ex-serviceman clout, forget about being decent and take him up on the offer. Especially if you're stuck in a hotel room for a real long time.

8. The probability that you will run into an important client is directly proportional to the combined length of all the tears on your worn-out pair of jeans.

9. The whole 'round number' thing is overrated. Unless I can come up with two more nuggets. Meanwhile, remember what I said, especially about the black-and-white film.

While I'm still thinking of what to write...

2006-09-23T13:49:00.000-07:00

... I decided to throw in a few more snaps of Ladakh.

The first one is a shot taken in the More plains , a 40 km stretch of, er, plains, right in the middle of the mountains. Once again, I had a sensory overload of sorts, having never seen so much space in one sitting. As soon my hands could hold a camera without shaking the lens free from its mount, I snapped off a shot.

The second one is a slightly weird sort of place, Tanglangla pass, which proclaims itself to be the second highest motorable pass in the world. It was rather cold, but the sun blazed down, bounced off the snow, hurt our eyes, and caused the distracting bokeh on the photograph. And yes, the teensy spot on the lower left corner is Kakkar's bullet.

This pass was deserted except for this old man who was manning a tea shop. I decided to go and make some conversation.

"So... you stay up here all alone?"

"Why? What would you do if I said yes? Why do you want to know? Who are you people? Give me your vehicle numbers! What do you mean by that question?"

This was not the sort of response I expected, but we travelling engineers are quick on our feet. I laughed a light, dismissive laugh, and attempted to make amends.

"Heh, I think you misunderstood me..."

"I understand everything! You think I'm all alone out here? What can you possibly do to me? Give me your vehicle numbers! Wait, I'll note them down myself!"

Tea at Tanglangla pass thus had to wait till our return trip, when we found the shop manned by a ladakhi lady and her daughter, who were much more friendly and generous with their tea.

Somehow I couldn't bring myself to ask them if they were there all day all by themselves.

To err is French; to aar, English

2006-09-17T12:56:00.000-07:00

One of the advantages of traveling a lot is that you get a lot of plane/train/automobile time to catch up on your reading. And in the past few weeks, I had managed to do just that, reading some sci-fi and some non-sci-fi books, and consciously avoiding Wodehouse, the way a chap who has drunk too much every day of the week consciously avoids the pubs on Sunday. There is one thing such as too much of a good thing.

But the chap, avoiding the bottle for a good three hours into the evening comes upon a store that shouts out loud: "Happy hour!", or possibly, "Cobra beer available here!" finds his resolution breaking down, and thus last evening I walked out of the Airport bookshop in Bangalore clutching "The Luck of the Bodkins".

The flight was nice, once people who looked up in alarm at my chuckling by myself every five minutes or so decided that I was a harmless geek trapped in the body of a harmless geek, and diverted their attentions elsewhere, like the extremely cute flight attendants. I would have given them more attention, and possibly even talked to them, but then I came upon a passage that put an end to the chuckling. This is that passage, read very carefully:

(But first - a bit of background: Monty Bodkin, who is, at the time, in France, is writing a letter to his fiancee, and wants to enquire about her father, who is suffering from sciatica. At which point, he realizes that he does not know how to spell 'sciatica'. Read on.)

...he had first consulted his friend the waiter, and the waiter had proved a broken reed. Beginning by affecting not to believe that there was such a word, he had suddenly uttered a cry, struck his forehead and exclaimed:

"Ah! La sciatique!"

He had then gone on to make the following perfectly asinine speech:

"Comme ça, m'sieur. Like zis, boy. Wit' a ess, wit' a say, wit' a ee, wit' a arr, wit' a tay, wit' a ee, wit' a ku, wit' a uh, wit' a ay. V'la! Sciatique!"

Upon which Monty, who was in no mood for this sort of thing, had very properly motioned him away with a gesture and gone off to get a second opinion.

Not funny. Not funny at all. Those of you who did find it funny evidently have not tried spelling bees with a Frenchman. I was forced to learn the language at a weak period in my life - it was shortly after I had shaved off my moustache, and as any man who has shaved off his moustache would tell you, it leaves your upper lip exposed and for a long time, till you get used to the air on your upper lip (as opposed to the 'air that was on it, ha, ha) you have this feeling that suddenly everyone is looking at your upper lip and secretly laughing at it. "Look at that chap's upper lip! Hahahahaha!", their smiles seem to say. If you're not able to find an ex-mustached chap to confirm this, think Samson's hair. Karna's armour. Scorcese's eyebrows. See?

Anyways, as I was learning french, I realized that they were a little confused about a few things, namely the alphabet. They pronounce "i" as "e", "e" as "a", and "q" as "k". But they write "i" as "i", "e" as "e", and "q" as "q". There are a few more pronunciations I remember being puzzled about, but the memory is hazy - this was about three years ago. In any case, I did remember a smattering of french, and on my trip to Ladakh, I thought I saw a golden opportunity to use it.

Kakkar, Gina, and I were on our way back to Leh from Nubra valley (where we saw bactrian camels, but more on that later), and we had stopped for a bit of lunch at this small village called Khalsar. We were sitting back after a satisfying meal, when I heard a voice off-stage.

"Exxcuze me, way-ar I find a Enfield mecanique?"

I turned around, and saw a young european chap in full riding leathers. His name, he told us later, was François, and he was on his way back to Leh, and that his riding companion, an Englishman, had had an accident, and the army had eventually airlifted him to a hospital in Leh. So now our man was riding back to Leh alone, and it looked like his Enfield Electra was out of lube oil. We apprised him of the situation, which was that no, there was no mechanic nearby, and that the nearest place he would get oil would involve a forty km ride. His bike was in no condition for the trip. Kakkar's clutch cable was doing a good job of acting out the "to be or not to be" sequence in Hamlet, while Kakkar wanted it to firmly stay in the "to be" zone. Thus, I found myself taking a longish ride in search of oil, with François riding pillion. We made good time, stopping only once to pick up the chain guard of my bike, which had fallen off laughing when François made a remark about my bike being smooth.

Two hours later, we topped up his oil and invited him to ride with us. Safety in numbers and all that sort of thing. And all was going well, when, on the climb to Khardungla pass, I saw François, Gina, and Kakkar stop and gesticulate wildly. Fearing an avalanche, I looked over my shoulder in the general direction they were pointing, and saw a furry brown animal the size of a mutant rabbit run off into the rocks.

"It's a Himalayan Ferret!"

My knowledge with respect to Himalayan fauna was limited, so I accepted this. Ferret. Now if only I could have seen what it looked like.

"'Ow you spell Fehrret?" François wanted to know.

If you had ever studied physics in school, you'd know that some teachers always have pet questions that they would love to have you ask them. So they start by telling you about luminiferous ether, and how it was omnipresent, like God, and very dense, perhaps like God again, but I wouldn't want to speculate on it, and leading us on, till one of us put up our tiny little hands and asked, "But why don't we feel it if it is dense?", and a slow smile would spread across his face, and a twinkle would appear in his eye. He then would say, "A-ha! That is exactly what Michelson and Morley wondered!" and then go on to explain the experiment. Right up to that moment, if you had asked me if I knew why these teachers were so happy to be asked such non-challenging questions by kids, I'd have looked you in the eye and shaken my head. Very difficult to do, looking someone in the eye while shaking the head, but I'd have done it. But not anymore. François' question had the effect of pouring oil on my rusty french, and I rose to the occasion. Ah, the poor man, how he must have suffered trying to convert english phonetic spellings into French. Fortunately for him, I was just what the doctor ordered. A slow smile spread across my face, and a twinkle appeared in my eye.

"Ef-ay-err-err-ay-tay. Ferret."

François seemed to consider this.

"F-a-l-l-a-tay. Fallat?"

I heard a few ugly snickers, which threatened to, and eventually did, burst into gales of laughter. The only people who did not find the goings-on funny were François and yours truly. And that was probably all that François had going for him at the moment. What did he mean, I remember thinking, by claiming to be French when he could spell perfectly well in English? What about the famous French pride? Gah! And thoughts to this effect. Still, I had made an effort, and if I had to tattoo the spelling of 'Ferret' into his skull, I would. I continued doggedly:

"Non, non - I was spelling it in French for you..."

More laughter from the direction of the snow. François merely looked puzzled.

"F-e...hahahahahahah...r-r-...oh, God...-e-t. Ferret", Gina finally gasped.

"Aah, Fehrret!" A broad smile lit up François' face. "I weel remember!"

And what with all the howling and guffawing, the Ferret never did resurface, and I had to later satisfy my curiosity with a photograph displayed on one of the curio shops.

To top it all, the damn thing was a Himalayan Marmot, not a Ferret. Not that I'd ever know the difference, but perhaps a Marmot would have gone down better in spelling.

Don't get up, I'm just tagging along...

2006-08-18T13:17:00.000-07:00

One cannot resume blogging after a long break without finding out that someone has tagged him. Just the way you can't leave your bike out in the parking lot for about a month and go off to Haridwar, and expect to find the battery still nestling in its place when you return. It's a law of nature.

So, before I go further, and before more accusations of "you still owe me a tag!" are hurled at me, I present to you my latest tag. Not unlike one of those "complete the following sentences with phrases of your own" series of exercises we did back in our language classes. Yes, the ones we looked forward to as much as we look forward to a date with the dentist with root canal work on the menu.

Like the dentist says, let's make this a quick and painless job.

Here are my responses.

I am thinking about – tags and how they spread from blogger to blogger like a virus.
I said – I'm thinking about tags and how they spread from blogger to blogger like a virus.
I want to – know who thinks of these tags, really. And I also want to meet him/her. If it's a him, I'd like to meet him over some duelling pistols, and if it's a her... how about a coffee? I know this really nice place...
I wish – it would turn out to be a her.
I miss - very frequently, so just in case it's a him, I'll need a bit of practice.
I hear – duelling pistols don't come very cheap, these days.
I wonder – how much of my hard-earned money will go into them pistols. Coffee would be much cheaper, wouldn't it? Please let it be a her.
I regret – not putting in enough practice - both in duelling and in asking girls out for coffee.
I am – bloody lazy that way.
I dance – pretty bad, which I think is also linked to my 'bad-at-asking-girls-out-for-coffee' trait...
I sing – pretty bad, too. Strike three.
I cry – in your dreams, pal. Hah. Me macho, see? Even if me underweight. (Hang on while I scratch myself and spit out the side of my mouth).
I am not always - macho... I'm not so used to duelling pistols, see?
I make with my hands - pretty good coffee, though. Filter coffee. The problem is the availability of a decent filter.
I write – when I'm not working, riding my bike, taking photographs, watching movies, duelling, or summoning up courage to ask girls out for a coffee.
I confuse – love and war, sometimes... who was I supposed to be duelling?
I need – some coffee. All this talk of coffee this late in the night, what did you expect?
I should try – and see if the kitchen in this hotel is still open.
I finish – with a benevolent smile directed at fellow bloggers, and say the four magic words - "the tag stops here".

There, me man. I hope you're satisfied. It wasn't quick, it wasn't painless, but that's how nice a guy I am.

Who cares how the crow flies?

2006-08-13T12:26:00.000-07:00

Okkkkay, so that's not an original line - It was part of a print ad for the Yamaha R1 that I once came across (the print ad, not the Yamaha R1, though I wouldn't mind coming across that, either), and the accompanying photograph showed a nice, winding mountain road with hairpin bends and stuff that bikers dream of. And that's how you feel when you go beyond the Rohtang pass, and into the barren, sparsely-populated, winding road that loops and stretches for over 400 kms over mountains and plains, leading to Leh.

Aaanyways, all you people who've been under the impression that I've been bumming it out in Leh all this while, nopes, so you can stop turning green. We left sometime around mid-june, and returned early in the first week of July. Since then it's just been backlog, backlog, and backlog, which, when combined with general laziness, results in no new posts on the blog. So, those of you who do visit this blog after all this time, really sorry, folks, and thanks for returning.

Now, I'm not much for writing travelogues, but I do have a few stories to tell, and hopefully I will get off my lazy behind and put up some of them here. In the meantime, I thought I'd dust off the cobwebs from this page, and give you people a taste of the place.

But first, a shot of my trusty steed, which has been my sole companion for the past five years, including this bone-jarring ride:

Yep, that is masking tape on the tank. Apart from that, and apart from the chain guard falling off, and the engine stalling right in the middle of an ice-cold puddle on the return trip, it was fine. Really.

Now, some of the general scenery there, which was, to put it mildly, breathtaking. For two reasons:
(a) There was too much to handle - deep blue skies, stark, rugged mountains, a river/gorge/desert suddenly springing up around the bend... a man can only take so much, y'know.
(b) We hit altitudes of upto 18,000 feet, and the oxygen content gets a little low.

I took this snap at Tikse Gompha. Gompha, I believe, stands for Monastery. The first time I went there, I almost had a whaddyoucallit sort of encounter. Bachha and I were climbing the stairs, cursing the thin air under whatever breath we had left, when an old lama, coming from the other direction looked at me and exclaimed, "You! I see you before!"

I was amazed. I'm not very good with faces, but I believe I would remember my first encounter with a lama. This guy is going to tell me I was a fellow-lama in my previous life, I thought. No wonder I've always wanted to stay in a monastery. That explains my shaolin temple fixation, too! Now it all makes sense. And the-

"I see you at Yak-Tail hotel this afternoon!"

And my semi-spiritual experience came to a grinding halt.

The monk in the snap is not the old monk (oh, ha, ha, you alcoholics), but another monk, another day, when I went back to Tikse.

Right-ho. Now that I've broken the block, I shall be back more frequently, with more photos. I go sleep now, yes please.

I'm off, folks!

2006-06-15T23:03:00.000-07:00

Once again, many apologies, boys and girls, I had to finish off a lot of work and drink up all the beer in my fridge - I'm travelling again, and this time, strictly for pleasure. Going to Ladakh, on two wheels and lots of prayers... if I survive, we shall meet. At Philippi or elsewhere.

Till then, be good.

Cooling my heels...

2006-06-06T08:29:00.000-07:00

The other day, thanks to the pre-monsoon showers, Shrik and I felt that primal urge that neanderthals probably felt whenever there were pre-monsoon showers, to go to Mulshi and sit around, doing nothing. So, we went. I lugged my camera along, too, and took off a few snaps of the, um, brown water and the brown earth, and the slightly-brown-tinged blue skies. I guess it would take a while before the area becomes green and irritates Anurag, who prefers different shades of different colours in the scenery. After taking a few snaps last monsoon of green trees not standing out against the green grass and the green moss, I agree with him. Not that I have anything against greenpeace or any of the environmental activists, but too much of green, though easy on the eye, is tough to photograph well. Anyways, there you are.

Camera: Canon EOS 66
Film: Kodak Max 400
Lens: Canon 28-80mm

And what was Shrik doing when I was taking pictures? Believe it or not - this.

Shimmer

2006-05-31T04:33:00.000-07:00

I'd taken this pic sometime in January, when I was visiting Kerala. Kottayam, to be exact. Like all small towns I visit, I was amazed at the blue skies, clean air, and the absence of a Barista around the corner. Nice place, except that if you want to go into a temple, you need to strip to the waist. Never figured that one out... anyways, I was walking around at noon over there, trying to find some subjects to shoot, and this one came out quite well. I was showing this to Anurag yesterday, and he suggested I invert it, and he was right, it does look more interesting this way.

For the people who have already seen the right-side-up pic in my flickr album, sorry, I shall hopefully be posting something soon, but the days, they are a-crazy. For example, I crashed KP's brand-new bike... with KP on it, but more on that later. Yes, he's fine. No, the bike is not, so don't rub it in. And I'm fine, too, thanks for asking.

However, they should do something about that "healing" spray that the nurses liberally hosed me with. After they'd pulled me back down from the ceiling and cleared away the bits of plaster that I'd knocked loose, I realized that I now had a neat waterproof coating on all my bruises. All very nice, but not a vey pleasant process. You guys, next time you have a fall, try this spray out. And watch out for that ceiling.

Sitting and staring...

2006-04-22T11:50:00.000-07:00

...was what I did. A lot. In the last few weeks, on the windowsill of this amazingly high building I was staying in at Kandivili. Yep, I know, I know, I have already mentioned this to all and sundry, but I can't get over it. And I recently found out that it was not the 27th floor, but the 29th floor, since p1 and p2 were for parking! And the view at night is amazing, and I had my camera handy, and voila tout:

Please click here for a larger version. Please? Pretty please?

And is that a shooting star on the top right, or a scratch on the negative? I guess it's going to be an unsolved mystery... that, and the Bermuda triangle.

Details:
Camera: Canon EOS 66
Lens: Canon 28-80 mm
Film: Fuji Pro 100
Focal length: 28 mm
Aperture: f/16
Exposure: 30 sec

I'm back! Big as life and twice as tagged.

2006-04-08T01:09:00.000-07:00

Hell-O, PEOPLE! How have we all been?

I'm awfully sorry for the rather long absence from the scene, but travel and work had taken their toll, and I did not want to put up too many photographs - I was already doing that too often. Anyways, here we are again, and thank you all for visiting that long-dead post and asking for more. Unfortunately, though I have a few strange incidents to narrate, I have a backlog of tags to take care of. I know, I know, a poor way to make up for a long absence, but I have been tagged by these ladies, and I would not be the preux chevalier if I were to not comply. Very sorry, and I promise more stuff in the very near future.

Okkkay, then, here we go:

Tag #1: Shruti has demanded that I reveal my music taste to all and sundry, so here I am. Shrutz, I'm not really much of a music person, more of a movie person. In fact, I'll start a movies tag and circulate it around, and you definitely will be it. Ha. Anyways, the music stuff:

Total volume of music on my computer: 4.3 GB. And a lot of it has been dumped in by Shrik and Kakkar. Like I said, I'm not too much into music.

Title & Artist that I last bought: "Rang De Basanti". Three days ago. I know, I know, what was I doing all these months, eh? These things happen. You may shake your head, mutter "old man, old man", and let it go at that.

Song I am playing right now: "Maybe Tomorrow" by Stereophonics, which, incidentally, is also the song that plays during the closing credits of "Crash". Lovely song.

Five+ Songs that I like/have been hooked onto:

American Pie (Don MacLean - American Pie): I continue to be floored by the clarity of Don MacLean's voice. Every time I listen to this song, I'm transported to Goa, where, in the winter of 2001, we rode rented bikes all over the city sometime past midnight, mildly under the influence, singing - yelling, actually - the song out to the sleepy public. No, we did not get arrested. Goa, remember?

Time (Pink Floyd - Dark Side of the Moon): I was introduced to Floyd sometime in the first year of college, and have been hooked ever since. I know, the music is a little outlandish, about as spaced-out as the artists... but I love it. "Time" starts with a gazillion clocks hitting their alarm bells all at once, and I've used the effect to advantage on many a sleepy visitor at my hostel room. But seriously, this is one of the most amazing songs ever. There is a sence of urgency, despair and resignation in it that makes you sit up and pay attention, especially all of us procrastinators.

November Rain (Guns and Roses - Use your Illusion I) : I know, I know. Groans all around, I'll bet. I used to love November rain back when I was a student, and unfortunately it's not managed to survive the test of time. BUT. The guitar solo by Slash. Is. Awesome. Mr.Satan, if you're reading this, I would really like to sell my soul so I can play the guitar like him. Please?

Learning to fly (Pink Floyd - Momentary Lapse of Reason): Yep, another Floyd track. Into the distance, a ribbon of black stretched to the point of no turning back. A flight of fancy on a windswept field; standing alone, my senses reeled. Yep, mine, too. Very strong imagery, and with all the Floyd darkness thrown in.

Take it to the limit (The Eagles): I was introduced to the Eagles when I flicked their 'Best of, 1971-75' collection from my dad. That was about ten years ago, and I still haven't returned the cassette... sorry, appa. But more about my childhood antisocial behaviour later. I've loved almost all their songs, with Take it to the Limit, Take it easy, Desperado, Tequila Sunrise, Hotel C, and Life in the fast lane topping my list.

Susie Q (Creedence Clearwater Revival): Catchy. No other way to describe it. If you listen closely, they really don't have much to say in this particular song, but catchy. Very catchy.

Elevation (U2 - All that you can't leave behind): Another of those catchy numbers. And you do feel what the song promises. Elevation, without miosis or other side-effects.

The sound of silence (Simon and Garfunkel, Sounds of Silence): They had me at "hello darkness, my old friend". Hello back to you guys with knobs on.

Extreme Ways (Moby) : I came across this song when I was watching "The Bourne Identity". I'd loved the music throughout the movie - the staccato beats, and the edgy, disoriented feel throughout the movie was achieved very well. And then this song in the end credits. It was the perfect song for the movie.

Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries": By now an overused and often-spoofed track, I guess. But I'll never forget the overwhelming feeling of watching the helicopters flying in from the sea, with this song blaring on their speakers, scaring the hell out of the villagers in "Apocalypse Now". The madness of it all hits you like a sledgehammer. Not that I've been hit with a sledgehammer, but one can imagine. On an aside, I have almost been hit by a sledgehammer, when the head of one got detached from the handle held by an over-enthusiastic labmate and described a graceful trajectory across the smithy, missing my face by inches. I was in my first year of college, and it put me off shop class for a while. That, and carpentry.

The End (The Doors, Best of): Again, one of my favourite groups. Jim Morrison. What-a-voice. Gives me goosebumps. Once again, movie association: This is the song that "Apocalypse Now" begins with, and it sets the mood perfectly for the movie. All the children are insane.

Tag #2: This one was from Vaish. Now I am to arrange for a party of sorts, exclusively for bloggers, and have to invite six bloggers to it. Now, before I could balk at the idea of anyone actually visiting my apartment and recoiling in horror at the cockroaches and the piles of clothes in the kitchen, the books in the loo, and the motorcycle components in the bedroom, I was assured that this is to be an imaginary party. Thank god. However, right now I am staying at this guest house in Bombay, which, situated on the 27th floor of a Kandivili high-rise, offers an amazing view, and you people are more than welcome to pay me a litte visit. Bring beer. And now for the list;

Vaish: Shibs (a common friend who's motto is "when in doubt, trek") introduced us via e-mail, and we hit it off right away. For some reason, she calls me "Thambi", and refused to drop it even after I gently pointed out that I was two years older than her. One must take these things in one's stride, I guess, and I finally got around to calling her "Akka". Akka writes really well, has an awesome sense of humour, and in spite of having about a gazillion friends, finds time for all of them. I have no idea how. You'll like her.

m.: Another lady I've never met, and would love to. She has very strong opinions - especially on feminism, loves poems and arguments, is very well-read, writes really lucid essays, and has an great sense of humour. And she is surprisingly mature... especially considering her age. There. That's sealed my coffin. We travelling engineers like to live dangerously.

Brewtus: An old friend of mine, actually. We haven't met for about six years now, so I shall invite him, too. He's neck-deep in research, and is one of those brainy, disciplined, serious, no-nonsense people. At least, that's what we all thought, till in the final year of college, he went on stage and broke a few impressions. That's all I shall offer, you can get the gory details straight from the horse's mouth.

Shruti: Or, Shrutz, as she would have us call her. This kid is well-read, has opinions on everything - what are kids coming to these days, I really don't know - and is wickedly witty. Writes nineteen to the dozen, and is absolutely crazy to boot. Young blood, young blood. Hm.

Anurag: He's a big guy and would come over and strangle me if I did not invite him. All right, so we all hang out on weekends and have weird conversations and weirder arguments over beer, and although he calls everybody around the table schmucks (except for his wife, "who is nice", as he likes to repeat), we like him, and we humour him, because he takes awesome photographs, has a good collection of movies, and is bigger than any of us and would strangle us all if we do not. Oh, and reinforcing his weirdness, the latest conversation we had over the phone:
"Hey, Anurag, what is..."

"My age? 32. I'm five years older than you, you know? The next time we meet, you ought to touch my feet."

"...your plan for wednesday evening?"

Megha: Again, a lady with an amazing sense of humour. Her extensive knowledge of hindi cinema staggers the imagination. Quite the encyclopaedia on the subject, she uses it to maximum advantage in her write-ups. I really like what she's done to her page, and what I like the most about her is the underlying geek tendencies. Not the socially gauche geekiness, but the "Hey! Wow! Look at this code!" geekiness. The force is strong in this one.

Wheeeew. Lookit that. One of my longest posts, I think. Once again, sorry for the long absence, and I shall try to write something a little more readable very soon. But now, the time is gone, the song is over, thought I'd something more to say...

Weird people I know #2

2006-02-19T12:04:00.000-08:00

The phone rang. It was Anurag’s number, so I answered in my customary, bored-late-sunday-afternoon voice.

“Hey.”

“Hey, how’re you?”

It was Gina.

“Heyyy! How have you been?” The bored-late-sunday-afternoon voice is reserved only for friends who, without any provocation, send one-line mails telling me - and some other friends - that we are all schmucks. Gina, however, is nice.

“I’m good, oh, and this is Gina here.”

I assured her that I had not mistaken her voice for Anurag’s.

“So,” she went on, “we’re in Narayangaon, and we’re in the middle of a discussion, and wanted your opinion on something.”

I sat up. It’s not every day that people ask me for my opinion, and even if they do, they usually have an ulterior motive, like proving to friends and family that I have no idea what the hell the “India shining” project is. Sorry, was. A little wary, I assured her that she had my complete attention.

“Let’s say you’re stranded on an island with no food, along with me, Anurag, Arjun, Shrik, KP, and Sush. All of us die, and you alone survive. Who would you eat first?”

A year ago, I would have been a little shocked at Gina’s ‘ice-breaking questions’, as we now call them, and I’d have said, “Eh?” but one eventually gets used to these things. This time, I didn’t miss a beat.

“Let me see. That would be the person with the most amount of available flesh, so that I keep the number of people being eaten to a minimum, at least in the beginning”, I replied, proud of my logical, noncommittal answer.

“Come on! You have to come up with a name! Anurag seems to be the favourite here, according to all these guys. And Shrik says that you’d choose Anurag, too, because he would provide you with the maximum amount of protein.”

I explained that since I’d not seen any of them for about a month, it would be difficult for me to come up with an answer just like that. I also added that health food was good, but under such circumstances, one chose the well being of one’s sanity over a high protein intake.

“Okay, the most meat, eh?" she said. "That would be me.”

Now on an aside, before you people get the wrong impression, and before I get tied to a barbed-wire fence and get beaten up, let me add that Gina happens to be a very tall lady. Taller than me, I think, and it’s not every day I admit that, and I happen to be more than an inch taller than the average Indian male. And she has a normal sort of aspect ratio, so she may have a point there.

However, this put me in an awkward position, as any of you, who while talking on the phone with someone ended up telling him/her that there was a slight chance you might be eating him/her, would know. So I decided to make amends.

“Ah, but because I’m a chivalrous sort, I think I’ll bury you with your dignity intact and cross you off my list of choices.”

Laughter on the other end.

“Why, thank you, Senthil, very gallant of you.”

I graciously replied that she should be thanking my mother because she was the one who taught me manners and chivalry, including the commandment thou shalt not eat women.

We then went down the ladder in fleshiness, and found that the next rung was occupied by Anurag. This, I realized, was payback time. Schmuck, eh? Yep, I’d start gnawing on him for starters. Only under unmitigated circumstances, though - cannibalism does not lend itself naturally to me. We then concluded that Shrik was right after all, albeit for the wrong reasons.

“All right, see you when you get back. We’ll all go to Narayangaon again.” She then rang off.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is yet another proof of how weird my friends are. Haridwar, I am beginning to realize, is not that bad a place after all.

P.S. I have also been Tagged by Shruti and Vaish, and the tags require some thought, so ladies, I am working on them, please don’t hate me.

Uncropped crop?

2006-01-31T03:36:00.000-08:00

Long time and all that, eh, people? My apologies. I was on vacation - meeting family after ages and all that, and had to put in some frantic travel and work to make up for it. Anyways, I'm, as they say in Hollywood, back. Big as life and twice as bad, or words to that effect.
I also have taken loads of pics, which I shall be uploading periodically out here, until I feel energetic enough to actually write something.

I took these two pics at Haridwar. I was really bad at botany in school, and my younger sister - who is about eight years younger - was better at identifying the plants in our garden. So when my mum used to ask me to "water the crotans" I used to look up from my Tintin and give her a blank look till she said, "Oh. Go out the back door, take a left, and water the third plant from the corner."

So you'll forgive me if I don't have the slightest idea what these things are. My guess is that they are either blades of exotic grass that somehow grow to be about six feet high, or some sort of crop that people forgot to, heh heh, crop.

Anyways, that is not something that bothers me. It may well be jute for all I care. However, what I want you guys to tell me is: which one of the two pics do you think is the better one? I cannot decide myself, though I have repeatedly been kicking myself for not getting the composition of the first one the way I wanted. So. Plis be to vote? Explanations on why you prefer one over the other are welcome, too.

Pic 1: Title - "ear".

Pic 2: Title - "ears". Heh heh.

A word of thanks to Anurag - I flicked about two rolls of Fuji Velvia transparency film from him, and these are a few of the pics I used the roll for. Oh, and the details, if you care to know:
Camera: Canon EOS66
Lens: Canon 100-300mm USM
Film: Fuji Velvia 50 slide transparency

Swings of the Gods

2006-01-06T06:04:00.000-08:00

This time on new year's day, I was alone - stranger in a strange land sort of alone - and decided to spend the day in solitude and instrospection. I thus went to Rishikesh and took some photographs, and learned a valuable lesson: I need to practise taking photographs under harsh lighting conditions. Almost ALL the photographs I took that day came out bleached.

This one is one of the few that came out all right. Rishikesh is beautiful this time of the year, and the colours are really vibrant. This one is one of two suspension bridges across the Ganges, and is named "Ram Jhoola", or the swing of Rama. The other bridge is called "Lakshman Jhoola", after his faithful brother, who followed him into exile, leaving his wife behind. Which makes me wonder about long-distance relationships in ancient India.

Anyways, I digress. I realized that suspension bridges form great subjects for photographs - the sweep of their cables gives you a sense of majesty and grace that no other bridge can. I need to go back there and try out more snaps. Meanwhile, let me know what you think of this one.

I uploaded a slightly larger version of this pic, experimenting on how it looks on the page, and how it affects page loading time, so in case your page takes too long to load, please let me know, and I shall go back to the smaller pics.

Camera: Canon EOS 66
Lens: Canon 28-80 mm
Focal length: 28mm
Film: Fuji Pro 100
Aperture: f/16
Shutter Speed: 1/90 sec

We loves these bookses...

2005-12-25T07:27:00.000-08:00

It has been a long time since I actually wrote something out here, and I have this crazy project to blame, I guess. So even after deciding to write about this ex-army doctor I met here in Haridwar and his extreme affinity for all things alcoholic, I had not lifted a finger - or six (I'm a six-finger typist) - to write a post. So I probably can go so far as to say that it's thanks to Shruti here that I am lifting that finger - six, actually - to answer a few questions. Yep, another tag. This one, however, is pretty old, and has been taken up by every Tom, Dick, and Bihari around. So in the trend of keeping up with the Joneses, or in this case, the Georges, I nod my thanks at the lady who sits biting her pencil under the coconut trees, and continue.

All righty. This post, then, is supposed to give you a brief idea about my reading habits (Wodehouse) and probably a few writers (Wodehouse) who have changed the way I look at things (W.). Well, the way I look at books, at least.

If Anurag is reading this blog, this is the point where he would say to himself, "Heh. Let's see what the geek has to say about his reading habits." In fact, he fairly jumps at every chance to label me a geek. For example, the following conversation we once had over beer:

Anurag picked up my mobile and saw that I had Linus - that would be the chap with the blanket on the left side of this page - as the background.

"Hey, this is nice! Do you have Snoopy, too?"

I replied in the affirmative.

"Good, good. MMS it to me."

"Ah. I recently found out that Reliance does not enable MMS by default. Sorry."

"Aw. So how did you get this on your phone?"

I told him about the invention that has come to be known as the data cable.

"Heheh. Geek."

There have been numerous other occasions where he has, without any sort of provocation, proceeded to tar and feather me in public in this manner, and it is still a mystery to me as to why I continue to go and drink with the guy. But I digress, as usual. So, without much further ado, I shall look back at my life, and trying hard not to flinch, will try to locate the book-related memories and put them down on paper.

1) Number of books owned: Sitting out here in Haridwar while my books lie in Pune, this is a bit of a difficult task, but I would put the number at about 250, excluding the auto mags. There are a few shelves of my books lying around in my hometown as well, but those would be books like "Tell me Why/When/How/Whattheheck" and "A gazillion science questions you wanted to ask but were afraid of your science teacher" and the like.

A short note here about my mum - she has an eagle eye for dog-eared books that also have their bindings coming off, and I, in my childhood, have lost many such books to the evil hawker who takes them away and leaves buckets in return. Yes, buckets. Every time I had a bath, I was reminded of all the Indrajal comics/ Tinkles/ Tintins/ Asterixes/ DC comics I could no longer read, and have kicked many a bucket. Oh, hardy-har, yes, strictly literally. The memory still makes me wince. Some of those buckets were made of steel, see?

2) Last Book read: Currently reading "The Van" by Roddy Doyle. The last book I read would be "Carry on, Jeeves", by Wodehouse. For the third time, I think.

3) Last book bought: Oh, yes - this memory is still rather vivid. Back in Pune, I used to spend the weekends working at Barista, and - oh, hang on - not at Barista, I mean I was at Barista, but I was not working for Barista, if you know what I mean. Hammering away at keyboard and all that sort of thing. So there was this very interesting-looking girl working at the attached bookshop, and I sort of took a fancy to her, I believe. Eventually, I fortified myself with a capuccino, and walked across to her in the hope of striking up a conversation.What I was unprepared for was the thick american accent she replied in. I staggered back, grabbing a passing bookshelf for support. The book that came off in my hand happened to be "Eggs, Beans, and Crumpets" by Wodehouse, and I took it as an omen, reminding me of the joys of an unfettered life. Offering a silent prayer of thanks to Mr.Wodehouse, I immediately bought the book, walked out of the shop, out of her life, and into the sunset.

4) 5+ Books that mean a lot to me: Ah. Hm. Let me see. Tough one, this, but I shall attempt.

Pretty much everything written by Wodehouse: To borrow a simile from him, Wodehouse, like the measles, needs to be caught early in life. If caught at a later stage, the effects can be disastrous. Which was pretty much what happened to me. I was introduced to Wodehouse sometime in 2004, at the ripe old age of twenty-five, and the next few months were a blur of grabbing and reading every Wodehouse I could lay my hands on. I love everything about his work - his transferred epithets, his literary allusions (I learned more about Shakespeare from Wodehouse than from Shakespeare himself), and especially the give-and-take between the two Irishmen, Pat and Mike. Sorry, Bertie and Jeeves, I mean. Even today, after a bad day, I just need to pick up a Wodehouse and immediately feel boomps-a-daisy as billy-o.

The entire 'Doctor Who' series: I stumbled into the Blue police telephone booth that was the space-time travelling ship also known as the TARDIS when I was lazing around in the summer holidays after my tenth std., and I was absolutely taken in by the Doctor, his exasperated assistants, his sonic screwdriver, and their Bizarre adventures in space-time. I guess you could label it as juvenile science fiction, but hey, who wants to grow up?

The Lord of the Rings: Tolkien was a genius of epic proportions, pun intended. What-a-book! I desperately wanted to be an elf, and even learned to write my name in the elvish script. To be able to know what the local flora and fauna feel, to be able to see what fell creature flies a few leagues away... sigh.

Rendezvous with Rama: Arthur C. Clarke positively outdid himself with this book. Everything here is so plausible it's scary. And engineering and physics never looked so good as they did here. And whatever you do, do NOT read the sequels. They're sacrilegious.

Jurassic Park: In fact, a lot of Crichton's early works were amazing. I used to be amazed by the way Crichton fused fact with fiction and made it a point to write about a completely different field in every book. Even his introductory essays in each book were complete masterpieces. It broke my heart to read his latest, completely pointless novel centered around global warming. The man has, unfortunately, lost it.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: 42. Marvin, the paraniod android. The willoughmying blanket. Ford prefect. Beeblebrox. The total perspective vortex. This book is absolutely brilliant, and absolutely crazy.

Dragons of Eden: I wish I had Sagan's grasp of science. This book is a brilliant history of the evolution of human intelligence. I know now that my revulsion to lizards is nothing sissy: it's an evolutionary artifact, in gobbledygook.

Apart from these, I absolutely love comics and comic strips, and discovering "Peanuts" has been a life-altering experience. Charles Schulz is the undisputed God of comic strips, and if you are not satisfied with 42, you will definitely find all of life's answers - and a few questions you never thought of asking - in the panes of the thirty-seven thousand-odd comic strips that he drew every day of his life, for fifty-two years.

Ummm... I think I've pretty much covered everything, and if you've read this far, boy, you are patient, and I owe you a drink. No, not you, Anurag. And not you either, Shrik. No, Kakkar, forget it. I mean the others. And in case I've missed any book out here, I shall let you know. Till then, tinkerty-tonk.

At work...

2005-12-12T11:58:00.000-08:00

This is one of my favourite photos. Among the ones I have taken, that is. What I like about it is the lighting, the depth of field, the medium, and the way these guys ignored me. Of course, you would soon be ignored, too, if people at work are used to seeing you fiddling around with a camera every day... familiarity breeds good photographs.

The composition leaves a lot to be desired, though. Lots of space at the top empty for no good reason. Sigh.

Camera: Canon EOS66
Lens: Canon 28-80mm
Film: Kodak BW4ooCN

I realize I have not been writing too much of late... and I have much to write about. Time is definitely not on my side...

Contrast

2005-12-06T07:43:00.000-08:00

I always like stark pictures. Black and white, I believe, is the best medium for stark, contrasting images, and whenever I get the chance - and can afford the twice-as-expensive black and white film - I try to take some (stark, contrasting) pics which I hope come out the way I like.

The keyword here, though, is hope. They almost never do. This one is about halfway there, but I had to bump up the contrast to get rid of the dull look that I always get when I get my darker images processed. A curse on all film labs.... anyways, I ramble. Do scrutinize this image, and let me know what you think.

Camera: Canon EOS 66
Lens: Canon 100-300mm USM
Aperture: f/4.5
Exposure: 1/10 sec
Film: Kodak BW400CN (aka bloody expensive film)

Girl Talk

2005-11-29T07:08:00.000-08:00

Sir Galahad and the Scooterette

2005-11-23T14:06:00.000-08:00

Rescuing ladies is one thing. Rescuing ladies astride scooterettes, however, is a completely different affair, and whoever has underestimated the above task has had at least one opportunity to swallow his pride, stoop down to sweep the shattered fragments of his ego under the carpet, and head for the himalayas. You would thus look more kindly at me, then, if I told you that I hesitated the other night, when a reversing sedan threatened to unceremoniously add a rather pretty lady to the general landscape at the Khadki railway crossing. I was in a position to judge that peril was slowly moving her way, but just when I was about to swoop down and carry her off to safety, I saw something that made me abort the launch: she was on a scooterette.

Those of you men who have never been on a scooterette, this is a good time to look heavenward and thank your favourite deity for sparing you the ordeal. In fact, it would not be too much if you went to the nearest place of worship and distributed food among the needy. Those of you - again, I address the men here - who have, you have my sympathies. Never was a machine so perfectly designed for crushing the male ego. To this day, when I pay a visit to the old hometown, I have often taken ten-minute walks in the mid-day sun when the only other alternative was to take my sister's scooterette.

I first encountered this blasted piece of machinery when walking over to my parked motorcycle at FC Road, about four years ago. I was young, dumb, and brimming with the confidence that so separates the young and the dumb from the rest. Thus, when I spotted a girl struggling to start a teensy - in fact, I remember even thinking of the thing as 'cute' - scooterette, I decided to lend a hand. I had, after all, had practice kick-starting a 156cc engine without the option of a decompression valve. In fact, on one occasion, I had even started a 350cc engine with a decompression valve, though I gave as violent a start as the machine did when it started. Anyway, coming back to the present, or rather, the past, there was this girl trying hard to punch a hole through her starter button, and realizing that this might soon end in her starter motor being handed to her in a casserole, I decided to intervene for the sake of the poor machine.

All right, so the girl was cute, too. But my thoughts, believe it or not, were all for the poor starter motor. So off I went and politely enquired if I could be of assistance. The girl looked at me in an appraising sort of way that seemed to say, "Oh, so you think you can, can you? I'd like to see you try!" and handed me the machine.

Ten minutes and ninety kicks later, I was swearing under my breath - what remained of it, that is, wiping the perspiration off my glasses, and rubbing my sore ankle that had, at every fifth kick, been hit by some part of the undercarriage or the other. Telling myself that if I ever visit one of these scooterette-manufacturing places, I'd make a beeline for the chap who designs the kick-starters in these machines, and let him have it, I turned to the girl, who, incidentally, had been joined by her rather amused-looking, also-cute friend, and asked her one of those vital questions that is born out of the strong line of reasoning we learn at engineering college.

"Are you sure there's enough fuel in the tank?"

The girls seemed to giggle among themselves, and the amused-looking friend asked me to step aside. Continuing to smile sweetly at me, she did a few things to the machine that looked suspiciously to me like witchcraft, and voila - we had lift-off. That is to say, the engine purred. Like those cats that those witches keep around them. To say I was astounded would be putting it mildly - I was positively rocking about the heels.

"Thank you!" came the chorus. I know a sarcastic chorus when I hear one, and this was definitely one. Refusing to be fooled by the sweet smiles, I stiffly waved off the thanks, and I believe added something about carbon in the spark plug, and strode away with as much dignity as a shattered ego and a bruised ankle would allow.

It took me about a week to recover from that one. I kept away from FC road for about a month, and I think I grew a beard for a while, too. The memory is hazy. You know how the mind tends to block out these traumatic episodes.

So you would understand my hesitation when I saw this scooterette-riding girl in a bit of peril. However, my hesitation was only for a moment. I nimbly jumped off my bike, ran up to her, and put my best foot forward.

"Erm... needanyhelp?"

I took care, though, to stay on the leeward side of the machine, away from the kick-starter. You should, too. Unless you're a girl. In which case a muttered 'abracadabra' under the breath would do just fine.

Boxes

2005-11-17T09:51:00.000-08:00

I admit I did not at first notice these boxes lying around in a corner, until Anurag pointed them out. I'm glad he did.

Camera: Canon EOS 66
Lens: Canon 100-300mm USM
Film: Kodak Max 400

I have a bike, you can ride it if you like...

2005-11-16T01:43:00.000-08:00

I remember watching a movie titled 'BMX Bandits' as a kid, and - I was a kid, mind you, so look at yourself at that age before you sneer at me - all I wanted to do was ride my bicycle down the stairs, up the walls, down banisters, and off cliffs in general, which is what all the characters in the movie seemed to be doing. I don't remember there being a plot, but then, I was too young and too dumb to even care. The bicycles we absolute dream machines - they all seemed to have tyres made of bubble gum - the colour was one thing that made us draw the connection, and the adhesion of the tyres to any surface the protagonsists cared to ride on was the other. And they came in different flavours like banana, cinnamon, and spearmint. Every little boy's dream come true.

This ye olde and unsteady chap I spotted at the flea market brought the memories flooding back. There even was a set of banana-flavoured wheels available as an optional extra. Yum.

Camera: Canon EOS 66
Lens: Canon 100-300mm USM
Film: Kodak Max 400