Its everywhere. All around me, you, and everyone else we share this rock with. It can be reassuring, keep you company, give you something to think about. I think of life as being a sine wave - ups, downs, ups and you know what's coming next. But it never wanes.The chatter, the sound, the noise of "social media". Information, opinions, facts, debates. People have so much to say, precious little patience to listen.
Have I had nothing to say because I've been listening? I doubt it. That life got in the way is too easy of an excuse. That I got swept in the flood of others' words can't be my escape. Reading is not the only exercise my mind needs, I need to string a few words together.
Hello world.
Showing posts with label The Blues. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Blues. Show all posts
Monday, July 18, 2011
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
How Blue Can You Get?
Moving from Bangalore to Boulder was almost easy. The allure of women in bikinis, people following the lane system, high speed internet and the opportunity to see some great bands live in concert was too much to resist. Sadly, the mountains here leave no space for beaches, and so I've had to settle for a life without bikinis.
I missed Iron Maiden by 2 days in July 05, but made up for it recently. Little had I known 5 years ago that I'd go from "I'll piss on your crappy double-bass lacking mp3" to "man I like this record so much I'm going to buy it - even if it is inspired by Sesame street". Metal, rock, rock'n'roll, ambient/electronica and finally, the blues. As my musical tastes widened, my interest in B.B King grew. Long solos, crazy improvisations, incredible collaborations - there's nothing this man hadn't done. At one time, Lucille played in my headphones all day and night. I figured of all the concerts on my list - this would be my Shangri-La. He's been old for the last 10 years now, has retired multiple times, why would he strum his guitar in our vanilla state?
I was wrong. A week from my due return to the States after a month's vacation, King would play at the Red Rocks amphitheater. There was no way I could afford it, much less take someone else - but the kid said I should do what I wanted. It didn't take much after that, I had two seats bang in the center. I told my friends - it's an outdoor amphitheater, there's nothing but mountains behind the stage. And when the moon rises, the night resembles a Van Gough painting coming to life. I think I was spat on.
So come Aug. 25th, we were there. We missed a good bit of the concert, thanks to the kid's second day of classes, but made it. Buddy Guy was on stage, cheerful as usual. Al Green followed amidst much fanfare. I knew nothing of the two, and felt a little disconnected for most part. It didn't help that we were the youngest as far as the eye could see. Finally, after numerous sound checks and intros, the legend was wheeled in.
Wait, what? Yeah. Except for a few steps to his seat on the stage, King can't really walk that much. He hasn't lost any of his snark though, and there were plenty of jokes at the expense of his band. The familiar tunes and melodies started and the event I'd been waiting for, for so long, was finally underway. But it wasn't smooth sailing. King fumbled with his guitar, sounded scratchy and at one time completely missed the strings while strumming. The band covered for him admirably, but it was evident the night wasn't going as I'd anticipated.
He had the ladies in the amphitheater sing "Please don't take my sunshine away" for nearly 10 minutes out of the 20 minutes he was on stage. He finished off with "Thrill is gone" and there was no solo to be heard. We were out of the venue before he had ambled off-stage.
So what do I make out of all this? It's hard not be disappointed. Disappointed that the legend I'd heard from my music collection wasn't the same man on stage. But then again, I wasn't born when that man was in his prime. I was disappointed I didn't know enough of the genre to enjoy the concert as much as the folks around us did. The thrill sure is gone, Lucille.
It doesn't change my opinion of how great King is, but does make me wonder about fading away. We like Morrison, Joplin and Hendrix as the gods of Rock and roll - handsome, young, mysterious, explosive, unchanging. We grow older, but they stay young. They sound the same any day of the week, any time of the night. When musicians who don't retire stay in the limelight, they prove they're human just like the rest of us. It's just a sad drive back home.
I missed Iron Maiden by 2 days in July 05, but made up for it recently. Little had I known 5 years ago that I'd go from "I'll piss on your crappy double-bass lacking mp3" to "man I like this record so much I'm going to buy it - even if it is inspired by Sesame street". Metal, rock, rock'n'roll, ambient/electronica and finally, the blues. As my musical tastes widened, my interest in B.B King grew. Long solos, crazy improvisations, incredible collaborations - there's nothing this man hadn't done. At one time, Lucille played in my headphones all day and night. I figured of all the concerts on my list - this would be my Shangri-La. He's been old for the last 10 years now, has retired multiple times, why would he strum his guitar in our vanilla state?
I was wrong. A week from my due return to the States after a month's vacation, King would play at the Red Rocks amphitheater. There was no way I could afford it, much less take someone else - but the kid said I should do what I wanted. It didn't take much after that, I had two seats bang in the center. I told my friends - it's an outdoor amphitheater, there's nothing but mountains behind the stage. And when the moon rises, the night resembles a Van Gough painting coming to life. I think I was spat on.
So come Aug. 25th, we were there. We missed a good bit of the concert, thanks to the kid's second day of classes, but made it. Buddy Guy was on stage, cheerful as usual. Al Green followed amidst much fanfare. I knew nothing of the two, and felt a little disconnected for most part. It didn't help that we were the youngest as far as the eye could see. Finally, after numerous sound checks and intros, the legend was wheeled in.
Wait, what? Yeah. Except for a few steps to his seat on the stage, King can't really walk that much. He hasn't lost any of his snark though, and there were plenty of jokes at the expense of his band. The familiar tunes and melodies started and the event I'd been waiting for, for so long, was finally underway. But it wasn't smooth sailing. King fumbled with his guitar, sounded scratchy and at one time completely missed the strings while strumming. The band covered for him admirably, but it was evident the night wasn't going as I'd anticipated.
He had the ladies in the amphitheater sing "Please don't take my sunshine away" for nearly 10 minutes out of the 20 minutes he was on stage. He finished off with "Thrill is gone" and there was no solo to be heard. We were out of the venue before he had ambled off-stage.
So what do I make out of all this? It's hard not be disappointed. Disappointed that the legend I'd heard from my music collection wasn't the same man on stage. But then again, I wasn't born when that man was in his prime. I was disappointed I didn't know enough of the genre to enjoy the concert as much as the folks around us did. The thrill sure is gone, Lucille.
It doesn't change my opinion of how great King is, but does make me wonder about fading away. We like Morrison, Joplin and Hendrix as the gods of Rock and roll - handsome, young, mysterious, explosive, unchanging. We grow older, but they stay young. They sound the same any day of the week, any time of the night. When musicians who don't retire stay in the limelight, they prove they're human just like the rest of us. It's just a sad drive back home.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Cars Hiss by my Window
Ever lingered in the shallow end of a crowded swimming pool? I haven't, since my disgust for human proximity set in, but I remember how it was learning swimming in Bangalore. I didn't like the way the water smelled, and was worried I'd cannonball into someone who was as out of control as I was. Anyway, I'd squat in the corner sometimes just to get away from it all, but not quite leave the pool. Dad had paid for my time there - couldn't waste it now, could I?
If you stand still in a pool for sometime, you get the distinct feeling the world is passing you by. Fresh faces jump in, lap around and exit stage left. Soon, you're the only one you can recognize in the mass of flailing limbs and twisting bodies. I'm feeling like that all over again.
I saw a few of my college buddies when I was visiting home a couple of months ago. I couldn't spend too much time with them, but sent them an email with a nod to good times in the past. Guess everyone's busy now, I got no replies to my effusive thoughts. The kid has a lot of good ideas about being nice to people and has convinced me to give it a shot. I called a lot of friends after I got back, and most of them spoke to me at length. Not much has changed in the year that we haven't spoken. But we haven't spoken.
Texting and calling belong to the last decade. Letter writing is a lost art, but when did we stop communicating? What happened to social networking? Twitter, facebook, blogger - weren't they meant to draw us closer? My twitter timelines are flooded with inane observations and retweets. I've blocked nearly everyone after farmville infected facebook. All the blogs I used to read are near dead or comatose. Where is everyone?
I find myself standing waist deep in a stiff current trying not to drift. I haven't read a good book lately, seen movies or partied. I didn't camp all summer.
Where am I?
If you stand still in a pool for sometime, you get the distinct feeling the world is passing you by. Fresh faces jump in, lap around and exit stage left. Soon, you're the only one you can recognize in the mass of flailing limbs and twisting bodies. I'm feeling like that all over again.
I saw a few of my college buddies when I was visiting home a couple of months ago. I couldn't spend too much time with them, but sent them an email with a nod to good times in the past. Guess everyone's busy now, I got no replies to my effusive thoughts. The kid has a lot of good ideas about being nice to people and has convinced me to give it a shot. I called a lot of friends after I got back, and most of them spoke to me at length. Not much has changed in the year that we haven't spoken. But we haven't spoken.
Texting and calling belong to the last decade. Letter writing is a lost art, but when did we stop communicating? What happened to social networking? Twitter, facebook, blogger - weren't they meant to draw us closer? My twitter timelines are flooded with inane observations and retweets. I've blocked nearly everyone after farmville infected facebook. All the blogs I used to read are near dead or comatose. Where is everyone?
I find myself standing waist deep in a stiff current trying not to drift. I haven't read a good book lately, seen movies or partied. I didn't camp all summer.
Where am I?
Thursday, October 7, 2010
No Time to Cry
I don't have the time for anything these days. That's almost a shameful admission considering how well I used to be "connected" thanks to my smartphone, high-speed internet and general nerdiness. I'm insanely busy at work, and going to sleep absolutely exhausted, knowing that I couldn't move anymore keeps me happy. But I'm uncomfortable. I'm living my life now - my job, my career, my lady, our evenings, our weekends, groceries, cooking, driving. And it's keeping others out - friends, family, video games, Sasha Grey, poker, Rocky Mountains national park... I don't feel guilty about it. I've done enough so far to be a "social animal" and it's a great time to be a recluse - just a new feeling having to say "sorry, didn't have the time". Two years I've spent looking at 2-D images of my little lady, and I'm going to spend every second now with my face pressed to hers. The world can wait.
But I do get moments away from the madness. I have another 12 minutes before a status meeting, and a day filled with coding and testing. And I decided to listen to a little gospel. That led me to the "I have a dream" speech. It's easy to admire the man, and it's a frightful past to think about. I would be lying if I didn't understand how a section of society can be trampled upon. It's disgraceful, but is easy to be blind to the plight of others' when you've been told all your life that you were superior just because your parents were. Casteism, racism, they're all the same. It's another thing that breathing for more than 12 years should erase that feeling, but society can be weird like that. Anyhow, I typed "Martin L" in the search bar on youtube. The comments section are the cesspool of internet intelligence, but the auto-suggest feature does tell you a story. In this case, I learned that people typing "Martin" were more interested in Martin Lawrence stand up than a preacher who changed civil rights in this nation. Ah, the travesty.
In other news, I saw an article that said "Poor Countries Ignore the mentally Ill". And the ill. And the sane. And the healthy. It's the definition of a poor country WHO, get used to it. The article goes on to say "$2 a day can drastically change all this". Really? How? Does it take into account that the $2 (is that a million Ethiopian dollars?) would rather be used by the "poor nation" to save the sane/physically ill? To feed starving kids/corrupt bureaucrats/motivated drug lords? The developed side of the globe never fails to amuse me.
But I do get moments away from the madness. I have another 12 minutes before a status meeting, and a day filled with coding and testing. And I decided to listen to a little gospel. That led me to the "I have a dream" speech. It's easy to admire the man, and it's a frightful past to think about. I would be lying if I didn't understand how a section of society can be trampled upon. It's disgraceful, but is easy to be blind to the plight of others' when you've been told all your life that you were superior just because your parents were. Casteism, racism, they're all the same. It's another thing that breathing for more than 12 years should erase that feeling, but society can be weird like that. Anyhow, I typed "Martin L" in the search bar on youtube. The comments section are the cesspool of internet intelligence, but the auto-suggest feature does tell you a story. In this case, I learned that people typing "Martin" were more interested in Martin Lawrence stand up than a preacher who changed civil rights in this nation. Ah, the travesty.
In other news, I saw an article that said "Poor Countries Ignore the mentally Ill". And the ill. And the sane. And the healthy. It's the definition of a poor country WHO, get used to it. The article goes on to say "$2 a day can drastically change all this". Really? How? Does it take into account that the $2 (is that a million Ethiopian dollars?) would rather be used by the "poor nation" to save the sane/physically ill? To feed starving kids/corrupt bureaucrats/motivated drug lords? The developed side of the globe never fails to amuse me.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Idiot Prayer
I don't have a profound insight into life. In fact, I have very little insight. Into anything. However, I am the eternal optimist.
I believe, I can work just as hard as anyone else. That I can be as clever as need be. That I can let go. That I can smile. That twenty-six years* weren't so bad, another fifty won't be terribly shabby either.
I'd like to imagine that humans can do good. That someone somewhere really is working on clean fuel, better cars and cheaper food.
I can hope that we'll stop going down this spiral of destruction. That 10 years from now, the place I call home won't be brimming with people, corruption, callous disregard for others' lives - as it already does now.
I can dream that outer space will someday be in our reach. That we can colonize other planets, spread out and evolve before this one home we have implodes. That one day we'll be able to make spaceflights that take us millions of miles in a few hours. That Clarke wasn't being wistful while dreaming of our future. That his entire bibliography wasn't a slap in our faces of what will never come to be.
Maybe I should just get back to work.
* - not my birthday. Yet.
I believe, I can work just as hard as anyone else. That I can be as clever as need be. That I can let go. That I can smile. That twenty-six years* weren't so bad, another fifty won't be terribly shabby either.
I'd like to imagine that humans can do good. That someone somewhere really is working on clean fuel, better cars and cheaper food.
I can hope that we'll stop going down this spiral of destruction. That 10 years from now, the place I call home won't be brimming with people, corruption, callous disregard for others' lives - as it already does now.
I can dream that outer space will someday be in our reach. That we can colonize other planets, spread out and evolve before this one home we have implodes. That one day we'll be able to make spaceflights that take us millions of miles in a few hours. That Clarke wasn't being wistful while dreaming of our future. That his entire bibliography wasn't a slap in our faces of what will never come to be.
Maybe I should just get back to work.
* - not my birthday. Yet.
Monday, February 22, 2010
The Entertainer
What if I had a thought I couldn't tell you about? What if it's something I don't like thinking about? What if it's something I want to drive out of my head?
Take me up and out
Cause rainy days are all I feel
I'm walking about
I know that, there's no time
In the days of muse breaks
I had to hang on tight
Looking back I wish I had
more time for, you...
I have something to say, words aren't my friends today. How about a tune? I can't pick up a guitar and pluck away, staring into the distance.
A new song is a journey. A collection of notes, chords and words waiting to be explored. A gentle start, gathering pace, expression, notions, ideas. Slow it down for a moment, contemplate, take it forward. Pick it up, undulations, rhythms, assertions, belief. Ease up, hope for the best, fade to black.
Isolation, self-loathing, sleep deprivation, self-pity, love, rage, desire, hope.
Play. Play all night long.
Take me up and out
Cause rainy days are all I feel
I'm walking about
I know that, there's no time
In the days of muse breaks
I had to hang on tight
Looking back I wish I had
more time for, you...
I have something to say, words aren't my friends today. How about a tune? I can't pick up a guitar and pluck away, staring into the distance.
A new song is a journey. A collection of notes, chords and words waiting to be explored. A gentle start, gathering pace, expression, notions, ideas. Slow it down for a moment, contemplate, take it forward. Pick it up, undulations, rhythms, assertions, belief. Ease up, hope for the best, fade to black.
Isolation, self-loathing, sleep deprivation, self-pity, love, rage, desire, hope.
Play. Play all night long.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Happiness is a warm gun
It's coming. Soon, the yanks won't sound as cool saying the year anymore (oh-eight, oh-nine... oh-ten?). We love lists, and we love year end lists even more. "Best of the decade" lists have started popping up all over the place, it feels like we've waited a lot longer than ten years for this moment to arrive. Debates on whether this really is the end of the decade will rage on. Summation is a forbidden pleasure, and a year more of lust is a tempting thought.
It's a new year. There are words, prose and poetry. People have beautiful thoughts. Lessons learned, journeys undertaken/completed, morals, memories, smiles, tears to share. Plans to attend to. Resolutions to break. Cliched jokes to make. S, my good friend, will spend the night on the phone with his long distance wife. He's happy, he says, but why does it sound like he's making a compromise?
It's a new year. I have plans. And some more. Resolutions? A few. Memories, plenty. Lessons learned, oh so many. I suppose I have a list.
It's a new year. The pale blue dot will soon take us back to the point in space we were 365.25 days ago. And back along the same path, like it has done for the last 4.5 billion years. And yet, one can hope. Politicians will change. Corporations will grow a conscience. Economies will improve. Love will blossom. Waistlines will get slimmer. Bank balances heavier.
It's a new year. It's a date on my calendar. As far as events in my life go, the first few months will mean nothing new to me. I do not wish to wish to convey unhappiness or disappointment - just express my lack of enthusiasm for the day. Still, Jan 1st is a convenient bookmark, and a good excuse to share some cheer. Gather some friends, clink some glasses together.
Wish you a happy new year. Hope you get a chance to fulfill your dreams, an opportunity to do what matters.
It's a new year. There are words, prose and poetry. People have beautiful thoughts. Lessons learned, journeys undertaken/completed, morals, memories, smiles, tears to share. Plans to attend to. Resolutions to break. Cliched jokes to make. S, my good friend, will spend the night on the phone with his long distance wife. He's happy, he says, but why does it sound like he's making a compromise?
It's a new year. I have plans. And some more. Resolutions? A few. Memories, plenty. Lessons learned, oh so many. I suppose I have a list.
It's a new year. The pale blue dot will soon take us back to the point in space we were 365.25 days ago. And back along the same path, like it has done for the last 4.5 billion years. And yet, one can hope. Politicians will change. Corporations will grow a conscience. Economies will improve. Love will blossom. Waistlines will get slimmer. Bank balances heavier.
It's a new year. It's a date on my calendar. As far as events in my life go, the first few months will mean nothing new to me. I do not wish to wish to convey unhappiness or disappointment - just express my lack of enthusiasm for the day. Still, Jan 1st is a convenient bookmark, and a good excuse to share some cheer. Gather some friends, clink some glasses together.
Wish you a happy new year. Hope you get a chance to fulfill your dreams, an opportunity to do what matters.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
If
This is a nothing post. I'm not sure what's going on, but I have nothing to say.
Let's call this a bastard post then. I'll nick words from clever songs, italicize them, and appeal to your intellect. And hope to fake it like I have one.
If I were a train, I'd be late again.
And if I were a good man, I'd talk with you more often than I do.
I'm way too full of me nowadays. I want to talk to people only to talk about me. If they won't listen, I don't want to hear them either.
If I were afraid, I could hide.
If I were a good man, I'd understand the spaces between friends.
If I were alone, I would cry.
And if I were with you, I'd be home and dry.
And if I go insane, will you still let me join in with the game?*
If I were a good man, I'd understand the spaces between friends.
If I were alone, I would cry.
And if I were with you, I'd be home and dry.
And if I go insane, will you still let me join in with the game?*
Dear world, do me a favor. Give me a chance to figure this out. Somewhere in-between books on shamans and lonely weekends in the great mountains, I'll find answers to questions I can't yet put to paper. Stay tuned, don't hit the dial, and all that.
And the night that you got locked in
Was the time to decide
Stop chasing shadows
Just enjoy the ride**
Was the time to decide
Stop chasing shadows
Just enjoy the ride**
I'm not unhappy. I could tell you about my busy work hours, near perfect weekday routine, seemingly random but satisfying weekends.
Or I could just turn around and let you look at me. Not today. Not now.
* Pink Floyd - If
** Morecheeba - Enjoy the ride
Monday, June 29, 2009
Wish you were here
From where I come from, the seasons can be described as very hot, not-that-hot and somewhat-hot-but-rainy. I've lived in beautiful Colorado for about 3.5 years now. In my stay here I've noticed 3 kinds of weather - scorching heat, blistering cold and surprisingly mellow "in-betweens". The "in-betweens" are transitions between winter and summer, and summer and winter. Let's pretend I don't know what the "in-betweens" are called, and that I'm using air-quotes where you see the actual quotes.
Anyway, the precipitation I've encountered for most of my life is rain in Bangalore, India and snow in Boulder, Colorado. Looks like summer finally decided to show up, reluctant and hesitant at first, non-committal and inconsistent at best. For a few weeks though, I was at distinct unease due to the seemingly random whims of Mother nature. The days would be bright, warm and sunny, and that's the last I saw clear daylight as I headed to my near window-less existence(isn't that some kind of health violation?). I'd get back out and the skies would be brimming with dark, thunderous clouds it seemed like the long drive back home was set to operatic overtures. And then with a frightening crack of thunder and an angry flash of lightening, the skies would open up, sending all age groups into dull panic.
Although I'm used to large quantities of rain, and the simultaneous joy and agony that comes with it, it's pretty surreal watching it rain down on a relatively new terrain, and watch equally bewildered population deal with it. I'm told this is what Colorado was some ten years ago, that summer's visit would be heralded by rain and hostile hail. It didn't last too long, but it was a good change from the usual. Now we can all get back to complaining about the mid nineties heat, and pine for winter again.
**************************
Our house in Bangalore had some history about it. It was at least 150 years old, and had seen nearly 3 generations from cradle to the funeral pyre. It was a tiled house, and the tiles bore the year of their manufacture - 1835. As a 10 year old, I'd try and break off parts of the edge of the roof, just because I wanted to destroy something so many times older than me. The roof went through multiple repairs and it represented my growth in a tangential way. The roof was in two stages and I'd get tennis balls, frisbees stuck on the lower level. I would also toss my broken teeth on to the roof. This was something everyone in my family had been doing, and I'd envisioned that the roof would soon be covered entirely with teeth, largely due to my doing.
Being the only boy in the compound (dad was dodging bullets at the Indo-Pak borders those days), an ambitious throw meant I'd lost a toy right away, no one to get them for me and no liberties to climb the roof. Soon, the family got bigger, dad returned, I grew taller and I was finally allowed to retrieve possessions from the roof. Only, the double edge sword of growing up meant that I was too heavy to try anything fanciful on the delicate century old roof.
**************************
Sensitivity to rain is almost in my blood. I can smell it a mile away, and it fills me with an abstract sense of joy. Since rain often brought relief to the agonizing heat, and power cuts meant that everyone in the family would actually spend time together, I'd wait for hours looking anxiously at the sky. It would begin as a steady tap on the roof. The sounds rain makes on a tiled roof, held only by wooden beams, is distinct. The steady beat invokes fear, since the roof sounds like it could give anytime, and yet gives the sensation of being in a dry bubble being splashed with water. The rhythm would pick up, my granma would mute the blasted TV, nod her head side to side and say male (rain) with a small satisfied smile. She had quite the green thumb and the knowledge that her beloved plants would thrive brought her great happiness. Mum would emerge from the kitchen, pots and pans in tow ready to organize a blitz. The roof wasn't without its faults - it had sprung numerous leaks. Being agile at the time, it was my job to run around and place a pot under every drip we knew about. Soon the sounds of the drizzle would be accompanied by steady drips as water collected in the pots one drop at a time. In no time the rain would turn into a torrent, and the loud bursting sound was the transformer down the block shorting out, and all lights would disappear. I would open our double front doors, setup a chair for granma, as mum brought out hot tea and fried finger food. While the tea cooled, she'd get out to the courtyard and catch hailstones in her mouth beckoning me to do the same. I would join her, to hear her singing in joy. Soon, we would be joined my aunt, and later my kid brother. He loved the rain. As a toddler, he wasn't allowed out in the rain, but loved standing at the windows, holding his hand out to catch passing raindrops. He grew too, and soon it was a family getting rained on. In the absence of hail, we would make little paper boats and see how far they'd float in the numerous streams forming in our courtyard. We'd return to the veranda, and while mum dried my hair, I'd sip the tea, and indulge in golden brown bondas and pakoras (onions, potatoes and spicy peppers batter-dipped and deep fried to perfection).
I like rain, love getting drenched, because somewhere around the globe a family minus one is still doing the same.
Anyway, the precipitation I've encountered for most of my life is rain in Bangalore, India and snow in Boulder, Colorado. Looks like summer finally decided to show up, reluctant and hesitant at first, non-committal and inconsistent at best. For a few weeks though, I was at distinct unease due to the seemingly random whims of Mother nature. The days would be bright, warm and sunny, and that's the last I saw clear daylight as I headed to my near window-less existence(isn't that some kind of health violation?). I'd get back out and the skies would be brimming with dark, thunderous clouds it seemed like the long drive back home was set to operatic overtures. And then with a frightening crack of thunder and an angry flash of lightening, the skies would open up, sending all age groups into dull panic.
Although I'm used to large quantities of rain, and the simultaneous joy and agony that comes with it, it's pretty surreal watching it rain down on a relatively new terrain, and watch equally bewildered population deal with it. I'm told this is what Colorado was some ten years ago, that summer's visit would be heralded by rain and hostile hail. It didn't last too long, but it was a good change from the usual. Now we can all get back to complaining about the mid nineties heat, and pine for winter again.
**************************
Our house in Bangalore had some history about it. It was at least 150 years old, and had seen nearly 3 generations from cradle to the funeral pyre. It was a tiled house, and the tiles bore the year of their manufacture - 1835. As a 10 year old, I'd try and break off parts of the edge of the roof, just because I wanted to destroy something so many times older than me. The roof went through multiple repairs and it represented my growth in a tangential way. The roof was in two stages and I'd get tennis balls, frisbees stuck on the lower level. I would also toss my broken teeth on to the roof. This was something everyone in my family had been doing, and I'd envisioned that the roof would soon be covered entirely with teeth, largely due to my doing.
Being the only boy in the compound (dad was dodging bullets at the Indo-Pak borders those days), an ambitious throw meant I'd lost a toy right away, no one to get them for me and no liberties to climb the roof. Soon, the family got bigger, dad returned, I grew taller and I was finally allowed to retrieve possessions from the roof. Only, the double edge sword of growing up meant that I was too heavy to try anything fanciful on the delicate century old roof.
**************************
Sensitivity to rain is almost in my blood. I can smell it a mile away, and it fills me with an abstract sense of joy. Since rain often brought relief to the agonizing heat, and power cuts meant that everyone in the family would actually spend time together, I'd wait for hours looking anxiously at the sky. It would begin as a steady tap on the roof. The sounds rain makes on a tiled roof, held only by wooden beams, is distinct. The steady beat invokes fear, since the roof sounds like it could give anytime, and yet gives the sensation of being in a dry bubble being splashed with water. The rhythm would pick up, my granma would mute the blasted TV, nod her head side to side and say male (rain) with a small satisfied smile. She had quite the green thumb and the knowledge that her beloved plants would thrive brought her great happiness. Mum would emerge from the kitchen, pots and pans in tow ready to organize a blitz. The roof wasn't without its faults - it had sprung numerous leaks. Being agile at the time, it was my job to run around and place a pot under every drip we knew about. Soon the sounds of the drizzle would be accompanied by steady drips as water collected in the pots one drop at a time. In no time the rain would turn into a torrent, and the loud bursting sound was the transformer down the block shorting out, and all lights would disappear. I would open our double front doors, setup a chair for granma, as mum brought out hot tea and fried finger food. While the tea cooled, she'd get out to the courtyard and catch hailstones in her mouth beckoning me to do the same. I would join her, to hear her singing in joy. Soon, we would be joined my aunt, and later my kid brother. He loved the rain. As a toddler, he wasn't allowed out in the rain, but loved standing at the windows, holding his hand out to catch passing raindrops. He grew too, and soon it was a family getting rained on. In the absence of hail, we would make little paper boats and see how far they'd float in the numerous streams forming in our courtyard. We'd return to the veranda, and while mum dried my hair, I'd sip the tea, and indulge in golden brown bondas and pakoras (onions, potatoes and spicy peppers batter-dipped and deep fried to perfection).
I like rain, love getting drenched, because somewhere around the globe a family minus one is still doing the same.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Whiskey on the Rocks
n the eve of my birthday the kid asked me if I was happy. I wasn't all that thrilled. I miss the folks back home, I miss her and I'm still not completely used to living alone. And that incurable itch due to credit card bills refuses to go away.
On most birthdays, I'm a happy person and the day feels rather special. Today I didn't feel any different. Perhaps because the numbskulls in my car pool forgot, or because I've been here 25 times already. I felt a little better when a friend remembered, and I was taken to lunch and made to eat dick shaped ice-cream.I may get over my shyness and post some pictures of me cupping the balls. I finally got hold of the pics, they're up!
Still, I was thinking about the mundane-ness of the day when it hit me as hard as a right upper hook : I was sober. Yesterday, now and potentially all day today. This is the first birthday in 5 years I haven't welcomed with shots and unrestrained drinking. Plans for me getting wasted on Saturday night were made last fortnight, but being a corporate whore has now put a dampener on weekday celebrations.
So that's it then. I'm not feeling old, fat or poor. I feel sober. And if that's still a new, uneasy feeling I don't see myself getting old anytime soon. Booya.
I think I'll fix myself a drink. No drink on weekdays/no drinking alone be damned.
On most birthdays, I'm a happy person and the day feels rather special. Today I didn't feel any different. Perhaps because the numbskulls in my car pool forgot, or because I've been here 25 times already. I felt a little better when a friend remembered, and I was taken to lunch and made to eat dick shaped ice-cream.
Still, I was thinking about the mundane-ness of the day when it hit me as hard as a right upper hook : I was sober. Yesterday, now and potentially all day today. This is the first birthday in 5 years I haven't welcomed with shots and unrestrained drinking. Plans for me getting wasted on Saturday night were made last fortnight, but being a corporate whore has now put a dampener on weekday celebrations.
So that's it then. I'm not feeling old, fat or poor. I feel sober. And if that's still a new, uneasy feeling I don't see myself getting old anytime soon. Booya.
I think I'll fix myself a drink. No drink on weekdays/no drinking alone be damned.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Us and Them
In my field of education and line of work, I've come across several brilliant minds and truly gifted students of science. I like giving credit where it's due and have told many people how much I like their way of thinking/reasoning.
Whether by upbringing or by personality, I find it hard to take compliments too seriously. I usually brush off accolades as I find them a touch embarrassing - I just don't know how to react when someone says something good about me. While I didn't take any part of my schooling for granted, peers and faculty were of the opinion that while I had the intellectual horsepower, I simply lacked the will to work hard and score points in the exam. I was always in the top 10 in the class - good but could do better - was consistent feedback me and the parents got all the time.
College just about destroyed every notion I had about myself. I was in a large group of 12 people and 9 of them would score at least 20 points more than me per paper. Music, dating, the internet were large distractions and I suddenly found myself at rungs way below what I was used to. I had a "rock-bottom" moment in a lab exam in my junior year. It was a circuits lab, and I had to first draw a circuit diagram, write a little theory and steps to get observations. I remember struggling through the writing part. We're given components to perform the experiment only if the writing's approved by the examiner, and I somehow managed to cross that hurdle. When I wired the circuit up, I realized that I had absolutely no clue what I was doing. The output was lacking, the components were hooked up wrong so they heated up, and I had no idea what the procedure was or even what test values I was supposed to procure. These were low voltage/power circuits and yet I managed to heat a transistor so bad that I singed my thumb and I bear a small scar to this day. The examiner (whom I hated, and he knew) came around to check on me and he was also shocked at my ineptitude. I had a good reputation among the faculty due to my behavior and the company I kept, which made my struggles of the morning seem even more ludicrous. He dropped a couple of none-too-subtle hints on how to fix the circuit and what the correct procedure was, and left the table disgusted.
I got 70 in that paper. I shouldn't even have passed, but goodwill from a man who hated me, got me through.
I remember coming home, tripping over the furniture, and crying. It started as a loud scream due to the pain, but soon I was bawling because I was in uncharted territory. I always thought I was better than the scum of the last benches that had no clue during exams, and showed up just to mock the education system. Glaring examples that a single form of learning cannot help everyone. And here I was, priviliged well behaved child who was just as bad as any of them. I spent that summer wondering if it was all just a big sham, if everyone in my life had just been "nice" to me about my "intelligence".
It took a lot of effort to get out of that brooding mode, and I never fell that badly again. From then on, to the point of of considering myself below-average, I've tried hard to keep myself grounded. And as they say, if you say something long enough you start believing in it. Suppression of my ego also seems to have created nagging doubts about my technical ability.
But the world's a mysterious place and things seems to be changing, yet again. I find myself capable of writing rather clever code and find mistakes in others' code. People who've been at it for longer than me seek my advice, and some people even call me the absolute authority on the things I work on. After I dispensed some advice to someone I thought to myself "did I just say all that?"
Yes, times, they're a changing. I'll never be as bright as the brilliant minds I've seen at close quarters, but once I find the right balance between my ego and self assurance, I may have all the arsenal I need to make a name for myself.
Whether by upbringing or by personality, I find it hard to take compliments too seriously. I usually brush off accolades as I find them a touch embarrassing - I just don't know how to react when someone says something good about me. While I didn't take any part of my schooling for granted, peers and faculty were of the opinion that while I had the intellectual horsepower, I simply lacked the will to work hard and score points in the exam. I was always in the top 10 in the class - good but could do better - was consistent feedback me and the parents got all the time.
College just about destroyed every notion I had about myself. I was in a large group of 12 people and 9 of them would score at least 20 points more than me per paper. Music, dating, the internet were large distractions and I suddenly found myself at rungs way below what I was used to. I had a "rock-bottom" moment in a lab exam in my junior year. It was a circuits lab, and I had to first draw a circuit diagram, write a little theory and steps to get observations. I remember struggling through the writing part. We're given components to perform the experiment only if the writing's approved by the examiner, and I somehow managed to cross that hurdle. When I wired the circuit up, I realized that I had absolutely no clue what I was doing. The output was lacking, the components were hooked up wrong so they heated up, and I had no idea what the procedure was or even what test values I was supposed to procure. These were low voltage/power circuits and yet I managed to heat a transistor so bad that I singed my thumb and I bear a small scar to this day. The examiner (whom I hated, and he knew) came around to check on me and he was also shocked at my ineptitude. I had a good reputation among the faculty due to my behavior and the company I kept, which made my struggles of the morning seem even more ludicrous. He dropped a couple of none-too-subtle hints on how to fix the circuit and what the correct procedure was, and left the table disgusted.
I got 70 in that paper. I shouldn't even have passed, but goodwill from a man who hated me, got me through.
I remember coming home, tripping over the furniture, and crying. It started as a loud scream due to the pain, but soon I was bawling because I was in uncharted territory. I always thought I was better than the scum of the last benches that had no clue during exams, and showed up just to mock the education system. Glaring examples that a single form of learning cannot help everyone. And here I was, priviliged well behaved child who was just as bad as any of them. I spent that summer wondering if it was all just a big sham, if everyone in my life had just been "nice" to me about my "intelligence".
It took a lot of effort to get out of that brooding mode, and I never fell that badly again. From then on, to the point of of considering myself below-average, I've tried hard to keep myself grounded. And as they say, if you say something long enough you start believing in it. Suppression of my ego also seems to have created nagging doubts about my technical ability.
But the world's a mysterious place and things seems to be changing, yet again. I find myself capable of writing rather clever code and find mistakes in others' code. People who've been at it for longer than me seek my advice, and some people even call me the absolute authority on the things I work on. After I dispensed some advice to someone I thought to myself "did I just say all that?"
Yes, times, they're a changing. I'll never be as bright as the brilliant minds I've seen at close quarters, but once I find the right balance between my ego and self assurance, I may have all the arsenal I need to make a name for myself.
Friday, May 22, 2009
The Vagabond
3 summers ago, I had completed my first year in graduate school. I had gotten full funding a semester earlier and I slacked off like hell. I didn't study much, partied a lot and missed most deadlines. As a result, when summer arrived, I hadn't applied for any internships. On campus jobs were hard to come by and my visa limitations meant that I couldn't work at a gas station or starbucks.
My department gracefully offered me a part-time job. I earned half of what I was used to. My credit card debt soared, and soon I had no money to pay the rent. I survived on rice and canned beans and tomatoes for nearly a month. When I cooked, the kitchen had strong smells of Indian spices, and preservatives in the canned food. The taste was strange, unnatural and unhealthy but it was all I had.
Well, that and the first major purchase I made after I got funded. My set of 4.1 Boston Acoustic speakers. I had picked up a futon from the trash, and the bedsheets mom had sent me were a reminder of the luxuries I'd left behind less than a year ago. I set up 2 speakers at me feet, 2 at my head.
The jarring sounds of Jason's Nevin's remixes, set to weird anime as accompaniment to the rancid food I was eating are memories I find hard to let go of. I slept all day, and I'd set my laptop to play lounge music from somafm.com. Then my roomie got me hooked to Air. There was a song featuring Beck called "The Vagabond".
I'm running after time and I miss the sunshine
Summer days will come happiness will be mine
I'm lost in my words I don't know where I'm going
I do the best I can not to worry about things
I feel loose
I feel haggard
Don't know what I'm looking for
Something true
Something lovely
That will make me feel alive
I can't say that's the one song that got me through, but it's an important part of the big puddle of sights, songs and smells from the time.
When I write posts like these, it makes me wonder if I really had it that bad. Perhaps some of it was self induced, and it still wasn't as bad as some others had it. But as vivid memories are, looking back at "me" from then is like watching a biopic on someone else's life. It's surreal, slow and eerily predictable. I feel little pity and an odd sense of detachment.
I don't want to go Freud on myself (nor would appreciate anyone else doing so), but I don't think it made a difference in how I behave now. It was just...that summer.
My department gracefully offered me a part-time job. I earned half of what I was used to. My credit card debt soared, and soon I had no money to pay the rent. I survived on rice and canned beans and tomatoes for nearly a month. When I cooked, the kitchen had strong smells of Indian spices, and preservatives in the canned food. The taste was strange, unnatural and unhealthy but it was all I had.
Well, that and the first major purchase I made after I got funded. My set of 4.1 Boston Acoustic speakers. I had picked up a futon from the trash, and the bedsheets mom had sent me were a reminder of the luxuries I'd left behind less than a year ago. I set up 2 speakers at me feet, 2 at my head.
The jarring sounds of Jason's Nevin's remixes, set to weird anime as accompaniment to the rancid food I was eating are memories I find hard to let go of. I slept all day, and I'd set my laptop to play lounge music from somafm.com. Then my roomie got me hooked to Air. There was a song featuring Beck called "The Vagabond".
I'm running after time and I miss the sunshine
Summer days will come happiness will be mine
I'm lost in my words I don't know where I'm going
I do the best I can not to worry about things
I feel loose
I feel haggard
Don't know what I'm looking for
Something true
Something lovely
That will make me feel alive
I can't say that's the one song that got me through, but it's an important part of the big puddle of sights, songs and smells from the time.
When I write posts like these, it makes me wonder if I really had it that bad. Perhaps some of it was self induced, and it still wasn't as bad as some others had it. But as vivid memories are, looking back at "me" from then is like watching a biopic on someone else's life. It's surreal, slow and eerily predictable. I feel little pity and an odd sense of detachment.
I don't want to go Freud on myself (nor would appreciate anyone else doing so), but I don't think it made a difference in how I behave now. It was just...that summer.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Lux Aeterna
Munich was a great movie, even if it was somewhat biased. There's a scene in the movie when a Palestinian tells Bana how important the idea of a "home" is. He was referring to a homeland of course, and good luck to the various ethnic groups around the world trying to claim/reclaim their promised land.
While I can identify with a homeland, strongly at times, home is a near alien concept. Being an army brat, I never stayed at one place for longer than a couple of years. Not that I complained - I didn't really care that my oldest friends at anytime were acquaintances from under 2 years. The social pressures of being in an Army base are immense, but the perks are great. Even after Dad left the forces, we changed houses once every 3 years - by design or accident. We started in central Bangalore - one of the oldest communities - and moved on outwards as the city city expanded by miles every day. The last house we moved to - I didn't really stay there, owing to me starting my Masters here - has been home to my parents for nearly 5 years now. That's the longest they've stayed put during their married lives.
I seemed to have continued that trend by changing apartments every year. It's a headache to move, but I can't seem to find a way out of it. Next year, maybe. As a result, the importance of a domicile, the concept of a home being haven is lost on me. Or so I think.
I don't pay too much attention to my dreams, they're pretty insane and sometimes just plain wrong. But when I dream of being home, I'm in the house we lived in for about 4 years when I was in high school/early college. I gave it some thought, and realized it was our first house away from the massive joint family I grew up with. It was quaint, oddly colored, and a point in time when my parents and I were all fighting some of our toughest battles. Dad was just out of the Army and was trying to find his foot in the chaotic civilian world, mum took shit (as usual) from the family, faced some major surgeries and yet stayed super strong (I can write pages about how amazing this lady is). 12th grade is among the toughest and most important exams kids write, and I haven't worked as hard any other time.
So perhaps that's what it is. Home isn't just a place where cakes are cut and songs are sung. Happy memories don't have to give you a sense of belonging. Struggles, sweat and triumph for having fought it all can work just as well.
Afterthought : As I wrote this, I realized that if some of my toughest battles have been studying 15 hours a day and having to get into a good college, my parents must have done really well for me, and themselves.
While I can identify with a homeland, strongly at times, home is a near alien concept. Being an army brat, I never stayed at one place for longer than a couple of years. Not that I complained - I didn't really care that my oldest friends at anytime were acquaintances from under 2 years. The social pressures of being in an Army base are immense, but the perks are great. Even after Dad left the forces, we changed houses once every 3 years - by design or accident. We started in central Bangalore - one of the oldest communities - and moved on outwards as the city city expanded by miles every day. The last house we moved to - I didn't really stay there, owing to me starting my Masters here - has been home to my parents for nearly 5 years now. That's the longest they've stayed put during their married lives.
I seemed to have continued that trend by changing apartments every year. It's a headache to move, but I can't seem to find a way out of it. Next year, maybe. As a result, the importance of a domicile, the concept of a home being haven is lost on me. Or so I think.
I don't pay too much attention to my dreams, they're pretty insane and sometimes just plain wrong. But when I dream of being home, I'm in the house we lived in for about 4 years when I was in high school/early college. I gave it some thought, and realized it was our first house away from the massive joint family I grew up with. It was quaint, oddly colored, and a point in time when my parents and I were all fighting some of our toughest battles. Dad was just out of the Army and was trying to find his foot in the chaotic civilian world, mum took shit (as usual) from the family, faced some major surgeries and yet stayed super strong (I can write pages about how amazing this lady is). 12th grade is among the toughest and most important exams kids write, and I haven't worked as hard any other time.
So perhaps that's what it is. Home isn't just a place where cakes are cut and songs are sung. Happy memories don't have to give you a sense of belonging. Struggles, sweat and triumph for having fought it all can work just as well.
Afterthought : As I wrote this, I realized that if some of my toughest battles have been studying 15 hours a day and having to get into a good college, my parents must have done really well for me, and themselves.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Nostalgia Factory
I am about to get sappier than ever. Consider your self warned.
But I remember everything
What have I become?
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
Mum called me the other day to tell me she'd be busy for my Granma's first year rites. I don't really have a great way of expressing that in English (or my language for that matter), but it's something like praying for the departed on a year after their passing.
Everyone on mum's side is like granma - terribly affectionate, very physical, shrill laughter, quick but inconsequential temper, and a very naughty sense of humor. Granma made it impossible for anyone to dislike her. I visited her a year after coming to the US and she beamed a smile that I'll never forget. She was proud of me and my brothers. She let each one of us know, every single time. She was god fearing and would spend nearly half her time praying. It gave her respite from all the aching joints and muscles that were slowly withering away. I can recite all those prayers, in order, to this day.
When mum told me about the rites - not as much as a reminder as an FYI - I asked her to pray for granma. I had been drinking. I reasoned it was wrong to pray for someone so pious, even if I did set my white russian aside. Mum didn't say much - she doesn't approve of my binge drinking - but did say I'm an excellent grandson.
I am. But then again, Idon't can't pray. I've been asked to pray for others, but I've never been able to do it with conviction. It's not atheism - I'm still searching for an answer. All that doubt makes it hard to appeal to an abstract entity. It makes me spell god without a capital g. I may find the answer one day, but till then I have the ones I love to think about.
Granma, I miss you. Mum, you're everything she was, but a 100 times more special. I'm glad I still have you and I'll revere you forever.
Baby blue, we have each other. I'll sing that serenade I promised, someday.
But I remember everything
What have I become?
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
Mum called me the other day to tell me she'd be busy for my Granma's first year rites. I don't really have a great way of expressing that in English (or my language for that matter), but it's something like praying for the departed on a year after their passing.
Everyone on mum's side is like granma - terribly affectionate, very physical, shrill laughter, quick but inconsequential temper, and a very naughty sense of humor. Granma made it impossible for anyone to dislike her. I visited her a year after coming to the US and she beamed a smile that I'll never forget. She was proud of me and my brothers. She let each one of us know, every single time. She was god fearing and would spend nearly half her time praying. It gave her respite from all the aching joints and muscles that were slowly withering away. I can recite all those prayers, in order, to this day.
When mum told me about the rites - not as much as a reminder as an FYI - I asked her to pray for granma. I had been drinking. I reasoned it was wrong to pray for someone so pious, even if I did set my white russian aside. Mum didn't say much - she doesn't approve of my binge drinking - but did say I'm an excellent grandson.
I am. But then again, I
Granma, I miss you. Mum, you're everything she was, but a 100 times more special. I'm glad I still have you and I'll revere you forever.
Baby blue, we have each other. I'll sing that serenade I promised, someday.
Monday, April 13, 2009
New Potato Caboose
I haven't been writing for a while. My workload gives me very little time to think, let alone write. When I do get home, there are better things to do than spend more time in front of an LCD screen.
Of course, the urge to write has also been somewhat reduced, owing to reasons beyond my comprehension. I have found that I write when I'm very happy or very angry (I'm not bipolar - but these are the two emotions I usually feel). I guess I've been relatively subdued and that has translated to the occasional blip on your reader. Most of my writing comes from 15 minute free flow typing and minimal editing - translation of ideas in the early morning or late night. I suppose the quality of the content here reflects that. After all, if anything requires over 25 minutes of concentration, it can't be really worth it. Those ideas still do popup in the head, only the drive to put them to screen seems to have diminished. Oh well. Circle of life.
People take spelling and grammar seriously at quite the unusual occasions. Say, when on the losing side of an internet argument. Or perhaps when they see a colored kid with a piece of writing next to him. Last weekend, I was participating in University of Colorado's International Festival and manning the entrance when this lady said she found "grammatical errors" in the piece of paper by my side. It was the script for the evening's show, fleshed out by a very British emcee. I don't suppose she knew that, and was very surprised when I told her it wasn't my writing. She said she'd love to help point out more mistakes but didn't quite have the time. Thank you, I guess?
During English lessons in the 4th grade, we were asked to form sentences from a list of words, one of them being "forsake". A friend at the time came up with
"My mother asked me to study, and I will forsake her".
Some people like breaking big words down, and I'm guessing that attempt resulted in "for" + "sake" = forsake. Combine with bad grammar and best of intentions and mix well to get recipe for amateur school counseling. The teacher called him and lectured him thus (in front of everyone, of course) -
"In life, we are asked to do things that are unpleasant and unfavorable. We think our parents are out to get us when in reality they have our best interests in mind. Suppose your mother didn't let you play last night, she may have had a good reason to do so. Homework is important, she knows it and so should you. Nothing good will come out of thinking unpleasantly about her".
My friend returned, sat next to me, and said - "huh?"
Thank god for instant judgement. They make for long lasting memories.
Of course, the urge to write has also been somewhat reduced, owing to reasons beyond my comprehension. I have found that I write when I'm very happy or very angry (I'm not bipolar - but these are the two emotions I usually feel). I guess I've been relatively subdued and that has translated to the occasional blip on your reader. Most of my writing comes from 15 minute free flow typing and minimal editing - translation of ideas in the early morning or late night. I suppose the quality of the content here reflects that. After all, if anything requires over 25 minutes of concentration, it can't be really worth it. Those ideas still do popup in the head, only the drive to put them to screen seems to have diminished. Oh well. Circle of life.
People take spelling and grammar seriously at quite the unusual occasions. Say, when on the losing side of an internet argument. Or perhaps when they see a colored kid with a piece of writing next to him. Last weekend, I was participating in University of Colorado's International Festival and manning the entrance when this lady said she found "grammatical errors" in the piece of paper by my side. It was the script for the evening's show, fleshed out by a very British emcee. I don't suppose she knew that, and was very surprised when I told her it wasn't my writing. She said she'd love to help point out more mistakes but didn't quite have the time. Thank you, I guess?
During English lessons in the 4th grade, we were asked to form sentences from a list of words, one of them being "forsake". A friend at the time came up with
"My mother asked me to study, and I will forsake her".
Some people like breaking big words down, and I'm guessing that attempt resulted in "for" + "sake" = forsake. Combine with bad grammar and best of intentions and mix well to get recipe for amateur school counseling. The teacher called him and lectured him thus (in front of everyone, of course) -
"In life, we are asked to do things that are unpleasant and unfavorable. We think our parents are out to get us when in reality they have our best interests in mind. Suppose your mother didn't let you play last night, she may have had a good reason to do so. Homework is important, she knows it and so should you. Nothing good will come out of thinking unpleasantly about her".
My friend returned, sat next to me, and said - "huh?"
Thank god for instant judgement. They make for long lasting memories.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Ser Mejor
I'm tired.
Of long conversations.
Of calculations.
Of numbers.
Of planning.
Of hours in front of a screen.
Of being sensitive to others' feelings.
Of reading expressions and understanding tones.
I just want some peace. I thought I could be a better man.
For better or for worse, I'm me.
Of long conversations.
Of calculations.
Of numbers.
Of planning.
Of hours in front of a screen.
Of being sensitive to others' feelings.
Of reading expressions and understanding tones.
I just want some peace. I thought I could be a better man.
For better or for worse, I'm me.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Someday
I'm vacillating between various emotions today. There's rage, there's sadness, there's a frustration and a general feeling of helplessness.
Nuclear bombs, TNT, nerve gas can't be our worst inventions. God must be. An institution that makes young people want to blow themselves up to spite the face of the "enemy" must be the lowliest form of organized crime.
Those butchered in Mumbai, you're all but forgotten. Those killed in Pakistan yesterday, you will soon be forgotten. Those voices silenced in Kashmir - you're already forgotten.
Rest in peace.
Nuclear bombs, TNT, nerve gas can't be our worst inventions. God must be. An institution that makes young people want to blow themselves up to spite the face of the "enemy" must be the lowliest form of organized crime.
Those butchered in Mumbai, you're all but forgotten. Those killed in Pakistan yesterday, you will soon be forgotten. Those voices silenced in Kashmir - you're already forgotten.
Rest in peace.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Pretty Tied Up
I've been force feeding entertainment into my cranium all day today. From "The Hinges of Battle" to "How I met your mother" to "Shanataram" to "Californication" to Arthur C Clarke. All from the comfort of my couch, stepping out only to get a burrito, and fix my satellite TV.
Mostly from the comfort of my couch. The word decadence comes to mind, it's something the mechanic would kick my ass for. You thought I didn't read?
We're in the rat race, we're in the long line of cars stuck on the highway, we are the products of a generation that strived for a controlled life. We've come to accept that a man with a tattoo and a mysterious accent who has no idea where he'll sleep the next night is the epitome of "living a free life" and is cool. Writers, musicians, producers and directors urge us to get out, make us think about the life while selling their wares, and we lap them up. Until the ride back home. On the highway. In the car with the good mpg and 5 star crash rating.
Some of us do, anyway.
But why should life be unpredictable? Why should I let discontent drive me? Why shouldn't I do what I do because I fucking love it, and I'm good at it? Why shouldn't I aim to do better at the job because, well, I can? Why shouldn't I dream of living a life in a house that I'll pay off in 30 years? Why would I want to be clever by finding extremely circuitous ways to say something bleedingly obvious? Why should I have to put up with people who expect that of others?
Yeah, I'm not keen on adding any more scars (3 is a good number) before I die, and I'm not losing any sleep over it. When I look around, I see people that lead truly fucked up lives. Violence, drugs, bad relationships, poverty, uncertainty - there's so much shit that some of them put up with. I've made some good choices over the years, and have worked to get this order in my life. So, be as condescending as you'd like to be the next time you see me. I'll hate your guts for it, but will never want to trade lives with you. Hope you find a life you enjoy before your bones are traded for metal replacements. All the best.
Mostly from the comfort of my couch. The word decadence comes to mind, it's something the mechanic would kick my ass for. You thought I didn't read?
We're in the rat race, we're in the long line of cars stuck on the highway, we are the products of a generation that strived for a controlled life. We've come to accept that a man with a tattoo and a mysterious accent who has no idea where he'll sleep the next night is the epitome of "living a free life" and is cool. Writers, musicians, producers and directors urge us to get out, make us think about the life while selling their wares, and we lap them up. Until the ride back home. On the highway. In the car with the good mpg and 5 star crash rating.
Some of us do, anyway.
But why should life be unpredictable? Why should I let discontent drive me? Why shouldn't I do what I do because I fucking love it, and I'm good at it? Why shouldn't I aim to do better at the job because, well, I can? Why shouldn't I dream of living a life in a house that I'll pay off in 30 years? Why would I want to be clever by finding extremely circuitous ways to say something bleedingly obvious? Why should I have to put up with people who expect that of others?
Yeah, I'm not keen on adding any more scars (3 is a good number) before I die, and I'm not losing any sleep over it. When I look around, I see people that lead truly fucked up lives. Violence, drugs, bad relationships, poverty, uncertainty - there's so much shit that some of them put up with. I've made some good choices over the years, and have worked to get this order in my life. So, be as condescending as you'd like to be the next time you see me. I'll hate your guts for it, but will never want to trade lives with you. Hope you find a life you enjoy before your bones are traded for metal replacements. All the best.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Why I sing the blues
When I was about to graduate from college, my dad had one of his contacts help me draft my resume. After projects, work experience (zero at the time) were discussed, I was expecting questions/suggestions about "extra-curricular activities". I had won a few debate and elocution competitions, nothing earth-shattering. More than anything else, I was proud of my craze for music (mostly heavy metal at the time). She cut all that flat "You know, most kids write about song and dance in their resumes. All useless bullshit, we're skipping that". Gulp.
I was thinking of that line today, some 5 years later. Talking about my love for music may not give me an edge in an interview about compiler optimization, linked lists and sorting algorithms. But it is a big part of my life. Not just the present, but of the past. When I hear a song now, it's not just for the lyrics or the tune, but it's for some specific memory it brings. They say some indolent odors can bring back vivid memories. For me, it's the songs I listen to.
Bon Jovi - It's my life
In my first year of college, I had started swimming. I executed a dive rather badly, and hurt my neck severly. I was confined to bedrest for a week, and had to wear a collar, no pillows allowed. The TV was moved to my room for entertainment. There were 2 music channels then - MTV and Channel V. MTV played the Bon Jovi song in heavy rotation and V played some Britney Spears song. No questions which song won. I can picture what the roof of my room looked like when I hear the solo.
Air - Surfing on a Rocket
I had downloaded gigs upon gigs of legal music through a college program. I spent hours reorganizing my folders, shuffling drive capacities, tagging songs, adding artwork to the files. Every few days, the software would decide I didn't have authorization to listen to the songs. I had to start all over, and I played that song to test if it worked. The start of the song was disorienting and yet reassuring - the latter since it meant that the software was now working.
Metallica - Unforgiven II
I was in high school. 12th grade was one of the most important exams I had to write. I had studied all day, and was tired as hell. I was nodding off with the song in my earphones. When the song reached the line "but now I see the sun" I had a dream I was near dead but was standing up to greet the dawn. Later, I studied all night.
The Doors - L.A Woman
It was a crowded pub in Bangalore. Me and my friends had just got in. The group was new, and we were all finding out slowly, and to a great deal of excitement how similar we all were. Someone ordered tequila shots, someone else broke a glass. I ordered Vodka, I too broke my glass. Then the girl in the video dove into the pool naked. We hooted and high-fived, the girls glared.We're in 3 different countries now.
Nightwish - Nemo
I came home after some 2 back-to-back night outs at grad school. It was snowing, I was cold, wet and hungry. The bedroom smelt bad because it was small and my roomie was a human cockroach. I didn't want to turn the heat on since the power bill would spike up. I was hungry and in no mood to cook. I passed out on the bed, the song playing in my headphones. I fell asleep as the music reached a crescendo, trying not to feel sorry for myself.
I like the songs I like, because I love the life I've lived so far. There are several more songs, tons of other memories. Perhaps living in the past is a drag for some, not so for me.
My life, in a 4/4 beat.
How about you? Songs? Memories?
I was thinking of that line today, some 5 years later. Talking about my love for music may not give me an edge in an interview about compiler optimization, linked lists and sorting algorithms. But it is a big part of my life. Not just the present, but of the past. When I hear a song now, it's not just for the lyrics or the tune, but it's for some specific memory it brings. They say some indolent odors can bring back vivid memories. For me, it's the songs I listen to.
Bon Jovi - It's my life
In my first year of college, I had started swimming. I executed a dive rather badly, and hurt my neck severly. I was confined to bedrest for a week, and had to wear a collar, no pillows allowed. The TV was moved to my room for entertainment. There were 2 music channels then - MTV and Channel V. MTV played the Bon Jovi song in heavy rotation and V played some Britney Spears song. No questions which song won. I can picture what the roof of my room looked like when I hear the solo.
Air - Surfing on a Rocket
I had downloaded gigs upon gigs of legal music through a college program. I spent hours reorganizing my folders, shuffling drive capacities, tagging songs, adding artwork to the files. Every few days, the software would decide I didn't have authorization to listen to the songs. I had to start all over, and I played that song to test if it worked. The start of the song was disorienting and yet reassuring - the latter since it meant that the software was now working.
Metallica - Unforgiven II
I was in high school. 12th grade was one of the most important exams I had to write. I had studied all day, and was tired as hell. I was nodding off with the song in my earphones. When the song reached the line "but now I see the sun" I had a dream I was near dead but was standing up to greet the dawn. Later, I studied all night.
The Doors - L.A Woman
It was a crowded pub in Bangalore. Me and my friends had just got in. The group was new, and we were all finding out slowly, and to a great deal of excitement how similar we all were. Someone ordered tequila shots, someone else broke a glass. I ordered Vodka, I too broke my glass. Then the girl in the video dove into the pool naked. We hooted and high-fived, the girls glared.We're in 3 different countries now.
Nightwish - Nemo
I came home after some 2 back-to-back night outs at grad school. It was snowing, I was cold, wet and hungry. The bedroom smelt bad because it was small and my roomie was a human cockroach. I didn't want to turn the heat on since the power bill would spike up. I was hungry and in no mood to cook. I passed out on the bed, the song playing in my headphones. I fell asleep as the music reached a crescendo, trying not to feel sorry for myself.
I like the songs I like, because I love the life I've lived so far. There are several more songs, tons of other memories. Perhaps living in the past is a drag for some, not so for me.
My life, in a 4/4 beat.
How about you? Songs? Memories?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
