A Touchy Movement

Some time ago, I got a forwarded mail that was just so, so wrong. There is no other way to describe it. Let's have a look, shall we?

Disclaimer 1: Personal Details masked, because I don't want to be hunted down and killed by a touching* Systems Analyst.

Disclaimer 2: I have *nothing* against Systems Analysts. They're delightful people. Most of the time.

*****************

<quote>

Hi Friend

One more touchy movement

I like to share some thing. Like every day I start early for bang-6, When I reached bommanhalli  bus stop, I saw a lady, she is not able to stand properly, look like she is sick, people are watch her but know body came to help her. I was not able to understand what she is asking (talking in Kannada). One girl come to me and asks about her. We ask one auto person to drop her to BTM. He agreed but when he saw the leady without saying he run away, I was looking for another auto, Girl was having conversation with leady and she took out big money and gave to leady without any hesitation, Till that time able to get another Auto. We finally board her to auto.

You know who that girl is, she is one of <company name masked> HR.  (I did not asked her name)

I saw people to help other but most of them from <company name masked>  It always makes me to feel proud to be part of ‘<company name masked>’

Such incidents always touch me, my sole, Humanities is still there in world. 

Friends – if we cannot become like SUN, at least  we should like Candle.  

Thanks and Regards,
****** ***** *****
_________________________________________________
Systems Analyst
<company name masked>, Bangalore, India
É +91 80 ********* , *********** È +91 ***********
? ***********@********.***
MSN/AOL -**********/********* 

<unquote>

******************

Amazing. A truly transcendental experience, reading this...thing.

Let's wade right into the morass.

• "Touchy" --> "Touchy" means "irritable"...what he really meant was "touching" but of course, this is just the beginning, and really, this is great in the face of what's coming.
• "touchy movement" --> Good Lord.
• "people are watch her but know body came to help her" --> What this person talking about knowbody really knows, no?
• "We ask one auto person to drop her to BTM" --> The one reasonably correct sentence in this Pool of Misery. In fact, the others are so horrifying that this one shines like a diamond.
• "We finally board her to auto." --> What does this mean? Really? Yeah, I know that he's TRYING to say that they got the "leady" into the auto, but really that sentence(...if you can call it that.) is straight out of an English teacher's nightmare.
• "It always makes me to feel proud" --> I no, we all make us to feel so proud that Systems Analyst is making type this much in English, know?
• "Such incidents always touch me, my sole, Humanities is still there in world" --> They touch his "sole". The underside of his foot. And he's very grateful for all the Humanities courses in the world, of course.
• "Friends – if we cannot become like SUN, at least  we should like Candle." --> I hear this is a big problem nowadays, people hating candles.

And, the most horrifying part.

• Systems Analyst --> that would mean a reasonably senior member of a multinational giant. 

But then again, I guess he gets. it. done. 

Without talking.

Hopefully.

The Culinary Delights of Singaperumal Koil

Two months ago, owing the strange combination of an ambiguously worded notice and an irate priest, I found myself back in the Middle of Nowhere, aka Singaperumal Koil. And I found myself getting nostalgic at every dusty turn of the road pockmarked with potholes. The railway cross, where the gate would stay closed for hours on end, waiting for the Pondichery "Superfast" to please, for the love of all that's holy, to crawl by. The bikes weaving their way under said closed railway gate, some of the drivers' contorting their bodies through impossible angles to do so. "Nellai Jeyam", or "Three Star" as it was nicknamed (...another story...) with it's overpriced, oily food. The beautiful evenings, yes, the evenings are actually beautiful here. 


This once-laidback town is now the hotbed of activity. With it's proximity to the Mahindra World City SEZ, the town is an easy option for all those lazy bums who can't even begin to think of a one-hour commute at ungodly hours every morning. And with it's cheap rents it certainly seems like an intelligent option as well. After all, when your colleagues wake up at 6.30 to catch the local sardine can to earn their daily bread, you're still fast asleep. You wake up leisurely at 8. A quick wash, and half an hour later you're at your seat. Just in time to watch the bedraggled souls from Far, Far Away crawl in. Hah!


But wait. That's just one side of the story. The other side surfaces around 8 in the night, when you are done earning your daily bread. Any SE worth his obfuscated code will know that the salary he earns is not meant to withstand continued forays into The Employer's Food Court. And thus the junta tries various tactics.


For example, The Barber used to survive one a scientifically crafted diet. His daily intake went something like this. His breakfast would mostly be a poori or a dosa of some kind from the food court. This would last him till around noon. But he would extend it's lifespan with a chronologically well-placed cup of coffee from the Coffee Day vending machine. Now comes the centrepiece of his master plan. Everyone else left for lunch as soon as the clock struck half past twelve, and would be waylaid by the incredibly tasteless, and yet vividly colorful and expensive dishes on display at the food courts. 70 bucks and an extremely unsatisfactory lunch later, we would be back at our seats. And then, Barber would head out.


See, by now, there would be nothing available at the food courts except Vegetarian Meals. Again, incredibly tasteless. But amazingly filling and of course, cheap. As long as there was no choice to make, it became easy to do. "I'm having this because there's nothing else. Damn. I'm saving a lot of money."


The advantage was two-fold. One, that vegetative mix of rice, and vegetables, just sat around in your stomach for a long, long time. So there was no question of busting another 30 on "snacks" at teatime. Two, the money of course.


The Barber. Financial Planner Extraordinaire.


Anyways, once this lifestyle of "Company Food-courts" blew a hole in our pockets, we would have to turn to the Culinary Delights of Singaperumal Koil. Street food.


Now, I have to put up this disclaimer. If you:

• are one of those people who care about things like "hygiene"
• are one of those people who care about things like calories
• are a Non-Tamil/vegetarian/looking for food from your part of the world
• are a girl

forget about it. Street food is not for everyone. It's just one of those things. You don't mind it, or you do. If you don't like street food, don't have it. But don't try to convince a Believer. You're just wasting your time.


No, you won't feel like eating it if you see how it's made.
No, it's probably not clean, but hey, everybody eats it.
No, it's loaded with everything that's "supreme" as far as "taste" goes, and "questionable" in every other factor.
No, you will not get North Indian food here.
No, you will not get Kerala food here.


You get the drift.


You can't be dicey about having the fare. You dive in the deep end. If you feel the need for street food, don't let your better senses come in the way. Go on. Dive in the deep end.


The cornerstone of any roadside food stall is the porotta. With absolutely zero nutritional value, this fluffed up disc made of maida is extremely popular among the working class. Why? Because it fills you up and takes a long time to digest. Good enough.


Eggs. There's your sunny-side-up sprinkled with pepper. Yeah, we call it hafaayil. "Half boiled?". No. Hafaayil. Then there is the aamleyt, the country cousin of the omlette. The one-seyd, which is like an aamleyt, except that it's not flipped over, leaving the top jelly-like, yummy.


Decidedly, the best thing you can ask for at any roadside stall is the kothu porotta. infiniteascent dug up a Wikipedia page for this delicious mix of porotta, tomatoes, eggs, and onions. I tell you, you have not lived until you've had this Food of Gods.


Kal Dosa is the cheapest dosa around. The guy slops down a bowl of dosa mix on the sizzling tawa, and shapes it into a thick disc. With the same bowl! Pile two of these onto a plate and douse them with sambar, and you're full. If you want it thin and crispy, you don't ask for a "ghee roast" or "paper roast", like you do at those elite, cutthroat, "high class" vegetarian restaurants. Instead you ask for a nice. And, voila, you get this elliptical, wafer-thin expanse of dosa, folded-up but not folded-up enough to prevent it from hanging over the edge of the plate and scraping the table, as the guy plonks it down in front of you.


Idlis, are cheap, and fast, but not easy to come by. And they sell like the hot cakes they are. So if it's around 9, forget it, you will not be having idli for dinner.


Like I said before, street food is not for everyone. And when I first set foot here, it wasn't for me either. But Singaperumal Koil has this habit of growing on you. I didn't realize it but by the time I was ready to leave a year ago, I had become a regular at most of the 4 or 5 roadside stalls that dot the service road from the Railway Station to Thirutheri. The Thoothukudi, famous for its kothu porotta. The kal dosa of Nellai Jeyam, before it sold its soul and went the "high class" way. The steaming idlis of Aandipetti. The vada from that nameless place near the Singaperumal Koil railway station.


I never thought I'd say this, but when I do finally get out this place, I am going to miss Singaperumal Koil.

Of Signals And Blunders

I don't know what's going on, but suddenly, it seems like everyone is hooking up, or breaking up, or getting married.

A friend of mine was talking to me about how her boyfriend's "advice" had messed up his friend's potential love-life. Twice.

Another friend of mine keeps telling me he's "just friends" with this girl from some North Indian town (forgot the name), who keeps calling him up at 2 in the night to ask him what he's doing. And from there, through the haze of slumber, I can hear them mumble nothings on the phone till 4 or 5. Of course, they're just friends. That phrase has always made me want to ask "Are there 'unjust' friends?". Maybe next time, I will.

Anways, this set me thinking about the whole guy-girl thing, and how it's the only thing that's standing between Stephen Hawking and the Theory of Everything. So, let's try to break it down into scenarios, and try to take it ahead from there.

Scenario 1. The Smooth Hook-up

Guy meets girl. Guy likes girl. Girl likes guy. The universe conveniently looks the other way, as everything quietly slips into place. Some people have all the luck, what you gonna do about it.

Boring.

Scenario 2. The Saga

Guy meets girl. Guy likes girl. Girl can't decide. Guy loses interest. Girl likes guy. Guy likes another girl. And so on and so forth. Their "like" is so out of phase. Like sine and cosine waves. But eventually, they somehow clank into place. This is the stuff Karan Johar movies are made of. I think.

The Best Friend has the best seat in the house. Bring on the popcorn! But, he/she may feel like offing himself/herself at any of the million, endless fights the mismatched couple go through, and then think that The Best Friend has the answer to all of Life's Questions.

Scenario 3. The Crash-and-Burn
Ah! My personal favourite. This is completely guys' domain. Because, I am yet to see a girl who has crashed and burned because the guy wanted to be "just friends". Whereas every other guy is literally a phoenix (...now you know why the blog is named so.).

So, as I was saying. This usually involves painful, usually unreciprocated affection/attraction/crush/luuurve.

It follows a fairly predictable pattern. Guy sees girl. Guys falls for girl. Girl is still unaware of guy's existence. Guy befriends girl. Guy gets "signals". Guy goes for the Hail Mary pass. Bam! Just friend-ed. Or even worse, brother-ed.

Let's pause for a minute here. Signals. The one word responsible for more Crash-and-Burns around the world than bird hits. But let's make one thing very, very clear. Guys suck at reading "signals". In fact we suck so bad we shouldn't even be trying. I don't know if it's the Y Chromosome messing up the reception, or what. But we as a gender CANNOT read signals. We just can't.

Just like girls have no idea they're sending said signals.


Coming back to the point, when all is said and done, the guy finds he's been shut out with clinical efficiency. Still, the damage is reparable. The guy can pick up what remains of his dignity, and make a dash for it. Preferably to sub-Saharan Africa, where they speak in clicks and whistles. And hide for a long, long time. IF he has brains. But, the Crash-and-Burn usually indicates the lack of one. So some of us choose to hang on to that tiny, microscopic thread of hope left trailing behind her skirt hem. "Maybe, I can still get her to come around...".

There is only one way that particular line of thought has been known to end. And it has been documented extensively through binge-ing sessions which involve our Ragged Romeo sobbing his way through several bottles of spirits. Ending with the declaration, "I hate women! No more women for me!". Despite this very-nearly-gay outburst, it leads him on to Rebound (TM), and Relapse (TM). Yes, it is a Vicious Cycle, I tell you.

Guys, there are plenty of fish in the sea. Cliched, but true. Move on. It's less painful. Ladies, ladies. Tell us you don't like us, tell us you hate our guts. But please don't tell us you want to be "just friends". You know you don't really mean it. It's just that sympathy alarm ringing. You know it, the one which makes the guy with a broken leg irresistible. Switch off the alarm. Shoot us in the head.

In extreme cases, girls have been known to employ that much-feared WMD. Brotherification. "But you're like a brother to me!". This is the relationship equivalent of Chinese Water Toruture. It's like, "You're family! Except, not in the way you want to." The guys is supposed to feel happy about the neutering. After all, he's practically family. Ladies, Ladies. Spare us the sympathy. We didn't spend all that time being totally out of character being gentlemanly and all, just so that we could qualify as your elder sibling. Again, switch off that alarm. Headshot, please.

Yeah, yeah, I had to have had some experience, being able to dissect such a tricky topic so professionally. Yeah, I've done my time. And I've come out an older, if not wiser man. Guys, word of advice. Switch off those Signal Receptors next time you see a girl you like. Girls, well, just switch off that alarm.

Red Skies.

Once upon a time.

Somewhere in Kerala. Or is it? I have been here before. I think I have. On a day like this when the sky shone red.

The temple gopuram rises majestically into a cloudless sky. I glance up, seeing its sepia tones light up the earth like a long forgotten photograph.

As I enter through the temple gate, I can see the sparse crowd of devotees making their way around the temple. The steady chant of mantras echo from the inner sanctum. Why am I here?

I see you. A face so familiar, and yet a memory of a life that's so far away in the past that it seems like a half-forgotten dream. Do I know you?

Your eyes are still the same. But how do I know that?

And an eternity passed but the sun still hovered, just above the horizon, as the sky shone red.

The throng of devotees glance at us as they pass by. There is no time. We have to complete the pradakshina, before the sun sets. Why? Why do we have to? Why can't we just stay like this, here, as the sky shines red?

It's raining, you say, looking up. Your eyes blink as raindrops fall from a cloudless, red sky. I raise my palms skywards, feeling them splash on my skin. I have to keep my eyes open.

Around us, I see the devotees walking faster now. Don't we have to make the pradakshina, before the sun sets, I hear myself asking you. You smile, as if humouring me.

You said, I start, my voice sounding accusing. I know, but there's still time, you say, taking my hand in yours. I have known you, from a long time ago. When we met on the banks of the Sarayu.

You told me then, that you would see me again. On the banks of the Sarayu.

The sounds of a raging river fill the air, as the rushing water tumbles over craggy rocks, throwing a mistry spray into the air. The stones paving the temple courtyard are dotted with the remnants of raindrops from the cloudless, red sky.

The sun hides halfway below the horizon now, the last rays of the day lighting up the gopuram. The rain has all but stopped, leaving us both standing below the fading light of a red sky. It is time, you say, coming closer. But you said there was time, I say, feeling an inexplicable sadness. You said there was time to make the pradakshina, I say, petulantly.

I know, you say, but the sun is setting.

We just have halfway to go, I say. I don't know why, but we have to make the pradakshina. We have to. You glance westward, wistfully, and for a moment, the fading rays dance off the tears welling in your eyes. Or are they raindrops?

This is as far as we can go, you say, but I will always be here, on the banks of the Sarayu.

My fingers close around nothing.

Wait, I stumble, as I grasp at thin air. My voice echoes through the empty courtyard.

I must complete the pradakshina. I cannot turn back. The right shoulder always faces the deity. The shadow of the gopuram waits ahead, as red skies glow, and the sun slowly sinks below the horizon.

The light from the garbhagriham spills over into the courtyard, sparkling from the raindrops on the stones, like a thousand diamonds scattered on the ground. Like a thousand mirrors shattered. I look up and the rain comes down again, from a cloudless, red sky.

This time, I close my eyes, and wake up.

The Supershort Story Of How The World Ends.

Ctrl + Alt + Del.

Open Task Manager.

End process "superman.dll".

The world ends.

...Dammit.

New Year. Old Blog. New Look.

First day of the New Year, and since I'm going to take the "resuscitate blog" thing seriously, I thought why not a makeover. After messing around with the Template Design quite a bit, I finally settled on this simple preset template.

Also notice the cool scrolling links on top, yeah, I know enough HTML to get me into trouble. But on a more serious note, those links point to the biggest event in any LIBA-ite's calendar. If you're a LIBA-ite, click! If not, click anyway!

I notice that [untitled]/[undecided] has finally caved in to the spirit of the times and carved his New Year resolutions in stone (...eerily similar to mine...), again. Go check it out on his spanking new website, The Road To Kingdom Come. A hilarious read.

@Will Write For Food : I'm back. Rejoice. Now, can we start thinking about our "Top Secret Project That I Mentioned A Couple Of Times And You Shot Down"? Again?

@El Misti let's do this together shall we? I shake up my blog, you shake up yours. My blog updates tracker shows "El Misti 1 year ago". Which is pretty hypocritical seeing as I carefully time my updates to prevent the same.

So, a new year, and we tell ourselves that it's a fresh, blank canvas all over again.

Funny, how silly and yet true that is.

Gotta Get This Up And Running...Again.

I've been thinking of putting something up here for a long time. An original creation. But sadly that department seems to have shut up shop. Or there's no room for it inside my head right now. Whichever it is, point is that I have written mostly zilch in a long time. If you discount the BS on the many answer papers, I have written exactly zilch.

There are no weird ideas floating around in my head. Which is kinda disturbing, because I never seemed to lack that Dali-ciousness. :(

And now, we've worked our way all the way down to the last week of the year. An eventful one. So I'm gonna go over it once more, and see how it's all balanced out. January was the month of hope. New Year starting out, and a lotta things on the To Do list. Most of which were the same reasons I quit my job for. Exam after exams after exam. Still not enough courage to chuck it all and follow some diaphanous dream. Still enough sense left in me not to chuck it all and follow some diaphanous dream.

February. CAT results come out, eventually. Punch in the gut. Now what? Got no answer to the question "So, what are you doing now?". Some questions of my own now. But still, there's the LIBA interview to look forward to.

March 26th is the LIBA interview, and on March 21st I manage to tear the ligaments in my left ankle. Hobbled on one leg to Chennai, and to LIBA for the interview. Horrible GD, great interview. Met my soon-to-be best friend at the GD. LIBA was the best one I had in my kitty till now, and I hoped I'd done enough.

April brought doubts, and questions, and more questions. Specifically, "Now what?". The "I knew it." look reserved for all those who fall because they strayed off the beaten track was beginning to make it's presence felt. Basketball-wise I was close to regaining peak form, now that the injury had healed. Creativity-wise, I was probably hitting an all time high. The Wacom Bamboo was my weapon of choice, and I was practically invincible. Somehow that seemed to give me the bare minimum self-confidence.

May and I was on the LIBA waitlist. With no more information, or hope of conversion. Desperate times, and Bank PO tests were beginning to look interesting. "Screw the dream, I need a job."

June 2nd. "Why was your phone switched off?! You had a call from LIBA! Call them back!". Damn! No balance. Run to town. Recharge. "Hello? Yeah, I got a call about a seat? Yes, I'm interested. Ok. On 7th. Thank you.". Improptu jig in the middle of the town. I'm telling you man, it felt like coming up for air. Whoosh. Pack up. Fly. Enter LIBA.

July. New life. New friends. Guitar Man, even though I was a rank amateur. Somehow managing to court controversy by everything I did. Or didn't. The people who mattered didn't care though, for a change. Thank God.

August. September. October. More of the same. Parties. Friends. Enemies. Patch-ups. Phone calls. Recharges. Recharges. Recharges. Surprises. Fights. Irrational ones. Rational ones.

November. I have Direction. Interviews. Screwing up GDs. Again. Renault-Nissan. But accidents still happen. "Trust" is a small word, but heaven knows how much it signifies. Guardian angels. Superman still can't fly. But that's no reason to stop being Superman, is it?

December. "Now!". The tension. The panic. And the smiles. It IS worth every drop of sweat, every twinge of pain, every throbbing headache, every tired yawn. The smiles are what make them all worth it. Blank a week before the exams. Last minute swotting. "Screw this, I'm gonna do this my way." Surprise, surprise, it works. Counterstrike. "Fire in the hole!". Still works. "O Holy Night". Everyone stops chattering. Goosebumps. "Merry Christmas y'all!". All I want for Christmas is to go home. Home. "So this is what you look like!". Serendipity. :)

And now, checklist time.

• Nope. Still can't dunk. Can barely run round the court.
• Haven't got a Bucket List yet. Dunno why.
• Oh hell yeah, I can play Wake Me Up When September Ends! :)
• No, it's so not cool to lose my cool. Strikeout!
• I sing out loud. Everyone in the vicinity of C-25 will vouch for this.
• No maniacal driving. Don't feel the need to get anywhere faster than I can.
• Orkut kaput!
• The receding hairline is being successfully countered by longer hair. :P
• Mission IMDB 250 is going strong!
• Writing more often is something I promise to promise to do. :P

That's a fairly good strike rate, I think. Onward ho. I'm thinking, "Roll With The Punches" should cover all resolutions for 2011.

The Rhyme of Snobberwocky and The Beanpole.

A crazy attempt to cheer up a friend resulted in this.

The Rhyme of Snobberwocky and The Beanpole

Snobberwocky:
I will breathe fire,
I will chew you out,
And I'll vent my ire,
Without thinking about,
Whoever you may be,
Whatever you may say,
I will not smile,
I will only stare.

The Beanpole:
That's what you think,
I know it's not true,
'Cos I see a Titch,
Somewhere inside you,
A Titch that I know,
Who yearns to come out,
A Titch that The Beanpole,
Cannot be without.

Snobberwocky:
Silly little Beanpole,
Stand outta my way,
I'm cranky, I'm irritated,
It's just not my day,
Life's not all jokes,
And LOLs galore,
Life's about realities,
Don't be so sore.

*after a pause*

The Beanpole:
I might be silly,
But I miss the Titch,
And that's all that I know,
Not that any of which,
That you say doesn't matter,
I know it is true,
But remember the craziness,
That I shared with you?

Snobberwocky: 

*grudgingly*
Oh well, I do,
But that's not the point,
There's work to be done,
And words to be coined,
But I miss her too,
Maybe more than I say,
But I cannot be the Titch again,
I want to, but no way.

The Beanpole: 

*encouraged*
Life may not be,
All fun and jokes,
But as long as we can laugh about it,
and say "Holy Smokes!",
Everytime we mess it up,
And then get back on our feet,
That how it should be,
Dear ol' Snobberwocky.

We Didn't Start The Fire.

19 years ago. A series of events that eventually led to Ruchika Girhotra's suicide, were set in motion by the horniness of one man. After over 400 hearings and impassioned calls for justice, the Indian Judiciary finally sounded out their verdict. Six months imprisonment, and, dig this, a fine, of 1000 rupees. And that's not all. SPS Rathore gets out on bail almost immediately. All smiles.

18 years ago. Sister Abhaya, a 19 year old nun, went down to get a glass of water. She never got it. Her body was eventually found at the bottom of a well, in the premises of her convent. Evidence was tampered with. Evidence went missing. Sometimes brazenly so. For 16 years, the case was a mockery of justice.

36 years ago. Aruna Shanbag, a 24 yr old nurse at King Edward Memorial Hospital, Mumbai, was sexually assaulted by janitor, Sohanlal Valmiki. Using a leather belt to choke her into submission, Valmiki brutally had his way with her, after which he calmly disappeared into world. He was later arrested, but the charge of rape was never proved. Valmiki spent 6 years in jail for "robbery". And what of Aruna? The brain damage she suffered while she choked, left her in a vegetative state. She lives a shadow of a life in the same hospital where she used to tend to patients. She is looked after by the nurses there, who plead that she be allowed to live, despite many calls for euthanasia. Sohanlal Valmiki, long since free, is believed to be working as a janitor for a private hospital in Mumbai.

11 years ago. Model Jessica Lall is shot dead in plain view of the creme de la creme of Delhi's party circuit, by Siddharth Vashisht, aka Manu Sharma. Unsurprisingly, most of the witnesses turned hostile. Manu Sharma, used loophole after loophole and walked free. Finally, somehow, he was put behind bars. But, soon, he got out on bail. The reason? He wanted to party.

3 years ago. Aarushi Talwar, a 14 year student is murdered at her home. By who? The police points fingers at the domestic help, Hemraj, her father, Rajesh Talwar, and then goes on to add more names to the list as time progresses. Pretty soon the case fades into oblivion.

2 years ago. Pakistani gunmen open fire at crowded places in Mumbai, killing hundreds. Their faces are in plain view of the security cameras. Fidayeen are not meant to live through the attack. But Tukaram Omble gets in the way and one of them is captured alive. Ajmal Qasab spills everything from his nationality, to his past, to his training, in the frenzied initial stages of the trial. But slowly he learns of the innumerable loopholes in the Indian Judiciary. Pretty soon, the case assumes status quo. Already, two lawyers have been sent packing. The fires of Mumbai have died out.

These are only some of the stories that come to mind as I sit here on this cold night, a few days into a new decade. A million such cases lie unattended to in our incompetent courts. A million more never reach them.

"What will you do? File a case?" is a repartee that most auto drivers today use to silence newly-nicked car owners. That truly defines the competence of our judicial system, or the lack of it. The Indian Judiciary is the a punchline of a joke. It is without doubt the biggest failure of the Great Indian Democracy, for what is such a Democracy, that cannot protect the rights of her subjects, truly worth?

Welcome to India, where Justice is truly blind. Where killers laugh at the pathetic sentences meted out to them. Where they party on parole. Where character assassination by the police is a way of life. Where a rape trial is even more humiliating than the rape itself. Where money and might is what justice is.

"What will you do? File a case?"

"...the only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous..."

 

Randomosity.

Well, life has been spectacularly boring the last few days. Broken up by sporadic bursts of adrenaline rushes. Like the CAT. Or the Food Poisoning From Hell. The cramped bus journey home. Driving a car after a really long time.


Yeah, I was among the sea of humanity who courted The Feline in hopes of a better life. Among other things. You see, everything you wish for has to be the one thing that is going to change your whole world.


Like, in school, the tenth, twelfth board exams were going to be the "stepping stone to a great future". Yeah, we all know how that turned out. But the Illusion never really stops. It continues with the Entrance Exams ("...if I get into a great college, that's it, my life's set..."), campus placements. By this time, the Illusion has become a Hallucination. Everything is about the Elusive Dream. 


"If I can get there, that's it, my life's made."


The there varies with the position we're in. When we were in college, the there was "Get into a reputed software firm. So what if they make you work for 15, 16 hours a day, you'll get paid for it." Of course you will.


Finally, by the strength of your back, and the sweat of your brow, and some ridiculous hiring interviews, you get your first job. Which, considering where you are, is a pretty big deal. The Illusion now is "Revolutionize the world with your creations". You do not exactly know what those creations are, but you know they're going to revolutionize the world anyhow.


Now the there is "Project, and then Onsite."


One year down the line, half of which was spent on The Bench, Nirvana is attained on a Friday evening, at 5.47 in the evening. The whole world is getting ready to enjoy the weekend, and you sit in your air-conditioned cubicle, paying for the sins of your past life, which have come back under the guise of a bug, that has seemingly no humanly comprehensible fix. Mails with CC to Really Important People Who Could Screw You Over are flying back and forth.


It is then that you tell yourself, "Ithokke yenth".


Roughly transliterated from Malayalam, it reads as "All this, is what?"


Simple, but at the same time eloquent. Having heard this for the first time from my CET friends during my training days, the true meaning sunk in only much later. That's all of human philosophy there, in two puny words.


As my friend Daniel likes to say "Dude, in the cosmic sense, all this doesn't matter in the least." Of course, he says that to everything. But, he's got a point.


That kind of existential crisis about The Futility of It All tends to strike between 3 and 4 AM. This usually happens when you've been sitting up really late doing something that requires minimum brainpower. Like chatting with your girlfriend. Or playing games that involves mindless carnage. And then you reach a point where you eyes refuse to stay open, and you bow out of whatever you've been doing, and lie down, and Bam!


Another thing that I've noticed about late nights is The Proposal. You see it all the time. Guy and girl talk for a long time into the night. Starts out totally platonic, but as the clock ticks, secrets spill, and Bam! Guy proposes. This is a Night-Only phenomenon, because you put the same guy and girl together on the phone in broad daylight, nothing happens. Must have something to do with The Witching Hour and all that.


Something to think about, then.