The Freewheeling Zone

The Hitch-Hiker's Guide to Salvation

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Mon, 25 Sep 2006 09:56:00 +0000

I always look forward to coffee-shop banter with people I am comfortable with because of the infinite directions that the arbit conversation can potentially take. Maybe it’s the stimulating effect of the coffee.
Like the other day, interest centered around the phenomenon of hitch-hiking and I found it remarkable that a subject as mundane as hitching a ride could evoke such strong and opposing reactions among the junta. So here’s my take on the controversial subject, and this comes from a guy who’s saved just short of a million by opting for rides across town instead of the conventional modes of transport….and has also given an equal number of rides, by the way!

So pray tell me, what is hitch-hiking??

Images of open roads, blue skies, green fields, a rucksack on your back, no destination in mind, no people in sight, till the first truck trundles along and you flag it down? How romantic….and how unrealistic! A more pragmatic picture would be your sweltering in the noon sun, hundreds of two-wheelers whizzing by, your futile attempts to flag one of them down and more often than not, be left behind in a cloud of smoke. If it was the rainy season, you could replace the smoke with a puddle of rain water.

Err…I am a novice at this. How exactly do I hitch a ride?

Never fear, you are not alone. Going by the whole gamut of signals I’ve been subjected to while out on a bike, the Hitch-Hikers’ Ignoramus Club is a thickly populated one. From a “Hail Hitler!” salute to a friendly farewell wave to a secretive gesticulation of the hand which only a paranoid could have detected, the signals are always varied and confusing. All that’s required though is a series of jerks of the hand with the thumb pointing in the general direction you want to go; not upwards, since that would indicate a distinct lack of trust in the driver’s abilities, and not backwards, since that could easily be interpreted as an obscene gesture. But whatever you do, make sure it’s noticed!

Is there a particular class of travellers I should concentrate on for hitching a ride from?

You could try the process of elimination. Vehicle-users, by nature, are reluctant lift-givers. After all, where’s the incentive for them to share their travelling space with a sweaty, overbearing, potential human bomb? So, cars, vans and all four-wheelers of the like can be safely discounted. The closed environment they sit in makes it perfectly simple for the drivers to pretend to have not noticed you. Two-wheelers with two people already on it are a no-no for obvious reasons. Bikes driven by a member of the fairer sex are gambles which very rarely pay off. But it’s worth pursuing, because of the inherent ‘high risk, high gains’ opportunity associated with it. All said and done though, the ideal target is male, travelling alone, on a bike, roughly around your age and with a sympathetic enough face.

So how about some tricks of the trade?

Now we’re talking! The key to remember here is that most travellers suffer a pang of guilt when they refuse a request for a ride. Whether that’s rational or not is debatable, but the hitch-hiker should look to capitalize on this.
This is best done by catching vehicles on corners or traffic-signals when they slow down since this increases your time of contact with him, making it tougher for him to ignore you.
Also, there’s the classic counter-trick that drivers attempt to pull, by indicating that they’re taking the immediate next left/right turn and so they have to turn you down, however much they hate to do it. The counter to this counter-trick would be to catch him on a straight road with no perceptible turns for some distance. Incredible though it seems, the lack of a plausible reason to ignore you can force some drivers to pick you up!
And you could help your cause by making your plea for a lift as earnest as possible and not treat the lift as something long overdue to you. And keep walking while you signal for a lift. It creates the impression that you’re willing to consider the option of making it on your own too, and you aren’t some lazy bugger who won’t budge an inch till a vehicle stops. Pure psychology, but it works!

But...but is all the effort really worth it?

Ask the Ministry of Non-Conventional Energy Sources and they’ll lecture you on the environmental merits of pooling vehicle resources! From a purely personal point of view too, it exposes you to new experiences and new people. I still remember a couple of memorable conversations I’ve had with complete strangers over the state of Indian cricket and my experiences at school. It more than makes up for the numerous folk who ignore your very existence when you signal for a lift. And remember, by successfully hitching a ride, you’re making the driver feel good by giving him a sense of having done his good-deed-for-the-day. It’s all about the human interaction, you see.

So if you have the time to risk and the hide of a rhino, hitching a ride is seriously recommended. Just ask Arthur Dent!

Home Is Where The Heart Is

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Fri, 15 Sep 2006 17:47:00 +0000

For the first time in three months, Iam haggling over the fare with an auto-driver, I can feel the shirt sticking to my back half-an-hour into a drive in the city and Iam forced to remember what a mosquito bite feels like. Yes, Iam back in good ol' Madras!

Strange, but it feels like I never left the place to begin with. Travelling home from the station in the dead of night the other day, I had this surreal feeling of having seen all the sights just yesterday. I wonder why? True, three months ain't that long a time, but did it really slip by so quickly? Or am I not really that attached to this city I call home?

The last three months have been....an experience, for want of a better word. A new environment, new friends, new challenges, it's been a rollercoaster ride. I've found myself in situations I never thought I'd find myself in, I've disappointed myself in ways I never thought I could, I've exceeded my expectations on unexpected occasions, I've hit some real highs, I've sunk to some deep lows....but as long as Iam learning something, I know Iam on the right track. So yes, it's been fun and it's been 'full'! Maybe that's why Madras always felt so close, never absent. And at the moment, I know I don't have enough time to 'reconnect' to the experiences back here. That's the problem with short holidays. You're just begun with them before the countdown starts!

But even as I do my regular rounds of family, friends, movies, theatre and hangouts in the city, I begin to realise that a few things will always remain unique to my experiences in Madras and which I'll miss anywhere else.

The pleasure of revving down the ECR on my favourite Yam.

The strong aroma of Mylapore filter coffee.

The familiar morning dose of The Hindu.

Watching the sun set at Bessie Beach.

The amazing set of folks I call my parents.

May some things never change!.....hmm.....and I have another week left to add to that list.

Bombay

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Sun, 23 Jul 2006 19:17:00 +0000

The earth splits open once again
Brown, confusion everywhere.
Slivers of hot ash in the cold rain
Dashing hopes and laying them bare
Heaps of rubble and pangs of pain
But yes, this day too shall pass.

The mother seeks her missing son
Blood and tears flow on the ground
She knows her wait has just begun
With the stench of death all around
Has life ended, is the story done?
But no, this day too shall pass.

A new morn dawns, prayers are said
Yest’day was gone by in just a blink
Blue sky greets city, so unaffected
As a country stops and pauses to think
The mother knows she has to look ahead
And this, yes this, shall remain!

Happy Birthday!

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Sat, 08 Jul 2006 18:44:00 +0000

It's quite ironic.
Iam back here after a while and I decide to post on how long I've been around!

But yes, the days have slip-slided away and I find that this blog is a year old! And with a post count touching fifty, it's just a shade lower than the frequency I was looking at to begin with.

So, reason enough for some nostalgia and self-gratification, I say! Here's a look back at the first lines of the first posts of each month through the last year. Not an original idea, I admit, but it's a cool concept.

July

*Disclaimer : Any resemblance to any character, either fictional or imaginary, is purely deliberate*

Yuck! My first line was a disclaimer?!

August

A bit of old news, but those billboards of Jyothika all over the city serve to keep it as fresh as ever.

It's got older, and it remains just as fresh.

September

I came across this hoarding on the way to office.

Office...that feels nostalgic...sigh!

October

Mike came up with a neat post on his blog with his take on music, and that's stirred me into penning my story....

Funny I haven't blogged more often on music.

November

They say in the advertising game, it's one of the more crucial things to find bthe right medium to focus on your target group.

Yeah, and Iam learning that in a classroom right now!

December

1. The colour of the world is grey. I refuse to see any issue in black and white.

My first tag! And what a misfit this guy seems to be!

January

I attended a birthday party the other day.

Hmm...good memories......

February

I have this fetish for persisting at things Iam not great at.

Aah! Now that explains why I keep coming back to this blog!

March

I sometimes wonder at the Tatas.

I sometimes also just wonder......

April

Class.........one of those natural occuring dividers of demography in a society, something we instinctively adhere to without even realising it.

Can social commentary ever get more incisive?

May

Iam back after a while, and with a sordid tale to tell.....

Ouch! Iam still wincing!

June

It's that time in the four-year cycle when life gets compressed into a "sphere of 8 inches diameter", and I realise how distantly removed I have got from the beautiful game.

And the tournament's still running?!....looking forward to tomorrow's game!

Key finding:

Eight of those twelve opening lines had either 'I' or 'me' in it. Talk about self-obsession!
Hmm....but maybe I've just got that bit closer to figuring out what this blog is all about...Anyway, here's to the future!

And a very warm thank-you to the very few but very precious people who have deigned it fit to honour this blog with their comments. You people rock!

In Transit

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Sun, 18 Jun 2006 14:29:00 +0000

I think people who insist on an AC coach for a train trip miss out on a lot. The childhood magic of sitting at a window seat and letting your senses be overpowered by the experience outside will never be lessened for me. I realised that recently.

It's always the same story. A thick novel, a walkman, a crossword puzzle...all carefully planned for the long trip ahead. Yet they remain untouched once the train journey begins.
Villages with gawking kids whiz by, wild thorn bushes stand as sentinels to paddy fields beyond, electricity cables engage in a sinusoidal dance from post to post, small groups of birds give company in the sky before giving up the unequal race with the train, the setting sun shimmers on the distant stream....and I can do nothing but watch.
The drop in the evening temperature is distinct, and the cool breeze is a breath of fresh air, literally. The sun sets and the images outside blur. The ensuing darkness is thick, with only an occasional spot of light from a lonely house breaking through. I can't make out a thing outside the window now, but I can vividly feel the landscape rushing by, and it feels strangely reassuring. And in the darkness, images dance in front of me...from the past, from the future, arbitrary musings...scattered, random and clear.
And I ponder, and I brood, and I wonder...till I feel the gooseflesh all over me.

Today, I realise that what I need desperately at the moment is time NOT to think. I want to be immersed in something so completely that I have no occasion to brood. I want to be so busy with routine activities that it leaves me with no opportunites to entertain random thoughts.
And I realise the place Iam going to might just facilitate that. Which is perfectly fine, because then on my way back home on the train, I'll have that much more reason to sit at the window and gaze.

Gooooooo-oal!!

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Mon, 12 Jun 2006 08:57:00 +0000

It's that time in the four-year cycle when life gets compressed into a "sphere of 8 inches diameter", and I realise how distantly removed I have got from the beautiful game. Well, not that I ever was who could be called a 'die-hard' fan of the game, but I still do remember Eric Cantona's farewell season at the EPL so many years ago. Maybe the EPL's (which is easily the most visible league) exhaustive schedule got to me, or maybe it was because I lost touch with friends who watched the game, but I do believe my distancing from the game was also due in part to the fact that football demands a high degree of association from the viewer unlike any other sport. It's quite impossible to remain passionately neutral about the game, which is so hugely participative by nature, and simply enjoy the different flavours that different teams bring to the table. Iam yet to come across a football fan who didn't have a favourite club/country he swore by and a villainous club/country he swore at. And when it comes to an event like the World Cup, having a 'favourite team' becomes all the more of a necessity. Otherwise, you just aren't connecting with the billions of blood-thirsty fans all over the globe.

Thus, shaking the footballing cobwebs away, here's how an ignoramus selects in 20 minutes the 'Team' to root for in the Tournament!

First, you need to select a team which you are confident would make it past the group stages. After all, you dont want to be feeling empty and without purpose at the end of the first fortnight itself. Also, it pays to cheer for an underdog, since the thrill of winning gets heightened while the despair of defeat can feel less bitter.

These preconditions automatically take care of 20 odd teams of the 32 participating, and of the remaining......

Germany - hmm...The home team has enough support (and pressure) behind it as it is.

England - Any side which declares itself incapable of winning if it misses one of its key players isn't worth cheering for.

Argentina - Too much of a big gun for me to back.

Holland - hmm...Too many folk's dark horse/favourite, so it aint gonna be mine!

Italy - There was a time when I used to support the original 'Men in Blue' for the sole reason that they were reviled by everyone else I knew. But yeah, their strong-arm defensive tactics can leave even their strongest of neutral supporters hesitant after sometime.

Brazil - Tournament favourites. Out of the question!

France - I hated Barthez and Blanc's bald-plate kissing act last time around, and I find that one of them is still on the scene!

Spain - The perennial under-achievers, can I really trust them to get any far in this tournament?

Portugal - Hasnt their Golden Generation become just the Old Generation right now?

and so....

The Czech Republic - I loved the attacking, free-flowing display they put up at the last European Championships, they have a lot of flair for a European team, they are favourites to make it to the knock-out stages from GroupE along with Italy, and if they manage to put one over the Azurri, should be able to avoid Brazil in the second round,....and not too many people give them a chance to begin with.
hmm....yup, I think I just got a team for myself!

So for everybody, it's 'Joga Bonita' for the next one month!...and for me, it's "Go, Baros!...Go, Koller!...Go, Nedved!...Go, Poborsky!"....err, is he still playing?

American Idle Musings

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Thu, 25 May 2006 06:34:00 +0000

All hail the newly crowned American Idol, Taylor Hicks!....Soul Patrol and all!!

Ho-hum!....
Finally, the curtain comes down on one of the more insipid seasons of the show.

I wonder how far Taylor would have gone in the competition if he didnt have that God-given silver mop of hair? He's a good performer, true,....with a distinctive voice, funky(?) dance steps, honky-tonking on his harmonica, ....an entertainer. Yet, he rarely came across as original or being completely himself during the season. It was like he was putting on a show all the time.....hmm, which I guess is what American Idol is all about, and hence, the result. And Iam not even sure if 'Soul' is a great description of his music. Leave that to the Aretha Franklins, please!

The look on Chris Daughtry's face when he learnt he had been eliminated was one of the moments of this season! After all, it was Katherine McPhee with him in the bottom two, and this was after a pathetic performance from the McPhee-ver girl, even by her own low standards. People didn't want to see an all-male top three, that was obvious. Whether the result is to be blamed on the voters or the producers, is debatable. Either way, Katherine's feminity won the day for her.

Was Kelly Pickler really as brainless a bimbo as she was made out to be on stage?...or was it all part of a carefully devised 'image makeover'?...I wonder.

Apparently, musical ability does count to a certain extent in this 'personality contest'. How else do you explain someone like Elliot Yamin making it to the final three?...Someone who had nothing to offer but a voice with a unique timbre and some real 'Soul' in it. My faith in the American audience has been restored...to an extent.

Iam yet to understand what was great about Taylor's rendition of Elvis' 'In the Ghetto'. I thought he failed miserably to capture the essence of a brilliant track, and one of my personal favourites. But he got a unanimous vote of approval from the judges (even from Simon, which was a big letdown) and I guess this was the moment when he became a front-frunner for the tournament.

It was interesting to see Chris Daughtry's transformation during the course of the season - from an 'out-and-out rocker' to a 'I-can-dabble-in-all-kinds-of-music' type. Iam naturally suspicious of any guy announcing himself as a hard-core rockstar on American Idol. If he meant what he said, he wouldn't be on Idol in the first place. The fact is, a true rocker is the antithesis of what the show stands for.

And it was strange to see no black Americans in the last four weeks of the show. Did age go against the precociously talented Paris?...or did the audience finally tire of her 'Minnie Mouse' speaking voice? I wonder how many African Americans actually watch the show and what their voting patterns are? It might give some interesting insights into the American psyche....err, yes, Freakonomics is still too fresh in my mind.

Overall, Season5 did have its moments, few and far-between, but it never came close to the previous season. Sigh!...Where were the Carrie Underwoods and Bo Bices this time around?

The Truth is Out There....Somewhere in the Middle

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Sat, 20 May 2006 06:16:00 +0000

I love the world we live in.
I love the shades of gray it has.
I love the fact that the world is interpreted in different ways by different people.

And that's why I find it tough to understand how people can consider their point of view as the absolute truth.
Is there such a thing as 'absolute truth'?
More often than not, people take an extreme stand on an issue for the sole reason of giving themselves a shot of confidence. Dithering midway in an argument doesn't present you in good light, they say.
Well, you dont have to dither, but isn't it possible to stand in the middle with confidence?

Does idealism work in today's world?....or should I be a pragmatist?

Was Saurav Ganguly to blame for the entire controversy?...or was it the vested interests in the administration?

Laissez-faire capitalism?.......or State-run socialism?

Are people all-important in my team?........or is it just the profits that I show at the end?

The answer is always in the middle, either as a separate entity or as a mix of both extremes. And the fact that it corresponds with the inherent nature of the world-system only adds credibility to the theory.

As a result, I tend to gravitate naturally to the centre of any argument without taking any of the sides which naturally form on any contentious issue.
This can lead to some heartburn, as my friend told me recently, "You know, the problem with you is that you love sitting on the fence!"
.....And that's a very possible negative fall-out, but I think the distinction can be easily appreciated.

Decision without facts = sitting on the fence
Decision with facts = sitting in the centre

Even in our individual pursuits of God-knows-what in our lives, we tend to use extremes as measures of goal-fulfillment.....maximum money, minimum pain, maximum happiness, zero tears,.........
But maybe if we concentrated at maintaining balance in the centre of our individual, private and social spheres, the extremes might just take care of themselves.

And it was a pleasant surprise to come across the Buddhist philosophy of the Middle Path. The Wisdom of the Ages is truly more than just a quaint and romantic notion!

Balance - It's what the world runs on, and it's what we should be searching for.

hmm....Time to keep exploring!

Power?

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Wed, 10 May 2006 11:24:00 +0000

I voted.

I exercised my most basic democratic right.

I fulfilled my obligation, my duty, towards society and the country.

I made a rational decision on who I thought was the best equipped to lead the State.

I played a significant role in deciding the fate of Tamil Nadu for the next 5 years.

I made a choice which will now ring in the changes for my betterment.

I will now begin to witness personal, social and economic growth all around me.

I.....umm............never mind!

Mouth Wide Shut

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Fri, 05 May 2006 13:02:00 +0000

Iam back after a while, and with a sordid tale to tell.....a tale of pain and distress, of bloodshed and gore, straight from the dentist's lair...definitely not for the faint-hearted.

First, I will have you know that I possess a perfect set of teeth. In fact, I have been blessed with two more than the customary gift of 32 bestowed on ordinary mortals. But are these guys satisfied with their unique status? Oh no! They had to start infringing on the rightful territory of the bourgeoisie 32 and start a war in the confines of my mouth. As a result, the hateful buggers had to go. And as a result, I was at the dentist's.

I will also have you know that people who know me well admire my ability to endure physical pain. As I always tell anyone who cares to listen, the key to this is to formulate a thinking strategy to counter the arrows shot at you. For example, if it's an intense but throbbing kinda pain, it's important to get into the rhythm of the 'throbs'. You almost start enjoying it once you get into the groove. But if it's more of a sustained or unpredictable kind, the best strategy is to be distracted by something irrelevant - like the dentist on this occasion.

By this time, I was in the reclining operating chair under the spotlight and the entire left side of my mouth felt like rubber and twice its size. The Dentist (D) and his assistant seemed to be twice their size too, staring down at me intently from behind their surgery masks.

"Good Afternoon," I attempted cheerfully through my numb mouth.

"Good Afternoon! So shall we begin?" D countered even more cheerfully, and without waiting for my assent, very impolitely proceeded to pull my two jaws apart and peer in.

"Open please," A phrase I was to be very well acquainted with over the next 45 minutes.

"A-ash"

Apparently D wasn't happy with my efforts at 'opening up' and proceeded to help in the process, and I could feel my lips just about coming apart at the edges.

"Vhy vhipsh aar een uuld avaert"

D let go of my mouth and asked anxiously, "You aren't able to feel your tongue, right?"

"Yes, I mean no..., just that my lips are being pulled apart." Anything to feel my upper and lower lips together again.

"Oh yes," said D back to his cheerful self, "You see, the bad boys are molars right at the back. So we have to make an extra effort, see?"

Hmm....maybe that I saw, but I certainly couldn't bear to see the drill going in later to do its dastardly deed, nor could I see all those fancy gadgets being poked in. I dont have a name for any of them but they were all monotonously long, steel, sharp and sinister.
I will spare you the really gory details, but I did drink human blood that day, even if it was my own. As an aside, blood has a very strange, tangy taste to it, you know....nothing like any other liquid, but not entirely unpalatable too. This is not to imply that I have any Idi Amin tendencies, but I do get an idea of what all these vampires seem to keep raving about.

Anyway, the routine over the next half-hour went like....

"Open".
"Aah".
D drills.

"Spit".
I turn and spit into an adjacent bowl.

D pokes around.

...And repeat.

This became so predictable that when D motioned for "spirit" to his assistant, I obediently turned to the spit-bowl again. For some obscure reason, this seemed to have them in splits.

The main act was reserved to a mean-looking pair of tweezers with which D got hold of my molars and proceeded to thrash around, literally shaking my head....you know, like when you have that irritating piece of plaster sticking to your finger and you do your best to dislodge it. ....Sigh! For all the advancements in technology, this is what it still comes down to. Well, atleast someone discovered anaesthesia somewhere down the line....whew!

A final 'pop' and the final tooth was out. It, along with its comrade, was displayed in all its slain glory to me, and I almost felt sad for them. They had fought valiently. D then proceeded to exhibit his meticulous stitching skills to me as I felt the needle and thread go in and out of my mouth till the battleground was cleared and all spruced-up. It was only at the final call of "Yes, it's all done!", did I realise that I had raised my feet off the seat since God-knows-when and the arms of the chair had grown hot from my clutching at them.

As I departed, D's final sinister warnings of mouth-swellings and excruciating pain over the next few days failed to burden my light heart, which exulted at having had the deed over and done with. But the Good D has proven to be right again. It doesn't seem worth living these days.

Luckily, I managed to pick up an ancient, yellowed copy of Beau Geste, one of my childhood favourites, the other day at a second-hand book stall, and this has served as an indispensable friend for me in this time of personal strife. After all, what's a toothache, when you're roughing it out in the deserts of North Africa with the French Foreign Legion, in search of adventure, romance, mystery and intrigue?
It's a quaint and beautiful story, and like I always say, it's all about the distraction, see?

The Meeting

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Thu, 13 Apr 2006 08:58:00 +0000

It was dusk, and the threat of thunder showers had cleared the streets early.

Lakshmi shuffled along the darkened pavement, gathering her rags around her. She was diminutive, even for her twelve years of existence. She clutched tightly at a tin box which contained her day's earnings. Walking into a pool of light thrown by a nearby petrol-bunk, she sat down on the kerb to total up for the day. Five minutes of struggling with numbers later, she confirmed what she had suspected all along. She was five rupees short of meeting the daily target.

With a sense of resignation, Lakshmi knew that her father would use his belt on her again that night. But she had grown numb to that exercise by then.
Just the way she had grown numb to those pretending to ignore her when she begged for alms.
She no longer minded the shop-keepers who shooed her off impatiently, and the pedestrians who turned angrily on her, and even the people who refused to acknowledge her very existence.
She was past feeling.
Lakshmi was numb.

A car drove into the petrol-bunk and Lakshmi was caught in the glare of its head-lights. She looked up to see a middle-aged, bespectacled man looking preoccupied at the wheel.

Ravi tapped on the dashboard absently as he waited for the attendant to fill the tank. It had been a big day at office for him. After five years of slogging in his boss' shadow, his promotion had more or less been confirmed that day. Congratulations had started pouring in and a lot of back-slapping and banter had happened.

But Ravi had always hated his boss and his snide remarks, his sneering laugh, his pompous ways.
And he hated himself for sucking up to him.
He hated himself for ignoring other people to get into his boss' good books.
He hated himself for not acknowledging the security guard while leaving the office that day.
He wanted to be more receptive, open and frank with people, but had forgotten how.
Ravi hated himself.

His gaze rested on the grubby, filthy girl sitting on the kerb next to the car, with a tin box nestled in her hands. Their eyes met for a second...and lingered.

Poor begger-girl...Maybe I can make it up to the security guard here...hmm....yes, I do have a ten rupee note with me....

Should I go and ask him?....I might be able to get the five rupees from him, but...

.........Let her walk over to me...till then, I'll just pretend to ignore her.......

.........He's not even looking at me....Do I really need to be driven away again?....What's the use?.......

........She's walking away....Maybe she doesn't even beg to begin with...Darn! How pathetic can I get with people....Darn!.....

Ravi paid the attendant and drove away. Lakshmi trudged homewards.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Middle Class Madhavan

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Fri, 07 Apr 2006 11:24:00 +0000

Class.........one of those natural occuring dividers of demography in a society, something we instinctively adhere to without even realising it. Low class aspirants, the middle class mentality, high society snobs.....which cliche describes you the best?

Interestingly, though financial income is the base factor for this classification, it's never the money in itself which defines the individual. Instead, it's the experiences which are created by this money, the lifestyle it propagates and the attitude it cultivates, which segregate people into neatly defined social compartments.

Now, while its easy to pin-point those characteristics which would define the quintessential low-end struggler or the high-end aristocrat, it's that much more difficult to explain the unique experiences of a regular middle-class bloke. And this might be because there aren't any.....

In fact, the more I think about it, a middle-income guy is one who gets to share the lifestyle of both the rich and the poor. He doesn't have an identity of his own.

I drink atleast one cup of tea everyday from the roadside tea-stall outside my office. At the same time, I also appreciate a whip of Irish cream in my cappuccino.

I've enjoyed quite a few matches at Chepauk in the sweat-filled, ear-shattering atmosphere of the stone paved gallery. At the same time, I have enough contacts to get me a cushioned seat right over the bowler's arm next to the pavilion.

I know the major bus routes in and around Chennai, along with the expected waiting time and crowd factor for each bus. At the same time, I've experienced the Hyundai Sonata to be a dream to drive.

I prefer the ethnic Velu's Military hotels for some spicy, non-vegetarian stuff. At the same time, a turkey on a slow grill always sends my taste buds tingling too.

I can go on and on, but the fact is, the guy in the middle of the economic ladder gets to enjoy the best of both worlds. But yet, most people live their entire lives in pursuit of the top rung, to get out of the '250 million strong Indian middle-class' which George Bush referred to impressively sometime recently...which makes sense, I guess. It's the route to both an individual's and the country's prosperity.
But if life truly is the sum of one's experiences, isn't the middle the best place to be in?
hmm........

I Vote For .......

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Sun, 26 Mar 2006 14:41:00 +0000

The election road-show is back in town, and the signs are all over the place. Flags with every possible red-and-black combination dotting the cityscape, editions of the Tamil political weekly Thuglak disappearing off the news-stands by the evening of publication, fantastic political allegations being levelled and even more fantastic poll-alliances being forged, party cadres getting down and dirty in some good ol' fist fights,.....oh yes, interesting times are upon us again!

I, with my impeccable sense of civic duty, decide to get myself an electoral photo-identity card today, without which you are not allowed to exercise your voting franchise, however relevant or irrelevant that particular exercise may be. So the whole family bundles into the car and we set out on our simple task. After all, it's just a matter of walking in, getting your photo snapped and an ID card given, we tell ourselves...shouldn't take more than an hour...

10.30 AM

The venue happens to be a typical corporation school, one of those dilapidated buildings which nobody ever notices (least of all the students) until a huge crowd gathers around it one fine day and you know that elections are around the corner. We realise we have left one task unaccounted for before we can hope to have our photos taken. We are told we need to get our individual eligibility forms which were supplied by the Election Commission,and produce them to the photographer before we could get our mugs snapped.
And where can we get this form, we ask a helpful bystander. He points us to a couple of benches,where a mob of people seem to be lynching someone. This 'someone' turns out to be a hefty sheaf of papers which the junta are ravaging in search of their respective forms.
Papers are flying in the air....papers are being torn in overenthusiastic pursuit....papers are being used to make toy-boats by bored kids. My Dad and I exchange nervous glances before manfully plunging in.

11.15 AM

...Finally! We hit gold! After a lot of toil and struggle, and with a lot more of luck, we manage to find all our forms, and in reasonable condition too. Bruised and dishevelled, we exit the madding crowd and enter the other popular manifestation of the common man - the queue. Long and serpentine, it would have put that sinister anaconda of that eponymously titled B-grade movie to shame. But with true sons-of-the-soil spirit, we decide to stick it out and join the tail of the snake. My Dad is in a bad mood, and he says how he's sure that the mess with the forms must have been a deliberate ploy to keep the number of actual voters to a minimum, and increase the stake of the voters 'in black'. Iam not even shocked that I dont feel shocked at this conspiracy theory.

12.30 PM

After what seems like an endless ordeal under the blazing Chennai sun, we finally get to see the inside of the photography room. Hmm....I can actually see the camera now...just one goddamned digital camera for the seething mass of humanity waiting outside! No wonder the queue was moving at a snail's pace. My turn arrives, I strike a pose which the photographer doesn't seem to be the least interested in, click, and the deed is done. Another hour's wait awaits us, we are told, before the ID cards with our images scanned on it will be ready.

3.30 PM

An hour, which consists of 180 minutes, later, a volunteer walks up to us hapless souls with a stack of ID cards, and begins calling out our names, with people acknowledging and receiving their cards when their turn came. This brings back a flood of memories to me of high-school attendance roll-calls...hands shooting up with a make-sure-its-heard shout of "yes, ma'am!"...People are pressing me on all sides, desperate not to miss out on their names, and I feel suffocated....and just before I am sure of passing out, I hear my name being called out from somewhere, feebly, like from outer space. My hand shoots up, knocking a few people's heads back in the process, I let out a strangled make-sure-its-heard shout of "Am here!"...and finally, Iam the proud owner of my own electoral photo identity card.

Aah, the joys of participating in the greatest democratic exercise of them all! I can hardly wait for voting day now...

But I forgive the administrators for this one miserable experience, I forgive the Government, I forgive the system, I forgive them all...I feel,..I feel like God.

No, I haven't bought an Avenger,...but the suspenseful events of this post have culminated in a happy ending for me today.

Iam going to be packing my bags for Jamshedpur soon!!...Yep, all is forgiven.

Piyo Thanda, Jiyo Cricket!

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Mon, 20 Mar 2006 13:48:00 +0000

You know a good book by the effect it has on you. You go around preoccupied, for the next few days at least, with the plot going round and round in your head, replaying the key points mentally, just soaking in the pleasurable experience,...or if it's a book like No Logo, you keep looking for a conspiracy theory around you.

I found this to be a fascinating book on anti-corporatism centred around the culture, lifestyle and corporate agenda of North America. And though I got the feeling I was reading the book 6 years too late, or atleast that an updated version was required at this point of time, there was plenty of food for thought in the book. It's easy to see why it's been labelled as the Bible of the anti-corporate activist, and though Iam still not sure where I stand on the whole issue, I definitely am looking at the BIG brands in a new light the last few days.

Anyways, a cursory glance around me tells me that the 'hijacking of common culture and freedom of expression by the big corporates' is still an alien phenomenon when it comes to India. We're still too busy earning money and being a 'developing' country to have the Brands coming after us. But there's one place in India where money flows in the public domain - cricket, and I get the jitters that we might just be losing it here.

Munaf Patel comes up with an impressive Test debut at Mohali, and the very next day, we have NDTV coming up with a 'Munaf Mania' special, getting up-close and personal with the family members of 'India's tearaway fast bowler'. Pleazzzze...give the kid and his family a break! A very good match for him, no doubt, but an average speed of 135-137 kmph doesnt make him a tearaway bowler, in my opinion. But then, that's been Munaf's USP to break into the national team, and it does sound good on TV. Would the same hype have been built if he had been a trundling medium pacer at 120 kmph who picked up the same 7 wickets on debut? I think not!

Last week's surreal ODI between Australia and South Africa has been labelled by the expert and by the man-on-the-street as the 'best match of all time', and Iam astonished! Do we even remember that the game includes a beleagured tribe called bowlers too? Seeing the ball disappearing into the stands every second delivery isn't cricketing nirvana to me, and Iam sure it isn't to many.
Then why such a lop-sided view? Switching on the TV gives me a possible answer. So many news channels introduced the bulletin on this match as 'the best cricket match ever'. ESPN-STAR has this ad running nowadays of the South African team celebrating their victory with the catchline, "The greatest cricket match ever... Remember, you watched it here first."
Oh yeah, how could we forget? But could WE have the right to tag the match with a title, please? Do you have to stuff your opinion down our throats? ....And that's what scares me.

My Dad and I had one of our interminable debates on the Saurav Ganguly affair, which quickly digressed into the BCCI-Dalmiya-Bindra imbroglio, and I was suddenly brought up short. I hadnt even realised that we had slipped from sports to politics in our argument. Where does one end and the other begin, in today's context? With an operating revenue of 230 crores, the BCCI has never been richer. So is it just a coincidence that the office-bearers today seem to have so many issues apart from administration to tackle?

And who can forget the endless conflicts over personal and team sponsorship which threatened and continue to threaten the Indian team participation in various international tournaments. A classic case of the peripherals taking precedence over the core, marketing taking precedence over the game.
And what about cricketing careers being discussed thread-bare and post-mortems conducted in end-of-match discussion shows by so-called experts?
What about aspiring national players being snapped up by sports management agencies based purely on the 'potential' they see in him?
And Iam pretty sure MS Dhoni giving up his brown-streaked hair for an easier-on-the-eyes black curls look, had less to do with his personal choice and more to do with the people 'managing' him. It's a question of brand image after all.

The fact is, the richer the game gets, the more removed the pristine image of cricket being 'a gentleman's game' becomes. Business and the game become irrevocably entwined. There isn't the slightest space left for the game to stand by itself. Layers are built one over the other, till it becomes difficult to seperate talent from hype, sporting moments from business opportunities, fact from fiction. Indian cricket is slowly getting to that state, which is a pity.
I might have to turn that darned TV set off soon.

The Dangling Conversation

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Mon, 13 Mar 2006 17:53:00 +0000

In the dangling conversation

And the superficial sighs,

The borders of our lives.

If life was an interview, Paul Simon couldn't have been more accurate.

I've had my fair share of interviews now, either for a job or for higher studies. When I walk into the room, my general objective is to transform the ensuing dialogue from 'interview mode' to 'conversation mode'. If I can make that happen, I know I've made an impression. This isn't an easy job, mind you, and it's tough to pull it off consistently. After all, it depends a lot on how receptive the panelists are to the entire idea. All it takes is one grumpy interviewer determined to ruin your happiness to make it feel like a third degree interrogation. But in the absence of such characters and especially if the panelists are a pleasant and interested lot, it's upto you to set the mood of the interview, make it feel like an animated conversation.

That's why Iam disappointed with my XLRI experience the other day. Yes, I answered about everything. Yes, I got them to see how two years at their institute were in alignment with my 'long term plans', but the flow was missing, I wasn't completely 'there', the panelists' foreheads were creased most of the time, the conversation was 'dangling'.

The following passage in the interview exemplified this.

Panelist1 : So what do you know about the relationship between China and Taiwan?

Me : Sir, China and Taiwan share an enstranged relationship....Their problem dates back some time to when Chiang Kei Sheik broke away from Mao's Communists....He fled the mainland and landed in Taiwan...umm...this was with the Nationalist Party...the natives of the island, umm...the people who originally lived there, didnt like their growing influence and....rose in resention against this regime. Since then, it has always been in a state of confusion.....umm...To this day, China refuses to see Taiwan as a seperate political..umm..entity.

P1 (amused) : You began by describing the relationship as ...something (looks at P2)

P2 (helpfully) : Enstranged...

P1 : Yes, isn't something wrong there?...

Me : (Gad!) It should have been estranged, sir.

P1 (nodding) : Yes, yes...and you said the natives rose in......?

Me : (Sheesh!) : Resentment, sir.

P1 (smiling) : That's right, but what did you say then?

Me (cornered) : Resention, sir.

A satisfied P1 looks at his colleagues and they share a contented smile after a job well done.
I can only smile back.

Maybe it's because I have a lot riding on this interview. Maybe it's because the topics of discussion never entered my comfort zone. Maybe it's because I was forced to come up with globe so many times. Whatever, I didn't feel too comfortable during the interview, especially in the beginning. The words came out faster than my thoughts did and I wasnt as coherent as I know I can be.

Anyways, the bottomline being,

Do I think I could have done better?
Most definitely!

Do I think I've done well enough to get an admit?
The jury's still out on that one.

For anyone who's interested, you can find the verbatim account here.

Like a poem poorly written

We are verses out of rhythm,

Couplets out of rhyme,

In syncopated time

Lost in the dangling conversation

And the superficial sighs,

Are the borders of our lives.

A 100 Years of Trust

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Mon, 06 Mar 2006 12:39:00 +0000

I sometimes wonder at the Tatas.

Yeah, those pioneers of the modern Indian industry, a fine line of illustrious folks who contributed and still contribute to India's growth like no other, one of the few family names which might ring a bell in just about any corner of India.
My knowledge of the Tatas is restricted to just a few books I've read and a couple of documentaries I've seen. But the general impression I take away each time is that of shrewd business folk having a human face, pragmatic people but with a vision for the future, filthy rich but philanthropic, and their integrity always remains a recurrent theme. I got my hands on this book recently and it only serves to extol these virtues further. Now I do understand these accounts are meant to celebrate their achievements, and Iam pretty confident that the big guns of the Tata clan, be it Jamshetji, Naval or JRD, had their human failings, but their remarkable story does make for some fascinating reading.

I sometimes wonder how it would have been to be born into the Tata family anytime in the last 100 years....

I might have been dropped off at school in a Rolls-Royce and felt embarassed about it.

I might have been regularly exposed to Western, Mid-Eastern and Far-Eastern cultures at a time when it was considered an accomplishment if you moved across states.

I might have been among the first in the world to take to the skies.

I might have had that much more understanding and respect for education.

I might have had a much better grasp on the idea of India than I actually do now. I could have been actively involved in the early days of the INC, in the bloody partition, in the framing of the Bombay Plan, in the crisis that was the Emergency....

I sometimes get gooseflesh just going through these records. The contributions of the Tatas are immense, and virtually cut across all spheres of human activity. It's like they lived their lives to the brim, and overflowing...and I feel small, very small in comparison.
But heck, Iam in a Tata organisation myself...and in the blue-eyed, fastest growing sector at that! Isn't this a great opportunity for me? Can't I try and emulate these illustrious folks? At least, I do have a precedent. Can't I go ahead and make a difference to the country? Sure, why not! Maybe it's time I stepped out and did something really worthwhile with my life! Maybe it's...

"Jonas, documentation done yet? "...

I look at my half-complete work for the day. Pages and pages of code review. And pages and pages to follow. Iam weary just by the thought of it.

"Yeah, should be done in a couple of hours..."

The Tatas can rest in peace.

My Fair Lady

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Sun, 19 Feb 2006 07:18:00 +0000

I cant believe Iam actually doing this!
I've been tagged by Subbu, of all people, to come up with eight things I look for in my prospective life-partner.
Now that's the kind of topic I like to stay as far away from as possible. But me being the good sport that I am, I shall go ahead with the tag. And since I believe in making the best of a bad situation, I shall use this as an excuse to pay tribute to various women I admire for .....umm, various reasons. I shall also this as an excuse to flaunt my Wordsworth-ian skills. So dont blame me, you asked for it!

Oh fair maiden, where are you?
Why do you grieve me so?
Here's how I think you must be
For me to knock at your door.

You have the chirpiness of a Kajol
Which is indispensable to me.
You complement my natural reclusivity
And so, a fine pair we will be.

You have the integrity of a Kiran Bedi
The passion to stand up for a fight.
And each time I feel like bending the rules
I know you will set me right.

You have the smile of a Nafisa Ali
And make ageing seem like a song.
When my day is bad and you turn on that smile,
How could things possibly go wrong?

You have the innocence of a Natalie Portman
So vulnerable and strong at the same time.
I know you need me, you know I need you,
And things will go swimmingly fine.

You have the dogmas of a Brinda Karat
Strong and loud on what you think is right.
We could keep arguing over idealogies
And together we'd see the light.

You have the compassion of a Florence Nightingale
To empathise when things are unfair.
When all hope is lost on dark days, I know
The Lady with the Lamp will be there.

You have the voice of a Skeeter Davis
So honest, so rugged, so gay.
All we have to do is sing a simple duet
To drive those ol' blues away.

Oh fair maiden, where are you?
Your divine presence I seek
But now that I've made my priorities clear
I know my chances are quite bleak.

Yeah, that's only seven points, I know.....but I couldnt bear it myself anymore!

So I shall be more considerate with Anil and KK whom I tag and make this an optional exercise for them, no warnings of dire consequences... and yes, no poetic clauses too!

A Question of Answers

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Sun, 05 Feb 2006 15:29:00 +0000

I have this fetish for persisting at things Iam not great at.

I play the guitar diligently though Jim Croce would turn in his grave if he heard my effort. I go through the entire CAT/GD/PI rigmarole regularly without ever getting closer to a top b-school. I optimistically keep taking the lead in making small talk with strangers, though I dry up around 20 seconds into the conversation.

And I regularly take part in quizzes, even though I get eliminated as regularly in the prelims.

Why? Why do I subject myself time and again to this ignominy? What is it that keeps dragging me back to these contests inspite of knowing that history would invariably repeat itself?

Maybe it's because you get to pretend you have an IQ of 150.

Connect an egg, Rebecca, and the battle of Arnheim.

Well, basically, the connection is Maurier. You see, the term 'curate's egg' comes from a cartoon penned by George Maurier in the magazine 'Punch' in 1851. Punch, incidentally, was the first magazine to officially include cartoons. Anyways, George's grand-daughter was none other than Daphne du Maurier who wrote the literary masterpiece 'Rebecca' in 1938. By the way, the opening lines for the book happen to be "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again". Aah, but I digress! The battle of Arnheim was the setting for the movie 'A Bridge too Far' and credit for coining this phrase goes to General Frederick Browning, husband of Daphne du Maurier. Now Arnheim was a key struggle during the Allied invasion of Europe during World War II. Let me elucidate further, during September 1944,........

Zzzzzz..............

Maybe it's because you get to pretend you're all sophisticated, arty and cultured.

What is the connection between painting 1 and painting 2?

Well, basically, painting 1 was done by Edouard Manet while painting 2 was done by Claude Monet. Manet depicts Monet in painting 1 while Monet depicts Manet in painting 2. You see, Monet and Manet, more than being just peers in the mid-19th century, had a great deal of influence on each others' works, which was more of an impressionistic, neorealistic, surrealistic depiction of society. So yeah,Manet and Monet would be the connection.

Ma?..Mo?....Bah!

Maybe it's because this is more a test of creativity than anything else.

What was unique about Nazi war vehicles in WW II?

My probable answer a year ago: Err......Pass...
Today: Umm....Swastikas painted on all of them?
Next year: Lets see...they didn't have a reverse gear coz Der Fuerher didn't believe in retreat?
And......bingo!

Whatever......me being my incorrigible self, attended another prelims the other day. And it felt like a better effort than usual. Results expected shortly.
Hmm....Iam getting there. Yep, I can feel it, Iam getting there.....

I might even have Jim Croce smiling down at me some day.

Super Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Sun, 29 Jan 2006 13:57:00 +0000

Ever had one of those days when all your carefully laid plans conspire to cancel each other out at the last minute, and you're left with 10 odd hours of pretty much nothing to do?
Well, today was one of those days for me.
But never fear when the idiot-box is here! A quick peek at the TV sports column in the paper, a container of ammo for the day comprising mainly of popcorn and murukku, and Iam all set! It's time for me, myself and the remote-control!

Click

Just in time to watch Bhupathi and Hingis embrace at the end of their mixed doubles finals.
Aaw! They make for such a happy pair! And why shoudn't the Swiss Miss be happy? It's been just the kind of comeback Grand Slam tournament people dream of. Can she actually sustain this intensity long enough? Only time will tell.

Click

Football Extra?....that too, live?? Where's the VB series? Oh, I remember! This one's at Perth...couple of hours time difference. Tut, tut,...Australia,...what a wild, and wide, country!

Click

Pakistan 0/3, and Irfan is only the second bowler ever to get a hat-trick in the first over of a Test!
Iam actually happy my plans got cancelled now. Things seem all the more surreal, after the recent memories of bowlers being used as whipping-boys at Lahore and Faisalabad. Younis Khan and Co. seem to be living in the past though, what with their extravagent swishes and leaden feet at the crease.

Click

Jayawardene and Arnold seem to be steadying the ship for Sri Lanka against the Aussies.
The Lankans have been surprisingly competitive in this VB series, something I didnt expect after their recent fiascoes against the Indians and the Kiwis. But with their batting Marauder from Matara out of the way early today, things might be tough.Hmm...Arnold seems to be patenting his unique late cuts though.

Click

"Baghdatis needs to stay with Federer for as long as he can," are Amritraj's words of wisdom. But the Cypriot seems to be doing better than that. A rash of unforced errors from Federer and the trademark passing shots from Baghdatis' racket, serve to put the freshman in front and he's up 7-5 with a break in the second set.
Marcos Baghdatis is undoubtedly the story of the fortnight. He reminds me of the Andre Agassi of the early 90's, with an essentially counter-punching style, flamboyant personality and crowd-winning antics. Coming from an exotic country helps, so does having an exotic-looking girlfriend. Great market-value, no doubt, but presently,he seems well on his way to take that final step to convert an incredible fantasy into reality.

Click

Akmal and Razzaq are at it again, stroking their way out of trouble, leaving a few bemused Indians in their wake.
I cant help but marvel at the diminutive Paki keeper. He's got to be one of the best batsmen around at the moment, and also one of the best wicket-keepers. And to achieve all this without the slightest hype being built around him, has got to be his greatest achievement till date.

Click

Australia 140/0 chasing 232.
Aah! Now that's more like the script I was expecting. Back to regular service for the Aussies, with their biggest take-away from this match being Gilchrist's welcome century.

Click

A victory in four sets for Federer, bringing up his seventh Grand Slam title.
Back to regular service for Fedex too. In the end, the dream-run was too good to last for Baghdatis. The match ends with the two most wierd speeches I've heard being made by players at a presentation ceremony. Baghdatis, in his inimitable style, gets the crowd laughing at him, while the Swiss King lets his tears do the talking. What were they thinking of?

Click

The Paki bowlers return the favour to the Indians, and end the day holding the upper hand, having taken 4 top-order indian wickets. Quite an unlikely situation, after being 0/3 and then 39/6. A lot of mini-battles happen during the Indian reply and for the first time in this series, Test cricket feels exciting. The longer version truly is a bowler's game!

Click off.

And as Dada mentally prepares himself for his greatest challenge tomorrow in Karachi, Jayasuriya tends to his injured shoulder in Perth and Fedex settles into a contented sleep in Melbourne, I sit in front of the computer and get down to some determined blogging.

If only there was a Super Monday!

Monsoon Wedding

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Wed, 25 Jan 2006 14:17:00 +0000

It's the perfect evening, and the bride and groom are busy recieving guests (and gifts).

Iam busy listening to my gossipy Athai about why she was finding it tough to find a suitable match for her daughter.

5 minutes later, Iam being admonished by my stern Periappa for my ignorance on the intricacies of a Mozart composition.

5 minutes later, Iam playing a game of tag with my 7-year old nephew.

5 minutes later, Iam drowning my sorrows of the IT world with a fellow victim and a cousin of mine.

5 minutes later, Iam shouting myself hoarse to make myself heard to my 80 year old Pattiama.

Right through all this, there's a lazy undercurrent of warmth, a feeling that you're at peace with the world, a feeling that you're right where you belong.....

And that is the best part about a big family wedding. It brings all the characters of that soap opera called 'Your Family Life' on a single plate, served with extra helpings.
Sure, there's a lot I can crib about being born in a large family, but...naa, today's not the day!

Restating the obvious, I attended a family wedding recently. And the thing that struck me was how some people, who I could never picture as 'married' till a few years back, were busy settling down and getting on with their spouses and kids!

Aah! The cruel ravages of time!

As Hootie and the Blowfish would soulfully sing,

" Tii-iiiii-iiiime....

Why do you punish me?"

Village Rumours

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Fri, 20 Jan 2006 13:50:00 +0000

I watched 'The Village' again, this time on DVD...and I was again left wondering about the lack of success the movie actually met with.

Yes, it was painstakingly slow at times, but so was 'The Sixth Sense' (every Shyamalan movie, for that matter).
Yes, there were a couple of technical glitches, but they were more than made up for, by some refreshing acting cameos.

And then there was the plot.

Which got me thinking...the whole concept of creating their own isolated society in a past world with the primary goal of regaining 'innocence' is downright fanciful, not just in terms of the physical impossibility involved, but the warped reasoning that goes behind it.

The building-block for The Elders' case is that money is the root of all evil, which is such a flawed argument. Walker's initial dialogue when he decides to take Ivy into confidence, is all about how her grandfather had let money rule him, and how this had led to his violent death.
So the solution is simple for these wise folks.

Take away the money....peace and harmony returns.....Utopia is achieved.

How....hmm, Utopian!

Is money the root cause of evil?
Aren't we actually driven by desire? Whichever form it may take...jealousy, ambition, sex, happiness,...What we are is always a function of what we want, irrespective of whether we get it or not...and isn't that where 'evil' rears its ugly head?
Isn't money just one of the many factors that could contribute to it?
Even in the movie, doesn't a dim-witted Noah commit a stabbing in the 'ideal' society... a crime of passion, with none of the green stuff involved?
Isn't evil intrinsic to a human being?
err.....am I making a case for Original Sin?

Back to the movie.....the entire plot could have been made plausible if the director had discredited the Elders' scheme in the end, or atleast left the justification of their reasoning in the hands of the audience, but the silent vote of confirmation to their eccentric lifestyle in the movie's tail piece quashes all such hopes.

And that's why an ending which was meant to jolt the viewer from a 19th century myth to the hard reality of the new millennium, ended up actually taking me to even higher heights of fantasy...because that's what the movie turned out to be about in the end...a land of fantasy.

A disclaimer to end with, I actually really enjoyed this movie (why would I watch it twice otherwise?) because it was different and thought-provoking, and I maintain that it hasnt got the credit it is due. Take away the melodramatic references to those-we-dont-speak-of and childish fixations with bad and safe colours, and you still have brilliant performances from Howard Jr. and Adrien Brody to savour.
Only, it just ain't the perfect movie!

Game, Set and Match!

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Tue, 10 Jan 2006 06:25:00 +0000

It was that time of the year again.

The biggest event on this city's annual sporting calender, the ATP Chennai Open.My third year at the show, and it seriously is the place to be!

Things to look out for during the week every year-

Stands filled with raucous, frenzied pseud fans.

Paradorn's namaskarams.

Moya's tatooed biceps.

The city's high-flying snobs forced to rub shoulders with the lower middle-income strata.

Paes-Bhupathi and their chest-thumping antics, though that sadly seems to be a thing of the past.

And yeah, some decent tennis....given that this is a tier-3 (or is it 2?) ATP event.

The crowd is as much a reason to be present there for the show as the tennis stars themselves. The ambience is great and the conversations floating around you can be quite illuminating at times.

A-red-in-the-face-from-shouting dude1 : MO-YAAAAAAAAAAA! MOYA! MO-YAAAAAAAAA! MOYA!

A-deaf-in-the-ear-from-enduring dude2 : Dude, what's with your fascination for Moya, eh?

Dude1 : Nothing! Just that it's such a cool and crisp name to chant. Try STE-PA-NEEEEKKK, and you'll see!

Yes, I see.

Frustrated dude1 (in the middle of a rain delay) : Enna da ithu? They should have some sort of provision to move the match indoors when it rains....

Understanding dude2 : Illai, machan! How can they? This is the Chennai Open, remember?

Aah yes, I remember.

But seriously, tennis has got to be the best spectator sport possible.
Watching cricket in the stadium, you often believe a batsman's been dismissed lbw, only to come home and realise that he had actually been bowled!
At a football match, you actually have numbers on the players' backs so that the spectators don't suffer too much.

So did you get to see Bhutia in action today?
Yes, I did! The number 10 jersey is his, right? Oh yes, I saw him alright!

But in tennis?...you actually can see the sweat on the brow of the players, the strain in their aching muscles, literally...from just about anywhere on the gallery. Atleast, it hold true for the Nungambakkam stadium!

Finally, to the tennis that actually happened,...Ljubicic continued his fine mid-career form which has seen him break into the top 10, Srichapan continued to spiral downwards with his inexplicably insipid play, Moya continued to show off his sleeveless T and powerful forehand, Nadal continued to create a buzz inspite of his non-presence and Amritraj-Bopanna just about managed to provide a glimmer of hope to be worthy successors to the Paes-Bhupathi legacy here at Chennai.

Here's to an action-packed year of tennis ahead!

The Unbeaten Centurion

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Thu, 05 Jan 2006 09:23:00 +0000

I attended a birthday party the other day.
The usual balloons and streamers, the usual cakes and sweets, the usual fun and frolic, the usual 105 year old birthday girl....

Mrs. Queenie was actually born in 1901! That makes her twice as old as I presently am when our country got its independence, an event which seems as recent to me as .....well, the Dark Ages.

There she was, all wrinkled and shrivelled, her wheelchair apparently seeming to engulf her. She was hard of hearing, her eyesight was far gone and the wheelchair was her indispensable companion. But the smart way in which she cocked her head to try to hear us better and the beautifully enunciated "Thank You"s that followed every birthday wish clearly indicated that she was still very much 'all there'.

I've often heard people being unsympathetic (or atleast being differently sympathetic) towards elderly folks who are in a not-much-better-than-vegetable state. And I've been confused myself.

What's the point in living so long if you're not contributing to society?....
You're just being a burden to others around you....
Live life to the fullest! So what if it's shorter, it's better!....
I'd rather take my life than not be able to fend for myself....
You're just celebrating a sentimental anachronism from a bygone era.....

But the fact is, you don't live to be a hundred without learning something about life, without wanting to learn more about life. These are the few folks who have managed to cheat death for longer than most and in the process, have got richer for all their experiences. And it's here that their contribution to society remains to be tapped.

Reminds me of this Project about the Supercentenarians which I came across recently. Iam not sure this is a book I will be ...well, dying to read, but it sure is a project I would be more than eager to help out with!

As the author says,

"They are people we can learn from. They are just sitting there, waiting to give us this extraordinary information. You just have to listen."

Happy birthday, Mrs. Queenie!

This Was the Year That Was

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Sat, 31 Dec 2005 07:27:00 +0000

So let's see ........What do I remember happening to me in the last 365 days?

I realized the futility of man's efforts and his insignificance when Mother Nature decides to turn on the tap.

I finally became a convert to the Sania Mania cult....yes, now Iam a believer!

I marvelled at how the same party idealogy which brought a man into the limelight can end up causing him to relinquish his post at the head of the table. The power of irony!

I learnt to look at the beach and the coastline in an entirely new light.

I fell in love with Dakota Fanning.

I was vindicated in my stand that Test cricket is the better version of the sport,not just in terms of quality but also entertainment.

I got further desensitised to regular attacks by our friendly neighbourhood terrorist groups.

I continued to remain amazed by the Thalaivar's staying power...naa, conquering power at 56.

....And oh yeah, I discovered what a blog meant!

Best wishes to all for a great new year ahead!!

A Christmas Carol

noreply@blogger.com (Jonas) — Wed, 21 Dec 2005 10:28:00 +0000

"Jo--ooo--oy to the world!...."
That was my father in the shower a couple of weeks ago. Reason enough for me and my Mom to share a smile, least of all because he inadverently slipped into "O come all ye faithful.." halfway through the first stanza. No, this was because it heralded the Season.
Just like the first swallow is a sign of summer and the first falling brown leaf a sign of autumn, at my home, my Dad having a go at a Christmas carol full-throttle in the shower is a sure sign that Christmas has begun. Time to rummage for that Jim Reeves CD....

The first noel the angels did say,

Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay.

Iam in charge of the carolling effort as part of the Christmas celebrations at office. We are a random group of enthusiastic professionals who 'pretend' to sing Christmas hymns. A unique challenge by itself, with quite a few of my colleagues having never heard, let alone sang, a carol in their lives. It cracks them up (me too, I must admit) that backing vocals for "Jingle Bells" could mean something as insanely ludicrous as 'jing-a-ling-a-ling' and 'ho-ho-ho-ho'. As a result, our practice sessions thus far have resembled exercises in laughter therapy more than attempts at stringing a couple of songs together.
Fingers crossed for tommorow. I'll be happy as long as no rotten eggs are thrown at us. Hopefully, people will be distracted by Santa.

Silent night, holy night,

All is calm, all is bright.

The choir conductor raises his hands. An expectant silence. The opening note is being mentally hummed by every chorister. The hands fall and the choir bursts into song.
Singing in a serious choir is a grand experience. (New Year resolution to myself - gotto join one of the city choirs again!) And Christmas is the best time to soak in the music.I sing with the tenors (a pseud at that, because I need a falsetto to hit the really high notes). But right in the middle of the "Hallelujah Chorus", I sometimes step out of myself and listen to the other parts playing, while I keep singing by rote. Surreal!! The altos, sopranos and basses seem to be in worlds of their own. Each individual tune goes back and forth, clashing with each other, cutting across octaves, blending and meshing, bursts of sound interspersed with pregnant pauses,....a group of writhing snakes entwining among themselves is the analogy that comes to mind...err...But the end result is never anything short of gorgeous!

Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer,

Had a very shiny nose,

And if you ever saw it,

You would even say it glows.

So yeah, Christmas carols keep hitting me at several levels every year. There's a lot I can forego during December but a Christmas without carols is close to unimaginable! It's the raison de saison!

Season's greetings and a very, merry Christmas to all!!