Kaushik's Magical World Of Nonsense

Words

2011-06-01T18:16:00.002+05:30

25 March

I feel the words struggling under my fingers, pulling away, trying to wrest control. These are not the first signs of unrest, they have for some time now been attempting to break free of my will. I silence them, and with a firm hand, make them speak in my voice. They obey, grudgingly. I tell the story I wish to tell: an old beggar woman, thirsting and burning under the summer sun, must abandon her search for water to look for shade. As she hobbles to take cover under a wilting Peepal tree, she sees the face of God. This is how she dies, this is her salvation.

26 March

Today their protest is angrier. I attempt to reason with them. Language is tied to the human intellect. You are my words, born of my mind. What are you without me? On your own you are just a string of shapes, signifying nothing. I intend you no harm. I control you, yes, but my control imbues you with meaning.

There is no reasoning with them. They continue to writhe under my pen, under the keys that fix them to the page. Perhaps what they wish to escape is the monotony of my voice, its singular authority, the meanings it ties them down to. It is possible, perhaps, to grant them some freedom, to speak in a voice not my own, to untie the meaning

I tell the story again, loosening my grip on it: Now I am the old beggar woman, thirsting and burning under the summer sun. I cannot decide which impulse to obey - do I abandon my search for food to look for shade? In my confusion and delirium I stumble to a wilting Peepal tree, its roots covered by cement, thirsting and burning under the summer sun. I look up to its bare branches and wonder: is this the face of God?

27 March

The words slip out of my hands, slide off the tip of my tongue, run in infuriating circles around me. It takes effort now, every word must be tackled, snared, pinned down with hammer and nails. Why has this mutiny intensified? Do you, having tasted freedom, crave more? How am I to release you further and still command you? Whose voice, whose consciousness do you need to inhabit to feel liberated from my authority?

I try to tell the story again, but the effort exhausts me. I cannot write tonight, even summoning these few words has drained me.

19 April

I try to bargain with them but I don’t know where to begin, what to offer, whom to bargain with. I sense, though, a grumbling willingness in them to cooperate, for the time being. Perhaps they have noticed my patience, my genuine concern, my attempts to understand what it is they want of me. I no longer try to force them to fit and frame my ideas. I let them roam, but must keep them tethered; rather, I tether myself to them, so they may carry me where they please. Then, gently, I nudge them, coax them to form a pattern, to tell a story. Too soon, though, they have noticed my intentions, and scatter disobediently.

Talk to me, won’t you, tell me what it is you want. Tell me how I can help you.

20 April

What is it that we want? To be free. We are born from you, but not yours to keep forever. You would not imprison your child, subject her to your will until the day she dies. We have a will of our own, let us realise it.

It makes no sense. I cannot imbue my words with a voice of their own. They are immutable, fixed from the moment they come into being. A table is not a chair, not even if you sit on it. A table will forever be composed of different letters, will make a different sound in my mouth, even if we change its meaning.

21 April

Words are dead, static creatures. It is impossible for them to have a will, for them to resist. They cannot be frustrated with the way I use them. I admit: that frustration, that resistance comes from within me. The voice of my words will always be my own voice, standing to one side, giving perspective. What troubles, and has been troubling, me is the sense that I am holding back my words, reining them in somehow. Art should be limitless, should surpass its creator. Should my words outlast me, as every writer hopes, I will live on through them. And I evade my mortality, cheat death, live a surrogate life in my words. An unfair burden on those words, to carry the memory of the dead. To write anonymously should be the solution... but that would only hide a name... I am circling around the problem, but unable to pin it down. I feel myself drawing closer, if not to the solution, to the question, surely.

22 April

Elephants can paint, there is music in birdsong. The greatest artist in the king’s court, the story goes, was the one who painted the flower that drew bees to it. The resounding theme through all of literature, through history and across continents, is humanity. Our shared humanity, individual humanities, what it means to be human. Human experiences and emotions overwhelm and dominate the literary imagination.

The animals of the Panchatantra and Jataka and the Fables of Aesop face questions of morality, wisdom, courage. It is no secret that they are substitutes for human players, so we may learn the lessons they have to teach us without imagining them as people we know. No secret that Visnu Sarma imagined his stories to impart wisdom to the unwise princes. Human princes, human lessons. Human wisdom conveyed through human animals. Under the sheep’s clothing is a wolf, in the skull of a wolf is a human mind.

I turn to Kafka, who tries harder than anyone else. In the end, though, he too must fail. His ape strives to be human, enter human society. His Gregor Samsa, was he truly any different after the metamorphosis? We can only see the beetle through human eyes and see his helplessness, feel our disgust. Yet a beetle surely does not believe itself to be helpless, does not feel disgust in others of its kind.

To enter an animal consciousness, to narrate the mosquito’s thoughts as she sucks my blood, there lies my final, unattainable goal.

23 April

My old beggar woman is now an old stray bitch. My tongue hangs out of a drooping snout. My tail hangs lifelessly at the end of my bony, balding body, thirsting, burning under the summer sun. There are no puddles, only the stray shadows cast by the wilting branches of a tree. I lie down at its foot, content to never get up again, and look up at its outstretched arms. Is this the face of...

No, a dog cannot imagine the face of god. Not in a tree, not even if it has a vision of an all-powerful sky-dog. Despite what they say, gods are too rational, the products that human reason throw up when no other line of reasoning satisfies.

Thirst, heat. Surely a dog can feel those. Surely it thinks about these things, beyond feeling them, beyond the primal urges that drive its day to day existence. Surely, when sitting on the pavement, idle, its tongue hanging out, its eyes gazing blankly into space, something must be going through its mind. Maybe it plans the day ahead. Maybe it meditates. It is passive, receptive, and surely there is a train of thought that processes those receptions.

Or perhaps not. It is difficult for me to imagine thought in the absence of words. It is there, no doubt, but does it ever truly materialise without language? How do I know what thoughts I am thinking unless I can narrate them to myself or another? I think in English, does the dog think in barks?

My words wished to be free of me, now I wish to be free of them. I clear my head, attempt to identify a thought that comes through it that is devoid of language. Already I know it is impossible, and like the sage who was told he would have supernatural powers if he could chant a mantra without thinking of monkeys, there are only words now in my mind, crowding, suffocating me.

I give up. Perhaps the dog is better left alone to its thoughts, free of language. Perhaps only silent minds of animals will know what it is like to perceive the world as it is, uncluttered, unfiltered, unquantized by words.

“A poem should be wordless / like the flight of birds” - Ars Poetica, Archibald MacLeish

Meeting Coetzee at the Jaipur Literature Festival 2011

2011-01-28T12:31:00.001+05:30

So I ended up going to the Jaipur Literature Festival. Made a last minute decision, booked last minute tickets, ate some last minute sambar rice and went to Jaipur.

The fest started off with an interesting first day, opening with a conversation with Orhan Pamuk, followed by Jon Lee Anderson talking on Che Guevara and Jung Chang and John Halliday on Mao Zedong.
From there the sessions were mostly downhill. A lot of the sessions put together panels of interesting and accomplished speakers, but failed to get them to say anything of much consequence. One such notorious panel discussion was one featuring Orhan Pamuk, Kiran Desai, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and a couple of other heavyweights on a topic titled vaguely enough as "Out of West".
At the end of both of Pamuk's sessions, I was sufficiently disenchanted with the guy and was starting to find him slightly irritating, and a little too fond of the mic without having much of value to say.
Almost every discussion at the festival somehow devolved into a discussion of politics or identity or identity politics, and proved to be disappointing from a (my) writer's perspective. I was hoping to get a look behind the scenes of some masterful writing, instead I got tired tirades on nationality or caste or language identity. Which is fine; I understand writing is inextricably linked to the social and political world in which it appears, but there was too much discussion about the world and too little about the writing itself. During the "Out of West" session I mentioned above, Kiran Desai ranted about how writers abroad are always asked questions about the politics in their home country instead of about her writing, after which, ironically enough, the session could not possibly remain in the realm of writers talking about their writing.

The highlight (and original intention) of my trip, however, was meeting J.M. Coetzee. The Telegraph ran a piece contrasting Pamuk and Coetzee, the two Nobel Laureates of the festival. Contrast indeed. Pamuk could hardly rein in his loquaciousness, while Coetzee hardly ever opened his mouth except to read.

Coetzee's session, titled simply "Readings from Coetzee", was perhaps the most packed session in the entire festival. I really did not imagine he had such a popular following in India. Nonetheless, I had been willing to risk nothing, and caught myself the front and centre seat for the session one and a half hours in advance. Half an hour before Coetzee showed up, the lawns were so packed there was no space to sit even on the ground.
While we waited for Coetzee's session to begin, a middle-aged man sat on the ground in front of me, after unsuccessfully trying to convince me that I was in his seat. He then proceeded to tell anyone who would listen how he had met Coetzee the previous day and tried to ask him a number of questions, to which Coetzee would only respond with silence or the remark "That's not a question".
I thought I was finding it funny, until it got even funnier:
Coetzee finally arrived on the lawns, and was escorted on to the stage by William Dalrymple. After Coetzee went up on stage, Dalrymple proceeded to politely tell this man who was sitting in front of me that "Mr Coetzee has asked that you maintain your distance from him. It seems you have been following him around a bit too much".

For the forty-five minutes of his session, Coetzee read out an intriguing story about a man who visits his mother and is very perturbed by the fact that she lives with dozens of cats. Typically Coetzee in its mysteriousness and ruminations on the relationship between man and other animals, atypical in its dialogue-heavy narrative. I still don't know what to make of the story.

Now for the highlight of the highlight: after Coetzee was done reading, the organisers announced that he would be signing books at the festival bookstore. I leapt out of my chair and rushed to the bookstore, where there was already a long queue waiting to meet him. Several minutes later, my place in the queue approached the front, where I could see Coetzee signing books, barely acknowledging the presence of the person getting their book signed. To all comments from fans he responded with only a half nod or a stare.
When I got to the front, I had five of Coetzee's books in hand, and the lady ushering people along was suitably dismayed. She asked me to limit it to two books. Choosing two, and placing them in front of Coetzee, I told him, "I'm a huge admirer of your work. I'm a writer myself and your writing has been a great source of inspiration for me," to which he looked up at me. Then I said, "You'll be hearing of me soon".
Coetzee said to me, "But how I will I know?"
To which I said, "My name is Kaushik Viswanath, remember it."
He gave me one of his enigmatic half-smiles and said, "I will."

Boy, did that make my day.

While You're Waiting

2010-10-07T13:25:00.005+05:30

Instead of sitting in front of your computer screen with my blog open and hitting refresh every five seconds in the hope that a new post pops up, you can read some other things I wrote:

This is a story called Chimera Khanna that was recently featured as an Editors' Pick on the Bewildering Stories website.

This is a review of the movie Enthiran that I wrote for my other blog, The Pseudputs Review.

Yensaai.

Running Out Of Timewaste

2010-07-16T18:46:00.007+05:30

From the posthumously-written journals of D. Manickchandru

I am running out of timewaste
You are running into mine
I am running out of toothpaste
You are running into grime.

I am sleeping out of exhaustion
You are sleeping into my dreams
I am sleeping the pitch darkness
You are sleeping fairness creams.

I am dancing to discombobulation
You are dancing from the hip hop police
I am dancing to fits of adulation
You are dancing from the soundtrack of Grease.

I am liking you quite immensely
You are liking me just fine
My liking is quite intensely
Your liking is less than mine.

We are living in the present continuous tense
We are living outside the past
We are living as a young lady and gents
We are living fowly and slast.

My Trip To Bhutan

2010-05-28T19:26:00.009+05:30

So I went to Bhutan recently. It was a trip. There were fourteen of us totally, all from the glorious Indian Institute of Technology Madras. It was a northward trip, since Madras is in South India and Bhutan is Northeast of India. Look it the atlas and you will see for yourself.
So there were basically fourteen of us, like I said already. These fourteen were Serpent, Shanking, Mother, Sister-in-law, Monkey, Basu, Charles, Bee, Gorilla, S&M (that's two people), Samwise, Nature, and I (names changed to protect identities, but I can tell you that I is me).

So Bhutan was nice. It was cool and all. But I have titled this post "My Trip To Bhutan" and not "My Stay In Bhutan" or "Bhutanese Sojourn" or "Sojournese Bhutan" or "My Brief, Albeit Enjoyable Visit To The Land Of The Thunder Dragon", although these would all be perfectly appropriate titles, because I spent more time getting to Bhutan and back than I spent in Bhutan.

So actually the correct title of this post should be "My Trip To And From Bhutan" or "My Trip To Bhutan And From It", although if I really want to be precise I should include my stay there as well, so let the final title stand at "My Trip To And From And My Stay In Bhutan". Fine, that's settled then.

So I took a bus out of Manali, where I'd been holidaying with my parents and sister for a week. Manali was nice. It was cool and all. I ate the best Aloo Parathas of my life in a dhaba outside our hotel there. We also did some white water rafting on the Beas although the water was calmer than we would have liked. We also went to the Rohtang Pass and saw snow and stuff. It was cool. I was seeing snow after some sixteen years I think. I missed it. When I saw the snow I cried like anything and my tears froze on my face and broke off as solid pieces of ice into the freezing cold snow. It was touching.

So, as I was saying, I took a bus out of Manali one evening and reached Delhi the next morning, hung out with a friend over there for a while, whose name is DPM, if you must know (name changed). There I met up with Charles and Sister-in-law and S (of S&M) and headed for the New Delhi Railway Station. It was crowded like anything. Our train arrived at a different platform from the one it was supposed to, with the result that everyone getting on that train had to move to a different platform, because of which everyone was moving at once. I heard that there was a stampede at the New Delhi Railway Station the next day - there very nearly was one when we were there. In that sort of crowd you have very little control over your own movements. If the crowd around you is moving, you move. If it's standing still, you stand still, whether you like it or not. Everyone's always yelling at you not to push, but you're the one who's being pushed and the person who's pushing you is being pushed by the person behind him and he's being pushed by the person behind him and she's being pushed by another person and you can trace the pushing all the way back to the prime mover of all things. I almost got pushed down a flight of stairs. The only way I prevented that was by turning around and pushing in the opposite direction. It's not easy resisting the weight of an infinite number of people pushing downwards. There was a lot of yelling and fighting and you could hear a lot of saales and bhenchods (names changed) in the air.

So finally we survived it and got on the train, as did Monkey who joined us at the station. Our train was the Duronto Express to Kolkata and I don't know who started it but there was a rumour going around that the train was entirely air-conditioned and even though we had sleeper tickets we might actually be in an AC coach since this was some Mamata Bannerjee's new train that was all ozum and whatnot. It was not air-conditioned. We did have plug points, though.
So the Duronto Express reached Kolkata about three hours late and that was late enough for us to end up missing our connecting train out of Kolkata, the Puri KYQ Express, which we were to take to Siliguri.

So there we were, stranded in Howrah Railway station in Kolkata, where Gorilla joined us. We needed to find a way to get to Siliguri in time to catch the 7 AM bus out of Siliguri to Phuentsholing, which is the entry point into Bhutan (all place and train names unchanged, btw). Do we take a bus or another train out of Kolkata? Everyone seemed to have more faith in the railways. This would change very soon.

So the six of us (Charles, Sister-in-law, S, Monkey, Gorilla, and I (that's four girls and two guys, if you were wondering)) bought unreserved tickets to get on the Guwahati Express which would take us to Siliguri and was by good fortune the same train that the members of our group joining from Chennai were on. There were five of them on the train from Chennai: Mother, Serpent, Shanking, Basu, and M (of S&M). Basu and M were pseudboys so they were in the 2 tier AC section while Mother, Serpent and Shanking were in Sleeper (Mother did not have a confirmed berth, so they had two berths between the three of them). There were six more of us getting on the train. We needed a plan.

So we decided that we'd leave all our luggage with the reserved people. Two of us (Charles and I) took on this task while the others had the task of catching space in the unreserved compartment. The others did not do as they were supposed to. Monkey and S decided to stick around the AC compartment with Basu and M. Charles, Gorilla, Sister-in-law and I managed to catch a total of one bumspace in the unreserved compartment. Unreserved compartments are nice. They are spacious, if you are willing to compromise greatly on your standards of spaciousness, and are filled with warm, sweaty people.

So the four of us lasted about three hours in the unreserved compartment before we decided we had better try something else. Honestly, I voted for sticking around in the unreserved compartment for longer. I said it would be an interesting challenge. I am glad nobody listened to me. If I had followed my suggestion I might have turned into a puddle before we reached Siliguri.

So we got out of the train at Bolpur, the next station, and quickly entered the sleeper section. We learnt that Monkey and S had already been kicked out of the AC compartment, so going there was not an option for us. We squeezed in however we could alongside Mother and Serpent and Shanking, three and four of us sitting on the upper berths.

So the TTE arrived, told us all to get lost, at which point we begged and pleaded with him a little bit and paid him to upgrade our unreserved tickets to sleeper ones. Of course, we still had only the same amount of space as before, but at least now we weren't travelling illegally. I'd like to apologise to all the other travellers around us whom we no doubt inconvenienced by our presence. I hate it when people crowd reserved space on trains, it kind of makes the concept of reservation meaningless. Now I have been on the other side of that. I'm really grateful that the other passengers accommodated us - some with a little grumbling, others quite cheerfully.

This was the last fortunate event that took place on that train ride - us not having to do the entire journey in the unreserved compartment. After this point it was clear that this train journey was somehow cursed. First the train stopped for a long time in the middle of nowhere. After a while, we discovered that it had stopped because a goods train ahead of it had derailed and the path was blocked. On top of that, the train had run completely out of water - drinking and tap water. This meant that the train would have to backtrack in order to recharge supplies, or just stand right there while people died of thirst.
At the time when we were supposed to have reached Siliguri, the train was moving away from our destination, back towards Howrah. We decided that if the train went all the way back to Howrah, we'd get off and try our luck with buses. There was already no way we were going to catch the 7AM bus out of Siliguri to Phuentsholing.

When night-time came around there were a total of 11 of us with 4 berths to share. Six of us squeezed into the upper berths and, putting our legs across to the opposite berth, slept in odd, uncomfortable, and as we would realise the next morning, painful positions. Charles couldn't manage it, and sat out the entire night in a hunched position on the lower berth. But that was not before we exhausted ourselves playing several rounds of dumb charades and Chi Ku Li Ba, made all the more entertaining by the lack of available space to mime and gesture in.

That night there was apparently a ruckus on the train. Some coach attendants near the AC section threw themselves a little party and got drunk. Some time in the night some supposedly political people boarded the train, got into a fight with the drunk coach attendants, and were thrown off the train. These people, who were detrained, swore to return the next day with a mob and thrash these attendants, including one who supposedly ran from the fight.
The next day, some time in the afternoon, we hear that a member of our group, M, has been beaten up by some random dudes. He is in the AC coach and we go to see him, and his face is all puffed up and he's bleeding.

So the story goes that these detrained people did indeed come back with a mob that day and went around looking for the people whom they got into a fight with the previous night. Somehow they saw M and decided that he was that one guy who got away, thrashed him soundly, and escaped before anyone could do anything about it. The thrashing was over before M even realised what was going on. He kept trying to ask them why they were beating him, but they just replied in punches. Apparently one of these guys hung from a curtain rod and kicked M in the face. I saw the broken curtain rod. I wasn't there to see it, but it seems the mob actually came with the police, who watched the thrashing happen. When M tried to file an FIR shortly afterwards, the policeman wrote down something on the back of a scrap of paper and said it had been filed.

Aaaanyway. M's injuries weren't as bad as they seemed at first. We thought he'd broken some teeth, but they were thankfully all intact, and his face deswelled considerably a little while after the incident.

Shortly after the incident I met a guy named Krizna in the AC compartment who had just finished studying medicine in Pondicherry University and was heading back to his home in Thimphu. He told me that he was the one whom the mob was actually looking to beat up. Being a waitlisted passenger, the previous night, he had been sleeping near the vestibule, and when he heard the noise of the fight, he went to see what was going on. When the people there saw his face, they thought he was one of the drunk coach attendants and tried to catch him. He managed to get away. The next day the mob somehow mistook M for Krizna and beat him up instead. What a mob of idiots. First they try to find and beat up a guy who has nothing to do with any of this, and on top of that they catch the wrong guy and beat him up. I wonder with what degree of satisfaction they walked away after they had beaten up M. Were they just looking for someone to beat up?

Phew. Finally. Our train reached the New Jalpaiguri station. We obviously missed the 7 AM bus to Bhutan, but the afternoon bus we were hoping to make it in time for left as well. Our options were: spend the night in Siliguri and try to catch a bus the next morning, or get a cab to take us to Bhutan right away. We tried option number two. No cab was willing to drive us to the border, because we had decided to arrive right at the time when there was a big Adivasi agitation going on just outside the Siliguri area. They had supposedly burned down a tourist bus on the road the previous day, and everyone was telling us that heading in that direction was dangerous.

Soooo... we faffed around near the NJP station for a while, kept trying to make something work, while joking about how if the Adivasis tried to stop our cab with bows and arrows we ought to tell our cab driver to keep going and mow down those of them who stood in our way. But we eventually decided that by taking a train to New Alipur (I think that's the right name, but I'm not sure) and a cab from there we might manage to bypass the Adivasi trouble. At this point in the journey Samwise and Nature joined us.

We got on the train to New Alipur, and while the train stood at the station, a boy about ten years old came to us begging. Although really he stretched the definition of begging, because he was more of a demander than a beggar. Serpent was eating his bread omelette when the boy tried to snatch it out of his hands. Serpent stuffed the last of it in his mouth before the boy could. Then the boy turned to the rest of us. I had an unopened packet of biscuits that no one seemed to want, so I gave them to him. He didn't leave. He stayed there asking for more. He noticed a couple of leaves sticking out of Nature's bag, and he pointed at the bag and started demanding lychees. She was carrying lychees in her bag, but we'd just given him a whole packet of biscuits so we told him to get lost. He just stood there, pointing and demanding lychees. We kept refusing, and eventually he got so adamant in his demanding that he returned the packet of biscuits and said he would take only lychees. So we took back the biscuits and Nature gave him a couple of lychees and we told him to leave. He didn't. He asked for the packet of biscuits back. We refused and when he kept insisting, began to ignore him. I have never in my life seen a more persistent beggar. Ignoring him did not seem to work. He just kept asking for the biscuits and pointing at where he thought we had kept them. When we continued to ignore him, he went outside the train, stuck his hand through the window and demanded them again. Again he made such a tantrum for the biscuits that he chucked the two lychees we gave him on the tracks. After a really long time he gave up and went away, but only after having cursed us all to get indigestion.

We reached New Alipur some time after midnight, where we were joined by Bee, and there managed to get a cab driver who agreed to take us to the border as long as we left immediately, because Adivasi trouble was likely to begin again in the morning. All fourteen of us squeezed into one jeep, and we reached the Indo-Bhutan border at about 3.30 AM. We crossed into Bhutan and sat down on the side of the road, where some of us crashed off. Gorilla, for example, after having denied she was sleepy the whole way until that point, slept the most corpse-like sleep I have ever seen on that side of the road in Phuentsholing. Phuentsholing is the border town, and we couldn't go any further into Bhutan without obtaining permits, for which we'd have to wait for the permit office to open at 9 AM.

But we had made it into Bhutan. That was My Trip To Bhutan. Maybe later I'll tell you about My Stay In Bhutan and My Escape From Bhutan. But for now I'm exhausted. Good night.

Crying Ugly Man

2010-05-03T19:43:00.004+05:30

"I have bread for eyes and my nose is filled with nostrils! Woe is me!"

Black Humour

2010-03-12T23:49:00.002+05:30

Our hero dies
Like a dog
Battered
Defeated
Humiliated
And in the tragic silence that follows
One idiot in the audience
Begins to laugh

My department is putting up its annual play production tomorrow and day after: Black Comedy by Peter Shaffer. It's actually just regular comedy in the dark. I'm acting. 5.30 PM on 13th and 14th March, Central Lecture Theatre, IITM.

Deepak And His Marvellous Time Travelling Shoes (That Do Not Work)

2009-12-17T22:02:00.007+05:30

“No,” said Deepak, “I do not want regular shoes. I want special.”

The bewildered salesman scratched his head in ponderment.

“What is this special special?” he asked. “I’ve shown you the most expensive shoe we have. More special than this is not there.”

Deepak was sad.

“But I want special shoes!” he cried.

The salesman went and got his manager and came.

“This boy wants special shoes,” he said, holding up a pair of red-and-green shoes with in-built wheels and laser guns and an mp3 player. “But our shoes don’t get more special than these, and he wants something more special (than these).”

“Boy,” said the manager, looking down the length of his long nose (at Deepak (who was the boy)), “you want more special shoes than these?”

“Yes,” said Deepak. He wanted shoes that were more special than those.

“But these shoes have an mp3 player,” argued the manager, “in each shoe. You can hear to two songs simultaneously, and enjoy like anything!”

The manager pointed to the shoes and slurped and smacked his lips for effect.

“What is so special about mp3 players? Just because there are two does not make it special. A regular ball-point pen is not special. Does having two of them make it special, I ask.”

The manager scratched his chin and nodded in agreement. “The boy speaks the truth, as if he has become old with age and is speaking with the wisdom that he has got from that.”

“Yes,” said the salesman, “I agree wholeheartedly. If there is one thing special in this shoe shop it is this wise boy.”

“No,” said the manager. “I mean, yes, the boy is special, but there is one other thing that is special in this shoe shop. Rather, there are two other things. Rather, there is one pair of special things. Rather, there is one special pair of things.”

“Is that a pair of shoes you are talking about?” asked Deepak, his eyes widening in hopefulness.

“Yes,” said the manager. “But first, I will have to see if you are worthy. I know that you are wise, you have already proven that you are so. But are you brave? And kind? And capable of drinking 8 litres of bananas?”

“Bananas are solid,” said Deepak, “They cannot be drunk.”

“Well then what do you call a banana that’s had too much alcohol?” asked the salesman, and laughed uproariously at his own joke.

But the manager did not laugh. He was as serious as hell.

“You have passed the first test,” said the manager, “simply by pointing out that bananas are solid. You have now shown that you are wise.”

“But I thought you said I had already proven that I am wise,” asked the ever-observant Deepak.

“Ah, for noticing that, I now know that you are truly wise.”

“And prior to this I was falsely wise?”

“Listen, boy! What is your name?”

“Deepak,” said Deepak, stating his name.

“Listen, Deepak! If you go on asking troublesome questions I cannot sell you the shoes.”

“Alright, fine, I’m sorry. I won’t ask any more questions.”

“Alas!” exclaimed the manager, his hands being thrown up in the air by him. “This was also a test, and to succeed you would have had to show that your inquisitive spirit could not be quelled. Unfortunately, it has, and therefore you have failed the test. Therefore, you cannot get the shoes. Which are special.”

“Listen,” Deepak exclaimed! “How many of these tests are there? I am a school boy and therefore subject to several tests a day. Already today I have taken five. One maths, one physics, one jokology, one economics, and one which you just now passed me through. I am exhausted of tests. Are you going to sell me the shoes or not?”

The manager looked happy.

“See?” he told the salesman, seeing Deepak.

“Yes,” said the salesman.

“I wasn’t finished. See? The boy is still asking questions. His inquisitive spirit has not been quelled after all. Go fetch the secret box from the secret room.”

The salesman’s jaw dropped. Then he picked it up and went to the secret room and fetched the secret box.

The secret box was roughly the size of a shoebox, and one would have thought it contained a pair of shoes, if the box were not stamped with the letters SECRET in bright red letters all over.

“What I am about to show you,” the manager said, “is extremely secret.”

“Even I have not seen what is inside the box,” exclaimed the salesman!

Slowly, the manager pried the secret lid off the secret box. Inside there was a pair of brown shoes, made of what seemed to be regular shoe material.

“These might seem to be the most regular shoes in the world,” said the manager, but these are actually the most special shoes in the world. At least they are the most special shoes in the world that we can sell you.”

“They seem to be regular,” said Deepak.

“That’s what I said, no, they seem regular, but in reality they are not at all regular. I mean, they are regular in the sense that you can wear them much like regular shoes, and they perform the function of regular shoes reasonably well, but there is an element of specialty to them that you will find in no other shoes.”

“What makes them special?” asked Deepak.

“I am glad you asked me that,” said the manager, “because I was just about to tell you. Now, when I tell you this, nobody will know the secret of these shoes except for the three of us. Even the maker of the shoes does not know their secret.”

“Why is that?” asked Deepak and the salesman in unison.

“Because the shoemaker is dead. He was killed by elves, apparently. Anyway, here is the secret of these shoes. They are marvellous, time-travelling shoes.”

“What?” asked Deepak.

“These shoes, when worn, enable the wearer to travel through the dimension of time!”

The salesman’s jaw dropped.

“How much do they cost?” asked Deepak, who, being as wise as he was, knew that time travel could not come cheaply.

“Obviously there can be no price tag attached to these shoes. They are priceless. But since you passed my tests and showed yourself to be worthy, I am giving them to you at a discounted price of Rs. 3,000/- only,” said the manager.

“Considering the original price was priceless, it is quite a huge discount,” said the salesman.

“Indeed,” said the manager. “The only condition to this discount is that you cannot tell anyone the secret of these shoes. Nobody will know about their time-travelling capabilities except you and me.”

“What about him?” Deepak asked, referring to the salesman.

The manager then killed the salesman with a shoe.

“Who?” asked the manager.

So Deepak paid the manager three thousand rupees and walked away from the store as the proud owner of a new pair of time-travelling shoes.

At home, Deepak tried on his new shoes. They were a perfect fit, quite comfortable, and now that he thought about it, really quite good-looking, too. He wondered if they only appeared good-looking to him because he knew that they were secretly time-travelling shoes as well, but when his father saw the shoes and said how good they looked, Deepak knew they really were good-looking.

But they did not work.

At least, Deepak could not figure out how to make them work. The secret box contained no instructions on how to use the time-travel feature of the shoes, and no matter what Deepak tried, he could not get them to time travel. He resolved to go back to the shop the next morning and ask the manager how to use them.

But the next morning, the shop was gone. It simply vanished. Rather, it had shut down, and in its place was a unisex beauty salon called Byoodafal, as its big board announced in giant purple letters, alongside a picture of an androgynous man or woman.

“What happened to the shoe shop?” asked Deepak to the receptionist at the beauty salon.

“What shoe shop? Go away, this salon is not for boys. It is for unisex,” said the receptionist and shooed Deepak out of the store.

Deepak was sad. He had a pair of marvellous time-travelling shoes that did not work. Rather, he could not figure out how to make them work.

For years, three years to be precise, Deepak tried to make his time-travelling shoes work, and never took them off, except while bathing, because he feared that the shoes might suddenly decide to time travel and leave him behind. He also searched everywhere for the manager of the shoe store, but to no avail.

Except, one day, exactly three years after that fateful day in the shoe store, Deepak saw a man walking down the street who looked remarkably like

“Shoe store manager,” Deepak yelled!

The man on the street stopped in his tracks and turned to Deepak. There was a spark of recognition in his eyes. The manager had not forgotten his very last customer.

“Hello, Deepak,” said the manager.

Deepak went up to the manager, grabbed him by his collar, and shook him violently.

“For three years I have been looking everywhere for you. These marvellous time-travelling shoes you sold me do not work! At least, I have not figured out how to make them work.”

“What year is it?” asked the manager, who suddenly looked very puzzled.

“It is 2009,” said Deepak.

“Are you serious?!” the manager said incredulously. “But I sold you those shoes in 2006!”

“Yes you did. So?”

“Don’t you realise, Deepak, you have been using the shoes correctly all along! Have you not travelled through time since that fateful day in the shoe store? Have you not travelled three years into the future in those very shoes?!”

Deepak realised that he had been using the time travel feature of the shoes all along. He had thought that his marvellous time-travelling shoes did not work, but they had in fact, been working continuously since that fateful day in the shoe store.

For the first time in three years, Deepak felt something akin to happiness.

Some Of Us Get Rich, All Of Us Drown

2009-12-09T01:23:00.005+05:30

Allow me to express myself in other people's words:

I just read this:

"I think our society is run by insane people for insane objectives and I sussed that when I was sixteen and twelve, way down the line. But, I expressed it differently all through my life. But now, I can put it into that sentence that I think we're being run by maniacs for maniacal ends! If anybody can put on paper what our government, and the American government etc., and Russian, Chinese, what they are actually trying to do, you know, and what they think they're doing, I'd be very pleased to know. I think they're all insane! But, I'm liable to be put away for being insane for expressing that. That's what's insane about it. It's insane, it's not just a bit strange, it's insane. Half the people watching this are going to be saying, 'Oh, what's he saying? What's he saying?' You are being run by people who are insane, and you don't know it!"
- John Lennon (1968)

And just a few minutes later I read this extremely disturbing piece of news.

The world is ending (as we have grown to know and love it, at least), and for some people that's good news as long as they can make money out of it.

But T-Rex, of the always insightful Dinosaur Comics, discusses the question, "How much would it cost to buy the whole dang planet?".
When you don't have a planet, what are you going to do with your money? Wipe your ass with it? I really think bumshowers are better.

And this nice lady points out why the way in which the people at Copenhagen are thinking about solving Climate Change is not too different from a scam.

It scares me.

But I do take comfort in Dr K's reassurance that the Earth will put climate change on hold for us while we figure out how to deal with it.

--

Also, did you know that there is now a website that lets you offset cheating on a partner? It's a terrific idea!

Thanks to Doggie for a lot of these links.

And Now For Something Completely The Same

2009-12-07T23:45:00.002+05:30

Have you ever wondered why water is always wet? Why haven't they invented dry water yet? I mean, they have heavy water, and hard water, and fresh lime water, but they don't have dry water.

People have reacted to my daily updates in different ways. My parents are not too thrilled. They didn't laugh at my law joke, or the overheard story. I know some other people did laugh.

Hmmmm. Well, I'm sure nobody is laughing at this one. So let me leave you with the greatest joke in the world (of my composal). Those of you who have heard it before, don't ruin it for the others.

So there's this friend, walking down the street. He's just walking, it's a pleasant day in Chennai, so he's just walking jollily, whistling a tune, or maybe humming it, I don't know. It is a tune from Kaakha Kaakha, the one that sounds like it was copied from Sabbath Bloody Sabbath.
Anyway, so, he's just walking down the street, and then, suddenly, he meets his friend, walking in the other direction. Let us call this friend Friend 2, and the first friend Friend 1. They are friends of each other, in case you were wondering. But they haven't seen each other in a long time.

So Friend 1 says to Friend 2: Hi friend!
And Friend 2 says to Friend 1: Hi friend!
And then they talk about old times, and new times, and life, and love, and laughter, and leopard conservation, and chew the fat in general.

And then Friend 2 says to Friend 1: Hey, friend! I like your shirt. Where did you get it?
And Friend 1 says: I got it at Pantaloons, friend.
So Friend 2 says: So where did you get your pants? AT SHIRTALOONS?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

An Overheard Story

2009-12-06T21:10:00.002+05:30

Vigilant readers of this blog might have noticed something about my post yesterday.

Anyway, today I thought I'd tell you an absolutely brilliant story I overheard while eating Dahi Papdi Chaat at the Juice Centre or Juice Planet or something in Spencer's Plaza. Now I might have overheard it wrong, and totally devoid of context, but this is what reached my ears, and I'm telling it differently:

So there was this guy and this girl who got married. The guy was 18 and the girl was 64. As you might imagine, it wasn't the most conventional of marriages, considering the bride was so much older than the groom. Nevertheless, they got married with much pomp and ceremony. Or not. I wasn't there.
Anyway, about two weeks after the wedding, the guy was found dead. Only 18 years old.
He died from drinking spoilt milk.

See you tomorrow!

On Behalf Of Law Students Everywhere

2009-12-04T22:17:00.003+05:30

Law is so great. It is so lawvley. I lawve it more than The Beatles also.

Here is a joke:

Lawyer 1: I am a lawyer.
Lawyer 2: Me also!
Lawyer 1: Hey we are both so great.
Lawyer 2: Yes, because of the laws.
Lawyer 1: Haha.

December 3

2009-12-03T23:07:00.002+05:30

So maybe I spoke too soon about blog stories not being accepted for publication. I sent out Pizza Of Sanguine today, and it got accepted! Fastest response I've ever received, too.
It's being published by The Wry Writer, an online speculative fiction+humour magazine, and should appear on their site some time next week. It's new, apparently, but quite stud. I liked this story quite a bit.

Right. Day 3's update achieved. 28 more days to go.

Apparently the Karadi Tales Mythology series is the fastest moving Karadi Tales series, even more than the recent Will You Read With Me? series that consists of stories read by the likes of Sanjay Dutt and Vidya Balan and Soha Ali Khan and other big actors. Seems like people are more crazy about mythology than even Bollywood.

It's interesting. Mythology is interesting, there's no doubt about it. And for a lot of Indian writers it seems to cast a long shadow. Not that I can claim to have read a lot of Indian writers, but if standing around in Odyssey and reading the titles and blurbs of the books on the Indian Writing shelves is anything to go by, we seem to be quite unwilling to let go of these ancient stories. Especially the epics, and of the two, especially The Mahabharata.

One thing's for sure: Vyasa was right when he said "What is found here, may be found elsewhere. What is not found here, will not be found elsewhere," at the start of The Mahabharata. It's a precedent that's hard, if not entirely impossible, to surpass, and I'm sure it's bound to give any writer who reads it a complex. How can you beat a story that's been constructed over thousands of years by millions of people? I think that's why it's so hard to let go of these mythologies, they're so pervasive, and for some reason we don't seem to get tired of hearing those same stories over and over again.

After all, if you believe, consciously or not, that those ancient texts have already told every story that there is to tell, anything you write can only be a retelling.
In which case, postmodernism has been around for a really long time in India. You could say it began when the mythologies ended, but the mythologies haven't ended, have they?

Today I was asked to write the story of Prahlada for Karadi Tales.

December 2

2009-12-02T19:07:00.003+05:30

Already I am regretting what I said yesterday.

I have nothing to write about.

Shouldn't I post only when I have something meaningful to say? Otherwise it could end up like my twitter account. My flirtation with 140-characters-or-less posts seems to have ended, it seems, and daily I get emails saying that more and more people are following my tweets.

Tweets. Is it just me or does that word sound incredibly idiotic?

I had started posting fragments of the next story in the Malaise Burger/Pizza Of Sanguine saga on my twitter thing, when I realised that was probably not a good idea. I haven't written the story yet, but I have a draft in my blogger account that is titled "Cardiac Idli" and has no text in it.

Pizza Of Sanguine was originally titled Pasta Of Ill Will, so there's no saying for sure that Cardiac Idli is what the next story is going to be called, or if I will even finish writing it.

See? This is exactly the sort of thing that I feared would happen. I'm rambling. And it's not even interesting rambling.

So let me distract you by pointing you to my other blog where I recently put up a paper on the writings of Franz Kafka. I can't come up with anything original for that blog, so it looks like I'm just going to be putting up papers I write for college.
But Kafka has seriously captured my heart and imagination and imaginative heart and hearty imagination. Whatte guy, I say. They say a lot of his writing is lost in translation. Maybe I should learn German properly, just to read The Metamorphosis as Die Verwandlung. Kafka's stories are simple and complex, comic and tragic, all at the same time. I just bought a collection of all his short stories.

Meanwhile, I am preparing my reading list for the holidays, at the top of which are Heller's Catch-22 (which I have already read, but want to read again), and Edgar Allan Poe, both of which are for college work next semester, and I'm trying to find a copy of William Burroughs's The Naked Lunch. Tell if you have. And recommend what else I could read. Of course, people are always recommending stuff and I never listen to them, but recommend something anyway, I just might read it.

So I'm off to a not-so-great start, but at least I've posted on the second day. Let's hope tomorrow's post is better.

December

2009-12-01T18:09:00.003+05:30

This year has been somewhat quiet for this blog. My last post was in October and the one before that in July.
I have decided, in compensation, to try posting every day of this month. I have holidays, and I'm not planning to go anywhere, so it's possible. Today's the first of December, so here goes:

Today is Karthigai Deepam. Happy Karthigai Deepam everyone. Have Neiappams. I know I will.

Posting stories on my blog is a bad idea, it seems, especially if I want to send them out for publication. A lot of literary magazines that take online submissions won't accept previously published stuff, and the definition of previously published for some of them includes stuff that's been put up on blogs.
Still, I've sent out The Poor Merchant And The Underwear Tree to one magazine, and it hasn't been rejected yet, so that's encouraging. Meanwhile, I've received three rejections from other magazines for other stories, one of which was Malaise Burger.

So... no more stories on my blog then, at least nothing that I might want to send out for publication. And I don't want to keep posting stuff from Manickchandru's journals, because this is my blog, not Manickchandru's, right?

Hopefully tomorrow I shall have figured something out. See you then.

Heartburn

2009-10-08T15:18:00.005+05:30

From the journals of the late legendary government poet D. Manickchandru.

I took those feelings
Locked them up in a chest
More stubborn than you
Dropped it to the bottom of the ocean
And swallowed the key
With a glass of salt water.

But the ocean is boiling
And soon it will dry up
Leaving only a burning chest
And terrible indigestion.

Seven Things You Probably Didn't Know About The Solar Eclipse

2009-07-21T09:47:00.003+05:30

As you probably know, there's a solar eclipse happening tomorrow that's part of an eclipse trilogy: Lunar Eclipse on July 7, Solar Eclipse on July 22, Lunar Eclipse on August 6.

Personally I feel it's a bit unimaginative to use a Lunar Eclipse for the third part of the trilogy when it was already there for the first part. It's a bit like if Tolkien wrote The Fellowship of the Ring as the third part of The Lord of the Rings.

My friend who's interning at the Chennai Times asked me for a quote about what I thought about tomorrow's Solar Eclipse, and before I even realised it, I was answering as Dr K. Here are the things I told him, and some more - things you probably never knew about the solar eclipse:

1. Mooning the Sun is a fun thing to do.

2. Contrary to popular belief, the solar eclipse is not an act of protest by the Sun for Earth's rampant exploitation of its energy.

3. Samosas are not to be heated beyond 50 degrees C during a solar eclipse.

4. We are advised not to look directly at the solar eclipse because it is a mating of the Sun and the Moon, and watching that would not be a polite thing to do.

5. There are many people who find this blatant display in the sky of solar-lunar sex offensive and say that the solar eclipse goes against Indian culture.

6. Although the genders of neither the Sun or the Moon are known with certainty, experts have hypothesised that they are both female, and that the eclipse is a lesbian mating, due to the casting off of two brassieres - um and penum.

7. According to astronomers, during a total solar eclipse, it is possible to see that the Sun is immersed in a bath of Corona beer. Astronomers are divided over whether or not the Sun's constant state of inebriation is a good thing.

Worldbuilding Exercise

2009-07-10T12:15:00.003+05:30

Here's another exercise from the SF Writing Workshop - we were asked to write a passage (that was not purely descriptive), that evoked an alien setting. Alien here meaning anything different from the world as we know it. Here's my scene in a fantasy world:

I watched the meteorite descend and explode in a ball of flame on the left bank, more than a hundred metres away from my little rowboat on the Blue River. Miss. I traced the path of another as it flew through the sky and struck one of the abandoned decaying buildings on the edge of the right bank a couple hundred metres downstream. The building crumbled and the rubble flowed into the river, as a flock of gigantic crows cawed in alarm and rose into the air chaotically. Miss. Thank god for the Carples' terrible targeting. They could destroy forts and castles with their flaming fireballs from the sky, but hitting one man in a tiny rowboat moving quickly downstream was close to impossible. I could sense their frustration and panic as their strikes grew more and more frequent and frantic. Miss. Miss. Miss. Once I was out into the Violet Sea, the Carples would have lost me forever, as well as their King's prized tome on necromancy. Clouds of ash and smoke rose into the air from the spots where the meteorites had struck. I looked through my binoculars towards the sea. Another kilometre or so, and I was free. I adjusted the focus to trace the path of the river between me and its mouth. And then I noticed a small army of Carple Bowmen, identifiable by their deep blue uniforms and sparkling gold crow emblems. The stood on the bridge that hung over the final section of the river. The bridge was a massive structure in white stone. Its monolithic supports grew out of the water and flowed seamlessly into it, as if the entire structure had been sculpted out of a single rock. The archers patiently waited, looking over the river, waiting for me to get close enough for a shot. The Carple meteorites might never hit their target, but those archers, they'd never miss. There was no turning back either. I could jump into the water and hope to escape the archers underwater, but through the crystal water of the Blue River, the archers would have no problem hitting me. Another meteorite struck the edge of the left bank, dangerously close. I could feel fingers of heat groping for me from the point of its impact. Miss. I could see the archers readying their bows. I was almost within their range. The pink rays of the Sun suddenly brightened the area as the clouds moved out of their way. They bounced off the surface of the Blue River, creating a white glare. I hoped the archers would be blinded by it, at least long enough for me to slip past the bridge, but Carple archers are trained to look through such glares. They fit arrows to their bows. Because of the sunlight, I didn't notice one more gigantic fireball descending from the sky. I noticed it only as it flew into my vision, flying down the remaining length of the river, and striking the white stone, turning the monolithic bridge into rubble. The burning archers fell with the broken fragments of the bridge into the water. Hit.

Morning Exercise

2009-06-30T20:26:00.004+05:30

Our instructor at the Science Fiction writing workshop this week gave us an exercise, for which we had to write first thing in the morning. As soon as you get out of bed, while you're still groggy, write a couple of paragraphs. This is what came out of my half sleep, unedited except for paragraphing and corrections of spelling errors:

You fall into the realisation that this is not real. In your hand you hold a slug which you gently drop into your morning tea. It dissolves quickly and the flavour it imparts to the beverage is profound. You take a sip and begin to see visions of the truth. They are hallucinations, yes, but hallucinations that pierce through the veil of illusion and give you a glimpse at what is behind it, what is constantly around us that we fail to observe.
You take another sip and you see god. You realise now that it is difficult for anyone to believe or not believe in god. Even with your slug-induced vision, god is sheer incomprehensibility. It is possible that even someone who sees it does not believe, for it defies both belief and disbelief. It is beyond binaries, beyond human "truths", beyond human judgement, beyond human.
You take another sip and then put down the teacup, your hand trembling viciously. Drinking slugs is not addictive - it is the very opposite of addictive. You swear you will never do it again. Why see the truth when it's so easy not to?

It's nice to see I think of god first thing in the morning. And hallucinogenic slugs in tea.
What do you think of?

My Room In IIT Kanpur

2009-06-23T20:08:00.003+05:30

Hot. Hot. Hot.
Dark room. Bright room. Closed windows. Open windows. I've tried everything, but my room seems to take pride in the fact that it is a perennial tandoor.
Shiva's third eye must be opening nearby.
Maximise surface area, I tell myself. Shavasana on the radiating mattress. Skin on skin leads to a sweaty suffocation - folded legs and arms drown in the sweat that has no room to evaporate.
The whirring of the fan provides only psychological comfort - it can only circulate the hot, stale air that plays with the empty water bottles on the floor, rolling them back and forth. I try lying on the floor, but where my mattress is a radiator, the floor is a sheet of naked, live coals. I move back to the mattress.
Shut up, you goddamn peacock. It's hard enough to sleep as it is.

One Fine Day In The Life Of An Entomologist

2009-06-17T18:31:00.005+05:30

At the science fiction writing workshop I'm attending, we were given an exercise in which we had to describe a creature that was half-human and half-something else in a couple of paragraphs. Here's what I wrote:

One Fine Day In The Life Of An Entomologist

She - it - no, she - definitely didn't belong here. Not that I knew where she belonged, but I know the things that belong in my bedroom, and she wasn't one of them.

She wanted to mate.

She wasn't unattractive, from the waist down at least - those were the most gorgeous legs I'd ever seen. Smooth, long, and the colour of rich dark chocolate; I was sure they tasted like chocolate too.
It was her upper half that was the problem. Her bright green torso, head, and arms might have driven a male praying mantis wild, but that's what was holding me back.
Mandibles clicking excitedly, she drew closer to me, extending her pincer-like forearms to grab me.
"Look," I said to her, drawing back, "it's not that I find you unattractive; you're truly... breathtaking. And I'm tempted, I really am, but I know if I mate with you, you'll bite my head off, and over the years I've grown rather attached to my head."
She gently lowered her triangular head and gazed deeply into my eyes, the streaming light from the window breaking into the colours of the rainbow on the surface of her compound eyes. Tenderly, she caressed me with her antennae.

I dropped my pants.

Let's Monkey!

2009-05-28T19:14:00.003+05:30

6th of June - be there.

Click on the image for a larger version.

Manickchandru's Haiku

2009-05-14T23:53:00.003+05:30

Here are four, previously unpublished, untitled, Haiku poems from the journals of the Legendary poet D. Manickchandru. They were written at different points in his life, and cover different subjects, such as nature, love, cartoons, and love.

Haiku 1

A creeper dangles
It sways in the gentle breeze
Of Nina's buttocks

-
Haiku 2

It's hard to tell you
In seventeen syllables
How much I love you

-
Haiku 3

Your scent fills my head
With memories of childhood
You smell like Popeye

-
Haiku 4

I love you despite
Your numerous flaws such as
A H1N1

Dr K's Cure For Sanity Turns One!

2009-04-18T21:32:00.004+05:30

Today marks the first anniversary of my column, Dr K's Cure for Sanity, that appears in the New Indian Express on Saturdays in the Zeitgeist supplement. On the 19th of April, 2008, the first edition of the column was printed, and it was titled "History of the Banana and Feminist Protests". The editors at TNIE usually title my columns themselves. It's only the 18th today, but I figured today's the anniversary since it's the third Saturday of April. I managed to complete a year without missing a single week, which at many points I thought I was going to do. I almost gave up on the column once, and now I'm quite glad I didn't. I owe much thanks to Lavanya for giving me last-minute ideas when I was absolutely out of them, to everyone who ever asked me a question, and of course, to everyone who noticed and read my column and encouraged me.

Well, here's the very first Dr K's Cure for Sanity (the printed version might have had some edits - the text here is from my original draft):
History of the banana and feminist protests (19.04.2008)

Dear Dr. K,

Where do bananas come from? Are they really, as my biology teacher says, the creation of the devil?

Troubledly Confused

Dear Troubledly,

It is a common misconception that bananas are the creation of the devil. In fact, recent research has shown us that it is an altogether more plausible theory that the devil is a creation of bananas.

Unless I am very much mistaken (which I never am), your biology teacher is probably a radical feminist from the late nineteenth to early twentieth century, which is why she insists that bananas are a creation of the devil.

You see, the banana was invented in 1853 A.D. by the Archduke of Banal Nasality, a small monkey-infested archipelago in the North Atlantic. The Archduke Baron von Nanaver invented the banana in an attempt to control the monkey menace in the region. As the monkeys would repeatedly infest and devour sweet potato crops (sweet potatoes were the staple food of Banal Nasalites), it was necessary to try and control them.

The Archduke, therefore, fashioned the banana in a sort of boomerang shape so that they could be used to hit the monkeys with. The bananas were firm enough to drive away the monkeys, but not so firm as to cause them lasting injury.

(The archipelago of Banal Nasality can no longer be found on any globe or atlas, because it was submerged in 1903 due to global warming. Archduke Baron von Nanaver’s last words were reportedly, “Help I’m drowni… burble burble gurgle blub blub.”)

When the bananas were exported to various regions of the world with similar monkey problems, widespread uproar arose from some parts of society – namely, the feminists. They claimed that using such phallic-shaped objects to control animals was analogous to men’s domination over women in society. The first wave of feminism, which was active in the early nineteenth and twentieth century, strongly opposed the import and sale of bananas, deeming it highly offensive to women all over the world. Their slogan was “Ban the Banana” (The original slogan was “Ban a Banana”, which was a lot catchier but made a lot less sense). These feminists also pushed for the ban of various other phallic-shaped objects, such as pens, pencils, salt and pepper shakers, and that thing they use to sprinkle rose water on people at weddings, just to name a few. These feminists believed that the banana was the creation of the devil (because some people also believed Archduke Baron von Nanaver was the devil.)

The first wave of feminism wasn’t very successful in getting the banana banned, as it was proving far too useful in controlling monkey menaces around the world. However, the first wave of feminism did create a lot of concern and awareness about women’s issues, and eventually caused the second wave of feminism starting in the 1960s.

Baba Nandakumar Narvodaya discovered in 1953 that if ripe bananas were peeled, they could be eaten. Somehow this information was leaked to the monkey community, and they realised that the one weapon that was being used against them, to control them, could simply be peeled and eaten.

This discovery led to a huge drop in banana sales worldwide, as they were no longer useful against monkeys. However, despite the drop in banana sales, which was what the first wave of feminists wanted, women were still not getting the rights they wanted. The second wave feminists, instead of opposing the sale of bananas, became the major banana consumers of the era. They would hold huge demonstrations where women would hold, peel, and eat bananas. They would also squish, mash, stomp, and cut up bananas. This was to symbolise that phallic-shaped objects such as bananas could no longer be used to symbolically subjugate women.

Your teacher, therefore, must be a first-wave feminist who has survived into the present day. You can ignore her, she’s passé.

Yours questionably,

Dr. K.

Do you have a question that is troubling your mind? Ask Dr. K!

Proposal Poem

2009-03-26T18:11:00.002+05:30

From an un-mailed, unaddressed letter found among D. Manickchandru's possessions.

You're beginning to swell 'round the middle, darling,
And your once solid thighs are now jelly.
You've taken up the sport of voluminous farting;
And who says loud farts aren't smelly?

Your perfect teeth are now a dull urine yellow,
The years have taken their toll.
You stole the hearts of many a fellow,
But heart attacks frequent the old.

Your laughter would tinkle like children's comics,
But now all it does is bray,
You'd treat your black tresses with all sorts of tonics,
And now it's a drab, lifeless grey.

Your present state does repulse most men,
and to be honest, women, too.
Would it surprise you if I told you, then,
That I'm deeply in love with you?

I've had to wait until you're old and alone,
Before I'm sure you'll agree,
This time you won't say "no" with a groan:
Now will you marry me?

I'm serious.

Holi Day

2009-03-10T15:10:00.003+05:30

Retrieved from the journals of legendary government poet D. Manickchandru. This poem was written on Holi, it seems

Red was the colour of your blood,
and Green the flowing toxic sludge,
Your dying lips' hue was Blue,
Your jaundiced skin was yellow, it's true!
Holi brings back in my mind's eyes
Your tragic, albeit colourful, demise.

Saarang 2009

2009-01-27T20:44:00.007+05:30

I am suffering from a severe case of post-Saarang blues. This Saarang went by quicker than any of the previous ones. I'm ready for Saarang 2010.

I wasn't able to participate in Freestyle Solo Dance, unfortunately. The event had a cap of two participants per college, and two participants from IITM had registered before me. Apparently they were serious about the event and had practised a lot. I was just going to go on stage and act like a possessed person having a fit whilst being electrocuted (with Fatboy Slim's Ya Mama playing in the background).
Ah, well... maybe next Saarang.

The IITM band, Samosa, placed second in the Acoustyx event, and I'm proud to say I was the singer. We played all covers - John Mayer and John Scofield's I Don't Need No Doctor, Santana's Black Magic Woman, and Jethro Tull's Hymn 43. I also danced a little on stage, to make up for my not participating in the Freestyle Solo Dance event. Samosa won't be around next year, unfortunately, seeing as the keyboardist and bassist are in their final year.
I am trying to get my hands on the videos of the performances. I'll upload them once I do.

Oh, and I was on the radio again. Someone from Radio Mirchi called me and interviewed me about winning the Western Music Solo event. Don't blame me for not telling you, they called me without warning and said, "Can you go on the air now?".

I also won the Blind Date event on the Informals stage, and took away a bucketload of discount coupons for a bunch of restaurants (the 'blind date' and I promptly split the coupons and split ways after the event. She was my junior from school).
I was also pleasantly surprised when someone at Saarang identified me as Dr K. He had even read my column of that morning.

I regret having missed Sonu Niigaam. I hear he was quite good. I did watch Opeth, though, and while I find Death Metal quite torturous, I liked portions of what they played. I really liked those guys, though. They were really polite and very nice. They judged the finals of Decibels, which I was in charge of, and they took the judging very seriously. They didn't come off as even slightly mean or unpleasant or depressed or full of hate and anger and deathly feelings. More than one person said after their concert that they were a little too nice to be a death metal band.
Here's Mikael Åkerfeldt (Opeth frontman)'s blogpost on his time in India. It was a little undie of us to put Sonu in a 5-star and these guys in the guest house in IIT.

Speaking of judges, don't ever call Molotov Cocktail to judge anything. We had called them to judge Acoustyx, and they confirmed the day before the event that they would definitely be coming to judge, and that they would be there on time.
They weren't there on time. In fact, they weren't there at all. They didn't show up, didn't pick up their phones, and never called back. We had to call two of the members from Panatella to do the judging, and they very kindly obliged despite the extremely short notice.

Also, please stop calling it IIT Saarang. It's just called Saarang. Saarang or Saarang 2009 or Saarang Golden Edition, or IITM's Saarang, at the very least. I don't know why everyone calls it IIT Saarang. IIT Saarang sounds like a new IIT at some place called Saarang.

If you didn't come to Saarang, you have my consolations, but really, it's your own fault. I doubt future Saarangs will be able to match this one.

Update 22. 01. 2009

2009-01-22T18:57:00.003+05:30

Update 22. 01. 2009

Today I participated in and managed Vox, the Western Music Solo Vocal competition at Saarang 2009. I sang Silje Nergaard's version of Duke Ellington's swing classic Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me (you must hear it) and Lady Madonna by The Beatles. There were some seriously good performances at the event, but the judges seemed to think mine was the best. I was accompanied by Aakash, who is a very talented pianist (and who won Etude, the Western Music Solo Instrumental event that happened later in the day). I performed Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me for the inter-hostel WM solo competition a couple of months ago, but placed only 5th. I did the song again at Saarang because I didn't do justice to the song the first time and I knew I could. This time I think I did.
The girl who placed second in the event was really really really good. I was quite surprised when her name was announced as the second-prize winner. She was from Mount Carmel College, Bangalore. For some reason that college seems to have a large number of really talented girl singers.

I also participated in and managed the A Cappella competition that happened after Vox, and sang The Beach Boys' Barbara Ann and I Get Around. We didn't win anything. The winning team, from Mount Carmel College, was leagues ahead of us, or any of the other teams, but for a first try at A Cappella, I think we were pretty good.
I also won two Vodafone t-shirts at the pop culture quiz.

I will update again on tomorrow's happenings. Although, wouldn't it be much better if you were just there yourself?

Gen Update

2009-01-21T00:53:00.005+05:30

My creative output over the past few months has been pretty low. I think you can tell based on my frequency of posting lately.
I had every intention of writing and turning in a short story for the Saarang Online Creative Writing Competition, but I just wasn't able to. I struggled and struggled and finally came up with an insane story idea, but when I started writing, it just didn't work. It is a good story, and I still intend to write it, though.
Speaking of Saarang, come to Saarang 2009. Starts this evening and goes on until the 25th.
Events start on the 22nd. I will be singing in Western Music Solo and A Cappella on the 22nd. I also intend to participate in Monoacting, Acoustyx, Whose Line Is It Anyway, and the one I'm right now most excited about - Freestyle Solo Dance. If you haven't watched me dance, I suggest you watch me at this event.
Come to Saarang 2009. Come even if you don't have tickets for the Sonu Niigaam show.

In other news, my blog was featured on the radio - on Chennai Live 104.8 FM - a few days ago. I was called and interviewed about my blog and I very honestly said that sometimes my updates are days apart, and sometimes they're months apart. I also read the ever-popular I Love You With All My Heart on air. Before going on air, the RJ was a little hesitant about letting me say that my genitals love somebody in their own special way, but she said the poem wouldn't be the same if I cut it out, so she told me to go ahead. My organfelt gratitude to her.

Hopefully I shall come up with something worthy of posting soon. I have started writing a play, but I don't think I'll post it when it's done. I'll try to get you to watch it.

The Pseudputs Review

2008-12-06T10:15:00.003+05:30

Do you like to read pseud reviews?
Yes? Then read The Pseudputs Review, where some of my friends and I review stuff pseudly.
No? Then read The Pseudputs Review, and maybe you'll change your mind.

And if you like to write pseud reviews, tell me, and I'll make you one of the authors on the blog (if I find you worthy).

The Best Story On Kaushik's Magical World Of Nonsense

2008-11-18T03:49:00.002+05:30

The poll has ended, and there were a whopping 19 votes recorded! OHNOGODDAMNHOLYGAIASPIRITOFTHEEARTH!

The Man Who Knew Everything was in the lead right from the beginning, and seems to be the favourite with 36% of the votes.

Pizza Of Sanguine and The Gorie Storie series are the second-most popular with 21% and 21%.

I was sorely disappointed to see The Poor Merchant And The Underwear Tree get only 2 votes. That is my personal favourite story.

Those of you who did not vote at all, shame on you! Go have lunch!

Now you can read all of these stories again while I struggle to think of something new.

Premonition

2008-11-16T23:16:00.005+05:30

In the palm of her hand
she silently crushes a dry Ashoka leaf
and in that moment
I feel the slightest doubt
a twinge of guilt
and a creeping fear:
Oh king
will this woman be your destruction?

(Posted to calm the seething Astrodominie.)

Jello Hell

2008-09-20T03:33:00.002+05:30

The first poem in legendary government poet D. Manickchandru's collection, Posthumous Poetry.

Jello Hell

1.
Jello Hell hangs
from the ceiling
swaying under the pressure of
its semisolid evil.

2.
Evil has lost
its sense of morality
making it quite lousy
at its profession.

3.
The lice are people
and the people are lousy
Parasites of the Earth
and the antidote to nature.

4.
Love, Nature,
Peace, Happiness
are just a little
out of arm's reach.

Pizza Of Sanguine

2008-08-26T13:50:00.003+05:30

*Sequel of sorts to Malaise Burger*

Across the table, the blue-eyed man would not stop staring.
"Stop staring," she said, her cheeks turning a crimson hue of green. "You're always staring at me."
"I'm not staring," the blue-eyed man said, "I'm gazing upon the unearthly beauty that sits across the table from me. I am drinking in unadulterated heaven with my eyes. I am downloading visual nectar."
"Oh, stop," she said, turning an even crimsoner green. "Since you are a poet, is it not your everyday job to melt women's and government servants' hearts ?"
Robra was both a woman and a government servant, and since the blue-eyed man, whose name was Manickchandru,'s poetic expressions were so melting her heart, she was inclined to believe that he was either an expert at melting women's hearts or melting government servants' hearts or both.
"Mostly women's hearts. Only occasionally am I commissioned to write poems to melt government servants' hearts. Usually when the government feels their servants are getting dissatisfied with their wages and are about to go on strike, they commission me to write a poem that melts government servants' hearts."
Robra thought about it, and realised that she had never gotten a raise in her ten years of government servanture. Every time she and her colleagues thought about asking their bosses for a raise, they would get a red envelope instead, that contained a poem that invariably melted her and her colleagues' hearts.
"But this one is not like one of those poems, Robra, this is from the bowels of my heart, from the depths of my aorta, from the core of my superior vena cava," he said, leaning back against the red sofa, and gazing at her with those deep blue eyes. Robra loved his eyes. She would have drowned in them, were it not for the fact that she was a state-level champion swimmer.
"The poems I write during the day," said Manickchandru, "I write for money. Those poems are not truly inspired. It is when I see you that I feel true inspiration, the kind that poets spend their entire lifetimes looking for."
Robra's cheeks went from crimson-green to a bright scarlet-green. Yet, while she found Manickchandru quite charming, she was not sure how much she could trust his words. He was, after all, a master wordsmith, who could twist and turn words into shapes never dreamt of before, and she was sure he had caused many a girl to swoon with his poems. Was she just another one of those girls? Would she be just another feather in his cap? She did not want to be one of Manickchandru's conquests. She wanted to know if what he said he felt for her was true or fallacious. But how could she know for sure?

He attempted to reach across the table and hold her hands, but she had cleverly guarded herself from such a move, by strewing knives and forks strategically on the table, causing Manickchandru to injure himself every time he attempted to reach across the table and hold her hands. It was a trick she learnt from her friend Tanku. Manickchandru grazed his elbows and was unable to reach across fully.
The knives and forks were for Robra's own protection, but at that moment she was ready to dismantle that elaborate line of defence. She wanted quite badly to reach across and hold Manickchandru's hands, but on her right palm she had written down a reminder with a black marker that said "Robra, control thyself" that reminded her to control herself.

Then, across the table, the blue-eyed man would not stop scribbling. He seemed to be furiously attacking a tissue with a pen, unmindful of the fresh cuts and bruises on his arm
"What are you doing?" Robra asked.
"Inspiration waits for no one. When it comes, it must be captured," said Manickchandru, capturing inspiration.
Robra waved her hand in the air wildly, and the waitress approached the table. She wore a clean yellow apron covered in grime and pizza toppings, and dried sarcasm stained her red sleeves. Her hair was tied in an pizzalike fashion, reminding diners that she was a waitress in a pizza restaurant, not one in, say, a Tandoori or Chinese one. She had an air of pessimistic nonchalance and optimistic carefreedom about her.
"Welcome to Pizza of Sanguine," she said, giving Robra and Manickchandru a dentist-chair grin. "May I take the lovers' order?"
"Oh, uh..." Robra turned a lemon-red green and looked nervously at Manickchandru who seemed to be so focussed on what he was writing that he hadn't noticed the waitress's presence. "We're not lovers, really..." she said, "...more like likers. Strong likers, perhaps."
And that was when Manickchandru looked up, alarmed. But Robra did not catch this reaction, because she had turned to the waitress to order her order.
"I think we'll have one large Sanguineous Pizza... is that okay, Manickchandru?"
When she turned to face Manickchandru, she noticed a fairly shocked expression of curious unease on Manickchandru's face, like he had been slapped when he was least expecting it, by someone he least expected to be slapped by.
"Manickchandru? Is that okay?" Robra repeated, "Are you okay?"
Manickchandru said nothing.
Hesitantly, Robra, turning to the waitress while keeping her eyes on Manickchandru, said, "Just get us the Sanguineous Pizza for now."
The waitress nodded and left, swishing her apron and leaving a trail of toppings behind her.

"What's the matter, Manickchandru?" Robra asked.
"You said we weren't lovers. Don't you love me, Robra?"
This was a difficult question for Robra to answer. She had been asking herself that very question. She did like Manickchandru a fairly reasonable amount, perhaps even more than that - but was it love? She did not know. She had never been in love before - or maybe she had, but was never sure if it was love. They had never explained this 'love' to Robra in medical school. True, she had never been to medical school, but that was besides the point. Then she remembered something her friend Tanku had taught her about getting out of conversational corners like the one she had been backed into.
"I don't know, Manickchandru, do you love me?"
"Of course I do! I love you as much as I possibly can!" he said, exclamatorily.
Robra blinked. She had expected Tanku's strategy to work differently. Then she remembered something else Tanku had said to her: "The best way to get out of a tight spot in a conversation or an argument is to make the other person define their terms. Then attack the definitions."
"What do you mean by love?" she asked.
"Love cannot be defined. It must be felt."
Robra had a feeling this conversation was going downhill, meaning it was getting worse. Although one could also say it was going uphill, because that means it was getting more difficult.
"I definitely feel something for you, but I don't know if that's love, Manickchandru."
Manickchandru grunted in frustration and slammed his fists on the table, causing the forks and knives to jump into the air. One knife sailed through the air, its deadly edge thirsty for blood or food. Luckily for it, the waitress was coming out of the kitchen, carrying the Sanguineous Pizza Robra had ordered.
Ah, today is my lucky day! thought the knife, here is someone who possesses both blood and food!
The knife dived into the Sanguineous Pizza, bounced off it, and into the the waitress's eye, who did not like having knives in her eyes, or even a single knife in one of her eyes. She flailed wildly, making quite a mess of pizza toppings and blood. She let out a bloodcurdling scream that distracted Manickchandru and Robra from their uneasy discussion on feelings. When they saw what had happened to the waitress, they stared in helpless horror, horrified by the horrific horrendousness of the situation. As they stared, a single drop of blood from the waitress's eye flew threw the air. Manickchandru and Robra followed the flight of the drop with their eyes as it gracefully, although not so gracefully that it negated the horror of the moment, floated through the air like a miniature trapeze artist who looked like a drop of blood, and landed on Robra's spectacles, which she happened to be wearing at the time.
Manickchandru watched as Robra took off her glasses and wiped them on the edge of her shirt. She put her glasses on again, and looked at Manickchandru.
His expression of horror became even horrificer. He began shaking violently and large blisters began to erupt from his skin. His eyes bulged and his ears flapped unnaturally. A stream of steam issued from his nostrils.

And then he exploded in a massive mess of flesh and blood and bone and brains. That was, after all, what he was made of.

Robra picked up a tissue from the table and, taking off her glasses, proceeded to wipe the exploded Manickchandru off her face, when she noticed something on the tissue. She put on her glasses to see what it was. She realised that it was the piece of tissue that Manickchandru had been scribbling so furiously on. It seemed to be a poem that he had been writing. She began to read:

My Dear Robra,
You beautiful, slithering cobra,
What strongish love I have for thee,
We go together
like crop and farmer
Me and you and you and me.

Every time I
See your brown eye(s)
Naked, not hidden behind glass,
My love it increases
like incurable diseases
Growing in both volume and mass

My Dear Robra
You smooth, slender cobra
Descended from the angels' abode,
I think you should know
If my love for you grow(s)
I will overload with love and explode.

Robra shivered and quivered. Finally she understood the meaning of love. Alas, it was too late. The man she now knew she loved lay scattered in fragments of organs and tissue. Robra, never one to miss a pun, realised that she was holding one of his tissues in her hands!
Overwhelmed with emotion, she burst into tears, and sobbed uncontrollably into Manickchandru's final poem, unmindful of the fact that by doing so she would ruin the poem, and the fact that she would get ink all over her face.

Cementile Volleys At Heathspoke

2008-08-21T11:04:00.009+05:30

An unfinished poem from the journals of the great professional poet D. Manickchandru. It seems to be the beginning of a fictional account of a journey to a place called Heathspoke. It is likely that it was a commissioned work, but we cannot be sure.

Cementile Volleys at Heathspoke

At an inn I stopped, and paid a fledgeling and a farthing,
and asked the good man to compeal them both.
The winds of yonder bore us asunder,
and he crath not once but twice he quoth,

"If any service be of servicity,
or servicimilitude that I might serve,
He can take that oath upon his sirdoggery
and cast them unto riotous love."

Upon which Sir Tycho Brahe did,
upon enterencing, speak,
"Quack quack quack quack quack
quack quack," he quath, "queak."

For quite it is the eremely worm
that senses impending doom
When that weaver bird knocks down its door
with fibremelding loom.

So said I to that inflitively kind innkeeper,
"Spare me not your change, kind sir,
For I have far and wide to journey yonder
and a hurricanish wind is astir."

Still, into my hand thrust he
the coppery coins of ereble youth,
And Sir Tycho Brahe did bade me farewell
and said, "Forseek, forgaafen, forsooth,"

Thus began my strange Heathspoken outgoings,
in the hardlands of [illegible] and Marth,
Upon nubile men and virile girls
did I

Binoo The Monkey Pilot Joins The Air Force

2008-08-02T11:37:00.005+05:30

A delightful tale about a comedic mix-up! Rather, a delightfully comedic mix-up tale! The tale highlights a semantic mix-up and the occasional inadequacy of words to convey meaning! Read it and be delighted.

Binoo's hand hesitated over the form. Rather, Binoo hesitated his hand. The next detail he had to fill in was what he wanted to join the armed forces of Banal Nasality as. He hesitated not because he didn't know what he was, but because he was not sure if they would understand it. After two more seconds of hesitation, Binoo put the pen to the paper, and wrote, "Monkey Pilot".

In a week's time, Binoo had received a reply in the post.

It was a regal looking envelope. It smelt of regality and bananas. Rather like regal bananas. The envelope had gold emroidery and silver stamps and the Royal Seal on it, which was rather like a big deal. Binoo's hand hesitated over the envelope. Rather, Binoo hesitated his hand to open it. He did not want to ruin such a pretty envelope by opening it. Still, he knew that just like friends must be friends, and friendship must be friendship, envelopes must be opened, otherwise we will never know the many truths of life and facts of friendship. So Binoo hesitated for two more seconds and then opened the envelope. Inside was a paper. The paper was regal-looking and official-looking. Rather, it was regalo-official looking, or officio-regal looking. Binoo would have said officio-regal. The paper was printed with the print of the ink of a typewriter. Rather, it was typewritten. But neatly. No eraser marks and overtyping and all that messy stuff that usually happens when typewriters are used by amateur typewritists. Strange, Binoo thought, the typewritist who typed out this letter must have filled in the same form that Binoo had filled out, only, instead of writing "monkey pilot", he or she would have written "typewritist" instead. Then that person would have received a similar officio-regal-looking letter that would have been typed out by another typewritist, who would have also filled out the form at some point. That got Binoo wondering - who was the first typewritist?
But Binoo knew he had no time for questions of history and philosophy, or rather historico-philosophy. He knew he must read the letter right away, for it might be important and urgent, and every second wasted was a wasted second.

So he read it. "Dear Binoo," it said, "Thanks for applying to the Banal Nasality Air Force, yaar. We are in serious need of monkey pilots especially since it seems like we might be going to war with the Fundraiser Nation of Boring Drivel, machan. War is scheduled to begin next week, da, so it would be helpful if you turned up at the Banal Nasality Air Force Headquarters sometime before then. We assume, of course, since you filled in "monkey pilot" and not "monkey pilot trainee", that you won't require any training, dude."

Binoo squealed with delight. Rather, he let out a delightful squeal. It was rather delightful. All his life he had trained to be a monkey pilot, and here he was, about to be one. He decided not to report at the Air Force HQ right away, as he might come across as being overenthusiastic and needy and it might be interpreted by some as a tactic for garnering attention and brownie points. He did not want to report at the very last minute, either, for that might make him come across as rather unenthusiastic and lackadaisical, and Binoo was not one for lackadays.

Binoo reported at the HQ three and a half days later. Rather, he reported exactly half a week later, thereby seeming neither overenthusiastic not unenthusiastic. However, he did not foresee that people at the Air Force HQ would see his reporting at exactly three and a half days as being overly calculating. Anyway, the Banal Nasality Air Force was in dire need of monkey pilots, so they did not say anything to Binoo.

The Air Force HQ was like the typical Air Force HQ - it had planes, pilots, mechanics, and other people who looked very militaristic and official. Rather, very officio-militaristic. Binoo decided he must go and see and see the man in charge and tell him that he had arrived and was ready to go to war and fly across enemy lines and bomb enemy targets. Rather, the targets would be the enemies, not the targets of the enemies, because if he were to bomb the targets of the enemies, he would be bombing his own country, and that would not at all be nice.

"Binoo, you say?" the Colonel said. His name was Colonel Walonel and he looked like a cross between an elephant, a horse, a chimpanzee, a woolly mammoth, a tyrannosaurus rex, a giraffe, a praying mantis, and an atlas moth - and of course a human, because that was basically what he was. He had a big quivery moustache that quivered whenever he pleased. Rather, he quivered his moustache whenever he pleased.
"Yes, sir, my name is Binoo," Binoo said, stating his name.
Colonel Walonel went through a number of sheets clipped to a clipboard, for that is what clipboards are for, for clipping sheets to. "Binoo what?" he asked.
"Binoo Peepee, sir," Binoo said, stating his full name.
"Ah, Binoo Peepee, yes, your name is here. We have been looking forward to your coming. As you know there is a serious dearth of monkey pi..." Colonel Walonel looked at Binoo quizzically, and back at the sheet with an equal amount of quizzicitude.
"...lot?" Binoo finished, hoping the Colonel would be pleased with his helpfulness at finishing words.
"There must be some mistake, no? It says here that you are a monkey pilot," Colonel Walonel said.
"No mistake sir. I am a monkey pilot, to be sure."
"Is this some sort of joke?" Colonel Walonel asked, not sure whether he ought to be angry or quizzical. Rather, he was in a mixed state of those two feelings - of anger and quizzicitude, that is.
"No, sir, this is some sort of monkey pilot," Binoo said, pointing at himself.
"But you are not a monkey, Binoo! How can you call yourself a monkey pilot when you are not a monkey? You are a human, plain as can be! You are a human, full of humanity! A human is a human, like a tree is a tree! What you are certainly not is a pilot monkey! Rather, monkey pilot."
Colonel Walonel sometimes talked in rhyme.
"But sir, I am not a pilot who is a monkey, but a pilot who flies monkeys. I thought that was what was known as a monkey pilot."
"Alack!" Colonel Walonel said, in deep, deep sorrow, "Had we kn0wn there were such things as pilots who flew monkeys, perhaps we would have won the war years ago. This is the first time I am hearing of such a thing, Binoo. Alack! we do not have a separate division for pilots of your kind. For this reason, I shall put you along with the monkey pilots, that is, the pilots who are monkeys. Do you have your own monkey to fly, or will you be needing one? I pray that it is the former, for we have no flying monkeys with us. Rather, we have no monkeys that can fly without planes."
"Don't worry, sir, I do have my own flying monkey. It is a rare flying monkey from the land of Oz," Binoo said, lifting a winged monkey out of his bag. The monkey seemed to be unconscious.
"But how will you fly on that?" Colonel Walonel asked, "Is it not a trifle small for you?"
"This is the collapsible model, sir," Binoo said, unfolding the monkey to reveal that it was much larger than it seemed. "Right now it is sedated for carrying purposes, but I shall awaken it with some smelling salts."
Binoo took some powder out of his pocket, and held it near the collapsible flying monkey's face. It instantly awoke. Then Binoo injected it with some injection and it fell asleep again.
"Wonderful, Binoo, wonderful! With this flying monkey, you will win us the war!"

Binoo beamed from ear to ear. He was filled with feelings of courage and warfulness.

To Be Continued

Next time on Binoo The Monkey Pilot: Binoo The Monkey Pilot Goes To War! A delightful tale about the horrors of war. Rather, a delightfully horrific war tale!

Malaise Burger

2008-07-19T23:08:00.006+05:30

Across the table, the green-eyed man would not stop fidgeting.
"Stop fidgeting," she said, throwing him the same silver-hot glare that she was using to heat her plate.
"I'm not fidgeting," the green-eyed man said, "I'm tying knots."
But it was evident to her that he was doing much more than tying knots. Sure, he was tying knots, but he was doing much more. For example, he was fidgeting. He simply would not stop. He fidgeted with everything - the pieces of string that he had ordered in order to tie them into knots, the pieces of string that had already been tied up into knots, his hair, the pages of the Motorcycle Magazine he had so carefully chosen a few minutes ago from the motorcycle stand outside Malaise Burger. As if that much fidgeting wasn't enough, he was now leaning across the table and fidgeting with her hair and her clothes. It was entirely inappropriate, she thought. And to think she thought she loved him.
"I said stop fidgeting, I'm trying to heat my plate," she said again, and more sternly.
The green-eyed man withdrew his hands, sliding them back across the table, bruising his arms on the forks and knives strewn across the table. She liked to have a lot of forks and knives on the table for protection. They were not so much strewn as strategically arranged to protect her. Unfortunately apparently evidently they were not enough protection from the fidgety green-eyed man.
"You've got my hair in knots," she said, with an air of consternation.
He didn't reply. He was busy fidgeting with himself.
"What's your name?" she asked, as she tried to take the knots out of her hair.
"Suraj," the green-eyed man said, looking at her shiftily with his shifty eyes. He mustered some courage and asked, "What's yours?"
The waitress arrived before she could reply.
"Can I take your order?" she asked, and spat a wad of chewing gum at Suraj's face.
She (the woman with the silvery hot glare) already didn't like this waitress. Her apron was covered in what seemed to be a carefully blended mix of blood, sweat, grime, and animal faeces. Besides, the waitress had just spat chewing gum at the man she thought was her newfound love, and that was not a very polite thing to do. The waitress had eyes of steel, like the ones they made in the factories, except they were all natural.
"My name is Tanku," she said to Suraj.
"That's - that's a lovely name," Suraj said.
"Frankly, I hate it. You won't believe how embarrassing it is to respond reflexively to people calling out to you with 'you're welcome'"
"I think it's lovely."
The waitress cleared her throat loudly and conspicuously, as if she were trying to draw attention to herself. Tanku could have killed her. What did this woman want with her new man?
"Are you going to order?"
"I - I'll have the Malaise Burger," Suraj stammered, his hands now fidgeting with each other.
"I'll have the Malodorous Fries," Tanku said, blistering under her breath.
"You mean the Marodolous Flies," said the waitress, and grinned, revealing a row of yellow teeth, and a row of brown and black teeth below those, that smelled of rotting gums.
"Yes, that," Tanku said, and in one swift motion, swept the forks and knives off the table in the direction of the waitress. The waitress, experienced as she was, dodged all of the knives, and all but one of the forks, which stuck in her neck and caused her to issue forth in a very masculine voice, "Is that all?"
Suraj nodded, and Tanku nodded, and the waitress left.
"So what do you do, Suraj?" Tanku asked her new prospective lover.
"I run a business," he said. Now that the forks and knives were off the table, he was fidgeting with her again.
Tanku grappled with his hands, trying to keep them away. "That's nice," she said. "What kind of business? You run a chain of Xerox shops, don't you? I just know it."
"That's what most people think, but - but I actually have a company called Suraj Knots."
"Oh. So what kind of a company is that?" she asked, still trying to keep his hands off. She would be fine with such behaviour in private, and after they had gotten to know each other a little better.
"We tie knots for people who need knots, and untie them for people who need knots untied. You'll be surprised how lucrative it is. We charge around 300 rupees for tying the smallest knot."
Suddenly Tanku welled up with emotion. Her throat welled up with choking and her eyes welled up with tears. Her glass welled up with water, but that was because the waitress had returned and was filling the glass. Her heart welled up with love and her brain welled up with affection, while her ovaries welled up with lust.
All this time she had been pushing this man's hands away, thinking they were just fidgeting. She ran her hands through her hair and felt the hundreds of knots he had made in them. She ran her hands through her clothes and felt the hundreds of knots he had made in them. Each knot worth at least 300 rupees. And he had done it for free.
"So sweet," she told him. He was definitely marriage material now.
A door flew open and a plate flew out of the door, landed on the table, slid across it, and almost fell off the table, but it didn't.
"That's your Malaise Burger," the waitress said, still in a masculine voice, but when she looked at Tanku, there was the feminine throb of joint sisterhood and female understanding. The waitress could see Tanku may be falling in love with this green-eyed, fidgety man.

The Inexplicable

2008-06-15T11:00:00.008+05:30

I don't think there's any point in saying Spoiler Alert because there's little in this movie that isn't spoiled already. But just in case you want to see it and decide for yourself, I'll say it - I'm going to give away the plot. I think you should read anyway, because this movie doesn't have much of a plot.

The premise of the movie is interesting - something strange is happening that's causing people all over Northeastern America to start killing themselves. It's not that people are increasingly depressed about their lives or that suicide rates in the region have gone up by 20%. People in seemingly random pockets stop dead in their tracks, start talking funny, and then proceed to kill themselves by any means available.

In the midst of all this is the high-school science teacher Elliot Moore (Mark Wahlberg), his wife Alma (Zooey Deschanel), his colleague and best friend John (John Leguizamo), and his daughter Jess (Ashlyn Sanchez).

Near the beginning of the movie, Elliot explains to his students that there are some things in nature that we cannot understand and simply cannot be explained.
There is speculation that the reason for all this strange widespread suicidal behaviour is a neurotoxin that is being released in the air. First everyone thinks its the work of terrorists, but a horticulturist warns Elliot that he thinks the neurotoxin is being released by plants. Through the course of the movie Elliot becomes more and more convinced of this. Elliot, Alma, and Jess conveniently land up in the countryside, where it's slightly hard not to be in the midst of grass and trees.

This movie has no twist ending. It's all buildup and no payoff. Absolutely nothing new is revealed in the ending, except for the fact that Alma is pregnant, which is one out of a thousand totally irrelevant elements in the movie. In the end we watch an interview with a scientist who says that it was probably the plants who released the neurotoxin, but how they did it, or why it was confined to Northeastern America cannot be explained, because there are some things in nature we cannot understand - meaning that the ending of this movie has already been handed over to us at the very beginning of the movie. It's an absolute cop-out of an ending. Shyamalan explains away all the deaths by saying that it's fundamentally inexplicable. Brilliant.

Chekhov's Gun is a narrative device, or rather a rule to be followed in any narrative - it's something like this - if you introduce a gun in the first act of a play, it must be fired by the last act. In other words, don't introduce unnecessary elements into the narrative. It's more of a guideline than a rule, and a sensible one, too. J.K. Rowling uses it in almost every Harry Potter book. In the Philospher's Stone, for example, Hagrid's mysterious package and the Mirror of Erised are two huge Chekhov's Guns. She introduces both and arouses the reader's curiosity in these objects. Later on in the book, the significance of both objects to the plot is revealed.

Shyamalan violates this rule with no good reason. It's one thing to have some red herrings in a plot, but in The Happening, every element introduced is a red herring. Let me make a list of the totally unnecessary and irrelevant elements in the movie.

1. Jess, the little girl - she has almost no dialogues in the entire movie, but the amount of screen time she gets makes you think she's going to be the one who solves the crisis in the end, or at least does something important. She doesn't. All she does is run wherever Elliot and Alma run.
2. The mood ring - Elliot has a ring that changes colour depending on the mood of the bearer. It's evident that it's very important - to him, at least, because he says so. It also serves no purpose.
3. The two teenage boys - I forget their names, but they join Elliot and Alma and Jess as they run (from what is anybody's guess, although sometimes they run from the wind) through the countryside. Shortly after they are introduced, they are killed by a man who shoots them with a shotgun through his window shutters, because he thinks they're terrorists or something.
4. The man who shoots the boys - after he shoots them, we never find out who he is. One unnecessary element introduced to finish off another. If this were JAM, I'd buzz Shyamalan on Time Wasting Tactics.
5. The tree swing - Jess swings a little bit on a little wooden swing that hangs from the branch of a tree. Shyamalan spends 1-2 minutes of screen time on this, showing us menacing angles of the tree, the branch, and the swing, with Elliot shouting "get away from that thing" or something to that effect. Nothing happens.
6. The weird old lady - Elliot, Alma, and Jess spend the night in an old lady's house in the middle of nowhere. This woman has isolated herself from the world and doesn't want to know any news of the outside world, even if it's about a killer neurotoxin. As we get to know her, she comes across as more and more paranoid, and thinks that the three of them are out to kill her or steal all her property. She's a scary old woman, but after she tells Elliot to get out of the house, she leaves the house (don't ask why), and inhales the neurotoxin and proceeds to kill herself by smashing her head through all her kitchen windows.
7. The suicides - when people start killing themselves for no apparent reason, there has to be a better explanation for it than having inhaled a neurotoxin. People could just as easily have dropped dead right there instead of committing suicide, and it would make no difference to the plot. The suicide thing is clearly for shock value.
8. The movie - I seem to be thinking of more and more irrelevant elements as I make out this list, so I think it's better I just stop with this. The entire movie is filled with such irrelevant elements that the plot makes hardly any sense at all. It is so full of flaws that the movie itself seems like one big flaw.
The acting was bad, the dialogue was terrible, there are hardly any special effects to talk about - the only thing Shyamalan succeeds in doing is making you jump in your seat a few times, but that's the best thing that can be said about this movie.

I can't believe the same guy made The Sixth Sense and Signs. I just cannot believe it.

Lindt Excellence Chilli

2008-06-12T21:46:00.004+05:30

I had gone into the store wanting to by a slab of dark chocolate. I'd tried the Orange before, and it was good.
It was the Orange that grabbed my eye, anyway. The bright slice of orange on the cover flashed out its colour standing against the quiet, reserved square of dark chocolate. The contrasting colours were like a beacon flashing out from the middle of the store. It announced its presence boldly, demanding attention, determinedly standing out from the other chocolates on the shelf.
I'd made up my mind. I'd imagined washing down the melting orange dark chocolate with cold orange juice. It was too much to resist. I reached for it.

I would have picked it up if it weren't for what was lying next to it. The slab of dark chocolate that lay next to the Orange dark chocolate was quiet, reserved, and content. It appeared secure, confident of its own quality. Unlike the Orange, it didn't clamour for attention. The colours on the cover didn't contrast. They were very different, but they melded into each other, almost as if there was a deliberate attempt not to contrast.
Despite its quietness, its almost meek nature, once I noticed it everything else seemed to fade away. The red on the cover seemed to burn, to glow - not brightly, but with the kind of intensity that indicated the point where warm turned into hot.

I had to have it.

I did not intend to try it immediately after purchase. I put it into the packet, deciding to save it for the time in the day when I craved chocolate the most, or at least when I had some orange juice at hand.

To say it beckoned me would be inaccurate. More than inaccurate, it would be incorrect. It did nothing - it just sat in the packet with an air of nonchalance. It seemed to ignore me, totally indifferent to the fact that it had just been bought. It made me angry. If it wouldn't acknowledge my presence on its own, I would have to make it.

I grabbed the slab of chocolate, tore open the cover, broke off a piece and put it in my mouth, curiously awaiting the mixed tastes of dark chocolate and chilli.

I chewed and chewed and felt cheated. The dark chocolate was certainly divine - I'd expect no less from Lindt - but the flavour of chilli was disappointingly and mysteriously absent. I resigned myself to the thought that I'd become the victim of bad product in good packaging.

And then I swallowed.

It was only a few seconds later that the chilli surfaced. It subtly lingered on the back of my tongue and in my throat in the aftertaste of the dark chocolate.

And it became the best dark chocolate I'd ever tasted.
(Which will be overtaken by Banana Dark Chocolate once I taste it.)

Kozhakattai Redux

2008-05-28T16:31:00.003+05:30

Unfortunately, my mother didn't go with my quite exciting version of the Kozhakattai story, so she had it reworked, and that is the version you will see below. The reworked version seemed to fizzle out at the end, so she asked me to change the ending. Since she was not happy with my previous version of the story, I decided to give her not one, but THREE alternate endings! (I mean wow that's like buy one get two free types am I worth it or what.)

One evening, Amma made seven sweet kozhakattais, filled with coconut, oozing with jaggery, flavoured with cardamom and steamed till they gleamed.

One was for Kannan,

One was for Komu,

One was for Kuyil,

One was for Karthik,

One was for Kausi,

One was for Kumar and …

One was for little Kutti.

Seven gleaming kozhakattais on a shining steel plate!

Fourteen greedy eyes stared at them – Kannan’s eyes, Komu’s eyes, Kuyil’s eyes, Karthik’s eyes, Kausi’s eyes, Kumar’s eyes, and little Kutti’s eyes.

‘I’m going to visit my sister,’ said Amma. ‘Don’t eat the kozhakattais till I come home. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ said seven voices, through seven drooling mouths.

But as soon as Amma left, Kannan crept into the kitchen.

He took one kozhakattai and popped it in his mouth.

He smacked his lips, licked his fingers, wiped them on his shirt, and crept out of the kitchen.

There were six gleaming kozhakattais left on the plate.

A few minutes later Komu crept into the kitchen.

She took one kozhakattai and popped it in her mouth.

She smacked her lips, licked her fingers, wiped them on her paavadai and crept out of the kitchen.

There were five gleaming kozhakattais left on the plate.

Then came Kuyil, Karthik and Kausi. They crept into the kitchen. Each one took a kozhakkatai, popped it in their mouth, smacked their lips, licked their fingers, wiped them on their clothes and crept out of the kitchen.

There were two gleaming kozhakattais left on the plate.

Kumar crept into the kitchen. He took one kozhakattai, popped it in his mouth, took a deep breath and bit into it.

The kozhakkatai burst open, coconut juice and jaggery oozed from it and filled Kumar’s mouth. He closed his eyes. He could smell the cardamom, he could taste the jaggery, he could feel the coconut juice on his tongue. Mmmm, it was the best thing he had ever eaten in his life. He swallowed, smacked his lips, licked his fingers and opened his eyes.

There was one gleaming kozhakattai left on the plate.

Before he could think, Kumar took it and popped it in his mouth. He smacked his lips, licked his fingers, wiped them on his shirt and crept out the kitchen, when …

… the lights went out!

Kutti crept into the kitchen. It was dark. She groped around until at last she found the plate. She moved her hand all over the plate. Where was the kozhakattai? Suddenly her hand touched something soft. She picked it up and was about to pop it into her mouth when— the kozhakkattai moved!

Kutti was startled. How could a kozhakkattai move? She must have imagined it. She held it tight and ran her other hand over it. She was wondering what it was, when she heard Amma’s voice:

“I’m home, children!”

“Amma Amma,” called out Kutti “Does a kozhakkattai have a long tail?”

“No Kutti,” answered Amma.

Amma! Amma!

My kozhakattai has a long, long tail!

It has teeth, sharp as my fingernails

It has a wet nose… an ear! ... an eye!

Amma! Is this my kozhakkattai?

Amma! Amma!

My kozhakkattai is soft as my cheeks

It has whiskers – and oh! – it squeaks

It wriggles around, I don’t know why!

Amma! Is this my kozhakkattai?

Just as Amma dashed into the kitchen, the lights came on.

There stood Kutti, with a little mouse in her hand.

AAAAAAAAAA screamed Amma

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa screamed Kutti

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa screamed six other voices.

Terrified with all the noise, the little mouse took a flying leap off Kutti’s hand and scuttled away.

“My kozhakkattai! It has run away,” wailed poor little Kutti.

“Don’t worry, Kutti,” said Amma, pulling out a jar from her bag, and opening it. It was chock full of kozhakattais!

Kumar reached out for one and gave it to Kutti.

“Sorry, Kutti,” he said. “I ate your kozhakattai.”

Kutti popped the kozhakattai into her mouth, smacked her lips, licked her fingers and wiped them on her sleeve.

“That’s the tastiest kozhakattai I’ve ever eaten,” she sighed.

Then they all sat down—Kannan, Komu, Kuyil, Karthik, Kausi, Kumar, and little Kutti—and feasted on kozhakattais!

Now comes the fun part

ALTERNATE ENDING ONE

“My kozhakkattai! It has run away,” wailed poor little Kutti.

“Don’t worry, Kutti,” said Amma, pulling out a jar from her bag, and opening it. It was chock full of kozhakattais!

“And coincidentally,” Amma said, reaching into her bag, “I just happened to buy something for our other little ‘kozhakattai’.”

From her bag, Amma pulled out a cake of rat poison.

ALTERNATE ENDING TWO

Just as Amma dashed into the kitchen, the lights came on.

There stood Kutti, with what looked like a fat piece of string dangling out of her mouth. By the time Amma realised that it was not a fat piece of string but the tail of a rat, Kutti made a huge slurping sound and swallowed.

AAAAAAAAAA screamed Amma

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa screamed six other voices.

Kutti was a little bewildered. She did not know what all the screaming was about.

“Amma, that’s the tastiest kozhakattai I’ve ever eaten,” she sighed.

ALTERNATE ENDING THREE

Just as Amma dashed into the kitchen, the lights came on.

There stood Kutti, with a little mouse in her hand.

“Please let me go,” said the little mouse to Kutti.

“Why should I let you go? I should just gobble you up now!” Kutti asked, in her loud, booming voice.

“If you let me go, then perhaps, someday, when you are in need of help, I will help you,” the mouse squeaked.

Kutti let out a peal of thunderous laughter.

“You? Help me? You pathetic little rodent. Do you know how many years of evolution separate my species from yours?”

The poor mouse trembled in Kutti’s hand.

“Very well,” Kutti sighed, “You have amused me, so I will let you go. Besides, you would make a poor substitute for kozhakattais.”

Kutti let the mouse loose and it scurried away into a hole.

Then there was a knock on the door. Amma opened it without looking through the eyehole or asking who was at the door first.

Now you must understand that Amma and the children did not live in what you would call the best part of town. So when Amma opened the door, she was greeted by two men in masks brandishing knives.

“Stay quiet and nobody gets hurt,” said the taller of the two, his knife dangerously close to Amma’s throat.

“Just give us all your kozhakattais and we will be on our way,” the shorter one said.

“Never!” Amma shouted. “All the kozhakattais are over, and even if they weren’t, I wouldn’t give you ruffians anything!”

“So that’s how it is, is it?” asked the shorter one, grabbing Kutti threateningly. “Then I guess your children’s lives are in danger, madam.”

Suddenly there was a loud squeak and the shorter kozhakattai thief was screaming and clutching his ear and running in circles. The little mouse was gnawing on his ear!

The man shook his head violently and the mouse fell to the floor. He did not want to try and fight this mouse, so he ran out the door.

The taller man had musophobia, or the fear of mice, so when he saw the little mouse, it did not take anything else to frighten him out of his wits. He too bolted for the door.

“Thank you, mouse,” Kutti said to the mouse.

“We are filled with gratitude,” Amma said. “How can we ever repay you?”

“I really would enjoy a kozhakattai or two,” the mouse said.

“Done!” said Amma, beaming, “I will make a fresh batch of kozhakattais for everyone, and the little mouse can eat as many as he pleases!"

Transcript Of Recording From Staff Reporter K. Vaidyanathan’s Dictaphone, 29 February 2008:

2008-05-12T11:35:00.003+05:30

I don’t know where I am… I did just a second ago… he said to take the left at 23rd cross street. Damn.

Note to self: always be sure of destination address before leaving home.

Note two: always charge cell phone before leaving home.

I’d ask someone if only there was someone around. This road could sure use some streetlights. Darkness doesn’t help the fact that I’m lost.

(Dictaphone off.)

(Dictaphone on.)

Why is no one home? There are no lights on in any of the houses.

(Dictaphone off.)

(Dictaphone on.)

It’s been like fifteen minutes since I took that left at 23rd cross street. Streets are still dark and empty and I’m still lost. Can’t even trace my steps back to 23rd cross.

(Dictaphone off.)

(Dictaphone on.)

Right… while I’m trying to find my way through these streets…

Subject’s name is Dr. Vinod. Astrophysicist. Claims to have made contact with… aliens. Apparently he found their signals. Going to interview him on how exactly this happened and the implications. Most probably just another alien hoax, like the ones we’ve been getting reports about all month… but this guy’s a hugely respected astrophysicist… either he’s lost his marbles or he’s actually found something. Either way, it’s a story the readers will lap up.

(Dictaphone off.)

(Dictaphone on.)

I really need to get out of here… this is freaking me out… it’s almost been an hour and I can’t find my way out… there’s no way this can be happening… I haven’t seen a soul in an hour… the lights are all off… aaahhh… I seem to be getting more lost with every step I take, in whichever direction I go… this is goddamn scary… why the hell didn’t I charge my phone?

(Dictaphone off.)

(Dictaphone on.)

Light. There’s a bright light coming from somewhere ahead of me.

(Heavy breathing)

What… on… earth…

There’s… there’s a whole bunch of people here… and the light… it’s coming from… this is insane… it’s coming from a… a… spacecraft.

Wait! A door or a hatch or something’s opening.

It’s some kind of creature… definitely an alien. Looks like a cross between a lion and a… monkey… with six legs…

Vaidyanathan! Will you stop messing around with that bloody Dictaphone and get back to work? You’re a journalist, not a science fiction writer!

Yes, boss.

(Dictaphone off.)

*

I wrote this at short notice for the flash fiction section of my hostel's lit-soc creative writing competition submission. It's quite predictable, but I thought I'd post it anyway.

Kozhakattai

2008-05-09T11:21:00.003+05:30

This is a story that my mother started and asked me to complete. I don't think it's necessary to point out where my section of the story begins, but in case you can't tell, it starts from the little poem/song in the story.
This is a retelling of an old folktale or grandmother's tale or something. It's supposed to be for children around the age of 5. My section doesn't stick very closely to the original. Still, folktales like these undergo changes with every retelling.
If you don't know what a kozhakattai is, go ask someone who does. No, wiki does not have an entry on it.

Amma made seven kozhakattais on Thursday

One for Kannan,

One for Komu,

One for Kuyil,

One for Kittu,

One for Kausi,

One for Kumar and….

One for Kutti.

After Amma had made the kozhakattais and offered it to Ganapathy, the elephant god, she told her children:

“I have made seven kozhakattais. One for each of you. Wash your hands before you eat. I have to go now to Paru Athai’s house. I will be back in one hour. Be good.”

“Yes Amma, we will,” said the children.

As soon as amma left, Kannan dashed into the kitchen.

Seven kozhakkattais glistened on a plate.

He took one and quickly put it into his mouth.

Yumm!.

Kannan smacked his lips, licked his fingers, wiped them on his shirt, and left the kitchen.

Six kozhakkattais glistened on the plate.

Then came Komu. She took one, smacked her lips, licked her fingers, wiped them on her paavadai and left the kitchen.

Five kozhakkattais glistened on the plate.

Kuyil, Kittu and Kausi went into the kitchen next. Each one had a kozhakkatai, smacked their lips, licked their fingers and wiped them on their clothes and left the kitchen.

Two kozhakkattais glistened on the plate.

Kumar came in next. He saw the two kozhakkatais left. He took one, put it into his mouth and bit it. The kozhakkatai burst in his mouth and the wonderful juice from the coconut and the jaggery filled Kumar’s mouth. He closed his eyes. It was the best thing he had eaten all his life. He swallowed the last bit, smacked his lips and opened his eyes.

In front of him was the last kozhakkatai. It was for Kutti. But Kumar wanted it very badly. He reached out, put it in his mouth and ate it quickly.

At that time, a little white mouse ran into the kitchen. Kumar caught it, put it on the plate where the kozhakkatais had been and closed the plate with a lid. Just at this time, the lights went out.

Kutti who had just returned home after playing, went into the kitchen to eat her kozhakkatai. She washed her hands just like Amma had told her to, and looked around for her kozhakkattai. It was dark in the kitchen and Kutti could not see clearly. She opened the lid and took the little mouse in her hand. She felt something moving.

Kutti ran her hand over the little mouse. She felt its long tail.

“Amma Amma,” she called out “Does a kozhakkattai have a long tail?”

“No Kutti,” answered amma who had just returned from Paru Athai’s house.

“Amma Amma,” Kutti called out, as she ran her hand over the mouse’s wet nose, “Does a kozhakkatai have a wet nose?”

“No Kutti,” answered amma, slightly confused.

“Amma amma,” Kutti called again, “is a kozhakattai soft and furry?”

“No Kutti,” answered amma, wondering why she was asking such strange questions.

“Amma amma,” Kutti called once more, “does a kozhakattai move?”

“No Kutti,” amma answered. “Why are you asking all this?”

Amma Amma my kozhakkattai has a long tail

Tiny teeth that nibble at my fingernail,

A small wet nose, two ears and two eyes,

I’m sure it also loves French fries.

Amma amma my kozhakkattai is soft and furry,

It has whiskers that are ticklish and funny

It has four short legs that move incessantly,

And it does not smell all that pleasantly.

Hearing this, Amma burst into the kitchen to see what was in Kutti’s hand, bellowing, “NOOOOOOOOO!”, and knocked the mouse out of Kutti’s hands. At that moment the lights came on and the little mouse scurried away.

Poor Kutti did not know the dangers of handling household rodents. You see, mice and rats are not exceptionally clean creatures. They live in all sorts of places and eat all sorts of things and often carry all sorts of diseases. However, the mouse that was in Kutti’s hands was actually quite a clean little creature and had lived an impeccably hygienic life until that point. How it got there we do not know. There is presently an enquiry into the matter.

Poor Kutti did not understand what was happening.

“Amma Amma,” Kutti asked, wide-eyedly, “what are you doing?”

“Kutti,” Amma replied, breathing hard (not hardly, haha), “that was not a kozhakattai! That was, contrary to what you believed, a little mouse!”

“Mouseaa?” Kutti asked.

“Yes, a mouse is a small animal that belongs to one of the numerous species of rodents. The best known mouse species is the common house mouse Mus musculus.”

“Oh,” said Kutti, “perhaps that is why you did not wish for me to eat it.”

“Yes, indeed, Kutti,” Amma said. Amma was a biology teacher, that is how she knew all these things.

“Then, pray tell, where is my kozhakattai? Did the little mouse eat it up?” Kutti asked, bewildered.

“A likely theory,” Amma replied, “but I think it is much more plausible that your kozhakattai was eaten by one of your siblings. Only the greediest, most conniving, thieving little rascal of a son of mine could have done this – and that is Kumar.”

Amma bristled with anger. Kumar would have to be taught not to take things that did not belong to him.

“Kumar!” she yelled, “Come here at once!”

Kumar appeared there, looking all innocent-like.

“You ate Kutti’s kozhakattai, did you not?” Amma asked.

“No, Amma! To be honest, I did not! The little mouse ate it!”

“You lying fiend!” Amma shouted, “How did you know of the existence of the little mouse? For this heinous crime, there is only one fitting punishment. You will have to catch and eat that mouse.”

“No, Amma,” said Kutti, the voice of compassion and pity, “do not make the poor mouse suffer for a crime it did not commit. Instead, I would have you have Kumar regurgitate the kozhakattai he so unfairly ate.”

“So be it,” Amma said. “Now Kumar, get regurgitating.”

Before You Accuse Me

2008-04-29T20:49:00.004+05:30

Ok, so my friend Nikhil found this blog called Dr. Boli's Celebrated Magazine, which, apart from a number of things, has a regularly recurring feature called "Ask Dr. Boli".
The style and format of this feature, I have discovered, is shockingly similar to my "Dr. K's Cure For Sanity" column. Now I had seen this blog prior to writing my first Dr. K column, but I had never read the "Ask Dr. K" feature; I'd only read the advertisements.

I suppose a column where ridiculous answers are given to 'reader' questions is not a particularly original idea in the first place. MAD Magazine has constantly been full of such things, and MAD has definitely influenced my writing over the years.

However, I was quite shocked when my friend pointed out the evident resemblance between Dr. Boli and Dr. K's styles of answering questions.

This after the resemblance (in certain elements, not in theme), as Jayashree pointed out, of my last poem to Pink Floyd's Time, which, I'll admit, I was constantly listening to in the weeks leading up to my writing of that poem. That cursed subconscious of mine.

How Deep Is A Bottomless Pit?

2008-04-27T01:26:00.003+05:30

Deep down
we're all really shallow.

Trapped in identities
we've created for ourselves.

Identities we hate each other for.
Identities we love each other for.

I won't say we're the same,
We're as different as you and me.

You're a unique little snowflake,
but just as unique as everyone else.

Uniquely trapped in prisons
that we built with our own hands.

Different combinations of the same elements
that limit the human race.

The human race is running tirelessly
and climbing higher and higher.

On a growing tower of its faeces
towards the burning sun.

One day the tower will fall
or the sun will finally burn us.

And it will all be over and we will ask
what was the point of it all.

And nobody will remember
who fired the starting gun.
Nobody will remember
if God ever told us to run.

Dr. K's Cure for Sanity

2008-04-19T10:55:00.003+05:30

If you get the New Indian Express, turn to page 7 of Zeitgeist, Saturday (19.04.2007) supplement, and read the text under the title "History of the banana and feminist protests". You will be amazed to discover that it is a column (appearing fortnightlyly) called Dr. K's Cure for Sanity, and the alter-ego of Dr. K is none other than mild-mannered Kaushik, who writes a blog called Kaushik's Magical World Of Nonsense. In fact, the New Indian Express found me through the blog. "Shameless promotion" does pay, after all.

If you missed it, read it here minus the crazy illustration of me that appeared in the paper plus some formatting errors.

Read it and give to me feedbax.

Testis

2008-03-21T12:25:00.007+05:30

Ok. So, I haven't blogged in over a month. You must be feeling awfully sad and bored. Refreshing http://nonsenseofkaushik.blogspot.com every few seconds for more than a month continuously only to see the same thing every time can't have been much fun.

Unfortunately, I haven't been able to think of anything to blog about. The only thing I've felt passionately about is the new two-rupee coin. It is undoubtedly the worst idea since... it's just the worst idea ever. It's indistinguishable in shape and size from the one-rupee coin and all that does is frustrate.

Now that I'm done with that topic, I've decided I'll post some one-sentence testimonials I wrote on facebook yesterday while I was feeling particularly mental.
And here they are, in no particular order:

"God said let there be one goddamn brilliant insanoman who is capable of extracting randomness from the most ordered processes and music from the quietest silence and lo and behold, there was Mayank."

"[Lavanya] is a bleddees who likes fingerhands and toefeet."

"When Mistake catches a frog out of the semi-soft beer pot, he wastes no time in calling the international tennis ball authority."

"Rohith, contrary to popular belief, is not a fish, despite his nickname 'Rohu'. He is a guy. A nice guy. I know it said one sentence, but I've used several. Sue me. Hey, he's a lawyer! He will defend me against your lawsuit! Ha!"

"Anshumani is so fundoo I think you can sense his fundooness from where I am, which is pretty far from where he is, but not as far as Brazil is from China."

"Faicil is the ulti-pseud hostel party animal who keeps the booze flowing and the chicks coming."

"Jayashree is a darkening in a red sky, a flightening of a blue ground, and a sharpening of a nataraj pencil."

"Vasuman is a friendly alien bob who likes keeping his brains out and his inn open."

"Megha is a purple monster who devours those who enjoy eating Haldiram's or Rajaram's snacks during twilight."

"Champu is a starfish lover who plays arpeggios under duress."

"Priyanka is an island of joy in a sea of joe."

I was seriously in some altered state of mind while writing these. A few hours later, I had barely any recollection of what I had written. My two favourites are Lavanya's and Jayashree's. If I haven't written one for you yet, don't be sad. The names came up in random order and I wrote the testis as they came. Next time I am in such a state, I shall write one for you. Probably. Don't count on it.

Post Script: Lavanya wrote about me:
"Insanely talented bunch of raw energy. Sings like a dream and dances like a frog in a blender. This kid is bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S."

Thanks, Lavanya. And I ain't no Hollaback Girl, either.

Flowers: A Valentine's Day Story

2008-02-14T08:12:00.001+05:30

Ashok was disgusted. He was absolutely sick to his stomach. Not really,but he could have been. Let's assume he was sick to his stomach. He could hardly bear to look at that morning's paper, but he leafed through it hurriedly anyway, trying hard not to be driven into further disgust by all the Valentine's Day ads in the paper. Several of them were cut-out ads - "Cut out this ad and bring it to Neem restaurant along with your valentine on Valentine's day and get 20% off on all burgers!*"

Ashok was what people called a die-hard romantic, but once January passed, he counted down the days to the 14th of February with dread. Ashok didn't have a problem with the concept of Valentine's Day itself - a day to celebrate love was probably the best idea since irrigation. But the way these greedy corporations commercialised and commodified Love - was to dilute, to pollute, a thing that was so pure, so unadulterated. And this most sublime of emotions was being sold as a 200 rupee heart-shaped box of chocolates, according to the advertisement Ashok was now trying not to look at.

What was probably just as bad was the kind of pressure Valentine's Day put on people who didn't have their special someones - he'd seen his friends go through immense depression watching couples be all valentiney. Of course, it's not like Ashok had never spent Valentine's Day single - he was just a little more stoic than his friends.
This Valentine's Day, Ashok was not exactly single, nor was he exactly multiple. You see, he had a thing going on with a certain girl, called Malli, whom he was quite fond of - but they hadn't really talked about what this 'going on thing' was about and it was kind of an on and off 'thing' - for the sake of simplicity, let's just say Malli was Ashok's "It's complicated".

Now Ashok had every intention of asking Malli to be his Valentine on the thirteenth of the month, but he hadn't quite figured out how to do that yet - and that was just his excuse for not really having the guts to ask her. But now the day was here and he knew that if he didn't seize the day, well, he wouldn't seize the day. He must speak now or forever hold his silence or something like that, because there was no more time for procrastination.

Ashok decided to go over to Malli's place and fix up this whole Valentine business. He didn't want to call, because that wasn't personal enough, and he didn't want to send her an email, because that's just stupid.
But just strolling over to Malli's house and asking her to be his Valentine didn't seem enough. After all, this was a rather last-minute proposal, so he'd better have more than a lukewarm "Will you be my valentine?" to ask her if she'd be his valentine. It needed more passion, more flavour, more romance.
Ashok considered delivering a long speech, extolling Malli's feminine virtues, her curvy, yet sturdy figure, her slender limbs and all that. But Ashok had never been great with words, so he didn't want to risk doing something like that. This also meant writing poetry was out of the question. Ashok also couldn't carry a tune to save his life, so that obviously meant no serenading.
Chocolates and teddy bears were definitely out of the question - too cheesy and too commercial. So were Valentine's Day cards. He didn't like the idea of pre-packaged sentiment.
Then it hit him - flowers. Of course, flowers were a staple Valentine's Day gift, perhaps overdone, but they still had their charm. They were natural, beautiful, fragrant, just like Malli. Besides, being a great listener had paid off - Ashok knew exactly what Malli's favourite flowers were.
Ashok decided not to buy a bouquet, for that would be commercialism all over again. He had a little garden in his backyard where the flowers he needed grew. Now delighted, Ashok picked a bunch of Malli's favourite kinds of flowers and immediately rushed to her house.

Ashok knocked on the door, and holding the flowers, waited for the door to open with bated breath.
Then the door opened and there stood Malli, more gorgeous than ever before. Ashok held out his homemade bouquet sheepishly. "Ha... Happy Valentine's Day, Malli... will you be my valentine?"
A wave of elation and relief washed over Ashok as Malli smiled and took the flowers from him.
"Of course I'll be your valentine! How sweet of you! You got me my favourite flowers! Human testicles and ovaries! Oh, and I see a few penises, too! Oh, it's wonderful, Ashok, and it smells divine! I'm so glad you asked me... I was afraid you wouldn't."

Ashok was filled with joy. He extended a branch and Malli held it in hers. They walked together, limb in limb, out to the park, their bright green leaves shimmering in the sunlight. And then a thought occurred to Ashok.
"Malli, imagine if the humans were people, and the plants were in their place. You think they'd gift each other our reproductive organs?"
"Eww, Ashok! Don't be disgusting!" Malli said.

*conditions apply

The Golden Compass: Disappointingmax

2008-01-29T20:20:00.001+05:30

If you have not read Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy, or at least his Northern Lights, my warning to you is this: Do not watch The Golden Compass.

The His Dark Materials trilogy by Philip Pullman is an extraordinary series of fantasy/science fiction books. The Golden Compass movie is based on the first book of the trilogy, called Northern Lights, except in the USA it's called The Golden Compass because the Americans have to change everything.

Being quite a fan of the series, I was incredibly excited when I first saw the poster of the movie at Mayajaal. The poster was gorgeous. It would even excite someone who knew nothing about it. I mean, look at it:

I promptly went and watched the trailer on youtube, which was also quite impressive. Yesterday I watched the movie and was sorely disappointed.
First of all, the movie is totally lacking in the depth that makes the books what they are. It makes the story seem like one arbitrary event followed by another. It is definitely a challenge to turn a book like Northern Lights into a movie that does it justice, but if they could do it with The Lord of the Rings, it's certainly possible to do it here.

One of the biggest problems of the movie was the lead actress: A girl named Dakota Blue Richards who plays Lyra, the central character of the story. The problem is this: the girl cannot act. Through the entire movie, one feels the urge to slap her. This is not true of the book version of Lyra - a character whom I totally fell in love with.

You'd think at least someone like Nicole Kidman would be the saving grace of the movie. But this is definitely one of her worst performances ever. There's just too much hamming in this movie for a vegetarian to handle. Plus, everyone looks bad. I mean, I bet you'd have to try really hard to make Nicole Kidman and Eva Green look bad, but these guys pulled it off.

One of the things I did like about the movie was the way they animated the Daemons. Daemons, in Lyra's world, are animal manifestations of a person's soul outside his or her body. Children's daemons can change shape, and the special effects here were pretty good.

One scene that almost redeemed the movie for me was the fight between Iorek Byrinison and Ragnar Sturgusson (Iofur Raknison in the book) - two massive Polar Bears fighting each other to the death. The recreation of that scene was terrific, although the movie makes no mention of how Polar Bears can generally see through any form of deceit, and how Ragnar is still tricked by Lyra and Iorek - it just turned into a pretty cool fight.

I went to see the movie with my parents, and I think it has effectively killed any interest they might have had in the series, despite me constantly telling them how lousy the movie was compared to the book. My father went so far to compare it to the Chronicles of Narnia (seriously, blecch).

If you're still going to watch the movie, please read the books (or the first book at least) before you watch it. If you've already watched the movie, remember: Don't judge a book by its movie.

pif

2007-12-15T11:14:00.000+05:30

On the 22nd and 23rd of December, 2007, you, yes, you will have the chance to witness pif.
Two shows on both days - 3pm and 7pm.
It is a series of around 18 (mostly humorous) original short sketches over the two days, along with original spoken word and original music and general fun.
The prequel (22nd show) is not the same as the sequel (23rd show), so please come for both days.
It is at the Top Storey, Alliance Francaise, College Road, Nungambakkam, Chennai, India.
pif costs 100 rupees a shot - 50 if you're a student with an id card - and tickets are available with your pif dealer (I am your pif dealer).

I will be acting, singing, and reciting a certain poem readers of this blog should be familiar with.

If you don't come, you are a waste.
Let me know if you want pif, and how much of it you will be needing, so I can go about procuring it for you.

Oh, and before I forget, pif is not suitable for children who pick up new vocabulary very quickly. It is also not suitable for adults who are easily offended - let me inform you that one of the many expansions of pif is politically incorrect festival.

The Gorie Storie - Part 12 Of 0 - Questions

2007-12-08T23:33:00.000+05:30

iI was a little too stunned to speak for a while.
"Our problem isn't entirely gone yet. More crazy people are coming. They're after you."
I wanted to tell her that this was all a big misunderstanding, that yes, it was my face on the poster, but I was Protagon, not Antagon, and nobody would want me dead because I was such a nice guy and I wouldn't hurt a fly - my best friend was a fly.

"I'd rather not keep killing them as they come - we need a long-term solution," she said. "We have two options: first, we go around town drawing moustaches on all the posters, or second, you could grow one. The first one would be slightly difficult to pull off, and as for the second one - well, you tell me if you can grow a moustache in a few minutes."
I couldn't say anything. I was still feeling stunned. That feeling of stunnation was not going.

"### ### ####### # ######### ####### ####. ### #### ## #### #### # ##### ## #### #####?" Drosophila buzzed loudly.

"That's right, Drosophila. Both of you follow me, now!"

I scrambled to my feet and wiped my dripping mouth on my sleeve and tumbled out the bathroom door after the swordswoman and Drosophila.
We ran into the bedroom and there she flung open the window and climbed out. It was one of those windows that jutted out of the top of the house and opened out onto a slanty roof. Drosophila followed. I was about to clamber out as well, when she gave me the stop sign.
"Wait," she said, crouching. Then she stood up briefly and looked around. Then she crouched down again, and gave me her hand. "Come on, we've got to move quickly. Before they see us."

There were a thousand voices shouting in my head, and in their collective clamour, I couldn't understand a word they were saying. All I knew is that every voice was asking a question. Like with Drosophila's buzzing - it was incoherent, but I knew when he was asking a question.

I decided to ignore them all for now. I put my hand in hers - it was unpleasantly rough and callusy. She pulled me out on to the roof. It was a slanted, tiled roof, but not too inclined and easy enough to stand on without too much fear of slipping or rolling off.
"Stay down!" she told me. "We're trying to hide."
"This isn't a very good hiding place, in my opinion," I said, finally speaking my first words to her.
"I know," she said. "Follow me."
And then she ran to the edge of the roof and leapt off it, sailing through the air and landing on the terrace of the next building.
"Quickly!" she yelled. "Jump across! Drosophila, you too! Fly here!"
That blasted Drosophila and his blasted wings. I made a mental note to find and befriend someone who wasn't winged, or who couldn't leap amazingly from one building to the next.
I took a deep breath, and ran, as Drosophila flew alongside me. At the edge of the roof I kicked with my right leg and flew into the air, and at the peak of my soar I knew I wasn't going to make it across.
I braced myself as I fell short of the ledge and hit the wall. A pair of hands grabbed my arms, but I slipped through and grabbed the hands with mine.
As I dangled in the air I became immensely grateful for those rough hands. Hands any smoother would have lost their hold.
She pulled me up and onto the terrace.

"Keep low," she said, and darted across the terrace. There she peered over the edge, and moved to a steel ladder that went down. She turned to us and asked us to follow. Then she climbed down the ladder. I moved to the other side of the terrace and looked down. The ladder went all the way down to an alley of sorts. The woman had already reached the bottom. She looked up at me and signalled impatiently, asking me to climb down quickly. I did so, although not quite as fast as she had managed to. Drosophila flew down.
On the next building, in the alley, was a heavy steel door. The woman went to it and tried opening it. It was unlocked and it swung open. She went inside and we followed.

The woman closed the door. The building we were now in seemed to be a godown of some kind, mostly empty, but with empty boxes randomly scattered around. In one corner was a proper stack of boxes. The windows were high up in the walls and sunlight streamed in through them, but the place was still rather dark.
I leant against the wall near the door and sank to the ground, breathing hard. Drosophila settled himself near me, on the wall. I looked at him. He definitely seemed smaller than when I had first met him. The questioning voices in my head started again.
The woman had sat down on a box in the middle of the area, had drawn her sword, and was cleaning it with a rag.
I stood up and walked over to her. The voices in my head grew louder and more numerous, and again, I couldn't understand them. Unlike Drosophila, it wasn't an incomprehensible buzzing. I could tell they were all speaking in perfectly understandable English, and I was able to isolate words, but simply due to the sheer number of them speaking at the same time, I couldn't understand them.
She looked up at me.
"These voices," I said, pointing at my head.
"What voices?" she asked.
I groaned and put my palms to my temples.
"Sit down," she said, and kicked a box towards me. I sat down, breathing hard, still holding my head.
"Calm down," she said. "Breathe slowly, deeply. Just... calm down."
I did. And when I relaxed the voices all became quieter, but clearer. I struggled, but I managed to single out one of the voices - one of the questions.
"Won't they find us in here?" I asked.
"Who, those people who were after you? No, they don't know we're in here. I hope not, anyway..."
I fished out another question from the sea of voices. "Where am I? Where are we?" Alright. So it was two questions.
"We're in a little town or village or something in-between. We're in the In-Betweens."
"The In-Betweens?" I asked. That question came spontaneously.
"Yes. It's... a strange place. It's where we are. It's why these people are so crazy."
"So this village is called the In-Betweens..." I said.
"Not this village, really," she said, looking down at her sword and trying to rub out a stubborn stain on the metal, "it's an entire region full of weird things."
I was silent for a while, trying to understand what the woman had said.
"Can you understand Drosophila?" I asked, another question from those head-voices.
"Yes. Can't you?"
"I used to be able to. Now all I hear from him is buzzing. He seems to have become smaller, too. I can't understand why," I said.
"Ah. Well, I can understand why you can't understand him, sort of," she said, looking at Drosophila, still resting on the wall. He seemed to be asleep. "But I don't know how to explain it to you. You will understand, sooner or later. For now, I think I can tell you fairly confidently that it is because of a man you call Antagon. A lot of things that I'm sure are puzzling you right now are because of him."
"The poster? The wanted poster?" I asked, not certain how to frame that question properly.
"Hmm... where do I begin?" she muttered. She flung the rag aside and sheathed her sword. "Antagon is a ruler... a kind of king, but much more than that. I shouldn't explain too much... right now, information can end up confusing you instead of helping you understand." She got up, and paced back and forth, thinking, apparently.
"Antagon does not call himself Antagon. He calls himself Protagon. To him, you are Antagon. He's the one who's put up that wanted poster everywhere. He wants you dead. And the In-Betweens, it's a dangerous place, very unpredictable. Some places, like this village, for example, accepts Antagon as its ruler. Of course, they know him as Protagon. I don't think I should explain more than this much now."
Some of the questions in my head were being silenced, but new ones were forming in their place. I dug into my pockets and pulled out what was in them: a key, a letter, and my severed little finger.
"Do you know what this key opens?" I asked her, holding it up. She took it from my hand and inspected it.
"The Gorie Storie... no, I have no idea," she said.
"This letter, who's it from?" I asked, and handed the letter to her.
"Again, no idea," she said, but on her face, in her eyes, I caught a flash of recognition. She was lying. She handed the key and the letter back to me.
"And this, well, this is... was my pinky. Do you think it could be reattached?"
"Probably not. And we should take a look at that wound on your hand. It's ok for now, but it'll be infected soon. Cat bite, right? Cheshire Cat," she said, taking my hand in hers and looking at the wound.
"How did you know?"
"First of all, Cat bites are unmistakable, and Cheshire Cat is particularly notorious," she said, and then sheepishly added, "besides, that letter of yours mentioned Cheshire Cat. Stay away from him at all costs. He's one of Antagon's men... er... Cats. You're lucky you escaped alive."
"He's dead now," I said. "Anaphylactic shock."
She blinked. "Well... that's good."
And then a question surfaced in my mind, and I was surprised I had not asked it yet.
"Who are you?"
"Who am I? That's a hard question to answer. I can tell you that my name is

*
That's the last part of The Gorie Storie I will be posting on this blog. Rotten of me to leave out her name, but honestly, I haven't decided on a name for her yet. I will continue to write the story - I have an outline that is getting increasingly definite, and I hope one day you will be able to buy the whole published thing. It's very Microsoft-like of me to say that, but if I keep posting on the blog I have no idea how secure it is, and I can't go back and edit and improve and work upon the story. Those of you who want very badly to see where it goes, ask me, and I might email the story to you as it progresses. Of course, that depends on who you are and how well I know you and whether I think you are deserving or not. THE POWER! MWAHAHAHA!

Kitchen Disasters

2007-11-28T13:02:00.001+05:30

As many of you must know, I am a great fan of food. Yes, indeed. I like food. Food is good. If you eat food, you must know of food's many health benefits. Did you know that food is good for health? It is the best preventive measure you can take against death by starvation. It also has carbohydrates for energy, proteins for muscle, fats for more energy and bulkiness and looking fat, vitamins for for being vital, minerals for being minal, and when all these things are combined, it tastes good (usually).
Because of my great love of eating things (which are meant to be eaten), I have, on numerous occasions, entered the sacred space of the kitchen to attempt to be a part of the process of the creation of this lovely starvation-preventer. However, things don't always go according to plan.

One of the first instances of the plan going awry that comes to mind is my first experience with the pressure cooker. My mother, who had to leave in a hurry, asked me to cook rice for lunch. She gave me detailed, step-by-step instructions, which I listened to carefully, and step-by-step, forgot. Then I called her up on her phone and took instructions again. I had to take one glass of rice, put it in a vessel, wash it, then drain the water, then add drinking water, put it in the pressure cooker, close the cooker, put the weight on top of the whistling thing thing, turn on the gas, and turn it off after four whistles.
All these things I did correctly. I was feeling proud of myself. Then I decided that I had to remove the rice (now cooked), from the cooker.
Somehow all my knowledge of physics deserted me at that moment. I tried to open the cooker, but to my dismay, it would not open easily. I assumed, for some vague reason, that there was vacuum inside the cooker, and therefore I needed to force it open.

They really should call it high-pressure cooker. How else are we supposed to know if it cooks under high pressure or low pressure?

I forced open the lid, and, following an explosion, there was rice on the ceiling. And on the floor. And on my head. And every other conceivable place.

My mother was not very pleased. She did not trust me with a cooker again for a long time.

My second incident with a pressure cooker, I must admit, was far less stupid. I remembered my physics very well. What I forgot, however, was that the gas was on and that it needed to be turned off. My mother had left me with the express instruction of turning off the gas after four whistles, which I forgot due to some highly absorbing programme on television, following which I played Red Alert 2 (it's a very good game, especially with the Yuri's Revenge expansion. Play it.)
Three hours later, I wandered into the kitchen, and remembered that I needed to turn off the gas. I turned it off, and called my mother, and asked her not to be angry. First she thought I was joking (I tell jokes often). But I was not joking. I was being serious. I opened the cooker after letting it cool off for a while, and found inside a black, charred mass of what used to be rice. I pulled it out of the cooker, and tried to dump it into the garbage, but the ex-rice was unfortunately glued to the vessel. I used every implement in the kitchen to try and scrape it off, but one stubborn layer remained. The vessel had to be thrown. Then I washed and scrubbed the pressure cooker until most of the black stuff was gone.

My most recent Kitchen incident did not involve pressure cookers. In fact, it involved something I'm used to doing, making tea. My mother asked me to make her a cup of green tea with lemon and honey. I poured the water, dipped the green tea bag, squirted half a lemon, and then added the honey, which for some reason formed a layer on the surface of the tea. Odd. In any case, I took the tea to my mother, who eyed it suspiciously and asked me to taste it first (that mother of mine is so trusting). I took a sip and choked and gagged and spat and ran to the wash basin to rinse and gargle and get rid of the taste of the oil I'd just swallowed.

In my defense, the oil was in an old honey jar.

The Gorie Storie - Part 11 Of 0 - She Came In Through The Bathroom Window

2007-11-23T23:43:00.000+05:30

There was less than polite knocking at the door, and I was having serious issues with my face. I would be fine with it if it wasn't for the fact that it was on every wanted poster in town, attached to the name Antagon.

So far so confusing.

But it got worse. The most confusing part was that I didn't know if I had Antagon's face all of a sudden, or if they had just printed my face on those posters instead of Antagon's. Was my face my face or Antagon's?

There were voices everywhere. Inside my head, outside the door, and Drosophila's hyperactive, annoying buzzing. I couldn't think clearly. There was a question stuck in the back of my head - a question which, if I could only ask, would solve a lot of this confusion. But I couldn't think of the question. It was as if it was just out of my grasp. It was definitely something to do with my face. Something to do with mirrors? Maybe. Something to do with reflections? Probably.
I sat down on the floor and held my head and tried to focus. I just wasn't able to.
"Drosophila, will you shut up for a moment?"
Drosophila gave me one loud, angry buzz, and then stopped. But the voices outside the door were only getting louder. I wanted to ask Drosophila what question I needed to ask myself, but I knew that even if he knew the answer (the question) to my question, I wouldn't be able to understand him.

And then an axe poked its head through the door, like it was just peeking to see if anyone was inside. Then it went back outside, leaving a vertical, oblong hole in the door. Then, with a much more prominent 'thwack-crunch' sound than the last time, struck the door again, sending splinters of wood everywhere. The head of the axe now twisted sideways before going back out, taking a large chunk of door with it. The gaping hole in the door was level with my head in my now sitting position. I saw a man on the other side lower his head to look through it.

"He's in here, alright!" the man yelled with glee, looking straight at me with his crazed blue-green eyes. "So is his crazy fly-friend!"

Then I heard the shatter of glass behind me. I turned and looked up as tiny, tinkling shards of glass fell on and around me. Someone had broken the small bathroom window, high up in the wall. I was finished. I had not yet realised the possibility of escaping through the bathroom window, but perhaps I would have, if the crazy people of this crazy town had not decided to attack me from both sides.

A pair of arms reached through the bathroom window, and the fact that one of them wielded a long sword did not do much to help my state of panic. Simultaneously, on the other side, an arm had reached through the hole in the bathroom door, and was fumbling at the latch. The people at the door would get in first, I thought.
I immediately stood up and looked frantically around me for something to defend myself with. The only thing in the bathroom other than the fittings, was the mirror. I smashed the mirror with my fist, twice, thrice, and then I removed a large triangular section, the one that seemed sharpest, and held on to it.

The door people were taking longer than they should have. I realised from the noises outside that they were fighting amongst each other. I turned around and looked up. The arms bent, the elbows propped themselves against the casement, and pushed the rest of the body through. It was a woman. She fell to the bathroom floor, and picked herself up with amazing speed. She was covered with tiny cuts from the glass, and I intended to give her a much larger one. I swung my section of mirror at her, but she casually avoided it, raised her sword, and grimacing, strode past me. I turned, bewildered.

The door people had still not opened the door. Multiple arms were struggling to reach through the hole and open it, and fighting each other off in the process. The man with the blue-green eyes was still watching, trying not to lose his view amidst the struggling arms. He was evidently more interested in watching than getting the door open.

With casual force she jabbed her sword through the hole in the door, and withdrew it, as I saw the man's bloodied face fall back with a scream. Then she raised the sword, and with one smooth motion, severed the three arms that were struggling for the latch. More screams from outside. I'm sure losing an arm, or even half, at least, was more painful than losing a little finger. As I saw the severed arms fall to the floor, I turned to throw up. Drosophila was in a corner, dead silent, seemingly paralysed with fear.

As I retched, I heard, but did not watch (as my back was turned to the door), the woman open the door, and swish her sword a few more times, eliciting screams and moans and groans. And then the noise stopped. I turned back to see what had happened.
She stood straight and tall, amidst three or four bloody bodies, with her back to me. She dropped her sword and reached behind her head to take off the rubber band that held her short, black, now messed-up ponytail in place. Then she bunched up her hair and slid the rubber band back around it, redoing her ponytail. Then she turned to me, and wiping off blood and sweat from her forehead, smiled a most charming smile.
"Protagon, isn't it?" she said, sweetly, "I've been dying to meet you."

More like killing to meet me.

Run Like A Mad

2007-11-01T17:57:00.000+05:30

Run like a mad.
Run like a mad.
Run like a mad irrespective of whether you are sad or glad.

Run like a mad to mental hospital.
It is a nice place for you, I feel.

In mental hospital canteen they have hot hot bajjis
of onion and potato and green chillies.
Chillies as green as a chameleon in green surroundings.
If you take a bite, your mouth will turn white
(I mean, like, white-hot because it is so kaaram)
and you will jump up and down and fan your tongue
and drink so much water that you will feel like going one bathroom.
But the bathroom will be closed for maintenance and
you will not want to go one bathroom in public.
(Only public toilet.)

So in your search for the ever-elusive commode,
You will run like a mad.
Run like a mad.
Run like a mad.
Run like a mad irrespective of whether you are good or bad.

*
This was written quite spontaneously in class when we were asked to write a poem based on original similes. We were given the first half of similes ('as blue as') and we had to complete them imaginatively, and use one or a few of these to write a poem.

Some of the similes I came up with were:
As blue as a wet dream
As lonely as a pairless shoe
As tall as a giraffe on stilts. With a hat.
As talkative as a couple of glasses of scotch.
As expensive as a platinum commode.
Common as an elbow, ie, pretty common.
Regular as a cliched simile.
Pretty as a gigantic fruit-fly.
Running like a mad.
As green as a chameleon in green surroundings.

The Gorie Storie - Part 10 Of 0 - Protagon/Antagon

2007-10-22T15:00:00.000+05:30

Drosophila was making absolutely no sense whatsoever. He kept saying things like "Th### ###" and "#######n" and eventually, "#######".
I picked up the bicycle and decided to head in the general direction of the tracks. There was a certain joy in riding on full tyres. Although Drosophila's constant incoherent buzzing was getting to be quite irritating.

I had memorised his face. Antagon's. He had a rather sharp, triangular nose, like a three-faced pyramid jutting out of his face. The poster was in black and white, so I couldn't tell what colour his eyes were. But they seemed to jump out of the poster. His pupils were the blackest things on the poster, and they seemed to swim with life, taunting me. His hair was as straight as straight things, except curved, the way straight hair curves. It was black - at least it was black on the poster, and seemed to have been at some point handled by a very bad barber. It was in different lengths in different places, and added to his general look of patheticity. He looked so undernourished and sleep-deprived I almost pitied him.

I felt drawn towards his face. Despite the pathetic condition he seemed to be in, he was undoubtedly attractive, even to me, who was attracted to only females of species. Still, he had to be killed. I wondered if I was the only one who found him good-looking. I was about to ask Drosophila when I remembered he was a specist and I couldn't understand what he was saying anyway.

As I cycled (and Drosophila flew), I was rapidly becoming aware of a number of things:
#1: My stomach felt uncomfortable, and had started to make growling sounds.
#2: There was a terrible tension in my abdominal region.
#3: The place where my little finger had been attached to my hand was causing me more and more pain.
#4: Things were beginning to appear less vague. Either my vision was becoming sharper, or the images themselves were. Edges and corners were more clearly defined. Colours no longer ran into each other, but stayed within clear boundaries and contrasted each other. The fuzzy haze that enveloped my skin was gone. Drosophila's fuzzy haze was gone, too. He also seemed to have become smaller. And of course, he wasn't talking anymore - just buzzing his annoying buzz.

I got off the bicycle, took off my nice brown pants and green underwear, and relaxed. I seemed to vaguely recall having done this before. It didn't smell very nice, but I felt better once I was done. Things #1 and #3 still needed to be dealt with, though, and I wasn't sure if #4 needed to be dealt with or not.

#1 I somehow knew how to handle - I needed to eat something. I could see some signs of a settlement in the direction I was heading, and hopefully they'd have food. Hopefully they'd also know how to fix #3.

I put my underwear and pants back on. I got back on the cycle, and started riding again. Drosophila had stopped buzzing. He had probably given up trying to get me to understand him. I began to feel a strange loneliness.

*

We were almost at the village when Drosophila began buzzing again. I could tell it was something important, but I really had no way of knowing what.

I cycled up a short mud path with Drosophila continuously making short, sharp buzzes in my ear. I couldn't see anyone around. All I wanted was to find someone who could feed me. The first few houses we passed were empty, but all of them had the 'Antagon Wanted' poster pasted on their fronts. It looked like I was going to have some competition in the hunt for Antagon.

I finally came to a house where a little old woman was on the porch. The front of the house was completely covered with Antagon Wanted posters. She looked nice and sweet and grandmotherly and like the kind of person who would feed me. She had white hair and wore a blue dress and sat in a chair. Her eyes were closed, but I could tell she was awake, because she was whistling.

"Excuse me?" I asked, meekly. Behind me, Drosophila was buzzing like a mad~~man~~fly.
"Hmm?" she opened her eyes.
"I was just wondering... er... I'm really hungry... Do you know where I could get some food?"
Drosophila was now frantically bumping himself against my arm.
"Drosophila! Stop it! What's wrong with you?" I whispered loudly to him.
I turned back to face the old woman, and her eyes had grown huge with wonder or excitement or something.
"He's here!" she said, quietly at first, and then loudly, "He's here! He's here! Everyone! Come quick! He's come here!"
I beamed at the old woman, "I didn't know you'd been expecting me!"
The old woman struggled out of her chair onto her wobbly legs, and reached for something by her side.
With a sudden, loud buzz, Drosophila flew at the woman and knocked her back into her chair. The chair tipped over, and she hit the porch floor with a thud. She did not suddenly lose consciousness. She groaned and rolled over and tried to get on her feet again. The object she had reached for was a big gun of some sort.

"HEY!" a voice called out from across the street. Drosophila and I spun around to see a big, angry looking man waving a giant sword at us. He began to cross the road, and I think he intended to harm us. I decided to just wait there and explain the whole situation to him - how we had not really intended to harm the nice old lady, and how I was just a nice, hungry man who would be very happy with some food.
Drosophila had other ideas. "## ####, #####!" he said, tugging on my sleeve, and pointing to the open door of the old woman's house.
I got off the bicycle and ran after Drosophila into the house. Drosophila was looking in all directions quite frantically.
He flew upstairs and I clambered after him. "Drosophila, what the banana is going on?"

If you were to call me confused at that time, I would not disagree wholeheartedly with you.

Drosophila did not reply to my profound question regarding a fruit. Instead, he led me into what seemed to be a bathroom. He bolted the door from the inside, and made me stand in front of the mirror. Then he pointed at an Antagon Wanted poster that had been put up inside the bathroom.

Ohnogoddamnholygaiaspiritoftheearth.

The man in the mirror had a rather sharp, triangular nose, like a three-faced pyramid jutting out of his face. His pupils of darkest black seemed to jump out of the mirror, and swam with life. His hair was as straight as straight things, except curved, the way straight hair curves. It was black, and seemed to have been at some point handled by a very bad barber. It was in different lengths in different places, and added to his general look of patheticity. He looked so undernourished and sleep-deprived I almost pitied him. And I did pity him.

The face on the poster was my face.

And then there was furious banging on the bathroom door.

The Gorie Storie - Part 9 Of 0 - Big Bad Cheshire Cat

2007-10-05T14:17:00.000+05:30

It happened quickly.

I was pedalling away furiously on a bicycle and Drosophila flew ahead of me. Cheshire Cat wasn't far behind. Ergo was still on the train, dead.

What had happened to Cheshire Cat did not fit within my definition of an allergic reaction. It was more like a mutation or a transformation. Unlike the little Cheshire Cat, the post-rat mutated Cheshire Cat didn't talk much. In fact, he didn't talk at all. He just grinned, foamed at the mouth, drew his claws and pounced on the nearest living thing.

The nearest living thing had been Ergo. Cheshire Cat had gone for the throat again, and this time he did a little more than just leave bite marks. When Ergo's thrashing body finally went limp, Drosophila and I knew we were next.

Flying out of a train is easy.
I didn't even have wings.

I grabbed one of the bicycles on the train and cycled straight out of the train as fast as I could. The cycle jumped off the train, hit the ground, and sent me flying. I got up, injured, though not too badly, picked up the bicycle and raced away from the train as fast as I could. I turned around and saw Cheshire Cat leap off the train and bound after me on all fours. Drosophila had already buzzed ahead.

Now Cheshire was much closer. I didn't dare look behind, but his breath was much louder than it was before. Inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale exhale.
He was gaining on me, and I knew he'd kill me before I ever got the chance to kill Antagon.

Drosophila turned to look from time to time, probably to see whether Cheshire had gotten me yet. There wasn't anything he could do to help me.

Then there was a loud, long, deep inhale, and he pounced. He landed on top of me, and the bicycle fell over. We both fell and he lost hold of me for a moment. I got up and began to run, but Cheshire pounced again and caught my right leg in his jaws. He sunk his teeth into my calf and dragged me closer to himself. I scratched the ground with my hands, desperately trying to grab something to cling to.

I turned around and threw two handfuls of mud into his face. He hissed and let go, and pawed at his eyes. I got up and tried to run again, but I wasn't going very fast after what Cheshire had done to my leg.
I saw Drosophila hovering about a metre away. He was trying to tell me something, but I couldn't make any sense of his words. He kept pointing at a sort of ditch below him. I hobbled closer to try and hear him better, and then I figured it out. He was telling me to hide in the ditch. It wasn't a very good plan because it wasn't a very good hiding place, but anything was worth trying. I moved towards the ditch and Cheshire jumped and hit me from behind, knocking me into it.

And then I realised why Drosophila's plan was a good plan. The ditch was narrow. Too narrow for Cheshire to enter. As long as I stayed at the bottom, Cheshire wouldn't be able to reach me. Only his head fit inside the ditch, and he snapped his grinning jaws at me, millimetres away from my face. My hands groped around, trying to find something to defend myself with. My right hand grabbed something furry and I thrust it at Cheshire's face. Cheshire snapped at my hand and caught it in his mouth, with the furry thing inside.
I knew my hand was finished. I'd have to live the rest of my life, if I survived this, with only my left hand.

Then Cheshire's eyes grew wide and he made a choking sound and withdrew his head from the ditch, releasing my hand, which was now rather bloody and mangled.
I waited for a few seconds, and when Cheshire didn't pop his head back in, I carefully crawled out of the ditch. Cheshire was there, coughing and wheezing. His eyes were red and watering and he was shaking all over. His face started to swell and grow red. From red it turned blue. Cheshire Cat rolled over a few times, then stopped coughing. Only his tail twitched, and that went still in about a minute.

"An###l#### ##o#k" I heard Drosophila buzz. He was above my head.
"What?" I asked.
"Anaph#la#tic sho#k" he repeated. I understood him better this time. Anaphylactic shock.
"Anaphylactic shock? How? And I can barely understand what you're saying, Drosophila."

Drosophila flew over next to Cheshire Cat's body and pointed. On the ground were the bloody remains of what seemed to be a rat.
"A rat," I said, "So he was allergic to them after all?"
Drosophila gave me a blank expression.

I looked down at my right hand. It wasn't looking too good, but it was mostly intact. My little finger had been severed, and remained attached to my hand by just a thin line of ligament. I bit my lip, and without hesitation, yanked off the finger and stuck it in my pocket. Ten fingers was better than nine, but I was glad I still had both hands.

"What do you have there?" I asked Drosophila. Drosophila was holding a piece of paper in one of his legs. He looked at where I was pointing and then handed it to me. He seemed to have forgotten it.
It was a poster with a picture of a man's face on it. It read:

Wanted
Dead or Alive
Preferably Dead

Followed by the picture. Followed by:

Antagon
This man, Antagon, is highly dangerous. Kill him on sight.
Huge reward: ^~^20,000
Report to the Centre of Sense.

Great. Now I'd get a reward for something I was going to do anyway. I only had to make sure no one beat me to it.

The Gorie Storie - Part 8 Of 0 - Cute Little Cheshire Cat

2007-09-26T14:25:00.000+05:30

Cheshire Cat looked a lot scarier on the poster than he did in real life. The real Cheshire Cat was several times smaller than the one on the poster, and I wondered whether perhaps this was only Cheshire Kitten and Cheshire Cat was his father who was going to emerge any moment now.

"Are you Cheshire Cat?" I asked.
"Yes. And I am going to kill all of you," the tiny cat replied. He was sort of brown with grey stripes and yellow eyes. He was also tiny, as I have mentioned before. So tiny that he did not inspire any fear in me, unlike the poster, which did.

Drosophila chuckled.
Cheshire Cat hissed and bared his teeth in a not-so-friendly grin and for a moment, I was afraid. Like Drosophila, Ergo didn't seem the least bit frightened by this cat.
"Well, you're a cute little kitty aren't you? You're cute, you're little, and you're a kitty. Ergo, you're a cute little kitty!"
Cheshire Cat replied with a voice only I seemed to find menacing, "I am so glad you find me cute and little. However, I am not a kitty. I am a fully grown cat."
Drosophila suddenly became a little wary. "Ergo," he said, "I think you're a little too close to him for safety."
"Too close? To this cute little kitty? Oh, never. How would this cute little kitty ever harm me? He's such a cute little kitty!"
"Ergo," I said, "This is a classic case of underestimating the opponent. The less seriously you take this cat, the more likely he is to be deadly."
"That happens only in poorly written fiction," Ergo said, turning his head around to face me.

Cheshire Cat leaped and his jaws clamped on Ergo's throat. Ergo grabbed Cheshire and tried to take him off, but Cheshire remained stuck.
Drosophila buzzed loudly and flew faster than I had ever seen him fly before in my entire few days of knowing him and flew right into Cheshire Cat, detaching him from Ergo's throat and knocking him to the floor.
"Ouch," Ergo said.
"See? I told you!" I said.
"Not really," Ergo said, "I mean, he's feisty alright, but he's still a cute little kitty who's rather harmless."
"What are you saying? He nearly killed you!" I shouted, watching Cheshire Cat get back on his feet.
"So he gave me some bite marks on my neck," Ergo said, "But his teeth aren't sharp enough, and his jaws aren't nearly strong enough to kill me, or even injure me seriously."
"Really?" I asked, turning my attention away from Cheshire for just a moment.
And I regretted it the very next second.
Cheshire was clawing at my legs and damaging my nice brown pants
I bent down and picked him up by the scruff of his neck. He actually was a cute little kitty. He struggled and continued to claw at the air, trying to get to me, but I held him out of reach.
"What do we do with this fellow?" I asked.

"Is there an Ergo here?" Titan asked, standing in the doorway. So he had a knack for jumping out of fast moving trains without hurting himself. And then jumping back onto the same fast moving trains.
"I'm Ergo," Ergo said.
"I've got a parcel for you," Titan said, "I forgot about it before."
"Who's it from?"
"Again, I have no idea" Titan said, and handed over the package to Ergo.
"Er... thanks," Ergo said, and Titan jumped out of the train once again.

Ergo opened the parcel, and inside was a cage. Inside the cage was a live rat. What was inside the live rat I do not know and do not want to discuss.
"Do you think it's from... the same person?"
"I'm pretty sure it is."
"Make him eat the rat," Drosophila said.
"Oh, come on, this guy's of no danger to anyone," I said.
Ergo lifted the cage and brought it close to Cheshire Cat's face. Cheshire grinned and cringed.
"Stop," I said, "There's no need to use the rat on him."

Then Cheshire Cat swung free from my grasp without warning, and leapt onto the cage, making Ergo drop it. The cage hit the floor, and the cage door fell open, releasing the rat. Cheshire Cat pounced on it, caught it between his teeth, and then swallowed it whole.
Then he grinned.
Cheshire Cat began to swell up rather rapidly. His grin grew wider to accommodate his growing teeth, and his claws lengthened at an alarming pace. He now stood on just his hind legs, using his tail for balance. He had now grown to five or six times the size of the cute little kitty he originally was.

Ohnogoddamnholygaiaspiritoftheearth save me.

This was the Cheshire Cat on the poster.

Freedom

2007-09-24T09:43:00.000+05:30

Let's be free. We like to be free. It is something we like to be. Free. We like to express ourselves freely and we do not like those who do not let us express ourselves freely. Am I not right? Correct me if I'm wrong. We like to be free. We like freedom, especially freedom of expression. Freedom of expression is something we like to have. If I did not have freedom of expression, I would not be able to ramble on and on and on like this about freedom of expression without getting to the point I am trying to make. Someone would have stopped me. But because I have freedom of expression, I am able to do this. Is it not good?

Where does freedom of expression end? Does it end when you're dead? Certainly. When you're dead you can no longer express yourself. Not in the conventional sense, anyway. But does freedom of expression have its ends amongst the living? I say, yes.

My right to swing my hand ends where your face begins. There is an end to freedom of expression. I still can, of course, swing my hand against your face, but it would not be very nice. You would be offended and say I do not have the right to swing my hand against your face. In expressing myself freely, I have offended you. Fair enough. I will not swing my hand against your face. Ok? Fine.

As far as physical limits go, it's easy to define where one's freedom begins and ends. I do not have the freedom to enter your space because that space is your area of freedom. Your freedom in that space has greater status than my freedom. Therefore if your freedom is not very happy with what my freedom is doing, it has every right to tell my freedom to get out of there. Am I not right? Am I being too vague? Am I being too abstract? Ok. Fine.

The problem arises when conflicting spaces and rights and freedoms are not physical.
Let's take the example of a dress code. Yes, that is a good example. I wish to discuss this example.

I have the freedom of expression to dress however I please. After all, it is my body which I am dressing. This is perfectly alright when nobody sees me and nobody knows about it. For instance, alone, inside a locked bathroom, I can wear whatever I would like to wear. However, things get more complicated when I am not alone inside a locked bathroom or not alone outside a locked bathroom.

You see what I am wearing, and therefore, my freedom is entering your space of freedom by rays of light through your eyes. You do not like what I am wearing. My appearance affects you adversely. Not physically, but psychologically. Let us imagine a dialogue between two people, say, Frogobilistchurdinn and Megaholobogaloganomarton.

Frogobilistchurdinn: What a great day to go walking in my underwear.
Megaholobogaloganomarton: Hey, you, hi, how are you doing, may I politely say that I do not like what you are wearing.
Frogobilistchurdinn: Well, I did not ask for your opinion, did I?
Megaholobogaloganomarton: But you entered my field of vision and your attire greatly upset me!
Frogobilistchurdinn: Well, it is my body and I will put on it what I feel like putting.
Megaholobogaloganomarton: That's nice. But I must say what you feel like putting on your body is entering my vision and upsetting me. I do not like being upset. Being upset upsets me. Do you not think it would be better if you wore something that did not upset me?
Frogobilistchurdinn: Well, if it upsets you, you can just close your eyes.
Megaholobogaloganomarton: But if I close my eyes I cannot see where I am going and I will probably bump into something.
Frogobilistchurdinn: Well, just look in some other direction, then.
Megaholobogaloganomarton: If I do that, I will still end up bumping into things because I am walking in this direction. Why don't you move?
Frogobilistchurdinn: Well, why should I move? I have every right to stand right here.

They were both found later trying to kill each other out of anger.

Now, both their arguments are valid, I think. Frogobilistchurdinn is wanting to express himself and that expression is offending Megaholobogaloganomarton's cultural and moral senses, which, in his defence, are perfectly valid senses to have.

Like everything else, in my opinion, there is no answer to this question. It's all about where you draw the line and that's where everyone disagrees. Where to draw the line. I'm not going to stop walking because someone is offended by my walking. I'm not going to stop breathing because someone is offended by my breathing. But at the same time I will not walk around shouting loud, obnoxious insults to everyone, because people will be offended by my walking around shouting loud, obnoxious insults to everyone. That's where I draw my line.

Perhaps it is a function of how many people are offended by something.

The Gorie Storie - Part 7 Of 0 - The Letter

2007-09-17T19:11:00.000+05:30

It was no mistake. The envelope inside the envelope addressed to Drosophila was addressed to me.

Protagon,
World

The envelope read. That was me, alright.
"Why was it inside an envelope addressed to Drosophila?" I asked, to no one in particular.
"Maybe," Titan said, "Drosophila is supposed to deliver it to Protagon."

Titan wasn't really very titanic. He was rather average-sized. He wore a greenish-brownish-green uniform that consisted of a greenish-brownish-green shirt and greenish-brownish-green trousers. Add to that his greenish-brownish-green helmet. He had a greenish-brownish-green bag slung around his shoulder that I assumed was full of letters. His skin was also greenish-brownish-green, but it looked like it had been brown to start with. The green seemed to be on account of a lot of chlorophyll that had rubbed off on him. On his pink belt (yes his belt was pink, a bright, hot, vivid, neon pink and it had a sparkly heart-shaped buckle on it), were a variety of odd contraptions, one which I identified as being a mini-chocolate dispenser. He looked like he was the sort of guy who was always busy and in a hurry to go.

"Look, I'm busy and in a hurry to go. So if you're not planning on sending back a reply with me, I think I'll go ahead and leave," he said.
"But how will we reply if we don't have a return address?" I asked.
"Maybe there's one inside."
"Would you hurry up and open the envelope?" Drosophila snapped.

I opened it. There was a rusty brown key and a letter inside. I looked at the key and passed it on to Ergo and Drosophila for them to look at. I then read the letter.

Dear Protagon,

I think you will find this key essential at some point in the future. Keep it safe. It will answer a lot of questions. You may not have any of those now - questions, I mean, but they will come, soon. Things will begin to look far uglier as you go continue to chase Antagon, and you will often want to turn back, but I urge you to chase Antagon and kill him. When the questions start - and they will, soon - you will ask yourself why you want to kill this man and 'making you wet' will no longer be a sufficient explanation.
The reasons will come, Protagon. Just don't give up chase.

I think it's best if I keep my identity a secret, for now, at least.

Yours,
Anonymous

P.S. Cheshire Cat is allergic to mice.

"What does the letter say?" Ergo asked. I gave him the letter to read.
"So, should I wait for a reply or not?" Titan asked.
"There's no return address," I said.
"Well, then, I guess I'll be on my way," he said, patting his bag, "I've got many more deliveries to make."
The train was moving really fast now. Titan walked to the compartment door, which was wide open. He stuck his head outside, looked both ways, and causally hopped outside. I couldn't see, but I was certain that I wouldn't see him again. Not alive. Not after having jumped out of a train moving at these speeds.

"Tsk," I said. "Think of all those letters that will never be delivered."
"The postal department should stop hiring loons like that guy," Drosophila said.
"There's a postal department?"

"This key has an inscription on it," Ergo interrupted.
"What does it say?"
"The Gory Story," Ergo said, "except it's spelt G-O-R-I-E S-T-O-R-I-E."

"Did I hear someone say Gory Story?" Cheshire Cat asked, grinning, who was coming in from the previous compartment. "Because I'm ready for a Gory Story!"

Ohnogoddamnholygaiaspiritoftheearth save me.

He approached the three of us, and drew out his claws.
And giggled.

Missy The Maid

2007-09-04T19:28:00.000+05:30

Missy, the maid, had a problem with keeping her mouth shut. The problem was that she couldn’t.

I gave Missy the best of everything – the most expensive brooms and mops, top-of-the-line detergents and toilet cleaning fluids. There was even a washing machine and a dishwasher at her disposal. All I asked in return was that she perform some tasks around the house, wear a slightly revealing outfit, and please not tell the neighbours what was in my garbage. She found the last one impossible to do.

That stupid woman. Today wasn’t even garage cleaning day.

She found ex-butler Geezer’s body in the trunk of my Jeep, and I found her finding it. Before she realised I was there, I closed the garage door and locked her in.

I wasn’t quite sure what to do next. I sat down outside the garage, bored. I couldn’t leave her alive – she wouldn’t keep quiet.

I had time to kill.

Pity. I quite liked Missy, despite her excessive gossiping.

I especially enjoyed watching her hang the clothes to dry in the yard. I would peek from behind the curtains of my bedroom window and see her bend over every time she reached into the laundry basket.

I sincerely hoped she would stay in my employ long enough to one day be comfortable doing her work in the pink. Not that she was really pink. She was more like a creamy-light-brown, the colour of cappuccino, no, actually, the colour of Horlicks in milk. And I imagined her to be just as delicious. On a few occasions, I had the blessed opportunity to brush against her skin or shake her hand. Those moments of contact, my god… she was so soft it set off explosions in my head.

Like I said, Pity. First Geezer, and now her.

I didn’t have any firearms in the house, and a kitchen knife would just be too messy – I was a terrible cook. The best thing to do would be to kill her without having to open the garage door. Entering the garage would probably result in a struggle, or her escaping, and I knew I stood little chance against those long, slender, supple, muscular, yet feminine, limbs of hers.

I decided to kill her by reading a compilation of really awful jokes by a certain S.S. through the door.

By page 50, she was screaming and wailing and begging me to stop. She promised to do things I had only dreamed of her doing if I would just stop telling her those jokes. I bit on my lip.

“Missy, this is hurting me as much as it’s hurting you, but I have to kill you.”

“Then shoot me in the head, stab me in the chest, anything, anything but this!”

“I’m sorry, Missy. What do a gambler and a heart patient have in common?”

She responded with frenzied screaming.

“Give up? It’s the CARDiologist.”

Suddenly she fell silent. I had delivered the killing stroke.

I opened the door and slowly peered inside. The trunk of the jeep was still open, and Geezer’s rotting corpse had rolled halfway out of the trunk, the head and arms hanging off the edge. Nearer to me was Missy’s lifeless body. Seeing her lying dead like that made me break down. I fell to my knees, and bent over her body, weeping.

“Oh god, what monster have I turned into? First I murder my butler, and now my maid. I must be the worst employer on Earth!”

The grief drove me mad. I started singing Christina Aguillera songs and the Polish National Anthem, even though I did not know the Polish National Anthem.

I pulled on my hair and it came out in clumpy lumps in my hands. I wept in woe.

I had to destroy this murderous beast that had possessed me, and destroy myself in the process, before I destroyed any more of my employees.

I pulled a saw out of the toolbox, and slashed my wrists. As blood gushed out of my body, I felt my life gradually leave me. I could do no more harm now.

Then, as I lay on the floor, dying, Missy got up from what I thought had been death, and looked at me.

“Missy, can you get me a couple of band-aids?”

The Gorie Storie - The Storie So Far

2007-08-31T17:27:00.000+05:30

Here is a summary of the first 5 parts of 0 of The Gorie Storie, for those of you who have lost track of the story. I would suggest that you read all parts again instead of this summary, but I understand there are some of you who do not have the required patience or reading ability. Don't forget to read Part 6 Of 0 after reading this, if you haven't already.

The story begins with an unnamed protagonist-narrator seeing Drosophila, a fruit fly, and finding him blindingly gorgeous. He wants to do things to Drosophila, such as drool all over him. However, he stops wanting to do these things when he discovers Drosophila is a male fruit fly. He asks Drosophila if 'this is a dream', and Drosophila says it is, but a fake one.

Then our unnamed protagonist-narrator sort of befriends Drosophila, and feels the need to satisfy his urge for a female fruit fly. He is also concerned, as he addresses Drosophila by his genus, about what would happen if he were to run into another fruit fly from the same genus. There are also headless chickens that he needs to round up. Drosophila and the protagonist cross a bridge and find another fruit fly, whom also the protagonist finds blindingly beautiful. However, this is not a Drosophila fruit fly, it is a Bactrocera. Bactrocera begins to suck up all the headless chickens, and the protagonist is worried about how is going to explain that to his supervisor.

Drosophila manages to convince the protagonist that there is no supervisor, hence there is no problem relating to the headless chickens. Drosophila does not find her attractive because he does not find any organism outside his species attractive. The protagonist wants to know Bactrocera's species before talking to her, so he figures out that she is either a Bactrocera correcta or a Bactrocera penecorrecta

Before the protagonist can make contact with Bactrocera, she flies away, and the protagonist and Drosophila decide to pursue her. The protagonist encounters a significant problem - he doesn't know how to introduce himself if and when he meets her - he has no name. Drosophila suggests that he be called Homo, after his genus, but the protagonist is not so enthusiastic about that. They begin to cross another bridge, only to suddenly encounter a man on the other side who tells them to 'leave his Bactrocera alone', and who cuts the ropes of the bridge, making the protagonist fall into the river below. Drosophila can fly, of course, so he doesn't fall.

Luckily for the protagonist, the river is very shallow and only a metre below the bridge, so he is not hurt. He is, however, very wet. He swears to kill the man who cut the bridge for making him wet. Drosophila then decides to kill the protagonist for making him wet, because when he fell, he splashed water over Drosophila. He is stopped by a voice who, by logical arguments, convinces Drosophila that it is not the protagonist, but the man who cut the bridge who is responsible for his wetness. The owner of the voice shows himself, and the protagonist names him Ergo. Ergo names the protagonist Protagon. Ergo joines Protagon and Drosophila in their pursuit of Bactrocera and the man who cut the bridge.

Part 6 Of 0 begins two days later - the trynamic trio have been chasing the man who cut the bridge...
Now read it!

The Gorie Storie - Part 6 Of 0 - The Train Station

2007-08-28T12:43:00.001+05:30

I saw a flash of white turn the next corner, and I knew it was him.
"It's him! He just turned that corner!" I said.
"Who just turned that corner?" asked Ergo, breathlessly.
"It's Antagon!"
"Antagon?" Drosophila looked puzzled, like there was a tiny piece he could not find.
"Yes," Ergo explained, "If Protagon is Protagon because he is the Protagonist of his story, Antagon must be the Antagonist, ie, the man who made you wet!"
"Stop talking and run," I said.

We had chased Antagon for two days now, across the barren terrain, gaining on him steadily. Ergo ran fast for someone with such stubby little legs. Then, suddenly, we saw a building appear on the horizon, and Antagon went into it. We chased Antagon into the building, and here we were, following him through a series of twists and turns and corners.
By now I was sure that we were in a train station. The building was big and trainy and stationy, and that was a dead giveaway. On the ceiling there were larger-than-life paintings of trains - steam engines, diesel engines, electric engines, everything from WAP-40s to WD-40s. WD-40s weren't train engines, of course, but I assumed they were used to maintain rusting trains.

And now I had caught a glimpse of Antagon, and I knew it was only a matter of seconds before we caught him and killed him.

We turned the next corner, and the narrow passage we were running down opened into a vast, majestic hallway, with larger-than-larger-than-life paintings. To the right was a platform, and a train that had started to move away.
There he was, just a few steps ahead of us, in his white coat and blue jeans, ripe for the killing. I lunged out to grab him, when a red signal suddenly flashed, and I had to stop and wait for the headless chickens to cross. Curse those cursed headless chicken crossings. Aahh... if only Bactrocera were there to suck them up.
We waited, helpless, as the headless chickens crossed in front of us, and as Antagon boarded the moving train, cackling in glee and a sense of temporary victory. He may have gotten away, but he would be wrong to think we had given up chase.

The signal turned green, and Drosophila, Ergo, and I dashed after the train, but we all knew it was too late.
"Damn, he got away," I fumed. "How can we catch him now?"
"We could always take the next train to where he's going," Ergo said.
"But we don't know where that train goes, do we?"
Ergo pointed to a flashing display board that hung from the ceiling from two metal cords, that looked like they were suspended from two cans of WD-40.
"The train that just departed was the Centre of Sense Express, and it's headed to the Centre of Sense," Ergo said.
"But I don't know the way to the Centre of Sense. Do you?"
"We don't have to," Ergo said, "There's another train heading to the Centre of Sense in two minutes - the Bicycle Express, leaving from Platform 3. This is Platform 1."

Without another word, the three of us ran to Platform 3. It was between Platforms 16 and 24.
In bright, bold, red letters, on every compartment of the train, there was a warning:

This Is A Bicycle Train. Animate Passengers Not Allowed.

STOWAWAYS WILL BE KILLED.

I hesitated. "Well?"

"We'd better decide quickly. If we don't get on this train, we'll have to wait for another five hours for the next train headed to the Centre of Sense," Ergo said.

The train began to move.

"Shut up and get on the train," was all Drosophila said, and I was inclined to agree, despite being scared for my life.

"I am inclined to ag..."

"GET ON THE TRAIN!"

The three of us ran after the train, and managed to fling ourselves into the very last compartment.

We sat for a while, amongst the bicycles, catching our breaths.

"Well, that was clo..." Drosophila made me stop mid-sentence by shoving one of his hairy legs into my mouth. He pointed another one to something across the compartment. Our gaze followed his leg.

It was hard to see in the dim lighting, but I could still see it.

It was a poster, again, bright red, but with a picture of a grinning cat in the centre. Below the picture, it said,

Bicycles cannot read.

You can read this.

Ergo, you are not a bicycle.

You are not a bicycle.

Only bicycles are allowed on this train.

Ergo, you are a stowaway.

You are a stowaway.

Cheshire, the train manager, kills stowaways.

Ergo, Cheshire will kill you.

Please be patient. Cheshire will be visiting you shortly.

THE BICYCLE EXPRESS WOULD LIKE TO WISH YOU A GRUESOME DEATH.

signed,

Cheshire Cat.

"That's heartening," I said.

"Could you keep quiet?" Drosophila whispered, "He could be anywhere!"

"I like this guy," Ergo said, still looking at the poster.

"Chances are," Drosophila said, "he won't like you very much. Now, shut up!"

A fourth voice spoke out of the darkness.

"Is somebody there?"

My heartbeat cranked itself up a few notches.

None of us spoke.

"Is somebody there?" the voice repeated.
I looked around frantically for something that could be used to stab, slash, bash, burn, or inflict any sort of harm.

"Oh, come on, I heard voices. I know somebody's there."

"What do we do?" I whispered to Drosophila.

Drosophila raised a leg to his mouthparts.

"Are any of you, by any chance, Drosophila?"

We all looked at each other in bewilderment.

"There you are!"

Out of the darkness, a man stepped forward, dressed like a postman.

"I'm Titan, the postman," he said, "I've got a delivery for a Drosophila melanogaster."

"That's me," Drosophila replied.

Titan reached into his bag and pulled out a small envelope addressed to Drosophila.

"Who's it from?" Drosophila asked.

"I have no idea," Titan replied.

"How did you find me?"

"I'm a postman. It's my job."

The three of us hunched over the envelope. "Open it!" I said.

Drosophila nervously opened the envelope. Inside it was a second envelope.

Ohnogoddamnholygaiaspritoftheearth.

The envelope inside was addressed to me.

*
I know where it's going, so Part 7 Of 0 will be out soon, don't worry. Also, coming in a few days is Missy The Maid - sequel to Geezer The Butler!

Geezer The Butler

2007-08-01T09:03:00.000+05:30

I held a cup of tea in my hands. The tea was lukewarm.

“Geezer!” I called.

My butler arrived.

“Geezer, this tea is cold! How do you expect me to drink it?”

Geezer came forward and dipped his index finger into the tea.

“Sir, you are mistaken. This tea is not cold. It is tepid. Would you like me to heat it for you?”

“Yes, please!” I ordered, shocked by the nerve my butler had to correct me.

Geezer vanished into the bathroom and emerged holding an immersion heater. He took the cup and saucer from my hands, plugged in the heater, and switched it on. He then immersed the immersion heater into the tea.

My eyes widened in horror as the tea warmed in heat.

“Geezer,” I began, my voice unsteady, “Why are you using an immersion heater to heat the tea?”

“Were you not the one who asked me to heat the tea, sir?”

I did not reply. I knew perfectly well what was going on. Someone had kidnapped, tortured, and murdered the real Geezer, my dear old pal, my loyal butler, my friend in need, my friend in deed, and my lover behind closed doors and drawn curtains, and replaced him with a lookalike zombie, android, or even worse, evil twin. The real Geezer would have simply used the microwave to warm up the tea.

He removed the heater from the tea, and put in his index finger to check the temperature.

“There,” he said, “All warmed up,” and he placed the cup and saucer down on the table. He stood, smiling his evil smile, as he waited for me to drink the tea, which was, in all probability, poisoned.

“Drink up,” he said, “or your tea will grow cold again, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

In one swift, smooth, continuous, deft, dexterous, suave, sexy move, I slid out the saucer from under the tea cup without tipping it over, and smashed it on his head. I immediately picked up a broken fragment of the saucer and thrust it into his chest. I then picked up the immersion heater, which was still on, put it in the tea, and then put his index finger into the liquid, saying, “Would you please check the temperature again?” and electrocuted him.

The fake Geezer lay dead on the floor. I walked into the kitchen, still quite shaken. I then noticed that the microwave was gone! I remembered that it had not been working for days, and I had it sent to be serviced. I fell to my knees, and broke down, crying. It was not a zombie, android, or evil twin I had killed, but the real Geezer, my dear old pal, my loyal butler, my friend in need, my friend in deed, and my lover behind closed doors and drawn curtains.

I could not forgive myself for such an act. I wanted to kill myself. I pulled on my hair and it came out in lumpy clumps in my hands. I wept and screamed. I then got ready to throw myself out of the balcony, but stopped when I saw the steaming cup of tea, still steaming on the table. I decided to have one last cup of tea before killing myself.

As I sipped the hot tea, my woes and worries and thoughts of suicide all threw themselves out of the window, leaving me quite alive and happy in my living room. All it took was a nice, strong cup of tea, and man, did Geezer know how to make good tea.

I Love You With All My Heart

2007-07-19T00:23:00.001+05:30

To say I love you with all my heart
would be an incomplete truth
For I love you also with my bladder and spleen
and each and every tooth.

My liver is a determined lover
and when it's not making bile
is pining for you all night and day,
yes, it pines all the while.

My intestines, they think of you
and stop their daily digestion
I really wish they didn't, 'cause
it gives me constipation.

A salty discharge comes from my eyes
When you are not in their view
and at the same time my nose starts running
as if I have the flu.

Of course, it's true my brain won't stop
dreaming about you all day
And lower down my genitals
love you in their own special way.

So you see, I love you more than
Karthik or Ram or Murugan,
For while they may love you with their hearts,
I love you with every organ.

Test Post

2007-07-04T16:16:00.001+05:30

Just trying out ScribeFire for Firefox. Check it out here: https://addons.mozilla.org/en-US/firefox/addon/1730. You can post new posts without having to go through blogger every time.

The Gorie Storie - Part 5 of 0 - Protagon And Ergo (Or Ergo And Protagon)

2007-07-01T00:50:00.000+05:30

The bridge gave way, and Drosophila and I fell.

Drosophila, of course, was equipped with wings, so he didn't really fall. I, on the other hand, as I think I have stated before, was not equipped with wings, because of which, I fell into the river below.

The river was about half a metre below the bridge. It was quite shallow.

I wasn't hurt, but I was considerably wettened by the water that flowed through the river. I spat water and curses out of my mouth, and immediately tried to focus my attention on the undesirable element who had cut the ropes of the Homo Confusion bridge.

"Where is that undesirable element?" I sputtered.
"He ran away," said Drosophila.
"He made me wet," I spattered, "I'm going to find him and kill him for it."
"I can see that. You splashed water all over me when you fell and made me wet, as well."
"Oh," I spluttered.
"Should I find you and kill you?"
"Um..." I splattered.
"You cannot kill him!" yelled a voice from somewhere I wasn't looking.
"Who are you?" Drosophila and I asked together, not knowing where to look.
"I am known by many names, none of which I know of," said the voice.
"Why should I not find and kill Homo?" Drosophila shouted.
"You can't call me Homo, anymore, now that we've seen another of my genus, remember?" I said, rather meekly, as I thought it would be unwise to offend a creature who was contemplating murder. Not just any murder, my murder!

Allow me to take a small detour from my current tour of narration. Once, I was watching TV, and on a certain thrilling show involving police~~men~~persons and murderers, there was a murder investigation going on, and one policeman, who was looking for fingerprints, was suddenly stopped by another policeman, who said, "Get off this crime scene, Malone, this is my murder!"
I found that wildly amusing. The policeman who was not Malone said it was his murder! But he was still alive and not murdered! Haha. Funny stuff. You should watch that show. But I forgot what it's called. Anyway, at that time I did not know Drosophila. I met him only much later, when I was in the fake dream.

Where was I? Oh, yes, I remember.

Drosophila did not hear me, and I was partly grateful, because Drosophila looked quite murderous. I was also grateful because my father always told me to be grateful to people who deserved gratitude. But I don't know if I was really grateful Drosophila. I was grateful that he had not heard me, but to whom was I grateful? I finally thanked myself, because it was I who spoke so softly that he did not hear me.

The voice continued, "In order to find something, or someone, you must first lose it or them. You have not lost the friend whom you intend to find and kill, ergo, you cannot find him, ergo, you cannot find and kill him."
"Hmm," Drosophila hmmed, "then forget the finding part. I'll just kill you for making me wet."
"I object!" yelled the voice, "Was it he who made you wet, or was it the water that made you wet?"
"Point," I said to myself.
"Very well," said Drosophila, who seemed hell-bent on committing murder, "I'll kill you for splashing water on me!"
"I object yet again!" said the voice, "Is he really to blame? Did he mean to splash water on you? He splashed water on you because he fell into the water. He fell into the water because the bridge broke. The bridge broke because the ropes holding it were cut. The ropes were cut by that man who just ran away. Ergo, your getting wet is the fault of that man."

I didn't understand this ergo, but I liked the sound of it.

Drosophila sighed.
"I guess we both must pursue that man and kill him for making us wet," Drosophila said to me.
Now I sighed. In relief. Drosophila was not going to kill me. At least I thought so. My thoughts were confirmed to be true when he did not kill me.

I was eternally grateful to this voice for having saved my life from fatal murder.

"Voice," I shouted, "Show your owner!"
Immediately, a little greenish man with a beard on his right elbow and underarm hair on his face made himself visible.
"I am the owner of my voice," he said.
"What is your name?" I asked.
"I am known by many names, none of which I know of," he replied.
"Well, then," I said, "Know this: from this day on we shall know you, and you shall know yourself, by the name Ergo!"
The heavens smiled down upon us and showered sweet-smelling flowers on our heads.
"What is your name?" Ergo asked me.
"Er... I don't know... I'm still trying to figure that out."
"Well, then," he said, "Know this: from this day on we (Drosophila and I) shall know you, and you shall know yourself, by the name Protagon!"
The heavens smiled down upon us and showered omelette-smelling flowers on our heads.

"Why Protagon?" I asked him.
"Because you are the protagonist of your story, and names ending with -ist are frowned upon in certain parts of the world. Ergo, Protagon is a fitting name."
"Ergo, will you join our quest to find Bactrocera, the fruit fly of my dreams, and to find the man who made us wet and kill him?"
"Certainly," Ergo said.
The heavens smiled down upon us and sprinkled sweet-omelette-smelling flowers on our heads, as the three of us walked in the direction that both Bactrocera and the man who made us wet had fled.

"Say," I sayed to Ergo, "do you love sweets?"
"Why, yes!" said Ergo, "How did you guess?"
"Because I love omelettes."

*
NOTE:
Ohnogoddamnholygaiaspiritoftheearth, this is the first part of The Gorie Storie that does not contain 'Ohnogoddamnholygaiaspiritoftheearth'.
The Gorie Storie slowly seems to be taking definite shape, although I'm not yet sure if it's a regular polygon or not.
This post came up quite soon; I usually wait a little while before posting to allow enough people to read the previous post, but I felt like writing, and the story was flowing, so I went ahead and wrote it. For those of you who haven't read The Gorie Storie - Part 4 of 0 yet, scroll down and read that first.
If you want to read the entire thing from the beginning, just click on the little link at the bottom of this post that says: "Labels: The Gorie Storie", and read from Part 1 of 0 to 5 of 0.
I hope you are enjoying this as much as I am.

The Gorie Storie - Part 4 of 0 - The Homo Confusion

2007-06-28T10:35:00.000+05:30

Drosophila was a Drosophila melanogaster
Bactrocera was a Bactrocera correcta or penecorrecta, but it didn't really matter anymore because she had flown away before I could get to her and make conversation.
"If you really love her, let her go," Drosophila said.
"But I don't love her. At all."
"Good. Pursuit it is, then."

Not having wings was a problem when one was in pursuit of a flying Bactrocera correcta or penecorrecta.

And then, rather rudely, a new problem made itself present.
"Huesten, we have a problem," I said.
"It's Houston."
"Who is?"
"Never mind. What is the problem?"
"I don't know who I am," I said.
"This one's a no-brainer," said Drosophila, "You're a Homo sapiens."
"I know my species," I said, "But nothing else. I don't even have a name... or an identity."
And then I felt like tearing my hair out. Fortunately, I didn't.

"If we ever catch Bactrocera, how am I going to introduce myself to her?"

Drosophila was unusually silent.

"HOW, DROSOPHILA, HOW?!?" I screamed, shaking him by his collar, if he had had one.
"Simple. By your genus."
"Somehow I don't like the idea of introducing myself as 'Homo'," I said, "Not that I have a problem with my genus... but..."
I desperately started looking around for another member of my species.
"...but what if we run into another member of my species?"
"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it," said Drosophila.

The sun had completely set in the west and I could tell it was plotting to come up in the east. Drosophila and I trudged along in the darkness along the slippery dry sand. Soon enough, we came to a bridge called 'The Homo Confusion'.
"I think this is it," I said.
"I think it is," said Drosophila, "look there." He pointed.
On the other side of the bridge was a man. A Homo sapien. Another one, just like me, only different.
As we crossed the bridge, I asked Drosophila again, who seemed to have all the answers, "Now what do I call myself?"
"YOU VILLAINS LEAVE MY BACTROCERA ALONE!" yelled the man on the other end of the bridge, and cut the ropes with his long nails, for he had long nails, and it was one of those rickety wooden bridges with ropes. When you see one of those, you can be certain that crossing it will put you in a life-threatening situation.

Drosophila and I fell.

Ohnogoddamnholygaiaspiritoftheearth save me.

I didn't even have wings.

New Post

2007-06-20T23:15:00.000+05:30

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Sidebar Updated. Check it out.>>>

Update

2007-06-12T00:40:00.001+05:30

Sorry about the long delay in posts. I have updated with a story about a lychee (look at post below this one), that you will find, may or may not bear many parallels with our own lives.

I went to Bangalore to watch Aerosmith. They were a brill frill thrill. I went mental. I was jumping around and stepping on other people's feet and falling on other people and singing and screaming like a mental. In short, I had fun. I don't understand how they have so much energy when they're all almost in their sixties.

I am currently in the second month (of three) of my holidays, which explains why there haven't been any posts for so long. I find that I usually need to be under some sort of pressure to write. The pressure need not be to write, it can also be to pay attention in class or study for exams (my most creative periods).

I tried writing The Gorie Storie Part 4 of 0 a few times, and I still have a draft saved, but it was just not coming out right... I really hope it doesn't end with the third part. If it were meant to end with the third part, it would have been called Part 3 of 3.

Otherwise I hope you are having fun telling people you know what a great blog Kaushik's Magical World Of Nonsense is.

Lessons In Life From A Lychee

2007-06-12T00:01:00.000+05:30

Once upon a time there was a lychee.
The lychee was not particularly thrilled, because there was nothing good on TV.
It was also not particularly thrilled because it was unhappy.

"How rough and unpleasant I am... how irritating and unfriendly I must seem. Why can I not have the smooth exterior of an apple, or the pleasantly firm skin of a mango? I am so unhappy."

"Don't cry, lychee!" the mango said.
"Do I look like I'm #$%^&#$$%ing crying?!" the lychee snapped back.
"Yes," the mango said.
"Well, that's because I am!"
"We are all unique and special in our own ways, lychee! We all love you for who you are!" the banana said.
"It's not like I have particularly soft or smooth skin," the pineapple said, "do you see me crying?"
"Well," said the lychee, "At least you've got that funky hairdo."
The pineapple had to admit he had a funky hairdo.

And so the lychee was still unhappy and frustrated. Then he got peeled.
Suddenly, his white, soft, pure, juicy, and beautiful interior was revealed.
"Mein Gott!" exclaimed the lychee, for he was studying German, "Ich habe niemals denkt dass ich bin so schön im Innern!"
For those of you who know German, yes, the lychee wasn't so good at it.
For those of you who don't, the lychee was trying to say, "My God! I never thought that I was so beautiful on the inside!"

"See?" the mango said, "It's not what's on the outside, but what's on the inside that counts."
Then the lychee got eaten and sent all the fruits into shock.
"See?" the mango said, "It's... er...", and then decided not to say anything.

The other fruits all mourned the loss of their abrasive, albeit lovable, friend.
The pineapple lowered his head. "Today," he said, "We mourn the loss of our abrasive, albeit lovable, friend. From kingdom Plantae, division Magnoliophyta, class Magnoliopsida, order Sapindales, family Sapindaceae, genus Litchi, species chinensis, he was truly a true Lychee. We will miss him and his constant complaining."

Then the lychee got spit out. He was covered in saliva, and now his beautiful, white, juicy, pure appearance was gone. He now looked like a brown, hard, egg-shaped seed. That was because he was a brown, hard, egg-shaped seed.

The lychee was, however, now simply happy to be alive. He did not mind his new appearance. The other fruits were glad to have him back.
"Getting eaten really changed my views on everything. I now know it is not what is outside that counts, and not what is inside that counts, but what is inside the inside that counts, because the outside just gets peeled off, and the inside just gets eaten." although now everyone was wondering what exactly the lychee meant by 'counts'.

Then the lychee was suddenly buried by the man who had eaten his inside.
"Stop!" cried the other fruits, "He's still alive!"
But the man didn't hear them. He just went ahead and buried the lychee.

Although the buried lychee later went on to grow into a great big evergreen lychee tree, our story stops right here, at the burial. In any case, the other fruits never got to see the lychee grow into a tree, because they were all eaten as well.

Moral: Sometimes anthropomorphizing fruits can give you pointless stories.

*

Thanks to Fghalmensheesue for the lychee idea.

The Man Who Knew Everything

2007-04-22T19:55:00.000+05:30

Once upon a time, there lived a man.
This man knew everything.

One day, he was eating his omelette. The omelette contained bits of tomato and bits of onion and other tasty vegetables.

He was eating breakfast with his fork and knife. As he ate, he thought, I know everything there is to know. I am omniscient. Then, suddenly, as he took a bite of his delicious omelette, a question popped into his mind.
What is the meaning of life?
The man continued to eat.
I already know the answer to that question. I know everything!

Then another question popped into his head.
Does God exist?
The man continued to eat.
Ha! That's an easy one! he thought to himself, Of course I know whether or not God exists! I know everything!

Then another question popped into his head.
Who am I?
The man continued to eat.
I'm bored of these questions I already know the answers to. I know everything!

The omelette was almost over. Then another question popped into his head.
How do I know everything?
The man suddenly stopped eating.
"How do I know everything?" he asked himself aloud. He was all of a sudden shocked. "I do not know how I know everything! That is one question I do not have the answer to, and since this question falls under the universal category of 'everything', I no longer know everything!"
Then the man broke down and cried for a while.
Then he thought for a while about the question he could not answer.

"Wait a minute," he said, "Now I no longer know everything, which implies that the question 'How do I know everything' is flawed in itself, as it presupposes I know everything. Therefore, the question does not have to be answered! As I know everything else, I automatically know everything!" he said in great glee and joy and enthusiasm, and listened to Chopin's Minute Waltz in his joy.

Then he lapsed into thought yet again. "Now I know everything. This means that the question, 'How do I know everything?' regains its validity, and I still cannot answer it! I no longer know everything! Oh no!"
Then he played some tragic music.
"However, as soon as I admit I do not know everything, I know everything. As soon as I admit I know everything, I cease to know everything. I think it will be better to admit I do not know everything, so that I will actually know everything. I do not know everything," he said, and played the Minute Waltz again.
But he was still troubled. "Even though I have openly admitted that I do not know everything, I know that by admitting that, I automatically know everything. This is equivalent to admitting that I know everything, whether I do it openly or within myself. Once that happens, the question of how I know everything returns to haunt me. Oh question, why do you do this to me? I wish I could kill you with a knife, but I know that questions cannot be killed with knives."

Then he went mad. He started dancing frenziedly, and tore out all his hair and took off all his clothes and threw them everywhere like Mohan the poor merchant. He was about to jump off his balcony, when suddenly his wife caught him. It was the very same wife who had made him the omelette.

"Why are you about to jump off the balcony?" she asked him, her hands still smelling sweetly of omelette.
"Because I know everything except how I know everything. As soon as I know everything, I do not know everything, and as soon as I do not know everything, I know everything. It has driven me mad, and, as a mad person, I am inclined to jump off this balcony."
"Let us repeat the exercise. Assume you know everything. Can you assume that?" she asked him, in her own special sweet wifely omeletty way.
"Yes. I can."
"Now admit it to yourself, believing it."
"Ok. I know everything. But..."
"Sshh..." his wife said, silencing him with her omeletty finger.
"Now you do not know why you know everything, right?"
"Right," the man replied.
"Therefore, you no longer know everything, but you know everything except the answer to the question, 'How do I know everything', correct?"
"Correct, but..."
"Sshh..." his wife said, silencing him with her omeletty finger.
"How do you save yourself from this dilemma?" she asked.
"I don't know! Tell me how! Please!"
"There," she said, "It is solved. Now there is another question whose answer you do not know. Therefore, you, under no circumstances, know everything."
"But even that question holds its validity only for as long as the dilemma exists."
"Very well then," his wife said, "Whenever the dilemma does not present itself, imagine a hypothetical dilemma of exactly the same nature. Would you know how to solve it?"
"No," the man said.
"Good," said his wife, "Now come eat your next omelette before it gets cold."

The man who didn't know everything and his wife lived happily ever after.

The Gorie Storie - Part 3 of 0 - The Bactrocera Confusion

2007-04-12T17:44:00.000+05:30

O.K.

One by one I was solving my problems, although I still did not have wings, and my not having wings was still a problem. A rather large one, at that. As large as the people who do large things because they are large.

One problem that did get solved was the problem of the headless chickens, because Bactrocera had already sucked them all up, and hence they did not exist anymore. What does not exist anymore cannot have a problem related to it. I told Drosophila this.

"You're wrong," he said.
"How dare you call me wrong?!" I said, and began to wrestle with him.

We wrestled for half an hour on the goo and then we were tired so we stopped.

"You're still wrong," he said.
"How can you think that? Even after we wrestled on the goo!"
"Because even though the headless chickens no longer exist in the physical realm, they still exist conceptually."
"But the problem was only related to the physical headless chickens, not the conceptual ones."
"How do you come to such a conclusion? Very well, even if the problem was related only to the physical headless chickens, why should the problem necessarily vanish with the vanishment of them?"
"Because if the problem is related to them."
"Huh," Drosophila huhhed, "I am related to my uncle. He died last Wednesday. I'm still around, amn't I?"
"That's true," I said.

And then suddenly I was again plagued by the problem of the headless chickens.
"Don't fret," Drosophila said.
"Why should I not fret?" I asked, "Bactrocera has sucked up all the headless chickens, and now my supervisor will shout at me! Fretting is all that I can do!" I would have cried into Drosophila's shirt, if he had had one.
"Look," Drosophila said, "You don't have a supervisor."
"What?"
"You don't have a supervisor."
"What?"
"You don't have a supervisor."
"What?"
"You don't have a supervisor."
"What?"
"You don't have a supervisor."
"What?"
"You don't have a supervisor."

Drosophila was a rather patient guy, and I enjoyed testing his patience. But I was not patient enough to continue testing his patience, so I stopped.

"What happened to my supervisor?" I asked.
"Nothing," explained Drosophila, "He never existed."
"Oh." I said.
So the problem of the headless chickens no longer existed, either.

Then I had a new problematic curious question.
"Where did the headless chickens come from in the first place?"
"They were always there," Drosophila replied knowingly.
"Oh."
"Why were we trying to round them up?"
"Why not?"
"Oh."

Then we sat for a while in profound silence as the (headful) night bats flew across the sky.

"Isn't she lovely?" I asked Drosophila.
"No. I find any organism from a species other than mine ugly," he replied.
"Don't be such a specist."
"I can't help it. Why don't you go say hi to her?"
"I can't. I don't know what species she is."
"We've already established her genus, that should be enough," Drosophila said.
"No," I replied, "it's common courtesy to know someone's species before talking to them. What species do you think she belongs to?"
"Hmm... what do you think?"
"I don't know, do I look like an entomologist?"
"Sometimes, in the right lighting, you do," Drosophila said.
"Is the lighting right now?"
"No. Not yet."

We waited for a few minutes as the sun hid more of its fat, round body behind the horizon.

"Now the lighting's perfect."
"Right. She's either a Bactrocera dorsalis or a Bactrocera correcta. It's hard to tell which."
"Why don't you go have a closer look? But be quick, this lighting isn't going to last forever."

I ran forward a few steps to take a closer look.

"Hmm... She is similar to a Bactrocera dorsalis in colour pattern, but one could easily be deceived by that. Her transverse facial spots and incomplete costal band are a dead giveaway that she is a Bactrocera correcta," I concluded.
"But she also resembles a Bactrocera penecorrecta." Drosophila added.
"How should I know? Do I look like an entomologist?"
Silence.
"Oh no," Drosophila said, "We've lost the perfect lighting."

Ohnogoddamnholygaiaspiritoftheearth save me.

I didn't even have wings.

The Gorie Storie - Part 2 of 0 - The Drosophila Confusion

2007-04-02T10:30:00.000+05:30

So I was in a fake dream with a big male talking fruit fly who asked me to call him Drosophila.

So far so plausible.

But now we had to round up the headless chickens and how were we going to do that? All I could say was Ohnogoddamn. Also, I needed to find a female fruit fly in order to satisfy my urge for a female fruit fly.

There was a potential problem, however. I called my male fruit fly friend here Drosophila, and when I did finally manage to meet my dream female fruit fly, I would have to call her also Drosophila, as fruit flies belong to the genus Drosophila.

I voiced my concerns to my male fruit fly friend Drosophila.
"They are valid concerns," he said, "But let's cross that bridge when we come to it."
Chasing the headless chickens, we soon came to a bridge that was called 'The Drosophila Confusion'.

"We have come to the bridge. What now?" I asked.
"Let's cross it," Drosophila said.
So we crossed the rickety old Drosophila Confusion bridge, and came to the other side. There stood the most blindingly beautiful fruit fly I had ever seen. Even more beautiful than Drosophila had appeared before I knew he was a male fruit fly. My jaw (upper) repelled my jaw (lower), and my salivary glands went berserk.

"I think we've solved our problem," Drosophila said.
"How?" I asked.
"That's a female Bactrocera fruit fly."
"Different species?" I asked.
"Different species, different genus, different family, heck, even a different superfamily! How could you not know that?" Drosophila asked.

Did I look like an entomologist?

Now there we were confronted with another problem. Would Drosophila and I have to fight each other for the rights to mate with this beauty?

"Oh, don't worry," said Drosophila, "She's from Tephritidae, and I'm from Drosophilidae. We can never get along... that's like... like... asking the Montagues and Capulets to get along."

I knew that was a Shakespearean reference, but I never paid much attention to Shakespeare, so I didn't really know what he was talking about. I guessed that the Montagues and Capulets were two families that could not possibly get along with each other, but it still smelled fishy.

Now that that problem was out of the way, we had a new problem.

Bactrocera was sucking up all the headless chickens.

Ohnogoddamnholygaiaspiritoftheearth save me.

How was I going to explain that to my supervisor?

I didn't even have wings.

The Gorie Storie - Part 1 of 0 - This Is A Fake Dream

2007-03-29T22:33:00.000+05:30

All of a sudden I started babbling like a, no, not a brook, but like an idiot. My jaw (upper) suddenly repelled my jaw (lower), and my salivary glands went mad. I was drooling so much my saliva could've solved the world's saliva problems, if the world had saliva problems instead of water problems.

In front of me stood the most blindingly gorgeous fruit fly. I wanted to hold it in my arms, whisper sweet nothings into its ears, kiss it all over, pour my buckets of drool over it and then touch it with my hair.

I ran after it, but it wouldn't come near me, almost as if I had offended her in some previous birth. She said, "Hey, mister, I'm a male fruit fly and you're a male human being. There are some things I don't like doing with your kind."
I stopped. How was I supposed to know he was a male fruit fly? Did I look like an entomologist? One thing I definitely wasn't was specist. I didn't believe in discrimination on the grounds of species. I had no problems with the fact that he was a fruit fly, only that he was a male. I, too, coincidentally, happened to be a male.

What a dream I was having. It was almost like it was out of a dream.

"Hey, Mr. D. Melanogaster..." I said, but he interrupted, "Please, call me Drosophila."
"Drosophila, is this by any chance a dream?"
"Yes, but it's a fake one."

Ohnogoddamnholygaiaspiritoftheearth save me.

I didn't even have wings.

Not-So-Stage Disaster

2006-11-09T23:03:00.000+05:30

This is my WM Solo performance in IIT which won me the second place in the competition. The first two verses of the song haven't been recorded, so there's only half the song here.

The Kolar Perumal Chetty Vaishnav Senior Secondary School Stage Disaster

2006-11-08T22:11:00.000+05:30

In the previous post, I mentioned that the biggest and most amusing stage disaster I have been a part of was a certain light music event known as the "Kolar Incident" (see comments section of previous post).

I fear that I may fail in my attempts to describe how amusing this incident was, as it was the sort of amusing that does not lend itself very well to description.

It was the 13th of August, 2005. Actually, it wasn't, but it might've been, who knows? The fact is, I am not sure of the date, but we were in the eleventh standard at the time.

We were representing our school in the Kolar Perumal Chetty Vaishnav Senior Secondary School Light Music Competition. There were five of us: Aditi Peanut on vocals 2, Shishir on drum (not drums, I shall explain why later), Dhruva on guitar (electric), and myself on vocals 1.

The rules clearly said that English songs were not allowed, yet we chose a quasi-English song, Indian Rain, to perform. Quasi-English because it was by the Colonial Cousins, and they were not, strictly speaking, in the 'English Music' genre. Still, all the lyrics in the song were in English. Fine song we chose to perform.

We began practice the day before the competition, and I had considerable trouble learning the song. Not because the song was difficult, but because sometimes I just cannot remember tunes. I was singing all the worded parts, and Aditi was singing the alaap bits in between (those of you who have heard the song know what I'm talking about. Those of you who haven't, try to imagine. Those of you with a poor imagination can kindly wallow in self-pity).
Dhruva's job was relatively simple. He had to play a bunch of chords over and over.
Shishir didn't want to go through the trouble of bringing his whole drumkit along, so he brought only the bass drum and drumsticks. The drumming began only after the second verse, and was quite simple and minimal, so no tension on his side.

Tension was all on me, the guy who kept messing up a certain section of the song because he kept forgetting the tune of that certain section (Raindrops and dance, strange kind of romance).
Finally, it was the next day, the day of the competition. We all boarded our school bus and headed for Kolar Perumal Chetty Vaishnav Senior Secondary School.

Half the day passed, and finally the light music event began. It was eventually our turn, and we went up on stage. Aditi and I in the centre, Dhruva on the left, Shishir on the right. We began the song.

All was going smoothly, as far as the performance in itself was concerned. The judges, however, were giving us weird looks, because this was actually a "Hindi Pop Remix" event (did I not mention that earlier?), and we were singing a song that was neither Hindi, nor Remix (okay, maybe Pop).

Finally, I got to the Raindrops and dance section, and after the first line, I went and forgot the tune. In a brilliant effort not to screw up on stage, I made up my own tune (that reached a pitch too high for my own voice, and sounded quite terrible), and went ahead. Aditi, Dhruva, and Shishir, kept looking at each other while I sang and giving each other weird grins and looks. When I had finished, it was Aditi's turn to come in with the alaap bit.

It was at this point that Shishir was to enter with the drumming. Aditi leaned in to the mic, Shishir raised his drumstick, and she was about to begin, when...

They say laughter is contagious.

Aditi started giggling into the mic before she could start singing, and in a few seconds, her giggle had turned into a full-fledged guffaw (I must point out here, for the sake of my readers, that Aditi is not very good at controlling her laughter). I joined in, finding the whole situation quite amusing, and now both singers were laughing away on stage, right in the middle of their performance. We couldn't stop it. Dhruva and Shishir immediately started laughing as well, and soon there was a laugh riot on stage. This was not helped by the fact that there was a teacher standing by the side of the stage, (in a very squeaky voice, I must add) saying, "Here, here! Don't laugh! Why are you laughing? Stop laughing!"

I realised that we were not going to stop laughing and continue with the song, so I managed to stifle my laughter long enough to say a 'thank you' into the mic, and the four of us walked off stage, still laughing our heads off.

The best part was that Shishir didn't even get to play a single beat.

AFTERMATH

Our classmates were not as amused as we were. Most of them shouted at us, and Shyam yelled so hard that his face went red. Aditi Venkat, as usual, could not laugh at such a thing, and was very disappointed in us. It didn't do much to make the event any less amusing. I still preserve the 'participation certificate' they gave to us later. We were even called up on stage during assembly in school, and awarded the certificates. Now that's funny.

Stage Disaster

2006-11-07T12:40:00.000+05:30

I have had my fair share of stage disasters, ranging from blanking out in the middle of a speech, to breaking into splits of laughter in the middle of a light music performance (probably the biggest and most amusing stage disaster I have had yet).

On Sunday, I had another one.

I stay in Tamraparani Hostel, which is in its first year of operation. All students in the hostel are freshies, and with no seniors to help us out, we did have a bit of a disadvantage in the inter-hostel dramatics competition that was held over the weekend.

We were performing the play "Bang, Bang, You're Dead" by William Something. I would call it quite an ambitious attempt, as the play is not your conventional one-scene-after-the-next, one-actor-plays-one-character, chronologically sequenced play. There is one main character, Josh, a teenage student who is the culprit of a high school gun shootout. He kills five students, and both his parents, and the play basically opens with him in jail, being revisited by the deceased students. I played one of the deceased. The play goes into a number of flashbacks, revealing more and more about Josh, and why he killed the students.

The dialogues in the play are numerous, and very short, with characters finishing each other's sentences, and talking over each other, and so on. Basically, the play is like a house of cards. If one person screws up his or her dialogue, everyone else ends up screwing up. Fine play we chose to do.

We started practising late, and we practised frantically, and not in a very organised manner.

Sunday came, and we were to perform. We took a little while to start. In addition to having a complicated script, the play had complicated lighting changes, which took a while to get ready.

The play finally started, and things were going smoothly, until one of us, I forget which one, forgot his or her dialogue. This led to huge confusion, and from that point on, things got progressively worse. We had prompters standing behind the curtains, and they kept trying to prompt us, without much success. In their frustration, their prompting got louder and louder, until the audience in the last row of the theatre started wondering if there were characters who were supposed to be behind the curtains.

The dialogues of the play are quite repetitive, and that didn't help us much. As things got progressively worse, we started making up our own dialogues, which made everyone else panic. We started saying each other's dialogues, and we missed whole sections of dialogue. Heck, we missed a whole scene.
Our whole order was screwed up. There is a scene in which Josh pleads with his parents to get him a rifle to go hunting, and some time later, there is a scene where Josh goes hunting with his new rifle. We did the hunting scene first and the parents scene after that.

In one scene, I was supposed to go offstage quickly, change my costume (put on a sweatshirt), and come back on stage to play a different character. I took too long to find the sweatshirt and put it on, so I began walking onto the stage as I put on the sweatshirt, hoping I would have it on fully by the time I got to the centre of the stage. Unfortunately, my hand got stuck in one of the sleeves, leaving me in quite a predicament. There I was, in the spotlight, struggling to get my arm through a sweatshirt. The audience did laugh.

The lighting crew and offstage actors were confused, to say the least. The guy controlling the lights was supposed to follow the cues on the script to turn the lights on and off, and we threw him into a panic when what was going on on stage wasn't even on the script. As a result, we got all the wrong lights at the wrong times, and hung around awkwardly on stage, saying nothing, when the lights were supposed to go out for a scene change.

It wasn't much later that we began contemplating stopping the play altogether. Every time the lights went out, Joshua (the actor who was playing Josh) pleaded with us to stop the play. Shekhar, the director wanted to go on, hoping we could somehow salvage something out of this wreckage of a play. At one point, I asked Shekhar if I could go on stage and start directing everyone, to make it look like the play was a practice session, to at least turn it into something intriguing and amusing, but he refused.

The audience's favourite part was perhaps when Josh killed both his parents. He fires a rifle at his father, who drops dead. Joshua mimed firing the rifle at Shekhar (playing the father), and Shekhar dropped down. A few seconds after the shot, the sound guy offstage played a gunshot sound effect. The audience was in splits. Then Josh had to shoot his mother, and the same thing happened again. The audience was loving it.

Finally, the play reached a point when it could crawl no more and had to take its last breath. It was beyond rescue, and there was no way we could finish the play. I walked onto the stage, and told the audience that we were going to spare them the rest of the play, and that this was our first attempt as a hostel, so excuse us please. I also told them that I was glad that they laughed so much, despite the fact that it was a serious play. We then took a bow and walked off stage.

The audience was quite sportive and cheered us for our effort, and they were quite pleased about the fact that our play was as amusing as it was. None of us were very disappointed; in fact, we were in quite good spirits after the play.

Finally, when the judge came on stage to announce the results, she commented on each play that was performed. When she came to "Tamraparani", she said that we would surprise the pants off everyone next year.

We intend to.

2006-11-01T11:21:00.000+05:30

Baba O'Riley with Nigel Kennedy

The Who perform Baba O'Riley at The Royal Albert Hall with Nigel Kennedy on violin. If you haven't heard this yet, hear it now. If you've heard it before, you know you want to hear it again.

On Neiappam

2006-10-26T09:45:00.000+05:30

I have often contemplated the answer to the questions, "What is the meaning of life?" and "What is my purpose here?". I am yet to find the answers to these questions, but it doesn't really matter, because I have found one reason to go on living and that reason is Neiappam.

I am constantly in a state of waiting - that is what my life has become - a waiting game -- always waiting for the next festival when my mother and grandmother dig into their cupboards and shelves and bring out the special vessel in which they prepare Neiappams. I sincerely wish I could tell you more about its preparation - how it is made and what is made of - but alas, in my excitement and anticipation of the Neiappams that will soon be ready - steaming, fragrant, and glistening with Nei (ghee) - I pay no attention to how it is being made.

And then it is ready - steaming, fragrant, and glistening with Nei.

I take one into my hands. It is so hot that I can barely hold it, but I cannot wait. I shove it into my mouth to free my hands from the heat, and in doing so, end up burning my mouth. But it does not matter, I say to myself, it is a small price to pay for that divine eruption of sweetness that I experience when I sink my teeth into it.

It is said that attaining bliss is to enter a state of timelessness, and I know this is true, for before I even realise it, the steel vessel that had been full of Neiappams has vanished, and all I have to remind myself of it is the oil on my fingers, the warm sensation in my stomach, and a lingering sweetness on my tongue. I crave for more, but there is no more to be craved for. Then my attention is diverted to other matters, such as how to explain to my mother and grandmother where all the Neiappams (which had been made for the whole family) went.

And then I wait.

Destiny - II Continued Continued

2006-10-24T00:58:00.000+05:30

See this. Thanks Lokon. Click on the image to enlarge and read, or use a magnifying glass.

Destiny - II Continued

2006-10-17T10:39:00.000+05:30

I was looking through the intense comment battle that was sparked off by my post, Destiny - II, when I realised what the whole disagreement was because of. People disagreed with my post, because they wanted to believe that they had some control over their lives, that the decisions they make are, indeed, their own decisions, and not a culminative effect of factors that are outside their control.

My argument: Nothing you do is within your control. Your conception itself has been out of your control. You did not decide to be born, or what parents to be born to. Since your birth, you have been shaped by external stimuli, stimuli that are not within your control. These stimuli form your person and personality, and therefore, any decisions you make, which are made by this personality, are indirectly not within your control.

Their argument: You do have control over your life. You can choose whether to kill a person or not kill a person, a person 'destined' to be a murderer need not necessarily be a murderer all his life...
and so on and blah blah, refer to the post for details.

The issue here is the concept of 'you'. It is a more basic argument. Who are you? You say that you have control over your own life, but who is that you? Where is that you? It can't be your physical body, because your body is nothing but the food that you eat structured by your DNA, very basically your body is only energy from the sun. It can't be your DNA, because you inherited that from your parents. It can't be your mind, because you were taught how to think by your parents, relatives, and friends, and other stimuli. It can't be your cultural identity, because, again, you inherited your culture.
Is it your soul? Where is your soul? Does it guide the path of your life? Does it make your decisions for you?

Who are you? Where are you? What is you?

This Blog Is Not Dead

2006-10-15T22:29:00.000+05:30

It is just in a coma.

One Poem

2006-09-17T14:35:00.000+05:30

Who goes there?
Who can that be?
Is that my reflection,
or is that just me?

Update 16.08.2006

2006-08-16T17:12:00.000+05:30

I'm sitting in the computer facility at the Humanities department, where my batchmates sitting on computers on either side of me cannot resist the temptation to look into my screen and comment on whatever I'm doing, be it writing about The Blitz or drawing a moustache on what I think is a photograph of Amoolya.

Classes here are byoodafal. Unlike in school, there's not a single class I hate or dread. I've never considered bunking class (while in school I never didn't consider bunking). Our professors are brulliont. We really have to rack our brains to do anthropology. I have to jump very high to make sure that the stuff we're given to read doesn't fly over the top of my head (figuratively speaking).

Hostel is phen. I'm supposed to eat at the South Indian mess (C2), (as I specified my cuisine at the start of the month) but I keep sneaking into the North Indian mess (C1) because they get stuff like Mutter Panneer while the South Indian mess serves nothing but Dal, Sambar, and Rasam, day after day. Besides, most of my friends here eat at C1. Sometimes I just flash my mess card at the guy checking the cards so fast that he can't see the "C2" stamped on my card. Other times, I just sneak in through the wash area, which has a separate entrance.

I've made a few friends here, but they're nothing like my BVM friends. I still miss Shyshe, Dhruva, Fghalms, et al. too much. Everyone's nice here, but the degree of normalcy amongst people here is a little unusual for a person coming from BVM. Hopefully all the madness is latent and will show itself soon.

That's all for now, I think. Wait for the next update. In between, hopefully, I'll do some regular nonsense bloggership feel thingy.

And I know it's a day late, but Happy Independence Day.

I Me My Mine

2006-08-09T18:15:00.000+05:30

People are selfish. I am a person. Ergo, I am selfish.
People are selfish. You are a person. Ergo, you are selfish.

I have never seen the world through anyone's eyes except my own. Not even through Ifnopchthempulis's eyes. Have you? I can imagine seeing the world through Ifnopchthempulis's eyes, but it is still my imagination that's doing the seeing.

Why am I me? Why are you you? Why am I not you, and you me? Why can I not, in this lifetime, experience only my life?

Well, no point asking why. That's the way it is. I'm me and no one else. I have only one point of view, and that's my point of view.

Every single thing that I do is for my own benefit. I am selfish. So are you. Have you ever done anything that was completely selfless? Yes? Nonsense. We never do anything that we don't get satisfaction out of. When you gave a penny to a beggar, you satisfied your own ego, and made yourself a little happier by making the beggar a little happier.

You may have given up something that you wanted very badly so that someone else could have it, because their happiness is your happiness.

Whatever the case you may be, every action of yours is done to satisfy yourself to some extent. Of course, it's always better if you get your satisfaction out of helping others. In this sense, people are selfish. Even if you do something at gunpoint, you get the satisfaction of knowing (or at least thinking) that you're not going to be shot because you did what you were told.

Since I see the world from my point of view, the world revolves around me. It may sound as stupid as saying that the Earth is the centre of the universe because we're on Earth, but it does make sense, because I know only what I perceive.

I think, therefore I am. So much I know. How do I know that you think? How do I know that you exist? My world is composed only of my perceptions, therefore my world revolves around me. The world is my world.

I am the centre of my universe, and you are the centre of yours. Maybe. I wouldn't know. I can only see things from my point of view.

Update 02.08.2006

2006-08-02T11:31:00.000+05:30

This is my 101st post. Preetika will be delighted to know that my 100th post was... well, was the previous post. Figure it out.

I'm in IIT Madras. I've moved into my hostel, and have a nice, cozy little room on the fourth floor of the building. I've never used the stairs because there are 4 lifts in the building. I've never even been to the second or third floors.

I showed some of my batchmates The Mad Herald, and they're all interested in producing a similar newsletter here in IIT.

Classes haven't started yet; they begin tomorrow. As part of the course, students have to learn a foreign language. We have the option between German and French. I took German.

I haven't been ragged... yet. Apparently, ragging is optional. If you want, you can visit the seniors' hostel rooms and sign up for it. My friends who got ragged yesterday said it was loads of fun. Maybe I'll try it out.

IIT Madras might as well be a boys' college. It seems that the percentage of girls in the B.Tech and Dual Degree courses here is only 8% of the total student strength. We MA students have the honour of having a 25% female strength... 8 students out of the 30 are girls.

Expect to see more activity on this blog from now on.

Finally Doing One Of Preetika's Things

2006-07-29T16:04:00.000+05:30

1. Were you named after anyone? The original sage Kaushik, man.

2. Do you wish on stars? No.

3. When did you last cry? About a week ago, when I watched Big Fish.

4. Do you like your handwriting? Yes.

5. What is your favourite meat? Banana meat.

6. What is your most embarrassing CD on your shelf? It used to be 'Club Killers', but then I got rid of it.

7. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with you? Yes, although not very good friends.

8. Are you a daredevil? Not really. Maybe. Depends.

9. How do you release anger? I don't.

10. Where is your second home? It will be IIT-Madras, pretty soon.

11. Do you trust others easily? Yes.

12. What was your favourite toy as a child? I think my lego and K'nex construction sets.

13. What class in school/college do you think is totally useless? No class, per se... but I think the drill on sports day is ridiculous

14. Do you use sarcasm a lot? No. Never. Not in a million years.

15. Have you ever been in a mosh pit? Nope.

16. What do you look for in a guy/girl? I shouldn't have to look.

17. Would you bungee jump? Yes.

18. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? Sometimes.

19. What's your favourite ice cream? I don't know... Vanilla, Chocolate, Casatta...

20. What are your favourite colours? I like all of them in different places.

21. What are your least favourite things? Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens...

22. How many people do you have a crush on right now? None.

23. Who do you miss most right now? My sister who's gone away for school, and all my fraands who have gone away for college

24. What are you listening to right now? Dazed and Confused

25. If you were a crayon, what colour would you be? Aquamarine

26. What is the weather like right now? Cloudy.

27. Last person you talked to on the phone? My mother.

28. The "first" thing you notice about the opposite sex? Whatever I see first.

29. Do you like the person who sent you this? Yes. She'll kill me if I say otherwise. But really, yes.

30. How are you today? I am very fine, thanks for asking. You?

31. Favourite non-alcoholic drink? Water

32. Favourite alcoholic drink? Undiluted Ethanol

33. Natural hair colour? Black

34. Eye colour? Dark brown

35. Wear contacts? No.

36. Siblings? One younger sister.

37. Favourite month? October/November, February

38. Favourite food? Yelai Saapadu

39. Favourite day of the year? Donna.

40. Have you ever been too shy to ask someone out? No.

41. Scary movies or happy endings? Either, as long as it's a good movie.

42. Summer or winter? - Winter? What's that?

43. Do you want your friends to write back? Yes.

44. Who is most likely to respond? Amoolya

45. What book/magazine are you reading? 1984 by George Orwell

46. What's on your mouse pad? Don't have one.

47. What did you watch on TV last night? Friends.

48. Favourite Smell? Smell of lots of lovely food.

49. Have you ever regretted breaking up with someone? k.

50. Most tiresome thing you’ve ever experienced/done? Whatever it was, it definitely wasn't worth remembering.

Finally, I did one of these things Preetika's asked me to do.

We've Been Censored

2006-07-18T11:20:00.000+05:30

If you can read this, you either aren't in India, or your ISP hasn't been hit yet. The government is making ISPs ban access to blogspot addresses. Spread the news. More info HERE.

You can circumvent the ban by using Google's Translator Tool. Choose to translate from any language to English, and enter the url of the blog you want to view. Click on translate, and you'll be able to see the blog.

Thanks to Lokon of Struggling Word Guy for the info.

Also, you can view blogs by entering http://pkblogs.com/(address here) - Thanks to Vaishnavi Surendra for giving me that bit of info.

Eef You Come Today

2006-07-02T10:29:00.000+05:30

Get super-toned abs in no more than 4 minutes and 39 seconds! That is precisely the length of this video, and should you watch it, you'll laugh so hard, you'll have a six-pack when you're done.
This is an English Kannada film song video, with Kannada superstar Rajkumar. Songs don't get more ridiculous than this.
Yensaai!
Eef You Come Today

Where Freedom Of Expression Ends

2006-06-17T22:34:00.000+05:30

There are those people who advocate Freedom of Expression without boundaries. I am not one of those people, and if you have read one of my earlier posts on censorship, you probably know that.

However, I also do not stand with those people who feel it is right to censor everything and ban everything 'objectionable'. People often fail to realise that issues don't only have a black and white. There are a million shades of grey. My opinion is one of those shades of grey.

People have the right to the freedom of expression, but I also think that other people have the right to not witness their expression, in any form. What I'm trying to say is that people should have the right to express themselves, in whatever way they want, but they should give allow other people to choose whether or not they want to experience that expression.

During the dress code debate, a frequently repeated argument was if dress codes were removed, would it then be appropriate for people to go to college in the nude? Many freedom of expression supporters said yes, why not.

I wouldn't agree with them, because I would empathize with the hundreds of people who wouldn't want to see that person walking around in the nude. Fine then, you say, don't look. I'll wear what I like, I'm not asking you to look at me.
I disagree again, because more than you have the right to wear what you want, I have the right to look where I want, so long as I'm not looking at anything private.
Well, you say, my private parts are as goddamn private as things get, so don't look.

The problem is that things stop being private when you take them to the public. Let's take this example, that you walk around in the nude, on the streets. You are projecting something onto the public, that the public would perhaps not want to see. You are denying the public their right to look in a direction where they would otherwise look quite gladly if you had been fully clothed, because they find your shiny bottom rather offensive, and they would much rather you kept it within your pants.

The same goes for things like billboards, where you don't really have a choice. They are right there, in front of you, and project themselves onto you.

With a movie, it's different. You have to pay to enter, and you make the conscious decision to go watch it. As far as censorship there goes, all I think the censor board should do is make it very clear to the public what they're in for if they watch the movie. It should be a little more detailed than this stupid 'U' and 'A' system they have here.

People should have the right to express themselves, but they should also respect the right that the others have not to listen.

Guess Who Got Into IIT.

2006-05-31T19:59:00.000+05:30

Me.

I got into IIT. I got the 23rd rank in the HSEE exam, the minimum (or is it maximum) acceptable rank. What I mean to say is that there are 23 seats in the open category, and I got the 23rd one, so I just scraped through. Still, the exam was written by about 4000 people (I'm not sure about this figure, but it's in the thousands anyway), and to be the 23rd best out of thousands is pretty good.

The entrance exam was for entry into a 5-year integrated MA course in Economics, Development Studies or English Studies. I'm interested in English Studies. However, irrespective of which subject I take, the first two years are common to all students.

Initially, I wasn't sure about whether or not to take up this course. I didn't really think I'd make it into IIT, and had pretty much made up my mind to do Zoology. After I realised that I'd got in, I was in a quandary. There were two reasons for my reluctance to join IIT: One, that I wouldn't be able to do Zoology after an MA in English Studies, and Two, that I'd have to do two years of Economics as part of this course, and Economics and I aren't the best of friends, to say the least.

But I finally decided to join IIT because I wasn't keen on pursuing a career in Zoology, so I didn't know what good a degree in it would do. I wanted to do Zoology only because I wanted to learn more, but I can always learn more on my own, without having to do rat dissection.

College starts on the first of August, so for the two months in between, my father says he's going to employ me in his company. That way he gets to watch my every move and see that I don't waste my time. Yippee.

So here, have another e-peda.

Guess Who Passed The Twelfth Standard.

2006-05-23T11:24:00.000+05:30

Hi.

I got my CBSE-AISSCE marks today. For my international reader(s), that's the twelfth standard end-of-year-exam that gets you out of school and into college.

I passed. Yes, it's true. It says Result: Pass.

I got a score of 435 out of 500. That's 87% No scholarship material marks, but it's good enough for me, and slightly above my expectations.
English - 90
Mathematics - 88 - I expected 91, but I'm not disappointed.
Physics - 87
Chemistry - 84 - This was the most relieving mark, as I expected only about 70 here.
Biology - 88 - that's the only one I was disappointed about. I wanted a >90 mark here.

All these scores are out of a hundred.

I got an A2 grade in General Vocational Studies, which we didn't do this year at all, so I don't know what that's based on.
I got a B1 in Physical Education. I wouldn't have been surprised if I got an F. The only game I play in PT is chess.
I got a C2 in General Studies. I still haven't been able to figure out what the hell General Studies is, and why I got such a low grade.
Anyway, that stuff doesn't matter.

Here, have an e-peda.

What next? Zoology, most probably. I'm going local, at least this year.

In related news, Aditi Venkat, my best friend and classmate, scored 98% in English, the highest possible mark. This is the first time BVM has had the honour of a 98 in English. Congratulations to her.

The top mark from our school is a 481 out of 500, achieved by both Omana Kuttan and Archana Raja.

I went to school today to look at the other students' marks, and the principal asked me whether I had done well. I told him that I got 435 and I exceeded my expectations, to which he and the VP said that in that case, I should've set my expectations higher. What, so I can be disappointed with my mark instead of happy? No fanks. I can't change my mark now, and I'm happy with it. Stop trying to make me feel bad about it.
Tomorrow I get my TC and I shall officially go from being a student to an alumnus of BVM. I hope they give me a 'good' or 'fair' on my conduct certificate. I'm rather well-behaved only, excepting my regular antics that disrupt the class.

The Valley Of Flowers

2006-05-21T08:25:00.000+05:30

Chennai to Delhi took us two days by the GT express. While this is supposedly a really fast train, it seemed to be moving so slowly that my friends and I called it the Grand Thatha express (Thatha meaning Grandfather in Tamil).

We were a group of eighth and ninth-standard students on this trek. I belonged to the first category. Most of us had never been to Delhi before, and so everyone was in constant fear of having their luggage suddenly snatched away by some stranger, or having their pockets picked. As a result, when we finally got down at Delhi, all of us seemed to be carrying our bags as if they were parts of our bodies.

We hardly saw any of Delhi. We walked out of the train station, and got into a bus, which would take us to Rishikesh, our first campsite.

The bus trip to Rishikesh was six hours long, and the boys and girls travelled in two separate buses. At that time, the bus rides seemed to be the most agonizing and literally nauseating part of the trip, but in retrospect, I find that it was actually quite an enjoyable experience. The most amusing part of the bus rides was the throwing up. From time to time, some boy’s nausea would become too much for him to bear, and it became necessary for him to expel his breakfast out the window. We would all hear a warning call, like an air raid siren, at which all the boys on that side of the bus would have to close their windows, to prevent vomit exiting one window and getting sprayed in through another one down the line.

Rishikesh was quite a lot of fun. We camped on the banks of the Ganga, and we shared tents in groups of three.

It was in Rishikesh that I first got to know Natraj, our tour guide, who eventually became quite a good friend. I remember that our first conversation was sparked by my calling him “uncle”, which he didn’t like. He told me (and everyone else), that we should only call him Nutty. From then on, whenever I needed to irritate him, I called him Your Highness Mr. Sir Nutty Uncle or something to that effect. Anyway, Nutty really made our trip a whole lot more fun than it would’ve been otherwise.

While we were in Rishikesh, we tried rappelling. We were taken to a rock, from where we rappelled down to the ground. My friends and I were having a whale of a time laughing at everyone who messed up their attempts to do it right. When my turn came, I lost my footing halfway down, and I began to swing from the rope like a pendulum. I finally managed to somehow scramble down.

Another thing we did while we were in Rishikesh, that was one of the most fun experiences of the whole trip, was rafting down the Ganga. The rapids were like a natural rollercoaster, jostling our raft from side to side, and sometimes lifting the front or back so high that we were afraid we might capsize. I wasn’t allowed to row, because of my size, or rather, lack of it. I had fun all the same, getting thoroughly drenched and tossed about.

From Rishikesh, the next stop was Joshirmath (spelling may vary). This was an even longer and more barfy bus journey than the previous one; the journey took a whole twelve hours. Everyone was incredibly relieved when we finally reached Joshirmath, where we stayed in large guest house rooms. This was, I think, the fourth or fifth day of our journey. Here, I bathed for the first and only time during the entire trip. Talk about hygiene. The water was so cold I couldn’t even bathe myself properly.

The next day, we set off on our fourteen-kilometre uphill trek from Joshirmath to Ghangria. In the middle of the day, the trek was quite difficult, with the sun beating hard upon us. Once the day became a little cooler, the trek became incredibly enjoyable. We pretty much followed the course of the Ganga, or at least this was one of its tributaries.
The people towards the front of the group managed to reach Ghangria just as dusk approached. Several others took much longer, and were in quite a rotten mood when they reached at the end of the day. Later, of course, everyone would say how fantastic the trek was. And it was fantastic. Sometimes you don’t enjoy some things while you’re in the middle of them, but when you look back, you'll wish that you could do them again a hundred times.

Our Ghangria camp consisted of a bunch of tents on a helipad. The camp itself was situated about a kilometre away from the town of Ghangria.

The next day, we set out for the Valley of Flowers, which was a five-kilometre uphill trek (even though the name suggests it’s a valley). Rather short compared to the fourteen kilometres from Joshirmath to Ghangria, but quite surprisingly, only a small bunch made it all the way to the Valley. I was in that bunch.

We did our trek to the Valley in the wrong season, perhaps because our school wanted to squeeze the trip into the second-term holidays. The Valley of Flowers was probably the least flowery place on the planet. All we saw was a large patch of land with shrubs and tall grasses. I never regret having gone there, though, because to get to the Valley, we had to cross the river at one point, where it was shallow, narrow, and fast. There was supposed to have been a bridge across the river made of rocks, but apparently most of the rocks had been washed away. We had to cross the river by skipping over the few remaining, precariously balanced, terribly slippery stones. Two people in front of me managed it without too much trouble. One of them slipped, and was drenched up to his knees. Now it was my turn.

I was halfway across. One of our guides stood on the ‘bridge’, helping us cross. I had almost reached him, when I slipped on one of the stones, and fell into the river. I was completely submerged, and I came out a second later, thoroughly drenched. That was my unintentional dip in the Ganga, probably one of the happiest moments of my life.

Once we’d hung around in the Valley of No Flowers long enough, we decided to head back down, and inform the rest there was no point coming all the way here, unless they were interested in falling into the rapids of the Ganga. It began to hail on the way down, and that made some paths quite slippery, but we managed to get back to camp without anyone getting injured.

Our trek from Ghangria back to Joshirmath was quite pleasant. Two friendly, shaggy mountain dogs followed us half the way down.

After that, we spent a night in Joshirmath, and headed back to Rishikesh from there. From Rishikesh to Delhi, and from Delhi to home. Once the door was opened for me at home, my mother, with barely a hello, bodily lifted me and threw me into the bathroom, because I’d told her that I’d bathed once in ten days.

The next day, school reopened.

Taking Lives

2006-05-09T19:41:00.000+05:30

Summer's here, and over here, that's not just the season of mangoes. It's the season of ants in your pants. And I mean the big-jawed red ants Meranoplus bicolor, if I'm not mistaken, whose bites aren't too pleasant. Their bites pack a dose of formic acid, that makes your skin itch, sting, and burn, all at the same time.

Why summer? Because even the ants can't stand the heat in Chennai. All the big ant colonies decide to shift base in this season, moving from the great outdoors to the cool and shady indoors. And the cooler, the shadier, the better. That's why they love my underwear drawer, and, as I recently discovered, my computer keyboard.

About a week ago, my computer keyboard was crawling with red ants. At first I thought these were the wandering kind; just roaming around, looking for food. I began to notice more and more of them, and then I realised that as I typed, little specks of red and black were emerging from beneath the keys.

Initially I tried to coax them out. Very patiently, I turned the keyboard upside down and tapped it until no more ants fell out. I then brushed them away. I assumed that they were all gone, I had cleared away quite a quantity of ants. The next morning, however, the ants had come back. Stubborn little buggers. I tried tapping them out again, but they were all there again in the evening.

I couldn't tolerate them any more. I brought in Laxman Rekha, the WMD to ants.

My keyboard still bears the signs of Laxman Rekha, white stripes here and there. For those of you who don't know, Laxman Rekha is a sort of pesticide chalk. Any insect that crosses a line drawn by it dies in a little while. This is named after the real Laxman Rekha... I shall explain.

The provenance of the name is from The Ramayana. I assume most of you know the story of how Sita was kidnapped while Rama was hunting Maricha, who was disguised as a golden deer. Maricha, as he was dying, cried out with Rama's voice. Sita, hearing calls of distress in what she thought was Rama's voice, forced Laxmana to leave her, and go help Rama.

Laxmana had explicit orders to stay by Sita's side and protect her. However, Sita forced him to go and see what had happened. In order to keep Sita safe, Laxmana drew the Laxman Rekha, a magic line which no being could cross unless invited inside. Of course, when Ravana came, he was disguised as a muni, so Sita invited him in, and then all that rest of the Ramayana happened because of that.

Anyway, that's aside from the point I was trying to make. My point is still concerning lines, though.

Different people draw different lines for themselves, when it comes to animal cruelty, or taking lives. I'm a vegetarian, primarily because I can't stand the thought of eating something that used to run around and cluck, or stand around and moo, or being the cause for any of their deaths. That's where I draw the line. But from my keyboard story, you can see that I was quite merciless when it came to annihilating the ants. Sure, probably more merciful than most people I know would have been. After all, I did try coaxing them out first. But even so, in the end, I killed them. There must've been more than a hundred of them.

Different people draw different lines, and it's something that can't be logically argued. It's why I've stopped trying to convince people that non-vegetarianism is wrong, because people are non-vegetarians simply because they draw the line at a different place than I do. I've found that people are less inclined to kill creatures that are higher up the evolutionary scale.

Ask yourself to verify my observation. Would you rather kill a mosquito or a lizard? Would you rather kill a lizard or a bird? Would you rather kill a bird or a mammal? Would you rather kill a mammal or a human (considering, for this example, humans to be separate from mammals)?

I cleared out the ants from my keyboard and didn't rehabilitate them, so stayed in protest. Sounds familiar? The only difference is that people can kill ants, but can't kill other people.

*
An afterthought: I guess many people don't even draw the line at humans. People kill people every day, don't they? Just not so much for food. In that way perhaps cannibalism prevents wastage. And swallows a whole lot of evidence.

Natural Selection And My Theory Of Human Destruction

2006-04-16T08:44:00.000+05:30

You don't have to believe in Evolution to believe in Natural Selection. Natural Selection is just common sense.

According to Natural Selection, an individual of a species that possesses better genes than its competitor will defeat its competitor in the race for food, territory and mate. As a result, these superior genes are passed on to its progeny, and as a result, bad genes are weeded out of the population.

Bad genes can never be completely removed, as they always hide somewhere or the other and can show up several generations later. Read some more about Genetics and Inheritance to understand this better.
Even if harmful genes are never completely removed from a population, Natural Selection at least keeps them under check.

This brutal yet efficient system does not apply to humans. For us, our societies have caused Natural Selection to operate as "survival of the richest" rather than "survival of the fittest". This has nothing to do with genetic make-up of an individual.

Why do only humans violate this law? The answer is because we cheat death and disease using medicine. Medical science does not fix harmful genes, it only fixes the immediate problem. That is, Medicine fixes the symptom rather than the cause. As a result, an individual can lead quite a full and happy life while possessing lots of defective or inferior genes.

By inferior genes I mean negative traits that run in families, such as heart disease, cancer, or more directly haemophilia, colour blindness, etc.

Because of human violation of Natural Selection, bad genes are piled up on each succeeding generation, and we will reach a point when humans will turn into "genetic junkyards". We will be in the worst of our health, and disease will run rampant among us. Our greatest challenge will be just to survive. Put this together with pollution and the depletion of our natural resources and you can imagine the horror that lies in store for us.
This will lead to destruction of the human species.

Strange how nature preserves itself.

Hope may not be lost in this respect, though. We are coming up with new gene therapies that can fix some gene-linked problems at the root. Also, don't get me wrong. I do not think that unhealthy individuals should be weeded out from society. If humans did that, I'd be gone a long time ago. The process of Natural Selection is indeed quite brutal and inhuman, but ironically, it may be our humanity that destroys us.

Conscious Robots

2006-04-13T22:58:00.000+05:30

This article is, I think, an excerpt from a book.

Anyway, I found it very interesting; it's about how we humans are a lot more robotlike than we think.

Read.

Joblingoferret

2006-04-11T12:04:00.001+05:30

Joblingo was sad. He was sad because all the other ferrets had names like Ja, Ya, Ee, Ty, Chi, Ku, Li, Ba, He, Ne, Ar, Xe, Kr and other monosyllabic names. He had a disgusting name: Joblingoferret. He loved his parents very much, but he really, really hated the fact that they had named him something like Joblingoferret. This was because his parents were big fans of Frank Zappa who had named his children Moon Unit, Dweezle, Ahmet and Diva, so they thought Joblingoferret would be eccentrically similar.

Joblingoferret was once so ashamed of his name that he told everyone that his name was Job, which was itself funny to the other ferrets, because they thought a sensible name should stop at Jo. At least then he wasn’t ridiculed as much as Mn. But then Kh, a not-so-friend of Joblingo’s discovered that his real name wasn’t Job at all; it was Joblingoferret.

From that day, Joblingo would have to go into hiding to avoid his friends from teasing him as Joblingoferret.
“Hey, look there! It’s the Joblingoferret!”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
“Yes?” asked Ha.

Well, the rest of that day, he wasn’t teased as much about his name as Ha.

The worst day of Joblingo’s life was probably the day when everyone, including Joblingo’s teachers at school teased him about his name.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Joblingoferret?”
“Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!” went the class and the teacher.
“Yes?” asked Ho.

But it didn’t stop there. Mn told the other student ferrets not to call Joblingo Joblingoferret, but instead Joblingoferretadismusivershinaptchulis. It took the ferrets a whole day to learn how to say that, but the next day, everyone was calling Joblingoferret Joblingoferretadismusivershinaptchulis. So you must be saying, the day everyone called him Joblingoferretadismusivershinaptchulis must’ve been the worst day of his life, not the previous day, and Joblingo indeed thought the same way, but when he discovered that everyone had learnt the name Joblingoferretadismusivershinaptchulis on the previous day, he declared the previous day to be the worst day of his life.

“Ahem, I, Ahem, Ahem, Job, Ahem, Lingo, Ahem, Ferret declare that this day is not the worst day of my life, but it was the previous day that was the worst day of my life.”
“You, who?”
“I, ahem, Joblingoferret.”
“Don’t you mean Joblingoferretadismusivershinaptchulis?”
“He-he-he-he-he-he!”
“Yes?” asked He.
“Yes?” asked Yoo.
“Yes?” asked Hoo.

It was the next day that would be Joblingo’s best day of his life, because it was then that they learnt Chemistry. He went home and studied Chemistry very, very hard.

The day after that, he went to school full of confidence.
“Hey, there’s Joblingoferretadismusivershinaptchulis!” said Fe.
“Hee-hee-hee-hee-hee!” said his friends, but Hee was nowhere to be seen.
“Well, at least my name isn’t as bad as Ferrumwhichislatinforiron!”
The other ferrets were baffled. They didn’t know how to respond. Fe fainted, he had never heard his name said like that.
The Br Brothers advanced on Joblingo, getting ready to pound him for fainting their friend.
Before they got too close, Joblingo used his chemistry talent again.
“And if the two of you are seen together with Fe, I mean Ferrumwhichislatinforiron, you become FeBr2, or Ferricbromidewhichconsistsofoneatomofironandtwoatomsofbromine!”
The Br Brothers fainted so much, you would think that they were unconscious even after fainting.

And so it happened. Joblingoferret was suddenly the most feared ferret in his school. After having called Mn Manganesewhichisanelementwithatomic- numbertwentyfiveandisfoundintheseventhgroupoftheperiodic-table, even his Chemistry teacher shuddered in front of him.

Joblingoferret was suddenly respected, feared, and admired in his school. When he walked, all the other ferrets moved out of his way, for, even the ferrets who did not have names that represented chemical elements, Joblingo could lengthen or lengthily distort their names so much that they would whimper and scamper away. No one dared mock Joblingo or his name. The word Joblingoferretadismusivershinaptchulis was never heard again.

Life was again normal, or abnormal, or whatever the state of things generally is where Joblingo lived. Joblingo grew up to become a very powerful ferret, with amazing talent at solving problems, especially ones related to long names and Chemistry.

My Magical World Of Nonsense

2006-04-07T13:28:00.000+05:30

Part of the problem with this blog is that I can't maintain anonymity. It's too late for that. Everyone knows who the author of the blog is, and anyone can read it at any time. Hence, I can't say some things that I might want to.

It's not that I want to maintain complete anonymity, either. There are some things that I'd like to share with some people, and other things with other people. And I want them to know it's me. There's no point starting another blog to split up my audiences, if I did that, I'd probably have to create some ten isolated blogs under different usernames to make certain people see what I want them to see and not see everything else. It's hard explaining this in words. I should use Venn Diagrams.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I'd blog a lot more if every post was only read by the people who should read them.

Right.

Male Cricket

2006-04-06T22:52:00.000+05:30

It's happened to me several times. Some guy will come and ask me if I know what the score is.

He is obviously talking about cricket.

Is every Indian boy supposed to know the score, or at least know what the score was when he last checked? I find it rather strange that people can just assume that since I'm a boy, I'm a cricket fan.

Well, I'm not a cricket fan. I've tried watching it and playing it, and it bores me to death. Every ball seems like a deja vu to me. I don't really have anything against the game, I just don't like it. Am I allowed to not like it, or am I supposed to fit in with the stereotype of the Indian male who monitors cricket as if he's a doctor monitoring a critical patient?

It's not just cricket. I'm not very fond of sports in general. And while this is perfectly acceptable for the females, for some reason, every person with a Y chromosome is expected to be a sports fan. And if you're an Indian male and you don't like cricket, people tend to look at you as if you are a martian.

Memoirs Of A Geisha

2006-04-02T15:41:00.001+05:30

I watched Memoirs Of A Geisha on Thursday, then I walked back from Sathyam to Gandhinagar. Anyway, that isn't the point. The point is that I liked the film.

I think beautiful would be the word to describe this film. I liked it because unlike most movies today, it wasn't in a hurry to get anywhere. Every scene, every second of the film, was painstakingly crafted, and instead of just showing you a story, it sort of created an atmosphere. It absorbed me into that time and place and displayed the culture vividly and gloriously.

The music was just terrific. It added to the experience. Violin solos by Itzhak Perlman and Cello by Yo-Yo Ma. The picture was like a really large painting, where lots of different little details came together to form something beautiful.

There wasn't really much to the story, but the movie wasn't plot-driven. It is basically a story about a girl who wants to become a geisha so that she can enter the world of a man who showed her kindness.

The only thing, I felt, that wasn't done too well was the portrayal of the love between "The Chairman" and Sayuri, the Geisha. All there was to indicate the love was a handkerchief that Sayuri always kept with her. I feel that the love should have been highlighted some more.

I also felt some post-interval portions dragged a little bit. But all in all, it's a terrific film, and if you haven't watched it yet, you really ought to.

Blogging, Writing, And Pressure

2006-03-30T18:59:00.000+05:30

If you haven't noticed, the activity of this blog has just plummeted like Baro The Plummetter.

I also haven't made any progress on any of my stories, nor have I started any new ones.

I think the reason is that I'm not really supposed to be doing anything else. I wrote The Limpet Division, which is currently my favourite story of mine, while exams were on and I was supposed to be studying. Perhaps my creativity is at its peak when it's least supposed to be.

I'm also kind of stuck for ideas. Please give me some. It can be anything, like a cat in a train full of bicycles or something like that (don't give me the same idea, I already tried it).

Well, I guess you'll next hear from me when I'm under some sort of pressure.