Ramblings of a confused soul

2009-10-21T11:34:00.000-07:00

I'M ENGAGED!!!

It is fitting that I write this blog after the space of nearly a year, especially because my last post spoke about my resolutions for the New Year. And if you go through that post very carefully, you will note that one of my resolutions concerned finding myself a wife and, with her, making resolutions for the next year.

Now, lest you be misled by my last statement, my priority is not to have support for making my next year's resolutions, though such support is always welcome - especially from a loving wife, but rather to actually find that wife. And this, I might say with some satisfaction in my heart, seems to have become a reality. Which is also why I am writing this post now. I promised my beautiful fiancee I would have it ready before morning, though she, being the sweet, considerate soul that she is, told me not to stay up and put myself through the trouble. So I did just that, because trouble is just what loving fiances do to sweep their beloveds off their dainty feet (and man, my fiancee does have the daintiest feet you have ever seen).

Well, I did not actually find the wife myself. Nor is she my wife yet. The story goes something like this, in a nutshell. After going on for most of my life (28 years to be precise) without having so much as a single fruitful relationship, I began to think that I must have some chronic problem with my ability to impress the softer sex. I mean, it's not like I don't have the potential. There must have been something in me that drew girls to me when I was so high. In class 2, I was the king of all Casanovas. Little girls in blue pinafores used to chase me everywhere. That's not to say I was this huge hunk either. I was just about as little as them.

But then something happened after I crossed over into the world of adolescence and then adulthood. All of a sudden, my boyish charm had no effect anymore on the merry lasses. Nor did my merriness either. I mean, they did laugh heartily at my jokes, but all the while when on the arms of their hunky men. Not that I held it against them. I was always distracted by their laughter at my jokes. It's when the laughter stopped, however, that the pain hit home with all its brutal force. I learnt then to adapt my jokes to different situations, so that girls wouldn't give me that look which told me, "Prem, you're a nice guy, but you're also a nice dork." Then the laughter would return, and I would return home with a contentment in my heart that if I didn't have a girl, I did at least have the ability to make some people laugh. Which is something to live for. But not for long...

As I was beginning to push 28, I decided it was time I got some help with finding a wife. After all, the Bible says that he who finds a wife, finds a good thing. It says nothing, however, about he whose parents find a wife for him, but well, the Bible is full of such people whose parents did exactly that - and one of them actually became the father of Israel. Well, not him exactly - it was actually his father - but you get the picture. So we people are destined for greatness. And besides, everytime I think of my beautiful, God-fearing fiancee, I know that life couldn't be any better or sweeter, and that God is in His heaven, and all is right with the world.

So here I am. Or rather, here we are - my fiancee and I. We got engaged on October 10 this year, and that was truly a red-letter day in my life. I won't go into the details, except to say that Priya - which is her name - looked especially beautiful that day, and I felt especially happy, and our parents looked pleased as punch, and my infant nephew and niece looked like they wanted to sing, if they could. All these factors combined to make it a most perfect day, and I wouldn't be lying if I said that ever since that wonderful day, I have been walking around with an extra spring in my step, and I have stopped seeing nightmares at night. I have also been sleeping with a soft smile playing on my lips - that is what I believe, and I am sticking to that story. Proof enough? Well, even if you don't think so, my advice to you would be - never argue with a man in love!

2009-01-01T11:21:00.000-08:00

Another New Year

It's another year, one that promises to be much better than the one before, though I have no way of knowing for sure. But I speak as one who knows that it is better to have some faith in mankind and the world than none at all. True, the world that awaits some of us above is going to be better than even all our imaginations put together can imagine, but it's still worth it thinking that where we are now still does hold some good, as much as it does hold water. In that light, I have put forward two resolutions for the year:

1. To write that long-unfinished novel of mine... unfinished for the simple reason that it hasn't been started just yet.

2. To get married by December... and with my wife to make new resolutions for the year to follow thereafter. I can tell you one of my resolutions though: It will be to finish that long-unfinished novel of mine.

All things considered, it has been a pretty great year. I got promoted to editor, got a laptop, lost a good boss, got such a cool guy to replace him, and... best of all... got an award for being what they called a 'star performer' for the year. And I was also promised to be made a permanent employee. For which I continue to wait in all patience. Okay, I know everything seems to revolve around my work. But by next year, all this should change.

One of my female colleagues did rather screw up my New Year for me. But we will not talk about her. She is already forgiven... I hope...

2008-11-30T11:39:00.001-08:00

What exactly is a knee-jerk reaction?

I have to write something on the Mumbai terror attacks/hostage situation of last week. Everything within me cries out to do so. I did, in fact, write something last week but removed it one day later because it was downright stupid (yes even I write stupid stuff sometimes, I should humbly admit).

There's been a lot of outcry from people and friends around me. The media, especially NDTV, has been accompanying their emotional coverage with tears in eyes and wailful background music, with captions like 'Enough is enough' sliding across the screen. Nobody of course buys into such shit, but we still need such media to use as fora on which to share our emotions. We use the media just as much as it uses us.

I have been hearing a lot of emotional outbursts around me by one and all, and naturally so. Even I have burst into such tirades against politicians in general, on many occasions, but on reflection have later realised that such generalisations are pretty useless. I even had quite a few choice words for terrorists in general, but here again, I realised that the targets of my rage are just as thick-skinned as the politicians who are supposed to keep them away from us.

In all the storm of emotions that has been swirling all about me, all of which I understand and share in, what has disgusted me is the way in which we of the general population are so quick to throw our judgements about, attacking all and sundry, having our own 'expert' opinions on how politicians, the media, the Army, the Navy, the NSG, and the police should be conducting their operations. What particularly got me miffed to the bone marrow was when people started attacking the media - since I am a part of it - attacking it in general sweeps that resembled the pot shots they take at that all-too-general entity called the politician.

I tried defending the institution but, expectedly, in vain. True, I did see a point in what they said - I am a fair-minded man - but I wish for an instant that people wouldn't be so full of themselves to air their asshole-like opinions with gay abandon (there's an analogy I'm referring to when I used that seeminly obscene word... get back to me if you want it). We are the very people who feed off the media, and then we berate it like there's no good in it. I would like to ask these same people what they would do if they did not have the media to turn to? Especially at such times? They would go mad and blame the country for not being like their more 'advanced' friends in the West.

That made me feel a bit for our politicians too. I could understand exactly what they must be going through at this point. Not insecure for a moment... but then neither were the aristocrats before the French Revolution. But definitely angry, for the same reason that I as a mediaman am angry. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not taking up for the politicians. I curse them just as roundly as the next man or woman. But let's be fair here. We do need the politicians to run the country. True, there are very grave, systemic failures (ouch, big word). These are what need to be corrected and what such terror attacks drive into our collective consciousness with the force of a sledgehammer to the head. Unfortunately, the politicians have thicker heads.

It's good that we berate the politicians though. They are a very thick-skinned, bone-headed lot, and only with such public anger can they be forced to wake up and do something. Otherwise, they will only continue to rest on their soft, padded tushies and make loose statements that get them into soups. The media also needs a bashing now and then, so we can correct ourselves. All this is needed in a free, democratic society, so that change can be brought about, and always for the better.

But this is still what we need. We still do need politicians and the media. We don't want to become a banana republic where all our freedoms are curtailed and we are forced to make pirated goods. In fact, this is what a friend suggested - that the Army take over. I understood the emotions behind the suggestion, and it was well-intentioned, but I'm sure that once it happened - God forbid - none of us, including that friend, would be any too pleased.

We do need to react. And the reactions we are showing are in the right direction. We need to force those politicians to get up off their butts and act. We need real, stiff measures to be taken. We need these politicians to realise that votes are not everything, that they will have to really earn it from now on. We've got to stop them from playing politics on such matters of life and death. We need to show them that democracy is less about them and their potbellies and more about us, the people. We need to make sure our voices are always heard loudest.

But let's also remember the old saying, that people get the governments they deserve. So we are no less culpable. Politicians are only our public face. They need our support and, sometimes, even sympathy. Theirs is a tough task. It's not easy being up in public view all the time and having themselves and every word they say torn apart by people and the media. But then they signed up for this when they became politicians. And they better deliver, or we will have their heads, like we're doing now.

However, a lot more needs to be done. We've got to press for more accountability from our public representatives (I won't lower myself by calling them our leaders). We've got to make sure that this fear of terror we've instilled in them doesn't disappear. We've got to keep up the pressure, and even stoke it a lot more from time to time. It was amusing, when watching NDTV's 'We the People' today, to see that Congress spokesman Singhvi was the only one brave enough to face the wrath of the people. Even that ninny Raj Thackeray and his disgusting family closeted themselves in their homes at the time. I'd like to think that Raj was actually peeing in his bed, holding on to his pillow, all the while that the attacks were happening. And thankfully, Karkare's wife was dignified enough to turn down that shameless Modi's offer of compensation. Modi and the rest of the Hindutva brigade in the BJP would be more than delighted to give any amount in compensation now that the Malegaon blast case will be thrown into disarray, and probably even scuttled.

An unfortunate outcome of all this has been that the Congress has had to suffer political misfortunes from all these terror strikes. Not that they are a decent party - they are just as corrupt as the next party. But as far as minorities are concerned, the Congress is our best yet. They may play some soft Hindutva in the background, but they are truly the lesser of evils.

Come May, however, and we minorities should start getting down on our knees and praying hard. For it looks like Advani, who I and many others believe to be the father of terrorism in India, is all set to become our next PM. Nobody has begun to talk about it yet, beyond a whisper now and then. But as the time draws near for the general election, the danger will become more apparent. All we can do then is pray... and go out and vote.

2008-11-26T11:05:00.000-08:00

Jimmy Kimmel meets Jay Leno

This is not just another boringly journalistic, fancy headline. It's literally true. I had just finished with an awesome session of Prison Break (which, sadly, is coming to an end - curses) and was lazily eating the last scraps of dinner off my plate and watching the Jimmy Kimmel Show on Star World, when he suddenly announced that his next guest would be Jay Leno.

Now this is the last thing you would expect when watching a talk show by a star comedian - see and hear him call on his rival onto his show and see them chatting like old buddies. Not that I would place Jimmy Kimmel anywhere in the same league as Jay Leno (Man! I watch too much TV). I have always considered Kimmel to be just a bad imitation of Leno. His humour is way off - he does have a bit though, or he wouldn't be on ABC - and he seems to be trying too hard to copy Leno and still be different. So I always watch his show with only a passing interest and very rarely let out a small laugh or a Jeeves-like twitch of the corner of the mouth.

But with Leno being called on and seeing these two class-act talk-show hosts/stand-up comics meet across the table, literally, was a rare, once-in-a-zillion opportunity that wasn't to be missed. So I sat up and watched.

I was a bit let down, however, by the Leno I saw. Not that he turned out to be a bad egg or some such thing. He was the perfect sport and actually a wonderful person (these comics only hide behind a tough exterior, apparently). But it was his humour that wasn't exactly hitting it. He was trying - definitely he was - but without a script, he seemed like just a sweet, old man with a pleasant, good-natured sense of humour, not the genius that I thought he was.

This is where I was wrong though. The man certainly is a genius, or NBC wouldn't have chosen him for 'The Tonight Show' for 16-odd years. But two things I realised. Firstly, being a world-class comic is an awesome responsibility. Once you reach the stature of someone like Jay Leno, you're expected by the masses to have a wisecrack wherever you are and in whatever situation. We forget that such people are actually regular guys with regular moods. Sometimes, they just can't crack decent-enough jokes, especially when people are eagerly expecting them to do so. Humour, while being an inborn talent, also depends largely on inspiration. You can't just conjure it up wherever you go, especially when you're trying too hard.

I have realised this for myself once too many times. Some people, especially loving folk in my family who have been compelled by blood ties to look beyond my frailties and exaggerate my qualities, have believed me to have a sense of humour. Some have even laughed heartily when i have opened my mouth on many occasions. I believe I have actually been funny at these times.

It is, however, when I am trying to live up to this reputation among the general populace that I realise my failings. Even people who may have once laughed their guts out at my jokes suddenly start staring stolidly at me, with a look of sympathy, whenever I have tried to make them laugh.

At other times, however, when I have been unprepared to make people laugh, inspiration strikes. And the jokes I crack surprise me too, so much so, I seem to laugh the loudest. That's just how it is.

And yes, the second point about Jay Leno. I also realised that Blacks are much better at natural comedy than the Whites. Not to appear racist or anything. But when they open their mouths, stuff just flows out. Whoever you might be - you just seem to have that humour. Some of them, however, turn disgusting, and that's when it stops being funny. But that is just how the Americans have begun to view humour these days. The tragedy of it! That's why, I sometimes just prefer watching the Disney channel. Now that is clean comedy!

2008-11-25T10:49:00.000-08:00

Killing them softly with kindness

I realised one thing when I was having a fight with one of my friends. It's my personal belief that the fight wasn't really my fault. But what can make such situations worse is that during the course of the fight, when a lot of hurtful words are being bandied about, the danger is always there for one loose word - just one - to cause irreparable damage. It's much better when you're on the other side of things and have the other party ruin things for him/herself by saying all the wrong things. At least you, for your part, are aware of the cardinal rule given in the Biblical book of James which talks about the tongue being able to start forest fires and all that sort of thing. So you watch your tongue - or try to do so without hurting your neck too much.

It's tough, though, I can tell you that. Watching your tongue I mean, especially when the other side is going hammer and tongs at you. It's all you can do to answer word for word, politely, just keeping yourself from saying that one hurtful word that will incriminate you forever. On the other hand, you have to keep your dignity about you and not appear to be the world's worst loser. So what follows is an artful game of who's-gonna-get-the-last-word-in, which, in street-fighting language translates as, who's gonna get the last fatal nick in.

There is another alternative though, which is what I discovered. I am amazed at the ingenuity of it too, which is accentuated by its simplicity. It's all too obvious really. The answer, my friends, to all verbal volleys hurled at you is to fend them off with equally attacking words of love. You may have heard the adage - "Kill them with kindness" - a rather brutal one, but highly effective nonetheless. This is basically what I am advocating.

Nothing irritates a person overflowing with the juices of insult and injury more than a few well-chosen, calm words of love and affection. Try this, my good friends. The effect it has on the other party is magical. It may not show up at first. But eventually, the frustration of fighting with a person on whom none of your insults are even showing a dent wears off the edges of the attack. And soon enough, the fighting party becomes butter in your hands. Or is it putty? It doesn't really matter.

Anyway, that's all I have to say about that. And there goes my secret remedy.

2008-11-21T15:34:00.000-08:00

I am back - And about time too...

Okay people, I'm finally back - after the space of a whole year. I don't have time at the moment for a long post (it's 5 a.m.) - this is just to say that I am back, if anyone actually missed me. I know at least one person who did - my good friend Jimmy the Kid (eh?:-)). I must apologise to you, my good man, for removing my last post, on which you commented and all. I thought it was a very stupid post, and I promise you all my posts from now on will be better-considered.

Why am I back now, of all times, before the year can even be said, officially, to be over? Because the realisation suddenly struck me just the other day that ever since I joined the online profession, my blogging has come down. This should have been the other way round actually. So I have made my New Year resolution - a little early perhaps, but still one that can actually be kept. It is that I shall blog more regularly than ever I have before. Yes, I know, promises. promises. But this one just has to be kept, don't you see? What will my future bosses say when they find I have been in the online media so long... hmmm, at least long enough... and still haven't kept a regular blog, however crappy it might be?

So here I am... back with a new template and all. Yes, that's another reason for me to put my fingers to keyboard again. I am excited as hell about the new format - I think it looks really cool. Reflects the tones of my personality and all that sort of thing. Still another is the fact that I have been "gifted" - for as long as I last professionally in the current organisation - an official laptop, that just has to be used if I don't want it to go kaput.

Therefore, as I must repeat once again, for fear of the significance of this post getting lost in the moment, I am back!

2007-12-30T11:04:00.000-08:00

The long and short of it...

As I get ready to sign off this highly eventful year, knowing I might not been able to post anything tomorrow night amidst all the festivities, I feel there would be no better way to toast the past year than by talking about the greatest miracle that happened to me in 2007 - my new job.

I know the story is long in the telling, and I am also highly aware of my propensity for rambling. So I shall I make every effort to tell it as briefly as possible, keeping in mind the salient points and not mentioning details that have no real consequential bearing to the narrative.

Today it seems like I am living a dream, and it seems so hardly real that I continue to wonder at how long it is destined to last! But I am not one of your perpetually pessimistic sad-sacks who look too far into the future and see only blackness. For me, though I wouldn't say I'm not the type to look ahead (I do it all the time, if only for the sake of my spiritual well-being), I still live life in the present, knowing, and believing, that no matter how good things are, they can always get better. In other words, Murphy, take a well-deserved hike pal.

But at least eight months ago, things were not so great! That's where Murphy came in. He always does at such times, to remind you at troubled times that they can only get worse. What would we do without his blithe spirit. There comes a point in all of our lives when after we have taken our fill of his beating, we bite back, snarling and gnashing our teeth. It is then that Murphy retires, knowing that his mission has been accomplished and it is time for him to return to the netherworld.

Coming back to the key phrase - eight months. Remember this - it will come in handy. I was working in a newspaper described, by itself, as India's national newspaper. And my existence, from one day to the next, had become a living nightmare. This is not to discredit the newspaper, for which I still entertain the utmost regard. It is just that it just did not suit me or my personality, just as my woeful stint in the Brethren church (for which I am still grateful for all the spiritual nourishment I got) got me thinking at one point during the proceedings that I was far too living and breathing to be spending my best years among the silent dead (no disaffection again towards either institution mentioned - just an indicator of the resemblance both places had for me to the cemetery on Hosur Road!

I was suffering at work. The daily torment only grew in intensity and my weary spirit used to cry for sweet relief - but none came. And the volume of that inner voice telling me to head for the open spaces only grew in my heavy breast. The only thought that kept me going was that I had only a few more months to get through before I would complete one year in the organisation, and then it would not look so bad on my resume. But with the minutes seeming so long, and the end seeming so utterly lost in the distance, I began to lose hope that I would ever make it out from the valley of death. I used to count the hours at work - six hours left, five hours .... And so the day would pass, I would finish making my page(s) barely in time or after, and I would race home dreading the next day but glad that there would be a good many hours before it happened.

Then one day I receive this e-mail - one of many others - about a job opening in AOL, as a sub editor. The job profile sounded rather promising - and so did the pay - so I told my dad I would apply. He agreed, probably thinking that if it did anything to relieve me - and him - of my moroseness, it would sure be welcome.

Nothing happened immediately. So I began to despair again. One night, in a fit of anger and frustration, I did what any right-thinking individual in my position would have done - I updated my profile on the job site on which I had registered the previous year. Hardly two days later, the calls from job consultants began pouring in. And thus the fun began... and my real story.

My first offer was from a small technology magazine. I wasn't overly excited by the profile, but decided I would attend every interview I could, if only for the experience. So I made photocopies of a sample of my writing work, which I replicated for every single interview to follow, and set out for my first interview.

One thing is to be said at this point about the advantage of working in a newspaper as a sub editor. You get your mornings free to attend interviews - without your employers suspecting a thing. I decided to be entirely discreet about it this time - in my last job I had told one friend after another about my resignation plans, and before I knew it, the situation had reached such a pass that when I went in to the associate editor's office to put in my papers, he took the words right out of my mouth, leaving me speechless.

One interview followed the other. Many rejected me, some I rejected. One technology magazine even hired me, but not before the manager had made a few disparaging remarks about my technology writing, which he wasn't too wrong about but which didn't go down well for my esteem. Nevertheless, I pocketed the offer letter to brush over whenever I got discouraged about my quest, and continued on my way.

Finally, AOL responded. I was called for an interview. I went ballistic. I went mad with anticipation. I knew I had one shot at the perfect job for me - not only would it be in my line of work, in contrast to many of the other interviews for which I had appeared, but the pay packet also promised to brighten up my otherwise sorry existence (many Indian newspapers pay among the lowest salaries in the world).

On the day of the interview, I got my best shirt out, ironed it till every single crease known to man had disappeared, and set out. The setting out, however, had proved a bit disastrous - the lights had gone out an hour before I had to leave and I had neither ironed my clothes nor taken a printout of my resume. In my frustration, I cursed a good deal at the world and everything around it, and wondered if all would be lost. Then the lights returned - late, but in time for me to rush out for the interview.

I landed up slightly late, but when the interview got started this hardly mattered. I was determined to impress. A rather pleasant gentleman sat opposite me, and my words flowed as easily as they have ever done. The job was almost in the bag, I thought. When would I know for sure, I asked my interviewer. In about two days, he replied.

Those two days were the most tense yet of my life. Living through them proved to be uphill, but I managed to.

At the end of those two days, I waited for the call that would relieve me of my pain. But that call never came. So I made it instead. "I'm sorry, you did not make it," the girl at the other end informed me. "It was a hard choice between you and another person, but we've chosen the other. So you can continue your search (a biting reference to my request two days earlier that she tell me of the outcome soon enough so I would know if I should continue my job search)."

It was hard to describe my feelings at that point. Imagine having all your pent-up hopes over two days, combined with the frustration of wanting out of your present job at all costs (I had even at times wanted to just quit immediately and go about jobless for a while; but my dad dissuaded me, thankfully), dashed to tiny bits in one instant. I became suicidal that day. But it was only for the belief in the inevitable judgement to follow at the other side of eternity - a belief that has worked on previous occasions too, though this was definitely the worst - that I am still alive today. The feeling soon passed. But I stayed as morose as a cow. My mom, who is the sweetest in the world, took me out that afternoon in search of some other job options. My mom has always been there for me at such times!

Soon enough, after the manner of my breed, I picked myself up and decided to continue with my quest.

The offer that finally got me out of the newspaper was rather classic. It was for the post of content writer for a music website. The company was new, the colleagues I would have would be hardly my type, and the subject matter I would be dealing with would be totally out of my interests - Indian music and cinema. But such was my crying desire to be out of where I was that I decided to take it up. My dad believed it would be wrong for me. But I was desperate and this helped me bring all my debating skills to the fore. I managed to convince him that taking up the offer wouldn't be the worst thing.

There was a bit of drama at office when I put in my papers. I won't go into the details, but will merely say that my boss, who naturally wasn't too pleased, wanted me to give him a month's notice, but I wasn't willing to endure that. Besides, I had to join the other place in two weeks. So after a bit of disagreement, I soon had had my way and found myself out in the open spaces again. After a few deep breaths of some good, clean air, I was my good old self again.

I now had two weeks before joining my new job. So I decided to continue looking. I appeared for an interview at a software firm - for the post of content editor - and got the job. The terms were fantastic. Blinded by the perks they flashed before my eyes, I fell flat for the offer. So it was goodbye to the online music company.

The same day, however, I got a call from the sports producer of AOL. He wanted to meet me. No harm, I thought, and met him. He was a lovely chap, and spent the whole time trying to give me all the hardest facts of the online business. He ended by saying he would get back to me. But nothing happened for a while. By which time I was forced to join the software firm.

Just before doing so, however, I got a call from Yahoo for the post of content editor. I got excited again - but warily so. I wouldn't allow myself to get carried away this time. I passed the first round. The next followed a few days later. But the result tragically got held up a bit, and I joined the software firm.

Right from the start, I knew I would last here long. The place was just not for me. The deathly silence I was surrounded by was far worse even than that I had experienced in my last newspaper - something I had not thought possible. Somehow I hoped Yahoo would get back to me soon enough. About AOL, I had given up hope already.

It was on Thursday of that historic first week - and the last I would ever have in such a firm - that I got three interesting calls. The first was from Yahoo, telling me I had been selected and that I would have to appear for the final HR round that Saturday. The second was from the sports producer at AOL asking me to come for an interview with his boss. We exchanged a good many tele-conversations through the day as we sought to work out a decent time for this interview - taking into account the fact that the software firm made me work (or rather sit staring at a computer screen and play about on Powerpoint) through the day, thus leaving little time for me to then rush to AOL for a late-evening interview. Even as we were doing so, I received this call from my previous interviewer at AOL, asking me if I could join the news team for the post for which I had been rejected previously. One of his team members had suddenly quit.

I was now caught in a most interesting Catch-22 situation. On the one hand, Yahoo lay before me. On the other, AOL beckoned. Both were rivals. Something in me told me to accept my interviewer's kind offer.

It all now came down to Saturday's Yahoo interview. I knew that a most important and difficult choice lay before me. I wondered if I would be equal to it. But I knew this was not something to worry about - either way I couldn't lose. But which way would it be? I was most interested to find out.

On Saturday, I dressed for the occasion and turned up for the Yahoo interview. My heart beat with anticipation. In less than an hour I would be confronted with one of the greatest choices in my life. I was excited!

But I was shocked at how easy the choice turned out in the end. My offer from AOL had been handsome and there was little reason for me to expect Yahoo to be any different. After all, they had gone through the motions of asking me about my current salary and what I was expecting. But all that did not matter in the end. When the guy placed the offer before me, I was stunned. It was low - so shockingly, abominably and obscenely low. What was worse, it was even lower than what I had been getting.

I walked out from that interview calmly, my strides even in length. A happy smile played on my lips. I had made my decision, and I knew there was no fear of it ever turning out to be wrong.

That was in July. I have never regretted it since!

And yes, you have guessed it right (assuming that you did guess at all). My first interviewer at AOL is now my boss.

Happy New Year to one and all!!!

2007-12-13T11:02:00.000-08:00

Letter from Mortification

Hi all. Read this e-mail I got from Steve Rowe, the vocalist/leader and bass guitarist for gospel death metal band from Australia, Mortification (when I first heard of them, they were described as the most extreme Christian band in existence). In case you're wondering if he mailed me personally, I must tell you, sadly of course, that this is not the case. I am merely on the band's e-mailing list.

Mortification was the band that introduced me to gospel death metal. By this expression, I mean that they were the first gospel death metal band I heard. The story is slightly long, but told very briefly, it is that I came across them when I was pursuing my post-graduate diploma in journalism at the Indian Institute of Journalism and New Media (IIJNM). We had 24-hour Internet access, and I spent a lot of this time searching for gospel rock/metal on the net (I was just getting into the whole gospel rock scene - after I performed in a band myself during my last year of my undergraduate course). I came across this list of gospel rock/metal bands and went through them one by one. When I hit on Mortification, that is when the journey began - a truly memorable one. They had put up about 30 original, full songs of theirs for download on an MP3 website (I don't remember which one, and I have been unable to find it again). So naturally I downloaded the whole lot.

I have never stopped listening to them since. I also get emotional about them, as they were responsible for launching me into the whole 'hard' Christian music, which became a quest and a mission in itself for me. Steve Rowe also speaks during one or two of his live performances about his utmost faith in God and his battle with cancer, which God eventually won for him.

What follows is the e-mail/newsletter I received today. I put it up mainly because of the last paragraph, which I found classic. Here goes....

(The mail...)

Yes! Finally the remaining Mortification European Tour 2007 merchandise has arrived at Soundmass. Please see the Soundmass.com store for all these items. Be quick because the larger shirt sizes are already going and the prices are excellent for the quality you will purchase.

The tour merchandise includes:

*Live Humanitarian European Tour 2007 long-sleeve with color sleeve prints and tour dates on the back

*Full Aussie limited edition release cover Erasing The Goblin t-shirt with the warrior throwing the dagger through the heart of the goblin

*Awesome old-school Mortification logo jacket patch

*Set of 4 old-school badges -set includes (1) "Scrolls.." cover, (2) "Primitive Rhythm Machine" cover, (3) "Mort" nickname logo (my favorite little item) and (4) "Live Humanitarian" cross image

*Classic Mortification logo sticker

*Plus still coming are the big full-color Tour posters (we must sign them all first - they should be in the store by Christmas).

A huge extra special Thank You to our awesome tour manager Peter Gerber who ate so many vegetables that he was able to pack the merchandise left at the end of the Tour and get it to Australia in 3 weeks! The man is a machine! Thanks also to Nuclear Blast for tremendous quality merchandise as always, plus the Reusch's for the poster prints.

Please also visit the Rowe Productions website to see pictures from a Mortification story that made front page news in one of Norway's biggest newspapers. It is so amazing that 10 to 13 years ago news, both in Norway and around the world, relating to metal music in Norway told of the infamous black metal scene there, with church burnings, murders and, more recently, rapes at the hands of some of Norway's black metal artists. Yet just 3 weeks ago one of their daily street newspapers ran a story on an Australian Christian metal band playing at a Christian metal festival in Oslo called NordicFest. It just never ceases to amaze me how God turns things around. The members of Nuclear Blast band Benediction told me backstage in Germany in September 1995 that my name was #1 on Norway's black metal mafia list of death (the people they would kill).

God is good all the time!!

Blessings,

Steve Rowe

2007-12-09T11:28:00.000-08:00

More on Narendra Modi

More on Narendra Modi. There are just two days to go before the crucial Gujarat elections take place. It has been noted very widely in the Indian media all about how crucial this election is. In fact, it could very well set the trend for national politics and secularism in this country for a long time to come. No one even dares to predict too much what the outcome would be if Modi comes to power once again. I doubt one can even predict such things with a minute degree of certainty. All we can say is that the outcome could likely be more fearsome than we can dare to imagine. So we don't do just that!

Now I may be in the media - may have been for some time now - but I don't profess to be an expert on any subject - not just yet anyway, and least of all on anything political. I've got a long way to go, which, though in this profession is not saying much, is still a far, far longer way than many of my more enterprising colleagues have managed to achieve yet. But such is the breed to which I belong, that I never say it's over yet until it actually is - in which case I would be quite incapable of saying anything anyway in the first place - or rather, in the last. But, now, I ramble...

Anyway, this post is not all about how 'umble I am (as the good Uriah Heep says in David Copperfield). It's rather a pointer to a rather beautiful article I came across while working today (I usually come across such articles only when I'm working - a situation that I'm working hard to change). Here's the link. It's by this guy, Mayank Chhaya. While agreeing with all he says, I also learnt two new words - satrap and chicanery.

For those who might appreciate it, I'm going to tell you what these words mean, loosely anyway. This is only because I looked them in the dictionary as soon as I realised that they might come in handy at some point in time later. 'Satrap' apparently means a despotic ruler of some sort at the provincial/regional level. 'Chicanery' means deception. Both words sound very musical and I have made up my mind to use them quite often sometime, at least whenever I think I'm good enough to start throwing my opinions around. By then, I should have amassed a great deal more words to add to my lexicon anyway. And I'll also be an old, old man, with this long, grey beard, and quite incapable of playing heavy metal music. So I'll have to content myself with writing. That sounds like a plan...

2007-12-01T03:00:00.000-08:00

To my eldest brother

I wish to apologise profusely to my eldest brother Dr. Pradeep Joseph Ninan who once almost dissected me with his biology apparatus while he was pursuing his pre-university course all because I had a stomach ache. But I hold no hard feelings for that incident as it only showed his brotherly love for me, which he has demonstrated in many other small ways too.

Well, this is just to acknowledge my lapse in not mentioning him among the most faithful readers of my blog, out of pure brotherly love again. He really is the sweetest! While mentioning everyone else - though this is a highly small number - I forgot to mention him, and now he is arriving home tomorrow from the faraway land in which he stays and I have to do whatever I can to appease him. Hope this works! To the less initiated, I'm only kidding when I say all that. But to him, I say, I love you man!

2007-11-29T14:04:00.000-08:00

Modi sucks!!!

Narendra Modi sucks! He really does! I wish I could have him for breakfast! Of course, I would only get a severe indigestion then. He's a disgrace to my younger brother's nickname!!!

2007-11-27T12:52:00.000-08:00

My three weird fantasies - just three

This post is dedicated to a sweet new friend of mine who actually seems to like my blog (wonders will never cease!!!:)). She actually urged me to put up a post soon, noting wisely that I had not done so in quite a while. Well, this one is for you my sweet friend. It actually might turn out to be quite inane, but like a close friend of mine wrote recently in his blog, I have to write something soon, I have to write something soon.

It's nothing great. It just has to do with three of my most absurd fantasies that I have had and I feel the urge to put them down here, though I run the risk of having my well-wishers believe I have finally lost it - if I ever had it in the first place. Anyway, here goes - it won't be the first foolhardy thing I have done.

Two of these fantasies are practically impossible to be realised in a material world and probably speak of my desire to reach for the other side of eternity. The last is achievable in a material world, but apparently not in mine.

I once shared the first two fantasies with my equally nutty uncle who shares my birthday but not my bizarre insanity and he seemed to be fairly tickled by them. He was sitting at the back of my bike at the time, but the fact that he was still there when I reached my destination proved that he believed I could still be pulled back from the brink and that I was not completely dangerous.

My first fantasy is that, like Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer, I might be able to attend my own funeral, in person. It would definitely be interesting to know all the 'good' things people might say about me. I guess many of us have similar such fantasies, but no one is as foolish as to put them out in the open like this. Well, I guess the only thing that can be said to reassure anyone concerned is that the fact that I am aware of my 'condition' should be sufficient to provide hope that my insanity hasn't turned critical just yet.

My second fantasy, or rather something I have often wondered about, is about how it would be if I had been able to ride pillion behind myself on my bike. Crazy? Well not so much, if anyone who has been privileged enough to ride pillion with me on my 'Super XL' TVS will be able to testify - it is almost like an out-of-body experience - I think, or I would love to find out at least. I remember once picking up this hitchhiker kid on the way back from college. That day I decided to strain my bike's modest engine a bit. So I revved it up to the maximum and flew homeward. I don't know when it happened, but it was when I neared home that I realised my passenger was no longer with me. I don't know if he had jumped off at a traffic signal out of fear for his life or whether he had taken to flight on his own. I rather think I would prefer the first option. But I guess I will never know.

My third and more realistic fantasy, if such an oxymoron can be admitted, is that I may be an inter-city bus driver someday. I have always been fascinated by the idea of transporting a large number of people by bus - I don't know why. Some weird romantic strain in me I guess. But considering my so-called social status, I don't think even this fantasy can be brought to pass. I guess I will have to be content to wait for the day when I have my own big truck and my eleven kids. At least that is the plan.

2007-09-29T11:50:00.000-07:00

This guy can preach

Okay, I know I haven't blogged in a long time, but I won't bother saying something like, "All of you must be wondering where I had disappeared..." etc, etc, because all of you haven't. I mean, except for my wonderful dad, who faithfully reads everything I write, however bad it may be ("Prem, your last post was on April 03. What happened?" he asked me the other day. I didn't know that myself, and it was news to me. I just knew that a very, very long time had elapsed since my last post. But now I will never again forget that date), and my two beautiful friends who introduced me to the joys of blogging (we faithfully comment on each other's blogs; but, of course, that's not to say they aren't more enterprising with their blogs), I don't think I have too many other visitors. But no bitterness here. These days I'm more in the mood to promote the site I work for. Log on to aol.in, I say to one and all, and no less to the unfortunate souls who have been enduring enough to read so far.

Anyway, a much longer post is to follow, for those of you apart from my good dad who may have been curious in a vague sort of way about where I had disappeared. I just have to finish one small business here. Basically, I'm on the mailing list of this gospel band, Payable on Death, or POD, and they sent out this fabulous link on U2's Bono at the NAACP Awards. I don't even know what NAACP stands for (I'll be checking up on it once I finish this post, and yeah, I know my GK sucks), but I just had to put out this link first. Anyway, do check it out. It's pretty inspirational. This guy pretty much takes the pulpit. And he's funny and serious at the same time. Well, enough said. Let Bono do the rest of the talking (I'm sorry, he doesn't sing here).

2007-04-03T13:37:00.000-07:00

My cup of joy

Today I was reminded in a rather strange way of the first trophy/cup I won, which happened also to be the last, at least to date. My cousin in Australia had mailed me asking if I knew a certain girl she had met there who said she had studied at my old school. The name was familiar at the first mention itself. This girl had studied in my cousin's class, one year senior to me, and while I had no romantic feelings of any kind toward her, we had once shared a very momentous relationship; a, what-do-they-call-it, co-curricular association. What I mean to say is, it got me that trophy I just mentioned.

With that piece of delicacy behind me, here's how the story goes. I think I was in the eighth standard at the time. I was, and still am, one of those average fellows you see about. We revel in our average status, merely because it gets us from day to day. No sweat or tension, no high blood pressure that comes with achievement or over-achievement, just that forever peaceful expression that helps us sink our teeth gracefully into life with a contented, satisfied smile playing lazily on our lips. You get what I mean. I guess you wouldn't call us the go-getters of life. Of course, if we really want something, there's usually no stopping us - not from any fist or fury on earth or the hell beneath it. We are a determined lot. But for the rest of it, while we do go and we do get, we do so at our own time and pace. You cannot rush us. Why, heck, we cannot rush ourselves for that matter. That's just how we are.

The point I'm trying to make is, while my illustrious siblings were making marks for themselves in our school and in other schools, I pitched in my bit from time to time, but disturbed no lives in the process, least of all my own. And so life passed peacefully on. Then it happened.

As I mentioned, I certainly didn't sit on my ass the whole time. I did try my hand at different amusements, studies included, apart from music, public speaking, quizzes and all the other fun stuff we try to invent for our little minds in school. Man, I feel old. I got a few certificates and they felt good to my touch, but that's about it.

Then one day, they were selecting people to be sent out to another school, a girls' school if I remember right, for one of those inter-school competitions. There was this girl I mentioned who did not have a partner for the crossword competition. So the teachers cast their eyes far, they cast them wide, and that's how they fell on my lazy form moving about somewhere minding its own business.

"Prem," they called me. I ran up. I am capable of a lot of forward movement when it comes to two types of beckoning voices - that of authority and that of the opposite sex.

They asked me if I would accompany the girl as her partner for the competition.

"But I'm not really good at crossword," I protested weakly.

"That's okay," they shut me up immediately. "You only need to go along with her. She'll do the rest."

"Yes, don't worry about it," the girl said, only too pleased to finally be qualified to enter the competition. So I agreed, jumped onto the bus with the rest, and, my mind is a blur about the exact details, reached the other school.

Soon the competition was on in right earnest. I sat along with the girl while she attacked some of the most cryptic clues I had seen at the time. I hadn't actually seen much either before that time or after. But the girl amazed me. She was a real whizz. Stuff I would hardly even imagine, she had unravelled, not without some difficulty of course. But I remember this, to my credit. There were these two clues she just could not figure out. Perhaps it was that my untrained mind was fairly unscarred by previous battles of the kind, but after working the mental machinery just a bit, I had figured the clues out. The girl was grateful. We did get two more points after all. I felt a bit useful too.

We finished and went to kill the rest of the day in the main hall where the other competitions were being held. They were all great fun, and we passed a most relaxing time, at least I did, for I was not thinking overly much about the results. Probably that's why, when it did come, it caught me by surprise. We won the blessed competition. I was thrilled. My companion more so. I was not much the hugging type at the time, nor was she, but we beamed a good deal at one and all. On the whole, a most satisfying experience. I think my hands shook a bit when I went up to collect that famous trophy.

When we returned to school, we went on another congraulatory round with the teachers, who were just as thrilled. "I didn't do much," I said modestly, and honestly too. "She did most of it."

It was what she then said though that caught me on the wrong foot. I don't get perturbed too much by things, but this really got me.

"Yes, that's true," she concurred with me. That was all. But I wasn't too pleased by her matter-of-factness. It lacked a certain something about it.

Anyway, I soon forgot about it. Not completely, obviously. I returned home proudly with the bronze trophy. When I placed it in the family showcase, I noticed with some relish that it was the largest one around at the time.

I had forgotten of course that my younger brother was yet to grow up. Well, he soon did and his trophies soon pretty much filled up all the space in that showcase. They were all larger than mine anyway. All the smaller trophies soon got shifted to some inside cupboard. Mine is probably now lying on its side somewhere sorrowfully nursing its wounds. I must check up on it sometime. Its owner, however, has picked himself up and moved on.

2007-03-25T12:37:00.000-07:00

Daily bread

My latest quote:

"Nowadays, 'earning your daily bread' literally means being able to afford a pizza every day after work."

N.B.: Refer to a post in September 2006 called "My quotes".

2007-03-12T12:20:00.000-07:00

The folly of procrastination

Two days ago I learnt an important lesson in life from what might seem the most insignificant of incidents. But then I guess that's what greatness is all about - gleaning the most not-so-obvious truths from the almost absolutely mundane.

Well the story goes like this. About fifteen days ago, I got hauled up by a traffic cop trying to make his end-of-the-month earnings in the way only cops know how - pull up someone for not carrying on his person his vehicle papers, or not wearing his helmet, and make him pay a heavy fine. I say 'him' or 'his' because you don't generally see cops stopping women, either because they don't have the heart to do so, or because they don't have the guts to do so, or they take it for granted that women always obey the law. Don't get me wrong - no hard feelings here. Just a small observation and totally inconsequential to my story.

Anyway the cop asked me for my papers. I was totally bored and just wanted to get home without too much delay. This man in front of me seemed like a pesky interference in my plans to retire peacefully to the comfort of my bed for the day, and I threw at him all the boredom and nonchalance that I possessed. I lazily and deliberately brought out my licence and he scanned it closely under the streetlight. That done he asked for my vehicle's emission test certificate. I pulled that out even slower. None of this escaped his keen official eye. But correcting my manner of expression lay quite out of his penal powers. So he did what only he knew best - scanned this document too under the streetlight.

Next he asked me for my vehicle's insurance papers. I produced this too. He scanned them as well. Ah. His eye lit up. At last he had got me. Very casually he pointed a scrubby forefinger at a spot on the papers and told me in Kannada that my vehicle's annual insurance cover had expired. He was triumphant, but professionally casual about it. To me I couldn't care less. My bed still beckoned me. I didn't feel like arguing with him. Besides I couldn't even if I had wanted to, considering that I can hardly put two words of Kannada together. And anyway I was feeling too lazy to part my lips. So I looked at him through half-closed eyes and nodded. He asked me for 500 bucks. 500? - I uttered a mild exclamation of surprise. He nodded indulgently. I shut up and pulled out a note. This was all too boring and I wanted to be on my way again... Soon. He took the note. I asked him for a receipt. I wasn't going to pay a bribe after all. He pulled out the book.

"Name?" he asked.

"Prem," I replied. That was easy.

"Profession?"

"Press (the colloquial equivalent for journalist)."

He stopped and stared like he had bitten into something really hard. I was like, next question please, or so I said with my eyes.

So he continued. "Organisation?"

"The Hindu," I replied. He stopped and stared again, this time like he had bitten into something both hard and bitter.

Then before I knew it he had launched into a barrage of Kannada that absolutely escaped me. Nor was I even bothering to try to understand. But he wasn't angry. In fact, if possible, he seemed even mildly apologetic. This was a strange turn of events. Maybe all my lazy arrogance had suddenly struck him in a new light. I realised, cops are for some reason shit scared of us journalists. Anyway, all of a sudden, amidst this barrage of verbal crap he was throwing at me, he returned me this 500-buck note I had given him, showed me the list of traffic offences that informed me that he was indeed justified in charging me the amount he had asked for, and then waved me on. So I beat it, amused, but thinking, my profession does have its merits. That was something comforting to chew on.

The next day I went over to the bike store to renew my insurance policy. The man went through with all the formalities and told me to return after 10 days or so. When the time came, I went and collected the papers, photocopied them and stored them away in my bike locker.

Now here's where the lesson comes in. One year ago, when I had got the last policy, I had promised myself that I would photocopy it immediately and lock it up in my bike. But, true to my nature, I procrastinated and kept putting it off, thus forcing me to carry it around in my bag everywhere I went. All I had to do was hop across the road from my house and get the thing done. It was a matter of two minutes, approximately. But I kept delaying it and a whole year passed.

It struck me suddenly even as I made a deliberate decision to photocopy the new policy immediately. If I had allowed myself to procrastinate something so small, for a whole year, how much more would I procrastinate bigger decisions in life? Possibly I have been doing so for a long time too. The thought struck me to my bone and it wouldn't be going too far to say I quivered at this point. Procrastination was Hamlet's tragic flaw that actually did him in. There are many things in life I don't want to be, and one of them is a dead Shakespearean hero.

2007-03-10T10:08:00.000-08:00

The urge to unload

My latest quote:

"Having a sympathetic friend around is like visiting the loo... There is great relief when you unload."

(For those who came in late, I have a section in this blog that I posted in September, 2006. It's labelled 'My quotes' and I had promised to update it as I go along. Do check it out, if you haven't had the misery of doing so till now...

2007-02-18T12:44:00.000-08:00

A tale of two tales

There are these two incidents that affected me in totally different ways and are absolutely unrelated, but I shall club them together in one post for two reasons - for one, they both brought an amused smile to my face as I mused on how queer and interesting human beings and human relations are; secondly, I'm a lazy fellow and can't be bothered to write separate posts. I'm sorry, it's as simple as that.

The first incident occurred when I was walking my dogs. It was a hot day and the sun bore right into my scalp, leaving me feeling quite weary. But I had to keep a watchful eye on my two pets waddling at my feet. It calls for an almost militant watchfulness as these animals can test every sixth sense that you've ever wanted to have. They are desperate for anything they can snatch up off the road and the least likely of things you would expect them to want to ingest they will surprise you by going for. It may be a small piece of plastic, a bone of some creature that decomposed days ago, or something equally micro and dangerous. You'll be careful to keep them off the fresh cow dung, for which I've noticed dogs have a peculiar fascination (they eye it like any of us would eye a particularly large piece of black forest cake). But you can hardly be careful enough to keep them off the small stuff for which they have the advantage of being able to sniff out and you have the disadvantage of being separated by about 5 feet nine inches of height. Anyway, all this has little to do with the incident I am about to narrate, which actually is quite short in the telling. All I am trying to do is set the background.

So I was walking my dogs and generally feeling hot under the collar when two local men of the streets approached me. One of them asked me in Tamil what breed of dogs they were. I was at a point when I would welcome just about any conversation with a human being, to cool my parched throat. So I replied they were called 'dachshunds'. The guy tried rolling his tongue, missed the pronunciation altogether and then quickly moved on to the next question. How much were they worth? I gave him my regular answer - the right one actually, but it always serves to discourage people from asking me any more embarassing questions as to whether I could supply them with dogs, like I have some breeding machine with me at home. It's about 4,000 bucks, I said, vaguely remembering somebody who had knowledge on the subject telling me some such thing.

Well it worked. But then the guy surprised me by asking me - in Tamil again - if I could give him the pup? I stared at him, not knowing what to say. What? Give her to you? - My bewildered eyes seemed to ask. Why? "Friendship, sir," he replied in English, touching his hand dramatically to a place somewhere in the region of his heart. Wow. This guy couldn't be serious. I slowly walked away. He did look like he wasn't joking, though his crooked smile made it difficult to tell for sure. But would he do something to me? I am, after all, fairly lacking in the biceps on which men usually depend to attempt to defend themselves with. But we kept looking at each other as I retreated, me with that amused expression on my face that I told you about. As I walked away, his friend, who was looking slightly embarrassed, pulled him by the hand and slapped him right across the back of his head.

The second incident happened yesterday when I went out with my good friends for a concert at St. Joseph's Commerce College. In the first place, they took so dashed long to let us in the gate. We stood mulling around outside like a bunch of lost sheep. When they finally let us in, it was in single file, actually two single files - one for the guys and one for the girls - because there were these student marshalls waiting there to frisk us. I was impressed. This was high security indeed. Once they had frisked us, this guy asked to examine my bag. I gave it up willingly. I have always said my life is an open secret - I have almost nothing to hide (except my e-mail password). He peered right in while muttering that he wanted to examine my wallet too. This only increased the smile on my face. "Is it okay," I asked. "You've got a Bible," he said impressed, or at least he sounded so. Well, so I did, and I was proud of it too. I take this bag with me everywhere, to church as well, so my holy book comes along. With the smile only growing on my face I asked him, "Do you want to look through my wallet now?" "No, you've got a Bible," he repeated.

I walked away, feeling a mixture of amusement and delight. It was a strange feeling. Living at a time - what we Christians will call the 'last days' - when almost anything said with regard to Jesus is scoffed at, when being anti-Christ, though maybe not always ostensibly so, is a popular sentiment, it was a pleasant surprise to witness something of the subtle, almost grudging respect that people still harbour for the name they otherwise so deliberately and disdainfully cast aside.

2007-02-06T10:51:00.000-08:00

Hanging by a thread

It's amazing how sometimes a single aspect of your life can decide how your day will be. To get more specific, I finished work real early today. It wasn't really because I performed exceptionally well or anything. It was merely because the ad department saved the day, bless their hearts. I was going at a pleasant rate anyway. The correspondents seemed not to be in a real mood to file stories, so for once I was actually able to stop typing at times and look around at the world, such as it existed within the newsroom. Usually you are so hard-pressed for time and the work keeps piling on that towards the end you even seem to almost stop breathing. It's amazing - that's the only way I can describe the nature of my work at this point.

But today everything seemed to be going right. In fact, it has been going this way for some time now. But today was like almost unreal. As I mentioned, not only was I keeping pace with the stories that were coming in, but the ad department too decided to pitch in and send me cruising. My news editor told me I had about half a page of ads but even he was surprised when I took him the page at 10 pm, an unusual time for the particular page I was doing. The tone of the exclamation he made when he saw the amount of ads seemed to indicate that if only he had realised it a bit earlier he might have made some move to get some ads cancelled. I shuddered within me and almost grabbed the page away from him, but held back. When I took it back, I did it almost unnaturally slow and deliberate, he must have surely noticed. I walked away too with slow deliberate steps and once out of his sight didn't look back.

It was on the way back that I realised, beaming to myself, how much my life had begun to hang on my daily grapple with work. It had become literally that - a grapple. I have actually begun counting the number of days I have until my next day off. And I used to be a work horse of sorts. At least at the workplace. But this new job, it had become a bit of a strain, and still is. The last few days have been pretty good, all because things are fine on the job front. It's sad but true. Hey but I started off this piece in a positive mood so I'm not going to ruin it in this depressive philophical strain. So like the positive guy that I am, or am constantly aspiring to be, let me hope this roll I'm on at the moment does not hit any of those huge rude speedbreakers. I could do without the rollercoaster - for now.

2007-02-05T12:11:00.000-08:00

Awakening of the sleepy city

As I sped through the empty roads today homeward, I couldn't help feeling this strange feeling. This was the second time in the recent past that Bangalore - a usually peaceful city - was being threatened by trouble on the streets. Only a few weeks ago, I had left office in a hurry in order to beat the curfew and reach the safe and sane confines of my home outside of the mad world that was getting madder all around me. My boss's angry words rang faintly in my ears and I felt a mild irritation at his seemingly unfeeling attitude towards my plight. True he had let me go, but not without spewing a bit of venom that I felt was uncalled for. I knew he was just generally hassled, but I'm only human too and his irritation grated upon my finer feelings.

But compared to that night, tonight was just a mere shadow. True I had not encountered anything untoward that time either, by God's grace, but there was a palpable difference in the atmosphere all around me. Then the roads had been absolutely empty with only a few crime cops hanging around - none of those painful traffic cops who insist on stopping people returning after a hard day's work just to check their licences or smell their breath. That night they were conspicuously absent. But there was a general uneasiness in the air. The air hung thickly all around dangerously low like the drooping wet of a bat's wings. There was a nameless fear and dread, such as can be induced by communal feelings.

Tonight, however, I had to consciously bring my attention to the fact that the roads were empty and the shutters down on shops - all except one medical shop on the way. Only then did I remind myself that there was supposed to be trouble brewing silently somewhere waiting for a chance to erupt. Only it wouldn't be as bad as what it was a few weeks ago when two communities decided to go at each other. This time it would be because of the court's ruling seemingly against Karnataka on the release of Cauvery water. While it would incite many of the baser passions of some of the baser elements of society, the communal feelings would after all be of a different kind, not the sort that would really have people killing each other believing that their respective gods would then accept them into heaven and cast aside the man or woman they had just killed.

It's strange for a person who's spent all his life in this peaceful city to suddenly ride through streets that seem somehow half awakened. True, they would fall asleep very shortly after, but for a city that had hardly ever opened its eyes before, sleep-walking through most of its days, this sudden excitement on its part seemed almost unnatural. Anyone who knows and loves Bangalore as much as I do would feel some pangs at this subtle change that some outside elements have been subtly and insiduously wheedling into the very midst of our society. To be sure, if Mysore is called the sleepy little town, then Bangalore is definitely its older brother - a city that sleeps, but only at the right times.

But this sudden madness that has gripped the city - I wish it would go away and leave us all alone.

So when I remembered that the reason the roads were empty was because there was likely to be trouble (notice I had to remind myself about this), I snapped out of my general dreaminess in which I usually move about and paid a little more heed to the world about me. I couldn't help thinking to myself that at one time, I used to be afraid of dogs chasing me on the road while I rode back home from work. It used to be a regular affair three years ago. But now, I was more afraid of my own fellow human beings, lowering themselves much below the level of street dogs. Fortunately, nothing happened to me along the way until the last stretch. Breezing along, I suddenly saw this dog waiting in anticipation for me to pass, and as I did, he charged.

2007-02-04T12:07:00.000-08:00

Power of the kiss

Today, as usual I picked up my pup, who was looking as cute as she has ever managed to, and as feelings of affection swamped me, I kissed her. While this might sound unusual to those who have never owned one of these God-sent creatures to man, your regular dog-lover would tell you that this sort of thing happens all the time. You kiss the dog, he or she licks you back. Or it may be the other way round - remembering of course, not to mix up the sign of affection.

A curious thought, however, passed through my mind at that point. I wondered to myself, how did the kiss ever become man's way of showing affection? I understand some tribes say they touch noses and purportedly have other ways of showing affection, but I believe they too kiss one another when the National Geographic guys are not watching. I say this with confidence because I know for a fact that no one has to teach you to kiss a loved one if you're feeling affection towards him or her. It comes almost naturally to everyone.

Now I'm not talking about the French perversion of this utterly harmless act. Not that I have anything against the French. But their invention of the lip-to-lip was merely an indication of how affection can be contrived. It was also something that directors grabbed soon enough when they realised its potential to increase their ratings. Even the Hindi movies are slowly beginning to see its uses and are no longer bringing the faces of the hero and heroine only so close. They realised their old strategy only frustrated the viewer. Unfortunately for them, they lost a good many years in the bargain.

The normal kiss, however, is just so natural. You don't have to work yourself up by staring deliberately first into the other's eyes. You don't also have to have your pure feelings of affection diluted by any other emotion. You just kiss and move on...

2007-02-02T11:04:00.000-08:00

Advice for the singles

I wish to offer a word of unsolicited advice to all my single friends or even those caught between relationships out there, who at least some times listen to what I have to say. There are some of us on who, after some time of having remained single for one reason or another, the pressure finally begins to tell. We begin to misconstrue our singleness for unloveability and seek refuge in farfetched strategems that merely do little to convince us of the opposite. By this I mean, we start telling our happily 'coupled' counterparts things like, "My dad/mom/kid neighbour/dog is my boyfriend/girlfriend". At the time, we might think it sounds either clever, sweet or, by some strange stretch of the imagination, even humorous. But I must advise against this, out of pure concern for your self-respect (I speak for myself too). Such statements only reek of absolute desperation, nothing else. And 'coupled' people can see through such things faster than you can even begin to shape your mouth to utter some syllable.

I know it's nothing really profound I have revealed, but it's worth a thought anyway. For your own good!

2007-01-03T11:27:00.000-08:00

The boss is always right

It is generally an accepted fact today among employees, that the boss is always right. The old rule says that if you have any doubts about it, well, just don't, if you know what's good for you. It doesn't mean you have to suck up to the boss. That is a totally different category, and the people in it generally lead miserable lives, discontent in the knowledge that the boss can see right through their little game, but they are compelled by their very nature not to act otherwise.

In my case, however, it seems I actually do have a boss who is almost always right. And there is no more comforting feeling for your ideal employee, which I may not be but always strive towards. When you come from an office where you basically had a lot of seniors pottering about, each one more confused than the other, a boss like the one I have at present can hit you like a shock that takes getting used to. Your normal employee can be nonplussed at first, but I always endeavour to be as plussed as possible in any situation. Anyone who saw me walking in the first day would have seen a confident young man speaking in confident level tones and with a very slight saunter - the saunter of three years of experience in a newspaper. Even my boss's voice was softer than mine. I thought to myself, "This is one soft-spoken pleasant dude." And I'm usually the one called "soft-spoken".

The situation has changed now, as you can imagine. It is my boss, and a few others, who tell me they can't hear what I say. I move around blithely like a quiet mouse, slipping in and out of the shadows. My boss settled all my ill-conceived pretensions about my ability with the English language. I mean, heavens, I thought I was at least justified in thinking I had some degree of comfortability with the language. It is, after all, the only language I know and I believe I dream in it, so it would be wrong for me to think I was bad in it. Or so I thought. But only a few days into my job did I realise how wrong I was.

The first 'copy' I edited was done with a flourish and I walked in with a slight swagger induced by my new-found confidence and laid the print-out on his desk. He frowned at it and began the massacre. I got it back with pen marks all over - which re-awoke in my mind nightmares of my school days. And I thought I had got past them. Anyway, I continued my work, the clicking of the keyboard keys getting slower and quieter. Very naturally, my speed - never one of my greatest fortes - got even slower as I struggled to make fewer mistakes with my grammar.

But they continued. Each time I told myself to remember not to repeat a certain grammar mistake, I would make a new one. I began to realise my mistakes were from an indefatigable source that was self-generating. And the despair began to set in.

It was tough for the first few weeks. But now the good news. My mistakes are reducing. I am beginning to learn English all over again. Maybe it was that my boss had been an English teacher previously. But I found a profound respect for him taking birth in my breast, which grew - the respect I mean - with each new mistake I made. I began to realise the truth - my boss is actually always right - well almost always!

The realisation that he was still but human came to me one day when he emerged from his cabin brandishing my copy in his hand. "This is not English," he said, indicating a portion he had circled with his pen. I saw the sentence - "The Minister said his hands were tied." I blinked. I was confused. He went on, "What do you mean, 'Hands are tied'? Do you mean with a rope? (okay not a very good joke, but let it pass) Maybe you could say it in Kannada (and he launched into a string of Kannada that I understood the gist of but cannot repeat, simply because I don't know the language). But not in English." I don't know what it was then that made me squeak, "But sir, I thought it was an expression." I suddenly realised I had dared to question the boss and I waited for the blow to fall - "Do you even know English? You call yourself a sub editor?" But no. It seemed to strike him that what I said made some sense. So he quickly corrected himself, "Yes, but they don't use it in England... (eh?) It's avoidable. You could do without it." That's when the old wise saying first flashed through my mind - "The boss is always right! Quickly, nod your head." So I did. And he was happy. Incident over.

But I was glad it happened to me, so I can choose to remind myself of it whenever I get too overawed by his preciseness and Oxfordianness, which restores the balance in my work and increases my efficiency. But the respect has only grown stronger. The man is a genius. I know that 96.747 times he is right, which does unimaginable good to an employee's confidence. There is nothing like knowing that almost every time he points out your mistakes, he is right. It makes you careful like never before. And you learn along the way. I have suddenly felt in me a deep yearning to go back to the basics of English grammar, something that our education system seems to barely skim - as it now strikes me - and learn it proper. He has taught me to treat English like a science. All my dreams of learning Kannada in 30 days (yeah right) and Spanish in 90, and maybe French in 112, have suddenly found themselves being rudely pushed aside. He has stirred up my respect for English like never before. I mean, there is no language like it. The French may have tried to come close, but while trying to reach God on their babelic tower of tenses, they somehow got lost and have become a frustrated lot. But back to my boss!

I still remember one of the first lessons he taught me in grammar - "Even though there's a conjunction separating the two clauses, the subject in the second clause has changed, so you've got to put a comma before the 'and'." Immortal words. I have never made the mistake again.

2006-12-28T12:39:00.000-08:00

That cold feeling

It's cold here in Bangalore. And I simply love the cold. I don't know, it must be due to the fact that my mom grew up in the hills of Coonoor, Tamil Nadu, and some of it got imprinted onto me. Or it maybe because almost every holiday my siblings and I had in our younger days was at our grandmom's place in Coonoor. There, all our cousins on my mom's side, which was quite a large number considering that she has seven brothers and each has 5.5 kids on an average - except for one uncle who has eleven kids who we have never met (I love big families!!!) - would meet every summer and generally have the time of our lives that most kids of our age are deprived of, poor souls. I have so many pleasant memories of those days. But maybe I'll narrate them later - when I'm feeling a bit more nostalgic. Right now, all I'm feeling is cold.

It's fantastic - the cold. Which is why I simply love hill stations. And which is also why my honeymoon (once the girl comes along) will be at a hill station. You see, one thing about the cold is, you feel like curling up under a warm quilt and not stirring for many hours. Kind of like how bears feel when hibernating. No wonder they forget to come out for months. Who would want to! Let the world worry about itself, I've got my blanket and I'm warm - but only because it's cold outside. Anyway, the point is curling up under a blanket suits me just fine. Right now, my dog curls up along with me. He seems to think exactly like me - we both love winter apparently.

Well Bangalore may not be a hill station, but its weather is close enough. Waking up every morning, I sometimes wince very slightly as I recall nostalgically those golden days now far behind us, on the hills. The only time it gets unpleasant in this city is during summer. But thankfully, I have now entered the workplace, which, in a newspaper, is a kind of pseudo-corporate world. They try to give you the AC and plush sofas, but there are still no coffee machines and the pay still sucks. But at least you get to escape the torturous summer months, of which God in His wisdom only made three for Bangalore.

The second pleasure of winter, after the warm blankets, is the hot bath. I only wish taking off your clothes for these cleansing rituals was not mandatory. But it is, which makes the soaping session especially tough, as you shiver in the cold and your clammy fingers send tingles down your spine. You rush through this section and simply grab at the mug as soon as you can, leaving that one spot unsoaped, but not much the worse for it. The water then flows, it gushes over your body. You keep pouring and can never seem to stop. Until finally, the bucket has just run out, and anyway, you're late for work - again.

2006-12-26T12:21:00.000-08:00

Tribute to my dad

This post is dedicated to my dad. He is my biggest fan, who reads every single word I publish, good or otherwise, faithfully, whether in the newspaper or in my blog. He has been constantly encouraging me and making me believe that I have some ability in me, however much that may actually be. If I still have any confidence in me, it is only because of him and my mom. I know it may sound sentimental and all, but it is true. I had been thinking I would delay this post till a later date, but today I figured, you should never delay these things. Stuff happens so suddenly these days, and I couldn't bear to regret it then. God forbid though that anything should happen, because I believe, like my pastor says, that my family will all live ripe full lives if you have the faith for it.

Anyway, dad, if you're reading this, as I know you will, this is just to tell you I love you very much. Thanks for making me believe in myself and for teaching me to look at myself the way God does. Thankyou for your practical outlook on life that you so wisely passed on to us. We all may not realise it, but all you have struggled to teach us is ingrained deep in our systems and makes us act the way we do, which would have been much worse otherwise (to put it like how the good optimists like to do). Above all, thankyou for loving me and making me feel it. Your love has made me understand a fraction of what our Heavenly Father above feels for me! And at the end, that's all that matters.

2006-12-22T11:28:00.000-08:00

That crazy spark

Sometimes I get this urge to do crazy things. It's not that I'm a crazy guy myself, or at least I don't think so. But there are times when you just get in this whacky mood to do something out of the ordinary. These things are not pre-meditated. Like any work of creativity (however much you agree with this parallel), it all depends on a spark! Before you know it, it has become a forest fire. Or at least a bush fire, which lights up the surroundings for a brief space. Also, like any fire, it has different effects on different people. To one it seems bizarre, to another, it's dangerous, to a third - like those who love to watch a 'good' fight on the streets - it's pure fun, and so on.

Well, the other day I was awoken from a deep slumber at 8.30 am by my folks who advised me to start my day sometime soon. I was too sleepy to resist, so I came downstairs and balanced myself against the wall, my eyes half-closed. When I saw there was no hope of getting back to bed, I decided to start brushing my teeth. This usually takes half-an-hour on a normal peaceful day. Different people have different ways of starting the day. Many like to meditate quietly. This is my way of meditating. Most people who see me think I'm asleep and the toothbrush has taken a life of its own and, knowing its master well enough, is moving in rhythm with his few thoughts. Little do they know, the master is actually meditating. His mind is running through the previous day, looking into the day ahead, and generally just flitting lazily, like its master's disposition, from one subject to another, in no apparent logical order.

I was halfway through my ritual, when my sister's sweet voice requested me to drop her off at school. Now, no one likes to break off one's meditative spells just like that. And I certainly wasn't prepared for it. I'm a patient man, but there are things like meditation and leaving off midway a ritual like I had that cannot be compromised, especially for a man of my 'principles'. It was at such a moment - when caught between these 'principles' and patience that the spark hit. It was simple yet ingenious - I would drop her off at school, yet without leaving my ritual halfway. I would take it with me!

My poor sweet sister was not prepared for a sight such as what met her eyes. What she saw was the main character of a scene she had just witnessed, but in another scene. I was on my bike, strapped up in my jacket because of the cold, with my toothbrush in my mouth like a pipe. She stared. But she was too sweet and too late to raise any protests. So she hopped on my bike.

Until we reached school, everything was fine. Probably at the speed at which I was travelling, on my super bike - the TVS 50 [super] (which is the family bike it seems, because, like us, it is humble and slow in the ways of the world) , people couldn't make out it was a toothbrush. It was on my way back, without my sister (luckily for her), that I had to stop at a junction. For some reason, the cop, on seeing me, started muttering to himself. I figured it might be the toothbrush. Or it might be the fact that I wasn't wearing a helmet, as the new rule on the roads was. But maybe he didn't do anything to pull me up since the following thoughts passed quickly (and admirably so) through his official head: probably it was that carrying a toothbrush in one's mouth while on a bike wasn't an offence (at least not a punishable one, like riding with the mobile phone in hand), and further, such an act also made it difficult to wear a helmet. While he was puzzling all this out, he continued to stare severely in my direction. I stared back indulgently, and, maintaining eye contact throughout (psychologists will always say this is advisable, though a traffic cop might not), I winked at him as I passed.

2006-12-10T20:23:00.000-08:00

An imperfect world

I know my posts have been becoming more depressing of late, but I cannot help it. I like to think of myself as a happy person, and I have no real doubt that I am. It would be ideal if I was able to put down only happy instances in my life. But searching through the database of my mind, especially the recent past, I try to find some happy memories but find hardly anything new to talk about. My 'happy' life seemingly goes on with hardly anything happier happening. Now normally, this should not upset anyone, but we writers, or rather, since I consider that to be too pretentious a term, we who make our living through writing start getting restless at such times and turn to our chosen form of expression to let it all out. That is the reason why so many great philosophers were a depressed lot.
Now I may be neither a great philosopher or writer but I am great at being myself and that can be an awesome responsibility! So I ramble, which is what I'm good at, and I finally get to the point, which is about my new job.
It appears that some people in this world just won't like you for inexplicable reasons that can be frustrating if you try to figure them out. You try your best to please everyone, but at the end you realise the truth - the project was doomed from the start. Even the most perfect man in history, the human form of God Himself - Jesus Christ - could not please all people. Not that He couldn't do it if He wanted to but then that is a paradox in itself as He would not have wanted to in the first place. Which is why He is perfect and He is God. If He had tried to please all folk in this world, He would not have landed up at the cross and anyway He just would not have been God. But He was, which is why everything happened as it did. But the difference is, He was able to understand why certain folk didn't like him.
But me, I'm hardly perfect nor do I have anything divine about me except that I'm made in the image of God! So when I find people just don't respond to my gestures of pleasantness, I find it hard to understand. It makes me depressed. I have both one senior and two bosses to whom whatever I do doesn't seem to penetrate their fortress of defences. I have always believed in the principle that you can break down these walls with constant kindness or just general pleasantness but now this belief has been seriously threatened. I find my base shaky. I realise now the truth - as long as you're living in an imperfect human world, such expectations are just too ideal and just as unrealistic.
So I came back yesterday, after another day of trying too hard to please and only getting bitten in the backside, and took my dog out into the garden. While she ran about looking for what she could digest that should not be digested, I looked up at the sky, since that is where I feel God most! I mean, I could just as well have looked at the wall behind me or at the plants both with thorns and without all around me, but though I might have been looking at God, I wouldn't have felt Him so strongly. Perhaps that is because I was trying to look away from the human world around me into the one place that was free of them. Of course there are a few astronauts floating around in their bubbles in the sky, but they are mostly harmless and their constant fear of lightning bolts and their supreme love of gravity keeps the fear of God in them nice and strong. Even as I was looking into the sky, the astronauts of the space shuttle Discovery were soaring into that very space themselves. But I didn't feel them. Perhaps they felt God very strongly themselves. I hope they did. They might just become better people.
Anyway, the sky was starless and dark, and clouds were moving thickly overhead. They were moving slowly but with a certain sureness about them that filled me with awe. I then spoke to God. He knew I hadn't been the best of His children of late, but He's just too loving that He listened anyway. I asked Him, "Lord, why do you allow people to bully people like me? Why don't you remove me from this world? I think I've just about had my fill of human beings." Now this was nothing the Lord hadn't heard before. Many before me, and I myself, have asked Him the same thing many times before. And if God wasn't God He wouldn't have listened. But He did. I don't know if the clouds moved any faster than they were, but I doubt it! God is too dignified, too non-human and basically He keeps His equanimity about Him at all times. So He gave me a silent answer. "Just as these clouds keep moving, you've got to do so too. There's no point standing out here and brooding. It's getting cold and you've got to get on with your life, so do get back into the house, please. I love you. Now go." Well, it was something to that effect anyway. I just felt it. So bringing my eyes back to the earth, and picking up the closest thing to perfect in this world - my dog - I marched back into the house.

2006-11-10T10:46:00.000-08:00

TGIF

A lot has happened since my last post. Exactly one week has passed since I joined my new job and I decided to use the off they fixed for me on Fridays, to reflect on the week gone by. Not that I finally did much reflecting. I was more caught up in meeting friends whom I had been cut off from for some time owing to work. But I did do my thinking every now and then, an act which does not actually do me much harm as well-meaning loved ones and I myself might once have feared.

Coming to my new job. It is definitely a much better organisation, and highly professional, which is one of the primary aspects I had looked out for in a new employer. What I had failed to factor in, however, was the fact that in a more professional set-up, I should also expect things to become a lot tougher and challenging. Of course, to be honest, I did think about this in a rather vague sort of way, but never really concretely. The errors of my ways are being borne in on me in a very real, necessary and, importantly, painful way. I have now learnt an important lesson - always be prepared when stepping into something new.

Therefore, where in my previous job I might have acquired something of the glamour of an experienced hand, who was looked up to in some ways merely because I had spent three whole years there, I stepped into the new job and received my first shock. Most of them were my age, a few were older, but most were just too competent for me. Then it hit me and I started getting something of a complex. I was a junior again and all the difficulties that I had experienced when as a fresher in the profession came back to haunt me.

I had a few days of bliss, while I was being introduced around and given the importance experienced by a new face who gets a lot of stares from all the rest, who are used to seeing each other's faces all year long and hence welcome any change. You see, my new office was, as I had expected, the sort of place where satisfied employees, the older ones with potbellies and the younger with a lot of artificial lines of experience on their faces, stay for a long time, sometimes even till retirement.

Soon enough, though, I was pushed with all the harshness and venom of my stressed profession into the grind. Everything was new over here. Even all the editing experience I had gained at the previous office was kicked rather rudely in the butt, and rightly so. I soon realised the harsh and bitter truth. I had learnt but little in my profession - not because of any fault of mine but more because of the vast field that it is - and that the road ahead stretched endlessly into the horizon. With every sarcastic bite that my boss took at me, which I endured as best I could in the manner of my role model Jesus Christ, I determined more and more that I would put my nose to the ground, after the manner of my proud (the opposite of falsely humble, that is) stock, and take the challenges before me head-on.

I recall the situation was similar when I first joined my previous job. Of course, I have a bit of experience behind me now, but any new place, I figure, requires new strategies for dealing with situations. The whole software here is rather complicated, and while I had mastered many of the tricks of the previous one, here I'm having to work the old system out of me and learn the new one. That is to be expected. So now, at the end of my first Friday, I grit my teeth and gear up to face the next challenging week, at the end of which I shall be confident enough to say - TGIF (Thank God it's Friday)!!!

2006-10-28T13:37:00.000-07:00

Change - the balm of the confused soul

It's happened at last. I've finally managed to get out of the hole I was building comfortably for myself in my last job and have found another - job that is. For long I had stood like Casabianca on the burning deck and watched the others flee all about me! Foolishly, like the above-named celebrity, I had convinced myself that I was doing something noble. "Stand your ground Prem," I told myself. "You're not like these suckers - you don't bow to pressure." Everyone around me was fast melting into nothing. The halo I created around my head was visible to none - least of all to me.

Then one day, two months ago, the truth struck me. As they say, there is only so much ass you can sit on! For long I had brushed away the well-meaning taunts and unsolicited advice from well-meaning friends about my career - such as there was of it at any rate. I knew what I was doing, I believed. What did people know about my life anyway.

Then one day an elderly colleague gave me the lecture that changed my life - at least for that night! I went home and began applying. Never mind what line I got into, I told myself, I would try getting myself out of the comfortable mess I was in and make some more money in the process. I went all around, like the prodigal son. Two months and many dreamless nights later I find myself back in the same line but in another job. Welcome home, my chosen profession beckons me!

Now, with just another three days left before I make the shift, I find myself experiencing mixed feelings. Where I am was after all my first real job. Then I find it hard to dispel the coincidence that Fate has wrought on me - three years ago when I began working in the present job, the day was the 3rd of November. Through no fault of mine, I find I will be joining the new place on the 2nd of November this time. Actually, now that I've said it, I don't find it all that freakish, but we journalists start seeing a lot of things in a lot of places that do not exist. You must pardon us. Must be the stress of work.

Also, I feel a certain abandon overwhelming me. I feel like doing something outrageous, like leaving a mark that people won't forget in a hurry. I just hope I won't embarrass myself like I have a tendency of doing. There are also certain awkward moments that won't seem so awkward in time. Like, for instance, when I caught my immediate boss looking with a certain indulgent affection in my direction and I wanted to bury myself six feet under the ground. But I won't deny that I did feel good. These, however, are mere passing feelings.

Then again, as my friend told me, I'm in a position in which I could just about show the boss the finger if I wanted to. I shudder at the thought, of course, seeing as my conscience would baulk at such a gesture, but it's the principle of the thing I'm talking about. I feel I could do almost anything and get away with it. But if this is my gut feeling, then it most certainly is nothing to go by. You see, my guts have always lied to me! Or do I have them at all? Anyway, I hate ending a piece with a question mark!

2006-10-17T14:13:00.000-07:00

The amateur drummer

As a musician, which I humbly believe I am, of a certain type in any case, I would like to put down a few observations I have made about the amateur drummer, which I also believe I am. Until recently I didn't believe I would actually be able to get my hands on a real drum set and put into practice those drumming skills I believed I possessed in some degree, no matter how small. Then, a few months ago, my elder brother landed up at home back from a visit to the US, carrying a huge box in his hands. It was an electronic drum kit and I had to drum myself deaf for a long time before I convinced myself that it indeed was real. I was in a dream-like state you see. Anyway, I'm rambling again...

Well, amateur drummers can basically be divided into two types. One is the absolutely technical drummer, who is clinically precise in his rhythms and is flawless in keeping a steady timing, never missing a beat. However, he does not excite you much, neither experimenting nor innovating or even trying to with his beats, preferring rather to play an accompanying role and not intrude in any substantial way into the main act. This type of drummer will probably either drum himself to boredom and give up playing altogether, or he might one day decide that it's time to change his ways.

The other type of amateur drummer is the non-technical variety, but one who plays from his heart. He absorbs himself so much into his music that often he gets carried away and loses timing. But while this might nonpluss him a bit, his pure passion for drumming sweeps him along. He is constantly innovating and putting his heart into his playing. The sound he produces has a different effect on its listeners. In this case, he not only enthuses himself to unwieldy heights that leave him dizzy, but also excites his audience to such a degree that they feel thrown up on the crest of a tempestuous wave of drug-like elation, with each violent crashing of the cymbals producing the same effect on them as if the wave they seem to be travelling on were crashing into another equally strong one. The drummer in this case is as much in the foreground as the next musician. I believe, humbly again, that I fit into this second category.

I realised the difference between these two kinds of drummers when I observed them being represented in the two drummers who play at church. While I greatly admire the technical guy, for carrying off the perfect timing like a classical musician, my heart has always gone out to the second guy, the one who bungles along at times, but who plays with his heart and by his ear. If you ask me who I think has a better chance of making the transition into the professional performer, I would definitely say the second type, unless, of course, the first decides to mend his ways.

2006-10-10T10:10:00.000-07:00

Going In Blind

A message from the band POD. What Sonny (the vocalist) has to say here really encouraged me, and I wanted to share it with anyone who might be interested:

"Sonny’s message about the Single "Going In Blind":

The lyrical inspiration of "Going In Blind" came late the last night of our studio session in Knoxville. We had finished one song and had a rough music sketch of another. We thought we were finished and would be heading home early in the morning until one of those moments happened. Our inspiration walked through the door. A good friend and neighbor of our producer Travis Wyrick stopped by the studio, for what I have no idea. I was on the phone at the time and she was probably there no more than a minute. I think she said hello to the guys, smiled at me and then left. I walked back into the studio and the guys were continuing a conversation we had a few days earlier. Travis was telling us about his friends who had lost their child to a crime so evil I couldn't even begin to explain. That's how it started; none of us had an "Explanation". All of us in the room were husbands, fathers, men of faith and spiritual guys who overall believe in the "Power of Good". At that moment, not one of us could come up with an explanation. We were speechless and quiet. How do you tell this woman that everything is going to be alright? How do I tell her God has everything in control and truly believe it myself? Telling her I understand would make me a liar! Don't get me wrong, I believe in God. I believe in this faith that has saved my life and I would willingly lay my life down for what I believe is the truth. Just don't ask me to do the same for one of my babies. I don't think I could.

Everything you believe in and everything you know to be true can be tested in one single second, the second your child is taken away from you. What do you say to that person? I wish I could say everything is going to be alright. I want to tell you that God has everything in control. And like you, I want to understand. What an amazing person this woman is to have walked past me and smiled even though I had no idea what she has been through. One smile of love is more encouraging than a million words. I have been encouraged to walk this fine line of life even though at times I might not know exactly where I am going. Even though the road gets rough, if we walk them in LOVE, we might actually get to where we need to be.
- Sonny"

2006-10-09T12:12:00.002-07:00

ASAP

If I have a pet peeve, it is that people in Bangalore can't keep themselves from coughing up their phlegm and spitting right in the middle of the road. Actually I have another pet peeve too, which is the way people keep blaring their vehicle horns much to the irritation of all around. Are they just trying to be irritating or am I irritable? I know I have a slight problem of either low or high blood pressure - whichever the right one is - like my dad, and that would probably explain my reaction. But in any case, I feel it is justified.

I mean, I myself am able to go about on the roads without either spitting or blaring my bike horn, so I imagine it's humanly possible to do so. Possibly it's just something ingrained in the thoughtlessness of our general psyche - of total disregard for public property and other people. Anyway, I shall leave my second peeve aside for the moment and concentrate on the first - and more infuriating - one.

I have worked myself to such a state of fury that I nearly gag each time I see spit, usually white but sometimes with all its yellow phlegmy constituents, cast about haphazardly on the roads. Such things are supposed to be confined either to a person's interiors or to the drains (for which a passageway may be sought through the toilet). Since I cannot really gag as this would in no way improve the situation, I restrict myself to cursing the perpetrator silently or sometimes even casting a most disdainful look in his (it's usually a 'his') direction, often adding a severe wagging of the head for effect. When it comes to my second peeve, I sometimes show my irritation by flailing my arms about my head in a most dramatic manner. Naturally, it usually is not lost on the object of my emotions, though I have never really been able to follow up on whether the victim effected a change in his ways after that. But I rest peaceful in my ignorance anyway.

After some time of cursing such people both silently and at times loud enough for my own ears to hear audibly enough, I finally hit upon some form of a scheme to tackle the spitting menace. If not anything else, it at least helps me ease the adverse effect on my high or low blood pressure. I decided to start a one-man crusade against such elements. But I also realised that such a crusade would have to have some precautionary strings attached if I wanted to survive many more anti-spitting years.

The plan I finally decided upon was to carry a small bottle along with me, filled with clean water. The bottle would be no bigger than a normal Pepsi or Coke. Armed with this bottle, I would set out on my mission. Travelling about on my bike, everytime I would see an offender coughing up his disgusting body fluids on the road, I would take out my bottle, go up to him and pour out the water on the mess. This would serve not only to clear it away but also to send the perpetrator a clear and indignant message. Besides, it would also guarantee my safety. The fellow technically would not be justified in inflicting any harm on me as I would not be directly doing anything to him, only showing my righteous fury against his act.

This said, I have not been too effective yet in putting my plan into any real far-reaching effect. Actually, I have only been able to do it twice since I started. The first time was at a traffic signal, which did not change as quickly as it usually did whenever I had felt compelled previously to take out my weapon. I mean, until then and even after, it was like everything was ganging up against me. The traffic signals, which otherwise would not change when I would even be late to work, would then choose to change just as I would take out my bottle. Or the fellow would spit just before the light changed, making me merely curse him as before.

But this time, I had a good 120 seconds before the light changed. And these two young dirty boys were in front of me. One of them coughed up rather heartily and let loose a rather liberal stream on the roadside. I mean, the guy just didn't seem to want to stop. My blood boiled within me and my eyes turned a deep red. I slowly took out my bottle - I was going to give my one chance yet the best dramatic effect I could - and, walking up to their bike, I slowly and deliberately poured the water over the spit, letting it wash the spot rather generously.

Naturally, all eyes were on me, none more so than the offenders beside whose bike I was standing. I frankly don't know what either they or the rest felt, but I would imagine it was a mixture of scorn and embarrassment. I was not perturbed anyway. This was exactly the kind of reaction I had hoped for - what I had been waiting for, for so long. When I had finished emptying the bottle of its contents, I calmly walked back to my bike, with dramatic deliberate slow steps. Back on my bike, I was able to review my actions, without regret, and also observe the lingering reactions of my poor victims. They were talking with embarrassed smiles and indicating my direction in certain subtle ways. The thrill that passed through my frame at that point was unparallelled. I felt remarkably noble, like one of those knights of old who had just thrust his lance through the villain's heart and had his maiden's fair but woeful blue eyes cast grateful beams into his. I felt ecstatic. My smile seemed to challenge all around - "Come on, please spit. I'm ready for you." Luckily though, no one chose to take up my challenge, as my bottle had run out of water!

The second time I got to effect my scheme was on Mahatma Gandhi Road, when another foul-mouthed man strewed the roadside. I had stopped by the side of the road and was waiting for my mom so I took out my bottle. Unfortunately, the guy had rushed away on some other nefarious task of his so I had to confine myself with washing the spot and having some others stare at me. I cursed a bit too.

So I have decided now to expand my campaign. I have called it ASAP - the Anti-Spitting Action Plan. Anyone who shares my peeve could join up free and pass on the good word to likeminded friends too. All you would have to do is carry a small bottle with you. Soon we could have a veritable army of bottle-wielding anti-spitting fanatics. No politics though. We could even become quite famous someday. But that's not the ultimate aim - it is a noble cause we have in mind. So, all who carry the fire that burns within against the unholy roadside phlegm of man, please join ASAP ASAP.

2006-10-05T12:32:00.000-07:00

Define the Great Line

For all you Christian metalheads (we are a small community scattered around the world), this is to announce that I just chanced upon a rare Christian metal group, right in middle of a secular store. The band is called Underoath (http://www.underoath777.com/band.php) and is a hardcore metal act from Florida. I came across it during one of my searches at Planet M, Bangalore, for heavy gospel music. The album, 'Define the Great Line', is the band's latest release and is a must buy for any hardcore Christian metal fan. It is complete with screaming vocals, powerful guitaring and high-speed drums.

For long I have been conducting these mostly fruitless searches painstakingly in secular music stores. But if I have learnt one lesson in life it is that perseverance always pays, especially when your heart is set on something that has a personal meaning for you. Our community is a very lonely one and chances are you'd have to seek out the farthest corners to come across such likeminded individuals. But one of my core principles has been to be part of such minority groups, whose principles you feel very powerfully and individually about. Christian metal is something that is very close to my heart because it is hard music with meaning - meaning that relates to your soul.

This immediately puts you in the middle of two worlds. One comprises the majority of metal music-lovers that listen to largely Satanic music, as well as the large majority of those who listen to any kind of secular music that can be picked right off the stands in any music store, and shun any mention of the word 'Christian' like the plague. The other comprises a large community of lovers of Christian music, who, however, either denounce Christian metal as being an oxymoron and therefore not really 'Christian' or as a form of music that does not agree with their tastes. Naturally I disagree with both groups but my reasons are long enough for another post.

Anyway, the search for Christian metal is always going to be tough in such a situation. After realising that Christian music stores do not themselves contain the kind of music I like, I have long been scanning secular music stores for some Christian metal that might be buried among the tonnes of regular metal. For years I have been on this quest. I have been sighting names of bands that I would think could be Christian but before deciding to buy them, I would first research them on the internet. Until now I have been disappointed. Today, however, I stumbled upon this group when my attention was directed to their latest album (2006). I might have walked past but for a sign put up by Planet M stating that the band was a Christian heavy metal act. Imaginably, I could not believe my eyes. I read the vague Gothic script twice or thrice before deciding that it indeed read 'Christian'. Then I picked it up, walked straight over to the counter and paid up. Once out, I ripped open the cover and looked at certain signs on the jacket that confirmed my best hopes. I'm listening to the album right now and it is exactly all that I hoped for. The search will now go on...

2006-09-28T13:12:00.001-07:00

It happened one afternoon

The incident I am about to narrate took place earlier this week and could happen only to someone like me. And I say this with just a little pride. But before you misunderstand me to be talking about the vice itself, consider what I am about to say.

I was supposed to appear for an interview at a certain company whose name I shall not divulge simply because it is inconsequential to the narrative. I was to carry with me a copy of my resume for that grand meeting, which was to take place in the afternoon. I did not have a printed copy with me and, as is my style, I intended to get that done before I left. This, I discovered, is always a mistake. But we live and learn.

So, the Karnataka Electricity Board decided to take it in their hands to teach me this small lesson. That day, the papers carried a small horizontal column on page 3, of all the areas where the Board planned to cut the power supply. They call such announcements 'scheduled power cuts'. But what we Bangaloreans have realised with time is that they are actually a lot more unscheduled than the other variety. They always begin on time, but their scheduled conclusion almost inevitably gets prolonged. At times, you sense a certain reluctance on the part of the Board when it's time to switch the power back on. Around the appointed time, there is a flash all round the house, and a whirring as the tubelights struggle with themselves. But then they're out again, only to switch on many hours later.

Imagine my dismay when I got up that morning to discover the power would not be back until 1 pm that afternoon. But I dared to hope. If it did indeed return, I would be able to quickly take a printout, and rush for the interview, which was scheduled for 2.30 pm. I would therefore need to get everything else in order, right down to my underwear. I needed to get a set of black formal pants for that and all such interviews to follow, so I headed to Commercial Street and got what I needed without too much trouble. But then I encountered another distraction, whose details I needn't bore you with. Suffice it for me to say, I got back home by around 12.15 pm. It was then time to get ready.

When I was finally about to get into the bath, it was 5 to 1 pm. So I decided to wait a bit for the hour to strike and the power to return. Precisely on the dot, the hour struck (on our grandfather clock, which is fairly advanced in years, it rang 12 times). Even after the last echoes of the last chime had faded away, the house still remained plunged in darkness. Never mind, I thought, I would head in for a bath anyway, and hope the lights returned by the time I was done. I'm not one to be stingy in the bath department and each such cleansing takes a good half-hour. That would give me enough time.

Around the time I began soaping my last shapely leg, I began to get nervous. The bathroom was still in darkness. I began to pray hard, and opened my eyes each time hoping to see the light. But all that would enter would be the soap.

I was then on the verge of threatening God - not the wisest thing to do. "Lord," I prayed, "my faith is on the verge of total collapse. You are in danger of losing me forever." But I was greeted by silence... and more soap! God was smiling indulgently. "Foolish kid," I think He said. And just when I had begun to stop praying, and soap myself with increased vigour, the lights came back on. Just like that!

We'll skip over the rest of the gory details to the time of my arrival at the interview venue. This was not before I had got my precious printout. In my hurry, however, I had chosen not to look up the exact details of the person I was to meet and her phone number. How hard would it be, I had asked myself very briefly, to go up to the reception and ask for Hemalatha?

When I arrived, however, I realised, to my dismay, how much more challenging the situation actually was. The company I was interviewing for was, no doubt, huge, but this was only a branch office. How was I to know it would take up six whole floors in the building - floors 2 to 7? I walked in anyway and approached the reception.

Could I meet Hemalatha, I asked the man at the desk. Not without giving him a phone extension number, I was told. This I could not produce either, so I decided it would be easier to start at the top floor and work my way down.

This was easier said than done. The guy on floor 7 could not help me either. Could he look up the records at least? The time was already past 2.30 and was ticking away fast. The man accessed the records, only to find there were seven different Hemalathas in the building! And what was the likelihood of that happening, I mused ruefully!

So I sat down on a nearby sofa and filled my face with self-pity, which wasn't very difficult considering I was feeling just that. It was nearing 3.00 and I could pretty soon bid the job farewell. After running a string of hopeless schemes through my mind, I slowly, very slowly, decided to make my one last inevitable stand. I called up my sister and gave her my e-mail password - the only completely private thing, or so I thought, in my life! She was precious, as always, and helped me out by opening my mail and giving me the details I needed. I trusted her to let the secret of the password die with her when the time came - God-willing a thousand years hence! But why couldn't I change the password, you might ask. A matter of sentimentality, I say. I had created this password in my college days, when as a young lad! One day I would have to pass on this sacred knowledge to my wife too, and by then, I would imagine, my sister would have forgotten it. But I think that hardly likely. She is after all my sister!

To end this happy tale, I did manage to write the test and even pass, as I discovered later. My handwriting though, not being too great to start with, took a real beating and relived in its nightmarish scrawl the horrors of that afternoon.

2006-09-20T12:44:00.000-07:00

My quotes

Once upon a time, I worked on the editorial page of Deccan Herald, a newspaper in Bangalore. While this is no achievement in itself, it serves as a context for what is to follow.

During this time, I worked on a section wherein you had to select and print a quotation made by someone famous. This was the most fun part of the page and I made sure I selected quotes that had a certain 'quality' about them that would either make you smile, sit up and think, or get provoked. This exercise had a kind of sub-conscious effect on me, as I discovered later.

One day, a good friend of mine - Leslie Vincent I might add, for posterity - found it advisable to counsel me in a most loving, friendly manner on a certain matter. He said, "You know Prem, I learnt things the hard way." In my trademark fashion, I was adopting a certain lightheartedness throughout the conversation, while digesting the salient points. So I replied, "Actually Leslie, the easiest way to learn anything is the hard way," or something to that effect. It suddenly struck me that I had said something quotable. At least I liked it. So from that day on, I began noting down any bit of witticism that crossed through my mind. These quotations, some good, some not equally great, grew into quite a list. So I have decided to put them down here, and update them as time goes on. I will even try putting in a background for each one, wherever possible. So here goes...

The easiest way to learn anything is the hard way.
(The first in the series...)

I don’t like wasting time with people who don’t like to waste it with me.
(When mulling on the problem of fair-weather friends)

Cardiac arrest is the old-age cure for living.
(Written soon after news of former Indian Prime Minister P V Narasimha Rao's death came in)

I have more fashion within me than without.
(My reply when asked by a friend, jokingly, if I could write a report on a fashion event for her)

Some people can’t make up their minds so they make up their faces instead.
(In conversation with a reporter)

Almost everything is good in moderation, except goodness itself.
(One of the many thoughts I have in the bathroom)

Some people are too good for their own good.
(Followed the previous one)

Passion is the root of all irrationality.
(Just like that...)

Anyone can be generous if he has a generous income.
(When pondering on low salaries in the newspaper world)

The less meaning you might make of a saying (unlike this one), the more profound it invariably becomes.
(Just a wise crack)

Not all men are snobs. Some are only shy.
(Written soon after a girl, who became my friend, told me that she hadn't done so previously because she thought I was a snob and had deliberately avoided her. To which I replied the above)

Baby girls
Baby girls are such a treat
With their wavy curls and dimpled cheeks.
But let them grow
And then you’ll know
How baby girls can really be.
(When dropping off my mom at her school once, I saw a small girl on the street, and the innocent sweetness of her face set off a chain of philosophical thoughts in my mind, which I compiled into a limerick, which didn't really rhyme as it turned out later...)

When it comes to using the honeyed word, there’s no better one than ‘honey’ itself.
(Just nonsensical)

Law of the canteen: It takes two upseated butts to move a bench.
(Speaks for itself)

The trouble with cliches is that most of them are actually true.
(No real memorable background)

These days you don’t kiss and make up; you kiss and make out.
(After a friend of mine shared a piece of her love life with some of us)

Calculated risks are fine provided you don’t calculate them too much.
(Bathroom wisdom again)

I’m prepared to form an enduring friendship with anyone, provided that someone is prepared to endure it with me.
(Same as above)

A husband and wife are like the two parts of a bottom: although there are two, it still is one.
(This is private...)

The one generalisation that men love to make is that women love to generalise.

I’m not afraid of dying; I’m only afraid of the way it might happen.
(When contemplating, with some seriousness, on the promised persecution for Christians in the last days)

The reason why many people don’t dream big is that they don’t sleep enough.
(I sleep a lot... apparently)

The only trouble with desk jobs is there’s a greater likelihood of you developing boils on the bottom.
(I developed one myself...)

A corollary is a scientist’s way of saying, “On the other hand.”
(When on a holiday. The exact context I can't remember)

I like winter simply because it is the opposite of summer, and I would’ve liked monsoon too if only it didn’t rain so much.
(I hate summer, and I thought bringing in the monsoon too would make it more humorous)

The reason, I think, the love between man and dogs is truest is that there are no hormones involved.
(When walking my dog recently, I recalled a movie I had watched that talked about hormones and romance)

The only problem with long hair is you cannot scratch the back of your neck too easily.
(A practical problem I discovered recently when at work)

Having a sympathetic friend around is like visiting the loo. There is great relief when you unload.

(Guess where I discovered this one? In the loo of course...)

Nowadays, 'earning your daily bread' literally means being able to afford a pizza every day after work.

(I was nibbling away at a rather large pizza after work when I got 'inspired')

2006-09-16T13:05:00.000-07:00

Last night I had a nightmare! While this might sound redundant, I see no other way of saying it. It was most horrific - that was its most salient feature. However, like most other nightmares, once I had been through its throes and emerged from sleep shaken, I still ended up like one of those earthlings in those movies in which the alien, when sending them back to earth, tell them with a snap of the finger, "You will remember nothing."

There are only two points about it that I remember most vividly. One was that the chief villain (maybe the only villain - I can't remember) was a most cruel woman who awakened more than the usual fear of God in me! In fact, I distinctly even remember saying at one point to myself, in one of those weird inexplicable phases in between consciousness and unconsciousness, but closer to the latter, that I never would have imagined a woman could scare me so much (feminists might find fault with even this, but that, sadly - for their sakes - cannot be helped).

It was truly a strange state of consciousness. I distinctly remember it even now, even though I cannot recall any other point about the nightmare (oh yes, to be absolutely honest, I also remember swimming at one point in a really dark pool outside an even darker house - the whole scene having a total sense of dread and grim foreboding about it - and waiting for impending doom). I was quite conscious at this point, from even an external point of view, that it was a nightmare, and a most terrifying one at that, but I was being dragged by a current too powerful to resist, sweeping me along in its deep dark churning. When I awoke, I know not when, I know I was relieved it was over.

Contrast this to another nightmare I had many nights ago, when I actually took the reins in my hands and turned the fast rolling nightmare away from its obvious grim inevitability, towards a safer - and happier - conclusion. I did this consciously, very much in possession of my faculties, yet I was in a state where I could not awake and break the dream abruptly. I will never understand completely how dreams work, but I will never cease to marvel at their mechanisms either.

My own humble explanation is that dreams and nightmares are a result of a heady combination of conscious, sub-conscious and unconscious experiences, and you have only a very minute control over them, through monitoring to a very small extent your conscious experiences. The fact that people generally cannot remember many of their dreams - though there are exceptions - is testimony to this. I have heard of an author who used to keep a pen and notebook by his bedside, and when he would awake, he would immediately note down what he had just dreamt, and use it as a plot for his next book, or maybe for the one after that .

My point though is, if only it was possible for nightmares, such as the one I had last night, to be directly transplanted from the mind onto the reel - just as it is and with no human editing involved. The nightmare I had last night had all the makings of a classic horror movie-cum-thriller, yet it was more classic than any other, and had a quality that cannot be described in human words or imagination. Such a movie would be a raw, unedited, truly surreal mix of the human with the supernatural - of the rational with the irrational - of things that can be explained with things that cannot.

2006-09-13T10:29:00.000-07:00

I think illness is sometimes God's way of telling us all to slow down... a bit. Especially for those of us who are fresh into the world of work. That is, after spending all those years educating ourselves with so many things, most of which we tend to forget soon after, keeping only the useful bits for ourselves.

During our student days, most of us look forward to the time when we can start working. When we finally do begin, we cast sympathising glances every now and then at younger (or sometimes even older) relatives or friends or just that general class of studying folk. We then breathe deep sighs of relief, or sometimes pain, when we recall the trauma especially of examinations and other fruitless endeavours that only end up in making your handwriting worse than what it might have been in pre-school.

But at least these student days had that quality that can be described in the words: "after the darkness comes the dawn". Soon, the exams are a thing of the past and students are rewarded by holidays.

You might have fallen ill during the exams, but you generally tend to suppress any feelings of out-of-sortness, with a titanic resolve and an eye on the inevitable vacation to follow, be it winter, which has the promise of the yuletide spirit and the turn of the year, or the summer, which is absolute paradise on earth.

But the working man has no such reprieve. He works on and on, relentlessly, through sun, moon these days, and rain. He can suffer no break, and prays for such occasions as when a kindhearted relative or friend closes his nose and dives into marriage, or, when he just decides to pack up and head away somewhere - anywhere - with his family. But even at these times, he finds his mind almost inevitably heading to matters of work, or sometimes, if he takes his mobile with him, he even receives business calls from bosses or juniors who suddenly feel like eliciting his advice on all matters large and small.

Soon, he's back at work, and feels like he hasn't been away at all. But now, at least he's not torn between pleasing both colleagues and family. Then, when he's least expecting it, he falls ill. At first, he fights the feeling to stay back home, keeping an anxious eye on his leave situation and thinking he could manage to work, despite his body telling him strongly otherwise. But the illness is not going to leave him so easily. Soon, he makes the daring decision to stay back.

He's tentative at first, but slowly, as time passes, he crosses the danger mark, and begins to realise, "It's not all that tough after all." If it's a viral fever, he's even luckier. I say lucky because fever is generally not fatal and anyway I'm not talking about the fatal variety. The fever just brings a man back to his senses.

I mean, all along he's been working, shunning the blessing of leave just because he has been sucked into the vicious stream of the constant grind that offers little relief. It's like a constant twilight zone. Once a week, the moon shines through the clouds in the form of the weekend, and then it soon disappears behind the clouds again. In the case of a profession like mine - the media - where you're given only one day off from work every week, there is only so much moon and a dashed sight more of clouds.

Anyway, as I was saying, if it is viral fever that the worthy working man is experiencing, he'll find it has this peculiar teasing quality about it, whereby, it allows you to think you're improving by night, but the next morning you feel worse than ever before. So you decide to stay back home again. Gradually, it grows on you and you make the decision with a lot less trepidation than at first.

Soon, you don't want to get back to work. And the rest and relaxation you experience is unparallelled. Confined to bed for the most part, the only drawback is when you are forced to eat something gruelling like porridge or cornflakes by a very loving, well-intending mom, aunt or wife.

2006-09-11T14:04:00.000-07:00

There is scarcely anything more addictive than playing minesweeper at 2 am, with heavy metal throbbing lightly in the background for the sake of saner people who choose this hour to sleep. Suddenly, you're all alone in the world, only your light is burning, you can scarcely hear your own breathing. For all practical purposes, you might be asleep yourself.

You don't feel like jumping up and doing a waltz with the dog like you might do when the rest of the world is buzzing around you. You don't even feel like head-banging. Your fingers just keep mechanically clicking, the mouse seems to take on a life of its own, the only sounds you can hear are the soft strains of some of the loudest music existing today, with the knocking of the keys faintly reaching your dulled senses in between tracks. But you scarcely notice it.

The mouse keeps sliding, your eyes preserve their glazed expression, the clicks on the minefield keep opening up new boxes. Then there's a deafening blast of silence as the field dots itself with that evil nefarious sign of the civilian's nightmare - the bomb. But the mouse mechanically continues to slide upwards, as your face registers no surprise, or shock, in fact, nothing at all.

The glaze across your eyes is still there. You don't even seem to blink. Your mind is dead, your hands are dead, the only living creature around is the mouse dragging your hand with it towards your next great tragedy that night.

It clicks softly on the face above, that seems to beckon with an innocent smile that beneath lies the most sadistic of lies. Numbers begin to light up the screen again. Then suddenly it strikes you, and you leave the game halfway to write this blog...

2006-09-11T13:18:00.000-07:00

2006-09-11T12:14:00.000-07:00

Welcome to my dark world, as I plunge into the depths of my own soul and come out trying to force myself to look happier. It's not that dark actually, it's just a darkly sardonic look at stereotypes that people like to force on others, and to prove in the words of Obelix, who had travelled extensively around the world and therefore knew what he was talking about, that people, generally, are crazy. But once we realise we're part of this world, and, as my brother loves to say, we all have our own brand of eccentricities, we will be forced to lighten up and treat the general universe with an abandoned indulgence. We're all crazy after all, so why not make a party of it! Once you start judging others you're doomed. It becomes an addiction. Judging oneself, however, while a most necessary exercise and highly recommended by mental health therapists - a most noble breed - should be done on one's own time. Live and let live! Don't even try getting sane. Such a concept exists only in an ideal world. I guess what I'm coming down to are two words - practical insanity! Get a life!