Daily Deviation

Yes. I am alive.

Well, That takes care of the rumors. Moving on to the raison d'etre I am here, The daily deviation.

It all started with the crappy KOM exam, and it was BAD. I mean really bad. As bad as rotten eggs marinated in your shoes for a week, yes, that bad. That's how the headache started.

BUT, the daily deviation. Yes, We shall come back to that too. But first, something I had promised some time back, pics of The Grin Reaper with locks.





Wait. No. This is not the one. My bad.

Check this out


And this;

And my personal favorite xD


So I kept my promise :D

Moving on, I apologize for not posting sooner, but things were not really going the way I wanted them to...

Anyways, the DD(daily deviation). I am proud, and extremely happy, to enlighten you with the fact that our very own grin Reaper aka siddhartha19 has scored a Daily Deviation on DevianArt(DA)!! Well for those of you who don't know what that is, its like getting your photograph published on the front page of the Times Of India!!!

Here's some food for thought, the DD. :)

Conceptual">

PS: This post is 2 months late >.<
PPS: My bad.
PPPS: The Vajra-340 is running on its own power now!!

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The GPS Adventure (Part 2)

So KronoS' ineffable priorities are holding back the best of him, and he is unable to post the gory details of HIS Pondi trip. Which was a parallel enterprise, mutually exclusive of my trip in the sense of space-time intervention *surreptitious wink*. And Spoiler Alert : This is going to be one long post with obsessive compulsive detailing of attention deficit detours. And not to forget photographic evidence backing up statements and facts. Enjoy, ardent reader.

Continuing with my narrative, I left off the curious reader (god bless), at the point where Samwise left us off famished in strength in the not-so-labyrinthine roads of Ambur Salai, leaving once and for all the search for the lodge at the loss of sanity, which was never to be found, standing at the doors of The Mother's Lodge, with chrysanthemums floating in panes of water, their humble welcome note at midnight. At 700 bucks, the only antidote to hesitation was an obvious lack of other places to put up at, the ungodly hour of our demand, this being at the heart of the city and AC rooms, per se. Come morning, and I would declare it as the BEST place to stay in. It is right (quite literally) next to HOT BREADS. The most ambrosial titillation of any gastronomic enthusiast. You enter, pick up the aroma of fresh dough and espresso, reach the variety bread basket, and before you can utter "not fair", the olympic level glutton in you will be loading the tray with Danish Delights, Sugar Doughnuts, Croissants, Pies and goodies from the Gods. And why not succumb to the instincts of an inhibited epicure, when the costs involved are outrageously affordable. Even the college canteen with its godforsaken culinary impertinence seems exorbitant as opposed to this unified heaven answering to the hungry and on a strict budget.

Tempt me not

First actual distinctive-of-Pondi location we went to was Paradise beach. There is a fee you have to pay to enter paradise now, regardless of the illustrious sinner you might be. And if you have a camera on you, there's an extra fare. Not the kind of treatment you'll expect at heaven's gates. On entering you realise the inner workings of the subterfuge. You have to pay another 75 per head to cross the lagoon. Ofcourse, you may just abstain, but what good will THAT be? Unless you intend to photograph some random guy showing off on a jet ski or the dramatically overloaded boats ferrying people across the lagoon. So good Anand queues up to get the tickets to the inner domains of Paradise. And that is when we see 3 independant (and ofcourse new) VIT groups. Immaculate.

The beach is like 2 kilometres and a lot of random snapshots away. The sand was scorched, with thorny creepers curiously looking up for an unwary foot to make their existence evident to. The beach ahead was not unlike one we had ever seen. Only ever so overcrowded. It was like Paradise was dropping subtle hints of its misnomer every 5 minutes. More VITians, only engaged totally in their never-seen-a-beach-before wannabe beach activities. Don't blame them, though. It was SO insanely bright and hot, that the LCD on the camera showed faint signs of display at times. We had to draw conclusive decisions about the photographs using only the histogram. And take my word for it, once you start photographing, every trip changes. Rather than sitting on a rock with the wind caressing your face and the sprays of water crashing on the rocks in a flirtatious retreat and promising returns, you worry about the framing, white balance and the occasional spray coming dangerously close to the camera, the microfiber cloth and the lense cap. Priorities change. So I spend like half an hour sitting next to the fishermen's boat, trying to get the best framing and perspective.

The vessel of sorts

Samwise was enjoying the beach from a condescending perspective. Hands in pockets, walking right next to the farthest reaches of the waves, nodding occasionally commemorating the ocean's presence next to his own. (In his defence, he DID write his name on the sand.) Though later after the imperial march, he DID take off his shoes over incessant cajoling and became more beach-friendly. We took some shots of Karna, Anand and Shefin, then of Shreyas' bursts of hyperactivity, a distinctive bicycle on the beach, had a drink and marked our exit from Para-populated-dise. It was hilarious when Shefin joked to Shreyas about paying him 10 bucks for sipping his drink, at which Shreyas started tipping it into the sand and said "Ask the sand for 10 bucks".

"Ssup, Beach?" - Samwise

In our defence, the decision to eat AGAIN at Hot Breads for supper was not an act of obsession. Just conceding to inevitability and an enticing board outside blazoning their exuberant offerings of combo-meals. We odered a different facet of their menu, this instance, with Italian bread sandwiches and subs. Filling apart, the sub was long enough to humble a Subway footlong. Just short of olives and jalapenos, the chicken tikka sub was a challenge to photograph before eating. But that I did boldly live up to, and after a few quick shots, dug into with a hungry and determined fortitude.

The typical Sandwich

Next stop was Auroville beach. The auto walah, a local jester had this bad sense of humour of dropping us off precisely midway between two rocky junctions, atleast three kilometres apart from each other. Anand had confirmed local sunset timing to be exactly 6 pm, and with 15 minutes in hand, we decided to transgress the inhibition and the distance to the rocks. We began our stagger across the sand, and terrain impregnated by discardings of civilization. Halfway through, we had left the "visiting" crowd way behind, who were too engrossed with the sight of water so as to find a spot exclusive to themselves. We ran across jubilant localites, children digging sand, a couple of hounds totally displeased by the universe in general exclaiming their grief and distaste to every passerby, unvisited-by-tourists villages, eroded architecture, a resolute and garlanded statue of Lord Ganesha to be lain in the ocean after the festivity, plant carcasses and dead crabs and starfish.

Expressions

The Joy of Creation

The walk was worthwhile and we finally did reach the rocks for sunset in time, but sadly enough, the sun was to set the other side, which would have been visible from rocky beach, perhaps. We finally also answered to Shefin's disdain at us not having used the tripod even on one instance, and him having to carry it all along. We could although not bring it to good use, because of heavy winds jittering the stability of long shutter photographs. We got down just in time for darkness to engulf the ocean and the distant lighthouse casting its beam through the mist for the seafarers. Interestingly, we did NOT know our way to the main highway from here. GPS to the rescue, we found out we were in the middle of nowhere, and decided to walk in the opposite direction from the ocean. After a couple of GPS jokes, we DID reach the highway, opening up to a restaurant called the Neem Tree. We went in just for the heck of it, and had a coke for namesake. The journey back to Mother Lodge, with Shreyas having to sit on the uncomfortable divider was marked with a callous profanity directed at no one in particular and marks of discomfort wherever the state government had been casual with road construction.

The Neem Tree

Dinner, the next big question, had the group split into a lactose intolerant and his sympathetic friend, and the three blind mice vehemently adamant for cheese, and consequently Pizza hut. So Samwise and me decide to have the buffet at Promenade with its lavish offerings of seafood and terrestrial entrees, desserts and a live lazz performance. We although were made to sit outside in the lawn, and we took turns at awing at the decour and contemplating the meal. (As I write this, I am very hungry as of now, and I KNOW that the lunch is going to be a disappointment. It really makes me miss the buffet all the more, but I shall still recollect the best I can, for sake of reference later on, and ofcourse, memories.) The aperitifs had Orange Mojito flowing in discordant proportions with alliterative spice in the food. The spread was a romantic array of food to the cancerian in me. We start off with baked prawns, chilli prawns and authentic Filipino Chicken and Pork Adobo to go with a variant grilled fish. Samwise and me relished every morsel. Main course couldn't have been better with an outrageous Roman Lamb and a sauteed spread of mushrooms and veggies tossed with prawns, sliced pork and a variety of breads, Lasagna, beyond me ofcourse, an assortment of pasta that we could not even venture towards, more Mojito, and with ambient Jazz, we delved into ethereal cuisine. There was a mime taking care of the overall mood and keeping it to jovial levels with his magic tricks, acts and dances. I had high hopes from the dessert, and I couldn't have been better satisfied with it either. In one word, Tiramisu. The one thing I can go to any lengths for. And truth be told, it was the closest one had gotten to authentic Tiramisu, which I had at Post '91, Pune, one year back. And the 5 times I had it in between, at different places, were sheer disappointments. The one at Promenade was surreal (specially the espresso marination), although devoid of the vital Irish Whiskey, adding to the ambrosial brilliance. The one we had at Rendezvous the day before, in the "5 Rupay ke Chai ka Gilaas" for 100 bucks was the worst, till date. There was Vanilla Gateau too, the sole valiant competitor, and others we could not afford to be distracted with. On our way out, we decided to greet the mime over his good humour, and yes, true as it is, he fell for the "Handshake trick". I could not have been more surprised. And I had anticipated his comeback to it, so that didn't work either. The man who was conniving in merryment got conned himself, albeit in a minor gesture.

The brilliant JAZZ performance

We regrouped at rock beach for the Pizza hut returned triad, to hear their version of the story, and unlike me, they chose not to pound on the details and adjectives. They although did mention this certain someone who had very interesting eyes sitting at their 7 'o clock's 12 'o clock. The night was a humble stroll at the Gandhi rock beach, with cool cross breeze and soon a sudden downpour, forcing Shreyas and me to retreat to the room asap, or risk damaging the cameras, and along with Shefin, we run amock the streets of Ambur Salai, now making our way through the labyrinth with practiced precision.

Come morning, we are to leave for Vellore by noon. Aurobindo ashram was a two minute walk from our lodge, so after yet another breakfast at Hot Breads, we visited the shrine. Photography being prohibited, we could only look and be part of the silent remembrance of Sri Aurobindo. And strange as it may be, bowing to the sage's tomb was a liberating moment. We reached the bus station by noon, as anticipated. And ran into more VITians, going back. The process of getting into a bus was intricate which involved standing in an entwined queue for the tickets. Inacceptible as the condition of the buses were, and the time involved in getting to it, we opted for a car pool back. The guy took certain pleasure in making us wait in his non conformant insecurities about where exactly the vehicle was. A long wait later, we did get a dilapidated vehicle, whose being in running condition was a feat of miracle to say the least. Now the adventure was reaching its climax. The driver was as clueless about the terrain as a lost as a romantic in a mask dance. We had Anand and Karna both to navigate us through the roads no one knew in particular, apart from the same "couldn't-give-a-damn-less" satellite. So we have to keep ourselves at this Pink line which is a state highway. Now the problem is, we could not keep up with the "Pink line". We kept going off track, in circles, curves with unknown equations, straight lines away from the destination, into blue/green/brown terrain on the GPS map, and everything in between and beyond. Asking the locals to confirm google's accuracy, we did approach Vellore on the map, at a very humble pace. There was this particular instance when we were looking for a water body, which was "right ahead". 15 minutes later, it was still 10 kilometres on the map. 12 Kilometres later, it never turned up. I could although imagine this random guy at google working on the maps with a smirk on his face going crazy with the fill colours. We made it to Vellore just in time for dinner. And dinner was bad.

Although it was the Sunday chicken curry which I shall be having to face today too. And trust me, it will taste better than it did that day. I dont have a Pondi trip hangover to bask in, today.

That shall be all.

Dramatis Persona

People who made it memorable ( L to R - Karna, Samwise, Shreya, Anand)

The spice of the event : GPS

GPS courtesy : Anand

Model of the trip : Karna (Goggles included)

Guy with a new name and indifference towards the beach : Samwise

Photographer in Chief : Shreya

Most mutilated name : Pomegranate

Most interesting VIT group : A group at Paradise beach in Riviera T Shirts

Most creative pun : Homeopathetic

Most visited : \m/ Hot Breads \m/

Background Casting : Fellow VITians in obscene profusion.

Commentary by : Yours humbly

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The GPS Adventure (Part 1)

Pondy trip #2 (in 2 years), which is a shame as we should totally visit that place more often. But our not having visited it too often did although prevent the familiarity and monotony to shadow the fun throughout the trip. So I, with a totally different compadres than the last time, made the second trip ever so memorable. Starting off with an outrageous 'To DO' list, and not enough money to take us to the bus stand, the start was the first oxymoron among the plenty. So we go to the secret ATM, which actually EVERYONE knows of and have lunch at Big (godforsaken) Chik, a place I don't quite like for their unarguably copious amounts of oil in the chicken, and an overpriced menu to challenge fallacy number one, which was a prescience of a similarly to follow trip. JFTR, there was this table behind us with five guys and one girl, resembling a usual Pandava weekend lunch. And "Karna" being on OUR table and not theirs, only added to the analogy and semblance.

Buses to Pondi were ofcourse not as frequent as we had idealised them to be. The GPS Adventure had begun. The conductor was adamant that Shreyas keep his camera bag "under" the seat, without the slightest notion of how obscene the suggestion sounded to us photographers. Fearing his adamantine rigidity, and Tamil Nadu state highways'contours, dismantling the cameras and holding them close was the only solution. The bus was bad, the Tamil movie being played worse, and the cacaphonous background score defied all degrees of atrocity. Anand although came up with what would fascinate, amuse, addict and entertain me throughout the journey. Our journey from a "honestly-couldn't-care-any-less" satellite's perspective. The slight showers added to the aesthetics of anotherwise digitised amusement source. Checking out distance to destination every 2 kilometers or 5 mins, whichever first, looking up ratings of eating joints and reading conflicting reviews of the same restaurant, calling up lodges to book a room, 6 hours and we DID reach Pondi.

The auto walas at the Pondicherry bus station claimed indirectly that anyplace from there, is 80 bucks. The availability of cheap liquor was evident. Anyhow, Mother lodge was a decent place, with A/C rooms and all. Quite a luxurious affair to me who in the last trip had put up in a bamboo hut on pillars. We had although 4 hours to brutally kill, before our all too generous college friends vacate the rooms we were to get. So Rendezvous it was, quite literally, as we ended up dining at the most debated, criticised and fancy sounding restaurant around (apart ofcourse from the French Pizzerias and exquisite sounding places). The food and drinks were really good though. Cubalibre (which Shreyas diluted to homeopathic standards with his coke, and after which he took a moment to blame rolling friction for his mushroom falling off the Sizzler platter) and Chicken Steak go well, is all I can conclude of the meal. And the fact that vegetarians have a miserable life. Very miserable (Thats the thursday apart carnivore speaking, pardon me). Karna (a humble plant eater) decided to eat at Pizzeria, and Shreyas and me walked out to buy copies of Better Photography and Lonely Planet. Having no sense of direction, or celestail GPS to navigate with, we were walking on instinct, determination and slippery roads due to rains. After going so far as the auto to charge us 40 Rs back to Rendezvous, frowning, tired and dejected, we returned to enter Overpriced-by-our-budget eating joint#2. It felt kind of like food court, with the largest round table being occupoed by VITians giving us "the looks". 3 couples being intruded upon by people they don't want to see them with people they don't want to be seen with can only have dismay to wear at an acquaintance gathering.

Samwise Shefin had this ingenious idea to scathe the locale for every possible lodge/hotel and with time to spare, we could not deny his desire. What started off was a good idea of discovering new places outside of guide books ended up in a wit famished search for some Surya hotel where yet another VIT group had put up at. SO after the city closed, in the the darkness of the night impregnated by a stray illuminated bulb we make our way through the labyrinthine crossroads made ever so labyrinthine by the good sir who could not point out "left" in his right mind, and for Samwise having found a deeper meaning in his pun. Hotel Surya turned out to be a good place, with pet ducks and all, claiming "Extra Person : 1000 Rs" in the tarrif card. We already had enough people with us to pay for extras, so we retraced our steps back, to Gandhi Rock beach. That was my (and Shreyas') first time ever midninght photography. With painfully slow shutters, and impossible to pull off immobility for that span, we did get some brilliant shots, lucky even to get lightning in one of them.

This is pretty much what happened on the first day. And given to chose between writing a euphemised post hence doing injustice to the trip, or to write one painfullylong ballad-ic post, I chose to split it into parts. And what do you mean by that is not even an option? Just in case you overlooked, I make the rules here.

To be continued...

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FYI, we are alive

This post is just to acknowledge the fact that we are pretty much alive, for all those (bless you) who might have visited the blog in recent times, and seen the same post staring back at them like a clueless Tamilian local being talked to in Spanish. It is not mundanity, or lack of incidences worthy of a narration, but the sheer abundance of them, and a profound lack of time to justify them in a blog post. (The word "Justify" gives me the creeps as of now. Long story short, was made to make a brochure 5 times, owing to minor errors, and fetishes, none on my part. And the organizers having this profound love for justified texts, and greater affection for conveniently skipping the vital formatting preferences till after I finish with the 5th iteration of the uncreative-on-request MUN Brochure)

And my new room-mates friend has been kind enough to share his inventory of midnight snacks, and munching popcorn at this ungodly hour, listening to Chinese Traditional Ensemble music, I do testify to our conscious existence and procrastinating subconscious. There is nothing sweeter than putting off something for tomorrow. Apart from the heavenly sugar doughnuts. The adjective, of course, relative to the place and availability of anything edible.

Also, another deterrent to the frequency of posts has been the new found obsession with photography. It does take a lot of time, so to say. As for KronoS, he has been promising a post for long now. I expect him to post something before 2020. Am only worried because its already half past midnight, and he is showing no signs of compliance. With so much to write of, the ever so diminutive voice from the crevices of the darkest and highly unvisited corners of my mind has a lot of trouble convincing a not so polite and not so ignored lazy git shouting out orders (or actually the contrary) all the time.

On a brighter note, I have started

Reading Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Worshipping Douglas Adams
Cursing the missing "bullets" tab in the editing toolbar
Working on the galactic revival of TheDarkHumorists
Eating sugar doughnuts
Collecting and reading cover to cover "Lonely Planet" and "Better Photography"
Looking for a good Telephoto macro enabled lense within a laughable budget
Attempting to understand Umberto Eco

That is more information than needed.
The blog is officially alive. So are we. Thank you for your patience for reading through to a conclusion which I mentioned in the first line itself.
Too late.
Your move.


R.I.P.>

The Vuvuzela Alternative

The title of this post is a little unrevealing, but makes up for it in its adequacy to describe the situation. And little would one know that this is an account of a reunion. Intended, atleast. Also, I have delayed this post a week, and for good reason.

So they plan out a school reunion, neat idea and all. Ambitious though, keeping it open for all the batches that have attended the school. What I knew was most likely no one from my batch would turn up. And why I did not trust that instinct is a matter of introspection and solitary scorn. To top that, why I decided to perform there, a humble compilation of 'classic rock' songs is a question that shall haunt the better half of my musical lifetime.

In our immense naivety that dealt with a premise that holds the assumption that the crowd will be what I would later end up calling "Musically literate", we walked into "Garage", a club, so to say, with two acoustic guitars and and a spirit to tribute our God's of rock. The "we" here is me and my childhood friend Debanshu, who is an immensely talented guitarist. That we enter using the service door, was a spoiler alert for a more denuded evening. The first look of the place was scary. Flashing lights and deafening throbs of bass that doesn't follow a sane time signature. We were the first to arrive, apart ofcourse from the organiser.

The entourage of insanely "dressed for the occasion" arrived, in a painfully long wait. And without preamble, found comfort in the incarceration of the dance floor and shot definitely not so dance approved poses to the onlookers and the stray polaroid. There was a mentally depraved and totally unskilled DJ at the console. He took immense pleasure in a masochistic control over the crossfader and was muting out random parts of the song. It was moronic, if anything. But what amazed me was that the people on the dance floor were actually lipsinging the tracks that I had NEVER heard in my lifetime, and had no ounce of regret for my ignorance about.

We sat fumbling with our guitars, eagerly waiting to play some songs, but the gradual understanding of the musical inclination of the crowd was horrific, and we had quite a good idea of the inevitable. So we waited for 2 and a half frikkin hours for the "media" had yet to arrive, that would cover the event in their vile exaggeration and unethical alteration of the truth. Anyhow, we reached the opportune moment, and after painstakingly explaining the modus operandi to drag 3 bar stools from the counter to the dance floor to a really annoying and very primitive attender, were planning on the soundcheck. For those keeping record, there was one mic, to be shared between us, which included alternating solos and vocals. Diana (the prime organiser of the event) conformed to the job of mic-keeping. So here we are, deciding what to play for soundcheck, Pearl Jam or Beethoven. We ended up playing the first half of Fur Elise, classical guitar to a crowd that busied themselves with fench fries and bewildered looks. Not a good sign. I asked them have we any "Metallica" fans here. They were half as silent as a graveyard, and twice as dead. We continued to play 'Nothing else matters' to the last note, to no applause or swaying or any form of known audience activity. Next we decided to play a really famous classic number, 'Knocking on heaven's door' and no one had heard that either. They were consistently unresponsive to 'Hotel California' too, which we stopped playing midway, and no one even noticed. To sum it all up as a classic failure, we ended the show with an own composition called "When tomorrow meets today", thanked the crowd for being silent, disinterested and lame before we walked away.

We had a couple of drinks (The bartender refused to make me a Mojito or a Daiquiri or a Margarita. He had trouble bringing up spring water too. And the moron offered to add ice to it...) and left the place. Now that I look back upon that day, I wonder, would they have even realised had we honked Vuvuzela's rather than soloing on guitars. No. Because what we had was a handsome group of musically illiterate individuals, who cherish looking flashy under UV light and can lips senseless tracks and seem all rave, but will find themselves in a horridly awkward situation were they to be found in a music cafe, where everyone sings along to the "real" music. We all have our comfort zones. I chose the one that is higher on virtue and regardless of ostentation.

Epic fail. To cut a long story short. Anyhow, we posed for the "media" before leaving hoping to see our photographs in the local daily atleast. But, after a week of baited breath, here I was, looking at the review of the "re-union". We apparently played "Purani jeans" and "Yeh Dosti", Diana was a band member, and a party hunk was found quoting that he has vivid memories of the 3 of us participating in singing competitions at school. His statement is wrong on several levels. To start with, we had no singing competitions at school. There was just one (in 12 years). Thats all. No one participated. Secondly, Debanshu is not in the same school, so I wonder how could he have participated in the virtual event. Thirdly, for the love of god, get the names right you half wit morons feeding on maggots and moths. Its "Debanshu" and not "Divyanshu", losers. There was no accompanying picture of either me or him. He has been saved the humiliation of being there. They got his name wrong and invented their own playlist. He can as well deny having attended. I so envy you...

I shall although not deny, the fact that my white T shirt was glowing purple in the UV light kept me hooked and interested just long enough. The fret markings on the guitars also glowed. And the white part of the converse. I was afraid to smile.

Next time I have an opportunity to perform to a similar musically disgruntled crowd, I will consider the Vuvuzela alternative. I should not be denied the pleasure of annoying them. And when they are least interested, FTW!

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Some err Training

How does it feel to stand in a busy subway, facing the scampering crowd, and being stared at unanimously, in as long a bracket of time as their fleeting moments of distraction can accomodate? Well, not exactly the kind of questions I think upon at leisure, but I sure found out the answer the hard way.

Why are the authorities so hell bent over us bending over backwards in an industry where our presence is as out of place as a Storm Trooper in a traditional Indian wedding, is another question altogether, when owing to our absconding interest, learning anything of consequence is a function of individuality. I am in the class that spends their time in the Industrial Training making a mental list of all the possible (or impossible) "I'd rather be".

So the first day, chronologically, the most awkward, started off with me standing like a mime, and the people passing by giving me "the looks". And this continued till they individually had not gone beyond sight. My choice of clothes did not help much either. I was the sole guy in a T shirt, to start with, amongst the blue factory shirted "gentlemen". Also the semi naked, long haired, wrapped in barbed wire guy in a foreground of "Dimmu Borgir" exacerbated their misery. (I personally like this shirt the most among all my band shirts. >.< )

After some inevitably and insanely time consuming formalities, they admitted me as a summer trainee. I was apparently in a "Winder ASSY" division. Not the perfect aperitif for curiosity. Yet the impressive line up of "Winders" in the factory did take me off guard. I was introduced to the workers at every assembly division, and was soon going through a graphic description of the type of winders in gory detail. I was trying to imagine the same book as a Frank Miller graphic novel. Not much reprieve. Not to be inacceptibly cynic, there indeed were a few, countable on fingertips, interesting aspects to it. I saw the machining of a CAM shaft, which KronoS had taken pains to explain over dinner so many times, just before we switched to Star Wars. It is a pretty neat mechanism. Also, I saw some larger than life equivalents of ineptly drawn textbook machines. Ah, protocol dictates I write down everything I see in the factory, and truth be told, I did just that. My personal observations, uncensored. Here are some of the consequential things I happened to notice, written with the appropriate expression, although am not sure whether the university will approve of these in the report.

It starts off with "Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'intrate" written over a huge rectangular block labelled "factory". (For those who haven't read Dante, and also for the majority, that means 'Abandon all hope, ye who enter'). The more factual observations follow suite right after a hangman and scribble "Die fatso die", (to document the 'fatso', who took inane sadomasochistic pleasure in being rude for no apparent reason, apart from the horrific realisation of his being mockably overweight), "Whoa! Respect! They seem to love localites", "sigh, could do with an espresso (martini?)". Then there was "The day of the Vernier". When I measured everything I could with the digital scale. For the records, the Vernier Calliper manual was 27.38 cms thick. "Lol! Rude dude is wearing a Pink shirt... FAIL!!!", "Resins, A La Carte", "Hey, Wait, I've got a new complaint..." and by then it was pretty much out of hand. This is all exclusive of the unaccounted doodles of The Grim, Batman, The Batman as Grim, blank white spots labelled Cullen pest, and some goal depraved storm troopers...

I finished the effective "training" in a weeks time. They realised I am pretty much incorrigible (I did try to give them a spoiler alert on that earlier) and any attempt to teach me uninteresting garb will be a waste of their, and what's infinitely more disturbing, my, time.So the rest of my "official" time there is spent "unofficially" practicing the Iambic Pentameter, reading all the books I wanted to, designing my tabletop contraption and pursuing my insane fanaticisms like 16X16 Knight Tours, factorising mobile numbers and throwing mental insults at the engineers who bother me, in a politeness distinctive of Klingon alone. In my defence, the regime was boring. Beyond the point of reversal. To be honest, were it slightly more interesting, I would have still been bored, but maybe willing to pretend I wasn't.

A week more. If possible, even less. Time for my 2 credits, please. And yes, I would like some fries with that.

PS: I have left out some gruesone details of the commute, boredom (wonder if that is evident), and the confinement. Will come back to those in a later post, perhaps. In the stages of development. Contemplative, for now.

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In memory of the legend, Ronnie James Dio

The world changed. The world as we know it. Where metal is a religion. Everyone who started on the lines of heavy metal and bowed to the brilliance of the pioneers of this cult, is in grief. There could be no greater loss to us, than if metal were not to have originated, but even so, there is no compensation. No consolation and no obseques that can rightfully commemorate the loss of Ronnie James Dio. As he stood tall for Sabbath, their best years with him ruling the microphone, with a masterful indifference he earned the allegiance of every listener in his infinitive fan base. Earning the same love and fame for the self titled band Dio and also Rainbow, the horns went up wherever he sounded his voice. Ronnie James Dio found peace on the 16th of May, 2010. Ascending from this realm of mortality, for it is not for immortals of his veneer. Wherever there shall be a mention on heavy metal, there shall be love and respect for Dio.

A gift of voice, that could stand apart for its own, cutting through the music, or going along with it, in a persona moulded in humility, with love for his fans and a man of character, Dio shall be missed for his brilliance always, and shall be reminded of for the legacy he started, with every metal song by every metal band. Its not going to be the same without him. Never.

"Without them, we aren't. Without us, they will always be" - Dio for his fans.

Respect.

May his sould rest in peace, for all eternity.

To Ronnie James Dio.
God of metal.
And a wonderful human being.

A\m/en

\m/ (T T) \m/>

Against all odds

Here I try to do the impossible. List out what qualities a girl should have (being suggested to do so by countless friends, who insist my being single is not a matter of choice alone, but also an offspring of metaphysical inevitability, considering the extent of my being a characteristic connoisseur)

The list, in no particular order of priority, is summarised as follows.

IQ > 135. Glasses are optional, though preferred.

Loves coffee, and ceramic mugs.

Agrees that string theory is the defining theory of the universe, and does not stick to loop quantum gravity.

Accepts "Schrodinger's Cat" as a valid answer to most questions.

Enjoys spontaneous Garfield/XKCD comic strip sprees.

In a Venn Diagram for Musical likings, falls in the intersection of Metal, Rock, Blues, Jazz, Country, Classical and Sufi.

Can sway to Bach and headbang to Horsemen

Loves making Graphs to explain things.

In a bookstore, most likely to be found in Literature, Criticism, General Science, Popular Science, Fantasy, Photography, Culinary, Science Fiction or

Classics section.

Loves cooking.

Likes watching martial arts movies.

Can quote Star Wars in day to day life.

Can speak a foreign language. (Including Klingon)

Rorshach inkblot test answers should be more imaginative than "Butterflies" and "Flowers". "Clouds" is outright inacceptible.

Can play at least one musical instrument.

Swears by Feynman lectures.

Uses phrases from Literature occasionally.

Does not impose upon herself an iterated Prisoner's Dilemma, and asks my opinion directly.

Loves cats. And is definitely not a "Dog" person. For the love of God.

Can speak in Iambic Pentameter for fun.

On a trip to Switzerland, the first thing she want's to see is CERN.

Detests the usage of shorthand, and needless UPPERCASE. Typing like an ORaNGutan oN cOCainE is not cool.

Would prefer to sit behind on a cruiser bike than beside in a luxury car.

Loves making anagrams from roadside billboards.

(more attributes, contrarily sieves that assure my singlehood, shall be added as I recall)

PS: Either all of the above (i.e. a handsome number, atleast) or Scarlett Johansson.

PPS: Hope God reads my blog. (Though heaven doesn't show up on the revolver map)

PPPS: It's gonna be dark for ages, ain't it?

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The Watchmen Lightbulb series 1

Warning: If you haven't seen watchmen/ read the graphic novel/ do not like to read random lightbulb jokes/ have a sense of humour to be laughed upon, press "control + W". You may not understand this post even with augmented intelligence. No offence.

The Watchmen Lightbulb jokes series...

Q. How many Ozymandiases does it take to change a lightbulb?

A. 2. 1 to change the bulb, and 1 to kill the comedian.

Q. How many Comedians does it take to change a lightbulb?

A. None. The Comedian died before you switch on the bulb and realise its fused.

Q. How many Rorschachs does it take to change a lightbulb?

A. 3. 1 to change the bulb, 1 to adjust the mask and 1 to write it down in the journal.

Q. How many Rorschachs does it take to change a lightbulb?

A. 1. But the bulb has to stare into his mask and tell what it saw.

Q. How many Silk Spectres does it take to change a lightbulb?

A. None. She can convince Dr. Mahattan to do it over a distance.

Q. How many Dr. Manhattans does it take to change a lightbulb?

A. None. Dr. Manhattan glows in the dark, remember.

Q. How many Dr. Manhattans does it take to change a lightbulb?

A. Depends upon how confused the Tachyons leave him.

Q. How many Nite Owls does it take to change a lightbulb?

A. 7. 1 to change the bulb, 2 to sulk about a crap uniform, and 4 just to look stupid.

Q. How many Comedians does it take to change a lightbulb?

A. 2. 1 to change the bulb and 1 to fool around with the flamethrower.

Q. How many Silk Spectres does it take to turn on a lightbulb?

A. 1. She turned Dr. Manhattan on. How tougher can a lightbulb be?

Q. How many Dr. Manhattans does it take to change a lightbulb?

A. Adrian, stop this. The tachyons were clever. But even if I can't predict if the bulb is fused or not, I can convert it to a new one. I should thank you. I'd almost forgotten the excitement of *not* knowing. The delights of uncertainty.

... Continued

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\m/ HRC \m/

It is pathetic on my part for having procrastinated this post for so mercilessly long. And it is not because my lack of will, but the unavailability of time, which has been consumed off late by the extended hours on deviantart, academics, photography (check out my deviantart profile for testimony, or otherwise too. I could do with some pageviews. XD. siddhartha19.deviantart.com).

I also apologise to my lovely sister for delaying this post for so long, as she had been waiting for it avidly and is a regular reader of the blog *Bows*.

Coming back to Vellore from Pune was pathetic in itself. Pune was amazing, as always. And the new house, the new places, Mahabaleshwar, Mapro gardens and everything to do with it were equally enigmatic. But what stole my breath away was HRC. For the non believers, HRC is Hard Rock Cafe.

I had been waiting to go to a HRC for a long time, and to think of it that my first was also to one of the best in India, the Pune HRC, was only an added garnishing to the fruit of patience. So I stand outside the neon board with the lights encircling an illuminated capital "HRC". My pulse is already racing the seconds hand of the watch as the line slowly progresses into the heaven for rock fanatics. I had to produce my cell phone and wave it infront of the security camera before being stamped on my forehand with the HRC stamp. Awesomeness, was yet to begin. Walking in, I see a drum kit attatched to the wall and could read in the faint light a name on the bronze tag plate. It read "Joey Kramer, Aerosmith". I reached the epitome of exitement. Right next to the drum kit there's a guitar, white with golden pickups, "Joe Perry, Aerosmith". *swoons*

I saw a gallery of memorabilia before reaching the seating area, which in itself was spectacular. We sat on the elevated area, surrounding the bar counter and overlooking everything. The leather sofa, right under Jimmi Hendrix's picture frame, overlooking Bob Dylan's coat and a fleet of Bacardi white rum bottles sparkling on the bar counter. The DJ standing right next to the counter was what gave HRC the HR. Hard effing rock. The preamble so immaculate in itself that anything would seem to be amazing thereafter. The menu was, independantly, precise too. I ordered a Mojito, the best drink available in HRC, and sat back to absorb the essence of the place. The first song I recognised was "Save tonight", and having performed it in the college fest, I could sing along and srtum along (given a guitar), soon followed by "Zombie", "Snow" and "Lithium" (Nirvana). Now fully at home with the music and the place, I tranceded my internal barrier of restriction and got up to stand by the balcony. It was a wise choice, for the next song was Metallica. Sad but true. And that's when I started loving the place more than ever. I sung along at the top of my voice, straining my vocal chords and draining my lungs out. The Mojito helped replenish the energy along with some spicy tamarind chicken wings. Then it was a flurry of classics, that I just could not afford not headbanging and singing along to. "Run to the hills", "Brick in the wall", "Enter Sandman" and "My Sacrifice" later, I was back after having joined the majority of the people who participated in creating a vibe trademark of the Hard Rock Cafe's and that exactly sets it apart from just another Rock Cafe.

(The main bar counter from where I was sitting)

The black Jackson guitar right next to the bar counter, "Scott Ian, Anthrax" caught my eye amidst the horde of Saxophones suspended overhead. One of the four God's of thrash metal. The "Stray Cats" cello was a contrasting orange amidst the dark ambience. Also among the best were "Joe Walsh"s flying V guitar, and "Timothy Schmidst, Eagles" jacket. Having heard a lot about the famous YMCA dance, at 10:30, the DJ hit the YMCA track. All the bartenders and waiters (minus the one on the roller blades, who already showed enough stunts and moves) hopped atop the counters and tables along with willing people there, and did the YMCA dance to mark the tradition of the place. It was a sight worth seeing and it looked amazing first hand, the picture can hardly do any justice to the ritual.

(The YMCA dance)

The lights turn on at 11, marking the closure of the place within the next half hour, and the DJ spun the last track for the day, which made the hair on the back of my neck stand. Unforgiven. Metallica. So I got right up to the balcony and put up the \m/ and sung along for the next 5 mins, swaying in nirvana to the music.

The Margarita and Shrimp curry with rice was as perfect the end could be, only taken a notch ahead by the HRC souveneir shop right outside the dining. I could not miss out the traditional faded out maroon HRC Pune T shirt, and the black cap spelt HRC. The way back was a cyclic recollection of the memories I acquired therein, and my acceptance into the brethren of HRC fanatics.

I enjoyed writing this post as it helped me recall the day to an intricate level, and I feel stupid not having written the post earlier itself.

Anyways, I hope you liked the place, through my memories of it. I assure you, it is a million times better actually. There is great information loss in a recollection, always. The place is heaven.

Save the planet.

HRC Pune.

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Happy birthday Kronos!

Birthdays are an elegant unit of time, which does not involve much ambiguity. This post is just to wish KronoS a very happy birthday today.

His existence has been noted as one of consequence, ability, and talent.

I congratulate him on having completed his 19 years of life. 19 is my favorite prime number too.

* double clink *

Have a nice day bro.

And JFTR, according to our trusted source, "Uncyclopedia" :

On this day...

March 23: International Take Your Fish To Work Day 139 - Roman historian Erraticus publishes the fourth version of Life of Trajan, this one portaying Trajan as an emperor and retracting the previous version's claims that Trajan was a talking donkey. 1097 - St. Peter's Basilica was first used outside of the Vatican city during the first Crusades. 1952 - Enid Blyton publishes her most famous work, The Three Colliwogs. 1962 - Dozens of women march on Washington D.C. to politely request feminine rights. Their husbands go without supper. 1974 - The last dirty liberal is sent to serve in the Vietnam War, rendering America a perfect utopia of conservatives for nearly eighteen months. 2011 - Chuck Norris succeeds in destroying the last internet meme when he roundhouse kicks the final remaining Rick Astley music video into oblivion.

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The Mercury Materialisation

The Fluid Mechanics lab is marked with its own inherent ironies. It is the only lab which has an automated "fire alarm" (inspite of the it being virtually abundant in water supply), which rather be in the Thermodynamics lab (That we are pretty sure in case of fire, the authorities wont be able to significantly influence, and would be efficient only to panic and just complicate things further). The yellow paint marking a pathway right up to the exit is kinda analogous to the ones that light up the path to the doors in aircrafts (Dramatically pontificated by the air hostesses).

The experiments here are just an amalgamation of abrupt procedures, incorrect readings, subtle manipulations, and a lot of splattering water, which is not at all as merry as words make it sound. The water is beyond any scope of purification to make it suitable even for touching it. It is contaminated by an obsessive recycling of the same volume, in egregious numbers...

Our lab teacher is an over enthusuastic academic, whose temper drops from jolly to jeopardizeda handful of incomplete lab manuals later.

We, i.e. Kronos, Shashank Sriram (A.K.A Machi), and Me, were to tackle the Venturi meter and then the hallowed Orifice meter for the day's work. The venturimeter, after a few minor glitches, notwithstanding was finished with. Then we were to switch the same apparatus to an Orifice meter configuration. And then in moments of Machi's callousness and Kronos's perspicacity, the apparatus "breathed" its last for the day. Literally. The mercury column got infiltrated by air, bubbling OUT the mercury into the pipes, leading to the collection tank. On the base of the tank, below its rising water level, shone the glistening drops of quicksilver which weren't meant to tread so nether regions as these.

Our inefficacy in carrying out the second experiment was a vulgar attention seeker and the lab assistant was at our side in a matter of moments. In a determination to prove his familiarity with the apparatuses and their errors, he made minor changes to the set up (Which reverted it to the same mercury spitting monster KronoS had earlier created), and asked us to start the motor. With looks of "been-there-done-that", I pressed the green button, which completely sucked out the mercury from the right column and into the connecting water pipes, to the shock and dismay of the self contained hero of the day.

That declared the apparatus dead, until further notice, and called for immediate repair.

Humbly, and with looks of fake innocence and oblivion towards the Orifice meter's demise, we proceeded with the ritualistic acceptance of the teacher's disappointment with our not having completed graphs and calculations, perpetually.

Next lab, we take down another set up.

And im not suggesting sabotage.

PS : The dimensions of the Venturi meter tank is 600X600X600 mm^3 and not light years ^3, Since the "Vitals" printed on the side of the tank did not have dimensions given, we resorted to making our "appropriate contribution".

Exit : KronoS, Machi, Reaper.

R.I.P : Orifice Meter

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The Parable of Profanity

Ever has it been, when presented with the audacity to claim what is not in his righteousness, has man claimed through the thick and thin of conscience, trespassing on the grey areas of morality, adorned by false interpretations of ideals, guarded by unrelated realms often of religion or patriotism. With borders separating the preys from predators, it is just a matter of perception which becomes a function of geography, which draws a mental line between the two. Retaliation in wake of having suffered wounds, physical or emotional, is a vile catalyst interchanging the roles of the hunter and the hunted.

Terrorism, a word oft spoken of, practiced as a religion by the monks of misanthropy, is an unpredictable, uncurable epidemic, claiming sporadic lives of those they consider atheists. Terror attacks have blemished the chronicles of our lives, in a red as crimson as the blood they set free, off the victims laying incapacitated, seeking a divine redressal, or ceasure of torment. With media selling grief, for nothing else facades its abundance, is a prophet of figures, numeralising the casualties, survivers, monetory loss, paving a path of numbers for an essentially emotional and corporal footpath strewn with eradicated dreams and severed limbs. The loss of a family member is inconsolable by any means, and any attempt to compensate for it, is an insult to the

souls lost in a profane battle of the unmatched. Tears dry falling prey to the whims of nature, wounds end up in scars, unhurting yet making the fabric of flesh and consciousness grotesque. The survivors' memories now house a trauma beyond the scope of recollection, their near death experience and the helplessness at being denied the confirmation of security, although their own motives are least offensive for others, is a matter of shame, and enforced subordination.

The bomb blast in the German Bakery, Pune, was a vulgar blasphemy in the name of humanity. So is every other similar incident. Having been to the place myself, I could relate to the green painted woodwork of the small shack like joint, now laying in smithereens. The shrapnel from the explosion did not pierce my body, but left unhealing gashes in my conscience. The stories of the victims who breathed their last betwixt the shambles of debris, memories, unfulfilled dreams, in the last moments of their lives fleeting past, touch our hearts when we read them, draw vows of sympathy, but change neither their calamity, nor ones that will follow. Having lost brothers and sisters in this morbid moment of triumph for those who perpetrated it, I stand helpless for the loss is beyond recovery, reproval or redressal. Wearing "black" to mourn those who could've "lighted" our future, considering the offices they held (or would have, inevitably), is an inappropriate condolence.

Those who survived the carnage, I respect them for their strength and stability of mind, when I myself am so effected at this large a distance, I can hardly imagine their mental condition.

I bow to those who had to leave us, when our world could've been much better a place with them, I pay my obeisance, with all due respect and humility.

God bless their souls.

In memory of

Ankik and Anindyee Dhar

P Sundari

Vinita Gadani

Shilpa Goenka

Shankar Pansare

Gokul Nepali

Saeed Abdul Ghani

Nadia Materinia

"Mortals by form, immortalised by faith."

Rest in Peace...

*Amen*

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The Newtonian Fraudulence

The following article was an entry in the creative writing competition of Riviera '10, that's our cultural festival. Feel free to comment....

When it comes to the art of fraudulent declarations, scams, gimmicks, bamboozles, cheap tricks and flim flams, none can dare accost the legacy of "Sir" Isaac Newton. Of his noteworthy contributions to humanity, the potence to profane knowledge and articulating scientific perversion stand tall among his diaphanous accolades.

The journey on the road less travelled by, for its being abundant in falsehoods began when Newton decided to pockmark scientific journals and manuscripts with his name in bold characters.

If memory serves legend has it that a humble apple named "Alice" deftly damaged the esoterics cranium, ever since he vowed to make it big in terms of science, mathematics, alchemy and every scope he could lay his fingers on. A career in treachery was inevitable, thereafter.

He started off with claims to having discovered "Gravity", a "mysterious" force that had initiated his "Apotheosis". And unlike the Copernican Heliocentric theory, this was as close to reality as he was to sanity. To for a terra firma for his otherwise groundless claims, he spent many days and nights worth of time, locked in his scientific asylum, coming up with the biggest mathematical fraud of all times.. He made this new science SO confusing, the firmest minds on the face of the planet could not grapple its nuances. His close associate, Leibnitz, with whom he staged a "dispute", "leaked" the first manuscripts of his art called "fluxions" by the name of "Calculus".

This was so well enacted a scheme, the Royal Society accepted the new "maths" which Newton published under the name "Philosophia Naturalis Principia Mathematica", in Latin, so a keen reader too would be inefficacious in discriminating fact from fiction.

The society for such mentally depraved individuals accepted the undisputed lampooner with arms wide open. And Calculus made him the most sought after man second to God himself. And within a few years, he complicated calculus beyond the point of no return, and now it stands as an object of fear and worship.

With fame and time in hand, he now spent his time in pursuing his alchemical aphorisms and this avocation turned to obsession in a matter of moments. Almost sure of turning wood into gold using a Gazelle's excretus, he was about to make a groundbaking discovery, yet again. But as is the law of fate, an esoteric is what esoteric does, his interests shifted their whims as oft as the winds change their direction. Playing around with anything scientific from lenses to levers, Newton spared none a moment of solitude and defying all logic, used them to even more whimsical ends.

Another obsessive compulsion he basked in was his desire to prove his complacency, and every theory he whipped up in extra perceptory testimonies, he named it after himself. He was a man whose egotism knew no bounds. Although antithetical to their raison detre, the "Royal Society" of mental marvels left no stones unturned to make sure their Idol's claims not go in vain.

Galloping towards blind idolatory by an insanity stricken populace, he soon earned the title of "Sir", having obtained knighthood. Memorials were built, statues erected, quotations carved and ideas propagated. The world witnessed a man in his primordial facade of brilliance. The words "Newton's Law" suffixed the greatest laws of thermodynamics, motion, optics, chemistry and mathematics. Although false, his claims had the potence to move the masses. What good is a lie that cannot be accepted?

The man of multifaceted interests, members of many hidden societies and leading the known ones, "Sir" Isaac Newton fulfilled his wish, and more. and standing in a rare Gladiatorial obstreperousness, he boldly spelt his conjectures and hypotheses for the world to follow blindly and pile encomiums on. We respect what we do not understand, and that itself made the people worship Newton and Newtonian principles.

His proclamation in a stubborn certitude of the falsehoods he concocted ensured an inherent acceptance of the illogical in part of his followers.

Attaining Godly stature, Newton still stands a manifest of magnificience, and holds the charter for the greatest succesful fraud of time immemorial. The new scientific age proclaims, "Your theory is crazy... But is it crazy enough?"

***

PS: I apologise for all the blasphemous ad hominems these fictitious claims aim at Newton. At heart, I still worship the scientific genius of the man. And always will. "Heil Newton!">

La Connexion Française

Française Raj, is what we call our Probability and Statistics teacher. Why, we do so, is what this post is all about.

The E1 slot for mathematics, has been conveniently converted into a leisure hour where we pursue our interests ranging from completing "Knight tours" or "pending assignments", catching on "lost topics in other subjects" or "hours of sleep" in turn spent catching up with hostel life. So ironically, what are the odds of us battling the nuances of Probability and Stats? Negligible.

Coming to the name, Franci(a)s, as we like to call him is because he speaks like a Frenchman. Atleast, as far as the tempo is concerned. Bordering 25 syllables a second, followed by a second of welcome silence, and then repeating the same, in a cyclic redundance of 50 mins. The gentleman, true to his duty, starts the class without preamble, already uncapping the marker while he is only entering the class, and as soon as he reaches the dias, his motor nerves

launch a furious flurry of verbal and written melee attacks on the already academically sedated minds of the students, who look on with dazed expressions and suspended pens (not to mention senses) and try to keep up with him, flexing to its limit their neuro muscular co-odination.

KronoS and I, sitting at the second last bench (The safest location in the classroom, far enough from the teacher, but not so far as the "last" bench which is perpetually held responsible for any disruption of "order", although is just a prejudice...), cycle through activites like sketching, discussing world/ethereal issues, debating climatic change, coming up with theories, occasionally sleeping, plotting graphs of syllables V/s seconds for the professor or simply letting 50 mins pass to yore.

The times we tried to keep up with the Kalashnikov of syllables, we have, as a team, lost the handicapped battle. So we came up with ingenius ideas to make the class "spicy" (as KronoS likes to call it). We have tried writing with our left hand (didn't go too far, was fun although), mirror writing, random alphabet elimination, and are currently writing in landscape style in the long register, rather than the usual portrait layout. But these attempts fail owing to their inherent inefficacies. The search for the ultimate time consumer is still on.

Tomorrow I drown one moron for every syllable he utters. VIT has sufficient morons to last his 50 mins of furious wordplay. Maybe more.

Iswearifhespokeanyfasterhewouldbehumming.

Au revoir!

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The Tandoori Picturization

The mess is bad on Tuesdays, everyone knows that. Now that forces us simple and food loving people to eat outside. This Tuesday happened to be no different, but for the overlapping of the cultural fest of VIT, Riviera 2010. The fest in itself was awesome, a nice change over the dull and monotonous college life.
Coming back to the dinner, the location for dinner today was decided to be Dhaba Express, the order was standard. The usual. Tandoori with coke, with some side dish and naans thrown in. Which happened to be Rogan Josh today, due to some incident in the day which required a minor treat on Reaper's part. The incident in itself is will be kept under wraps here, as the reaper feels the leaking of the same will cause a lot of 'lucky @$$' comments being thrown over the net. The Dinner. Well, it was all usual, until something very unexpected occurred. When we had walked in, I had noticed a girl, XD, sitting amongst the diners, while we were eating, I noticed the same girl walking up to our table in a way so that it took the longest possible time to get here. Her expression was that of a teenager just being given a dare to 'peck' a guy from her class, needless to say, she was blushing. So, very cautiously, she walks up to our table and greets the Reaper with a heartfelt 'hello'. The rest of the conversation will be presented in an unabridged dialogue-format to allow you to be impervious to my comments that would have crept in if I had to write the same in a reportage format.

Lady in White Tee with Huge Red Lips printed on the front: Hello!

The Grin Reaper: Hi!

LIWTWHRLPOTF: I am sorry to disturb you, but a few days back I saw you perform in the .....

TGR: Acoustic Vibes!

LIWTWHRLPOTF: yeah! What was the name of your band again?

TGR: Afterdark..... * smiles *

LIWTWHRLPOTF: Yeah! I loved your performance . You guys were superb! If you dont mind, could I please have a picture with you?? [ Somebody (=me) hoots in the distance]

TGR: Yeah Sure.... But....Now?

LIWTWHRLPOTF: Of Course not...

TGR: Please wait for a min, I am almost done here. [ He was not, we had just started ]

LIWTWHRLPOTF: Thanks!!

And she left, what followed next was 5 mins of extreme suppression of imba laughter, Reaper was elated beyond words and the colour of his face was starting to reach alarmingly low wavelengths. She was his first fan, This was probably the happiest he had felt in months, who would not be?
Anyways, as soon as he was finished, the next problem showed up. How to attract the attention of the girl to the fact that he was ready without looking too 'pushy'? Well, he had no idea, I am not sure why. He kept giving her awkward slanted glances for 2 mins and then he finally realized, after I muttered instructions to him in between my rounds of silent laughter, that he had to look at her with his face and eyes pointing in the same direction. And needless to say, it worked. Mr. Reaper proceeded to her with dignity and joined her for a little chat on Riviera, Food and her college...

Nearly 10 mins later we were on our way back to the hostel and our newly found celebrity was beyond himself with elation. The lady, as it turns out was from another college and had come here for some events in Riviera, and as per the records, she was doing bio-tech from somewhere nearby. When I asked the reaper of her name, his hands suddenly reached for his head and he had a look on his face which is often seen after one realizes that the 10 mark question he skipped in the exam was as easy as a walk in the park.... After six long seconds, punctuated with hysterical laughter by yours truly, he finally remembered her name, although I am not too sure of it, but I took his word for it....

And That is how The Grin Reaper met his first ever fan.

Jftr, Thursday mess is bad too.

Ciao!>

Cogito Ergo Sum

I think, therefore I am, I think

I am, therefore I think,

I think, I am, therefore...

Therefore I think, I am,

Am I, therefore, I think?

Am I therefore thinking?

I doubt, therefore I may be,

I may be thinking,

I am thinking, maybe...

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Project Pondy

Like good movies and Tiramisu, holidays in VIT are a rarity celebrating their profound uniqueness. They stand out in the academic calander as would a floral south Indian shirt in front of a grey building. We, like starved hounds pounded on this opportunity, and decided without much preamble to settle for a trip to the french colonised land of beaches, Pondicherry. So Lord KronoS, PK, J, Siddhant and me, the entourage, proceeded towards unknown waters.

The place was 5 hours and 2 buses away. The journey started piling incidents worth narrating rightaway. The first bus was a preposterous collection of people, due to their sheer number. And as J reassures, the fantasy movie being played in an alien tongue was actually a Vijay starring Tamil blockbuster. The movies itself deserves a blog to its improbabilities and impossibilities.

After a tire replacement, in which we climbed the rear end wrungs of the bus and posed as, well, insanity stricken youth, we reach the humble township of Vellupuram. (After a while, they all sound the same, i swear...)The second bus was a documentary worthy Tamillion circus of obese contortionists in outrageous numbers and equally repulsive demeanor. We were, by some roll of fate, to stand throughout the journey. And what I say is not an exaggeration, but a mere approximation of the true payload the bus carried. Every jarring piece of metal clutched on for support, bodies pressed in directional and merciless unanimity. (A gentleman wearing a shirt looking at which itself was making me sweat in the conceivable heat it would generate, was flaunting his sleek chinese mobile with 2 screens, and cacaphonous speakers in a myriad of

Tamil chartbusters from the devil's personal playlist). The executive cattle class journey, bringing to question the bus's skeletal integrity and the conductor's morality ended in an hours time, leaving us off at the main bus stand, Pondicherry. Amen.

Lord KronoS, on his insistance, led us to Mission Street in a promise of "awesome food" and "2 wheelers for rent". Surviving the turmoil in the bus left us starved, so we chose to satiate our hunger, first. The intersecting streets were no respite to the caboodle of 5 hungry travellers, as they ended us going in circles, rather, rectangles, considering the geometry. All the restaurants, flaunting flashy names, were disappointing, in no particular order. Due to the Pongal holidays, all they served was South Indian thalis. And trust me, nothing kills appetite like the smell of curry leaves in every frikkin food item. Not having found any place to eat something we wouldn't get in Vellore itself, the next strategical move was to acquire our own conveyance. Bikes.

The 2 wheeler rental place was run by a demented local with serious management issues (In my defense, he ran to and fro from the stand to his "counter" some 30 metres apart to fetch the keys of the 3 bikes, once for each bike, which evades any logical approach to the situation...) After an hour and half of standing there with blank expressions and empty stomachs, he managed to, in exchange of 2 VIT ID cards and a Club card, give us 3 vehicles for 2 days. The Kinetic honda posed certain technical glitches while KronoS took charge of an Activa and Siddhant, of the Glamour (Considering his immodest fast track shades, i'd rather say pun intended... ;). I preferred to sit passive, and comment (and also navigate). After splitting involuntarily in the maze like roads, and fuelling the vehicles, we managed to regroup and headed off to "Gandhi Rock beach".

A misnomer, was soon evident. The statue of Gandhi in its black marble brilliance was not sporting the contemporary rock sign \m/. The "rock" in the name was of a more geological relevance than my musically inclined conscience had interpreted. And soon, the 5 were busy clicking off with their 2, 2, 5 and 9.3 megapixels. The breeze was ethereal. KronoS knew a good seaside restaurant there, and we headed to it without hesitation. Only to face disappointment at its personal best. The place was taken over by a handloom stall. Rats.

Another requisite was accomodation. KronoS, ad libbing, took charge and led us 10 kms from the city to Aurovil beach. Then began a sporadic search for a room, and we crossed the Pondicherry Engineering College 5 times (One way, i.e), finally managing to reach a place that did have shelter. The more mentally sobre individual owning the place granted us two rooms for a valid sum. The super-friendly puppy, instigating my canine phobia, was not much consolation to the earlier homelessness we basked in. The accomodation consisted of 2 huts, supported on stone columns, made fully of wood, bamboo, dry grass and fisherman's ropes. The inside was a small space with 2 matresses, and a hanging table fan and single light source. Perfect, in all sense.

Orly cafe, a french restaurant (Discovered in a fit of explorative instincts, and the power of freedom bestowed by the two wheelers), with dim lights at night, in an intertwining locality, looked too arcane to dine in. So at last we found respite in another restaurant that served decent enough chicken and prawns.

The next day started off with a visit to the nearby Aurovil beach in the morning, minus the company of PK and J Sid. After a quick succession of camera clicks and sand wading, we returned to the shack. The friendly owner directed us to Orly cafe for breakfast, and we retraced the last night's path to it without delay. The place, in the morning brightness looked eniterly different now. With a menu spelt in Francais, and a monthly French newspaper lying on the table, the place was memorable, by all means. Ironically, they didn't have "French toast" on the menu, but compensated for by the godlike black filter coffee. All the people here, as opposed to Vellorians, turned out to be really soft spoken and kind. Asking for directions to the nearest beach, the Orly people told us of the "Fisherman's beach", soon to be the most memorable moment.

With boats upturned, shells pockmarking the sand, and waves crashing on the immodest rocks, the beach was perfect to our need, in the solitude it provided as opposed to the rouhaha in every other beach, littered garbage, quarter wits relieving themselves into the now timid ocean. Leaving my favorite oshos (Blending deviously into the sands) next to a boats carcass, I let the first waves caress my feet, wiping off the sand (not to mention making the next round of sand more sticky) and imparting a calm serenity. I devoured the breeze and the sparkling spray of ocean water, for a moment using only the sense of touch and olfactory faculties to comprehend my surroundings. This poetic reception of the moment was hacked into by the shouts of the rest, frolicking in jolly abandon, piercing the cresendoal cadenza of the incoming waves. We did what any visitor to the place would, and rather than sitting on the rocks contemplating the theories of chaos and determinism, in nature's meditative manifests, (as would a localite reading well his philosophy and metaphysics), we produced our cameras and cell phones and clicked away in a frenzy of photographic documentation of the trip. Some memorable, modest, immodest, obstreperous, genuine, forced, illogical, pure imbecile poses later, having traversed the length of the enclosure between two jarring rock accumulations, the next move was to sobre up, and vacate the shack we crashed in. After a frantic search for the kinetic key in the infinitive expanse of the cottage for around 45 mins, and finding it lying in all humility, where KronoS had kept it, and having forgotten due to "untraceable reasons", we left for the city again, in search for good food, without much hope courtesy to the last days fallacy.

PK, now having taken charge of the mechanically dilapidated Kinetic, ridding J Sid of his obligation to navigate this mount of no consequence, and also being in a noob driver, was soon out of sight of the rearview mirrors, which already proclaimed that the objects in the glass were closer than they appeared, leading us to wonder exactly how far behind he must be. Glitches apart, we reached the seafood restaurant called "SEAWAY", ran in, and then walked out without much delay too, when they revealed they had only a couple of dishes, none to our liking. "Salt and Pepper", a better dine, provided for our hunger. (They charged us for just one Indian bread, while we had around 7, which was a nice gesture on their part). Finally, with leftover fuel in bikes, and time, in our hands, we dispersed into the labyrinthine roads of Mission street. KronoS and me, in search of my beloved Tiramisu, scathed the place of bakeries, and finally found one. As fate would have it, we did not find what we were looking for, and settled for a mild compensation, which actually turned out to be some cook's sad sense of humour, and thankfully, a strong espresso covered up the dessert folly.

Bus back to Vellore was a euphemised version of the previous buses we encountered, and people were more or less the same, visually and ethically. Somehow them being packed closer and closer does not seem to offend an iota of sensibility. Surrounded by more people than your vision registers, with them conversing and jeering in a language you don't understand, and your mind whispering to you that the next 5 hours will be spent in such specifications, is no respite. The familiar township of Vellore, once in sight, imparted a feeling of homeliness I never associated to it in conscience. The blue of the VIT FacB was nowhere close to the "blue" we associate to its workings. VIT, finally. Home (as of now, atleast).

Reminds me of a closed Knight's Tour on a chessboard of experiences and memories. And as we form the diamonds and squares, we collect memories that last forever, and confine ourselves into the experiences, immersing in them for an eternity, in some part of our minds, and hearts.

I take the final step into the hostel gate, staring at the face of a regular-VIT-nonchalant-Anna sitting on the guard desk, senses set to snooze.

Register entry. Back to room. Closed tour. Pun intended.

R.I.P

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