You know what I would like to be? Not a captain of industry, not a professional, not even a minister (however prime it may be). I would like to be a Maoist guerilla. And I do not say this out of principles, convictions, beliefs or disillusionment with system (these would be a good reason to put forth for the consumption of Medha Patkar and her ilk). Rather, its because I see scores of benefits in that profession which are unimaginable in any other.
Now let me justify my contention. The Sabse Bada advantage – profusion of clean air, water and other environs at workplace. Just look around your workplace – re-circulated a/c air, artificial lighting, a workstyle that rewards you with paunches, backaches and soda glasses; I am already green with envy, no pun intended.
Next, lets say you are totally peeved with someone – irritated to such an extent that on any given day, you would give your right arm to strangle him. Now what can you and I do? Well nothing more than gnash our teeth, use a select vocabulary (that would cause even a longshoreman to blush) and then bottle up the anger; or maybe dissipate it over many days and people (poor siblings, offsprings and spouse). But the mighty Maoist, well he can swagger down the road, break a bone or two, and if time and mood permits, snuffle out a life; and then merrily go the green way back to his work place. As a line in a movie goes “Even the police and army has to produce an account of spent bullets; they (Maoists) need answer to no one”.
Not yet ready for conversion? Let me give you still more reasons. How many of us have spoken with our representative (MLA/MP) on equal terms? Forget the equal terms part, how many of us have spoken to “our” representative, exchanged our contact numbers etc? Do I hear shuffling of feet and uncomfortable silence? But if you are a Maoist, you can, safely ensconced in your forest refuge, exchange phone numbers with the Home Minister of the country; maybe even make a fuss about bad reception in the forest and have the service providers erect a separate tower for your communications.
I am sure there must be many converts now, but most of you would have some misgivings – what when we want to “hop the job”? What if we want to settle down, marry and get elected into the assembly and parliament; in short go the next logical step in our career? Do not worry, the GoI, in its enthusiasm to reduce unemployment and make Maoism a viable job provider, has instituted periodic “pardoning sessions”. The sessions are conducted the following way – You and your family (come on, equal representation and gender neutrality was first embraced by the Maoists; when you can have couples in the same company, why not couples in the Maoist movement?) and a smattering of your friends contact the local authorities, con the local MLA/DGP/Collector to meet you at a conference hall, get hold of the ever eager media, make loud announcements and presto, your slate is wiped clean and the society is presented another model citizen to emulate by the powers that be. If only Houdini acts were this good. And the best part of this meeting, the Maoists can also clear their warehouse of all the old guns and ammunition that is so antiquated that only the Indian Police would use it. I challenge anyone to beat, forget beating, atleast match such a customer-centric offer.
I am pretty sure no bigwig reads my blog, but incase this post somehow reaches the right ears, and if those ears have some grey matter between them, may I present to you that even if you are not able to crush the Maoist movement, atleast do not make it so appealing. The software industry could soon take a big hit.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Why do I blog?
This is one question I keep asking myself everytime I set forth on the task to group letters and express ideas, especially if the task results in considerable use of time and effort. What do I expect to achieve – or do I expect to achieve anything at all?
Do I believe that through my writing, I can make a difference? I would love to believe so – that the world is hanging on every word I write and that my articles are all the catalyst that this weary world needs. However, I find evidence to the contrary. If the world were to be converted into godliness by a book, post the scripting of Ramayana, the world should have emptied itself of men (metamorphosis of humans into divinity is the event I am hinting at here) and no further word would have been penned on paper. No, I am not looking for converts.
Or is it that I am looking for a bestseller somewhere down the line – something in the likes of “Letters of Vamsi – a compilation from the best of the blogs”? Come on guys, I may be a conceited megalomaniac (you may notice that I do not deny that I write bestseller material) but I am not a total idiot (when anyone can access my blog and read it, why would anyone buy such a book, even if it is published. I think apologies are due to my grandchildren – sorry guys, you lost out on a big chunk of patrimony, all because your dumb grand-dad decided to blog).
So why is it that I blog? On one of the first weekends after I joined my job, I decided to go home. It was a long weekend; a festival in conjuncture with the weekend gave a total of 4 day holiday. As I got off the local and directed myself towards the main station, I realized with a shocking suddenness how utterly indistinctive I was – surrounded on all sides by people in the same age group, with same or similar profile, income and sophistication and in some cases, even the same mobile. I could be replaced in an instant with anyone in those thousand and no one would even notice the change. “What is it in me that I consider unique, that I believe would help me stand out from the crowd?” I asked myself. One, I could claim my pedigree (oh, and I flaunt it with great pride, being with The Master is no banality by any extent of imagination) but that was bestowed rather than earned. And two, I had my voice – I don’t mean I am a singer, not in my wildest dreams would I imagine myself drumming up soulful tunes – I mean I believe I have a way with words. “Meri Awaaz Hi Mera Pehchan” I would say.
Writing the blog indicate those moments when my “excel-agnostic” part of the brain is in ascendance; those moments when the dull grey of pure math succumbs to multitude of colours of language; moments that are few, hard to come by, non remunerative and yet they represent my effort to reach out towards sunshine from the sterile atmosphere that today’s office is.
The blog is independent of me; it doesn’t matter to it whether I post daily or yearly, elation and depression are unknown immeasurables for it. But to me, writing the blog makes me whole; publishing it gives me added joy.
I do not write to exist; I write to prove my existence
Do I believe that through my writing, I can make a difference? I would love to believe so – that the world is hanging on every word I write and that my articles are all the catalyst that this weary world needs. However, I find evidence to the contrary. If the world were to be converted into godliness by a book, post the scripting of Ramayana, the world should have emptied itself of men (metamorphosis of humans into divinity is the event I am hinting at here) and no further word would have been penned on paper. No, I am not looking for converts.
Or is it that I am looking for a bestseller somewhere down the line – something in the likes of “Letters of Vamsi – a compilation from the best of the blogs”? Come on guys, I may be a conceited megalomaniac (you may notice that I do not deny that I write bestseller material) but I am not a total idiot (when anyone can access my blog and read it, why would anyone buy such a book, even if it is published. I think apologies are due to my grandchildren – sorry guys, you lost out on a big chunk of patrimony, all because your dumb grand-dad decided to blog).
So why is it that I blog? On one of the first weekends after I joined my job, I decided to go home. It was a long weekend; a festival in conjuncture with the weekend gave a total of 4 day holiday. As I got off the local and directed myself towards the main station, I realized with a shocking suddenness how utterly indistinctive I was – surrounded on all sides by people in the same age group, with same or similar profile, income and sophistication and in some cases, even the same mobile. I could be replaced in an instant with anyone in those thousand and no one would even notice the change. “What is it in me that I consider unique, that I believe would help me stand out from the crowd?” I asked myself. One, I could claim my pedigree (oh, and I flaunt it with great pride, being with The Master is no banality by any extent of imagination) but that was bestowed rather than earned. And two, I had my voice – I don’t mean I am a singer, not in my wildest dreams would I imagine myself drumming up soulful tunes – I mean I believe I have a way with words. “Meri Awaaz Hi Mera Pehchan” I would say.
Writing the blog indicate those moments when my “excel-agnostic” part of the brain is in ascendance; those moments when the dull grey of pure math succumbs to multitude of colours of language; moments that are few, hard to come by, non remunerative and yet they represent my effort to reach out towards sunshine from the sterile atmosphere that today’s office is.
The blog is independent of me; it doesn’t matter to it whether I post daily or yearly, elation and depression are unknown immeasurables for it. But to me, writing the blog makes me whole; publishing it gives me added joy.
I do not write to exist; I write to prove my existence
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Emergence of Dr.Watson
What a misnomer, the name of the movie “Sherlock Holmes” I mean – the caption of this post would better describe it. That it took better part of a century for anyone to appreciably tweak the characters of the most renowned detective piece is an ode to Arthur Conan Doyle. Oh, I love Arthur Conan Doyle, and I do not mean the Abhishek – Vivek Dostana kind (even if it were, this would be a new genre, one involving a man aged 27 and a man dead for close to a century). He is the one, who has almost single handedly, scripted the contours of an entire genre of literature.
Sherlock Holmes, as we knew him from Doyle, was a bit of a quirk. Quirk he remains in the modern version too, but the similarities are limited to that. Sherlock Holmes of the old is a strong willed individual, a quintessential chauvinist who believed that the female species is a capricious, dangerous and of lower intelligence in that succession. And Watson of old had a bumbling persona, good natured but a duffer, a sort of court jester for Sherlock Holmes. In the latest avatar though, Sherlock Holmes has had his edges rubbed and Watson, his sides filled. Thus you find Sherlock Holmes romancing (with the only lady known to have bettered him!! And whose looks are killing; this would not have mattered to Sherlock Holmes though) and Watson appearing as a savior of sorts at times of duress. Sometimes I worry that this modern pastime of sizing down the genius and hyping up the ordinary would soon result in our intellectual space being as dreary as the physical landscape; the mountains pounded, valleys filled, rivers dammed and all you have left is a vast undulating featureless plains – predictable but boring, a communist haven of perfect equality.
And once again I find that I am back with philosophy. It’s my belief that what we lack with facts, we make up with pseudo-wisdom. It’s been a while since I have watched the movie and I cannot recall the plot and protagonists even if my life were at stake. What is distinct in my memory, however, is the environs in which I watched the movie. So let me stick to facts (coloured though the lens of memories; even the worse of the moments look passable in “memory view”) and elucidate on the cinema hall scene in Chennai.
For those of you whose knowledge of movie halls in Chennai is recollections the of doyens of the yore, let me inform you that your memories are defunct; they are as good a guidepost to fine movie viewing as a tour guidebook published during Asoka’s reign. I have heard people with fond memories of Casino, Woodlands and Melony; rave about them in front of me and you stand a high chance of being murdered – flea infested, rickety chaired, groaning fanned hellholes, I would call them. Devi (I watched Sherlock Holmes there) was a part of this also-ran crowd till recently someone at the top (management) sat under the Bodhi tree and realized patron comfort is a priority in service sector. And so you had a massive changeover; the new look is seen to be believed.
The feel good factor starts with the booking – unlike Sathyam (THE new destination for movie buffs of Chennai) that believes that it caters only to high end populace and relegates the booking of Rs 10 ticket to an unseen cranny, Devi allows for tickets for all price ranges to be booked online. Go to the theatre and the happy state of mind is reinforced; ample parking, helpful staff and cheery demeanor is in air. Devi has metamorphosed into a multiplex and while I heard people go over the board in their enthusiasm to compliment the main theatre, I will be talking about Devi Bala. The minute you make your grand entrance, you are hit by a blast of cold air, the management’s way of clarifying that the a/c mentioned next to the theatre name made its inroads into the hall. The next thing that strikes you is the chairs – no more the rickety metallic variety with an ultra thin layer of foam that pretends to be a cushion; the chairs might have seen better days, but there is no denying the fact that they are not past their prime. And then you look up – a huge disappointment stares at you by the way of the screen – why I remember the screen in our hostel open air theatre was bigger. And this set off a chain of reminiscences, fact that I was in the movie with some other friends who had passed through the same hallowed open air theatre might be partially to blame. So here we were (by we, I don’t mean just the set of us friends but all the audience, predominantly youth, in general) in a largely empty, freezing theatre, mega on sound but mini on screen. Part of the unique experience was that the constitutionally guaranteed freedom to movement was not curtailed and the availability of wide selection of seats was used to the optimal advantage. The experience took me back to the good old college days when space was never a constraint.
The hostel days – yes the good old hostel days. It’s Saturday and you are back from the mandir. You eagerly rush to the quadrangle and look upwards towards the terrace; a speaker being set up there and your joy reaches the heavens. Dinner is then an eagerly awaited affair, if only to get it out of the way. And then, under the starry sky (Parthi being what it is, you can, clouds willing, get more than the fair share of 3000 stars that are supposed to be visible to the naked eye. On the grace of rustic environs….), with a filled belly, a packet of munches for accompaniment, gentle evening breeze caressing your face you get to see the movie. And it gets better, for you are surrounded by your buddies; to laugh with the movie or at it, you end up enjoying no matter what. What wouldn’t I give for those days (don’t take me literally, I want my job and refuse to part with my salary except if you offer me one better:) )
I have meandered quite a bit and people tell me it shows bad narration skills if the starting and ending thoughts are not cogent. A conformist that I am, let me close the loop, loop the hoop and skip the rope. Well, I think I must end by asking the director (or the producer?) to change the name of a movie that is already released, analyzed and commented on by better brains than me. It seems kind of dumb to do so, so let me close by, well, closing (I wanted to put something awesomely humourous here but my tired neurons refuse to co-operate. Next time I promise that I’ll pen a humourous ending first)
Sherlock Holmes, as we knew him from Doyle, was a bit of a quirk. Quirk he remains in the modern version too, but the similarities are limited to that. Sherlock Holmes of the old is a strong willed individual, a quintessential chauvinist who believed that the female species is a capricious, dangerous and of lower intelligence in that succession. And Watson of old had a bumbling persona, good natured but a duffer, a sort of court jester for Sherlock Holmes. In the latest avatar though, Sherlock Holmes has had his edges rubbed and Watson, his sides filled. Thus you find Sherlock Holmes romancing (with the only lady known to have bettered him!! And whose looks are killing; this would not have mattered to Sherlock Holmes though) and Watson appearing as a savior of sorts at times of duress. Sometimes I worry that this modern pastime of sizing down the genius and hyping up the ordinary would soon result in our intellectual space being as dreary as the physical landscape; the mountains pounded, valleys filled, rivers dammed and all you have left is a vast undulating featureless plains – predictable but boring, a communist haven of perfect equality.
And once again I find that I am back with philosophy. It’s my belief that what we lack with facts, we make up with pseudo-wisdom. It’s been a while since I have watched the movie and I cannot recall the plot and protagonists even if my life were at stake. What is distinct in my memory, however, is the environs in which I watched the movie. So let me stick to facts (coloured though the lens of memories; even the worse of the moments look passable in “memory view”) and elucidate on the cinema hall scene in Chennai.
For those of you whose knowledge of movie halls in Chennai is recollections the of doyens of the yore, let me inform you that your memories are defunct; they are as good a guidepost to fine movie viewing as a tour guidebook published during Asoka’s reign. I have heard people with fond memories of Casino, Woodlands and Melony; rave about them in front of me and you stand a high chance of being murdered – flea infested, rickety chaired, groaning fanned hellholes, I would call them. Devi (I watched Sherlock Holmes there) was a part of this also-ran crowd till recently someone at the top (management) sat under the Bodhi tree and realized patron comfort is a priority in service sector. And so you had a massive changeover; the new look is seen to be believed.
The feel good factor starts with the booking – unlike Sathyam (THE new destination for movie buffs of Chennai) that believes that it caters only to high end populace and relegates the booking of Rs 10 ticket to an unseen cranny, Devi allows for tickets for all price ranges to be booked online. Go to the theatre and the happy state of mind is reinforced; ample parking, helpful staff and cheery demeanor is in air. Devi has metamorphosed into a multiplex and while I heard people go over the board in their enthusiasm to compliment the main theatre, I will be talking about Devi Bala. The minute you make your grand entrance, you are hit by a blast of cold air, the management’s way of clarifying that the a/c mentioned next to the theatre name made its inroads into the hall. The next thing that strikes you is the chairs – no more the rickety metallic variety with an ultra thin layer of foam that pretends to be a cushion; the chairs might have seen better days, but there is no denying the fact that they are not past their prime. And then you look up – a huge disappointment stares at you by the way of the screen – why I remember the screen in our hostel open air theatre was bigger. And this set off a chain of reminiscences, fact that I was in the movie with some other friends who had passed through the same hallowed open air theatre might be partially to blame. So here we were (by we, I don’t mean just the set of us friends but all the audience, predominantly youth, in general) in a largely empty, freezing theatre, mega on sound but mini on screen. Part of the unique experience was that the constitutionally guaranteed freedom to movement was not curtailed and the availability of wide selection of seats was used to the optimal advantage. The experience took me back to the good old college days when space was never a constraint.
The hostel days – yes the good old hostel days. It’s Saturday and you are back from the mandir. You eagerly rush to the quadrangle and look upwards towards the terrace; a speaker being set up there and your joy reaches the heavens. Dinner is then an eagerly awaited affair, if only to get it out of the way. And then, under the starry sky (Parthi being what it is, you can, clouds willing, get more than the fair share of 3000 stars that are supposed to be visible to the naked eye. On the grace of rustic environs….), with a filled belly, a packet of munches for accompaniment, gentle evening breeze caressing your face you get to see the movie. And it gets better, for you are surrounded by your buddies; to laugh with the movie or at it, you end up enjoying no matter what. What wouldn’t I give for those days (don’t take me literally, I want my job and refuse to part with my salary except if you offer me one better:) )
I have meandered quite a bit and people tell me it shows bad narration skills if the starting and ending thoughts are not cogent. A conformist that I am, let me close the loop, loop the hoop and skip the rope. Well, I think I must end by asking the director (or the producer?) to change the name of a movie that is already released, analyzed and commented on by better brains than me. It seems kind of dumb to do so, so let me close by, well, closing (I wanted to put something awesomely humourous here but my tired neurons refuse to co-operate. Next time I promise that I’ll pen a humourous ending first)
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)