Music in my head: Ef - Två
Today's weather: Snow predicted on Friday.
I'm freezing. I'm studying. I'm chopping vegetables. I'm scanning books. I'm sleeping. I'm eating cheap pizza. I'm bitching about life. I'm counting costs. The preceding is the basis for the vector space that my life has now become. Everything I do is a linear combination of all these things.
Grad school has thus made me a nerd. However, I am told (by many reliable sources) that a nerd who plays the guitar is chick fodder. So to keep my spirits up, I still play the guitar occasionally and try to conjure up a smoking hot audience in my head. But when I close my eyes, all I can think of is Orthogonal vectors and Canonical forms. I have been infected.
But this infection is good for me. I have a midterm tomorrow, and I hope that this one, like the one last week, goes well. So I'm trying to do everything I did the night before the last midterm tonight. And that was when I wrote the previous post.
But I was not blessed by the Flying Spaghetti Monster with a brilliant inspiration today. I tried to come up with some nice riffs, but nothing sounded good. Maybe I'm not supposed to do well tomorrow. Or maybe I'm supposed to do even better than I did last time. Only FSM knows.
But I'll be damned if I give up without a fight. I had a bunch of recordings of stuff from happier, better days in Trichy, a place that seems almost idyllic in my head. Shame on me. So I took those recordings, cleaned them up on audacity and uploaded them. Here they are.
If I don't do well in the midterm tomorrow, the first thing I'll do is come back and delete this post. The second thing I'll do is shake my fist (Homer Simpson style) at humanity.
Four Stages edit by krishnac
Valley of Flowers by krishnac
Sleep project by krishnac
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November 03, 2010
October 26, 2010
Grad School Therapy
Music in my head: Steven Wilson - Home in Negative
Today's weather: Getting colder
It's been a long time. Why? Grad life sucks.
I've been doing homework after homework, and after a point, it just seems an exercise in futility. What's the point? So I decided to mix things up a little. It had been a long, long time since I really did something with my guitar, so I decided to record some shit, to relax, maybe reduce the rate of brain cell death.
And I found that just closing your eyes and playing whatever comes to your mind is extremely relaxing, therapeutic even. I accidentally played this riff with a nice ring to it, and decided to set one of my old poems to tune over it. What do you know, it actually sounded half decent. Then I decide to become really pretentious, so I add a little slide guitar bit in, using a small bottle of mouth-freshener as my slide. Add some echo on audacity, and voila. Here it is. Listen to it, ignore the crappiness of the recording, and tell me how it is. You'll be contributing to my therapy!
Moondust by krishnac
Today's weather: Getting colder
It's been a long time. Why? Grad life sucks.
I've been doing homework after homework, and after a point, it just seems an exercise in futility. What's the point? So I decided to mix things up a little. It had been a long, long time since I really did something with my guitar, so I decided to record some shit, to relax, maybe reduce the rate of brain cell death.
And I found that just closing your eyes and playing whatever comes to your mind is extremely relaxing, therapeutic even. I accidentally played this riff with a nice ring to it, and decided to set one of my old poems to tune over it. What do you know, it actually sounded half decent. Then I decide to become really pretentious, so I add a little slide guitar bit in, using a small bottle of mouth-freshener as my slide. Add some echo on audacity, and voila. Here it is. Listen to it, ignore the crappiness of the recording, and tell me how it is. You'll be contributing to my therapy!
Moondust by krishnac
July 20, 2010
Inception Inspection : Nolan's dirty secret
Music in my head: Balmorhea - Settler
Today's weather: Barsaat.
This post is to set the record straight with the entire world (its not another 1 Night in Paris, as the title may suggest to some of you pervs). It is to claim the recognition that we truly deserve. You talk about the awesomeness of Inception, and I agree with that. But when you heap praises on Chris Nolan for the concept, you automatically incur the collective wrath of the makers of revolutionary (short) movie 'Voyage35'.
The brains behind the film, a couple of my friends and me, had a series of discussions- ranging from spiritual to gastronomic - on all matters related to dreams, especially exploring lucid dreaming and astral projection. And we actually downloaded this pdf, which gives you pointers on how to induce lucid dreaming. We worked on those pointers for a while, and one fateful day, locked ourselves in a room, ate a modified Haldiram's Bhel Puri (our sedative. Eat your hat, Yusuf), and fell asleep to Riceboy Sleeps by Jonsi and Alex, the most sleep-inducing album we could find. And then, we shared a dream, the likes of which would've turned Martin Luther King pink. Our kick was the 2 pm power-cut. No elaborate 'kick'ing mechanism involved (that's the difference between the movies and real life, isn't it?).
Although we don't remember what the dream was (except that it involved induction motors, Tricia Helfer and Bovonto), what's important here, is that we shared a dream before even before Cobb was in his frigging limbo, claiming to have built the city (who's he trying to fool, by the way? You're stuck in a dream for eternity with your wife, who is called 'Mal' for God's sake, and you expect us to believe that you're building a city with her). I could point out a hundred other loopholes in the plot, but who has the time?
I realise, at this point, most of you will have, in your heart of hearts, developed such a feeling of ill-will towards Nolan, that if Facebook pages had 'dislike' buttons, you would've clicked the hell out of it through your own account and ten other proxy accounts. But we are classy people. We urge you to desist. Come on, give the man credit for directing the movie. He's carried the idea satisfactorily enough. We admit that although we came up with the concept, if you watch our movie and then watch Inception, you'll notice that Inception has better camera angles at certain times, and better sets. That's the big bucks doing their work.
Now, a plea to Mr. Nolan. We won't go all Chetan Bhagat on you and demand that you give us all your money and put our names on the credits. We want only some of your money, a million each for the three of us would be nice. A small mention somewhere in the credits wouldn't hurt either, but you could replace the honourable mention with half a mil. No one reads the credits anyway. We know that you, like us, are a classy guy, and will do the right thing. Just comment on this post and we'll tell you how to send us the money. You should know that the money would go into paying for my Masters' Degree, and buying books. After all, education is the most important thing in the world (next to 'building cities', that is).
P.S: Inception was brilliant beyond words. I'm watching it again today.
P.P.S: The next post will deal with how the Wachowski brothers stole our idea for the original Matrix movie, and then wrote the sequels themselves.
.
Today's weather: Barsaat.
This post is to set the record straight with the entire world (its not another 1 Night in Paris, as the title may suggest to some of you pervs). It is to claim the recognition that we truly deserve. You talk about the awesomeness of Inception, and I agree with that. But when you heap praises on Chris Nolan for the concept, you automatically incur the collective wrath of the makers of revolutionary (short) movie 'Voyage35'.
The brains behind the film, a couple of my friends and me, had a series of discussions- ranging from spiritual to gastronomic - on all matters related to dreams, especially exploring lucid dreaming and astral projection. And we actually downloaded this pdf, which gives you pointers on how to induce lucid dreaming. We worked on those pointers for a while, and one fateful day, locked ourselves in a room, ate a modified Haldiram's Bhel Puri (our sedative. Eat your hat, Yusuf), and fell asleep to Riceboy Sleeps by Jonsi and Alex, the most sleep-inducing album we could find. And then, we shared a dream, the likes of which would've turned Martin Luther King pink. Our kick was the 2 pm power-cut. No elaborate 'kick'ing mechanism involved (that's the difference between the movies and real life, isn't it?).
Although we don't remember what the dream was (except that it involved induction motors, Tricia Helfer and Bovonto), what's important here, is that we shared a dream before even before Cobb was in his frigging limbo, claiming to have built the city (who's he trying to fool, by the way? You're stuck in a dream for eternity with your wife, who is called 'Mal' for God's sake, and you expect us to believe that you're building a city with her). I could point out a hundred other loopholes in the plot, but who has the time?
I realise, at this point, most of you will have, in your heart of hearts, developed such a feeling of ill-will towards Nolan, that if Facebook pages had 'dislike' buttons, you would've clicked the hell out of it through your own account and ten other proxy accounts. But we are classy people. We urge you to desist. Come on, give the man credit for directing the movie. He's carried the idea satisfactorily enough. We admit that although we came up with the concept, if you watch our movie and then watch Inception, you'll notice that Inception has better camera angles at certain times, and better sets. That's the big bucks doing their work.
Now, a plea to Mr. Nolan. We won't go all Chetan Bhagat on you and demand that you give us all your money and put our names on the credits. We want only some of your money, a million each for the three of us would be nice. A small mention somewhere in the credits wouldn't hurt either, but you could replace the honourable mention with half a mil. No one reads the credits anyway. We know that you, like us, are a classy guy, and will do the right thing. Just comment on this post and we'll tell you how to send us the money. You should know that the money would go into paying for my Masters' Degree, and buying books. After all, education is the most important thing in the world (next to 'building cities', that is).
P.S: Inception was brilliant beyond words. I'm watching it again today.
P.P.S: The next post will deal with how the Wachowski brothers stole our idea for the original Matrix movie, and then wrote the sequels themselves.
.
June 09, 2010
Et tu, Karaoke?
Music in my head: Anathema - Hindsight
Today's weather: Back to normal, after two anomalous, pleasant days.
For a guy who has nothing to do, I've been doing quite a lot lately. I went to another party, at an Asian themed restaurant- complete with Karaoke, except that they'd hired two people to Karaoke for the guests. There has been talk of hiring super-sophisticated French-Italian-Gourmet trained 'Eaters' for guests. It's all hush-hush now, but the little birds say that the illustrious wait-list includes such rich and famous people as Lalit Modi who're looking to spend their shady money in every way possible.
So I sat there listening to an insipid version of 'I want to break free', sipping on a glass of beer, watching my dad shoot nervous glances at his now 'grown-up' son, and all of a sudden, I was treated to a dire spectacle. I had seen an old lady sitting at a table across the restaurant. Now, it is not my habit to notice old ladies, but this particular woman was about a hundred feet around the equator (I'm allowed to crack fat jokes, because I'm fat). I had dismissed her as a venerable old cat. But, lo and behold! There she was, pumping her fists and gyrating to the Karaoke, the quintessential cheesy-comedy-restaurant-fat-lady-dancing scene. Thus, the emasculating Karaoke came with a groovy fist-pump in the nuts of your eyes (forgive the crude metaphor).
The food wasn't particularly good, but then buffets rarely are. I don't eat fish, and half the table was sushi. I drank my beer, ate some chicken and tried to picture my safe place in my head- a lush meadow with cows grazing beside an arena where thousands of metalheads are banging their heads to such demi-gods as Dethklok, Opeth and Meshuggah. It didn't work, of course.
Result: No more pseudo-karaoke parties.
.
Today's weather: Back to normal, after two anomalous, pleasant days.
For a guy who has nothing to do, I've been doing quite a lot lately. I went to another party, at an Asian themed restaurant- complete with Karaoke, except that they'd hired two people to Karaoke for the guests. There has been talk of hiring super-sophisticated French-Italian-Gourmet trained 'Eaters' for guests. It's all hush-hush now, but the little birds say that the illustrious wait-list includes such rich and famous people as Lalit Modi who're looking to spend their shady money in every way possible.
So I sat there listening to an insipid version of 'I want to break free', sipping on a glass of beer, watching my dad shoot nervous glances at his now 'grown-up' son, and all of a sudden, I was treated to a dire spectacle. I had seen an old lady sitting at a table across the restaurant. Now, it is not my habit to notice old ladies, but this particular woman was about a hundred feet around the equator (I'm allowed to crack fat jokes, because I'm fat). I had dismissed her as a venerable old cat. But, lo and behold! There she was, pumping her fists and gyrating to the Karaoke, the quintessential cheesy-comedy-restaurant-fat-lady-dancing scene. Thus, the emasculating Karaoke came with a groovy fist-pump in the nuts of your eyes (forgive the crude metaphor).
The food wasn't particularly good, but then buffets rarely are. I don't eat fish, and half the table was sushi. I drank my beer, ate some chicken and tried to picture my safe place in my head- a lush meadow with cows grazing beside an arena where thousands of metalheads are banging their heads to such demi-gods as Dethklok, Opeth and Meshuggah. It didn't work, of course.
Result: No more pseudo-karaoke parties.
.
June 03, 2010
Party Poop
Music in my head: Simon and Garfunkel - Scarborough Fair Canticle
Today's weather: Dustbowl
Yesterday, I had to go to a party. Not the cool kind, like the once we used to have back in the day. Yeah, I can use the expression 'back in the day' now. I just got my final CGPA. But I digress. I had to go to a party, with my folks, at an Army mess, dressed up in ironed clothes and polished shoes. The bane of the existence of every self-respecting Army brat. Yes, you get as many (soft) drinks as you want, and you can eat as many pieces of Chicken-65 as you want, but that's not the end of the story.
This is what usually happens at such an occasion- I enter the Drawing room with my folks. Everyone exchanges pleasantries. They ask me which class I was in. I smile a big fake smile and explain to them that I have, in fact, completed my B.Tech. They proceed to explain to me how I don't look my age, and sometimes add an anecdote which proves that looks can be deceptive. This is all acceptable. Yes, I have a very high tolerance level for extremely irritating, mind-numbingly boring conversation.
Next, they beam at me and tell me- "Accha, bete, bacche log TV room mein baithe hain. Tum vahi jaake baith jao. Hum pepsi udhar bhijwa denge. (Ok son, the kids are in the TV room. You can go join them. We'll send you some pepsi.)" I look at them with a quizzical expression. I just told you that I am twenty one years old, you age-ist old person. Isn't that clever? That's like discrimination based on age, like racist is discrimination based on race. In that awkward silence, I think up clever things like that. And then, of course, the big grown ups get their grown-up drinks and form their little grown up conversation circles. And that's freedom.
The window of opportunity to escape from the Drawing Room without having to be escorted to the TV room is very small. So I usually just get the hell out at the first chance. I go hang around at the garden or something. This time, when I walked out, I saw a metallic staircase. It was as if a spotlight from heaven had lit it up. I walked up these stairs, very slowly, immersing myself in the anticipation. It led up to the roof. There was some construction work in progress. I had found my spot.
It was magic. I was transported back to Trichy. There was this ugly structure coming up right in front of the main gate. For months we couldn't even figure out what it was. Then we realised that it was a flyover. We figured out a way to get on top of it. And then after braving a mercilessly sweltering Trichy day, we would go up there at night. We would sit there, listen to music and watch the headlamps of the cars, buses and trucks flicker as they passed by in the distance. And we would talk about the EPL, the sucky Profs, how the Project was a pain in the rear, how the lights look like they're dancing to the music that's playing, of cabbages and kings. And the cool breeze would refresh us, and the guards would give us suspicious looks. But at that moment we hadn't a care in the world.
And two months later and two thousand kilometers away, I felt like I was back. I felt the buzz of passing traffic. I played the music in my head. Headlamps of speeding cars danced in the distance. I narrowed my eyes to slits until the lights were a blur. I could hear stuff in the background- "Dude, Torres is God", "Dude that Prof can't even spell redundant", "Dude I've left my lip-marks on my Prof's rear. I hope I get an A", "Dude Steven Wilson is genius".
Then suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. As my eyes came back into focus, I half expected myself to be greeted by the Guard anna. "Bhaiyya, khana lag gaya", he said. I was back from my sojourn in time. I went to the dining room, picked up some dinner, pretended to be interested in the dinner conversation. They could've been talking about cabbages and kings, for all I care.
The next time I'm caught in a tedious conversation, I'll just excuse myself, find the roof and sit there, looking at traffic, in my happy place, with my friends.
"Did you ever imagine the last thing you'd hear as you're fading out was a song?....
... Arriving somewhere, not here..."
Today's weather: Dustbowl
Yesterday, I had to go to a party. Not the cool kind, like the once we used to have back in the day. Yeah, I can use the expression 'back in the day' now. I just got my final CGPA. But I digress. I had to go to a party, with my folks, at an Army mess, dressed up in ironed clothes and polished shoes. The bane of the existence of every self-respecting Army brat. Yes, you get as many (soft) drinks as you want, and you can eat as many pieces of Chicken-65 as you want, but that's not the end of the story.
This is what usually happens at such an occasion- I enter the Drawing room with my folks. Everyone exchanges pleasantries. They ask me which class I was in. I smile a big fake smile and explain to them that I have, in fact, completed my B.Tech. They proceed to explain to me how I don't look my age, and sometimes add an anecdote which proves that looks can be deceptive. This is all acceptable. Yes, I have a very high tolerance level for extremely irritating, mind-numbingly boring conversation.
Next, they beam at me and tell me- "Accha, bete, bacche log TV room mein baithe hain. Tum vahi jaake baith jao. Hum pepsi udhar bhijwa denge. (Ok son, the kids are in the TV room. You can go join them. We'll send you some pepsi.)" I look at them with a quizzical expression. I just told you that I am twenty one years old, you age-ist old person. Isn't that clever? That's like discrimination based on age, like racist is discrimination based on race. In that awkward silence, I think up clever things like that. And then, of course, the big grown ups get their grown-up drinks and form their little grown up conversation circles. And that's freedom.
The window of opportunity to escape from the Drawing Room without having to be escorted to the TV room is very small. So I usually just get the hell out at the first chance. I go hang around at the garden or something. This time, when I walked out, I saw a metallic staircase. It was as if a spotlight from heaven had lit it up. I walked up these stairs, very slowly, immersing myself in the anticipation. It led up to the roof. There was some construction work in progress. I had found my spot.
It was magic. I was transported back to Trichy. There was this ugly structure coming up right in front of the main gate. For months we couldn't even figure out what it was. Then we realised that it was a flyover. We figured out a way to get on top of it. And then after braving a mercilessly sweltering Trichy day, we would go up there at night. We would sit there, listen to music and watch the headlamps of the cars, buses and trucks flicker as they passed by in the distance. And we would talk about the EPL, the sucky Profs, how the Project was a pain in the rear, how the lights look like they're dancing to the music that's playing, of cabbages and kings. And the cool breeze would refresh us, and the guards would give us suspicious looks. But at that moment we hadn't a care in the world.
And two months later and two thousand kilometers away, I felt like I was back. I felt the buzz of passing traffic. I played the music in my head. Headlamps of speeding cars danced in the distance. I narrowed my eyes to slits until the lights were a blur. I could hear stuff in the background- "Dude, Torres is God", "Dude that Prof can't even spell redundant", "Dude I've left my lip-marks on my Prof's rear. I hope I get an A", "Dude Steven Wilson is genius".
Then suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. As my eyes came back into focus, I half expected myself to be greeted by the Guard anna. "Bhaiyya, khana lag gaya", he said. I was back from my sojourn in time. I went to the dining room, picked up some dinner, pretended to be interested in the dinner conversation. They could've been talking about cabbages and kings, for all I care.
The next time I'm caught in a tedious conversation, I'll just excuse myself, find the roof and sit there, looking at traffic, in my happy place, with my friends.
"Did you ever imagine the last thing you'd hear as you're fading out was a song?....
... Arriving somewhere, not here..."
June 01, 2010
Kashmir
Music in my head: Sigur Rós - Glósóli
Today's weather: The damp after the storm.
Round and round the rugged rocks the ragged rascal ran. As for us, we spiralled our way up from the barren valley that is Leh, through precarious roads and endless hairpin bends to Fotula pass, before we wound our way back down to Kargil.
It was an eight hour ride, and by the time we reached Kargil, I was full of dust, pins-and-needles and insightful thoughts resulting partially from multiple power-naps and a few conversations. I am not going to describe how picturesque the scenery was, I just don't have the words for it. I'm just putting up a few thousand below, just so you get an idea.
I'll put up the rest of the pictures on picasa soon. For now, I'll share some of the more interesting thoughts, perhaps epiphanies, I had during the eight hour road trip.
The common Kashmiri man is a closed box. He is cut off from the rest of the world by about ten hours in time and 400 kilometers in space. He gets yesterday's newspaper, and all he reads is the bollywood section. He survives without cable TV, heck, without power, twelve hours a day. But he is hard as a rock (not what you're thinking, you perv). He can brave icy winds in spite of just one layer of clothing, as opposed to the four or five layers we have on our backs. Hence, one can safely summarise that he is a strong, ignorant brute. I made these inferences from the two drivers in our little convoy. The clincher was the following conversation I had with one of them:
Hence proved.
Now, coming to the women. Leh is predominantly a Tibetan community, so the women there are like the women you see in Darjeeling- dressed in the latest fashion, sporting shades and weird hairdos- the works. But in Kargil, you couldn't spot a single woman who wasn't wearing a hijab (a scarf that covers the head and the neck). And they're all really fair and well proportioned to boot. So, initially I cursed the Gods for denying me the enormous amount of eye candy that Kargil has hidden away under layers of wool.
But as time passed, and I started observing more carefully, I remembered a discussion I had with a friend back in college. The conclusion was that if a woman wears skimpy clothes, revealing all she has- her cards are on the table. That's it. Take it or leave it. But when a woman is hidden away under a burkha or a hijab, you can let your imagination run wild. You don't know what she's holding. Could be a pair, two pairs, maybe a straight, maybe a full-house, maybe even a flush. Whatever she bets, you'll call. As you get used to it, you can conjure up a straight flush every time you see a wrapped up woman. So ever since I had that awakening, my whole stay at Kargil just filled up with light.
So that's all about the men and women of Kashmir. I might continue my travelogue later, or I might not. Delhi's humid and I'm lazy. So in case the Universe doesn't conspire to create another such creative moment for me, I leave you with my sum-up of Kashmir- it's like being in the music video of a soaring post-rock song. Look up the song that I've been looping for a while now- Glósóli by Sigur Rós. Close your eyes. Turn on the Air-conditioner. You're in pseudo-Kashmir now. Enjoy your stay.
Today's weather: The damp after the storm.
Round and round the rugged rocks the ragged rascal ran. As for us, we spiralled our way up from the barren valley that is Leh, through precarious roads and endless hairpin bends to Fotula pass, before we wound our way back down to Kargil.
It was an eight hour ride, and by the time we reached Kargil, I was full of dust, pins-and-needles and insightful thoughts resulting partially from multiple power-naps and a few conversations. I am not going to describe how picturesque the scenery was, I just don't have the words for it. I'm just putting up a few thousand below, just so you get an idea.
I'll put up the rest of the pictures on picasa soon. For now, I'll share some of the more interesting thoughts, perhaps epiphanies, I had during the eight hour road trip.
The common Kashmiri man is a closed box. He is cut off from the rest of the world by about ten hours in time and 400 kilometers in space. He gets yesterday's newspaper, and all he reads is the bollywood section. He survives without cable TV, heck, without power, twelve hours a day. But he is hard as a rock (not what you're thinking, you perv). He can brave icy winds in spite of just one layer of clothing, as opposed to the four or five layers we have on our backs. Hence, one can safely summarise that he is a strong, ignorant brute. I made these inferences from the two drivers in our little convoy. The clincher was the following conversation I had with one of them:
Driver: Bahut thand hai na? (It's really cold, isn't it?)My dad later told me that he's met a teacher in Kargil who couldn't name the President, didn't know how many states there were in India and couldn't even name five of them. I can't change anything. I'm just listing the facts.
Me: Haan Bhaiya, Bahut Thand hai. (Yes, it is really cold)
Driver: Toh, tum kaha rehte ho? (So, where do you live?)
Me: Hum log Dilli mein rehte hai. (We live in Delhi)
Driver: Accha. Par proper gaon kaha hai? (Ok, but where is your hometown?)
Me: Voh to Kerala mein hain. (That's in Kerala)
Driver: Accha. Kerala kaha hain? (Ok. But where's Kerala?)
Me: Voh to kaafi neeche hai, kaafi south mein hai. (It's way down south.)
Driver: Oh, accha accha, Jammu side mein hain kya? (Oh right, it's near Jammu, is it?)
Me: (with a startled smile) Nahin, nahin bhaiya, bahut south mein hai. Samundar ke paas. (No no, its really way down south, near the sea.)
Driver: Accha, accha.
Me: (To break the awkard silence) Toh aap kahan ke ho? (So, where are you from?)
Driver: Kya, karein. Kargil mein janam ho gaya. To vahin pe rehna pada. (What can I do? I was born in Kargil. So I have to live my life there.)
Hence proved.
Now, coming to the women. Leh is predominantly a Tibetan community, so the women there are like the women you see in Darjeeling- dressed in the latest fashion, sporting shades and weird hairdos- the works. But in Kargil, you couldn't spot a single woman who wasn't wearing a hijab (a scarf that covers the head and the neck). And they're all really fair and well proportioned to boot. So, initially I cursed the Gods for denying me the enormous amount of eye candy that Kargil has hidden away under layers of wool.
But as time passed, and I started observing more carefully, I remembered a discussion I had with a friend back in college. The conclusion was that if a woman wears skimpy clothes, revealing all she has- her cards are on the table. That's it. Take it or leave it. But when a woman is hidden away under a burkha or a hijab, you can let your imagination run wild. You don't know what she's holding. Could be a pair, two pairs, maybe a straight, maybe a full-house, maybe even a flush. Whatever she bets, you'll call. As you get used to it, you can conjure up a straight flush every time you see a wrapped up woman. So ever since I had that awakening, my whole stay at Kargil just filled up with light.
So that's all about the men and women of Kashmir. I might continue my travelogue later, or I might not. Delhi's humid and I'm lazy. So in case the Universe doesn't conspire to create another such creative moment for me, I leave you with my sum-up of Kashmir- it's like being in the music video of a soaring post-rock song. Look up the song that I've been looping for a while now- Glósóli by Sigur Rós. Close your eyes. Turn on the Air-conditioner. You're in pseudo-Kashmir now. Enjoy your stay.
May 19, 2010
Randomness in Rhyme
Music in my head: Agalloch - Not Unlike the Waves
Today's weather: Dilli ki Garmi.
In this sweltering, sweaty, summer season,
Delhi's deadly dry.
A chicken stranded on Chandni Chowk
Turns into chicken fry.
You'd think that tricksy tripsy Trichy
Had a trident up your rear.
But damned Delhi, apart from being smelly,
Has the trident trembling in fear.
I'm stuck in a small little stupidity rut,
Chewing chicken from Chandni Chowk,
To muscle up and move what's on my head-
A great big writers' block.
P.S. I promise that the forthcoming entries will make more sense. I just had to get the ball rolling somehow.
Today's weather: Dilli ki Garmi.
In this sweltering, sweaty, summer season,
Delhi's deadly dry.
A chicken stranded on Chandni Chowk
Turns into chicken fry.
You'd think that tricksy tripsy Trichy
Had a trident up your rear.
But damned Delhi, apart from being smelly,
Has the trident trembling in fear.
I'm stuck in a small little stupidity rut,
Chewing chicken from Chandni Chowk,
To muscle up and move what's on my head-
A great big writers' block.
P.S. I promise that the forthcoming entries will make more sense. I just had to get the ball rolling somehow.
March 23, 2010
Voyage 35
Music in my head: Bear McCreary- A Good Lighter
Today's weather: Meltdown.
When your eyes close and your mind dreams, you are taken to wonderland and your every desire is played out. But sometimes, reality can become more than just an illusion. It can fool you into trusting it, and when it calls, you just might not be ready for it.
Voyage35 is the story of a dreamer, who can do amazing things in his fantastic visions. Call it what you will- Lucid dreaming, Astral Projection, these dreams become his solace from mundane, sometimes unpleasant reality, so much that he starts believing in them. The dreams turn into his reality and reality becomes a fickle illusion, until he is pulled back down to earth by a harsh reality check.
The movie revolves around the protagonist Laxman Sivaramadasan, your archetypal nerd, who in his dreams turns into LSD, a comic superhero. His purpose is to bring down his arch nemesis Baldix, who is a persistent bully in reality. Does he succeed? Watch the movie to find out.
.
Today's weather: Meltdown.
When your eyes close and your mind dreams, you are taken to wonderland and your every desire is played out. But sometimes, reality can become more than just an illusion. It can fool you into trusting it, and when it calls, you just might not be ready for it.
Voyage35 is the story of a dreamer, who can do amazing things in his fantastic visions. Call it what you will- Lucid dreaming, Astral Projection, these dreams become his solace from mundane, sometimes unpleasant reality, so much that he starts believing in them. The dreams turn into his reality and reality becomes a fickle illusion, until he is pulled back down to earth by a harsh reality check.
The movie revolves around the protagonist Laxman Sivaramadasan, your archetypal nerd, who in his dreams turns into LSD, a comic superhero. His purpose is to bring down his arch nemesis Baldix, who is a persistent bully in reality. Does he succeed? Watch the movie to find out.
.
January 08, 2010
I Live on the Moon
Music in my head: Kwoon- I lived on the Moon
Today's weather: Hell frozen over.
Yesterday, an age ago,
We left the earth way down below.
Lost in deep watery space,
We floated in a state of grace.
Ethereal music filling our heads,
We flew onward on astral threads.
Everything we touched was gold,
Sounds distinct, letters bold.
The lights that flashed before our eyes-
A ménage of joy and surprise,
A stitched on smile upon our face,
Beady eyes, distant gaze.
Moondust blurs our mortal vision,
Moondust bestows ambition.
Once we were all full of sorrow,
But now, like there’s no tomorrow,
We roll around in a dusty glen,
We shape curious sand snowmen.
Lo, Behold the burning snow!
We remember now, an age ago
We burnt all that’s green and good,
A little stub is all that stood
In a blue apparition, far away-
Nothing’s left of it today
‘cept memories that won’t fade away soon.
For now, though, we live on the moon.
.
Today's weather: Hell frozen over.
Yesterday, an age ago,
We left the earth way down below.
Lost in deep watery space,
We floated in a state of grace.
Ethereal music filling our heads,
We flew onward on astral threads.
Everything we touched was gold,
Sounds distinct, letters bold.
The lights that flashed before our eyes-
A ménage of joy and surprise,
A stitched on smile upon our face,
Beady eyes, distant gaze.
Moondust blurs our mortal vision,
Moondust bestows ambition.
Once we were all full of sorrow,
But now, like there’s no tomorrow,
We roll around in a dusty glen,
We shape curious sand snowmen.
Lo, Behold the burning snow!
We remember now, an age ago
We burnt all that’s green and good,
A little stub is all that stood
In a blue apparition, far away-
Nothing’s left of it today
‘cept memories that won’t fade away soon.
For now, though, we live on the moon.
.
January 04, 2010
Constant Change
Music in my head: The Necks- The Boys I
Today's weather: Pretty cool for hell.
And I'm back to Trichy, for the last time. It seems like I (and my friend, who wishes to remain anonymous) was almost beaten up by the 'creative' tenth only yesterday(for those who don't get it, e-mail me- I've another six months left to spend ensconced within these walls). A lot of crazy stuff has happened to me over the years, and Mr. Bhagat, you don't get any credit for it. What had remained constant, though, was this beast that is NITT- swallowing up scared, often fat, newbies and spitting out uncouth bags of bones. Of course, our high-flying, smooth-talking, hotshot director has made a lot of cosmetic changes to our campus, none of it seems to affect the nature of the beast. He tried, he failed. Some of his latest attempts that catch one's attention are listed as follows:
1. Generators installed in Garnet hostel. They work only in the presence of external power supply.
2. The Second Gate (the one near Thuvakudi) is now a brick wall. This is to ensure that Opal can be attacked only from the inside.
3. The main gate is inaccessible by car, bus, truck, auto or foot, because of a humongous concrete structure that has been placed in front of it. Some say it will become a fly-over, others argue that it is a monument in honour of the director, yet others think that it's the Stairway to Heaven.
4. The new gate had an ominous sign in front of it that read "No Entry for Way Out". Now, "No Entry" has been scratched out. It reads "#### Way Out".
Other, equally notable, changes:
1. Motal Bambos (more commonly known as The Dhaba) now sells Chiken Role, Egg Role and Veg Role. They now serve their delicacies in fancy pink and blue plates, as opposed to leaves earlier.
2. Good Old 'Azzez Briyani' has now become "Selvam Multi-Hussain Restaurant". They sell Pappey Corn soup and Grab Masala.
I'll keep updating the list as more changes come our way.
It is, after all, the only constant (apart from crap at the mess).
Today's weather: Pretty cool for hell.
And I'm back to Trichy, for the last time. It seems like I (and my friend, who wishes to remain anonymous) was almost beaten up by the 'creative' tenth only yesterday(for those who don't get it, e-mail me- I've another six months left to spend ensconced within these walls). A lot of crazy stuff has happened to me over the years, and Mr. Bhagat, you don't get any credit for it. What had remained constant, though, was this beast that is NITT- swallowing up scared, often fat, newbies and spitting out uncouth bags of bones. Of course, our high-flying, smooth-talking, hotshot director has made a lot of cosmetic changes to our campus, none of it seems to affect the nature of the beast. He tried, he failed. Some of his latest attempts that catch one's attention are listed as follows:
1. Generators installed in Garnet hostel. They work only in the presence of external power supply.
2. The Second Gate (the one near Thuvakudi) is now a brick wall. This is to ensure that Opal can be attacked only from the inside.
3. The main gate is inaccessible by car, bus, truck, auto or foot, because of a humongous concrete structure that has been placed in front of it. Some say it will become a fly-over, others argue that it is a monument in honour of the director, yet others think that it's the Stairway to Heaven.
4. The new gate had an ominous sign in front of it that read "No Entry for Way Out". Now, "No Entry" has been scratched out. It reads "#### Way Out".
Other, equally notable, changes:
1. Motal Bambos (more commonly known as The Dhaba) now sells Chiken Role, Egg Role and Veg Role. They now serve their delicacies in fancy pink and blue plates, as opposed to leaves earlier.
2. Good Old 'Azzez Briyani' has now become "Selvam Multi-Hussain Restaurant". They sell Pappey Corn soup and Grab Masala.
I'll keep updating the list as more changes come our way.
It is, after all, the only constant (apart from crap at the mess).
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