Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Then there was binary
The power of two. Of all people, software 'engineers', should know that. And I, Mental Baba, know that as well.
Everything is driven by 0 and 1. Right from the neighbourhood ATM to neighbouring country's cruise missiles, everything is fuelled by 0s and 1s.
However, this is NOT acceptable to ME because I am pissed off with George Boole. And with Charles Babbage and with Alan Turing and the like.
Things are going to change around here. Because I've had enough of 1 and I certainly have had enough of 0.
I will lead a rebellion to cleanse and to purge this world of everything binary.
A new language is born as twin pillars (that's NOT binary) of 'h' and 'e' are erected to support the communication needs of the dogmatic denizens of my world - just like the mighty statues of Isuldur and Anarion, at the gates of the Argonath.
I name this language Wa (written as Hehehehhh).
A few important rules regarding Wa :
# Capital H may be used with discretion but capital E is DISALLOWED.
# The exclamation mark and the question mark are allowed.
# Everything else is DISALLOWED.
# Small 'h' and 'e' HAVE to be used in CONJUNCTION. (Exception : I may use small 'h' alone at MY prerogative)
Needless to say, it is only I, creator of Wa, who may dare to write its revered name.
# Translation from other languages is DISALLOWED.
In short, this is MY plan. I will write code in Wa, that will run on machines built on Wa architecture. This will then hack into ALL networks across the universe and take complete possession of the same.
I will exempt the servers of the Government of Papua New Guinea.
All those standing in MY way will be smashed into mincemeat and relegated to the deeps of perpetual oblivion.
And those who dare not to use Wa hereafter (in MY presence) will have their workstations pulverised and their mailboxes defiled.
Who will stop ME? Or rather, who can stop ME?
Hehehehehehehehehe!
H!Heheheh?!!H
!hehehehheHh
HehehehehehHHH!?
hhhh?!!!Hhehehe
Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind
Everything is driven by 0 and 1. Right from the neighbourhood ATM to neighbouring country's cruise missiles, everything is fuelled by 0s and 1s.
However, this is NOT acceptable to ME because I am pissed off with George Boole. And with Charles Babbage and with Alan Turing and the like.
Things are going to change around here. Because I've had enough of 1 and I certainly have had enough of 0.
I will lead a rebellion to cleanse and to purge this world of everything binary.
A new language is born as twin pillars (that's NOT binary) of 'h' and 'e' are erected to support the communication needs of the dogmatic denizens of my world - just like the mighty statues of Isuldur and Anarion, at the gates of the Argonath.
I name this language Wa (written as Hehehehhh).
A few important rules regarding Wa :
# Capital H may be used with discretion but capital E is DISALLOWED.
# The exclamation mark and the question mark are allowed.
# Everything else is DISALLOWED.
# Small 'h' and 'e' HAVE to be used in CONJUNCTION. (Exception : I may use small 'h' alone at MY prerogative)
Needless to say, it is only I, creator of Wa, who may dare to write its revered name.
# Translation from other languages is DISALLOWED.
In short, this is MY plan. I will write code in Wa, that will run on machines built on Wa architecture. This will then hack into ALL networks across the universe and take complete possession of the same.
I will exempt the servers of the Government of Papua New Guinea.
All those standing in MY way will be smashed into mincemeat and relegated to the deeps of perpetual oblivion.
And those who dare not to use Wa hereafter (in MY presence) will have their workstations pulverised and their mailboxes defiled.
Who will stop ME? Or rather, who can stop ME?
Hehehehehehehehehe!
H!Heheheh?!!H
!hehehehheHh
HehehehehehHHH!?
hhhh?!!!Hhehehe
Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind
Duck Out?!!
Some intellectual hit the nail on the head when he remarked, very innocuously if I may add, "Women! Can’t live with them! Can’t live without them!" I heartily concur.
Junta privy to my love life (which, rather unfortunately, has to be prefixed with the obnoxious adjective NON-EXISTENT) over the years would be quick to pounce on my opening salvo (if I may have the temerity of calling it one) by saying something like: "C**@## ! How the f*** would you know? You’ve never been anywhere near one. Not unless your dictionary considers a mile to be near measure. And even if you actually had the gall to break that ‘Lakshman Rekha’, then she, assuming the stability of her mental equilibrium, would have a restraining order taken out against you."
"Hey! Now you wait a minute! I sat next to R* V* during a chemistry class in Std. XII. The R* V*. 45 minutes. One foot away.Lot of chemistry. I…"
Tank it. As much as I’d like to protest these observations with vehemence, I find myself unable to do so in light (what light?! I’m in the dark here!) of starkly contrasting statistics viz.
# Dates : Hundreds of them
"Khajurs may not be counted."
# Dates : Zero
"That’s more like it."
# Dances : Two
"Hat saala! Proper dancing only. In front of the girl, and not behind."
# ‘Proper’ dances : None
# Kisses (on the cheeks) : LOTS
"Mother and aunties are not to be included."
# Kisses (on the cheeks) : None
# Kisses (on the lips) : Just gimme a break !
"At least a peck?"
# Pecks : None
#Girlfriends : R*V*
"Abey! Teri to…!"
#Girlfriends : Next
#Rolls-in-the-hay : Talk about searching for a needle in a haystack
What does this add up to? Obviously, the answer is not Casanova, Valentino and Don Juan rolled into one. Assuming that my mathematics is somewhat better than the gynocentric bit of my social skills – Zilch! Naught! Nothing! Zero! Now, look here. I’m a frugal guy. I don’t wish for much. I just want the ‘n’ out of the ‘none’ and step triumphantly into the hallowed precincts of ‘one’. Perhaps even that is too much to ask for, going by some of the repartees from my more fortunate cohorts (who are way beyond ‘one’ and into double digits on all fronts).
One such cognoscente would often remark, with subtle condescension, "You ain’t on zero, buddy!You’re on one. And what more, you’re THE ONE!" Aghast ?! Skipped a few heartbeats, did you, thinking that your brahmacharya club just lost yet another valuable member? Relax!!! I’m still with you. He was alluding to the one statistic that I (deliberately, perhaps) missed out.
#Rakhis – One
Aaaaarrghhhh !!! You can probably hear me tearing my hair out in frustration…or is it because of the dandruff ?! Hey, you know what? I don’t care. I just don’t (Psst! But do remind me to sue those Clinic Active quacks).
The preceding statement truly expresses the essence of my vacuous being. It is a constant vacillation between the extremities of thought. First, I say that I get ulti frusth (which implies that I do care) and then I say something totally antithetical as if I don’t. Love them, hate them! Like them, loathe them! Think about them all the time, banish them from my psyche altogether! Am I nuts? Do I need to be packed off on the next bus to Ranchi? I just give up.
But the truth is I don’t want to. When somebody needs some Maggi, where does he go? To Chedi’s. Some rasgullas? To Harry’s. Some booze? To Venky’s. Similarly, by the laws of inductive and deductive logic, in the evergreen campus of a certain premier engineering college, a guy who needs a girlfriend has to prostrate at the altar of that mighty temple of love – the one and only Mall Hall. But hey! Just look at how religious people out here are! Jampacked temple! 25 deities and 500 devotees! And of those 25, 20 have amazing puke-inducing powers that would put tequila shots to shame. God, so many malls in Mall Hall. But the devotee next door puts things in perspective when he says," No prizes for guessing the winner if I were to shave my arms and legs and enter a beauty contest with these lovelies." 5. 500. Of those 500, at least 100 are hardcore studs. Now I don’t think you need to contact Prof. Jain of the Dept. of Mathematics to get the probability pertaining to this right. I do a bit of mathematics anyway. Thomas Finney apparatus and says (quite kindly), "Son, the roots of this equation are complex and imaginary." Egad!
Depending on the weight of the guy’s pocket, Cupid’s mood and the guy’s queuing algorithm (Truck Despatch might seem to be a good bet), he might manage a ‘vardan’. Lightning strikes! Again and again, dispelling the age-old myth that it never strikes twice at the same place. Along with a million volts (for accurate figure, please contact the Dept. of Electrical Engg.) comes enlightenment. Buddhus become Buddhas! Dawning realization! It ain’t no temple and there sure ain’t any ‘prasad’ to be had! The prime of youth – gone awaste! Ya Khuda! Kahan Ga**d Phasa!
I find that some of my ‘expert’ friends are quite amenable to buying this sob story of mine. "There is little that a guy can do in the face of such adversity, bereft of opportunity! " summed up a sympathetic face perspicuously. "Ok loser! What about Cal? What about back home? jutted in a contemptuous voice. My reply? "Err…err…err (infinite loop that is broken by a kick up my backside)." No problems with that. I had long perfected the art of humming and hawing. After all, it is an activity that I’ve performed with aplomb in the presence of desirable female society on umpteen occasions. Needless to say, I invariably lost the pleasure of their company after such dazzling displays of eloquence, usually being left with nothing but a deadpan expression that masked feelings that are beyond my powers of description.
I really got to admit this – women scare the living daylights out of me. Phat leta hai mera! For example, I’m sure many of you would have experienced this situation : Imagine a helpless unarmed guy walking past a gang of rowdy girls, minding his own business and …and they start giggling furiously (remember the Kwality Feast ad)! What the heck man…sharafat ka koi zamana hi nahi raha. I mean, come on, what in heaven’s name is so funny about a guy walking down the street, whistling nonchalantly "Hum honge kaamyab ek din." The giggle, man…the giggle…ban it...I say ban it…array koi ban karvao yaar!!
Often I’ve been left wondering about the enigma that is womanhood. Watching Mel Gibson in the movie hasn’t helped either. Somebody suggested that I put "fire into my belly" and "brimstone into my heart". Others prescribed crap ranging from an "attitude to wear" to a "Scottish accent". I’ve had it with these pretentious cliches and bombastic lies. I’m going to be plain old me. That’s the best way to be. Duck out?! Not a chance. Every dog has his day and so will I. I may not be a bloodhound but I’m no poodle either. I have pedigree and I’m still batting. I’ll hit a century and walk back to the pavilion when I’m bowled (over) by a maiden!
And this haiku, by the inimitable Stephen King, sums up my unadulterated thoughts on the fairer sex.
"Your hair is winter fire.
January embers.
My heart burns there too."
Not all horror stories have a horrifying end. Right, Mr. King?
"Ah! Women! Can’t live with them! Can’t live without them!"
Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind
Junta privy to my love life (which, rather unfortunately, has to be prefixed with the obnoxious adjective NON-EXISTENT) over the years would be quick to pounce on my opening salvo (if I may have the temerity of calling it one) by saying something like: "C**@## ! How the f*** would you know? You’ve never been anywhere near one. Not unless your dictionary considers a mile to be near measure. And even if you actually had the gall to break that ‘Lakshman Rekha’, then she, assuming the stability of her mental equilibrium, would have a restraining order taken out against you."
"Hey! Now you wait a minute! I sat next to R* V* during a chemistry class in Std. XII. The R* V*. 45 minutes. One foot away.Lot of chemistry. I…"
Tank it. As much as I’d like to protest these observations with vehemence, I find myself unable to do so in light (what light?! I’m in the dark here!) of starkly contrasting statistics viz.
# Dates : Hundreds of them
"Khajurs may not be counted."
# Dates : Zero
"That’s more like it."
# Dances : Two
"Hat saala! Proper dancing only. In front of the girl, and not behind."
# ‘Proper’ dances : None
# Kisses (on the cheeks) : LOTS
"Mother and aunties are not to be included."
# Kisses (on the cheeks) : None
# Kisses (on the lips) : Just gimme a break !
"At least a peck?"
# Pecks : None
#Girlfriends : R*V*
"Abey! Teri to…!"
#Girlfriends : Next
#Rolls-in-the-hay : Talk about searching for a needle in a haystack
What does this add up to? Obviously, the answer is not Casanova, Valentino and Don Juan rolled into one. Assuming that my mathematics is somewhat better than the gynocentric bit of my social skills – Zilch! Naught! Nothing! Zero! Now, look here. I’m a frugal guy. I don’t wish for much. I just want the ‘n’ out of the ‘none’ and step triumphantly into the hallowed precincts of ‘one’. Perhaps even that is too much to ask for, going by some of the repartees from my more fortunate cohorts (who are way beyond ‘one’ and into double digits on all fronts).
One such cognoscente would often remark, with subtle condescension, "You ain’t on zero, buddy!You’re on one. And what more, you’re THE ONE!" Aghast ?! Skipped a few heartbeats, did you, thinking that your brahmacharya club just lost yet another valuable member? Relax!!! I’m still with you. He was alluding to the one statistic that I (deliberately, perhaps) missed out.
#Rakhis – One
Aaaaarrghhhh !!! You can probably hear me tearing my hair out in frustration…or is it because of the dandruff ?! Hey, you know what? I don’t care. I just don’t (Psst! But do remind me to sue those Clinic Active quacks).
The preceding statement truly expresses the essence of my vacuous being. It is a constant vacillation between the extremities of thought. First, I say that I get ulti frusth (which implies that I do care) and then I say something totally antithetical as if I don’t. Love them, hate them! Like them, loathe them! Think about them all the time, banish them from my psyche altogether! Am I nuts? Do I need to be packed off on the next bus to Ranchi? I just give up.
But the truth is I don’t want to. When somebody needs some Maggi, where does he go? To Chedi’s. Some rasgullas? To Harry’s. Some booze? To Venky’s. Similarly, by the laws of inductive and deductive logic, in the evergreen campus of a certain premier engineering college, a guy who needs a girlfriend has to prostrate at the altar of that mighty temple of love – the one and only Mall Hall. But hey! Just look at how religious people out here are! Jampacked temple! 25 deities and 500 devotees! And of those 25, 20 have amazing puke-inducing powers that would put tequila shots to shame. God, so many malls in Mall Hall. But the devotee next door puts things in perspective when he says," No prizes for guessing the winner if I were to shave my arms and legs and enter a beauty contest with these lovelies." 5. 500. Of those 500, at least 100 are hardcore studs. Now I don’t think you need to contact Prof. Jain of the Dept. of Mathematics to get the probability pertaining to this right. I do a bit of mathematics anyway. Thomas Finney apparatus and says (quite kindly), "Son, the roots of this equation are complex and imaginary." Egad!
Depending on the weight of the guy’s pocket, Cupid’s mood and the guy’s queuing algorithm (Truck Despatch might seem to be a good bet), he might manage a ‘vardan’. Lightning strikes! Again and again, dispelling the age-old myth that it never strikes twice at the same place. Along with a million volts (for accurate figure, please contact the Dept. of Electrical Engg.) comes enlightenment. Buddhus become Buddhas! Dawning realization! It ain’t no temple and there sure ain’t any ‘prasad’ to be had! The prime of youth – gone awaste! Ya Khuda! Kahan Ga**d Phasa!
I find that some of my ‘expert’ friends are quite amenable to buying this sob story of mine. "There is little that a guy can do in the face of such adversity, bereft of opportunity! " summed up a sympathetic face perspicuously. "Ok loser! What about Cal? What about back home? jutted in a contemptuous voice. My reply? "Err…err…err (infinite loop that is broken by a kick up my backside)." No problems with that. I had long perfected the art of humming and hawing. After all, it is an activity that I’ve performed with aplomb in the presence of desirable female society on umpteen occasions. Needless to say, I invariably lost the pleasure of their company after such dazzling displays of eloquence, usually being left with nothing but a deadpan expression that masked feelings that are beyond my powers of description.
I really got to admit this – women scare the living daylights out of me. Phat leta hai mera! For example, I’m sure many of you would have experienced this situation : Imagine a helpless unarmed guy walking past a gang of rowdy girls, minding his own business and …and they start giggling furiously (remember the Kwality Feast ad)! What the heck man…sharafat ka koi zamana hi nahi raha. I mean, come on, what in heaven’s name is so funny about a guy walking down the street, whistling nonchalantly "Hum honge kaamyab ek din." The giggle, man…the giggle…ban it...I say ban it…array koi ban karvao yaar!!
Often I’ve been left wondering about the enigma that is womanhood. Watching Mel Gibson in the movie hasn’t helped either. Somebody suggested that I put "fire into my belly" and "brimstone into my heart". Others prescribed crap ranging from an "attitude to wear" to a "Scottish accent". I’ve had it with these pretentious cliches and bombastic lies. I’m going to be plain old me. That’s the best way to be. Duck out?! Not a chance. Every dog has his day and so will I. I may not be a bloodhound but I’m no poodle either. I have pedigree and I’m still batting. I’ll hit a century and walk back to the pavilion when I’m bowled (over) by a maiden!
And this haiku, by the inimitable Stephen King, sums up my unadulterated thoughts on the fairer sex.
"Your hair is winter fire.
January embers.
My heart burns there too."
Not all horror stories have a horrifying end. Right, Mr. King?
"Ah! Women! Can’t live with them! Can’t live without them!"
Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Deep Star
Kill me deep, kill me strong.
Kill me all along.
Kill me high, kill me low.
Kill me real slow.
Kill me in, kill me out.
Kill me, without doubt.
Kill me now, kill me then.
Kill me again and again.
Kill me here, kill me there.
Kill me everywhere.
Kill me blue, kill me red.
Kill me – till I’m dead.
Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe
Kill me all along.
Kill me high, kill me low.
Kill me real slow.
Kill me in, kill me out.
Kill me, without doubt.
Kill me now, kill me then.
Kill me again and again.
Kill me here, kill me there.
Kill me everywhere.
Kill me blue, kill me red.
Kill me – till I’m dead.
Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe
Thursday, May 26, 2005
O Moon!
When I was but a little boy,
I would see you shine.
I thought you were a toy.
I wanted you to be mine.
O Sweet Little Moon!
Won’t you grant me my boon?
After a twenty-five year time span,
You are still so far away.
I am now a grown-up man
But won’t you come down and play?
O Dear Lovely Moon!
Won’t you grant me my boon?
The naughty clouds hide your face
While they frolic and play chase.
Why can’t they stay in their place
When I lie back and gaze?
O Pretty Round Moon!
Won’t you grant me my boon?
Soon will you yawn.
Into the sky, you’ll disappear
At the break of dawn.
Don’t leave me here.
O Kind Celestial Moon!
Won’t you grant me my boon?
Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe
I would see you shine.
I thought you were a toy.
I wanted you to be mine.
O Sweet Little Moon!
Won’t you grant me my boon?
After a twenty-five year time span,
You are still so far away.
I am now a grown-up man
But won’t you come down and play?
O Dear Lovely Moon!
Won’t you grant me my boon?
The naughty clouds hide your face
While they frolic and play chase.
Why can’t they stay in their place
When I lie back and gaze?
O Pretty Round Moon!
Won’t you grant me my boon?
Soon will you yawn.
Into the sky, you’ll disappear
At the break of dawn.
Don’t leave me here.
O Kind Celestial Moon!
Won’t you grant me my boon?
Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe
Monday, May 16, 2005
Mundane March
March always used to be a great time of the year.
Why ? Final exams.
Now this is a phrase that sends shivers downs the spines of most students. But things were different for me.
I'd keep myself abreast of the syllabus for the better part of the year. So I usually ended up doing well without breaking into a sweat or burning the midnight oil.
Maths and Geography were my favourites. And I hated History and the Literatures (both English as well as Hindi). Reading those books was one thing but answering questions like "Compare the agrarian practices of the Mesopotamian and the Indus Valley civilisations" and "Comment on Heathcliffe's treatment of Hareton" were a bit too much for me.
For a couple of years, I was put in a school across the Jharkhand border in Orissa. I had to study Oriya ! Yikes ! I failed all of my unit tests and terminal exams with scores like 4/25 and 12/100 (the only time I ever failed academically) and I was waiting for the final exam with a dread that was unknown to me. Thanks to a resourceful friend of mine, I was shown the right way out of such situations. I scored 78/100. Hehehehe. Hell, they had no business trying to teach me Oriya. And I've been into ethics ever since.
It would be great to get a two week break from those long hours in classes. To just go to school, complete the paper, hang around with friends, do the next paper (if any), throw the papers away and go play some cricket.The weather would always be perfect for cricket. With a nice gentle breeze all the time. Not like this place. And finally, there'd be some ice-cream or custard or jelly waiting at home.
March was always a great time of the year. Knowing that you had done well, knowing that you were leaving a happy year behind, knowing that you were moving up more than just a class, knowing that there was yet another wonderful year ahead with fantastic people was a special feeling.Those final exams felt like a hearty pat on the back. They felt like "Kawaaaabaaangaaaaaaaaa !"
Now, so many years down the line, I still have final exams in March. Of a different kind. I don't enjoy these. I don't think I ever will. Whatever...what the heck.
Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind
Why ? Final exams.
Now this is a phrase that sends shivers downs the spines of most students. But things were different for me.
I'd keep myself abreast of the syllabus for the better part of the year. So I usually ended up doing well without breaking into a sweat or burning the midnight oil.
Maths and Geography were my favourites. And I hated History and the Literatures (both English as well as Hindi). Reading those books was one thing but answering questions like "Compare the agrarian practices of the Mesopotamian and the Indus Valley civilisations" and "Comment on Heathcliffe's treatment of Hareton" were a bit too much for me.
For a couple of years, I was put in a school across the Jharkhand border in Orissa. I had to study Oriya ! Yikes ! I failed all of my unit tests and terminal exams with scores like 4/25 and 12/100 (the only time I ever failed academically) and I was waiting for the final exam with a dread that was unknown to me. Thanks to a resourceful friend of mine, I was shown the right way out of such situations. I scored 78/100. Hehehehe. Hell, they had no business trying to teach me Oriya. And I've been into ethics ever since.
It would be great to get a two week break from those long hours in classes. To just go to school, complete the paper, hang around with friends, do the next paper (if any), throw the papers away and go play some cricket.The weather would always be perfect for cricket. With a nice gentle breeze all the time. Not like this place. And finally, there'd be some ice-cream or custard or jelly waiting at home.
March was always a great time of the year. Knowing that you had done well, knowing that you were leaving a happy year behind, knowing that you were moving up more than just a class, knowing that there was yet another wonderful year ahead with fantastic people was a special feeling.Those final exams felt like a hearty pat on the back. They felt like "Kawaaaabaaangaaaaaaaaa !"
Now, so many years down the line, I still have final exams in March. Of a different kind. I don't enjoy these. I don't think I ever will. Whatever...what the heck.
Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Stopping by Mount Road, on a Busy Evening
Little could anyone have ever forebode
That such events ’d unfold on Mount Road.
It seemed just another ordinary day
When the traffic, as usual, had slowed.
But the signal hadn’t turned red.
What more it was green instead.
So were all the girls around.
“Mamma Mia!” the guys said.
Standing by the road was a goddess,
A drop-dead stunner she was, no less,
Surveying the scene with marked disdain
In her lovely blue salwar dress.
Verily was it a soothing sight for sore eyes.
It was the sort of face for which a Romeo dies.
A disbelieving hush fell over the place
Broken only by desperate sighs.
She was beautiful, tall and fair.
Exceedingly rare, beyond compare
Like the elusive lily-of-the-valley.
In her making, no expense did He spare.
Of a mythical land, seemingly ethereal and far,
Her eyes shone with the light of the Even Star.
Cold ebony burnt into the first of hapless souls
And the victim lost control of his car.
Into the median, his Maruti careened and dashed.
Then the Santros and the Sumos also crashed.
The cops looked on, in a state of trance,
While the poor dears were being coyly eyelashed.
Like a supermodel did she ease into a pose,
While up in the air went her chiselled nose.
Never before in the history of Chennai city
Had Mount Road witnessed such turbulent flows.
Visions of the ground beneath her dainty feet
Blurred windshields in front of every driver’s seat.
There wasn’t much anybody could do
Except watch their machines turn into mincemeat.
Lurking around her lips was a knowing smile
As bikes and buses were added to the pile,
Adorned by tangled rubber and mangled steel.
It was a trail that stretched on for many a mile.
Her mouth curled into a dismissive pout
Once the rush-hour traffic had been put to rout.
Daisy-cutters and bunker-busters were put to shame.
“Bombshell ahoy!” somebody was heard to shout.
As she walked away in a haughty sashay,
After doing what only she may.
The pretty miss turned and blew a kiss.
I daresay it took a few breaths away!
Her hair streamed through the windy night,
Proudly resplendent in the silvery moonlight.
Necks kept craning; heads kept turning;
For long, even when she was out of sight.
On an evening when CCTP hopelessly flopped,
When knees buckled and jaws dropped,
When Mount Road came to a grinding halt,
It was more than just the traffic that stopped.
Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe
That such events ’d unfold on Mount Road.
It seemed just another ordinary day
When the traffic, as usual, had slowed.
But the signal hadn’t turned red.
What more it was green instead.
So were all the girls around.
“Mamma Mia!” the guys said.
Standing by the road was a goddess,
A drop-dead stunner she was, no less,
Surveying the scene with marked disdain
In her lovely blue salwar dress.
Verily was it a soothing sight for sore eyes.
It was the sort of face for which a Romeo dies.
A disbelieving hush fell over the place
Broken only by desperate sighs.
She was beautiful, tall and fair.
Exceedingly rare, beyond compare
Like the elusive lily-of-the-valley.
In her making, no expense did He spare.
Of a mythical land, seemingly ethereal and far,
Her eyes shone with the light of the Even Star.
Cold ebony burnt into the first of hapless souls
And the victim lost control of his car.
Into the median, his Maruti careened and dashed.
Then the Santros and the Sumos also crashed.
The cops looked on, in a state of trance,
While the poor dears were being coyly eyelashed.
Like a supermodel did she ease into a pose,
While up in the air went her chiselled nose.
Never before in the history of Chennai city
Had Mount Road witnessed such turbulent flows.
Visions of the ground beneath her dainty feet
Blurred windshields in front of every driver’s seat.
There wasn’t much anybody could do
Except watch their machines turn into mincemeat.
Lurking around her lips was a knowing smile
As bikes and buses were added to the pile,
Adorned by tangled rubber and mangled steel.
It was a trail that stretched on for many a mile.
Her mouth curled into a dismissive pout
Once the rush-hour traffic had been put to rout.
Daisy-cutters and bunker-busters were put to shame.
“Bombshell ahoy!” somebody was heard to shout.
As she walked away in a haughty sashay,
After doing what only she may.
The pretty miss turned and blew a kiss.
I daresay it took a few breaths away!
Her hair streamed through the windy night,
Proudly resplendent in the silvery moonlight.
Necks kept craning; heads kept turning;
For long, even when she was out of sight.
On an evening when CCTP hopelessly flopped,
When knees buckled and jaws dropped,
When Mount Road came to a grinding halt,
It was more than just the traffic that stopped.
Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe