Satoma Asadgamaya

In Memory

Migrated Datasets


Monday, June 26, 2006

About Billy

A Mental Baba production. (Unfortunately) Not starring Jack Nicholson.

In a distant land, there was once born a goat. Well, lots of goats are born in distant lands. But this particular goat was rather special. His precocious talent was evident right from the very beginning, when he exhibited an uncanny ability to head-butt the waist and nether regions of the drummers who had been summoned to herald the moment of epoch. To dispel notions that those endowed with outdated compilers may have, the moment when the head butted into the nether regions of the drummers was NOT the one of epoch (although it may have come pretty close).

It was quite an event. Again, the head-butt into the nether regions was not THE event (although it may have come pretty close). Three Jedi came from Coruscant in the east, following a star on a Jaguar XK, and paid due respect to the newborn. The first Jedi brought him a quaint little bell made of chalcopyrites. The second, who was more thoughtful, got him a she-goat (goats start pretty young). And the third, who was an idiot, got him a doughnut.

For you know, this was no ordinary goat. He was destined to become the greatest goat to have ever littered the third rock from the sun. Ordained Champion of Goats and King of the Caprine, he was bestowed with the kind of power that even the Jedi's Jag could only dream of.

In fact, the hack grapevine had it that he was the Next Big Thing. He was The Secret Weapon who would head-butt into the rather elusive nether regions of the Goddamned Pain In The Ass.
He was The Mighty Hero who would put an end to the Freaking Itch In The Nether Regions.

But sadly, as one can see, not everything is meant to be. A budding career has been head-butted, cruelly, smack in the nether regions.

The General of the Hircine Army suddenly finds himself as what he was never meant to be - a bakra.

But there are some yet who believe in his ability to head-butt his way into the nether regions of glory. There are some who will still salute The White Knight. There are some who believe that it was the Jedi who were out of line and not Billy.

May he receive a star (on second thought, make that five stars) on the walk of fame. May he appear on The Tonight Show. If at all he finds himself declared mutton, may he be served at The Table.

You know what, forget all that. How about Paris Hilton eulogising him for posterity in her next release The Jedi Are Blind.

They demoted Billy?
Dear me,how silly!
O Drinkers of Warm Beer,
Now it's pretty clear!

Some movies just have to end in anti-climaxes.

Management Class : News

mental baba 5:39 AM | pathar ka lakeer | 0 baba ka katora |

Saturday, June 17, 2006

Holy moly!

I need to eat my words and pull this out of retirement, at least temporarily, for the sake of convenience and love.

Today I had a profound metaphysical experience that permanently altered my views on life, the universe and everything (except BMC tools).

This could be the greatest thing to have happened to music since Meerabai.

Step aside, Britney Spears. Step aside, Jessica Simpson. Step aside, all phoney aspirants to the title of pop princess. Because the inimitable Paris Hilton is here!!! Woo-hoo! No, make that Wooooooooooooooooooooooooo-hooooooooooooooooooooooo!!! Paris, baby!!

It gives me great pleasure to observe that highly successful stints in several demanding spheres of life have only served to whet the versatile Paris Hilton's ambitions, where a lesser mortal may have been content with resting on her laurels (or millions). The inspiring Paris Hilton has now decided to take the world of music by storm. LA and Nashville better watch out for Hurricane Paris.

For Martians and other green blobs of slime, the amazing Miss Hilton's dazzling resume boasts of enthralling roles in reality tv shows, perilous sashays on the runway, active participation in (cerebral artsy type) parties and, of course, a critically-acclaimed role in an alternative adult entertainment venture as well(which I must say she portrayed with an aplomb that would put Jenna to shame). The fascinating Paris Hilton, at the tender age of 25, has also topped the ultimate barometer of international celebrity by having a videogame named after her.

Fie on those behenjis who are consumed with jealousy because they are not as talented, as sophisticated, as attractive, as rich or as famous as the breathtaking Paris Hilton! A plague upon those misogynists who cannot reconcile themselves to the idea of a woman doing all that they cannot even dream of!

Anyway, the release of this record-breaking single, amid the gloom of spiralling oil prices and questionable economic growth, had a massive impact on Wall Street. Powered by The Warner Bros. Records stock, Dow Jones shot through the roof (and found itself on seventh heaven, much like the music aficianados fortunate enough to have heard this avante-garde composition).

I once had the temerity to proclaim that I was the third-greatest poet ever in history. I must admit I have ended up with both of my stinking feet in my mouth. If this isn't true poetry, what is? Astounding! Outstanding! Mindblowing!

My favourite lines?

Excuse me for feeling
This moment is critical
Might be me feeling
It could get physical, oh no, no no

I was mightily impressed by the aesthically shot video. The sun-drenched tropical paradise with golden sands and sapphire waters was indeed the sort of message that environmentalists fighting beach pollution had been hoping for from an ambassador of Paris's stature. I was also pleased to note the emphasis on physical exercise which is so neglected these days.

The music itself is quite extraordinary, to say the least. I took a moment to recoil when the full blast of its sheer creativity hit me. The brilliant combination of chords left me in a daze. And when Paris cooed sweet nothings like "I could be your confidante, Just one of your girlfriends" in that mellifluous voice, it was simply overwhelming. Genius! Indeed, the music industry has been set a lofty benchmark that would be impossible to surpass (unless the mesmerising Paris Hilton does it herself).

I have decided to delete all of my mp3s (pirated and otherwise) and cancel my subscriptions. There will be only one song on my machine. There will be only one ringtone on my mobile phone. Because there is only one Paris Hilton. And right now, she has only produced the first of the many gems that are destined to rock the world. Paris! Saubhagyawati bhava!

It is recommended that the Grammys be scrapped this year. The results are a foregone conclusion. Because we know what Paris recorded this summer. Hacks at the NSA overheard Paul McCartney saying this to Ringo Starr: "We're finished."

This is the beginning of the Paris Hilton era. As my humble way of paying tribute, I've decided to introduce idol-worship and rename my ashram as THE PARIS HILTON SHRINE. I will serenade the goddess Paris Hilton with the Stars are Blind bhajan till she deigns to grant darshan to me. Finally, I have discovered the purpose of my life (and I must thank serendipity and the great man's post for setting me on the right track). of my life
Paris...const variable of my volatile memory
Paris...nightingale of my forest
Paris...blood pressure of my loins
Paris...the face that launched a thousand nip slips

Ah, to be the guy in that video. Baba, control yaar. Nahi hota yaar.

Paris Hilton? Holy moly.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind , News

mental baba 10:11 PM | pathar ka lakeer | 4 baba ka katora |

Sunday, June 11, 2006

French Open 2006

There couldn't have been a more wonderful way to inaugurate this blog's new avatar than to announce the results of the Gentlemen's Singles title (no-)contest at Roland Garros.

As predicted, Rafael Nadal pulverized Roger Federer, thus putting an end to Federer's (day)dreams of winning the French Open and becoming the first man to hold all four Slams together since The Rocket. According to reliable sources, at the end of the annihilation, a relieved Federer proceeded to the men's locker room, not to shit (he already had it beaten out of him), but to flush his prematurely written acceptance speech down the toilet, while Nadal headed for the locker room to scratch his itchy balls (the only balls that troubled him during the three hours and two minutes of the match). It is unlikely that Federer was afflicted by the same malaise. After all, one needs to have balls in order to scratch them.

Although the scoreline read 1-6 6-1 6-4 7-6(7-4), Federer never really had a sniff of a chance. Nadal toyed with him in the first set, much like the eighth standard bhaiyyas who do not bowl pace at the fourth standard wannabes, stretching out and relaxing in the process. But Federer forgot his aukaad and started hitting fours and sixers. Now, no eighth standard bhaiyya worth his salt can tolerate such effrontery, that too on his territory. Nadal then started sandbagging him by bowling at full pace, and Federer, like the true champion that he is, kept taking it on his chin. Without throwing any counter-punches.

The performance suggested that, at almost 25, there is time yet for Federer to switch careers and become a cruiserweight boxer. It is likely that he would be knocked out fewer times in that sport, especially with Nadal showing no interest in pursuing it.

Soon the overhyped match-up was reduced to a rather messy affair when the butcher, with a Babolat meatcleaver in hand, lost no time in shredding the lamb into mincemeat at the other end of the court. And there are people who even ask why the clay is red.

Earlier, Federer had chosen not to learn from previous defeats for the simple reason that there was nothing to be learned - they were all simply anamolies in the five-dimensional probabilistic set representing space, time and stupidity. Also, it is to be noted that perpetual graciousness in perpetual defeat (4-0 in 2006 at last count, with more on the way) is, indeed, the hallmark of a great champion and gentleman. As is shaky vocabulary. There is just that little bit of difference between feat of clay and feet of clay.

That Federer lost is fine but the way he lost is not. The way he played was an insult to the French crowd and the television audience who were vociferous in their support for him. Their efforts to will him on with chants of "Roger!" , "Roger!" fell on deaf ears (which would hear only Nadal's winners whizzing past right under his nose). He made up for an utter lack of creativity and mental strength with a plethora of unforced errors that would have made even Rohan Bopanna's chest swell with pride. All said and done, he played like Nadal's ***** (I don't even want to say it).

And this blog will go one step forward to suggest, nay predict, the (still?) unthinkable. Federer will be mowed down, just like the All-England courts that he loves, by Mario Ancic or Richard Gasquet about one month from now at those very courts. And the two-time defending French Open champion, Rafael Nadal, will do more than just take pictures of Trafalgar Square or Buckingham Palace.

Federer had this message for his supporters : "I was close this year. It's a pity but I will come back next year." Ah, you will. So will Nadal.

Federer also lip-synced while Michael Learns To Rock played Someday at the awards ceremony.

Someday, somewhere
Federer will beat Nadal baby...

Management Class : News

mental baba 9:57 PM | pathar ka lakeer | 0 baba ka katora |

Thursday, June 08, 2006


...I may have accomplished something that nobody before me, in the x billion years of history, ever has.

It has always been a dream of mine to do what no man has done before. Something. Anything. Just for the heck of being there first, looking down at the rest of the world and saying, "Bluddy morons!"

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you...

...hold your breaths...

...this could be the revolution that will change the world...


Yes, the apple paratha. It could very well be the greatest innovation in the kitchen since pesarapappu pachadi (moong dal chutney).

Why? Well, why not?

They have alu (potatoe) paratha. They have gobi (cauliflower) paratha. They have mooli (radish) paratha. Now you tell me why can't they have an apple paratha?

Last time I checked it's a free country. And remember: An apple a day keeps the doctor away.

Right now, the apple paratha algo (and prototype) is still secret because it needs a few tweaks here and there. But trust that I'm a believer in freeware and stuff. I'll publish it under GNU as soon as I'm through with it.

Finally, Baba will have his much-deserved patent. Finally, in some dumb quiz in some dumb school, some dumb quizmaster will ask:

"Connect. George Crum. John Montagu. Raffaele Esposito. Mental Baba."

Has Mental Baba finally arrived? Will he go down in history as the paratha phenom? Will he be invited on Khana Khazana? Will millions and millions of Indian moms pack their kids' tiffin boxes with the apple paratha?

What was that? Now I don't even want to hear that. Don't. Don't. Nobody tried an apple paratha before. Nobody. Surely. How could anybody have tried an apple paratha before? I don't believe it. It's a conspiracy. Cmon. I mean, COME THE FUCK ON.

Let me check with the great eye.

I can't believe it. What sort of an idiot would even dream of trying out an apple paratha? Goddamn. I forgave Kashmir. I forgave Sharjah. But I will not forgive this. They are nuked. Kill. Baba kill. KILL.

So near and yet so far. Again.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

mental baba 10:00 AM | pathar ka lakeer | 0 baba ka katora |

Sunday, June 04, 2006

My new camera rocks

Lil Birdy


Shunoop Daggy Daag

As you can see,unlike Birdy and Quiril, Shunoop didn't seem to be in a very photogenic mood. I apologise for his poor manners. Bad daggy.

Management Class : Unravelogues

mental baba 10:44 AM | pathar ka lakeer | 0 baba ka katora |

Saturday, June 03, 2006

Mayday! Mayday!

My new-found belief in Fluid Mech notwithstanding, I still find it difficult to reconcile myself to the idea of flying high on ATF.

I mean, look at the possibilities.

# There could be a bunch of crazed mullahs on board hell bent on crashing the plane into where no man ever has - Universal Studios.

# While taking off, the plane could go vertical and keel over in a spectacular somersault (the pilot may have a flying licence from Bihar where they only talk radians and gradians instead of degrees).

# While banking to the right or left, the plane could flip over (my belief in rotational dynamics and its concepts related to the moment of inertia is, unfortunately, not quite at the fluid mech level yet).

# Need I say more?

# While landing, the tyres could burst (believe me, they DON'T make rubber the way they used to). Even if they don't burst, there could be an earthquake on the runway.

# The pilot could be somebody who's been passed over for a promotion four times, divorced, infected with HIV, bankrupt AND, on top of everything, blessed with recalcitrant dandruff.

# The Islamic (and C**tpataak) Republic of Puke-i-stan may well decide to test the Shaheen on a live target (this is the least of the risks because these guys are yet to perfect the art of topo [1]).

# The wings could come loose and fall off (I keep telling the morons to use Fevicol).

# There could be a massive attack by a plague of locusts and a murder of crows to avenge their fallen friends, victims to the international airline industry (Doubting Thomases, watch this).

# While flying over Nashville, Tennessee, the belly of the plane may give way to Baba's substantial (intellectual) weight, thus re-uniting him with his redneck disciples down below.

# The plane could be picked up by a Martian tractor beam or it could have its ass kicked by lightning.

# While flying through a sea of clouds, it wouldn't be a great time to discover that not ALL clouds are made of ice crystals and water vapour.

# The beautiful air hostess will, inevitably, fancy Baba. But she might have an ice pick.

The heights of air -
Baba does not dare.
Let Baba stand
On holy land.

[1] - topo is the ancient and sublime art of doing Ctrl-C / Ctrl-V, and then making sure nobody knows it was a Ctrl-C / Ctrl-V in the first place. The topoing skills of the Puki defence research establishment leaves a lot to be desired though.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

mental baba 10:09 PM | pathar ka lakeer | 2 baba ka katora |

Arrey Baba

I'd been a staunch opponent of that grisly subject known as Fluid Mechanics for long. I believed that it should have been outlawed under TADA or POTA way back for the terror it had been unleashing on hapless engineering students who might have otherwise spent their time more fruitfully on porn or tempo shouts.

I still have nightmares of my third semester when 16 out of 23 of my batchmates flunked that course which, by now, may well have been inducted into the Fucka Hall of Fame (or Shame, depending on which side you're on) with the pomp and splendour that it truly deserves.

Anyway, this was the very first sight that greeted me on the notice board outside the jalaad's office -

9928101 - F
9928102 - F
9928103 - F
9928104 - F

With my heart in my mouth, my eyes queried for this primary key -


And the result -

9928115 - P

In all of my life, this is one of the few incidents that is faintly indicative of the presence of an entity called God. You'll excuse me when I say I wasn't too keen on signing up for a situation where they would say I Know What You Did Last Summer.

Yours truly just about managed to squeak through with a stupendous effort that fetched him a whopping 36 marks out of 100 (28 of them coming in the endsem paper). It was what Michael Jordan would have called a clutch performance.

Anyway, as is my wont, I'm rambling again. My flight from Houston to Philadelphia sort of changed my thoughts on Fluid Mech. Landlubber and Fluid Mech cynic that I undeniably am, I have never been into things powered by aviation turbine fuel (I also have a chip on my shoulder because I could not make it to the Dept of Aerospace Engineering). I must clarify though that I have absolutely no problem flying high on this.

I encountered turbulent weather in a plane for the first time. There was heavy rain pelting the 737 as it tried to make its way through a thunderstorm or two. That I had the window seat and that I could see lightning didn't exactly make things better.

Thoughts of Bernoulli's equation and Reynold's number and non-laminar flow started a train of thought which is also known as deductive reasoning.

Inputs to Baba's brain -

A : Airplanes fly on the principle of Bernoulli's equation.
B : Bernoulli's equation is only applicable to laminar incompressible flow.
C : Outside of my window, it sure as hell ain't laminar incompressible flow.

Hi-fi processing in Baba's dual-core processor.

Outputs from Baba's brain -

D : If it ain't laminar incompressible flow, Bernoulli's equation ain't working.
E : If Bernoulli's equation ain't working, then 737 ain't flying no more.
F : If 737 ain't flying no more, Baba attains permanent nirvana.

Well. I still haven't attained permanent nirvana. (Now who was it just said "Fuck!"?)

Thank goodness Boeing employs peeps who get something more than just a P in Fluid Mech.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

mental baba 5:53 AM | pathar ka lakeer | 0 baba ka katora |