Friday, August 25, 2006
Obituary
Pluto's not good enough. That's what some really smart guys, with a few PhDs and a few international awards in between them, have concluded. Learned guardians of the great science that they are, I'm sure their logic cannot be faulted. Therefore, I will not attempt to comprehend or to analyse the decision.
What I do know is that my parents once bought me an expensive book, titled Space and written by a gentleman named Robin Kerrod, that had a great many fascinating photographs as well as descriptions of the deeps beyond the imagination of a ten year old. It listed a tiny planet called Pluto as the ninth and smallest planet of the solar system.
Pluto was my favourite planet. Because it was the smallest. Because it was the farthest from the sun (at least most of the time). Because it was the youngest. Last but not the least, because I identified it with Disney's Pluto. But now , they say it is not a planet anymore. It's just another lump of rock whirling aimlessly in space.
Everything that Little Baba's books said was wrong. Everything that Little Baba's teachers said was wrong. The learned guardians must be right. Because the books and the teachers were wrong about lots of other things as well.
So goodbye, Pluto. Like the god you were named after, may you rest in the nether world of abstruse science and popular culture.
Space, the final frontier - that's what one of Little Baba's heroes, Capt. Jean Luc-Picard, would always say. Little Baba would watch starry-eyed, as the heroic captain commandeered the USS Enterprise to boldly go where no one ever went before. But Pluto, you were always the final frontier of the solar system. You were the sentinel who would zealously guard our home. Unfortunately, you are small. And size does matter. So it didn't quite work out.
I remember Little Baba used to say that he wanted to be a learned guardian someday. Maybe he could have stood up for you. But you know something, it doesn't matter. You are no longer a planet. And he is no longer a star.
I know this is a pathetic obituary for an old friend but...
PS : I wonder where Voyager 2 is. Did he even stop by to say hello?
Management Class : News , Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind
What I do know is that my parents once bought me an expensive book, titled Space and written by a gentleman named Robin Kerrod, that had a great many fascinating photographs as well as descriptions of the deeps beyond the imagination of a ten year old. It listed a tiny planet called Pluto as the ninth and smallest planet of the solar system.
Pluto was my favourite planet. Because it was the smallest. Because it was the farthest from the sun (at least most of the time). Because it was the youngest. Last but not the least, because I identified it with Disney's Pluto. But now , they say it is not a planet anymore. It's just another lump of rock whirling aimlessly in space.
Everything that Little Baba's books said was wrong. Everything that Little Baba's teachers said was wrong. The learned guardians must be right. Because the books and the teachers were wrong about lots of other things as well.
So goodbye, Pluto. Like the god you were named after, may you rest in the nether world of abstruse science and popular culture.
Space, the final frontier - that's what one of Little Baba's heroes, Capt. Jean Luc-Picard, would always say. Little Baba would watch starry-eyed, as the heroic captain commandeered the USS Enterprise to boldly go where no one ever went before. But Pluto, you were always the final frontier of the solar system. You were the sentinel who would zealously guard our home. Unfortunately, you are small. And size does matter. So it didn't quite work out.
I remember Little Baba used to say that he wanted to be a learned guardian someday. Maybe he could have stood up for you. But you know something, it doesn't matter. You are no longer a planet. And he is no longer a star.
I know this is a pathetic obituary for an old friend but...
PS : I wonder where Voyager 2 is. Did he even stop by to say hello?
Management Class : News , Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind
Sunday, August 20, 2006
The No.1 Director of the World
Karan Johar, film-maker extraordinaire, is back with a bang. In fact, it would be a travesty to call it just a bang. It's a gang-bang really. Like you know, when a gang from Bollywood teams up (rather effectively) to bang the living daylights out of an average joe. Like you know, when each and every one of them takes turns, just to make sure average joe gets more than just a good return on his investment. I can't think of too many better ways to spend ten dollars (unless it be to watch one of Johar's other cinematic achievements).
The movie, which is in reality a vehicle to attain the kind of zen even the Dalai Lama can only hope for, begins with dramatic moments that would make MI2 look pedestrian - Shah Rukh Khan, the King Khan , putting Zinedine Zidane to shame. He enthralls tens of thousands of cheering New Yorkers with his artistry and his power on the football field (as he does on the silver screen) before some dimwit fells him to the ground. King Khan then prepares himself for the penalty shot (and inevitable victory) by flexing his forearm tattooed with the word VICTORY (surprise! surprise!) and affixing a look on his face that would have made Lev Yashin piss in his pants. What happens next is now cinematic history.
King Khan lands a contract worth FIVE MILLION dollars. By freak co-incidence, his hot wife Preity Zinta also lands a top honcho position at Diva - New York's pathetic answer to Femina. What a happening couple, right? But then the proverbial hadi in the kabab Rani Mukherjee steps her rather large bong arse into the pretty picture, moments before she is about to be married to Abhishek Bachhan. King Khan and Rani, complete strangers, have a thoughtful discussion on love and marriage with Khan at his humorous best, sending desi girls in the audience into peals of laughter. Khan's enlightened insights on life prevail upon Rani. Consequently she proceeds to the mandap while Khan proceeds to what I presume was the signing of his multi-dollar contract. Unfortunately, a career that might have culminated in a glorious head-butt, ends in a chewing gum accident (which may have been engineered by a jealous Pele) and Khan's magic foot is lost to the world of football forever. Never before have the first few minutes of a movie captured my imagination as this did.
This motion picture also boasts of the considerable presence of Amitabh Bachchan who portrays the role of a millionaire playboy to perfection. His very first scene shows him with a scantily-clad bombshell, a pair of handcuffs and a broken bed. When Abhishek wonders as to how the bed was broken, Amitabh comes up with this gem of a Karan Johar one-liner : "Bete tumhe bhi kisi din sikhaunga" or something like that (Son, I will teach you how to do that someday). In various other scenes (put together for comic relief I suppose), he appears with nubile nymphs of different hair colours, whispering sweet-nothings into their ears. Samarjit, or Sam as Amitabh is known in the movie, also describes the fat-arse Kirron Kher as "definitely Chandigarh". This movie is "definitely Karan Johar". Only the directorial prowess of somebody like Karan Johar could have transitioned Amitabh's image from that of an angry young man to a horny old man. A few more ventures with Johar & Co wouldn't do Amitabh's legacy any harm.
Anyway, the movie moves onto an interesting and poignant storyline that has King Khan and Rani locked in unhappy marriages. The hot Preity is wedded to her work as a high-profile businesswoman who will only celebrate when her magazine becomes No.1 (in Baba's blog?) and has no time to tousle Khan's dandruff-free hair and pamper him with erotic massages. Abhishek has lots of time for Rani but she does not have time to spare from her busy schedule of vacuuming the house, doing the dishes and laundering her lingerie (although she does once ask Abhishek to take his pants off so that she might subject them to the preferential treatment normally reserved for her panties). In the meantime, you have Amitabh redefining Casanova with aplomb and Karan Johar redefining cinema with more than just aplomb.
In a moment of blinding originality, King Khan and Rani bump into each other when both mistake each other for the Black Beast - a serial child kidnapper loose in Manhattan. The athletic King Khan shows excellent baseball pitching prowess in flooring Rani with a direct hit (not that he hadn't had her floored already with his drop-dead looks and razor wit). One thing leads to another, resulting in Bollywood's answer to Unfaithful. In a bold and titillating display never seen before in Indian cinema, Khan and Rani set the screen on fire the way Diane Lane and Olivier Martinez could only have wished for. The close-up shots of King Khan's tits were especially aesthetic and had Karan Johar written all over them.
Rani and Khan's extra-marital fling comes to a sudden end when both of them are kicked out by their stone-hearted spouses (especially Preity who has the gall to turn Khan down when he magnanimously offers her one more chance). The No.1 Casanova of the World Amitabh Bachchan too succumbs to the frailties of old age and intense physical activity. Why it comes to a sudden end is still a mystery that may need to be investigated by the FBI. Instead to getting together and having some more fun, the twain go separate ways after lying to each other about their broken marriages.
Just as desi girls in the audience were on the verge of emotional breakdown at this sad turn of events, Karan Johar did a Javed Miandad in hitting a six off the very last ball of the desi attack. In yet another masterstroke, he had Rani chasing after King Khan in the closing moments of the film. It was an avante-garde move that will resound for years in Hindi cinema - the heroine chasing after the hero in the climax. And that too, in a railway station. Who would have thought that Johar of the Vanderbiltesque mansions and Ferraris fame would come down to the level of the plebeians in the audience. Astounding! What a happy ending for the two lovebirds! And for the desi girls in the audience!
This thought-evocative movie truly establishes Karan Johar as a titan among movie directors, past or present, Bollywood or Hollywood or *wood. King Khan adds another gem to his bejewelled crown. Rani reiterates her credentials as the hottest bong babe in history (I'm sorry Bips). Abhishek and Preity cut sorry figures, unlike Amitabh's girlfriends.
This was not a review, only Baba's view. Because, review = re + view. This is a mathematical impossibilty as a re view of this Joharian endeavour would result in Baba's intelligence dividend being divided by zero.
I have only one thing to say : Karan Johar, Bollywood ko Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna.
Management Class : News
The movie, which is in reality a vehicle to attain the kind of zen even the Dalai Lama can only hope for, begins with dramatic moments that would make MI2 look pedestrian - Shah Rukh Khan, the King Khan , putting Zinedine Zidane to shame. He enthralls tens of thousands of cheering New Yorkers with his artistry and his power on the football field (as he does on the silver screen) before some dimwit fells him to the ground. King Khan then prepares himself for the penalty shot (and inevitable victory) by flexing his forearm tattooed with the word VICTORY (surprise! surprise!) and affixing a look on his face that would have made Lev Yashin piss in his pants. What happens next is now cinematic history.
King Khan lands a contract worth FIVE MILLION dollars. By freak co-incidence, his hot wife Preity Zinta also lands a top honcho position at Diva - New York's pathetic answer to Femina. What a happening couple, right? But then the proverbial hadi in the kabab Rani Mukherjee steps her rather large bong arse into the pretty picture, moments before she is about to be married to Abhishek Bachhan. King Khan and Rani, complete strangers, have a thoughtful discussion on love and marriage with Khan at his humorous best, sending desi girls in the audience into peals of laughter. Khan's enlightened insights on life prevail upon Rani. Consequently she proceeds to the mandap while Khan proceeds to what I presume was the signing of his multi-dollar contract. Unfortunately, a career that might have culminated in a glorious head-butt, ends in a chewing gum accident (which may have been engineered by a jealous Pele) and Khan's magic foot is lost to the world of football forever. Never before have the first few minutes of a movie captured my imagination as this did.
This motion picture also boasts of the considerable presence of Amitabh Bachchan who portrays the role of a millionaire playboy to perfection. His very first scene shows him with a scantily-clad bombshell, a pair of handcuffs and a broken bed. When Abhishek wonders as to how the bed was broken, Amitabh comes up with this gem of a Karan Johar one-liner : "Bete tumhe bhi kisi din sikhaunga" or something like that (Son, I will teach you how to do that someday). In various other scenes (put together for comic relief I suppose), he appears with nubile nymphs of different hair colours, whispering sweet-nothings into their ears. Samarjit, or Sam as Amitabh is known in the movie, also describes the fat-arse Kirron Kher as "definitely Chandigarh". This movie is "definitely Karan Johar". Only the directorial prowess of somebody like Karan Johar could have transitioned Amitabh's image from that of an angry young man to a horny old man. A few more ventures with Johar & Co wouldn't do Amitabh's legacy any harm.
Anyway, the movie moves onto an interesting and poignant storyline that has King Khan and Rani locked in unhappy marriages. The hot Preity is wedded to her work as a high-profile businesswoman who will only celebrate when her magazine becomes No.1 (in Baba's blog?) and has no time to tousle Khan's dandruff-free hair and pamper him with erotic massages. Abhishek has lots of time for Rani but she does not have time to spare from her busy schedule of vacuuming the house, doing the dishes and laundering her lingerie (although she does once ask Abhishek to take his pants off so that she might subject them to the preferential treatment normally reserved for her panties). In the meantime, you have Amitabh redefining Casanova with aplomb and Karan Johar redefining cinema with more than just aplomb.
In a moment of blinding originality, King Khan and Rani bump into each other when both mistake each other for the Black Beast - a serial child kidnapper loose in Manhattan. The athletic King Khan shows excellent baseball pitching prowess in flooring Rani with a direct hit (not that he hadn't had her floored already with his drop-dead looks and razor wit). One thing leads to another, resulting in Bollywood's answer to Unfaithful. In a bold and titillating display never seen before in Indian cinema, Khan and Rani set the screen on fire the way Diane Lane and Olivier Martinez could only have wished for. The close-up shots of King Khan's tits were especially aesthetic and had Karan Johar written all over them.
Rani and Khan's extra-marital fling comes to a sudden end when both of them are kicked out by their stone-hearted spouses (especially Preity who has the gall to turn Khan down when he magnanimously offers her one more chance). The No.1 Casanova of the World Amitabh Bachchan too succumbs to the frailties of old age and intense physical activity. Why it comes to a sudden end is still a mystery that may need to be investigated by the FBI. Instead to getting together and having some more fun, the twain go separate ways after lying to each other about their broken marriages.
Just as desi girls in the audience were on the verge of emotional breakdown at this sad turn of events, Karan Johar did a Javed Miandad in hitting a six off the very last ball of the desi attack. In yet another masterstroke, he had Rani chasing after King Khan in the closing moments of the film. It was an avante-garde move that will resound for years in Hindi cinema - the heroine chasing after the hero in the climax. And that too, in a railway station. Who would have thought that Johar of the Vanderbiltesque mansions and Ferraris fame would come down to the level of the plebeians in the audience. Astounding! What a happy ending for the two lovebirds! And for the desi girls in the audience!
This thought-evocative movie truly establishes Karan Johar as a titan among movie directors, past or present, Bollywood or Hollywood or *wood. King Khan adds another gem to his bejewelled crown. Rani reiterates her credentials as the hottest bong babe in history (I'm sorry Bips). Abhishek and Preity cut sorry figures, unlike Amitabh's girlfriends.
This was not a review, only Baba's view. Because, review = re + view. This is a mathematical impossibilty as a re view of this Joharian endeavour would result in Baba's intelligence dividend being divided by zero.
I have only one thing to say : Karan Johar, Bollywood ko Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna.
Management Class : News
Monday, August 14, 2006
The No.1 Celebrity of the World
As I have attempted to indicate in the past, Paris Hilton is a smasher, a go-getter, a winner and, of course, a heck of a singer as well.
Thanks to her, I have this opportunity to apologize to all and sundry for this post of mine which had expressed doubt over the possibility of beauty and brains cohabitating in a specimen of the fairer sex. What once existed in my retarded mind as a theoretical probability, now takes the practical shape of Paris Hilton. She's got what it takes - a stunning face, a hot bod, fame, fortune, brains, the works. And on top of it all, she's blonde. To cut the crap out, she is the no.1 celebrity of the world.
I find it extremely heartening to note that after years of shedding clothes, Paris has finally shed her natural tendency towards self-denial and humility by openly declaring herself as an iconic blonde (and a smart one at that). To be really honest, she has been a tad too modest again in describing herself merely as an iconic blonde of this decade. I would go one step further to proclaim that she's THE iconic woman. Af all time.
In fact she even rivals the legendary Helen. As I have mentioned before, where Helen was the face that launched a thousand ships, Paris is the one to have launched a thousand (and still counting) nip slips.
She is my heroine. She's my role model. She's the love of my life.
Therefore, imagine my horror, when this shocking incident came to be. Fortunately, unlike the stars, the gods are not blind. They ensured that she was administered a prompt and healthy dose of tetanus.
Here are excerpts of a conversation between a traumatised Paris Hilton and her $800-an-hour psychiatrist.
Paris (between sobs) : How could he do this to me?
Psychiatrist : Most abominable. Most repulsive.
Paris : Boo-hoo-hoo.
Psychiatrist : Err, what was his name again?
Paris : Boo-hoo-hoo.
Psychiatrist : What?
Paris : Baby Luv.
Psychiatrist : I'm sorry?
Paris : Baby Luv. But he doesn't love me anymore. Boo-hoo-hoo.
Psychiatrist : Err, is this the first time err, Baby Luv, attacked you?
Paris (still wailing) : Yes, my baby Baby Luv was always so full of love before.
Psychiatrist : I see. So what was it that you were doing when he bit you?
Paris : I was just frolicking with him.
Psychiatrist : You were doing err, what?
Paris : Frolicking.
Psychiatrist : And then what happened?
Paris : He got excited.
Psychiatrist : What exactly do you mean by he got excited?
Paris : You know, like when an electron is excited into moving to a higher orbital.
Psychiatrist : Oh
Paris : How could he do this to me?
Psychiatrist : It may have something to do with Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle which states that given an iconic blonde and an exotic kinkajou, it is impossible to determine both the position as well as the momentum of the kinkajou's canines..
Paris (rather indignantly) : Hey, that law's for an ionic bond and not for an iconic blonde.
Psychiatrist : Oh.
Paris : What should I do now?
Psychiatrist : Why don't you go get yourself a nice boyfriend instead of a kinky kinkajou this time around?
Paris : Oh no, doc. The boys are all so nasty. All they want to do is to have sex. But you know how shy I am.
Psychiatrist : True. True.
Unfortunately, at this point, the hidden microphone (which was cheap and had been made in China) fizzled out. But not before reiterating some of those facets of Paris' personality that endear her to billions across the latitude and longitude of the planet - the love for our furry friends, the deep knowledge of physical chemistry, the self-effacing modesty. I wish my words could do her justice but, when confronted with the sheer iconism of Paris Hiltondom, they always fail me. All I can say is that she is the no.1 celebrity of the world.
Management Class : News
Thanks to her, I have this opportunity to apologize to all and sundry for this post of mine which had expressed doubt over the possibility of beauty and brains cohabitating in a specimen of the fairer sex. What once existed in my retarded mind as a theoretical probability, now takes the practical shape of Paris Hilton. She's got what it takes - a stunning face, a hot bod, fame, fortune, brains, the works. And on top of it all, she's blonde. To cut the crap out, she is the no.1 celebrity of the world.
I find it extremely heartening to note that after years of shedding clothes, Paris has finally shed her natural tendency towards self-denial and humility by openly declaring herself as an iconic blonde (and a smart one at that). To be really honest, she has been a tad too modest again in describing herself merely as an iconic blonde of this decade. I would go one step further to proclaim that she's THE iconic woman. Af all time.
In fact she even rivals the legendary Helen. As I have mentioned before, where Helen was the face that launched a thousand ships, Paris is the one to have launched a thousand (and still counting) nip slips.
She is my heroine. She's my role model. She's the love of my life.
Therefore, imagine my horror, when this shocking incident came to be. Fortunately, unlike the stars, the gods are not blind. They ensured that she was administered a prompt and healthy dose of tetanus.
Here are excerpts of a conversation between a traumatised Paris Hilton and her $800-an-hour psychiatrist.
Paris (between sobs) : How could he do this to me?
Psychiatrist : Most abominable. Most repulsive.
Paris : Boo-hoo-hoo.
Psychiatrist : Err, what was his name again?
Paris : Boo-hoo-hoo.
Psychiatrist : What?
Paris : Baby Luv.
Psychiatrist : I'm sorry?
Paris : Baby Luv. But he doesn't love me anymore. Boo-hoo-hoo.
Psychiatrist : Err, is this the first time err, Baby Luv, attacked you?
Paris (still wailing) : Yes, my baby Baby Luv was always so full of love before.
Psychiatrist : I see. So what was it that you were doing when he bit you?
Paris : I was just frolicking with him.
Psychiatrist : You were doing err, what?
Paris : Frolicking.
Psychiatrist : And then what happened?
Paris : He got excited.
Psychiatrist : What exactly do you mean by he got excited?
Paris : You know, like when an electron is excited into moving to a higher orbital.
Psychiatrist : Oh
Paris : How could he do this to me?
Psychiatrist : It may have something to do with Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle which states that given an iconic blonde and an exotic kinkajou, it is impossible to determine both the position as well as the momentum of the kinkajou's canines..
Paris (rather indignantly) : Hey, that law's for an ionic bond and not for an iconic blonde.
Psychiatrist : Oh.
Paris : What should I do now?
Psychiatrist : Why don't you go get yourself a nice boyfriend instead of a kinky kinkajou this time around?
Paris : Oh no, doc. The boys are all so nasty. All they want to do is to have sex. But you know how shy I am.
Psychiatrist : True. True.
Unfortunately, at this point, the hidden microphone (which was cheap and had been made in China) fizzled out. But not before reiterating some of those facets of Paris' personality that endear her to billions across the latitude and longitude of the planet - the love for our furry friends, the deep knowledge of physical chemistry, the self-effacing modesty. I wish my words could do her justice but, when confronted with the sheer iconism of Paris Hiltondom, they always fail me. All I can say is that she is the no.1 celebrity of the world.
Management Class : News
Monday, August 07, 2006
Whispering Death
Was it a midsummer night dream
As he lay sleeping by the window?
Through drawn blinds, a gleam,
Soon obscured by furtive shadow.
Perhaps it was the silvery moon
Turning away, helpless but glad,
Knowing that it would be soon.
And that amnesty would be had.
The wind rustled decaying leaves,
Which fell gently to the ground
In the wont that time weaves.
Once gone, no more to be found.
Standing sentinel, faithful tree
Until the very last breath,
Which would finally set him free
Of the sound of whispering death.
Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe
As he lay sleeping by the window?
Through drawn blinds, a gleam,
Soon obscured by furtive shadow.
Perhaps it was the silvery moon
Turning away, helpless but glad,
Knowing that it would be soon.
And that amnesty would be had.
The wind rustled decaying leaves,
Which fell gently to the ground
In the wont that time weaves.
Once gone, no more to be found.
Standing sentinel, faithful tree
Until the very last breath,
Which would finally set him free
Of the sound of whispering death.
Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe
Sunday, August 06, 2006
The No.1 City of the World
I'm not exactly a millionaire playboy with a jet-setting lifestyle - breakfast with a few banker buddies at London, then a few business meetings at Frankfurt, a quick lunch with the Swiss finance minister at Zurich, video-conferences with stock-brokers in Hong Kong and Singapore during my trans-altantic flight (in my private jet of course), and finally, an evening out in New York City with my supermodel girlfriend. Dang.
Unfortunately a lack of haematite content in my balls and the potent fear of roti, kapda aur makaan have ensured that I'm also not a rebellious fuck-the-fucking-world backpacker wandering about the third rock from the sun in search of truth, peace and justice. Double dang.
But really, it's just me being stupid again. What hasn't IT thralldom given me?
It's given me fabulous riches (according to the latest exchange rates) and social status. And it's given me the opportunity to travel to great cities in the United States.
New York City. Houston. San Francisco. Las Vegas. Philadelphia.
And of course I had already been to great cities in India.
Bombay. New Delhi. Bangalore. Calcutta. Hyderabad.
And of course, I have visited great cities of other countries and continents through the eyes of Discovery and National Geographic.
Tokyo. Beijing. Shanghai. Hong Kong. Singapore. Dubai. Moscow. London. Paris. Madrid. Vienna. Amsterdam. Cairo. Cape Town. Sydney. Melbourne. Rio de Janeiro. Buenos Aires. Mexico City. Toronto.
But I was intrigued by an interesting question. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, which is the greatest city of them all? Which is the no.1 city of the world?
It's got to be Chennai. Yes, Chennai. The city formerly known as Madras. It is the greatest city in the world. It is the No.1 city of the world.
I was privileged to stay in the most wondrous city of Chennai for two years of my adult life, when I had started out as a minion (that's not to say I no longer am one) in a certain global top 10 company. The reasons behind my deep love for this incredible city are both commonplace as well as metaphysical in nature. It's difficult to describe my feelings for Chennai. All I can say is that it was love at first sight.
In a world which is driven by an insatiable appetite for energy and which is inexorably marching towards the logical conclusion of global warming, Chennai sets a wonderful example. It works on a simple premise: there can be no energy consumption if there is no supply. Therefore, the city of Chennai does not supply electricity to the residents. Instead, it diverts it to industries owned by cash-strapped ministers and MLAs for free, so that they might embark on the nation-building exercise that is verily the unifocal goal of their blessed lives. Apart from the obvious benefits, it also mitigates the problem of unplanned urbanisation by keeping people out of the city and in the farms and the villages (which are supplied with free electricity by the same forward-minded ministers before their elections).
Sexual promiscuity has been the bane of our times. With people fucking like minks and the falling standards of rubber plantations in Malaysia, AIDS and other STDs threaten to assume pandemic proportions. The inspiring city of Chennai once again steps up to the plate to provide yeoman service to this noble cause. The premise, again, is one borne out of utmost simplicity. It takes two to mate: a male and a female (sincere apologies to readers with different orientations). Excellent education in the fine schools of Chennai ensures that attempts by degenerate males to con paragons of virtue (who are armed with attitude and modern thinking and who believe that mating, and indeed even dating, is evil except when performed to produce worthies such as them) comes to naught. In other cases, where paragons of virtue are not involved, the male often excuses himself from *ing activities of any sort upon discovering the true meaning of the word hirsute. To cut a long story short, the amazing city of Chennai could teach a thing or two about impossible missions to the likes of Tom Cruise.
The freshwater resources of the world have been severely impacted by growing human population (again, a product of the excess libido of males who linger a tad too long in the most excellent city that is Chennai). The outstanding city of Chennai does its bit for the environment by refusing to cater to the unwarranted clamouring of the bourgeoisie for more water. Instead, it aids the cause of technology and consequently planet earth by forcing people to look to the Bay of Bengal for succour. It has been pointed out that sodium as well as chlorine, indispensable mineral nutrients, are found plenteously in its azure-blue waters. Sometimes when people look to Coca-Cola and Pepsi instead, it aids the cause of national economy as well. So it's a win-win situation.
Statistics point to the fact that crime is mostly committed at night. The enlightened councilmen of Chennai, having passed their examinations in Probability and Statistics with flying colours, arrived at conclusions that no statistician had thought of before them. So they virtually did away public transportation at night and decided to let the mamas loose at rowdies who had the temerity to venture out after 10 pm. They also decided to fix discos, which were dens of avarice and lust and crime. Thanks to timely and fortunate intervention, nightlife in the crime-free precincts of happening Chennai is restricted to burning the midnight oil for final exams and preparing for IIT-JEE.
Public transportation has been rightly viewed as the aspirin to the headaches faced by urban planners worldwide. The founding fathers of the incredible city of Chennai believed in going one step further. They empowered mamas with the right to take care of ruffians who neither have the patience to wait two hours for a bus with an empty seat nor the athletic ability to dangle from a full one. They also ensured that the mamas got all the help they wanted from the Regional Torture Offices.
The sedentary nature of everyday urban life has serious implications on the health and fitness of an individual. Chennai's climatic conditions ensure that its upstanding citizens take all the fluids and all the vitamins that they might otherwise have neglected to. Users of public transportation undoubtedly obtain good exercise by running from one bus to another and by doing chin-ups at the window. Non-users, despite their lack of civic sense, are given due consideration too - running from one RTO to another keeps them on their toes as well. Also, exposure to the Chennai sun produces the sort of physical endurance and hardiness that a marathon runner would be proud of. Restaurants and eateries also make significant contributions to this cause by offering low-carb tiffins for dinner instead of high-carb rice-roti based meals. These factors contribute towards keeping Chennaites in top shape. Apart from this, the 85% humidity (which lends a sultry look) and the 40 degree Celsius heat (which produces a killer tan) probably go a long way in explaining the irresistible physical charms of the Chennai woman.
The unique city of Chennai also has claims to enterprising ideas on public taxation. A normal citizen of Chennai would have occasion to use the auto several times due to a variety of reasons (most of which can be traced back to the RTO). During these encounters with rickshaw drivers (who are actually taxmen in plainsclothes), all duties due to the city are collected in one shot. This ensures that unnecessary paperwork and wastage of judicial time is avoided. It also demonstrates a synergy between two departments, which is rarely observed elsewhere in other cities. The taxes thus collected are suitably disbursed to fund research on similar innovation.
The farsighted city of Chennai recognises the need to provide clean air to its denizens. However, innovative research by some of its departments showed that clean air destroys the immunity of the respiratory systems, thereby causing grievous harm to Chennaites upon venturing outside the city. Therefore, it was decided to revise emission norms. Reliable source say that the medical-pharmaceutical industry as well as funeral businesses (and hence, national economy) will also be strengthened by this action. The soot which is deposited on an individual's clothes and face now serves as a catalyst for cosmetics and laundry businesses, which in turn provide employment for so many in the giving city of Chennai.
The ancient city of Chennai boasts of breathtaking history that dates back to centuries. Instead of moving with the times towards social fragmentation and moral degeneration like lesser cities, a majority of the populace believes in staying put - at the zenith of the ziggurat of international cities. The mighty city of Chennai will fight the forces of cultural imperialism and parochial chauvinism. And defeat them. But it will never succumb to embrace languages, communities and thoughts that would only serve to pollute its spotless character that has survived the onslaughts of time and tide.
I was told by a bloke up a rung on the ladder that I might soon be united with my beloved Chennai. I eagerly look forward to renewing my love affair with the fascinating city that is Chennai. I salute the astounding spirit of Chennai - the no.1 city of the world.
Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind
Unfortunately a lack of haematite content in my balls and the potent fear of roti, kapda aur makaan have ensured that I'm also not a rebellious fuck-the-fucking-world backpacker wandering about the third rock from the sun in search of truth, peace and justice. Double dang.
But really, it's just me being stupid again. What hasn't IT thralldom given me?
It's given me fabulous riches (according to the latest exchange rates) and social status. And it's given me the opportunity to travel to great cities in the United States.
New York City. Houston. San Francisco. Las Vegas. Philadelphia.
And of course I had already been to great cities in India.
Bombay. New Delhi. Bangalore. Calcutta. Hyderabad.
And of course, I have visited great cities of other countries and continents through the eyes of Discovery and National Geographic.
Tokyo. Beijing. Shanghai. Hong Kong. Singapore. Dubai. Moscow. London. Paris. Madrid. Vienna. Amsterdam. Cairo. Cape Town. Sydney. Melbourne. Rio de Janeiro. Buenos Aires. Mexico City. Toronto.
But I was intrigued by an interesting question. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, which is the greatest city of them all? Which is the no.1 city of the world?
It's got to be Chennai. Yes, Chennai. The city formerly known as Madras. It is the greatest city in the world. It is the No.1 city of the world.
I was privileged to stay in the most wondrous city of Chennai for two years of my adult life, when I had started out as a minion (that's not to say I no longer am one) in a certain global top 10 company. The reasons behind my deep love for this incredible city are both commonplace as well as metaphysical in nature. It's difficult to describe my feelings for Chennai. All I can say is that it was love at first sight.
In a world which is driven by an insatiable appetite for energy and which is inexorably marching towards the logical conclusion of global warming, Chennai sets a wonderful example. It works on a simple premise: there can be no energy consumption if there is no supply. Therefore, the city of Chennai does not supply electricity to the residents. Instead, it diverts it to industries owned by cash-strapped ministers and MLAs for free, so that they might embark on the nation-building exercise that is verily the unifocal goal of their blessed lives. Apart from the obvious benefits, it also mitigates the problem of unplanned urbanisation by keeping people out of the city and in the farms and the villages (which are supplied with free electricity by the same forward-minded ministers before their elections).
Sexual promiscuity has been the bane of our times. With people fucking like minks and the falling standards of rubber plantations in Malaysia, AIDS and other STDs threaten to assume pandemic proportions. The inspiring city of Chennai once again steps up to the plate to provide yeoman service to this noble cause. The premise, again, is one borne out of utmost simplicity. It takes two to mate: a male and a female (sincere apologies to readers with different orientations). Excellent education in the fine schools of Chennai ensures that attempts by degenerate males to con paragons of virtue (who are armed with attitude and modern thinking and who believe that mating, and indeed even dating, is evil except when performed to produce worthies such as them) comes to naught. In other cases, where paragons of virtue are not involved, the male often excuses himself from *ing activities of any sort upon discovering the true meaning of the word hirsute. To cut a long story short, the amazing city of Chennai could teach a thing or two about impossible missions to the likes of Tom Cruise.
The freshwater resources of the world have been severely impacted by growing human population (again, a product of the excess libido of males who linger a tad too long in the most excellent city that is Chennai). The outstanding city of Chennai does its bit for the environment by refusing to cater to the unwarranted clamouring of the bourgeoisie for more water. Instead, it aids the cause of technology and consequently planet earth by forcing people to look to the Bay of Bengal for succour. It has been pointed out that sodium as well as chlorine, indispensable mineral nutrients, are found plenteously in its azure-blue waters. Sometimes when people look to Coca-Cola and Pepsi instead, it aids the cause of national economy as well. So it's a win-win situation.
Statistics point to the fact that crime is mostly committed at night. The enlightened councilmen of Chennai, having passed their examinations in Probability and Statistics with flying colours, arrived at conclusions that no statistician had thought of before them. So they virtually did away public transportation at night and decided to let the mamas loose at rowdies who had the temerity to venture out after 10 pm. They also decided to fix discos, which were dens of avarice and lust and crime. Thanks to timely and fortunate intervention, nightlife in the crime-free precincts of happening Chennai is restricted to burning the midnight oil for final exams and preparing for IIT-JEE.
Public transportation has been rightly viewed as the aspirin to the headaches faced by urban planners worldwide. The founding fathers of the incredible city of Chennai believed in going one step further. They empowered mamas with the right to take care of ruffians who neither have the patience to wait two hours for a bus with an empty seat nor the athletic ability to dangle from a full one. They also ensured that the mamas got all the help they wanted from the Regional Torture Offices.
The sedentary nature of everyday urban life has serious implications on the health and fitness of an individual. Chennai's climatic conditions ensure that its upstanding citizens take all the fluids and all the vitamins that they might otherwise have neglected to. Users of public transportation undoubtedly obtain good exercise by running from one bus to another and by doing chin-ups at the window. Non-users, despite their lack of civic sense, are given due consideration too - running from one RTO to another keeps them on their toes as well. Also, exposure to the Chennai sun produces the sort of physical endurance and hardiness that a marathon runner would be proud of. Restaurants and eateries also make significant contributions to this cause by offering low-carb tiffins for dinner instead of high-carb rice-roti based meals. These factors contribute towards keeping Chennaites in top shape. Apart from this, the 85% humidity (which lends a sultry look) and the 40 degree Celsius heat (which produces a killer tan) probably go a long way in explaining the irresistible physical charms of the Chennai woman.
The unique city of Chennai also has claims to enterprising ideas on public taxation. A normal citizen of Chennai would have occasion to use the auto several times due to a variety of reasons (most of which can be traced back to the RTO). During these encounters with rickshaw drivers (who are actually taxmen in plainsclothes), all duties due to the city are collected in one shot. This ensures that unnecessary paperwork and wastage of judicial time is avoided. It also demonstrates a synergy between two departments, which is rarely observed elsewhere in other cities. The taxes thus collected are suitably disbursed to fund research on similar innovation.
The farsighted city of Chennai recognises the need to provide clean air to its denizens. However, innovative research by some of its departments showed that clean air destroys the immunity of the respiratory systems, thereby causing grievous harm to Chennaites upon venturing outside the city. Therefore, it was decided to revise emission norms. Reliable source say that the medical-pharmaceutical industry as well as funeral businesses (and hence, national economy) will also be strengthened by this action. The soot which is deposited on an individual's clothes and face now serves as a catalyst for cosmetics and laundry businesses, which in turn provide employment for so many in the giving city of Chennai.
The ancient city of Chennai boasts of breathtaking history that dates back to centuries. Instead of moving with the times towards social fragmentation and moral degeneration like lesser cities, a majority of the populace believes in staying put - at the zenith of the ziggurat of international cities. The mighty city of Chennai will fight the forces of cultural imperialism and parochial chauvinism. And defeat them. But it will never succumb to embrace languages, communities and thoughts that would only serve to pollute its spotless character that has survived the onslaughts of time and tide.
I was told by a bloke up a rung on the ladder that I might soon be united with my beloved Chennai. I eagerly look forward to renewing my love affair with the fascinating city that is Chennai. I salute the astounding spirit of Chennai - the no.1 city of the world.
Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
It's Wednesday
I'll be quick and easy.
1) Kill the communists, like the rabid dogs that they truly are.
2) For want of a dog, a walk was lost.
For want of a walk, a hot chick was lost.
For want of a hot chick, equilibrium was lost.
For want of equilibrium, a brain the size of a planet was lost,
For want of a brain the size of a planet, physics was lost.
For want of physics, the polar icecaps were lost.
The polar icecaps were lost for want of a dog.
Management Class : News , Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind
1) Kill the communists, like the rabid dogs that they truly are.
2) For want of a dog, a walk was lost.
For want of a walk, a hot chick was lost.
For want of a hot chick, equilibrium was lost.
For want of equilibrium, a brain the size of a planet was lost,
For want of a brain the size of a planet, physics was lost.
For want of physics, the polar icecaps were lost.
The polar icecaps were lost for want of a dog.
Management Class : News , Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind