Satoma Asadgamaya

A Beautiful Mind

2011-05-07T22:45:00.005+05:30

Sometimes I wonder about the world,
About the way things have unfurled.

Sometimes I theorize on what is right,
About whether it is really worth a fight.

Sometimes I ask questions of the soul
About the relentlessness of its goal.

Sometimes I sit down and contemplate,
About how hard it is to be truly great.

Sometimes I whisper to the setting sun,
About a beautiful mind coming undone.

Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe

Signs of Life

2008-08-09T21:51:00.007+05:30

This blog has been dead for long. I really don't know why. There was probably no point in posting.

But I'm a bit drunk today. I love the incredibly liberated feeling of being drunk. And I somehow felt like stringing together a few lines right now. I watched The Dark Knight the other day. I must say it's a heck of a movie. I'm not going to review it. The blogosphere will have much better reviews elsewhere.

During the movie, at times, I felt like Batman himself. At times, like Harvey Dent. But, most of all, I felt like the Joker.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. Why so serious? :-D :-D :-D :-D

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

Peaceful Easy Feeling

2007-09-26T21:05:00.003+05:30

The Men in Blue, formerly the No.1 Team of the World, have defied all odds. As world T20 champions, they now find themselves being deified across the length and breadth of the nation. Theirs is undoubtedly a fantastic accomplishment – one that will be remembered for a while. But the public’s memory is fickle, to say the least. And the Men have a long way to go before they get anywhere near the standards set by the Aussies. Anyway, this is not really about the Men. This is about the great game. And the boys. The boys in blue, green, red and myriad secondary colours.

Although it is now hard to imagine, Mental Baba was once a kid – tallish, skinny and with a big mop of hair on his (back-even-then) sagacious head. In addition to the regular paraphernalia that most boys covet and collect, the Baba possessed a wondrous item of unspeakable powers. If the Baba were Jedi, it would have been known as his lightsaber. If the Baba were He-Man, it might have been called the Sword of Grayskull. Ah, the raw power! That magical feeling! The very memories! The Baba does not know who made it. The Baba does not know what it was made of. It was certainly not willow (which in those days was wielded only by kids with silver spoons and gold fillings in their mouths). But boy! Could it give the rarely-red cherry a whomping that even the Whomping Willow would be proud of or what!

It was a rainy morning in Calcutta, sometime in the late 80s. All was damp and depressing, except for the the Baba’s countenance, which had eager anticipation shining through. His penance had resulted in a boon, which he was about to use in a sanctum sanctorum. The Baba stood still, as waves of awe and uncertainty swept over him. So many! Which?! Which one?! “Use the force!” suggested the wizened old man behind the counter, as the Baba set about his task. As he picked up and considered each, the force surged through his arms and into his body. And then, the force blasted through his very being. It was THE ONE! The Baba had found his brahmastra!

A category #4 weapon, it was considered small. As were the Baba’s biceps. But together, their destructive power was unrivalled. Glass panes were shattered, plantings were battered, cherry-wielders were left tattered; to the Baba the great astra was the only thing that mattered. If only ISRO had known how easy putting objects in geostationary orbits was. Up, up and away! Baba - you beauty! Those heady days!

Some tan-ki-shakti-man-ki-shakti Bournvita at 4 pm and the Baba would lumber away to the battleground, to join the other boys, with the astra resting against his shoulder. And he, the Dispatcher of Cherries, would return at 6:30 pm, having fulfilled his cosmically destined role with aplomb.

But something went wrong somewhere. The Baba neither embraced change. Nor a new and bigger astra. The force gradually started ebbing away. Both the Baba and his brahmastra lost their fearsome powers, eventually becoming ghosts of their former selves towards the late 90s.

The once-great astra still remains, cracked and withered, in an unworthy coffin. Its former wielder still remains too, de-mopped and de-powered, in a wood-and-glass coffin of his own making. The only blade that the Baba now retains is one named Gillette. Which, again, runs contrarian to one of Babadom’s cherished existential principles. But that’s how the cookie, or rather Babadom, crumbles.

It’s raining here. It always does. There’s a bunch of kids playing the great game on the road, in the rain, in their sandals. One of them looks up and sees a face pressed flat against the window...

Methinks, was this how it used to go?

Daak. Daak. Kiski daak?

Kaun lega Ambrose? Kaun lega Walsh?

I got that all wrong. Why don’t I change it to this –

Daak. Daak. Office ki daak.

Lega Operations? Ya lega Sales?

But, thank you, Men in Blue. Thank you, MSD. Thank you for opening the floodgates and taking all of us where it is so hard to go to. Thank you for returning to the great game, the wonder and the joy that were once part of it. Thank you for this peaceful easy feeling.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

Close Encounters

2007-09-11T00:45:00.002+05:30

Mumbai - the entertainment capital of the country. It’s got Bollywood, it’s got Ekta Kapoor, it’s got Mid-Day, it’s got the works. Little wonder that I find myself being fabulously entertained in the city, by the city.

What better way to start the day than with a king-sized action flick. Hell, I’ve always been a big fan of such movies. Conan the Barbarian, Bloodsport, Fight Club, you name it. On second thought, allow me to name it. Close Encounters of the Mumbai Kind, perhaps?

There are multiple shows on offer. I usually take the 08:45 am one on most occasions. While this is not exactly for Karan Johar fans, it pales in comparison to some of the others (which are only patronized by true connoisseurs of this brand of Mumbai cinema). Contrary to public perception, the show doesn’t always start on time. But when it does, even the sun gets shut out by a mass of humanity, everything goes dim and then there is andhera in the Andheri theatre. And the action begins without much ado. It’s mild to start with - just the stifling of breath, the contortions of face, the stomping on of toes and the pumping of blood. As the show progresses, so does the quality of action. 9:08 am is when the shoving, the jostling really begin and challenges are thrown. Forget 3D, forget IMAX. This is the real deal. Experience action the way it was always meant to be - right in the middle of it. Feel the crushing of bones and smell the sweat as it permeates the very air. Ah! Sadly the action starts petering out around 9:15 am, leaving the discerning viewer with nothing other than a sense of anti-climax. Such viewers are advised to attend earlier shows that provide closer encounters of the Mumbai kind. Or procure entry to shows rated F (needless to say, F stands for Fantastic).

However, it must be noted that the show is quite egalitarian in nature – tickets to both the balcony as well as the floor end up getting similar service and experience. What a First Class flick!

For viewers with harder tastes, the horror shows commence in the evening and go on till late into the night. It’s advisable get to an early show. That’s because these evening shows are more popular than Mallika Sherawat and Rakhi Sawant put together; there’s always a mad rush of people waiting to get in. The action reaches frenzied heights: punches are thrown and skulls are shattered. Challengers are thrown away like rag dolls. Replete with blood, gore and more – the climaxes of these movies are indeed unparalleled. Longer the duration of the show, the better is the climax. That possibly explains why the Virar show is the superhit that it is. In fact, some of these shows can be so absorbing that it almost becomes impossible for the transfixed viewer to leave the theatre (except for those blessed with powers in astral projections).

Unfortunately there is no romance in these movies because of lots of censorship. Drawing a leaf from the Taliban book of public life, the sexes are segregated to discourage practical demonstrations of the combined effects of Axe, Wild Stone and Zatak Gold (used liberally by the smart Mumbaikar male). Going by the scenes of writhing bodies though, it seems that love of the Brokeback Mountain kind is certainly not frowned upon. How admirable and forward-minded! What an excellent measure to check the city’s burgeoning population!

There is not much of comedy as well. Viewers who manage to get into the theatre first and occupy vantage spots might disagree with the statement just made. Going by their grins and amused looks, these viewers find these shows to be quite funny.

The bottomline is that the show organizers have got to be complemented. Tickets are priced well under par. As are a few other things. The result is an experience which is obviously incomparable. In terms of value for money, nothing beats this set-up. Forget Andheri to Churchgate. One can go all the way to the pearly gate. But that’s only a small part of the bigger picture. There’s so much more to these shows.

Everyday life in these metropolises is so predictably fast. People hardly get time to do their own thing. Close Encounters of the Mumbai Kind sets a stellar example in this regard. It ensures that people get the physical exercise that they desperately need. A combination of sprints and hurdles help keep the body fit and toned. A healthy dose of gymnastics aids flexibility. A few rigorous bouts of boxing and wrestling go a long way in muscle development and in improving blood circulation. Mountaineering techniques are also employed to train the body in an environment of low oxygen. And then there are a select few who actually get to surf waves of humanity. Hey, slanging matches keep vocal cords in shape too. What better way to start the day than with such an eclectic collection of sports.

Problems with water supply and a general lack of time ensure that not too many people get to take a bath. Close Encounters of the Mumbai Kind creates an environment conducive to producing copious amounts of sweat, which serves as an alternate bathing medium. Fresh water is conserved and the future of planet earth is safeguarded. The rain gods, always partial to the traditionalists among us, do absolutely no harm by frequently showering show-goers with fresh water. In the process, clothes get washed as well, thus saving many from the clutches of the evil that is dhobidom.

So there is exercise. There is personal hygiene. There is laundry. There is great use of time. What more may one expect from Close Encounters of the Mumbai Kind?

Pathbreaking physics (and allied disciplines of science). Mental exercise is just as important as physical, if not more.

There’s thought-provoking defiance of operations research and the theory of constraints. There is no constraint when it comes to Close Encounters of the Mumbai Kind. Capacity utilization is not limited by time or space. 100% is for other flop shows. It tends to infinity here.

There’s fluid mechanics. Remember the stuff about turbulent flow being the greatest at the entry and the exit of a conduit? Remember that turbulent flow is initiated when Reynold’s number is more than 2000 (in the theatre)?

There are the principles of momentum. Momentum is directly proportional to the masses..err…mass. Momentum is conserved but energy is not when it comes to inelastic collisions. And boy, are there a few of them or what?!

There’s surface tension and its proportionality to the angle of contact with the surrounding media.

The most important one, of course, pertains to the transformation of energy. You walk into a Close Encounters of the Mumbai Kind show with a lot of potential energy. It gets converted to kinetic as well as a bit of heat energy. At the end of it, there is only light energy in its purest form as one walks away - well and truly enlightened.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

On a Rainy Day

2007-04-01T10:37:00.001+05:30

My neglected blog has been clamouring for my attention. If only it knew that the reason for its neglect is not a lack of attention. Rather it is the lack of verbose invention, which is far more difficult than it ever used to be.

It had been raining all day for the most part. Puddles of water had formed on the roads in my apartment complex. The clouds had probably decided to take a break; but the leaves were still dripping and the grass was still glistening. The scene was very green, the greenest of all greens. I saw this little kid, no more than two or three, traipsing along with a lady who I assume was her mother. Everytime the kid saw a puddle, her face would light up with wonder and joy. And she would kick at the puddle with her tiny feet and splash the water. Her smile was something the cheshire cat would have been proud of. But, just as the cat does, she disappeared as well.

I stood there awhile, thinking I might try and drown encumbering thoughts in those tiny puddles. I did not do so. Maybe my shoes were too expensive.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

The Clever Fox

2007-02-18T04:58:00.001+05:30

The fox was hungry. His belly ached for some good cabbage. Unfortunately there was none in the fridge. So he had some strawberry ice-cream and chewing gum instead. These items, though delectably patable in their own way, sadly failed to smother his cravings for cabbage. The fox then determined to steal some from a patch growing on Brij Bhushan Sharma's land.

There was only one problem in the fox's plan - Tommy. Tommy was Brij Bhushan's pet bulldog. He was ferocious and he hated the fox's guts. The fox resolved to outfox Tommy. He disguised himself as an old lady and armed himself with a chicken bone. No sooner did he reach Brij Bhushan's farm than Tommy apparated, growling menacingly. The fox waved the bone invitingly and cooed, "Tommy! Aaa! Aaa!" Thus was Tommy, respecter of old ladies and lover of chicken bones, tamed. He proceeded to munch upon the bone while the fox proceeded to plunder the plot of its juicy tender cabbages. He sold some to the goat and kept the rest for himself. He used the proceeds of the sale to stock up on garam masala, chilli powder and salt.

The all-pervasive aroma of cabbage curry wafted out from the fox's cottage that evening. Wisps of it also found their way to Tommy, who surprisingly did not partake of dinner that night. He chewed on the already-chewn chicken bone instead. He was last heard muttering, "Dekh levanga. Tussi dekh levanga."

Management Class : Tall Tales

Happy New Year

2007-01-02T04:48:00.000+05:30

Mental Baba and I wish unsuspecting (or mentally-ill) netizens who may have wandered into this unhealthly part of the blogosphere a very happy and prosperous new year. May your lives (and reading habits) take a turn for the better.

2007 may very well turn out to be the year. In a step towards making this possible, we have come up with a few resolutions.

1) Mental Baba and I will seek help, professional or otherwise, to have at least some of our psychiatric disorders (like MPD, OCD, Bipolar, Social Anxiety, Megalomania) permanently fixed.

2) Mental Baba will not give girls, maals or otherwise, the importance they do not deserve.

3) I will not give alcohol, Scotch or otherwise, the importance it does not deserve.

4) Mental Baba and I will not watch television or surf the internet unless it be to further our long-neglected financial interests.

5) Mental Baba and I will embark on an exercise to re-distribute body mass more uniformly and impartially over our physical manifestation.

6) Mental Baba and I will not give cake, from the factory or otherwise, the importance it does deserve.

7) Mental Baba will either walk the talk or shut up.

8) I will become the greatest guitarist in history.

And devotees, by the way, the ashram has finally given in to the pressures of the syndicate.

Satoma Asadgamaya. Tathastu.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

A Long Time Coming

2006-12-30T13:18:00.001+05:30

Star Trek aficiandos will recall those famous words by Captain Kirk : "Space, the final frontier". I disagree. Space is not the final frontier. Gult Brahminism is.

There are homo sapiens. And then there's that remarkable species known as gultus brahminicus. Those who may have had the displeasure of watching DCH will remember the smart-ass Aamir Khan mouth off "Waise perfection ko improve karna mushkil hota hai" (it is difficult to improve perfection). Here's a piece of Bollywood trivia - he was actually talking about Gult Brahmins.

Gultus brahminicus is where the buck known as evolution stops. Gult Brahminism is the final frontier, if ever there was one.

History:

In the wake of the decline of the Indus Valley civilization, the Aryans rapidly expanded into the Indian subcontinent and sowed the seeds of the Vedic civilization. The Varna system, which was an integral part of the Vedic way of life, facilitated the rise of an elitist class in society - the privileged members of which were known as Brahmins. Now these guys were good but they were nowhere near where modern-day Gult Brahmins are. There are conspiracy theorists who suggest that the metamorphosis of the vanilla Brahmin into the Gult flavour can be traced back to the much-maligned KT event. That planetoids from outer space introduced a hyper-intelligent super-resistant species of bacteria to the third rock . That this species eventually morphed into Gult Brahmins. That's a lie. It all started with a group of Brahmins who were humiliated in a game of gulli-danda. They fled to the south of the Vindhyas and established a new community on the banks of the Godavari,where they assiduously practised gulli-danda for hours on end. A crack team was sent back to exact revenge but they lost their pants, err panchas, again. Humble beginnings indeed. Gult Brahminism has never looked back since then. By quirk of genetic fate the original Gult Brahmin DNA remained confined to the Y chromosome, thus depriving Brahmin chicks of the great freebies that came with it. And it is therefore that Gult Brahmins explicitly mean Gult Brahmin males.

Habitat:

The majority of Gult Brahmins can be found in lands around the Godavari and Krishna rivers in peninsular India. In line with their cherished ideals of free enterprise and free thought, Gult Brahmins have exported their substantial talents to various other places, both within India and beyond. They have been especially kind to New York City, San Franscisco and Dallas/Ft.Worth.

A sure way to spot a Gult Brahmin would be to head for the nearest engineering college. Many of them can be found in lecture halls by day and in libraries by night.

Physical traits:

At 5'7" and 56.5 kilos, the average Gult Brahmin is a lean mean fighting machine. Once he leaves his fighting days behind, he swells to 72.5 kilos (all of the additional 16 kilos being put on strategically only in one area).

Many of them are genetically programmed to shed all of their hair at an early age. The ones who aren't, shed dandruff on their shirts instead.

The Olympic motto was derived from a careful observation of Gult Brahmins. Faster than a Gult Brahmin. Higher than a Gult Brahmin. Stronger than a Gult Brahmin.

Sub-species:

Hardcore - Having been born within the confines of the holy land, the force is strong in them. As pre-ordained defenders of the faith, they unswervingly wear this symbol of their allegiance. They prefer consorting only with other hardcore gults. They are more hardcore than Hardcore Holly.

Pseudo - Since the force is weak in them, they are prone to secessionist thoughts. Throughout their lives, they remain susceptible to the lure of the dark side. Although such activity is usually quelled by hardcoded logic in the worthy Y-Chromosome, few of them do manage to break free. Renegades, as they are known, are terminated by pre-programmed aneurysms. Although the rest follow peacefully in the normal progression of the Gult Brahmin life-cycle, most of them do not pay due respects to the symbol.

The Hardcores and the Pseuds are united in their brotherhood by what is foolishly referred to as the Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder by idiots who are not Gult Brahmins. Hyper-hygienic and super-clean, Gult Brahmins have put even Howard Hughes to shame. They actually bathe everyday for half an hour in hot water with religious fervour. They vacuum their carpets, clean their kitchens, arrange their stuff neatly, iron their clothes and even polish their shoes. Only the dandruff remains an aberration (for the ones with any hair) but it works with Gult Brahmin chicks. There was this Gult Brahmin who almost had a heart attack when some moron sneezed in his kitchen while the sambar podi was not covered.

Within these broad categorizations, there are more sub-categories, each one claiming to be better than the other. It really doesn't matter anyway because all of them belong to that most elite of all species - gultus brahminicus.

Dietary habits:

Any Gult Brahmin worth his salt has a digestive system which is designed to process copious amounts of neyi. Not only does this help the neyi industry but also the cardiological union. Any attempts to halt the supply of neyi result in a system shutdown. This incredible digestive design also comes with firewalls that automagically shut out connections from restricted servers belonging to the flesh industry.

This is how a typical menu of culinary delights would look like -

Breakfast - Upupindi (with nimakaya and neyi), Bournvita
Lunch - Annam, Muda Pappu (with lots of neyi), Bendakaya Fry (with neyi), Yeravakaya (with neyi) and Kobarikaya Pachidi (with neyi), Perugu
Snacks - Aritikaya Bajji, Bournvita
Dinner - Annam, Vonkaya Kura (with neyi), Teeavakaya (with neyi), Perugu

Protein is rationed out grudingly. Neyi is not.

Mating habits:

Gult Brahmin mojo, as attested to by the amount of porn they download, is nothing short of legendary. This is how it works. Let's say your neighbourhood Gult Brahmin sees a babe. Now the babe, if she indeed is one, has high potential. In accordance with laws of physics which are so sacred to the Gult Brahmin, electric current is produced. This phenomenon is actually still under research. Because what this also implies is that the neighbourhood Gult Brahmin has low potential (something we know to be a theoretical impossibility). Now everybody knows that Gult Brahmins have balls of iron. And remember that iron is a ferro-magnetic substance. Once again, with due deference to physics, the Gult Brahmin is instantly transformed into a walking talking babe magnet. The rest of the process is, well, less of physics and more of biology.

Exceptions are rare. For instance, there was this Gult Brahmin who once boarded a bus at Nainital. A hot chick walked up to him and enquired if the seat beside his was empty (which it was). The Gult Brahmin's eyes popped out of their sockets, thereby breaking his internal circuit. Because of this unfortunate occurrence, power was not transmitted to his vocal cords. The vocally and mentally crippled Gult Brahmin experienced an instanteous surge in chick resistance, which prevented flow of current and the benefits that normally accompany it. Sometimes having balls of iron ain't enough.

Hobbies:

Gult Brahmins usually despise real sports of any kind (except gulli-danda of course). They sometimes indulge in a bit of err, shuttle and gulli cricket.

Participation in music, dance or theatre holds no attraction for a Gult Brahmin since most of his quality time is spent fruitfully in watching television (which offers lots of pop music, item numbers and soap operas anyway).

A Gult Brahmin's genetically-imbibed passion for Maks is well and truly borne out by the burning of the midnight oil in preparation for IIT-JEE.

Work, especially if it's IT (Where those not fortunate enough to be born Gult Brahmins pursue a trivial hobby like carpentry after an eight-hour workday, Gult Brahmins successfully blend work and personal life at office in a fourteen-hour work-cum-play-day).

The Future:

Inspite of growing threats posed by the ever-changing nature of the world, the extraordinary species that is gultus brahminicus remains well beyond the reach of extinction. This can possibly be attributed to arranged marriages. Although this concept did not originate with Gult Brahmins, it has well and truly been institutionalized by their leaders. A time-tested system that works with uncanny precision, it ensures that Gult Brahmins are not obliterated by the rigours of the highly-competitive courtship market. Instead they are directly fast-tracked to Gult Brahmin babes (who're ranked third, behind none other than the sun and Tam hotties, in the Forbes 100 Hottest Things list). This works out rather well for all the parties. Gult Brahmins pretty much get the best. Gult Brahmin babes get the best. The two copulate and produce more Gult Brahmins, thus preserving their noble line for posterity.

Urban Legends:

Allen Iverson took his nickname - The Answer - from a Gult Brahmin he had the honour of being acquainted with.

Fox Mulder is a Gult Brahmin.

Gult Brahmins produce testosterone (This is a physical impossibility as venerable laws of chemistry preclude the possibility of testosterone production from iron. Remember, Gult Brahmin balls are made of iron).

Notable Quotes:

"I am Gult, Brahmin for Eternity, Defender of the secrets of the Gult Castle, Numbskull. This is Ginger, my topless friend. Fabulous secret powers were revealed to me the day I held aloft my magic thread and said by the power of Numbskull..."

"Gult Brahminism, the final frontier."

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

Yo Baba

2006-12-23T07:47:00.002+05:30

No sooner did the multiverse-renowned Baba declare grandiose plans to sanctify the Mile High City with his (omni)presence, than the Colorado state reception committee ended up laying out the, well, white carpet in an extraordinarily eager (and understandable) attempt to welcome him.

Therefore it was with great regret the ascetic Baba announced that he would not be able to make it to the ceremonies planned in the area, in his honour, over the Christmas weekend. Instead of exploring the Rocky Mountains this weekend, the selfless Baba has decided to explore the highly intriguing relationship between enlightenment and mainframe performance optimization. He will also meditate on the first-world's irrigation (mal)practices.

In the meantime, the millions and millions of devotees who had lined up to catch a glimpse of the elusive Baba were left befuddled and teary-eyed by this sudden turn of events.

The soft-hearted Baba, who was a pseudo-engineer (par excellence) in his time, has promised his fans that it is well and truly the last of their many penances. Once he is done with fixing sprinklers, he will turn an assiduous eye to effecting unprecedented changes in aerospace technology.

The scientific-tempered Baba believes in equality - between man and machine. When a man can ski in the state of Colorado, an airplane shouldn't be far behind. Behold!

"Denver, this is Frontier 209. Request permission to land."

"Negative 209. The white carpet's out on all six runways."

"No problemo. We have the Baba's patented landing gear."

And voila! The Airbus A340's underbelly opens out with a pair of giant skis! The entire multiverse watches in astonishment as the flying beast skis to a perfect stop!

Magnificent Baba! Saviour of the airline industry! Incredible Baba! Protector of tourism! Fantastic Baba! Defender of the helpless! Baba - the phenom! Baba does it again!

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

Play It Again

2006-12-08T12:26:00.001+05:30

I'm tired of writing about the No.1 Team of the World. I'm pretty sure the four peeps (the only readers of this blog) are tired of reading about it as well. Well you know, the Men in Blue are tired too - which is only to be expected given the amount of hard work they have put been putting in of late. Anyway.

Since I really don't have anything to write about, I'll sprinkle this post with some links which say more than what I, or anybody who's not a musician, can ever say. I will not attempt to describe the meaning or the magnificence of these songs. Let me just say that I stand on terra firma and look upwards, till I can see no more, in awe and admiration. Such is the magic of this music that it lifts me all the way up to those rarefied heights where it exists.

Here it goes, just a miniscule sample of the population, in no particular order, off the top of my head -

#A recent discovery. An excellent video which is bettered only by the song. Need to see the movie sometime.

#Since the time I had milk teeth, I have absolutely loved it. One of the greatest songs ever.

#This song is unreal.

#An evergreen favourite.

#Holy moly. Rahman rocks.

#What does one say about this man?

#How can any list be complete without these guys?

#Right out of this world.

#If there were an opening for the position of God, Pete Townshend may well have first claim.

#Most of these songs are about love. But you know...

To play Purple Rain, with consummate perfection, with my own hands and on my own guitar. Someday. Somewhere.

Everything in the world on one side and music on the other. It's got to be music. With the lights turned off. Or maybe with the lights of Gua, shimmering far away.

And, oh yes, with the test matches looming up ahead, the Men in Blue might want to contemplate on the title of this post.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

The No.1 Team of the World - Take Three

2006-11-26T22:30:00.000+05:30

Like I had mentioned in my previous post, everybody likes The No.1 Team of the World. But right now it is the Proteas who like them the most. The reason is beyond the obvious.

The cricketing gods had long deserted South Africa. As a result, the Proteas were mauled beyond recognition by Australia. Moved by their stricken plight, the new cricketing Gods (formerly mortal Men) decided to set things right. Judging by recent events, the Gods (formerly Men) have been quite successful in their selfless endeavour.

This is what the grand old game of cricket is all about. It's about humanity, friendship, peace and the works. And that's why the Men, nay Gods, are undisputed global ambassadors of the game. They travel all over the world, uplifting downtrodden cricketing nations and resurrecting the self-esteem of ravaged national teams. It is an exercise in nobility the likes of which has not been seen since the times of Geldof's Live Aid concert.

Even a team as evolved as the Men, nay Gods, can sometimes get carried away by the animal instinct of competitive sport. This was reflected in this match when they reduced the puny South African line-up to 76/6 within no time. Fortunately, the Gods (formerly Men) woke up to their actual intent of comradeship and solidarity with the struggling Proteas just in the nick of time. The Gods (formerly Men) then set aside baser goals and quickly helped their opponents reach 274/7.

Of all charitable deeds that are regularly performed by the Gods (formerly Men), one really stands out : while the Men, nay Gods, treat the opposition's fast bowling attack with kid gloves, their own fast bowling attack doles out half volleys and full tosses to the opposition's batting at the death, redefining benevolence and munificence in the process. Is there is any other team that can boast of giving away in excess of 100 runs in the last 10 overs of a match with astonishing regularity?

India coach Greg Chappell cautioned the Men, nay Gods, against getting carried away again during batting. Led from behind by the legendary opening pair of Sachin Tendulkar and Virender Sehwag, the Men (nay Gods) accomplished their mission with aplomb. They even made a has-been like Shaun Pollock look good. Hollywood insiders inform us that the next installment of the Mission Impossible franchise will feature the impressive Gods (formerly Men) instead of the unimpressive Tom Cruise.

Sachin pretended to do a Ricky Ponting in attempting to play a pull shot off Pollock. The ball went up in the air, briefly bringing memories of Ponting to the horrified Pollock and his teammates. But instead of sailing over the fence, the ball landed in the quivering hands of an overjoyed fielder called Boozeman or something like that. It was a well-played joke that led to quite a few chuckles and Sachin walked off, quite pleased with his sense of humour. Most of the Gods (formerly Men) stuck to Coach Chappell's words of wisdom except for the captain Rahul Dravid and the "new Gilchrist", Mahendra Singh Dhoni. There is talk of having them disciplined for contravening the Indian code of conduct. But all's well that ends well. The Men, nay Gods, finished with 168/10. Inspite of their stupendous efforts, the Gods (formerly Men) had to face criticism from some quarters for handing out such a strenuous workout to the hapless Proteas bowlers in uncomfortable weather for all of 41.3 overs.

Coach Isiah Thomas of the Knicks (the No.2 Team Of The World which has been vying for the No.1 position rather unsuccessfully for a while now) followed the game with keen interest. He is said to have shown a video of this incredible game to his team in order to inspire them to even greater heights of success.

Management Class : News

Mental Baba, Stupid Baba

2006-11-24T05:44:00.000+05:30

Hey Amrita,

How are you doing? Please allow me to introduce myself as one of the millions of admirers that you have across all psycho-temporal dimensions of the multiverse. My admirers (my pot-bellied manager and a family of stray cats I occasionally feed) know me as Mental Baba and I'm a dysfunctional product of the assembly line also known as evolution.

Well, I would like to begin by stating what you keep hearing all the time - you are SO beautiful. You are one of the most gorgeous women I have ever seen. And having surfed the internet quite religiously for the better part of my adult life, I have pretty much seen them all. To put it succinctly - I have the HOTS for you.

Now you are a movie star. You are pretty and rich and famous and all that. But I would like to think that I have a few things going my way too. According to certain peeps, I make stupid money - that makes me a gazillionaire and the multiverse's second richest Baba (after this quack ). According to my manager (the one with the pot-belly), as defender of the 42nd psycho-temporal dimension, I have the most challenging and exciting job in the entire Milky Way galaxy. According to technorati, my blog is ranked in the (haw!!) top ONE MILLION - that makes me famous. According to the Greeks, I'm nothing short of a God. So, there.

It is simply quite impossible for me to stay away from your thoughts. Like the Sirens who drew so many to their doom, you draw me towards mine. There I was in my ashram, happy and content, heading towards the inevitable conclusion of Babahood. And then, you happened again. Don't get me wrong but I had a hard time sitting through the scenes which did not have you. I had a hard time not thinking of breaking that dork Shahid Kapoor's head everytime he got cosy with you. I had a really hard time when I looked at you on the screen and realised that you were not just few metres away - but a few light years and rebirths away.

There's nothing else that I can say. Evermore I love you's, but the language, the language - it's leaving me. Amrita...

Mental Baba

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

The No.1 Team of the World - Reprise

2006-11-23T09:54:00.002+05:30

I would like to apologise to my readers (four at last count) for having utterly and miserably failed in my previous attempt to do justice to the Men in Blue.

Reliable sources have informed me that, stung by my pathetic portrayal of their undisputed talents, the Men in Blue decided to put on the kind of show seldom seen in any of the psycho-temporal dimensions of the multiverse. And indeed, they did so with aplomb. I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to the Men in Blue. As I always am, I was hopelessly wrong. The Men are not, by any stretch of imagination, just The No.1 Team of the World. They are beyond mortal powers of description now.

The Men in Blue have transcended the mereness and triviality of sport with this spectacular performance. Reliable sources state that, after an emergency session, the UNESCO decided to include Durban, the scene of the epoch, in the list of World Heritage Sites. Such has been the magnitude of their feats that there is also talk of adding the Men to the list of mondern day wonders. There is also talk of adding the "new Gilchrist", Mahendra Singh Dhoni, to the list of one day wonders.

The true meaning of the adjective heavyweight, which is quite often used to describe the Indian batting line-up, is finally clear. While some luminaries are heavy in weight, others are heavily weighed down by leaden feet. However, the spirits of the Men in Blue are never weighed down. In fact they rise to atmospheric heights, especially when there is a fast bowler at the other end.

Allow me to let you in on another secret. You know why they were named Men in Blue in the first place? It is said the fearsome Indian batting line-up, for some weird reason, went blue in the face when they had occasion to take guard against the White Lightening Allan Donald, the last and perhaps the most classical of all fast bowlers, some years back. Perhaps it was a result of their deep compassion for all fast bowlers - that dying and fast-disappearing breed. Parallels could be drawn from the compassionate Hindu god Shiva who ingested poison, his throat turning blue in the process, to save the multiverse from certain annihilation. This probably explains why they are regarded as gods and worshipped by millions, nay billions, of fawning Indians. But really, more than the average Indian, it is fast bowlers across the multiverse who need to worship the Men, nay Gods. In this day and age of marauding poachers, if the species of fast bowlers is alive, it is because of the five-wicket hauls that they subsist on. Courtesy the Men, nay Gods, of course. In my personal opinion, what the Gods (formerly Men) do need is not Padma Bhushans but medals from WWF.

There is also a school of thought which is of the opinion that the combination of an Indian batsman in blue, a fast bowler with a red cherry in his hand and a green pitch makes for an excellent course in the principles of optics for the millions of Indian schoolkids (a result of all that frenetic copulation) who would otherwise avoid that greatest of all subjects - physics. While fielding or while getting run out, the Men (nay Gods) often disseminate knowledge in physics by demonstrating, rather ably, Newton's equations of motion. Like, v = u + at or v^2 = u^2 + 2aS. The beauty of these equations is well and truly brought out when the ball's final velocity (v) is greater than or equal to 140 kilometres an hour, and even the greatest of all Gods (formerly Men) is clean bowled.

Yoohoo! The way the bails flew!
See that, the batsmen had no clue -
The most excellent Men in Blue!
That they are No.1 is damn true!

It's just freaking amazing. What a bunch of good-natured blokes! The fast bowlers like them. So do educators in physics. Advertisers and desi chicks (pardon my oxymoron) dig them. Cool!

It is likely that this effort of mine does no semblance of justice to the Men, nay Gods, AGAIN. But hey, undoubtedly, there will be several more opportunities to correct this shortcoming in the future. Until then.

Management Class : News

The No.1 Team of the World

2006-10-30T02:15:00.000+05:30

India has gracefully exited the ICC Champions Trophy.

In an exhilarating game of cricket, the likes of which not too many teams are capable of, India lost to Australia by six wickets. Defeated - but by no means disgraced.

It was a stupendous performance in line with the age-old Indian tradition of atithi-dharma. India ,being the hosts of the tournament, had an obvious moral responsibility to take good care of their guests. Needless to say, that duty was discharged with aplomb. Also, the phraseology of the tournament name presented a dilemma that had cricket fans all over the world perplexed. ICC Champions Trophy. And not ICC Champion's Trophy. The lack of an apostrophe indicates an inherent entry criterion to participate in the tournament of champions. India's dignified exit served to put an end to that debate as well.

The Indian skipper Rahul Dravid won the toss and elected to bat first. The legendary Sachin Tendulkar was the first to go. Like any good host, he decided to go in order to spare Australia grief while chasing. However he may have been mistaken in his thinking. Because history finds it extremely unlikely that he would have put bat to the ball against the Aussie attack on a pitch which was not Sharjah's . With the exception of the captain, who failed to stick to the team strategy, the rest of the batting line-up played their part in ensuring a smooth passage for their opponents into the semi-finals. Sehwag's effort, an ugly product of the law of averages, only belied his real intentions (which was to return to the air-conditioned cool of the dressing room pronto). Anyway the batsmen huffed and puffed their way to 249 - knowing that it would be a walk in the park for any team up against the Indian bowling attack. Some were heard bemoaning the absence of the hype also known as Yuvraj Singh - who would have single-handedly ensured that the score did not cross 200.

At this point, one would have imagined that the team's cause - to help Australia win their first Champions Trophy - had been accomplished. But the Indian bowlers had other ideas. They sent down thunderbolts and bouncers which struck terror into the very hearts of the Aussie openers. Fortunately, such was the pace generated by the Pathan and Patel and Sreesanth, that the faintest of edges raced away to the boundary. At the end of 14 overs, the Aussie total stood at 100 something. The turbanator Harbhajan Singh joined the party soon after to hand out some lollipops to the run-starved Ricky Ponting. Inside sources inform us that Ponting personally thanked Harbhajan at the end of the match for helping him find his form. At the end of a long and tiring day, Australia finally limped its way to 252 after losing all of FOUR wickets in the process. With FOUR.TWO overs in hand.

There's nothing quite like a good game of cricket. The Aussies are in the semis - they are happy. The Men in Blue returned to their five-star hotel and had the most scrumptious tandoori chicken for dinner - they are happy. The ICC is said to be considering India for the Spirit of Cricket award in recognition of this selfless performance - they are happy. The television ads were sold at a premium - the broadcasters are happy. Everybody is happy. The BCCI president Sharad Pawar is the happiest (although nobody knows why) - he was seen grinning from ear to ear at the presentation ceremony.

It was only spectators who were not happy. The Indian batsmen despatched so many sixers into the stands and the Indian bowlers kept assisting the Aussie batsmen in sending the ball over the ropes so many times that the physical safety of the audience was threatened. In vain did they try to draw attention to their plight by chanting "Hai! Hai!" Unfortunately, with the Indian team being caught up in the passion of purpose, their pleas fell on deaf ears. Needless to say, it didn't take too long for the stadium to empty out.

Management Class : News

fsck -p /

2006-10-24T09:33:00.000+05:30

mental.baba@blogosphere$pwd
/usr/3rdrock/usa/tx/sat

mental.baba@blogosphere$ps -ef | grep bin
4048 pts/0 20:00:04 /bin/slowdecay
4409 pts/0 21:01:17 /usr/bin/thralldom/71141
5082 pts/0 21:04:55 /usr/bin/metalove

mental.baba@blogosphere$kill 4048; kill 4409; kill 5082
Cannot kill pid 4048. Permission denied.

mental.baba@blogosphere$su
Enter password:
Incorrect password
Enter password:
Incorrect password
Enter password:
Incorrect password

mental.baba@blogosphere$tar -cf truth.dat peace.dat justice.dat | gzip imagination.tar.gz

mental.baba@blogosphere$mv imagination.tar.gz $HOME

mental.baba@blogosphere$gcc -o baba.c
segmentation fault: core dumped

mental.baba@blogosphere$file core
@#^&*$#!@&(%4#22d!~``[+%j)@^.m?

mental.baba@blogosphere$emacs baba.c &

mental.baba@blogosphere$r gcc

mental.baba@blogosphere$./baba.out
Hehehehe!!!

mental.baba@blogosphere$cd
/home/ptd/42

mental.baba@blogosphere$whoami

mental.baba@blogosphere$

mental.baba@blogosphere$

mental.baba@blogosphere$echo $PATH

mental.baba@blogosphere$rm -f imagination.tar.gz

mental.baba@blogosphere$logoff

>_

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

TKO

2006-10-22T09:00:00.000+05:30

Mike Tyson is back. Not quite with a bang though. Once the baddest man on the planet, he is now the saddest man. He was once known as Iron Mike but all that iron seems to have rusted. Formerly the undisputed heavyweight boxing champion of the world, now a spent force in the eyes of the very community that once adored him.

He's been a champion of his sport. In addition to boxing the ears of his competitors, he has bitten them off as well. His resume not only boasts of a number of knockouts but also an equal number of run-ins with the law and stints at the slammer.

But enlightenment seems to have dawned on the man who, at the time of his last Mensa test, had the IQ of an anopheles mosquito. He has finally realised that he is useless to society.

I beg to disagree. He still has a lot to offer to civilization. He has great prospects in a new and exciting profession : stand-up comedy. He could make people split their sides laughing simply by standing up in front of them. If the mere mention of his name or the opening of his mouth doesn't do the trick, that grotesque facial tattoo definitely will.

Don't believe me? Get a load of this. Priceless!!! Me TKOed.

Management Class : News

Nothing Noble about the Nobel

2006-10-19T09:33:00.001+05:30

The Nobel prizes for 2006 were announced recently. In yet another stunning show of ritualized and brazen effrontery, Mental Baba's claims to the honour were rebuffed again by the atrocious designs of the Nobel Committee. And this is the same Mental Baba whose pathbreaking achievements in science and remarkable accomplishments in literature are quite extraordinary to say the least. His passion for world peace and penchant for macro-economics have spawned ideas and ventures which have made the world a better place to live in. The Baba being the savant that he undoubtedly is, recognition and limelight is not important. Only the 1.4 million dollars is.

However, it pains the selfless and noble Baba to see quality research being ignored, time and again, by the unbelievably idiotic custodians of the prize. The Baba would like to demand an explanation from the motley bunch of heretics engaged in desecrating Nobel's name as the years goes by. How could the progenitor of this incredible study, unparalled except by a pair of parallel lines perhaps, be ignored?

Consider the thrust of that gentleman's most enterprising endeavour:

"The central hypothesis underlying my research is that infectious disease can compromise the respiratory systems of lower vertebrates and invertebrates and thereby limit the ability of animals to sustain and recover from normal activities."

Infectious diseases can compromise respiratory systems? And limit the ability of animals to sustain and recover from normal activities?

Mon Dieu! Magnifique! Exceptionnel! This has got to be the greatest thought process that originated in a human mind since Darwin's Theory of Evolution. And, if I may add, it proves that theory right as well.

Which brings me back to my original point - the phoney and ridiculous Nobel Prizes. How could they overlook this incredible effort which could have fitted into any one of the six categories with absolute ease?

#1 Physics - The treadmill. Ah, the treadmill. Not only is it an engineering design worthy of comparisons with the nutcracker, but it has scripted a new and glorious chapter in the annals of nanotechnology. Not to speak of the exciting discoveries in the field of hydrodynamics that come free with it.

#2 Chemistry - The rigorous exercise regime followed by all shrimps will keep them in top shape. This is most desirable for the physiological (and psychological) well-being of the shrimp fraternity as it can catalyze their chemistry with members of the shrimp sorority(and therefore populate oceans of the world with shrimplings, much to the delight of seafood connoisseurs).

#3 Physiology and Medicine - The revolutionary techniques being used in this experiment would undoubtedly lead to pathbreaking cures for the various medical malaises plaguing modern society like dengue and chikungunya.

#4 Literature - The thesis of this most astounding undertaking would top the charts in the New York Times' bestsellers list any day of the week (including Monday).

#5 Economics - Thanks to this inspiring work, the seafood industry will find itself in a position to produce healthier and tastier shrimp. And sell them at a premium of course. This will have a domino effect in the pan-food industry, thus leading to higher wages (and hence better standards of living) for its employees across planet earth, from Uganda to East Timor. Consumers will also get more protein and monounsaturated fats for their buck, thus increasing their productivity and economic output.

#6 Peace - Increased economic stability will have a positive impact on crime rates and minority alienation. Islamic extremists will get suitable employment. They can spend their time fruitfully in cutting off shrimp-heads in seafood processing plants and be happy.

I can almost hear Alfred Nobel turning in his grave. Dunno why.

Management Class : News

Summer

2006-10-13T10:09:00.000+05:30

Summer has gone -
To distant lands.
Leaving these
Shores and sands.

Summer has gone -
It sailed away.
Like a voyager
O'er the blue bay.

Summer has gone -
To burn elsewhere.
Rivers won't shrink
Under its glare.

Summer has gone -
Away to the south.
The rains are come
To end the drought.

Summer has gone -
There was no goodbye.
It just disappeared.
Only the clouds cry.

Summer has gone -
But winter will come,
Cold and windy,
With brandy and rum.

Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe

Arrey Mathiao!

2006-10-12T07:07:00.001+05:30

Let me begin by apologizing, in profusion, to those enlightened souls who may not have had the good fortune of growing up in the barely-intersecting intersection sets of the Venn diagrams representative of certain popular languages of India. This post is not for you.

When I was a kid, all eager and curious and enthusiastic about learning new stuff, language always held great attraction for me. Language - irrespective of origin. I would ask my neighbours and my friends all sorts of questions about the various languages they'd speak at their homes - Bengali, Oriya, Marathi , Tamil, even Hu, what not. The song from Khuddar, with its catchy lyrics describing the common refrain of love-struck Romeos in just about every Indian language, was always a big favourite of mine. Ah, the joys of trying to decipher the meanings of strange tongues and to recreate them! And oh! The innocent joy of watching Parveen Babi.

Being a fake gult born and brought up on the very extremity of the Hindi heartland came with its own set of linguistic pros as well as cons. There were three languages that I could speak with some measure of proficiency and intelligibility - English, Hindi and Telugu. I will not risk being lapidated in Panagal Park by attempting to add my version of Tamil to this limited roster which, most unfortunately, could never get any additions on account of subtractive preoccupation for the most part of my storied life.

Anyway, back home in India, I would probably be regarded as a good speaker of English . But that wouldn't be quite the case in the world west of the Prime Meridian. Similarly, I might be considered a fair speaker of Telugu among the substantial population of fake gults around the third rock from the sun but I'd certainly come a pretty big cropper within the confines of gultland. Which brings me to my last and only hope - Hindi. Here again, I was dealt a rude shock today when I realised that my colloquial Hindi wasn't really how it is actually meant to be. And that the only glimmer of hope for me lies in C++ and JCL.

I had been walking back from office with a pure-blood from New Delhi. It had rained intermittently throughout the day and the roads were wet. We pretty much stuck to the sidewalk, careful enough to keep our Hush Puppies clean and shiny (and I might add that he was holding up the ends of his trousers quite daintily as well), until we arrived at a short-cut to our apartment building. A short-cut which would take us through sloshy grounds and inevitable grief.

I cast my eye over it and remarked, quite innocuously, "Arrey kitna kaadaa hai!" The pure-blood, who had been eyeing the mud distastefully, now turned his eyes (and perhaps his distaste I daresay) to me, a mud-blood. "Huh? Kya kaha?" (connoisseurs, especially the ones of New Delhi fame, will note the kya kaha instead of the humble kya bola).

Being deprived of the kind of IQ that comes naturally with a brain nourished by pure blood, I replied without thinking, "Kitna kaadaa hai na?"

"What exactly you do mean?" said he, of the New Delhi lineage, in a tongue tempered by the purest of blood flowing through the millions and millions of its well-fed capillaries.

Like a little boy in a Hindi classroom manned by a ferocious guardian angel of the ancient language, with my fingers nervously clasped behind my back, I mumbled and bumbled, "Kaadaa. You know, kaadaa. All that mud. And all that muddiness. Kaadaa."

He looked at me for a few moments before magnanimously allowing a smirk to creep up that wonderfully chiselled face that is so unique to gentlemen hailing from New Delhi. He sort of decided to take the longer route I guess. Before leaving me to contemplate upon the vast expanse of kaadaa, ahem, slosh that lay ahead of me, he remarked, "So you mean keechad?"

Ah! Keechad! Really, there's nothing worse than dirty language. I'm going to have my dinner in a few moments. And I wonder if the chattu is jhaal.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

Hip! Hip! Hurray!

2006-10-02T09:31:00.000+05:30

The unthinkable has occurred. No, the blindingly white-hot Paris Hilton has not written a doctoral thesis titled Kinkajou Mood-Swings : Effect on Solar Storms.

Mental Baba has finally managed to do what he never could in all those years of playing gulli cricket with tennis balls - hit a century. A incredible century of posts in that most magnificent of venues - the Stade de Blogosphere. In front of gazillions and gazillions of starry-eyed fans chanting "Baba! Baba!".

In this new-fangled game called blogging, usually played by peeps who have nothing better to do in real life, Mental Baba has proved himself an outstanding example as a player with a difference.

He had trudged to the crease about two and a half years ago as a rookie playing for the combined team of Truth, Peace and Justice. Technically accomplished but temperamentally suspect, he was not really considered a very smart selection by many (except the opposition).The Baba was essentially a touch player, relying more on a deft flick of his wrists than opening his shoulders up for the big shots. His forte was the soft silken game generally disliked by spectators. He did not have the daring cuts, the booming drives and the outrageous pull shots of the natural strokemakers.

So the Baba found himself on a queer pitch, being dominated by quicks swinging and seaming the ball around quite wickedly. But he saw other players hit huge shots into the stands and race to their centuries and more.

He did what any good Baba would do: he grafted in a way that would have done a Geoff Boycott or a Sunil Gavaskar proud. He limped and staggered towards the magic three figure mark.

Every run is a struggle. It gets harder and harder as the match progresses but, well, he's still batting.

Asked for a comment, the late George Bernard Shaw's spirit (which now inhabits the body of a garden lizard in south Texas) was heard to exclaim: "Blogging is a game of uber fools, played by uber fools and watched by uber fools." Damn! Some peeps never change, do they?

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

A Pseudo-Engineer's Quasi-Experiment

2006-09-25T07:36:00.000+05:30

Objective : To dissect female psychology.

Apparatus : A razor or, alternatively, Mental Baba's shit, errr, wit.

Procedure :

# Select a specimen from the amazingly miniscule TDH subset of desi(*) men e.g. this 'gentleman'

# Put him in a roomful of attractive women.

Observations :

# Room empties faster than a bottle in front of Mental Baba.

Inference :

a) The 'gentleman' in question has not had a bath since the last solar eclipse,or
b) Somebody's handing out Prada or Gucci for free in the next room,or
c) It's a matrix designed by a raving feminazi,or
d) The women are all idiots.

As theoretical impossibilities (and the aforesaid 'gentleman''s wrathful indignation) precluded options (a), (b) and (c), only (d) remained as the most plausible option. In line with the rigour associated with scientific proofs, option (d) was put to an acid test. I mean, c'mon, we don't run Mickey Mouse operations at Mental Baba's.

//A Mini Experiment

Reagents :

Base : Select a specimen from the ridiculously large !T!D!H set of desi men e.g. Mental Baba (they don't come any baser than this entity, do they?)

Acid : A roomful of attractive women

Procedure :

Reaction : Acid + Base = Salt + Water

Observations :

# The women emptied out in a jiffy again, this time in precisely 32.055% of the time it originally took them.

# Only salty water remained behind as a product of the irreversible reaction.

Inference :

# Oh, so that's what they mean by a neutralisation reaction.

# NOT ONE of the women is an idiot.

Therefore, option (d) (Mental Baba's favourite) stands rubbished.

//

An interesting dilemma. How may this be explained? Well.

Perhaps the 'gentleman' in question would like to take a look at this, Unless he'd like to look for a behenji(+) instead.

PS: Pearls Before Swine BLOODY ROCKS!!!

Legend for the Angrez : (*) - Indian, (+) - a woman with a plain jane's mind

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

To a new tomorrow

2006-09-22T09:55:00.000+05:30

Go get them tiger! Vamos!

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

Obituary

2006-08-25T06:52:00.001+05:30

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

The No.1 Director of the World

2006-08-20T23:10:00.000+05:30

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 No.1 Celebrity of the World

2006-08-14T05:42:00.002+05:30

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

Whispering Death

2006-08-07T10:14:00.000+05:30

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

The No.1 City of the World

2006-08-06T05:29:00.000+05:30

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

It's Wednesday

2006-08-02T10:40:00.001+05:30

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

Truth, Peace and Justice

2006-07-29T22:20:00.000+05:30

"Good morning K. What can I do for you today?"

His eyes flashed as he considered the suave nonchalance of the tone.

"You know perfectly well what you can do. And it is a certainly not a good morning."

"I'm sorry to hear that. What seems to be the problem?"

"The problem? You know perfectly well what the problem is", he said as he rolled his shirtsleeves up to reveal two well-muscled forearms splotched with tiny red marks.

"It's that allergy again. K, you should really consult a doctor. "

He gnashed his teeth. He bit his tongue. His fingernails dug into his palms as he clenched his fists.

"You know perfectly well that this is no allergy. You know perfectly well that it's those damned bedbugs."

"K, we've been through this before. There are no bedbugs in your apartment. Even the exterminator said that."

"I don't care what your exterminator says. I have seen those bugs. I can see their bite marks all over my body. And so can you."

"Really, K. You need to see an allergist."

"Actually I need to see a lawyer. I have had enough of this nonsense. I did not sign up for unwanted room-mates. And you have done nothing about it."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Since you have been such a valuable customer for us, I will have the exterminator take one last look."

"You better make sure he does his job this time. If I am bitten one more time, I'll see you in court."

He trudged his way back to the apartment, muttering under his breath and gesticulating wildly. No sooner did he enter the living room than he glimpsed a particularly large bedbug scurrying across the carpet. His eyes lit up with a mad gleam as he lunged towards the bug, which obscured itself in the carpet. He scuffed the area in frantic desperation, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead. It darted out suddenly and rushed towards the sofa in a bid for freedom. After a stymied moment, he brought his boot down on it and collected it on a piece of paper.

Was that somebody knocking? He strode across the room and opened the door.

"I am the pest exterminator."

"Oh you are? Just about the right time. I have something I'd like to show you."

He thrust the remains of the bedbug at the man.

"So will you still say there's no problem?"

"You're right. There is a problem. I need to do some pest control."

"Been saying that all along", he said as he turned away to go wash his hands.

The exterminator smiled and pulled out his garrote.

Management Class : Tall Tales

Ode to a chick walking her dog

2006-07-26T11:05:00.000+05:30

Not too far from my place
Lives a most beautiful face.

That chick! She is so damned hot!
By Cupid, my heart has been shot.

O what a stunner of a blonde -
A species of which I'm particularly fond!

In my memory would I forever lock,
Ah! Her sashay on the dogwalk!

Ever since I beheld that surreal sight
My senses - they have taken flight!

She's got finesse, she's got style
And what a killer of a smile!

The ashram's real estate has gone up
Thanks to a neighbourhood Labrador pup.

Watching a doggy do is quite an avocation
As long as there's a strategic location.

Everytime her dog decides to pee
I am filled with rapturous glee!

The dog is truly man's best friend.
He is a messiah, he is a godsend!

Bless that furry little pooch
Whose mistress I'd love to smooch!

I must dress up to the nines
And memorise my lines.

I'm the dog's fan
That is the plan :D

Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe

Mamma Mia!

2006-07-24T10:31:00.002+05:30

Miss Puerto Rico has been crowned the most beautiful woman in the goddamned world. Sorry, make that universe. Yeah, the freaking UNIVERSE.

Yeah, right. I know at least eighteen women in my office who are more beautiful than Miss Puerto Rico is (that they don't know me is a different matter altogether). I went to Wal-Mart for my weekly shopping a few hours back and I noticed several women prettier than she is. The chick walking her dog outside my ashram right now is far more gorgeous than she is (and hell, I wish I was that lucky dog).

Will somebody get real? I mean, what are the hell are these phoney pageants all about?

I know that, more likely than not, this is the cliche that will be presented as a response to my question -

Beauty with brains.

I have a few more questions for these people. How about Coca-Cola with single-malt whisky? Or puris with sambar (there are actually places where this culinary matrimony is performed. Needless to say, a divorce with the digestive system follows soon after)? Or how about Tommy Robredo with the Wimbledon trophy in his hands?

Although I personally have never observed it, I do not mean to say that beauty and brains cannot co-exist in a woman. I'll be politically correct and say that it is a theoretical possibility (as is time travel). If there are any empowered neo-feminists / pseudo-feminists / quasi-feminists reading this, they are free to use their collective brains and brawn to beat Mental Baba into cosmic pulp (if they can). So, whenever I hear organisers and participants and * feminists spout the beauty-with-brains mumbo-jumbo, I go uh-oh. Please. Give me a break. I would like to die a hero defending the earth. And I would rather have my intestines ripped out by a Dalek than by such hilarious jokes.

Beauty with brains...And I'm the king of the world.

First of all. Beauty. Most of the winners over the past few years have been plain janes (only Rosanna Davison ,Miss World 2003 was beautiful). The representation from my country India has been especially atrocious. I almost choked to death when I saw the line-up for the Femina Miss India finals last year. It was disgusting to say the least. When I walk down my street back home, I see girls far more attractive than any of them. As far as I am concerned, most of a woman's beauty comes from her face. When the face itself doesn't have it, what the hell is there to look at? Is this supposed to be a competition about beauty or is it about modelling or what? What a sham these pageants are. "Most beautiful woman in the world" my ass, when she isn't even among the ten most beautiful in the arena. And I'm not being biased in terms of nationality or race or colour in any way. A beautiful woman is a beautiful woman.

And then. Brains. A couple of questions about world peace and global warming will tell you how smart the woman is, right? Any guy with an eye can know how beautiful a woman is in a couple of minutes.It takes more than a couple of cliched questions to find out how smart a woman is. Does tutored smooth-talking in front of the camera imply the presence of a brain? I don't know what hi-fi analysis takes place behind the scenes in the couple of weeks that the girls spend together prior to the television finale. Maybe they do some really clever stuff (like get to know Donald Trump real close) to find out how smart the girls are and then eliminate accordingly. If that is the case, cut the crap out and stop calling them "The most beautiful women in the world" or whatever. It is an insult to the thousands of really beautiful women out there. It is an insult to that chick who is still walking her dog (bless that so-not-in-a-hurry furry pooch).

Here's my deal -

a) Have a competition that is actually about beauty - about the face, about the body, about everything that defines a woman's physical charms and then consider calling your winners the most beautiful women in the world. No pretentious and hypocritical crap about brains and world peace.

b) Have a competition that is actually about brains - make them do differential equations, play sudoku, debate the Middle-East crisis, talk medieval art history and Victorian literature and all that sort of cerebral stuff. Call the winner Miss Grey Matter 20XY or the most intelligent female alive or whatever you will.

c) Somehow have a competition that is actually about beauty AND brains. Somehow try to find enough participants for it (by keeping the qualifying levels real low). Call the winner Miss Biological Anamoly 20XY.

The bottomline is that I have no problem with these pageants or the participants per se. In fact, if I had enough financial acumen and clout, I would conduct a few such events myself to mint some money. I resent the beauty with brains crap and especially the most beautiful women in the world bullshit.

But you know what, I did once read somewhere that Sharon Stone (wipes the drool off his face) has an IQ of 150 or 160. Nah, that had me fooled for a moment. Must be the idiotic quotient.

Management Class : News

Reign, O Rain!

2006-07-24T03:25:00.000+05:30

It has been so hot and so dry,
Of cool rain, there is no sign.
Cruel sky - it refuses to cry
While earthly creatures whine.

The great orb exacts its revenge
For an unknown and ancient crime.
As earthly creatures try scavenge
For redemption, amidst the grime.

Will this mad summer never go?
Hasn't it burnt a bit too long?
Will the dead rivers never flow?
Has it been so great a wrong?

Maybe the monsoons will come
With rain before it is too late.
Bounteous. But only for some.
The others will be left - to fate.

Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe

The Perfect Plan

2006-07-17T10:41:00.000+05:30

It looks like the ashram is worth all of $1693.62.

To be honest, I was pretty impressed with this figure at first. I had invested as much as $0 to get this blog up and running (thank you Blogger!). As far as quantifying my efforts goes, even that isn't really much. I never blog at the cost of more important real-world activities. It's a strictly if and when I have time to kill deal.

It seemed like a business game in which I had just made an ROI of infinity. So far so good.

But then, I tried looking up the values of some of the other blogs I visit.

e.g. Scott Adam's blog is worth a freaking $1,590,873.72

Well, he's a celebrity. But every Tom, Dick and Harry's blog is worth at least five figures left of the decimal point. WTF?

My blog is at the BOTTOM. I know it must be some stupid algorithm that looks up the inbound traffic, no. of links to the blog, no. of comments and that sort of stuff. Because I certainly am an EXpert on probability and statistics but definitely not on advertising, my blog has had its ass kicked.

This is unbelievable. THIS SUCKS.

I sometimes use Loadrunner at work. But now I will actually put it to work. I will generate millions of hits to my blog. I will turn IP spoofing on in order to fool that stupid algorithm. I will create thousands of links and comments. And then I will sit back and watch my blog's portfolio swell into millions, nay billions. I will then sell my blog for a few billion and set up a company which lets other bloggers sell theirs for billions (my commission will be 39.8% only). My interviews will be published in Time and Newsweek. I will be awarded a Nobel in Economics. I will buy the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. On second thought, I will buy the Himalayas. My likeness will grace Madame Tussaud's.

All of a sudden, the world seems a better place. Now all that I need to do is to get past the firewall at office. It will be an interesting day at work.

Management Class : News

P for Probability

2006-07-17T00:40:00.000+05:30

The mathematical foundations of the ashram have been shaken. As one can imagine, this has caused a bit of a stir. It's all because of this post.

Now everybody's know that the name's Baba. Mental Baba. And that he likes it shaken, but not stirred.

However, since it IS stirred, here goes nothing.

WHAT THE HELL?

Let me set the record straight. I am an EXpert in probability and statistics. Because, as I mentioned in my previous post, I was awarded a P in this subject. P for PROFICIENT. By the most venerable (bows his head in silent reverence as a lump forms in his throat) Indian Institute of Technology, Kharagpur. Phds? Huh? What's that? We're talking P here. P. To put things in perspective, the probability that a person on the third rock from the sun knows probability at least as well as I do, is precisely 0.418 x 10^-8.

Having said that, I refuse to have my ass kicked by anybody. That includes chicks. Even one with an IQ of 198 (is that in the decimal number system?). I might, rather magnanimously, consider having it licked though. Preferably by ones with real IQ.

If this explanation were to be believed, it would be nothing short of sacrilege. It would be defiance of logic and mathematics and the scientifically-inclined Baba's way of life.

The solution appears to be one contrived for the sake of convenience.

I. Baba's first observation

P(O1) = P(C1) x P(O1|C1) + P(C2) x P(O1|C2) + P(C3) x P(O1|C3)

What does the problem state? It states that the third door is opened by the host and , GIVEN THAT SCENARIO, the probability of the car being behind door #2 needs to be determined.

So why consider the piece P(C3) x P(O1|C3) in the first place? There is no freaking P(C3) in question or in existence any more.

Therefore, P(O1) = P(C1) x P(O1|C1) + P(C2) x P(O1|C2)

And. Why would P(C1) or P(C2) be 1/3 now?

Two doors. One car. One goat. P(C1) = P(C2) = 1/2.

II. Baba's second observation

a) Now let's take a look at the definitions of P(O1|C1)and P(O1|C2). As depicted in the solution, I would relate them to the mislead that the host puts on the contestant. Going by that logic, P(O1|C1) = 0 and P(O1|C2) = 1.

Thus, P(O1) = P(C1) x P(O1|C1) + P(C2) x P(O1|C2)
= 1/2 x 0 + 1/2 X 1
= 1/2

b) Again, there is enough reason to dispute this. The host does not decide which door to open. He merely tries to mislead the contestant. Eventually, it is the contestant who tells the host which door needs to be opened. If the contestant is not a retard or does not think too much (because he/she do not have an IQ that measures up to Marilyn vos Savant's), they will remain uninfluenced by the host's gimmicks(which could go either way in order to influence them). This would set P(O1|C1) = P(O1|C2) = 1/2.

Thus, P(O1) = P(C1) x P(O1|C1) + P(C2) x P(O1|C2)
= 1/2 x 1/2 + 1/2 X 1/2
= 1/2

Ah, both scenarios throw up the same number.

III. Baba's third observation

a) If, and only if, we're talking about somebody which an extremely high IQ,

P(C2|O1) = {P(O1|C2) x P(C2)} / P(O1)
= {1 x 1/2} / {1/2}
= 1

What it means is that somebody with high IQ will always be conned by Monty Hall.

b) If, and only if, we're talking about an average Joe on the street,

P(C2|O1) = {P(O1|C2) x P(C2)} / P(O1)
= {1/2 x 1/2} / {1/2}
= 1/2

So that's my take on this 'problem'. But really, the problem would be if the contestant actually gets the car. With rising petrol prices, one may perhaps need to swap the car for a hefty goat in order to ride to work everyday.

Nightwatchmen and The Alternate Moebyus - I know that you were not Privileged enough to be awarded a P in this exalted branch of mathematics. However, this is what I ask of you - what did that idiot Bayes actually say?

And don't tell me it was "Baba, you just got your ass kicked."

On a different note though, Lisa, you may want to change the name of the Kick Ass Chicks Society to the Head Butt Chicks Society. The times, they are a-changing.

Management Class : News

You cannot be serious

2006-07-10T02:21:00.002+05:30

Roger Federer beat Rafael Nadal in the men's singles finals of Wimbledon 2006.

Federer. Beat. Nadal.

Ok. Just hold on for a moment here while I call a time-out.

//Time-out during which Mental Baba administers a hallucinogen test to himself

Right. Come again?

Federer. Beat. Nadal.

Reliable sources inform us there was a sense of deja vu as John McEnroe, up at the commentator's box, hysterically shrieked "You cannot be serious" when this monumental event occurred.

The same reliable sources inform us that 68% of the seats on Centre Court were taken by members of the International Astronomical Union who would not have missed this celestial rarity for the world.

And Mental Baba, down at a lower latitude (and altitude), had this comment - "So what did Maria Sharapova get herself at Top Shop?"

The very same reliable sources inform us that Mental Baba hysterically shrieked "You cannot be serious" when he was told that she patronized Barbour instead of Victoria's Secret.

Baba, who happens to be an expert on tennis, was despondent at this disappointing piece of information. He was further annoyed when he realized that Roger Federer had beaten Rafael Nadal.

Because you see, in addition to being a mainframe mips optimizer AND a geopolitical (master) strategist, Baba is also an expert on probability and statistics (having cleared this exam AT FIRST ATTEMPT with a P - P for Proficient).

Baba had made some predictions. These predictions were based on the stupendous Bayes' theorem, which is explained here.

P(A) : Probability of Roger Federer defeating Rafael Nadal in a tennis match
P(B) : Probability of Rafael Nadal being fit

P(B1) :Probability of Rafael Nadal having smoked pot the night before the match.
P(B2) : Probability of Rafael Nadal having done four or more pegs of handia the night before the match.
P(B3) : Probability of Rafael Nadal going at it with some muchacha bonita all night long before the match.

Therefore:

P(A|B) = P(A.B) / P(B)
= P(A.B) / {(1 - P(B1)).(1 - P(B2)).(1 - P(B3))}
= P(A.B) / {(1-0).(1-0).(1-0)}
= P(A.B)
= no .of matches Federer won this year against Nadal / no. of matches Federer played this year against Nadal
= 0/4
= 0

Some peeps may argue for a re-definition of some of the probabilities to include surface. This expert believes in surface tension but not in surface per se.

Or. This theorem could be thrown into the trashcan. Refuge could be sought in Baba's Uncertainty Principle which (wisely) states:

"Nothing is certain except for the fact that Mental Baba can never go out on a date with Maria Sharapova."

Oh well. So Federer finally beat Nadal.

That's great. Federer is a sensational player and more importantly, he's got his head planted firmly on his shoulders. But then, so is Nadal. This space has been dismissive of Nadal earlier but things have changed since then. Nadal is a phenom. There is no doubt about that now.

The Grand Slam action will soon move to Flushing Meadows - where I suspect the future of men's tennis will be decided. It will be very interesting to see who triumphs on the pre-eminent surface on which modern-day tennis is played.

If Federer prevails, he may turn out to be unstoppable - even on clay next year. This has happened before. Federer used to be Hewitt's and Nalbandian's whipping-boy until a couple of years back. He beat them once and he never looked back. Now they are the proverbial sandbags. There is a chance that maybe, just maybe, history will repeat itself . This victory might have given Federer the psychological boost he needed against his young nemesis.

On the other hand, if Nadal wins, I think it will be the beginning of a Federer decline. Nadal is mentally tougher and more tenacious than Federer. A close look at the unforced errors on crunch points during most of their matches tells the story. Even today, on the Wimbledon Centre Court, Federer would have been in a hole had Nadal been less edgy. Nadal could have had the second set had he not spluttered while serving at 5-4. The first set whitewash was more of nerves. And Nadal was the only guy to take a set off Federer in this tournament. He's only 20 and it was his first Wimbledon final. I wouldn't want to bet on the result of a rematch next year.

Federer is the consummate artist. There's a beauty and an elegance to his game that Nadal will never have. The fact was accentuated even before a single ball was hit when Federer strode in in his customised blazer and Nadal in his sleeveless shirt. I'm reminded of the Mark Waugh - Steve Waugh comparisons when I think of these two guys. But the fact is that his game remains very susceptible to Nadal's.

So, one last time. Federer beat Nadal? You cannot be serious.

Management Class : News

About Billy

2006-06-26T05:39:00.000+05:30

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

Holy moly!

2006-06-17T22:11:00.000+05:30

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).

Paris...love 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

French Open 2006

2006-06-11T21:57:00.001+05:30

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

Finally...

2006-06-08T10:00:00.000+05:30

...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...

THE APPLE PARATHA

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

My new camera rocks

2006-06-04T10:44:00.000+05:30

Lil Birdy

Quiril

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

Mayday! Mayday!

2006-06-03T22:09:00.000+05:30

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

Arrey Baba

2006-06-03T05:53:00.000+05:30

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 -

9928115

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

I'm not good with subjects

2006-05-23T09:18:00.000+05:30

Like any good Baba, I'm a spartan person. I rarely spend money on myself. That I usually manage to do more than just negate this frugality because of sudden and whimsical decisions is a different story altogether. At times, it's smart but usually, it's just plain stupid.

This time I decided to allow myself a real luxury. I bought a Canon Digital Rebel XT - the best semi-pro dSLR that money can buy in this universe. Eight hundred dollars may be peanuts for many. It's a LOT of money for me. But that was something I had been lusting after for a while.

I remember visiting the Grand Canyon in November and not a crack on the wall, as my photographs show it to be. That was when I swore I would never go anywhere without a dSLR. It was an empty oath though.

Anyway, imagine my excitement when I received the package today. And imagine my anguish/anxiety/anger when the goddamned camera did not work. I was so mad with rage that I could have killed someone. "Why me? Everytime, why me?" was the thought echoing around my head. I don't know about Mount Merapi but there could have been a massive eruption in San Antonio.

I just put on this song and buried myself under a pillow. It's a beautiful song. Is there anything that comes close to music? Technology, sports, literature, cinema, alcohol, blogging, girls, motorcycles, cakes, television, whatever...Nothing.

Music is truly the most exhilarating experience on the third rock from the sun, on any rock from any sun.

Some of that elusive zen is on its way.

Anyway, once my head cleared up, I called the Canon helpline and soon my baby was up and running in a few minutes. Much ado about nothing? Something like that.

Much ado about nothing. That's what I've been doing all my life. That's what everybody does.

Zen. Nirvana. Call it what you will - it's all about deathly calm and frightening control (sorry about those ungainly adjectives but that's the best I got).

So I'm off to New York City - the greatest city in the world - another pit stop in the circuit of life. Maybe I'll be back with more tales of zen. Maybe I'll be run over by a truck and never come back.

Whatever. Either way, it's a win-win situation. A win-win situation. That's what it's all about. Zen.

Zen Test. Would I have blogged this post had that camera not worked? Unlikely.

But I'm getting there.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

Should have known better

2006-05-22T08:23:00.000+05:30

Ever since I set up my new ashram in the land of the free, I haven't been watching too many movies. Especially at the theatres.

Once in a while, I get a few flicks home and watch them on my very own cinema - a (ughh!) Dell Inspiron 6000.

Yesterday I watched The Godfather for the first time. The Godfather - cult classic, cultural phenomenon, I don't know what. I had heard and read so many glowing tributes and rave reviews about it. Peeps have even called it the greatest movie of all time.

Well.

If Hollywood cinema could be likened to the Indian railway track system, then Francis Ford Coppola would be the guy with a lotta.The Godfather is crap. It's as simple as that.

Marlon Brando got an Oscar for that role, did he? Somebody tell me it's a joke. Rob Schneider in The Animal was better than him. And that's saying something. Now I really know what the Oscars are all about.

I watch movies for entertainment. I like comedy, sci-fi, epic fantasy, horror, romance and action. I usually keep off drama and parallel cinema (because I'm dumb and I don't get it). I do appreciate few drama flicks like The Shawshank Redemption and A Beautiful Mind which are really good. But Godfather? Please. By no stretch of imagination is it entertainment of any sort. It's a massive pain in the butt. I'm assuming peeps don't need to watch movies for something they get free of cost at work and elsewhere.

I mean, that's the reason why I never watched it in all these years. The moment I see a movie's trailer, poster and synopsis, I can usually predict its quality with a fair bit of certainty. Maybe I was trying to prove myself wrong. But, to look at the brighter side of things, I now know that Francis Ford Coppola and Marlon Brando movies are not to be touched, even with a barge pole.

I would have said the same of Al Pacino but for the fact that I liked him in Scent of a Woman. The scene where he proposes marriage to the American chick immediately after that Sicilian non-chick gets blown up (thank goodness for that) had me in convulsions.

It's a third-class movie about ugly Italian mafia dons killing each other crudely. There's not one powerful character in it who's worthy of commanding awe or respect from the audience. What? The Don? F*** you.

There's not one scene that does not reek of staleness(except for the one in which the bum wakes up a horse's head in his bed). Cinematic excellence, my ass.

Sarkar (the Bollywood rip-off) , on the other hand, was pretty good. Amitabh and Abhishek were really good.

What a waste of time. Seriously.

I'll wager that the book is trash as well.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

'He who...

2006-05-19T06:52:00.001+05:30

...fights and f***ing runs away,
lives to sit by the dock of the bay'.

- Mental Baba.

I had a dog when I was a tween. Arrow was a black German Spitz who loved biting peeps for no reason whatsoever, except to amuse himself. He even bit me several times and was the mastermind behind the loss of my incisors (permanent ones, at that).

I was at a loss to explain this behaviour which was so deviant of his species. Now I had signed up for a lovable pet. And not for a psychotic canine with extremely large canines.

Whenever I'd see other kids playing with their doggies, I would turn towards Arrow. And he would present me a toothy growl that might give more than just a few ideas to a toothpaste marketing exec.

I had never really understood this. I sort of put it down to Baba's Laws, some of which are stated here -

Law I (aka Law of Infallible Justice) -

If Baba prepares an amazingly fantastic report on Mainframe MIPS Optimization (with great effort), puts it in the Big B (=Big Baba)'s mailbox (with great care), awaits a response (with great eagerness), then he will be told that his vegetarian document lacks meat, (the entire episode) shrilly announcing the sad and premature demise of Baba's grandiose plans.

Law II (aka Suitably Amended First Law of Thermodynamics) -

If Baba prepares delicious gajjar ka halwa (with great effort), puts it in the fridge (with great care), takes it out after a while (with great eagerness), decides to heat it just a wee bit (so that he may have a few nibbles and bites), then his microwave will refuse to work, so he'll put it on the stove, then he'll fall asleep (because he's been working his tush off on a certain report), and finally the smoke alarm will go off, shrilly announcing the sad and premature demise of the halwa.

Law III (aka Law of Irrevocable Truth) -

If Baba prepares (with great effort) to wow a hot chick , puts on his best formal wear (what the?!), memorizes his lines by rote, and even shaves his beloved stubble, he will find a bum in phatichar jeans and a stubble whispering sweet-nothings into her ears. And the chick would seem oblivious to Baba's metaphysical pan-dimensional aura (what the?!), thereby putting paid to Baba's grandiose plans.

Law MMCMLXXXII (aka Law of Utmost Finality) -

If anything can go wrong for Baba, it will.

Anyway. Last night I kind of realised what the mutt had been up to all along. It came to me in a holy vision.

It boils down to this ancient tale of golgappas, cosmonomics and revenge.

Ladies and gentlemen. This pooch, a mercenary for hire known as the Eliminator (aka Broken Jaw)was sent back in time, in order to murder me and to prevent me from accomplishing all those great deeds that I will be soon renowned for.

Ha. But they ain't getting me.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

WTF?

2006-05-15T06:19:00.000+05:30

I've been an avid tennis fan right since '91 when Prime Sports, the precursor of ESPN-Star, started beaming the game into Indian households. That's not to forget Doordarshan which always covered the semis and finals of Wimbledon and the French Open, which Prime Sports never did.

So it's been while since I've been hooked to it. Undoubtedly, it's a pretty attractive sport, to say the least.

Just like every Tom, Dick and Harry in the subcontinent is an authority on cricket, I consider myself to be a bit of a John McEnroe (in his santised NBC avatar, with tie and all).

Let's come to the real deal - Roger Federer. Federer - the man widely regarded by many (including Agassi and McEnroe) to be the greatest to have ever wielded a tennis racquet .

Keeping that in mind, take a look at this.

Rafael Nadal, the pretender, has smashed Federer into pulp again, the five sets notwithstanding. This is crazy. It's downright unbelievable. I can't f***ing believe that this sartorially-challenged punk beat Federer. AGAIN.

Nadal's a freaking machine. But he's not a patch on Federer. I repeat. He's not a patch on Federer. Anybody who's seen them play would say the same. If they don't, I suggest they haul themselves out of here before I land some eternal sunshine on their spotless behinds. The only way this moron should be able to beat Federer is in an ATP videogame (Spanish edition).

But the reality is that this teenaged bum is now 5-1 up on the head-to-head count. It's been 3-0 this year. Federer's had his pants taken off yet again. YET AGAIN. He's been licked, from head to toe, with intermediate stops in between as well.

This is complete nonsense. I do not understand why some things in this world cannot follow the principles of physics. The lines of force logically point towards Federer. There's dark matter at work here.

Now Mr. Federer's going to be decimated in the French Open as well. If there's any way he can win that's only if some mental fan of his decides to stab Nadal at the Hamburg Open (deja vu?).

I'm frustrated and dejected at Federer's (un)doings. How could he squander two match-points? This is bullshit. It's gone outside of the tennis court and into a shrink's clinic. That's the only explanation I have for this series of debacles. Sampras would have found a way out of this. Nobody made a bunny out of him.

But I guess, in a way, I know. Few things cannot be explained. Just like nobody can explain how ALL the chicks keep turning ME down. ME. In fact, that one needs to go to Ripley's Believe it Or Not.

Something else as well - Roger Federer defeating Rafael Nadal - if that ever happens in this millennium.

But Federer thinks he's "on the right track". Dude, if anything, you're on track to derailment.

Damn these clowns. I should stick to watching the *ovas in future.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

'Nirvana in the times of IT'

2006-05-13T10:13:00.001+05:30

...is the phrase used in this gentleman's blog to refer my sanctuary of truth, peace and justice.

Indeed, the use of that mighty a word as Nirvana by so worthy a personage helped me realise the duncery that was the two-bit Alakh Niranjan (my blog's credo when it first started off).

We are in a world that's talking 64 bit. So, behold:

MENTAL BABA KA TEMPO HIGH HAI

Having said that, let me not digress from my intended train of thought.

The moot point here would be the applicability of the word "gentleman" to this "gentleman".

Now legend has it that he engaged in activities that were quite gentlemanly, to say the least.

For example, he was gentlemanly in his conduct towards the minority population of his realm. He would not impose his majoritarian views upon them. He would not engage them in conversations bereft of gentlemanhood.

Instead he, by selfless volition, chose to undertake rigorous penance, surfing the internet in the daunting quest for enlightenment. He would then disseminate this hard-earned knowledge to the minions on the local networks.

He would not indulge in games that other players partook of. He would rather play the gentleman's game with a gentlemanly spirit rarely seen south of the Arctic Circle.

At the personal cost of neglect, he directed his energies towards the greater cause of uplifting science, technology and the state of West Bengal.

I beg to disagree that such magnitude is conveyed by the word gentleman. By colossus, perhaps. Perhaps.

I therefore thank him from the bottom of my heart for honouring me with a place in his wondrous domain, where rivers of free thought run wild and flowers of fresh ideas bloom forth.

I was just about to relapse into my meditative state when I noticed that this dignitary joined the party as well.

It is difficult to wax eloquent on his achievements, considering the fact that their quantity as well as quality represents a selection dilemma quite unlike any other, save that of Dada maybe.

He is one of the few ambassadors-at-large to have mastered the lofty arts of Calculus and Analytical Geometry and the cosmic technology that the Microsoft Office suite is representative of.

This magnifico often theorises on integrating complexities and challenges that are presented by the dynamics of evolving processes.

Champion that he is, he resolves these using Excel (at which he excels), Word (to describe his skills thereat, words fail me) and Outlook (which exemplifies his outlook to nation-building). With a noble spirit that is but a common denominator that defines his exalted kind, he carries on, undaunted and indefatigable.

He is currently engaged in patenting a product par excellence - The IT Consultant's Guide to Third World Cooliedom - which is widely tipped to win this year's Nobel for Economics as well as Peace and also tip a certain Global Top 10 company into the forefront of thought leadership.

I salute the great man and thank him for offering me a nook in his workshop where the dazzling glow of construction blinds and the sweltering heat of innovation sears.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

Meet the Mental Baba

2006-05-10T13:19:00.001+05:30

In response to the frequent deluges that the ashram's levees were being subjected to, I have magnanimously decided to consider some of the questions put forth by the millions and the millions of my disciples on the third rock from the sun. A REXX script came up with this representative selection.

Who the f*** are you?
- A redneck from Nashville, Tennessee

Son, I'm Mental Baba. I'm the third greatest poet in the history of mankind and also the finest bathroom singer that ever was.

Define Mental and define Baba, you f***ing quack.
- Another redneck, from Memphis, Tennessee

Son, I would like to refer you to my favourite online dictionary.

mental = of or relating to the chin or median part of the lower jaw
baba = a kind of plum cake

Adding these two complex vectors using hi-fi theorems (which unfortunately you may not be able to decipher),

mental baba = the future CEO of a certain Global Top 10 company

Hey dumbass, would you mind throwing some f***ing light on Alakh Niranjan?
- yet another redneck, this time from Martin, Tennessee

My pleasure, son. It simply means "All hail Baba and his hairstyle".

What do you think when you think of Tennessee?
- Gov. Phil Bredesen

Give me red.

Do you have any nicknames?
- The Dalai Lama, Upholder of Tibetan Zen Buddhism

Well, my friends do call me Nova.
- Mental Baba, Upholder of Truth, Peace and Justice

Can you do breakdance like me?
- Govinda

Only when I have my favourite stretchable undies on.

Have you set any goals for your current incarnation?
- Pee 'n' Yell, top 10 consultants from a Global Top 10 Company

To hack into ALL networks across the universe, save those operated by the Government of Papua New Guinea (if they have any in the first place).

Why wasn't I named the MVP of the NBA?
- Kobe Bryant

Because Medha Patkar did better than you.

Are you single?
- Maria Sharapova, former Wimbledon champion

Naah.

Are you single?
- Elton John

Yeah.

Are you tall, dark and handsome?
- Elton John

I've been told that George Clooney looks like me.

Dinner at the Ritz?
- Elton John

Kiss my ass.

Wow! Really?
- Elton John

Yeah.

What is your opinion on the wanton exhibition of power by the intellectually-bankrupt forces governing the capitalist world?
- Noam Chomsky

S0C4

Is there oil in your ashram?
- His Excellency George W Bush, President of the United States

I have a bottle of Parachute nariyal tel, bought five years back, that might be of interest to you.

If you could choose one adjective to describe yourself, what would that be?
- Tim Sebastian

Witty

If you could choose one adjective to describe YOURSELF, what would that be?
- Tim Sebastian

Oh

How would you like to be remembered?
- a hardcore gult, from Ongole, Andhra Pradesh

As a 4000 MW power star who got electrocuted.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

Shhhh!

2006-05-08T00:27:00.000+05:30

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

Love thy neighbour?

2006-05-06T10:36:00.000+05:30

Mental Baba's ashram is not the sort of place where one would find religious scriptures of any kind. That's because Baba believes in only one religion - that of humanity (this is where you're supposed to stand up and start clapping).

Baba is too sagacious an entity to be enslaved by the Vedas, the Koran, the Bible or other tomes that could be used as toilet paper (although he's been somewhat vulnerable to the teachings of Murach's OS/390 and z/OS JCL). However, to make up for an utter lack of creativity and sparkling wit, the degenerate Baba would not mind borrowing a line or two from one of the repositories of chicanery and hypocrisy mentioned above for the sake of this post. If other desis can do it, so can Baba, and with equal aplomb.

"Love thy neighbour."

Wow! That's a relief. These overdressed clowns seem to have got at least something right.

Now this is something that Baba wouldn't mind following with religious fervour. Especially when the ashram's neighbours happen to be Rambhas and Menakas hell-bent on disrupting Baba's tapasya.

For the first time in Baba's current incarnation, there was lush greenery right next door. RIGHT NEXT DOOR. For once, the grass was greener on Baba's side of the metaphorical fence.

//*Long pause while the nature-loving Baba fondly reminisces over the sights and sounds of the rainforest, with his thoughts lingering around a particularly colourful bird that inhabited it.

God. She was hot. And she was so cool. Now Baba knows this doesn't make sense to students of thermodynamics. He would like to direct them to higher echelons of physics.

She moved out this week. All of a sudden, it's like the lumberjacks moved in. All I can hear are these lyrics resounding against the crumbling walls of my cranium.

She was pretty. She was smart. She was single. She didn't mind me at all. She was within reach. I liked her.

That's another one down the drain. I'm getting tired of Baba's bungling ways. Stupid Baba. What is wrong with you, YOU BLOODY FREAK? YOU BUM.

Probably this.

Get away from me. I hates you.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

The Two Diamonds

2006-03-26T03:22:00.001+05:30

Not so long ago, in a place not so far away, was a mine which had rich seams of bituminous coal that produced much sought-after Steel Grade I coke. It also had the best longwall system in the country and a canteen with the best singaras south of the Arctic Circle. Anyway, that is besides the point.

One day, a miner working at a freshly-cut face, noticed a couple of unusual chunks lying on the ground near the shearer. They seemed harder and shinier than the rest. First,he dismissed them as pieces of anthracite but then decided to keep them anyway.

He gave one to each of his two kids. The son was fond of playing cricket. But he sucked at it. One day, he lost a match to Pintu's team and had to part with his lunchbox and the rock as a consequence.

Now, Pintu was a fine fast bowler. He was also an idiot (surprise! surprise!). But his uncle's father-in-law's cousin's friend was not. When that gentleman came visiting once, he offered an eclair for the rock. Now, Pintu was an idiot. He was not a moron. He held out for more. The thriving community of bacteria in his gums (and that of dentists, I daresay) was certainly delighted when the ooze from two Cadbury's eclairs percolated into its lair.

Pintu's uncle's father-in-law's cousin's friend was also an idiot. Hold on. Before accusations of contradiction start flying forth, it all boils down to the theory of relativity. The theory of relativity. It's extremely unlikely that those belonging to the order of Pintu and his uncle's father-in-law's cousin's friend would be able to decipher the meaning of this.

Anyway, this gentleman sold it to the neighbourhood Seth for a bottle of 'vilayati'. The Seth's neighbour's fifteen year old son quietly pocketed it while the Seth was putting in some quality time with the Sethani. This kid was pretty tech-savvy and he put the rock up for auction on ebay.com. He also made good use of his camera phone.

Unfortunately, there weren't too many takers for the "action adventure" thoughtfully titled as "The Seth's Hard Rock". According to hacks on ebay, however, the President of Pakistan, The High Lord Perverse Bush-or-Muff was one of the bidders for it. Although he was a cheapskate, he won the exclusive rights to "The Seth'sHard Rock".

The rock, however, was snapped up by an Algerian C-league footballer who later illegally migrated to France. It left his possession when he, in the process of enthusiastically participating in riots at Paris, smashed open the window of a chic De Beers showroom on Boulevard Saint Germain des Prés.

De Beers celebrated the pillage of its showroom at The Ritz when it came to light that one of the criminals had left something behind worth, to be precise, 14.4291 times of the loot. That's excluding insurance gains.

The rock was reverently laid in velvet and shipped to the city of Surat in India in the company of a squadron of fighter planes and twelve trolls, each of whom spent twelve hours in the gym everyday of their enlightened lives.

There it was manicured and pedicured and *cured by the best rock doctors of the world. When it returned to Paris after the makeover and all of its travails, it was a relief to find it safely ensconsed between the twin planets of a hotter-than-the-sun chick. She was the world's sexiest supermodel. The world's most famous movie star gave it to her. It ended in a mess. She ended up with the world's most famous rock star. He ended up with Dissipation Grade I coke. The rock went to the lawyers who wrangled over it. One of them even bit an ear off his partner. The ear-biter was brutalised by his victim's wife who was a professional wrestler. This disturbing sequence of events led them to engage the services of a mediator and thrash out an agreement on a hunting trip.

The mediator shot ALL of them accidentally. He then had to get a mediator of his own to prevent their families from suing him. It was not his fault - he was born with a bad eye. Just like Muthiah Muralitharan who was born with a bent arm. C'mon. Give these guys a break.

In the meantime, the diamond was deemed a national treasure and confiscated by the Government. At the same time, a presidential aide disappeared mysteriously. His last words, written on the inside of a toilet paper roll were "It was the First Mistress."

Anyway, the rock was always on television, in the movies and was even voted as Time's "Man of the Year" (even though the feminists raised a big stink about it). The University of Karlsruhe honoured itself by being the first to present the rock a PhD in Geology and Global Entertainment. This award was accepted on the rock's behalf by an intern in the presidential office.

And, oh yeah, the daughter was fond of playing with dolls. Nobody can suck at playing with dolls. She kept her rock. She kept it with great care, locked away, in a little chest. The Rock In The Iron Cask. One day, when she was grown up and pretty and was watching television, she saw her brother's short-lived possession. Of course, she could not recognise it but she went green with envy. She clamoured for a rock of her own. Her bare-backed beau, with good intentions, presented her with one - that was infinitesimally inferior to The Rock In The Iron Cask.

While taking one of her walks down by the cliff, she hurled The Rock In The Iron Cask down into the waves below. It was a long way down. The rock burst into a dazzling profusion of colour as the rays of the fading sun caressed it for the first and last time, screaming as it would seem: "I'm a diamond."

Some diamonds are not forever.

Management Class : Tall Tales

D.I.S.C.I.P.L.I.N.E

2006-03-09T10:54:00.000+05:30

D.I.S.C.I.P.L.I.N.E

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Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

C'mon

2006-02-27T21:24:00.000+05:30

It's the end of night,
Welcome, O daylight!

There's morning dew,
Life must begin anew.

As you get out of bed,
May you look ahead.

Mental Baba, focus strong.
Nothing will go wrong.

The force is with you.
You know it to be true.

Concentrate hard,
O melancholy bard!

To hard discipline, bind,
Your errant, fickle mind.

Discover your touch!
You CAN do so much.

Do not ask "How?"
Just stand up now.

Feel it within you.
Do what you must do.

Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe

A Night to Remember

2006-01-15T21:30:00.000+05:30

As I lay in my bed,
Along came a redhead.

Towards me, irresistibly drawn,
She was really turned on.

The look in her eyes was lewd
And she was totally nude.

The way a redhead begs -
She just spread her legs.

She certainly had no inhibition,
Indulging in such exhibition.

As she came over to embrace,
My pulse quickened its pace.

Before I knew, she was on top,
Sucking me like a lollipop.

Man, she was a real pro
Who made my testosterone flow.

Oh! What an indescribable feeling.
MY BLOOD SHE WAS STEALING.

She was still going "Glug! Glug!" -
That nasty little bedbug,

When it exploded :-P
And then she was dead.

Redheads looking for a hot date:
Come to daddy and I'll exterminate.

Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe

On the Santa Fe Trail

2005-12-28T11:28:00.000+05:30

I had nothing to do this Christmas weekend. Nothing planned, that is. But, all of a sudden, I found myself on a Pontiac Vibe en route to Santa Fe.

The Pontiac Vibe is an insult to its illustrious siblings like the G6 and the Grand Prix. Indeed, it's an insult to automobile engineering. Just like this piece, which is an insult to Santa Fe. Nothing that I say or write will do justice to the city of Santa Fe.

Anyway. San Antonio to Santa Fe. With two hardcore gults (need I say more) and a pseudo-bong (my lucky day, I guess) for company. In the freaking Vibe. 710 miles. 400 miles of Texas wasteland. 300 miles of New Mexico desert. Non-stop gult rock.

Kotuthe six kotaali
Aaduthe rough aadali...

My god. I swear...

Ch**s.

For a while, I wondered what I'd let myself into. But finally, at the end of the road, I saw the oasis - Santa Fe.

Let me just say this - it's not everyday that I make recommendations. Santa Fe is a truly amazing place. For those who value art, culture and beauty, it's an indelible mark on memory.

But first, to the geographically challenged, Santa Fe is the capital of the state of New Mexico - a state that America bought from a stupid Mexican President. Man, was he a ch** or what.

I'm not going to wax eloquent about facts and figures that may be more accurately obtained from a website or a tourist guide. I'll just talk about me and the city.

I've just fallen in love with the place. It's so beautiful. It's so f***ing beautiful. If American cities were girls, Santa Fe would be the Playmate of the Year.

You got to see the place to believe it. It's like stepping into some sort of a time corridor. All of a sudden, it feels as if the clock's been turned back a century or two.

It's not for nothing that it's known as the City Different. Yes, just like New York is called the Big Apple, Santa Fe is known as the City Different. Everything is so different. Everything is so artistic. So imaginative. So pretty.

The buildings. The offices. The homes. The markets. Everything is right out of this world. They call it adobe architecture. Adobe is a mixture of clay, sand, straw and stuff. Now, don't ask me what 'stuff' is. I don't know. But I do know it's beautiful. Everything has a distinctive reddish-brown or yellowish-brown colour. It's like some magnificent potter decided to 'just do it'.

The city hasn't been built with brick. It's been conjured out of clay.

It hasn't been designed by architects. It's been dreamed up by artists.

You don't see Santa Fe. You feel it.

You walk down to the heart of the city. You see the amazing pueblos (native Indian homes endemic to the region) You see the lovely churches. You see the quaint old homes with their ancient fences and rustic wooden doors. You see the narrow roads lined with galleries and museums and curio shops. You see the electric lamp-posts made of wood. You see the manicured parks with the leafless shrubs of winter. Damn.

Some people have the power to make this freaking world so beautiful. There's so much to see and to learn in this world. I don't know. Somehow, Santa Fe made me go sento.

Anyway. The place is a repository of Native Indian culture. Hispanic culture. And American culture (of the Wild Wild West kind). It's supposed to be one of the art and culinary capitals of America with loads of history behind it. In fact, it doesn't really feel like America at all. There are many places where you hear nothing but Spanish. I mean we Indians speak better Engish than the peeps of Santa Fe! And that's saying something.

Most places out there hang bunches of what are known as chili ristras. These are like the dried red chillies of India, only somewhat larger. Although it's now an ornamental practice, the native Indians believed that fastening ristras to their canoes warded off dangers from the water. It looks fantastic.

Because of the Mexican influence, they have lots of spices as well. I was surprised to find so many varieties of spices being sold in the local markets there. I was told they have a wonderful cuisine as well. Not much for vegetarians. I'm not going to forget the fajitas (one of the many variants of stuffed tortillas) at the Las Palmas restaurant in a hurry though. There are a couple of 'East Indian' (that's what they call us :-D) joints too. Don't ever go to India House. $21 for a buffet laced with laxative. Call it Cerrillos Road robbery.

Santa Fe has traditionally been a railroad hub as well. I saw trains in America for the first time there. Their trans-coastal trains are just like the ones in India, with the diesel engines and everything. No electric engines and stuff. They blended in perfectly with the city.

Apart from human intervention, nature has done its bit for the city as well. I'm sure there are many places more endowed by nature, but Santa Fe hasn't been treated too unkindly either. Surrounded by scrubland on two sides and by hills on the other two, it presents a picture worthy of a postcard. The hilltops are covered in snow and coniferous forests. It is a popular retreat for skiing aficianados across America. I tried a bit of skiing as well. It's an exhilarating sport and a dangerous one - one of the guys in my class ended his tryst with a sickening crunch. But I'm going to be doing more of that. And I'll be doing a lot of it in Santa Fe.

The drive from the city to the ski area is very scenic with stately larches and proud firs standing sentinel over the long and winding road. Lucky tourists can catch a glimpse of a mountain lion or a brown bear along the way. I saw nothing more than some deer. While climbing the hills, one may see half-hidden log cabins and dirt roads heading off into the wilderness. The motel receptionist told me that quite a few celebrities from Hollywood have cabins in the Santa Fe hills.

And hey, the city's got an eponymous pretty little canal of a river too. It's sweet.

It's also got ranches and pastures in the vicinity with lots and lots of cows. Their cows are so big and so furry. But I think the famished Indian cows, with their ribs sticking out, are much better off. At least nobody eats them.

I'd like to describe it properly but I'm unable to. It's not only Santa Fe but New Mexico as a whole that's a great place to be. Deserts, lakes, hills, mountains, forests and the great Rio Grande river - it's got it all. For adventure sport enthusiasts, it's a dream world. Skiing, white water rafting, hang gliding, ballooning. And on top of that, it's got so much culture deeply ingrained in its daily life.

Santa gave me a wonderful gift for Christmas by way of Santa Fe. What a place. Inspite of those bums, what a place. I mean, get a load of this. These freaks are in Santa Fe. It's so damned pretty and these fools are like, "What the f***?" They want to go to some godforsaken Hanuman temple in some useless place four hours away. When time's at high premium. How many temples have these dworks seen in India? Seriously.

What bums. The look on the faces of these hardcore gult bums when I spent a couple of hundred bucks on some beautiful pottery. That itself was worth a million dollars. LMAO.

Whatever. We left Santa Fe. We were driving through the New Mexico desert. The night sky always puts on its most seductive look over a desert. The deepest shade of black and zillions and zillions of stars. Not a cloud in sight. So beautiful. It was nine o'clock at night.

I saw a board by a field which said, "UFO Crash Site." I was in Roswell. Roswell, New Mexico. I could not believe it. The X Files. Fox Mulder. Roswell. I was in freaking Roswell. I asked them to stop the car. Nope. You expect hardcore gult bums who work for a certain global top 10 company to understand what Roswell means.

Sometimes I can't believe the way I've let myself down. Anyway, I said I was going to piss in the car, if they didn't stop. I got out for a minute, looked longingly at the starlit sky and inhaled the breath of life. That was the best part of the trip.

Next time, I'm going there alone. Hopefully, I won't have to come back.

Management Class : Unravelogues

Nightmare on Murugan Koil Street

2005-12-18T09:32:00.000+05:30

Dark was the night. A no moon night. Even the stars seemed to have retreated to safer havens. There were no clouds – only blackness - a sinister pall of blackness which hovered menacingly over the doomed city. The wind howled in a mad fit of rage and terror. Far away, waves of vengeance crashed into the hulking gauntness of the cliffs. Farther away, Etna trembled uneasily. A young mother trembled as well, as she tried to put her crying infant to sleep, "So jaa bete, so jaa. Warna woh aa jayega." Such was the night. A no moon night. Darkest of all dark nights.

Down Murugan Koil Street, the electric poles swayed unsteadily in the wind's frenzied onslaught. The coconut trees shivered with fear, throwing eerie shadows that danced grotesquely on the crumbling walls of the Murugan Koil, which had shrunk into itself, as if with foreboding. There was not a soul to be seen on that street. The black Doberman, brandishing his canines at No. 13's gate, did not seem very likely to have a soul.

Such was the night on Murugan Koil Street when the clock struck twelve. The date turned Friday the thirteenth. The lights went out. The wind died. Far away, the waves died. Farther away, Etna whimpered. The child stopped wailing. All was still. The black pall now hung over the city like a shroud.

And then, the Doberman bayed powerfully through the night. Like a herald.

Thunder roared, sending bolts of lightning streaking across the petrified sky. It started to rain.

He awoke. He, who had been sleeping for so long, awoke. He, who should not have been awoken, awoke. The darkest of all dark creatures awoke. If anyone could have seen him, they would have seen the mad glint in his eyes. The mad glint in his bloodshot eyes. The mad glint in his cruel bloodshot eyes.

He was mad. He was mad with hunger. He had to feed.

He looked around in his lair, darkest of all dark lairs, for remains he might feast upon. There was nothing. Nothing. A tremendous shriek rent the night on Murugan Koil Street.

He arose. With madness in his bloody eyes. He arose. To hunt.

He cleaned his canines. He accoutered himself and sheathed his weapons. He was ready.

And then he stepped out into the night. The very night seemed to freeze. Time came to a grinding halt. Even Murugan Koil, supposed guardian, shook violently in its foundations under his evil stare. The vicious Doberman cowered as he, most vicious of all, walked past the gate.

He stopped and looked back. His red-rimmed eyes bore into the Doberman's. His tongue rolled lasciviously over his lips, considering the possibility. The Doberman shrank in terror. He crowed mirthlessly and walked into the night.

The damned city quivered, awaiting its doom, under his fateful strides. Bird, beast and man had gone into hiding. Little did they know that there was nowhere to hide from him, darkest of all dark creatures, on the darkest of all dark nights.

The wind and the rain kept a fearful distance from him as he prowled the dark streets of the damned city, in search of prey.

His eyes delved deep into the night. His ears listened far across the night. The city seemed desolate and deserted. But he was the hunter, darkest of all dark hunters.

And then, in an instant, he jumped across into a street. He had seen something. Nothing could escape his hawk eyes - he had it effortlessly in his claws. He sank his fangs into it. There was no juice in it. He crushed it, crushed the life out of it, and tossed it away.

The wind moaned. The rain faltered. The city lay still, curled up, awaiting its next sacrifice to his dark altar, darkest of all dark altars.

Ah, finally! His favourite prey! It was on the run. It was getting away. Hunter that he was, he ran swiftly and pounced on it.

It struggled a lot. But he had it in his claws. He would kill and he would feed. There was no escape from him, darkest of all dark creatures, on that night, darkest of all dark nights.

He drew his weapon, darkest of all dark weapons, to slaughter it - to slit it open from ear to ear.

Diner's Club Card.

"Look, pal, I know you're closing but I need this. Chilly bean, please. Extra cheese and extra chilly peppers."

Good pizza can light up any night - even the darkest of dark nights.

Management Class : Tall Tales

What's cooking?!

2005-12-05T01:39:00.000+05:30

Macbeth be damned. "To cook or not to cook" - that is the question.

That is the question I face everytime I return from office on weekdays. That is the question I face everytime I wake up on holidays. That is the question I face everytime I look at the input into my digestive system. That is the question I face everytime I look at the output from my digestive system. That is the question I face everyday of my life.

Hell, it's a tough one.

Now, I'd like to take a moment to go through the Top Ten 'answers' that I keep getting.

Answer #1 (54%) : Get married.

My comments : Let's toss these people a few other situations as well. You know, just for the kicks.

Oh, there's an ant!

"Don't worry, there's a sledgehammer in my backyard."

Oh, my boss scolded me!

"Don't worry, there's a Howitzer in my closet."

Oh, whatever will I eat?

"Don't worry, there's a girl in my family."

Well, my question was not "Oh! What will eat me?"

And, by the way, I didn't know that girls still cook these days.

Seriously, these are the sort of people who, if you were to approach saying that you've a headache, would've a machete ready to take your head off. And they'll even say ,"Don't worry." Ch**s.

Answer #2 (11%) : Just cook it.

My comments : I would but for the fact that my brother calls me Mohammad Lazybones. And not for nothing. I actually start crying while chopping onions. That's because I'm just too lazy. Back in Chennai, the maidservant would clean up after me and even chop the vegetables if I asked her to. Here, it's like I've got to everything myself. I'm allergic to all that stuff. I find it easier to eat bread or have packaged parathas with Heinz ketchup ( I love Heinz !). And there's always Budweiser or Hershey's milkshakes.

And when I take the trouble of gracing the kitchen, I'm not a bad cook at all. In fact, there was a time when I used to cook pretty regularly. Quite a few peeps have positively complimented a couple of my preparations. But, to be frank, I'd rather watch television.

Answer #3 (9%) : Get a cook.

My comments : Dude, last time I checked, this is America. It's easier to get my PL to give me a five than to find an Indian cook here. Even if I do find one, I'd have to find a new job as well.

Answer #4 (8%) : Eat out.

My comments : Right. Like French fries and boiled broccoli and lettuce, perhaps? Or maybe I could just have your credit card in order to hotfoot it to The Madras Pavilion everyday?

Answer #5 (6%) : Paying guest funda.

My comments : Of course. Like this is the Bay Area or New Jersey. Can I just pay you and your solutions to disappear? Permanently.

Answer #6 (4%) : Just drink.

My comments : Finally! Proof that there is intelligence left on this planet! The stomach, unfortunately, loses out in the intelligence sweepstakes to the liver.

Answer #7 (3%) : Be a parasite.

My comments : They have big bad leukocytes manning every home I know. It's like I attack their refrigerators once and then they mysteriously acquire immunity. I don't understand why. I don't understand how.

Answer #8 (2%) : The supermarket.

My comments : Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to have the pleasure of introducing to you the super ch**. But, to be fair to the super ch**, this is what I do most of the time.

Answer #9 (2%) : Die.

My comments : I hate to disappoint you but I'm kind of enjoying my life, these woes notwithstanding.

Answer #10 (1%) : 42

My comments : F*** you. 42 times.

It's tough being a vegetarian in the US of A. And a 'pure' vegetarian on top of that (I cannot do without my pastries though). And a fussy 'pure' vegetarian on top of everything else. I guess it's tough being a fussy 'pure' vegetarian anywhere in the world except in India.

You know, it's only veggies who need to find an answer to this question. It's party time for non-veggies. They have all the answers they'd ever need. Steaks and stews and stuff are not too expensive in American cafes and delis. I've been told they taste pretty okay as well. They have seafood and stuff I don't even know about. There's lots of packaged stuff for them in the supermarkets as well. The only reason why Indian non-veggies squeal and scream so much is because all they're interested in is in scrounging for a nickel here and a dime there. They'd make Scrooge McDuck look good. Bums.

All that veggies get is a thenga. There's hardly any packaged stuff available off the shelves unless you want to live on Kellogg's cereal. There's some stuff in Indian stores but it's bland and overpriced and comes without expiry dates.If you can walk into any restaurant and find a menu that even 10% vegetarian, I'll eat my shirt (with Heinz ketchup). You can order any dish saying "No meat. No eggs." The result is always the same - bad salad. Indian restaurants can burn a hole in the pocket. If you go regularly, it's like you go with your trousers on and come back in your singed underpants. And, what more, the ones in the San of Ant suck. I'd tried out a few places at Dallas - it was like being home. It was worth it.

The other day, I was at this Thai place. I know that the word 'vegetarian' is synonymous with 'eggetarian' here. I specifically asked for my dish to be made without meat and without eggs. And they still put in eggs. When I shook my head, they just took it out of sight, removed the eggs and brought it back. I could smell it all over the place. God, I hate that smell. Sometimes, I get frustrated at how insensitive people are.

I like eating out and trying new stuff but, here in America, it's some sort of a mixed bag. Now, don't get me wrong. This is a great place and it's a lot of fun (for peeps who're not averse to promoting local economies). But their food is hardly better than horse shit (not that I've tasted it). I just go to the desserts directly - they outscore Indian cuisine, with the sole exception of authentic Bong rasgullas, by miles in that department. They have amazing dairy products as well.

Anyway, I've sort of realised that it's better to stick to Chinese or Mexican restaurants out here, when I'm out. In fact, Mexican stuff is the closest you'll get to Indian cuisine. It's pretty good - I especially like their tacos and chalupas and pizzas. Chennaites, I'd suggest you try out Cafe Picasso/Hot Breads @ Anna Nagar which serves good Mexican cuisine and even better (yummy!) pastries.

There are a few things that veggies really need to keep their eyes peeled out for here .

The first and biggest mistake that most make is with the cheeseburger. Well, let me put it this way - you order a cheeseburger thinking you'll get something from a cow's udders but what you actually get is the cow's udders. Never ever order a cheeseburger (Mc D's, Whataburger, wherever) without saying "No eggs. No meat." Well, you'll be done in anyway because you'll end up paying the same amount as non-veggies just for a bun and a few slices of tomato and lettuce. It's Murphy's law. If you're veggie, you're screwed.

Second thing. Pepperoni pizza. Let me narrate an incident.

It's my first week. I go to my one of the many cafeterias in my office for lunch. I look around. There are over a hundred items available but there's nothing I can have except salad and pizza. I say to myself, "Okay. Let me try out the pizza here." (The pizza out here is not a patch on the ones we get back in India with the paneer and the masala and all that.) Anyway, there are three options - Cheese, Pepperoni and Supreme. Now, I don't know what pepperoni means (hey, I admit I'm as dumb as George W Bush). I've never had anything to do with it back home. I make a logical assumption that it's got something to do with pepper. Logical assumptions don't work in America. This is a country that elected George W Bush twice. No sooner than I get my order that I know I'm screwed. And hey,the best part of it, no refunds.

Third thing. French fries (and, for that matter, anything that's fried) may not be as veggie as you think they are. Although the major brands don't do that, some of the local ones fry stuff in oil extracted from animal fat.That's pretty hard to stomach.So watch out.

Fourth thing. Most products out here do NOT carry the green/red circle-in-a-square markers to make things simpler for veggies. You just need to know the product before hand or go through the list of ingredients (which is not a lot of fun). Maybe they've a website or something - I need to check that out.

Fifth thing. They always use the same gloves for handling stuff. You don't even want to know what happens back in the kitchen. You'd be surprised to know how developed some of these 'developed' countries really are when it comes to some things.

I'm sure there are many more but I'm still in the process of being caught unawares by them.

To put things in perspective, really, I once went to Taco Bell (which is one the major Mexican chains out here) and asked for a vegetarian Taco Supreme. The girl at the counter looks at me and says, pretty rudely, "Huh? What's that?"

Politely. "A vegetarian Taco Supreme."

Indifferently. "I'm confused."

Well...I was confused too. These people are supposed to know more of colloquial English than I do.

Politely (with a touch of frost, perhaps). "The dictionary defines the adjective vegetarian as having no meat and no eggs."

Sarcastically, "Oh. So you don't want any meat or eggs? That's funny."

Icily. "Really? You're funny too. And beautiful."

Acerbically. "And you have beautiful hair. Must be all that vegetarian stuff you eat."

Touche.

Sardonically. "Honey, just make that taco as hot as you are."

Knockout.

My friend tells me, "Man. She's going to spit in your taco."

Some of these white bums and bumettes...seriously.

So, I guess you can understand why I'm faced with this question, time and again.

I guess it's a process of trial and error that everybody has to go through. You'll always find people like me handing out fundas but then most stomachs and livers are fiercely independent and need customised inputs. All said and done, there's no way a fussy 'pure' vegetarian can avoid the trials and tribulations of the kitchen in America.

I remember, in my first week here, I overreached myself in trying something and there was a bit of smoke. Just a little bit. And the fire alarm went off. It's really loud and crazy. I had no idea how to turn it off - had to get my neighbour. Man, you learn a lot of things here the wrong way.

Anyway, as much as I used to rubbish Chennai (and still do), I must say I never had any trouble in finding decent food. It was cool. The answer was pretty straightforward back then.

Now, hunger's once again on the prowl.
And I can hear my poor stomach growl.

Ah! To cook or not to cook?
For succour, where do I look?

I can make do with milk and bread
But I'd like something else instead.

Don't tell me I need to make something
I'd rather lay down in my bathtub and sing.

Hey, I just don't want to go out again.
It's cool only if I do it now and then.

Damn! My flatmate's cooking tonight.
The kitchen will be an ungodly sight!

I think I'm going to just tell this guy
That he really should not even try.

His preparations have always sucked.
Aaarghh! My dinner is once again f***ed.

"To cook or not to cook?"

The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind. I sniff at the draft from the kitchen, shake my head despairingly and heave myself off the bed. I'm feeling a bit adventurous today. Maybe I'll try Mirch Ka Salan and flambe it in Bud Light !

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

Peeps of the world...

2005-11-29T11:15:00.000+05:30

...guess what I was doing last Saturday night while all of you pansies were doing whatever it is that you do?

Well, I know, yeah…nice try…but that's not what I was doing this time around.

I was stuck at this hopelessly dull and boring place known as the Sin City. I was only at the MGM Grand which is, you know, just one of the most famous hotels of the world. I was only loitering around the Grand Garden Arena that just happens to be, well, the Mecca of championship boxing. I was supposed to spend some of my precious time with some moron called James Paul. I mean, what the hell kind of a name is James Paul? Who the hell wants to have dinner in the company of somebody called James Paul on a Saturday night? I mean, who the f*** is James Paul? I'm Mental f***ing Baba. Damn! I'm going to have to do something about them Saturday nights.

Anyway, there I was with a Sprite (yes sir, you did hear me right) and a beefburger (the presence of beef being thankfully restricted to the receipt) for an hors d'oeuvre, waiting for James Paul. And you know what, this guy was half an hour late. I don't make anyone wait. Nobody makes me wait. I'm Mental f***ing Baba. I wanted to kick his arse all the way to Liverpool where it originally came from.

Then, in the blink of an eyelid, "Ladies and gentlemen! James Paul…………………..McCartney!"

Definitions are debatable. The Vesuvius never erupted. The Krakatoa never erupted. The MGM Grand Garden Arena did. Seventeen thousand odd people erupted.

James Paul McCartney. One of the greatest ever musicians to have walked on the third rock from the sun. One of the greatest ever to have walked on the third rock from the sun. Genius. Icon. Living legend. God.

Half an hour? Hell, I waited half a lifetime for this.

And you know what the best part of it is, it just happened. Everything amazing – it just happens. I was just one of the millions teeming all over the Sin City – sinning and doing my bank balance a lot of good. My friends and I'd strolled, or rather lurched, into the MGM Grand without aim or purpose except, perhaps, to do good to the economy of Las Vegas. Everybody who knows me, knows how deeply and selflessly I care for the good of economies the world over.

And I somehow noticed a poster saying "Paul McCartney. Grand Garden Arena. November 25th and 26th." It wasn't even that prominent. I was lucky to have seen it. Let me put things in perspective. Vegas is the kind of place where nobody's larger than life. Not even Mental f***ing Baba. It's the kind of place where a Bill Gates might say, "Hey, I need some money" or a Brad Pitt something like "Maaaaaaamaaaaaaamaaaaaamaaaamiaaaaaaa!!!" Vegas is a different story altogether.

Anyway, I was like, "Holy craparoni!!!" Although I was not in a condition to keep track of space-time co-ordinates, I somehow managed to realise that Paul McCartney was 2 hours and 200 metres away. I knew I had to get there somehow. I mean, I grew up on gult brahminism and vinyl acetate. Paul McCartney? There was no way in hell I was missing that show. I bade everybody to a halt and showed them the poster. The way they reacted, it was like lions being offered bananas. I'm sure they would've been more like the langurs that they actually are had it been a Metallica or a Britney Spears (I hope you're reading this, you bums). Nobody wanted to go and they even tried to blow the thing off, saying that tickets wouldn't be available. Anyway, I kind of like it by myself. I just went up to the hotel desk and came back with a ticket. It was that simple. Sometimes, you think that something is tough or impossible. All you have to do is to try or ask and it just happens. It's surprising really.

So here I was. And there was Paul McCartney. In flesh and blood. It was awesome. It was mindblowing. I couldn't believe that I was sharing my oxygen and carbon dioxide with Paul McCartney.

He started off with some of his solo stuff. Somehow, I'm not very familiar with his post-Wings career. My mistake. So I didn't know most of the songs he played initially. Some of them almost felt like lead metal. He's got a heck of a drummer in his band. Frank something. The guy's spectacularly flamboyant and intense and gives his drums more than just a pounding. There was a guy who was doing the keyboards and the harmonica. And then there were two chaps on the guitars. It was just the five of them and boy! Were they creating a racket or what! Other than the keyboardist, the three guys looked like kids. And they're playing with Paul McCartney. What the hell. Some guys have all the luck and all the talent. I'm green with envy. I really am. I can't even string few chords in sequence properly. Thanks to Delta Airlines, which is more crooked than a Marwari pawnbroker, I don't think I ever will. I'll f*** them someday. Anyway, I guess these guys have to take it up a bit in live concerts. It's not exactly MTV Unplugged, you know. Like I said, the music was pretty hard. Quite frankly, I didn't like it too much. I think I was just impatient for the stuff that I knew and loved.

After about 20-25 minutes of frustration, in which I'd have pulled out my hair if I'd any, I heard those words "Jet! I can almost remember….". That ELECTRIFIED me! Like Kirchoff put it so sublimely, electric current only flows when there is potential difference. I think McCartney's a physics whiz. He certainly knows his harmonics. But that was the beginning. It was like plugging into a live wire. They ROCKED and SHOCKED the arena with Jet. It was classic classic rock at its best. The guy's got a voice, I tell you. Of course, I don't have to tell you that but still…it's soft and gentle but it's got some horsepower on it. Those of you who've heard Jet can understand what sort of power it'd take for the voice to be heard over the instruments. Those of you who haven't are obviously bums. Anyway, thereafter, it was the Beatles and the Wings all the way through to the end. There was not one soul in the arena that was unhappy. Well, I don't think the security guards were too impressed at being shut out.

I've always felt that some of the stuff that McCartney's done with the Wings is quite extraordinary. I think he probably felt a need to step away from the softer rock espoused by the Beatles and try something harder and more in the 'classic rock' mould. I just LOVE the Wings. We had it on vinyl and I remember listening to some of the songs like 'Band on the Run' , 'Mull of Kintyre' and 'With a Little Luck' which were my favourites. In fact, they did 'Band on the Run' as well. It was fantastic. I mean, as a kid, growing up in a remote mining outpost on a staple diet of Paul McCartney, I never imagined that someday I'd actually see him and listen to him sing. It was not just the music but it was much more – it was a sentimental thing.

So he was singing like a bird and doing an amazing job of it. He didn't seem to be doing too much with that guitar of his. Maybe he was playing bass or rhythm, I really don't know. But definitely not the lead. He usually does bass. The two guitarists were strumming their way to glory and doing the sort of stuff that 'rock guitarists' do on stage. I was like, "Man. What's with this guy?" It was probably like watching Sachin Tendulkar play exquisite cover drives but wanting him to do some pull shots.

After a while, he thought he'd enough of the guitar. A piano mysteriously apparated onto the middle of the stage. He is an excellent pianist. I never knew that he could play so well. Yes, most professional musicians play multiple instruments and all that but still…somehow, I never knew that he was so wonderful with the piano. He played some really nifty pieces. It was fun. You always think of synthesizers when it comes to rock and roll. But it's surprising how well the piano blends in with the drums and the guitars. Of course, it was my first rock concert. Maybe they do it more often than not.

After each and every song, I'd look at the roof with apprehension. The crowd just loved him. It was a capacity crowd and they just LOVED him. I have no clue how I got the ticket but thank goodness I did. And he seems so unlike the regulation rock star. You think of rock stars and you think of bad attitude and a misplaced sense of fashion. But Paul McCartney? No, sir. I mean, I've never read or heard anything bad about him. Inspite of his fame and fortune, he's always been somebody who's down to earth and in touch with his roots. You believe that when you see him and hear him talk to you. He's so cool. He's just like this guy next door who happens to be freakishly talented, that's all.

He does some of these things on stage that seriously gets the crowd going. He'll put his left hand out and do this 'I'm-going-to-shoot-you' thing and the crowd goes crazy. He'll run his fingers through his hair with a coy fifteen-year old boy look on his face and the girls go hysterical. Seriously, these crazy American women!! From college chicks to spinster aunts, they all have the HOTS for him! I couldn't believe the way some of the old hags were dancing in their seats. Some of them had signs that said, believe it or not, "Our pies are flaming." (He's got this album called Flaming Pie) Hell, you got to be shitting me!!! I was in stitches.

He's funny. He sees one of those signs and says, with a deadpan expression, "Those signs can be distracting. If anything goes wrong …if I a miss a chord or two, I'll blame it on them."

It was great going. He did this rock version of 'The Long and Winding Road' with him on the piano. It's one of my favourite songs and it blew me away. But I'm a bit of purist when it comes to some things. I kind of wanted the acoustic version – the way it's meant to be. It was like he heard me. The piano disappeared and so did all of the band members. And then he said, "It's just going to be you and me."

In that huge arena of seventeen thousand odd aficionados, he did away with all of that electronic paraphernalia. It truly was just us and him and an acoustic guitar. He did 'The Long and Winding Road' again. He did 'I'll Follow the Sun". He did "It's Only Love". He did "Something". He did all of those beautiful Beatles numbers the way they should be done – acoustically. I can't describe it. I won't attempt to describe it – I'd reduce it. It was the most enthralling part of the evening and I was just in some sort of a dream world. I wished it would never end.

Anyway, they say that the guitar play on Beatles numbers is pretty simple. I don't know. Looks tough to me. Whatever. He'd been switching across a lot of guitars, both electric as well as acoustic. But then, for the first time, he switched to a classical acoustic. He was still alone on the stage. And he did this piece by Bach. I don't remember the name. He said that him and George Harrison used to play it when they were kids. It was out of this world. He was like a Jedi master in all of his invincible glory. The crowd was like, "What the f*** was that?" Listening to it, I went Orsino's way, "If music be the food of love, play on." It was remarkable. And you know what, he said it took him, Paul McCartney, fifteen years to learn that. George Harrison did it in twelve it seems.

I mean, I know guys who say the Beatles are not rock. That they don't do 'things' with the guitar the way 'rock guitarists' do. That is a load of horse crap. You have a beautiful song in your head, you play the song. It's sweet and simple? That's even better. It doesn't matter whether the chords are complex or not. Who gives a shit? You don't change the song just because you want to showcase your talents as a guitarist. You want to do that? Well, last time I checked it's a free world. The way I saw it was this. Neither the punk on the stage playing lead nor too many 'rock guitarists' (whoever they are) could've done that. Had I bet on it, I'd have finally won something in Vegas. Long hair and large tattoos do not make a talent. Paul McCartney showed what does. He's a superb guitarist. Period.

The song that got the arena really going was 'Hey, Jude!" It's not one my Beatles favourites but the way he got the crowd involved in it with the 'Naa…naa…naa…naa…nanananaa' chant was special. It was like "All the people older than me!" Then "All the people with cats!" You should've seen the affected expression on his face after he said, "All the guys now!" Man, he's funny! But I think what he should have actually said was "All the people who made money in Vegas." And he'd have heard only the voice of the owner of the MGM Grand.

After two hours, just when it getting a bit too lovey-dovey and ooey-gooey, he did what is one of my all-time favourites – 'Live and Let Die'. It would be a euphemism if I were to say that the arena shook. Ha! I LOVED it, baby! There were spectacular pyrotechnics on the stage with flames all over the place. It was like the Human Torch doing a 'I-got-fire-ants-in-my-pants' dance. Like Vanessa Williams would've wanted it, he did save the best for last. It was the end of the show.

Or so I thought. He disappeared for five minutes but the crowd kept screaming for more. He came back, picked up his guitar and did 'Yesterday' all alone. Yes Paul, all my troubles seemed so far away too. They seem so far away. I think left them 8000 miles behind.

Is there anything better in this world than being a rock star? Not really, unless it's being the ROCK – who's only the MOST electrifying man in the HISTORY of sports and entertainment. I mean, who can say something like, "The ROCK will take you down Know Your Role Boulevard which is on the corner of Jabroni Drive and check you directly into the Smackdown Hotel!"

Not that Mental f***ing Baba is anybody to pass judgement but hey, Paul, you come pretty close. You really do. In midst of seventeen thousand people, I felt like a little boy from a different time and a different place. When I went to Las Vegas, I did not know I'd also go home. I'll put this away into my Pensieve. Thanks a million.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

Flat on the Mat

2005-08-26T14:36:00.000+05:30

Usually, great people hide their shortcomings and their failures from the public eye. I, on the other hand, think along different lines.

What was that di**head ? I'm not great? Are you out of your freaking mind, I mean, your freaking di** ?

That I AM great is a universal truth. A UNIVERSAL TRUTH. Like you know : the sun rises in the east. My greatness is independent of me and my actions and indeed, this pathetic universe. It just exists. In ineffable grandeur and in inviolate magnificence. It's undeniable and it's indisputable.

Having cleared that point, let me theorise on why then I choose to let you plebeians know what you're not entitled to -

a) Neither do I have any accomplishments nor do I have anything else to talk about. Other than my greatness, of course, which is too a great a matter to be presented to all and sundry. But I'm bored and I do want to talk so I'll just talk about my failures.

b) The big fan of Chandler Bing that I am, just like him I invariably keep rubbing people the wrong way, inspite of having good intentions. Some even wrongfully accuse me of arrogance. Everybody who knows me, knows me to be down to earth, unlike some peeps I know who (think they) ’re up so high that nothing less than the Hubble space telescope can spot them. Is there any arrogant soul on the third rock from the sun who'd talk about his failures?

I'll start off with something seemingly trivial, something which is not taken lightly by me though. My steed. Yes, my steed. Like all great champions, I’ve a steed - that wondrous piece of indigenous engineering - the Bajaj Pulsar DTSI 150. I'll talk about the times I cut a sorry figure , whenever I was thrown off my steed.

Now, even legendary warriors like Karna and Bheeshma were thrown off their chariots. Therefore, it’s not much of a surprise when one as legendary as they were and perhaps more is thrown off his mighty chariot. It’s all part of the war and the important thing’s in getting up again.

Let’s get going without any further ado.

SCENE I:

Place: Venkatanarayana Road,T.Nagar

Date: Republic Day, 2004.

Objective: To reach Aminjikarai.

Observations: Mental Baba sees a hot chick on the road, walking towards him from the opposite direction. Hot chick makes eye contact with Mental Baba. Mental Baba’s right hand starts working independently of his left-handed brain. It decides it’d like shake hands (and more) with the chick. Instead it shakes hands, rather vigorously, with the disc brake(which doesn’t seem to be too amused). Before Mental Baba’s vocal cords can say "Mamma Mia!", Mental Baba is FLAT ON THE MAT.

Duration on the mat: 30 seconds

Results (in chronological sequence):

# Mob gathers.
# Hot chick puts Mental Baba’s head in her lap and tenderly tends to his injuries (NO, THAT’S A LIE).
# Hot chick vamooses from the scene of her crime.
# Mental Baba reaches hospital instead of Aminjikarai.
# A not-so-hot nurse tends to Mental Baba’s injuries.
# Mental Baba’s steed reaches garage instead of Aminjikarai.
# An ugly mechanic tends to his heavy injuries.
# Mental Baba discovers that his featherweight bank balance is now lighter by Rs.1400.

Inference: Hot chick to blame. Should be arrested and sentenced as a public menace.

SCENE II:

Place: ECR

Date: Sometime in September 2004.

Objective: To do a speed run.

Observations: Mental Baba‘s smoking the tyres @ 105 Ks an hour. Mental Baba sees a herd of cows crossing the road up ahead. He respectfully slows down to a crawl @ 20 Ks an hour. A hefty cow suddenly decides that she has a crush on Mental Baba. She breaks out of the herd and crushes both Mental Baba as well as his worthy steed. Before Mental Baba’s vocal cords can say "Holy Cow!", Mental Baba is FLAT ON THE MAT.

Duration on the mat: 120 seconds

Results (in chronological sequence):

# Nobody gathers.
# Cow puts Mental Baba’s head in her lap and tenderly tends to his injuries (THANK GOD THAT’S A LIE).
# Cow looks at Mental Baba with love in her large brown eyes.
# Cow then vamooses from the scene of her crime ?!
# Mental Baba limps back to his feet and licks his wounds.
# Mental Baba discovers, to his horror, that his steed’s fork is twisted.
# Mental Baba abandons his speed run.
# Mental Baba discovers that the cow’s affection cost him 400 bucks and a stitch.

Inference: Cow to blame. Should be arrested and served as beef. (And I used to be a Brahmin!)

SCENE III:

Place : 2rd Main Road, Kanappanagar, Thiruvanmiyur

Date : Sometime in November 2004

Objective: To reach my aunt’s place.

Observations: Mental Baba’s driving safely, minding his own business, @ 40 Ks an hour. Before Mental Baba’s vocal cords can say "What the f*** ?!", Mental Baba is FLAT ON THE MAT.

Duration on the mat: 20 seconds

Results (in chronological sequence):

# Nobody gathers.
# Mental Baba extracts his steed from a pothole so thoughtfully and strategically placed by the Chennai Corporation.
# No bruises except for a few scratches.
# Aunt puts Mental Baba’s head in her lap and tenderly tends to his injuries (Yikes!!! That's NOT a lie).

Inference: Amma to blame. Should be arrested and forced to fill up every pothole in the city.

SCENE IV:

Place : Venkatanarayana Road,T.Nagar (Not again)

Date : Sometime in January 2005

Objective: To reach Abhiramipuram.

Observations: Mental Baba’s driving safely AGAIN, minding his own business AGAIN, @ 40 Ks an hour AGAIN. An auto-driver thinks that Venkatanarayana Road is in fact the Circuit de Cataluyna. He makes an amazing attempt to pass between Mental Baba and a Santro in front of him – one that would have made to Ripley’s Believe It Or Not or The World’s Most Amazing Videos. Before Mental Baba’s vocal cords can say "O Venkatesa !", Mental Baba is FLAT ON THE MAT.

Duration on the mat: 10 seconds (the mob was real quick, I tell you)

Results (in chronological sequence):

# The Santro gets a good kick up its ample backside.
# Mob gathers.
# Auto-driver gets beaten up.
# Mamas join the action.
# Auto-driver gets beaten up again.
# Mental Baba’s steed escapes with a few scratches.
# Mental Baba escapes with a torn jeans and a torn elbow.

Inference: Auto-driver to blame. Should be arrested and beaten up again.

SCENE V:

Place : Some road, Dasarathapuram, Vadapalani
Date : Sometime in February 2005

Objective: To drop his friend home (Clarification : friend != girlfriend).

Observations: Mental Baba’s dead drunk. He zipping the city roads, late at night @ 100 Ks an hour, navigating to instructions from the pillion. He tries to do a Rossi at a turning. Before Mental Baba’s beer-belly can say "Belchhh!", Mental Baba is FLAT ON THE MAT.

Duration on the mat: 10 seconds

Results (in chronological sequence):

# Nobody gets hurt. Mental Baba's under the protection of magic.
# It has no effect on Mental Baba. He gets up and keeps going.

Inference: Mental Baba to blame. Should be arrested and sent for psychiatric evaluation.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

WMD

2005-08-19T15:01:00.000+05:30

Connect: The Trishul. The Brahmastra. The Gandiva. Little Boy. AK-47. Scud.

Now, I'm not really trying to check out your knowledge quotient or something but I don't think it requires a George W. Bush to get this one right - WMD. If you belong to that species that's politely referred to as...well…average, let me S.P.E.L.L it out for you buttheads - Weapons of Mass Destruction.

I have something to say about this whole thing. This list is crap. I mean the biggest and the baddest WMD of them all - one that'd make this entire lot look as sorry as Saurav Ganguly after a Shoaib Akhtar over - has been omitted. Dada, nothing personal man. If you want, we always can change the simile to Mental Baba after his monthly heyday (on second thought, make that payday).

It's the...the...the Ra....the Raa....the Raaaa.....the Rakhee. Damn. I can't even bring myself to say the word. Let me hereafter simply refer to it as WMD. What ? Are you people buttheads or what ? How many times do I have to f***ing S.P.E.L.L it out for you - Weapon of Male Destruction. The Ra....The WMD - that freaking weapon of male destruction.

Somebody, please! Somebody do something! Call the UN. Call Superman. Call Dubyaman. In the name of truth, peace and justice, somebody call somebody!

But I must say that you peeps have a lot to learn from me. I'm quite a bit of a role model. Because I have an amazing record. In 25 years, I have been the victim of this atrocity only once. Only once. What ho! What do you say to THAT? Some say it's my ability to be as slippery as an eel. But I think it's just my J factor. Now the J factor is something on the basis of which peeps have earned their doctorates. I don't intend to do another thesis right here. Let me just say that in the hallowed precincts of the most venerated engineering college of India, J = Juice.

Name J Factor

Laloo Prasad : -7.4
Amelie Mauresmo : 0.1
Marat Safin : 9.2
John Abraham : 9.4
George Clooney : 9.5

You get the drift ? Well, I didn't know you were THAT slow on the uptake. I think it's about time you turned on the optimisation flags on your pathetic compilers. Do it and then compile :

float get_j_factor(string input)
{
float j_factor;

if (!strcmp(input,"Mental Baba")){
j_factor = 10.0;
}
else{
EXEC SQL SELECT J_FCT INTO :j_factor
FROM SYSIBM.SYSMALES
WHERE NAME= :input ;

if (j_factor == 10.0){
printf(“Not so fast, son.\n”);
j_factor == 0.0;
}
}

return j_factor;
}

In effect, this is what happens. It’s only those women who've had their neural fluid vaporised (thanks to the frequent application of the hair dryer), who come to rakhee me. Now this hair dryer thing is actually something that most people don’t believe in. Idiots. In fact, it’s one of the reasons why I shed my hair. I prefer neural fluid to wet hair. I’ll be out with that thesis soon enough. Now, coming back to the matter at hand. Yeah, they come try to rakhee me. Then the full blast of J factor (the perfect 10.0 J factor, if I may add) hits them right on their pretty faces. It doesn’t take long for them to exchange their rakhees for coupons (you know, the kind Joey liberally dished out in Friends). Hah!

Anyway, the only time I was caught unawares was by my younger bro's classmate. But since she was six years younger than I was, I kind of turned the J factor down and chivalrously accepted it .But wait a minute. How did she come to her classmate's house and rakhee his 7.0 J older bro AND then conveniently forget to rakhee the 0.5 J younger bro ? Hello? Bro? Hello? You there ?

So you see that it's quite an impressive record. I'm pretty proud of it. When I see unsuspecting guys being surreptitiously shackled by unscrupulous girls, I feel bad. I mean, once they're done with it, it's like the guys're done in. On top of that, they got to PAY the girls for being done in. And then, advertise their disastrous loss on their wrists for the whole world to see. Whatever happened to truth, peace and justice ? What in the name of the Holy F*** is this world coming to?

Like I was saying, I'm good. Other guys, they walk up to me and ask for fundas. Philanthropist that I am. I thought I'd share some of my knowledge for free. The first principle is pretty simple really....

Hey, hang on a minute. Does that girl actually have a rakhee in her hand?

50m. No, that's not for me. No way.
25m. Piece of cake. The J Factor.
15m. Everything's under control dude.
10m. What the ?!
5m. Hey, what the hell’s going on in here ?!
2m. Holy craparoni! I'm outta this place.

But the less dim-witted of you have probably observed that I've never given Asafa Powell or Justin Gatlin sleepless nights.

0m. DESTROYED. DEVASTATED. DEMOLISHED. DEMORALISED. DESECRATED. DECIMATED.DECAPITATED. By WMD. By the freaking WMD.

I can't believe this happened to me. Me, Mental Baba. Me, the Great Eye. Me, the Morning and the Evening Star. Why me?

Rakshabandhan? I think it's the guys who need some raksha.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

National Economy

2005-08-09T03:32:00.000+05:30

Being the public-spirited soul that I undeniably am, contributing to National Economy has always been a top priority of mine. As part of my selfless drive to boost the meagre inflows into the national exchequer, I've always tried my very best to maximise my outflows. I don't have to try too hard really - it sort of comes naturally to me. But for me and my kind (and I tell you that we're close to extinction), the Reserve Bank's reservoirs would have been as bountiful as water in the Atacama desert (on second thought, just make that Chennai). Public spending - for the greater good. That's my mantra.

To this noble end, I've been relentlessly engaged in patronising the likes of Domino's, Pizza Hut and Smokin' Joe's for long. "Why ?!!" What the...?

Well, I didn't know you had to be an Einstein to figure that out, bum. No, make that di**head, di**head.

a) Menu says 100 bucks -> Customer pays 120 -> sales tax -> NATIONAL ECONOMY
b) The phone calls -> the monthly bills -> the telecom companies -> excise tax/corporate tax -> NATIONAL ECONOMY
c) The delivery boys -> the petrol -> the oil companies -> excise tax/corporate tax -> NATIONAL ECONOMY... (and indeed, if I may say so,...-> the Arab world -> world peace)
d) Tomatoes, Capsicums, Onions, Mushrooms, Olives -> the poor Indian farmer -> the rich Indian farmer -> income tax -> NATIONAL ECONOMY
e) The cheese -> the poor Indian milkmen -> the rich Indian milkmen -> income tax -> NATIONAL ECONOMY
f) The dough, the breads -> the poor Indian bakers -> the rich Indian bakers -> income tax -> NATIONAL ECONOMY
g) Chicken, lamb -> the poor Indian butcher -> the rich Indian butcher -> income tax -> NATI
ONAL ECONOMY

And here I must put my foot down. Where are the freaking fish pizzas ? Spare a thought for the poor Indian fishermen. Who'll give them a chance to contribute to National Economy ? I mean,seriously, is this a democracy or what ? Do these guys have any rights or what ? Whatever happened to The Right to contribute to National Economy? Di**heads.

h) The delivery boys, the chefs, the waiters -> national employment -> NATIONAL ECONOMY

Hell, it sure isn't all about loving your parents. Karan Johar, you di**head. It's all about NATIONAL ECONOMY, you freaks. Di**heads.

All roads lead to NATIONAL ECONOMY. So you must be an intrepid voyager, unafraid and daring, who may boldly go where no man has gone before - to the top of that majestic pinnacle of NATIONAL ECONOMY.

As part of my efforts towards realising this long-cherished dream of surmounting this unconquered peak, I decided to take the pizzeria trail. And I called up Domino's.

Hungry Kya? No, I wasn't but I did it all for the selfless sake of NATIONAL ECONOMY.

A tear runs down my face as the heady words blitz through my head : Everything I do, I do it for you. Look into my heart...you will see...what you mean to me...

Damn.

Sentimental me. Sentimental me...please don't let it be...I'm in love with you...you're in love with me...National Economy.

Anyway, back to Domino's - that most magnificent of all pillars supporting National Economy.

Domino's : "Hi. I'm $#@$#$. How can I help you ?"

Mental Baba : "You help me by helping me help National Economy."

Domino's : "Sir, we live to serve all those who serve National Economy."

Domino's : "Would you like the poor butchers or the hapless farmers to assist National Economy?"

Mental Baba : "Allow me to do service to the hapless farmers. Neither do they have free electricity nor do they have subsidised loans. I'd like to offer the regular assistance."

Domino's : "Come now, sir! We have medium as well as large assistances available. Surely a personage as worthy as you would not deign to offer regular assistance. Think of the poor farmers. They look up to you and only you. "

Mental Baba :"Make that a large. From the Farmhouse."

Domino's : "O Magnanimous Sire! What of the humble bakers who wait patiently to succour National Economy with their nourishing garlic toasties ?"

Mental Baba : "Yes, Them too."

Domino's: "O Mighty Knight! We've just been informed that the loss-making cola companies are planning to lay off their employees for want of avenues to benefit National Economy in a befitting way."

Mental Baba: "Yes, I shall help the downtrodden cola employees pay obeisance to National Economy."

Domino's : "Thank you for letting us help you help National Economy. May Economics be with you."

I'd plonked myself on the bed and was waiting for precisely 28 minutes when somebody rapped my door. Ah, there he was - that faithful servitor of National Economy, dressed in national colours.

I thought of the farmers and the bakers and the cola employees and the millions and the millions of my fans who look to me as a role model in search of truth, peace, justice and oh yeah, inspiration. The feeling of chivalry swamped every cell in my body. I rolled my shirtsleeves up, rolled my intestines in and got down to the hands-on service of National Economy. Now, I don't mean to be a Gascon or anything but I've been told that I rather resemble the Mahatma - both in thought as well as in coutenance (not speak of patriotic fervour). I did it all for National Economy.

And then I did more.

i) The Delhi-belly -> the pills -> the pharmaceutical companies -> excise tax/corporate tax -> NATIONAL ECONOMY.

Look at me. It doesn't end there really.

I woke up this morning and decided that taking French leave once in a while wouldn't do my appraisal rating any harm. I mean, they don't have negative rating, do they ?

My PL calls me up : "Woher bist du?"

Mental Baba : "Ich habe delhi-belly."

PL : "Just drag your ass and your delhi-belly down to office. We got work to do."

Mental Baba : "No way. I'm sick."

PL : "Global Top 10 Company -> professional tax/corporate tax/income tax -> NATIONAL ECONOMY."

Did you just ask me why I'm here, di**head ?

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

"May economics be with you."

The Land

2005-08-01T22:40:00.000+05:30

The great river gurgled o’er ancient rocks,
Foaming joyously pasts banks of white sand,
Sprinkling blessings on shaven heads and matted locks,
In mythical Devbhumi – they said it was holy land -

Abounding in answers that every man seeks.
In the east did erupt the first rays of the sun
As I stood in the midst of majestic peaks.
If ever there was a sight – it was the one.

It was so unreal: that magical shaft of light.
Lo! The snowy tops were kindled to a blazing fire,
One that burnt an indescribable pure white.
The mountains be high, I felt something higher.

Surrounded by the mighty Himalayas, in the vale,
I gazed spellbound upon that resplendent white crown.
Of a forgotten King, perhaps, it seemed to tell a tale.
I listened awhile: by and by disappeared my frown.

I inhaled deeply the elusive breath of life
Shepherded down the slopes by boisterous winds.
It cut my disease away like whetted knife.
And whispered, “Thy death sentence, the King rescinds.”

I felt my soul unburdened: then was I glad.
Tranquility descended at the faraway ringing of a bell.
It was everything that I could have hoped to have had.
How I wished, that there, I might evermore dwell.

Where the dale welcomes dancing grey waters.
Where the white mountains soar up to the blue sky.
Where fragrant flowers are the earth’s fair daughters.
Where all creation is pure, noble and high.

The great river gurgled o’er ancient rocks,
Foaming joyously pasts banks of white sand,
Sprinkling blessings on shaven heads and matted locks,
In mythical Devbhumi – the holy land.

Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe

The F***ing Poem

2005-07-30T14:08:00.000+05:30

It's f***ing ten thirty at night
Still there's no f***ing end in sight.
Against this machine I'll f***ing fight.
But still I won't get it f***ing right.
Such is its f***ing overbearing might.

What am I doing, I've no f***ing clue.
The f***ing machine says False, it says True.
And also f***ing beats me black and blue.
What the f*** am I supposed to do?
Except hold my head and f***ing rue.

Me, alive, this machine will f***ing flay.
Let me just f***ing run away.
And f***ing live to fight another day.
On my bed, it's time to f***ing lay.
But what will these people f***ing say?

Maybe something like: "Don't go.F***ing wait.
Or else we will f***ing escalate."
The f***ing phrase seems to be in spate.
But I f***ing refuse this fate.
I'm getting the f*** outta the office gate.

Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe

Riding in the Rain - III

2005-07-23T07:44:00.000+05:30

I smelt rain in the air -
Time to leave my lair.

My bike was waiting for me -
So that we might flee.

The road lay ahead -
"Let's go", he said.

As I always choose -
I let him loose.

I heard him roar -
On the road by the seashore.

The clouds looked dark -
There was thunder and spark.

The wind was strong -
But it sang me a song.

The coconut trees did a dance -
As if in a trance.

The first raindrop -
I told him to stop.

It started to pour -
My spirits did soar.

Standing by the beach -
I felt beyond reach.

Me and my bike -
From others, quite unlike.

I stood there still -
In the rain and the chill.

We started to cruise -
The rain's a good ruse.

I got drenched to the skin -
On that neat little spin.

As the path I did trace -
The rain kept hitting my face.

I was not riled -
I just smiled.

Because all I wanted to do -
Well, I really don't have a clue.

I was just told by my brain -
"Baba, go ride in the rain."

Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe

A Doc(k) Tale

2005-07-08T12:39:00.000+05:30

I've lots of work tonight. But I don't like work. It's nothing personal really. It's just the way that I'm wired. As Col. Courage of Spiral Zone. As Huey of Duck Tales. As Lt. Mutley of The Amazing Race. But not as Mr. Dumb-Ass Programmer of a Global Top 10 Company. Bullshit.

So there I was, merrily chatting (with the hardcore Mr. D) on the messenger when I noticed something at the bottom right corner of my screen : "You've got mail."

I mumbled something like, "Onsite c****** !", under my breath. Opening the inbox, I found a mail from His Revered Hauteur, Client Manager IV, Duke of San Antonio (and suburbia). Now, obviously, it's not everyday that a commoner like me gets mail from royalty, specifically addressed to me (unless you count mails sent by The King and by The Emperor). Just hang on for a second while I have my spleen stitched. The King and The Emperor (two 'gentlemen' I know who prefer using those nouns to refer to themselves) ! Man, damn ! Don't tell me I need to have that done again !

A terse one-liner :"I'm getting concerned we will not be ready by Monday...are my concerns warranted ?"

I kind of wanted to say, " Yes, they are. "

Before I could even reply though, the little eyes at the back of the Great Eye sent warning signals : " May day! May day! May day! Project Manager aboard ! Project Manager aboard ! "

I turned around to confirm the gravity of the situation. And yes, there he was, standing with his arms akimbo, with a frown on his face. But hey, I like this guy. I mean, how the hell can I not like a manager who rides a Bullet to work (with goggles and other paraphernalia in tow).

He's Mr. Cool. And he's Mr. Fast. With a reaction time like that, he could probably challenge Valentino Rossi.

He didn't look too cool right then. He looked like a man who'd got the ammunition that he wanted. He said, very slowly, " What's happening in Auto Prefill ?"

Like "Wh---a---t i----s ha----pp-----en------ing i----n Au--------to Pr-----e--------fi------ll ?"

I kind of wanted to say, " Nothing dude. Nothing's happening. " Which is pretty much true ! But I did manage to say, with a deadpan expression, "Not much."

He said nothing. Nothing - as in the nothingness of the calm before a storm. And then, " I want to speak you right now in my office."

I bid the hardcore Mr. D (I tell you this guy is like...man. I can't believe this guy) goodbye and walked into the arena. It was an unequal fight - a heavyweight against a lightweight, a PM against a TM, a favourite against an underdog.

The door was shut. Oh...oh...not a great omen.

Let's just say real life is not reel life. Underdogs don't win. They just get knocked out. But look at these censor hounds. They won't let anything through, will they ? I let myself out of the office though.

Whatever, they can't censor my eyes. No, they can't. Damn those incorrigible eyes. Damn them. The very first thing they see and they're practically popping out of their sockets.

Look at her. Damn ! I wish they 'd pop out as well !

"Mamma mia !"

No, wait. I got it all wrong. Let me do it right this time.

"Maaaamaaaaamaaaaamaaaaaamaaaaaa miaaaaaa !"

Yeah, that came out good. That's more like it.

The Great Eye turned away
To feast some other day.

Me and my stitched spleen -
We got back to our screen.

"Mental Baba, surely you durst ?"
Laughing, my spleen re-burst.

"Spleen, there are cows that're milch
But Mental Baba is just about zilch."

"Spleen, just leave me alone
While my sins I do atone."

"Spleen, just go to hell
I'm not feeling too well."

My cube is on a busy junction on the 'highway'. I see our desi Mr. Rossi make a run for it down the 'highway'. He'd forgotten something - he came back, gave me a glare and set off again. Then I saw the videshi kudi check out as well, with the six and a half foot videshi munda. She just gave me a smirk : " You looking at me ? ". I watched the both of them disappear down the hall.

I drummed my fingers on the table, looking right through the screen. The non-plasma screen. The freaking non-plasma screen. A freaking CRT.

And then...it plays. Second string. Third fret. Fourth finger. 'S' Major. Yes, 'S' Major. The most beautiful sound in the whole of this wide world.

"Row, row, row your boat. Gently down the stream. Merrily. Merrily. Merrily. Life is but a dream. "

Everything's a dream. A pipe-dream. But nobody can take them away. Nobody.

"Play it again, Mental Baba. Play it again."

"O Elbereth! Gilthoniel !" I feel so calm. This place is ulti cool.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

The Man

2005-06-28T09:57:00.000+05:30

Cold sweat dripped from his face. His eyes darted nervously across the dingy little room, straining to see in the dim light. For some reason, the place made him uncomfortable. He felt a knot form in his stomach.

It was poorly ventilated. He could hardly breathe at all. Whatever he could breathe had a dank, unhealthy smell to it. He didn’t like it. He fidgeted with his fingers as he sat there, all alone, on a black chair. He almost jumped when it creaked. It was a drawn-out, nerve-jarring and sinister creak. Other than that, there was not a sound to be heard except for a dull electrical hum. It made him even more nervous. He waited. Uneasily.

He started as the door opened with a hideous screech. A shadowy form appeared, blocking out the light that had illuminated the room for an instant. It closed the door quickly and threw on a switch. He blinked as a bright lamp, directly above the chair, came to life. He tried to rub his eyes but his hands refused to leave the chair’s armrests. The legs didn’t move either. Panic surged through his entire body : “Was it the water ?” He looked around wildly for the shadow. He could see nothing except for walls with their paint peeling off and large splotches of red. “Is that…?” In a corner was a large sack. He could trace the most of the smell to it. Next to it was a small stool with a plate on it. It was empty except for some rather large bones with bits of fresh meat still sticking on them.

He felt his brain pound against his skull, trying to make a run for it. He rolled his tongue over his lips, breathing heavily. He wanted to scream but his voice seemed to have dried up as well. And then, all of a sudden, the shadow fell across him. Out of the corner of his right eye, he saw the owner of the shadow – a swarthy, heavily-built man with cold malevolent eyes and a horrible scar on the left cheek. It was just the man and him. The man did not say a word. But the hard lines around the man’s mouth curled into what seemed to be a contemptuous sneer: “What are you going to do?” He gulped.

Splash! It hit him like a bucket of cold water. In fact, it was cold water. He shivered as drops of water ran down his face and trickled onto his shirt. There was a metallic click as the man reached for something in front of the chair. A rack came into view. A row of sharp-edged, dark-stained and grotesque instruments was laid out neatly across the rack. They were of varying shapes and sizes - large and small, straight and curved, smooth and rough – but their purpose seemed to be one and only one. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his solar plexis. The man allowed a smile to creep onto that stony face, revealing a set of crooked yellowish teeth, fondly examining a particularly wicked-looking tool in the process. It must have been a real favourite. It was long and thin, with an edge that gleamed in the lamplight. “Wait. Those canines…No! It couldn’t be!” His Adam’s apple scampered along the length of his throat in dread. The man turned around, those cruel eyes locking into his, with a taunting look that said: “There’s nowhere to hide.”

He felt his blood make a desperate attempt to flow through his limbs again. He could almost move. He tried to but was prevented from doing so by a large hand that came down heavily on his neck. He could feel the pressure on his skin as the hand ran over, first, his face and then his neck. It stopped at his jugular vein and stroked it gently, almost lovingly. The man looked at him again and smirked. He had seen such a look before. Two words flashed through his crazed mind: “Daniel Pearl.”

He watched, with growing trepidation, as the sharp gleaming edge drew nearer. An edge, expertly gripped, by practised hands having long pointed nails. He tried to scream but his vocal cords had been twisted by terror. He tried to run but his muscles had frozen in fear. The man was observing him carefully, mockingly. Like a butcher before a lamb’s slaughter. Would the man go for the neck or was it the face that offered more? The man’s hand shot forward in a sudden jab, making for a clear patch below the ear. The blade made contact. It drew blood and tasted it. He winced in pain.

The expressionless man said nothing. Picking up another one of its kind, one that was longer and dirtier, the man’s hand made for the other side of his face. The result was the same. The man seemed thoughtful, as if the work was not proceeding in a more torturous direction of choice. A wire was conjured up from the rack. With a contented look in those callous eyes, the man’s hands made for his neck. Perhaps strangulation seemed a better option compared to slitting him open from ear to ear. Or maybe that was part of the process. The wire dug into his skin, bursting his pimples, leaving it red and inflamed. The man then got to work with the favourite again, cutting and flicking at will. He closed his eyes and bit his lips. It seemed to go on forever. And then it stopped.

No sooner had he breathed a sigh of relief than he felt a gash down his neck. He could feel the warm blood running into the cold sweat. He opened his eyes, expecting to see his severed body lying by the side of his head. But it was still intact and the man was smirking again. The man took a foul-looking liquid from the rack and rubbed it into his bleeding skin. “Aaaaaarggggghh !” his voice returned as his face and his neck burnt like oil in frying pan. The pain was unbearable. With a burst of strength, he yanked his body out of the chair and glowered with rage at the man. The man looked shocked.

All that the man said was, “Maalish bhi kar doon kya?” (Should I do the massage as well?)

It was a close shave.

Management Class : Tall Tales

Then there was binary

2005-05-31T07:14:00.000+05:30

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

Duck Out?!!

2005-05-31T04:36:00.000+05:30

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

Deep Star

2005-05-28T01:03:00.000+05:30

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

O Moon!

2005-05-26T04:16:00.000+05:30

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

Mundane March

2005-05-16T03:45:00.000+05:30

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

Stopping by Mount Road, on a Busy Evening

2005-05-04T06:20:00.000+05:30

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

EQA for dummies

2005-04-07T05:12:00.000+05:30

I'm allergic to a lot of things - just like Paul in The Wonder Years. Traffic. Girls with moustachios. Arrogant peeps. Cream of milk. And yes, of course, EQAs. Not necessarily in that order though.

EQAs. External Quality Audits. Or is it Extremely Questionable Activities ? Whatever.

These days the EQA requests are pouring in - just like the benevolent rain gods on Chennai. Everyday the bums/bummettes from QAG come around to my cube with a most winning smile (well, at least that's what they think) on their faces.

"Hi Mental Baba. How are you ? "

"Hi. I'm good. And you ? "

"Could you do an EQA today ? "

"No."

"Your PL says that you're free."

"I'm not free to do EQAs. "

"She says that you are free. "

"Well, I'm not. "

"Ok Mental Baba . "

And then I see these people slink across to my PL's cube and talk to her, shooting furtive glances at me all the time.

Fortunately, my PL knows better than to speak to me regarding the matter. I mean, please. I'm the guy who put his hands up and gave himself a rating of 1 against the EQA goal head in his self-appraisal.

But no matter how hard an ordinary guy may try, extraordinary quirk of fate sometimes leads one into that dangerous land where defects and resolutions run riot. All of a sudden, there I was, thrust into the thick of action, with a tear gas shell and a cudgel in my hands. Damnation. How the hell do I manage to get myself into such situations ?

It had been ages since I had done an EQA. So long that there were cobwebs in the EQA recesses of my head. And of all the things that could have been - code walkthroughs or system testing, it was a document review (holy craparoni !!!). My heart did a little jig. No, it was not at the sight of the uppity Miss H who's long been under the impression that she's the H Malini of a Global Top 10 company. ROTFL.

Anyway, there I was, scratching my bald pate, trying to make sense of the unbelievably nonsensical document that suddenly had transformed my multi-coloured screen into a grim landscape of black and white. A data mapping document. That's what they said it was. I don't what the blazes it was supposed to map but I, for one, was in unmapped territory - and without a compass to boot.

"We have a check point review. Do it in two hours. Fast. Fast."

Two obscure data dictionaries. One mapping document in Greek and Latin. A guy who's allergic to Greek and Latin. And to data dictionaries. And to AIG. Put all of these together and you might well end up with a great recipe. For? Well.

I tried doing an HRECA on the EQA volume. It ended with an RC of 02.

I decided to follow the sagacious advice of a local quality guru. I put on a white sombrero first. Then I tried a black stetson.
Zilch. They didn't suit my pate.

I was half an hour into my 'deadline'.

This called for desperate measures. I put on my red topee. I love the red one. I just love it. And bingo! I had it !

Took one last look at the mess in front of me. I could literally see defects swarming all over it, preparing for an all-out assault.

I lobbed the tear gas shell. HDEL on the EQA volume. RC = 00.

I swung the cudgel. "No comments. Signed off."

Extremely Questionable Activities ? You bet.

I guess some allergies are for your own good.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

Love -

2005-03-21T02:46:00.002+05:30

There I was, standing in the rain,
Drenched, unaware of the bane -
The mighty grip of the drought.
Love - it was parched into pain.

By the water's edge, as I lay,
Watching the last golden sunray,
Drown in the vast black sea,
Love - it slowly slipped away.

The skies were blue and clear,
I could feel it so very near
Until the storm blew it away.
Love - I saw it disappear.

Across the green, I heard that song.
To the robin blue did it belong.
The music succumbed to discord.
Love - it went horribly wrong.

Was it waiting for me
While I turned tail to flee ?
Of all that could have been,
Love - it could never be.

Did I think I was bitten by the asp
When my hand, it had tried to clasp ?
I let go without a second thought.
Love - it had been within my grasp.

Did I really let it down ?
Did I put on a forbidding frown
In place of a cheery smile ?
Love - it forsook my town.

Did I see it stop and turn around
To perhaps return and abound ?
Alas! The road was lost forever.
Love - it was never again found.

Things that could have been said
And hearts would never have bled.
A story with a different end perhaps.
Love - it was a book left unread.

There is nothing that does abide
As venomous as false pride.
All it took was just one bite.
And love - sweet love - it died.

Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe

Actaeon

2005-02-28T06:55:00.000+05:30

By the Dryads, deep in the forest, was a pool hidden,
To gods and mortal men, was it a place forbidden.

Of the Huntress, those deep waters were the favourite haunt.
There, her naked majesty, she would carelessly flaunt.

In Eos's wake would come the Goddess chaste
To anoint herself with scented oil and perfumed paste.

Never had a soul dared to follow Artemis to her bath.
Because to do so would be to incur her fearsome wrath.

A mighty hunter of his time was Actaeon the brave.
For a glimpse of the Huntress, he did verily crave.

Though he knew that it was an unpardonable sin,
Yet he burnt with desire to watch the bathing Virgin.

No longer could he resist; he would not take heed.
He hid himself by the pool to do the very deed.

And then there came the enchantingly beautiful Goddess
Actaeon dove in madness as he watched her undress.

As she stood there on a rock, inviting and nude.
Actaeon saw what no god or man had ever viewed.

The Immortal One had such a breathtaking face,
It made mortal Actaeon's heart flutter and race.

Smooth and flawless was her milky skin,
Its vast expanse made Actaeon's head spin.

Lush tresses fell across the breasts of the flower
Which Actaeon fervently wished the wind'd uncover.

Lo! Never had maiden such a bosom greatly cleft.
Of his senses, the sight left him absolutely bereft.

Actaeon gazed in a daze at her rosy nipples
While she admired their reflection upon the ripples.

When his eyes lingered at the tantalising end of her thighs,
Actaeon could no longer restrain his amorous sighs.

Dicovered, he stood face to face, in front of her glory.
The hunter knew that it was the end of his story.

"One kiss,
O Artemis."

Upon him, the Huntress set Actaeon's own hounds,
Few screams and cries : then there were no sounds.

Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe

Mental Baba and VT2A375D

2005-02-26T03:41:00.001+05:30

It's eight in the morning and Mental Baba is blissfully asleep in his cosy little bed, flitting from one psycho-temporal dimension to another. His inter-dimensional sojourn is, however, shockingly interrupted by the audacious ringing of the phone. Mental Baba gets up with a snarl and looks at the screen. "Hell Calling".

Mental Baba is not amused. He's been a superhero during his time with a motto that went somewhat like this - "You abend, I amend." But he's left those days behind. He's cuts Hell off and goes back to his snug pillow. Beep. Beep. What the blazes? Is it too much to ask for some sleep as well? Mental Baba, furious, whips his hand across to the accursed phone and reads the message. "375D abended. Baba, please come over. Please." Damnation. If there's one thing that the idiotically soft Mental Baba cannot ignore, that is a direct and personal request.

So Mental Baba gallantly rolls out of bed and prompty rolls into Hell, superhero uniform (*) and all.

It's 8.25 am by the time Mental Baba sets foot on the battleground A2D073. He glares at the kid and asks him, "What do we have here?"

"215D abended. The cycle's halted."

Mental Baba blows at his legendary fingers and growls, "Sit back and watch." He logs into the Sys D mainframe and runs his practised eye over the error logs of the wayward job VT2A375D. STEP050. RC=920. Baba snaps into attention.This is something weird. He's seen pretty much everything but this...this is weird. It's been a while since he's been challenged. He dives into the program code with gusto. It is war now.

This is no ordinary abend. IMS call failure. IMS - a hierarchical database - the mother of all inscrutable databases and the mainstay of LISA (Ludicrously Inefficient and Stupid Application). When the LISA production cycle stops, so do the heartbeats of top brass. Mental Baba smiles grimly as he realises the implications. Ratings and allowances are of no relevance to him. But proving a point is. And this is the opportunity that he's been waiting for. If he got it right, he could get them on their knees. He could probably go to Hell stark naked(+) and they wouldn't dare to murmur.

Firing on all cyclinders, Mental Baba assumes control over VT2SYS1. He keeps writing and modifying pieces of IMS code, submitting and analysing his jobs. It's a painstaking process. And it's already 10.30 am. The PL's in, her face ashen and drawn. She knows that this may mean big trouble. But she can't do a thing about it. Only Mental Baba and Codeguru are equipped to handle the treacherous IMS. Codeguru's sound asleep some thousands of miles away, in a place where Thomas Alva Edison once worked his magic. Mental Baba's working his. He is as cool as a cucumber.

6.00 am EST. 4.30 pm IST. The deadline. If the LISA cycle is not done by then, all hell will break loose in Hell. And what more, there are downstream jobs waiting in the queue. They need about 2 hours. That makes it 2.30 pm. VT2A375D to be fixed within 4 hours. It's a race against time. One that Mental Baba has never lost. He intends to keep his record clean.

11.00 am. No breakfast. No bath. But he's hot on the trail like a bloodhound.

11.10 am. He's got it! S322 is the offending segment. A pointer to a logical child is missing. He scorches through a new pointer replace program. RC=0. Great going. With a smile on his face, he submits VT2A375D in VT2SYS1. He sits back and cracks his knuckles. He cannot believe it. RC=920. But how? Beads of perspiration appear on Mental Baba's face. Perhaps it was just bad air-conditioning. He growls, "Go, wake Codeguru up."

12.05 am. Codeguru's been logged in a while. He just sends a terse one-liner. "I'm stumped."

It's crazy. It's unbelievable. The abend is shifting from twin to twin (occurrences of a segment). Mental Baba repairs the pointer to a twin and the next twin goes down in a heap. It's like all the road signs of a well known place have been changed. The system is throwing everthing that it's got. And it's a lot.

Mental Baba submits a pointer check utility against the production database. And then it hits him like a bucket of cold water. Six million pointer errors in P10. Holy craparoni! This is nasty business. He refreshes VT2SYS1 with the previous day's backups and runs the utility again. Zero errors. What happened overnight? Mental Baba is close. He throws something up to test his hypothesis. "Use of accessor id ADM0205 suspended."

It's 1.30 pm. It's the last stretch in the war and his only weapon is taken from him. He could use other weapons but he's just about had enough. He tanks.

He can hear the Damn Man saying, "And I thought you were an IMS king." Mental Baba shrugs his shoulders and fades into shadow.

* : Crumpled full-sleeved shirt and wrinkled trousers and dirty black shoes.

+ : An absurd company policy on 'formal' dressing

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

The Muse

2005-02-09T11:03:00.000+05:30

He wanders desperately o'er hill and vale,
Breathless and wan and pale.
Lost and bewildered, he stumbles about.
In his journey, does he mightily fail.

His reservoir, once brimful, is parched and dry.
That even tears won't drop, when he starts to cry.
He walks alone and along shadowy trails
Which no longer lead to the mountains high

Where he once reigned in the days of yore,
When his deeds were the stuff of lore.
Eternal springs sparkled and danced for joy.
But alas! They are to be found no more.

Where are you, O Elusive Muse!
He craves for the power you could verily infuse.
O Cruel Muse! Why do you treat him thus?
Shattering those dreams which he carves and hews.

O for the plenteous hidden vaults you could unlock
And end his drought wrought by the dreaded block.
O Haughty Muse! You are so callous and cold.
He writhes in dying agony and yet you mock.

O Spiteful Beauty! Such is your scorn
That it pierces his heart like a thorn.
He who walked among the clouds,
Of all majesty and grandeur, is now shorn.

His passion and prowess once burnt bright
Until with darkness, him did you smite.
O Heartless Queen! What have you done?
He is so weak that he can no longer fight.

O Giver of Gifts! It has always been your will.
Those lost wells you could replenish and refill.
But you now hate him so much
That you would laugh and let his blood spill.

Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe

Reflections of Passion

2005-01-24T01:07:00.000+05:30

Can't fight this feeling anymore.
Wonder what the future has in store.

Don't know what I ever did wrong
To deserve a punishment this long.

This existence I can no longer defend.
Sometimes I just wish it would all end.

At the end of the tunnel, is there light?
Will things around me ever be set right?

I feel so very listless and so very weak.
I sense my force vanishing down some leak.

Down my face, the tears begin to drop.
I desperately want everything to stop.

Though I had been trapped all this while.
I tried my best to take things with a smile.

I think that I have seen more than enough.
There's only so much I can take of such stuff.

I must admit that teachers/mentors I have none
Who may show me how this tangle may be undone.

But I know that this malaise now runs too deep.
Upon my very soul it begins to slealthily creep.

Shut outside the precincts of salvation,
In a mad frenzy, I search for redemption.

By mighty unseen powers I have been bound,
Holding me from going where it may be found.

For some this is the way it is meant to be.
From this stark reality I can no longer flee.

One day I sat by the seashore all alone.
And my heart - I saw it turn into stone.

One last shudder of great torment
I roared till all that remained was rent.

"O Human! I make you the King Aragorn!"
"Never!" And the Dark Lord was reborn.

Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe

To the Ethics Champion's Medal

2005-01-16T11:31:00.000+05:30

O Most Mighty and Magnificent Medal!
Thine aura, across the universe, does straddle.

Such is thy blindingly dazzling lustre
Thine enemies are left in a state of fluster.

I must admit with a fair bit of glee
That they're all green with envy.

My embellished chest swells with solemn pride
When admirers say their tears haven't yet dried.

I thank thy creator most selfless.
How noble of it to deign to bless!

A mortal who would be but a minion.
But thanks to thee, I'm now Champion.

Cheered on by starry-eyed masses
Each and everyone of whom's in sunglasses.

I fondly recall that glorious parade
For which a customised red carpet was laid.

Never before had the world seen such gold
As the day, thee, I did gallantly hold.

It was the day when heads did turn.
With rage and jealousy, even the sun did burn.

Thou art the beacon on the journey to ethics.
Eternal, unlike disbelieving irreverent pricks.

I bask in the the light thee doth shower.
I draw inspiration from thy great power.

Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe

The Fellowship of the Ring

2005-01-15T11:16:00.000+05:30

It was long ago on Middle-earth
That this story actually took birth.

Hear now of the Lord of the Rings
The epic that flies on Tolkien’s wings.

Hidden in the green fields of the Shire
Was that to which the Dark Lord did aspire.

A ring forged in the fires of Mt. Doom
For the purpose of destruction and gloom.

Bilbo Baggins left for ancient Rivendell,
Leaving Frodo the key to eternal hell.

The tiny hobbit’s big heart was true
But of things to come he hadn’t a clue.

Gandalf bade him go to the town of Bree.
Along the way, from the Nazgul he did flee.

Sam, Merry and Pippin were with him,
Steadfast, whenever his eyes grew dim.

The foursome faced many an arduous test
Until they met Tom Bombadil in the old forest.

At the Prancing Pony was a personage so rare
That he could have been none but Isuldur’s heir.

Aragorn defended them all alone at Weathertop
But one of the Morgul blades he could not stop.

Frodo was stabbed and fatally injured.
It was only by Elves that he could be cured.

The frightening Nazgul pursued them still
Whence the Loudwater swelled at Elrond’s will.

The apostles of Mordor were swept away.
In Imladris, Frodo saw the light of day.

So wondrous and fair, it was the greatest Elvish bastion.
Of the Great War, Elrond was the last champion.

Men, Dwarves and Elves attended a great council
To summon all of Middle-earth’s collective will.

Reforged was Anduril – the blade that was broken.
In Men, lost strength and valour were re-awoken.

The One Ring was to be unmade in the mountain of fire.
A Fellowship of nine was entrusted with this task dire.

Thence they journeyed south unto Caradhras
But the mighty mountain would not let them pass.

Thus were they forced into the dreaded deep
Of the Mines of Moria where ancient evils did sleep.

Orcs descended upon them from dark holes.
To contend with, there were also huge cave trolls.

Gandalf and the Balrog fought a battle awesome
As they plummeted down the Bridge of Khazad-dum.

So ended the life of Gandalf the Grey.
It was left to Aragorn to show them the way.

They reached the woods of Lothlorien
Of which Galadriel was the guardian.

In her mirror did Frodo see the Great Eye
Perched atop Barad-dur, under the black sky.

It was a journey down the great Anduin
In the quest to expiate Isuldur’s sin.

On the slopes of Amon Hen did they land.
It would prove to be the Fellowship’s last stand.

The orcs carried off Merry and Pippin.
In Boromir did Gondor lose its kin.

Frodo and Sam chose the eastward path of hardship
And thus ended that eventful Fellowship.

Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe

Something for you

2005-01-08T11:45:00.000+05:30

Mad thoughts do I embrace,
On divine recollections of your face.
You are so amazingly pretty.
You light up this dark city.

My heart always skips a beat,
Through my daydreams when you fleet.
Of Beauty, you are the epitome.
You are the queen of my kingdom.

The way you burst into a smile...
Oh! My senses you do beguile.
A mere hint of disdain
And all I feel is excrutiating pain.

One dainty little toss,
Your hair cascades into a river of gloss.
Your eyes are pools of indescribable deep.
Since I saw you, I've not known sleep.

You are the one.
From your thoughts I cannot run.
The day I don't see you,
My spirits - they go blue.

You are the loveliest of flowers,
It must have taken all of His powers.
You are all grace and elegance.
You are the fruit of long penance.

Your perfection transcends every peak.
You make my knees go wobbly and weak.
You make my heart burn like fiery coal.
Oh! You are the sun of my planetary soul.

I've seriously gone nuts,
I've had to summon all my guts,
To tell you how I feel.
Believe me - it is so very real.

I hope you understand.
And let me hold your hand.
Let me sweep you off your feet
And take you out for a treat.

Management Class : Idylls of the Wannabe

The Magic - It never stops

2004-12-20T16:24:00.000+05:30

All was silent except for the lorries roaring down Poonamallee High Road. The creature in the lotus position seemed oblivious to them. He was meditating deeply, trying desperately to breach the forbidden walls of the eighth psycho-temporal dimension. They would not open, not matter how hard he tried.

His mind swept over the psychic and temporal axes at a scorching pace, the right hemisphere on the former and the left on the latter, searching for a discontinuity. Nothing. The supra-dimensional axial equations were perfect and the workmanship flawless. He tried probing the spatial axes. But unlike the other 95 and 1/2 psycho-temporal dimensions that individually enveloped the multiverse, the eighth one was exclusive to one universe - the most elusive and exalted of them all. Spatial gateways did not exist. His synapses delved into the deepest sumps of nervous energy in the quest for a solution.

The creature smiled. He would just transform the axes.

The conics collapsed. The differential equations fell. Dimensional lines of force warped. Current dimension – 34. 32. 27. 23. 19. 18. 12. 9. And the cosmic lock to the eight psycho-temporal dimension was opened.

He staggered in disbelief.

Where once were great mines and unrivalled smithies, which gave birth to everything, nothing but unadulterated darkness prevailed. Gone were the roaring furnaces and the shimmering lights of those who had constructed the multiverse. Gone was the deep forest that had once girdled and guarded the spring of life. Gone were the proud hills and the shy valleys. Gone was everything that the eighth psycho-temporal dimension ever stood for. Across the 95 and ½ occurrences of the multiverse and the 96 and 1/2 occurrences of that exalted universe, there had been only one place to claim sanctuary. And it did not exist anymore.

There was something he wanted to see.

He moved towards the centre of gravity. All that remained there was the stump of a sacred tree, withered and dead. There was only a brief flicker in his eyes. Out came the sword. He hacked away at the stump with the frenzy of a madman till he succeeded in cutting off a large portion.

He headed for the carpentry shop R3. The tools were rusted and decayed. He turned to the furnace W2. Its fires had long been extinguished. He laughed hysterically. He cut half of the wood he had and carved it out with his sword. It was a perfect design. With the other half, he re-lit that ancient forge. He thrust a broken ladle filled with magnetite into it. And he drew the hot metal pouring out into wires and pellets. He bit the wires into size and smashed the pellets into shape by chewing on them.

He was there for long, in front of the fire, floating in nothingness. His blade was broken. As were a few more things. His eyes blazed as he looked around, He mated wood and metal in a mad burst of passion till the act was complete. And it was born.

He picked it up with quivering hands. Somewhere deep inside, a path of least resistance was established between the creature and the newborn. High voltage current flowed through his fingers, The newborn cried out, its voice resonating across those fabled walls, ripping through dimensional corridors. The creature never stopped till the once-holy ground was stained red by his bleeding hands.

It was the end of an era. It was the beginning of another.

One way or another, the magic never stops.

The creature laughed madly again.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

The Clash of the Titans

2004-12-18T01:34:00.003+05:30

For long they walked together.

One was a champion of ethics - a true champion who'd live by his word and die by the sword. He would fight to the end for what he believed in. He was a messiah who would defend and protect those reeling under tyranny, oppression and mire. His allegiances were not to individuals or organizations but to high ideals and cosmic truths.

The other was a fanatic of Pink Floyd and The Who. He had no ethics. He would not strive to understand the deeper malaise that afflicted his soul. He would see the grass on the other side of the fence and think that it was greener, and go green with envy. He would spurn the messiah who would show him the light. He was Shrek.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and thence the twain parted.

This is it. This is the clash of the titans.

Only one man will remain standing.

I. A Tug of War Contest

a) Shrek pulls and then swirls the rope around like a hammer-thrower. Mental Baba is sent flying into outer space.
b) Mental Baba bribes the judges and wins.
c) The tensile strength of the rope is unable to withstand the compressive pull of Mental Baba's little finger.
d) The rope turns into a snake. Shrek runs for his life.

II. A Golgappa-eating Contest

a) Mental Baba destroys Shrek.
b) Mental Baba routs Shrek.
c) Ends inconclusively as both of them are admitted to the hospital for emergency stomach surgery.
d) The golgappas disappear mysteriously just before the start of the contest.

III. A Pink Floyd Contest

a) Mental Baba says, "Pink who?"
b) Shrek pounds Mental Baba into mincemeat.
c) Mental Baba just falls asleep.
e) Shrek has 'High Hopes' of winning.

IV. A Prose-writing Contest

a) Shrek hammers the living daylights out of Mental Baba.
b) Mental Baba hammers the hell out of Shrek.
c) Freddie appears out of nowhere and hammers them both.
d) Mental Baba is disqualified for using profanities.

V. A Line-maraoing Contest

a) Shrek wins hands down.
b) Shrek wins pants down.
c) Shrek wins.
d) Shrek wins again.

VI. An Ethics Championship //Now we're talking

a) Mental Baba displays his gold medal proudly to the cheering masses.
b) Shrek, green with envy, steals Mental Baba's medal.
c) Mental Baba is disqualified for unethical practices.
d) Shrek is crowned 'Ethics Champion' by Thee Cee Esss .

VII. A Mathematics Contest

a) Mental Baba blows Shrek away.
b) Freddie tries to make an unsolicited entry again. This time he is thrashed soundly by Mental Baba.
c) Shrek runs for his life.
d) Laloo leaks the question papers to Mental Baba.

VIII. A Dance Contest

a) Shrek does superb breakdance in St. Peter's Basilica. St. Peter's Basilica mysteriously comes crashing down.
b) Mental Baba tries a back flip and is admitted to hospital for emergency spinal surgery.
c) Mental Baba does the moonwalk.
d) Shrek does St.Vitus's dance.

IX. A Cooking Contest

a) Shrek at work. Food poisoning alarm sounded.
b) Mental Baba cheats yet again – outsources to Sanjeev Kapoor.
c) RKHS wins. Both Shrek and Mental Baba pass out.
d) Mental Baba finally manages to make Maggi – what an achievement.

X. A NatGeo Genius Contest

a) Mental Baba steamrollers Shrek.
b) Shrek is disqualified for making a pass at the presenter.
c) Shrek stuns Mental Baba in the upset of the century.
d) Mental Baba fails to identify the nationality of the Cayman Islands.

XI. A Biking Contest

a) Shrek steals Mental Baba's spark plugs. Yet he loses.
b) Ends inconclusively as both crash and are admitted to hospital for emergency neurosurgery.
c) Shrek arrives on a Harley-Davidson. Mental Baba flees.
d) Mental Baba on his machine and Shrek on his favourite cow go one-on-one.

XII. A Basketball Contest

a) Mental Baba shoots a three-pointer from half-court. The Pistons sign him up.
b) Shrek slams in a dunk right over Mental Baba's head. Nobody signs him up.
c) Shaq faints on watching Mental Baba and Shrek in action.
d) They play with a spiked iron ball. Both are admitted to hospital for emergency facial reconstructive surgery.

XIII. A Wear-a-saree Contest

a) Mental Baba runs for his life.
b) Shrek runs for his life.
c) HRH runs away with the saree.
d) HRH again. This time he's back for the blouse.

XIV. An Extreme Programming Contest

a) Shrek's program does not compile.
b) Mental Baba's program does not comply.
c) Mental Baba writes a program that prints 'Hello World'. He wins.
d) Shrek smashes the computer.

XV. A Debate on Sachin Tendulkar

a) Mental Baba shows up in a three-piece Scabal and pummels Shrek into submission.
b) Shrek shows up in swimming trunks and loses ignominiously.
c) KD interjects with some useless questions on some useless topic. He is promptly evicted from the auditorium.
d) News of Sachin slamming another double ton trickles in. Shrek runs for his life.

XVI. A Swimming Contest

a) Mental Baba runs for his life.
b) Mental Baba is rescued by Geena Lee Nolin.
c) Mental Baba is rescued by Pamela Anderson.
d) Mental Baba is rescued by Carmen Electra.

XVII. A Booze Contest

a) Mental Baba laughs all the way to the bar.
b) Shrek forfeits.
c) Mental Baba and Shrek get into a nasty brawl.
d) Mental Baba is shell-shocked as Shrek beats him by four pegs.

XVIII. A Shooting Contest

a) Mental Baba wins with his eyes blindfolded.
b) Shrek shoots his toes by mistake.
c) There's no way Mental Baba can lose this.
d) Shrek shoots Mental Baba by cold calculated design.

XIX. An Ultimatix Contest

a) Shrek flattens Mental Baba without breaking into sweat.
b) Mental Baba runs for his life.
c) Shrek disappears mysteriously.
d) "User authentication failed." The contest is called off.

XX. A Money-minting Contest

a) Mental Baba joins a certain global top 10 company which pays extremely high salaries.
b) Shrek tries to loot the RBI vaults and fails miserably. He is arrested and sent to Tihar Jail.
c) Know what, Richie Rich was inspired by Shrek.
d) For once, Mental Baba is stumped.

If there's anything missing, bring it on.

There is no scoring scale. The people go by their own intuition. And they decide the victor of this epic battle.

I know that they will make the right choice. I know that the masses will rally behind the ethics champion.

Only one man will be left standing.

Management Class : Meandering thoughts of a fickle mind

Romancing the Roads

2004-12-10T23:52:00.000+05:30

"Here Comes The Sun"

November 28, 5:15 am, The Ashram.

I was rudely jolted out of my sleep by the unrelenting alarm. If there's anything I hate, it's being woken up early. But there I was, up on my feet in a jiffy. I raced to the terrace where I saw a feeble sun trying to break through the dark sky. I knew it would be a great day.

"Pilgrim"

November 28, 5:50 am, The Ashram.

Lonely planeteers, backpackers, hitchhikers, explorers, seekers - brothers-in-arms characterised by the same restlessness and instability and lunacy. And then there are the pilgrims - a special part of this special fraternity. In search of coherence and meaning, with a firm convinction that it does exist (unlike the seekers), pilgrims don't require much except for :

# A pen and some paper
# A machine (bike/SUV/boat/airplane/helicopter/snowmobile/dune-buggy/hovercraft)
# A digicam
# An iPod

But most pilgrims are an impoverished lot. Boats and digicams and iPods are beyond their wildest dreams. I want to be a pilgrim anyway.

"Travelling Light"

November 28, 6:30 am, The Ashram.

I did not plan to take any accessories along. Not even a backpack. Just a pen, a piece of paper, my mobile and a borrowed camera. There was no place in my pockets for the chain. Tried putting it under the seat,but it clanked jarringly. I then tried to wrap it around my knee. Very grunge. But I don't care two hoots for grunge and it was bugging me. So I just left it behind.

Final check. Brakes. Lights. Horn. Pressure. Oil. Fuel. And the papers. And, oh yes, I managed cram the Hindu down below the dome.

My Pulsar growled menacingly. I was on my way.

"Hungry Like The Wolf"

November 28, 6:55 am, Korathur.

Soon my stomach was growling as well. Not the way my liver and my project management do, but I had to stop for some grub nonetheless. Four great vadas and two okayish idlis - all for Rs. 12 - were enough to appease it.

"Dangerous"

November 28, 7:15 am, somewhere on NH-5.

I was out of the 100 ft road now and onto NH-5. I love NH-5. I love it because it goes to two of my favourite places - Kharagpur and Visakhapatnam. Later, I got a third reason to love it. The road was great but traffic and cattle spoilt the ride. And hell, the milestones were all in Tamil. Finally, my eyes lit up as I spotted a clear stretch ahead. My bike roared in glee as I opened him up. 70...80...90...a wobble...80...90...95...another wobble...80...damn the crosswinds. I shook my head and backed off.

"The Long and Winding Road"

November 28, 7:30 am, off the highway.

There's no point in biking on the highway if your speedometer does not hit the three figure mark. I had crossed the toll gate, about 30 km from my den, but I still hadn't done it. I was miffed. Maybe it wasn't going to be such a great day after all. About four kilometres from the toll gate, I turned right for the road that leads to Ponneri town. It was
a 7 km drive through farmland and an industrial cluster that took me to Ponneri. Ponneri is an uninspiring dustbowl of a town. I didn't even feel like stopping there so I continued on my way to Pulicat village or Pazhaverkadu (as it is popularly known), which was about 18 km away. The road deteriorated into a wavy ribbon of potholes and unmarked
speedbreakers.

"The Sound of Silence"

November 28, 7:40 am, still en route .

The first of them literally had me take off like a rocket. It wrecked my bike's suspension as well as mine.I decided to stop for a while, stretch my suspended back, back into animation, and then take a walk around. I trudged into a nearby paddy field. I could smell the lagoon, taste the moisture in the air and feel the breeze behind me. All that I could see was a sea of green and not a soul in sight. And I heard a sweet melody - the greatest of all melodies - silence.

"Here I Am"

November 28, 8:10 am, Pulicat waterfront.

It took me precisely an hour and forty minutes to travel about 60 kilometres. But I had a couple of pitstops, without which, it could have been done in an hour. Contrary to public perception, Pulicat isn't really that far from Chennai. Lake Pulicat is the second largest lagoon in India, the largest being Lake Chilka in Orissa. It is a remarkable one at that. There are numerous islands,some of which are a second home to migratory waterfowl that come all the way from the Tundra and the Taiga. One of the islands houses the heavily-guarded Sriharikota Launch Centre.The village of Pulicat, though, is a ramshackle undeveloped place. There's no tourist infrastructure whatsoever (which is good) but no local entrepreneurship (which is bad). There was not one tourist out there. In fact, all along the road, including the highway,I had seen lots of people on bikes but not a single biker.

There I was - looking like Michael Rosenbaum - standing in front of the lake. And then, my bike and I were mobbed by a horde of boatsmen. It was like a school of piranhas swarming all over a piece of meat. I was almost driven bonkers by the way they clawed and pawed at my bike, and hardsold their boat rides. I was sure that the apple of my eyes and I would be parted forever if I left him there, chain or no chain. I tried looking for a police station where I could park him but failed to locate one. I just had to do by driving up the road and parking him in the busy little market. I put a twenty into a shopkeeper's hand and asked him to keep an eye over my baby.

"Sunshine On My Shoulders"

November 28, 8:40 am, my own houseboat.

I walked back to the waterfront with a badly-crumpled Hindu in my hand. I took a path along the shore for a while before settling down in what seemed to be a derelict boat. The warm sun was beating down on my face but I didn't mind it one bit. I just took my shirt off, lay back and read the Sunday Hindu. It was cool.

The Pulicat is amazingly shallow. I could see people about 100-150 m into the lagoon, standing in waist-deep water and fishing.And I actually saw a bullock-cart coming right through the water from the lighthouse island right opposite to the main wharf. I don't know whether the bullocks were swimming or walking but the very sight was unbelievable. And I missed that photo opportunity.Damn me. It's the sort of place where even non-swimmers may frolic about and play a game of water-polo or something.

I started to dream. "I must down to the seas again...to the lonely sea and the sky"..."I chatter chatter as I flow...for men may come and men may go"..."Blow bugle blow...set the wild echoes flying"...". Tried to write a bit. Did write a bit. Maybe some other day.

"Don't Look Back In Anger"

November 28, 9:35 am, on the lakeside trail.

By the way, there's a regular boat service to the lighthouse island which is pretty cheap - all of Rs. 5. They overload the boats but I don't think anybody's ever drowned in the Pulicat. These boats are of an ancient stock but most of them do tend to have an outboard motor. I wasn't too keen on heading across the channel because a) the island looked pretty nondescript and b) they didn't allow people up the lighthouse.

They told me that there was a ruined Dutch chapel and a cemetery on some island nearby. And that most of the important and biologically-rich islands were far away, about 2-3 hours by water, in the jurisdiction of gultland. Basically what I understood was that bird-watchers ought to approach the lake from the Andhra side. But since I don't watch birds, both the ones that fly and the ones that don't, it didn't really matter to me.

But what mattered was riding the lake.I remember how I tipped the guy at the Idukki dam (during my training at Trivandrum) a full hundred bucks in order to have all sorts of spectacular turns and leaps during our ride. And I remember asking him afterwards how much the boat cost. A simple fibre-glass shell with a basic Yamaha engine - three and half lakhs. Wow! Maybe someday.

A whistlestop trip around a couple of nearby islands costs Rs. 400 per boat. Each boat can seat 20 (at least that's what they say). Trips deep into the Pulicat, may cost Rs.1500-Rs 5000, depending on the distance. It's not expensive by any standards as long as there's a quorum at hand. I was tempted to shell out Rs. 400 but a look at my wallet reminded me of the pauper that I was.

I was angry. I never rode the backwaters of the Pulicat. For those who want to, perhaps, it's a better idea to go to Sullurpeta across the border and throw in a trip to Tada as well.

"Coming Back To Life"

November 28, 10:10 am, on my way back.

I walked back to the market, hoping I wouldn't be greeted by anything to worsen my mood. I wasn't. I took him down to the waterfront again, put on my goggles and said to the Pulicat, "I'll be back."

My spirits returned as I felt the reassuring growl of my faithful companion and the nonchalant whistle of the wind. And what more, I actually spotted a wine shop tucked away around a corner. Sore temptation. I'm not much of a beer-guzzler but a cold beer under the hot sun is just the thing. I can solve differential equations when I'm drunk but
it's better to stay dry while riding. This time I was more careful with the nasty speedbreakers. Branched into a couple of smaller roads, hoping that they'd lead me somewhere around the lakefront, but they were false leads. I guess there are no motorable road with a view in that part of the Pulicat at least.

"Born To Be Wild"

November 28, 11:05 am, NH-5/Ponneri road junction.

It was time to have some liquids. Mirinda suits me just fine.

But it was too early to go back. I would have made it back to my den in 45 minutes at the most.

No. I had to do something. I decided to head for gultland and breathe in its free air. I had no idea how far it was but I knew it couldn't be too far. I mounted my steed and set off in the other direction, away from Chennai. NH-5 took my breath away. This stretch was even better than the one before. And it sure is safer than ECR where they don't even have dividers. The traffic was minimal but wind played a spoilsport again. It was difficult to control him even at a measly 60 Ks. It was bloody irritating but there was nothing else that I could do. We just crawled along the highway.

I don't know what did the trick - a bend in the road or the wind's sympathy. I set him up as I felt the wind die down a bit. With eager anticipation, I opened the throttle. 60...70...80...a wobble...70...80...not again...70...a big one. This was freaking me off. I backed off again and tried again after a while. No change in the results.

A red film exploded over my eyes. Chuck it.

I opened him up yet again. 60...70...80...a wobble...90...another one...95...wobble...100...105...wobble...110.

I wish I could have seen myself. When one wears a skull of impenetrable crapium (the densest element known), I guess anything's possible. What the hell are winds and wobbles? And I went 'Woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!'
- a la Ric Flair. And I found my third reason to fall in love with NH-5.

'Woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!'

I think I could have gone faster but that's the fastest my machine can go.

I don't remember how many times I broke the three figure mark thereafter. But the first one was the best one.

I'm in really bad shape and I had been riding for 120 kilometres. My back was hurting so I decided to turn back, without crossing over into gultland. I took a U-turn a few kilometres after Gummidipindi town, about 25 kilometres from the NH-5/Ponneri junction. And what an awesome return trip it was. I simply thundered away with a frighteningly high speed-consistency that I didn't know that I had. Overtaking at 100+ was something I had never done before but I just lost count of the number of times that I did it that day. I believe it was my graduation day.

"Release"

November 28, 11:50 am, beyond the toll gate, towards Chennai.

I slowed down to a snail's pace and brought my machine to a stop by the side of the road. I took a deep breath and took off my goggles. And I just sat there on the ground, panting and out of breath, flushed and red, with my heart pounding and my eyes streaming. No, I wasn't crying. They always water at high speeds. Myriad thoughts flooded in and out of my mind as I looked at my hands that were still vibrating.

One of my friends had recently remarked that solo biking, and indeed solo travelling, was an exercise in soul purification. I don't know if there's a soul but I felt unfettered and unbound. It was magical. It was ecstasy. It was rapture. Somethings just have to be done. Instinctively.I would do it again. And again. And again. And again.

I just sat there for some time, absorbing the blue and the gold above, the brown below and the green all around. I felt part of the universe.

"On My Way Home"

November 28, 12:30 pm, the same spot.

Did I mention that I had spotted a few solitary bikers on the highway in the meantime? Perhaps they were late risers. None of them had pillions. They were all lone rangers, meandering like the lazy river, raging like the mountain stream. Perhaps they were
pilgrims. It felt good to see them. Brothers-in-arms. One guy, a big fellow on a black Karizma, actually smiled and did a 'half-salute'. It was really great. I wish I could have reciprocated but I still have a few things to learn.

I cruised back to Chennai at 60 Ks, feeling on top of the world. I looked around for a dhaba to satiate my taste buds but there was not one to be found. But I knew where to find one. As I headed into the heart of Anna Nagar, I turned right at the roundtana
and made for the Dhaba Express. Home territory. The lunch buffet. Wow! What a day!

"Champagne Supernova"

November 28, 2:00 pm, The Ashram.

I patted him lovingly. "Well done,boy! Go to sleep." And so did I. I had sweet dreams.

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Biking on NH-5 : 10/10
Biking off NH-5, towards Pulicat : 5/10
Pulicat village : 2/10
Lake Pulicat (extrapolated) : 9/10

Mental Baba's prescription : Bike all the way to Sullurpeta/Tada and then head for Lake Pulicat.

//STATUTORY WARNING : High speed biking may be injurious to health.

Management Class : Unravelogues