The Exodus

Date: 28th April, 2006
Location: Latitude: 22º 07'
Longitude: 84º 27'
Time: 0925 hrs

A lonesome crew of motley boys at a dusty railway station, where the weather is foreboding and humid, and the grime on their faces tells a gruesome tale. The tale of survival, of compromises, and prominently one of a indomitable spirit to come back, to fly again... The train to New Delhi arrives on a platform replete with filth, humanity and mayhem of staunch activity. One of them laments the words "Oh Shit! Time to go home!" His enthusiasm is greeted with similar cheers and bleeps of decrepit fatigued bodies, drooping shoulderslangourousus voices, yet somewhere in those notes of an oxymoronic deportment, you could absorb the aura of a positivist, which intermittently transcended that morning.

Some looked down at the track, with a mercurial smile, like some longed memory that was permeating the bearer's mind, and the bearers had one thing in common at that moment, none of the memories were associated with the place they were to depart in just a while. These four months had turned out to be the most conscious-intensive in their respective succulent lives. With no idea about what they were getting in, they had arrived with an erstwhile gusto, each one in a class of their own ardor. And then it arrived, the train to El Dorado. The place having its own references in each one's mind, and like prisoners, waiting for their orders, whatever they are, to be set free, to be deported to some other penitentiary or to be executed, their visages turned like a set of keyed-up toys, all unwinding from the drilling travails, only to get grilled again, but the anguish to return was far more diminutive to the tangibility that was emanating from their mien right now. Their pupils dilated, like an elevated mind, they could almost feel their feet leaving the floor, coupled with a synchronous movement of their arms, the fingers quivering to hold the door, to break free.

***

The mess food last night was pathetic, something the devil cooked up himself. Anyways, half of the guys who had it last night had got a commode reserved for themselves the following morning. These guys had to leave, this opportunity was too critical to let it be squandered by some dysentery. They had to leave, even if it meant shitting in their pants. The harrowing look on their faces, like the blood had been flushed out of their bodies was because after the half hours ride in the auto-rickshaw, their hind muscles just could not hold on any longer, to restrict the ever-percolating and fumigating sludge anymore. Trust me; you don't want me to explain this to you anymore. For the more disgusting people it's the same old infelicitous address again, ravioactive@gmail.com. And, more than anything else, at that moment that epochal train was another outlet that would let them let it out! The philistine calm was maintained so that each could concentrate on their own digestive manipulations, so that olfactory doesn't give way to the gustatory, and henceforth the excretory! Couldn't get it? Indian Railways has got dirty toilets and the mess food was more detestable than anything, so this was merely a beacon to those lousy officials, as diligent as the minister under whom they all 'serve', to get the shit cleaned.

Moral of the story: Don't let me go overboard, but then you don't really have a choice, do ya' PUNKS?

***

Bend In the End:
And Tanu, love your idea of the 'parting shot'. So here's mine, 'Blast at the Last' or 'Bend in the End'or still...'sedimentary thoughts'. Just another brummagem phrase from this largely inconsequential 'writer', if I may dare call myself by that title! By the way, talk about 'inspired writing'. This fore stated lingua exemplifies, although cheaply, this new 'genre' of writing. Kaavya, for one has done a better and a more plebian job than the original cradle of creativity, if the disrespected soul, seeking refuge under my condolences may like. But dude, you're done. Kaavya is there, enjoying her time under the sun. Only the sun becomes the incandescent filament of the paparazzi's flashbulb! So back off! She has done a commendable job, and above all has been hailed plaudits from the reviewer and the reader alike. So the point of bringing in an inane charge like that only helps, because, Kaavya is what they want, which ever way you are going to present her, and they damn right love it!

Taxi!

Ah!
After a long time did I go to that forgetful audi of our holy alma mater. The populace was there for another movie resplendent with another of the myriad of Nana Patekar's indelibly enacted roles, this time of a haggard taxi driver. Yes, late but better than never, that I am, this one was Taxi No. 9211.

The hall was filled with a sonorous Sanjay Dutt, the narrator of the plot, and there was our protagonist, Raghav Shastri, who played the role of a simulacrum of our lives to perfection, so peevishly spent in this chase, where we all are scorned as rats. Raghav Shastri is another rat in this steeple chase, but like each one of us, who is unique, Raghav has his own predicaments, although in an altogether different context, but the harrowing life soused with tension is something we all relate to in some way or the other. He is stuck in this frugal world where money rules, a lower middle class dweller, he is out of a job. So he drives a taxi, this one with a twist in its tale, literally, the number - 9211. But he doesn't disclose this to his doting wife, a typical middle class housewife, more practical than romantic, who constantly bickers on the pending bills, the coming expenditures, and those pending.
Enter Jay Mittal, a flamboyant son of a rich father, too oblivious to the realities of life. For him, life is always a ball, a guy who thinks, and believes that money buys everything, cars, girls, and all the pleasures. To the point of signing off the poor as unfit for living, or to stay close to, Jay is driven by his own material desires, with his girlfriend Rupali, played with concern by Sameera Reddy. Before Jay's father dies, he left all his property to his dear friend, leaving Jay stranded and desperate, which has taken the face of a legal tussle between Jay and his uncle.
One fine morning the lives of these antonymal personalities meet, when Jay is forced to take this fateful taxi, to attend one of the life altering moments, the court case for the rights. Jay forces Raghu to speed, to drive faster, often cursing and at the same time begging him to comply. He offers the ultimate bait, money, flooding Raghu with big bills, and Raghu is tantalised, when he comes close to the only thing for which he is taking so much pains and conceit to acquire. But as the going of the fates proceed, Raghu bangs his taxi with another vehicle, and Jay being what he is, slips out, putting Raghu in a tough spot, subsequently landing in jail. But as Jay goes to take his will from some bank locker, he finds to his utter disbelief, that he left the keys to that safe in the car. Raghu on the other hand is ruined as his wife comes to know of his true engagements. Under this effect, Raghu tries to blame Jay for all his misdemeanors, only exposed through Jay, amounting to an attempt on Jay's life by him.

Trivia:
An action sequence was to be shot with some cars chasing 'John Abraham' . Unfortunately, at the time of shooting, Abraham's mother was crossing the road and she presumed he was being attacked and freaked out. Shooting was halted while Abraham calmed his mother and reassured her it was only a film shoot.
courtesy: imdb

What ensues is a vibrant scramble from both of them levelling scores against each other, squandering their own lives in the method. The movie takes a moral turn in the end when each character realizes their mistakes, and their mindsets which had a diminishing effect on their lives' happiness, made them forget their aims, to make their lives better, but all they savaged in return was their own, when the cure becomes the disease itself. Taxi No. 9211 analyses their thought processes, and portrays the extra-ordinary predilections they magnify into, only this time when the circumstances were anything but ordinary. It analyses the nitty-gritties of life, where we are so engulfed by our worries that each forgets to behave like a human, be benevolent, the seminal virtues of humility and honesty, to smile...
Nana is obviously excellent, delivering with a straight face, even the simplest of dialogues are crackling, especially towards the end when both of them reach Jay's home. Scenes after that are particularly metaphoric and give a message. The scene where Raghu breaks down, on his birthday, subsequented by John going to his uncle's house and making the drastic descision are specially symbolic and give the movie shape and character. The movie ends on a happy note, with a quirky satirical meeting of Priyanka Chopra, showing off the quintessential love at first sight, Bollywood ishtyle , garnished with a retro track which epitomises our way of fantasizing romance, however pragamtic, like a impressionable Indian cinegoer I cried (not literally) and smiled with the characters.

Taxi no. 9211 revolves around the lives, just 36 hours of the lives of these two characters, each disillusioned in its own way, towards the simple virtues of mankind. Obfuscated by the colors of life, the one which we want to achieve and the frustration of our present. Each character, on two opposite ends of the social hierarchy, but with a common desire to make their lives better, in the process making them bitter. Morally enlightening, the movie carries a quixotic message within. Milan Luthria's direction is par excellence, more so done justice by skills of Nana, and John doesn't disappoint and isn't stunted vis-a-vis Nana's calibre, but you feel like the role was made for him, he being iconically identified with the arrogant youth of the nation today. Sonali Kulkarni lives up to her reputation as a accomplished actress, plays the archetypical housewife, who is also an alter ego of her husband, showing him the right path, and never deserting him in his trying times, with elan.

All in all, a nice souffle to finish off an gourmet of a day, which picked up towards the end.

Erm....

I have this recent infatuation, yes it IS an infatuation, with the night. Of late I am on my hostel roof, with others, not malcontents, not renegades, but the guinea pigs of this mad scientist's lab, with no way out. Enough of similies which have probably run out of exhaustion right now, but anyways, the tangibility stays. At that time, the place is incongruently cool, and we even have a breeze in this torched place. And the mind reigns supreme. The patina of time, is brushed, like an incepted seed, the saplings grow, come out of their panoplies. After all the haste has died down, all the rancor subsided, this pristine calm of the night takes over. And that location, gives this strategic vista of this place, sans the inhabitors. Among other vestiges of its sublime tranquility, is that its a great great place to booze, given its edges that are the low walls, and you look straight down from fifty meters of this structure, with all that high...Amazing!

Then the usual acronyms of different times of a day, and all activities related have a amusing mismatch. Our breakfast, is their dinner and so on. Its a refreshing release from our travails, which have been eloquently mentioned.

Among other buffooneries, this new crop of bands, Death Cab For Cutie, My Chemical Romance and others have changed the definition of modern rock. They encompass ranges unfathomed before, and the jutting guitar riffs and vocal convulsions just get the glands racing. I'll make sure that I have an efficient portable gadget that plays songs, the ipod is probably far fetched but my iRiver will be handy. Sleek piece of wizardry, designed by some Inno, well aint got a clue who's he, but Inno is Inn man for sure! Stranded quiescent without my computer, time is really getting the better of me here. An invention just slipped out of this incredulous mind: 'psychopath-etic'. Anyways,

Till, I get back to civilization...
Ciao.

The Saltus

Ladies and Gentlemen, now this is the same old brine in a new improved and plagiarized bottlegreen!

Now that I have had it pestering you in the grotesque green and white that previously was rampant on this screen of yours... I have changed, not literally, just the page.

And as for this skin, the less said the better. the mere reference to this as a skin explains all.

In due course of the miserably self inflicted melancholy of a time that is allotted to me as a 'student' here, as I develop as an engineer, you will see probably a more comprehensively arranged and actually worked stuff...as of now, it was all Ctrl+C and same with +P.

:P

On this green letter day, I like to say that, Change is omnipresent here, but the self is the same. Another vestige is the abstract fact that this happens to be my shortest post!
For once I cant find anything else that would fit this post. I have stuff, the always waffling Ravi, so rife with verbiage. But yes, I will stop, before the mere informing to stop makes this something which it was not meant to be...

But You still haven't got any idea...
You still haven't got any idea
You still haven't got any idea...


And please tell me whether the effort to grasp and copy all the HTML was worth it or not?

So until you get an idea...
Rock on!

Grouch Potato

Some days short of freedom, temporary but epochal, restricted by euphoric, hell, its my piece of cake!
Anyways, after being so demanding which is my usual subconscious self among the hoi poloi of my alma mater, I am crossing out days on my calender with a big fat bold permanent marker, with almost feral brutality. The fierce pen strokes make the paper split up even with the soft felt tip of the pen. As I pack my bags, start gathering my stuff, sorting it out from my roomie's, and assiduously put them back in place, organised and arranged , adhering to the promises I made to my folks before leaving, to keep my place clean and organized. Not that I changed overnight or something, its a token of my schmaltz and sickness, of both home and place. This task of rearrangement fueled by MY yearning of MY Delhi, is done with an aggravation,. Its in a long time, an activity managed to keep me interested.

Often when I'm online, where a copious amount of my routine is immolated each day, I am often slithered by these new breed of watchdogs, who are almost driven with a shot of acid in their arms. They bug me with that ubiquitous yet abstractly obscene question, "What's Up?" Some of the more harebrained ones take liberty to truncate this phrase into one of the most irascibly blown out of proportion words which makes you salivate unnaturally, "WASSUP!" Often worsened by the iteration of that exclamation mark....
Well, I'd like to have that luxury of asking these too-busy-for-the-world beings a question, What do you guys have for breakfast? Grass? I mean the "hi" sent with a sinuous sequence of that 'I', does that really reflect your state of mind? Then just sit back and wonder what a living time bomb that guy must be, with a pulse rate of over some 10,000 bpm, not to forget the 'hi' is so 'high', the guy is so 'high', so I spoil the party!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Probably get an ICU in a respectable hospital booked first hand, first aid!!!!!!!!!!!!

Another abomination is the question you get umpteen times in a day, "How's Life?" Not to mention, the same treatment is for the '?' mark also. I find myself replying, 'Great' with that same unreasonable enthusiasm. But on the 34th time I gave up, I said, I am having a brain hemorrhage, please help me. The girl went offline instantly!
In one of my more 'intellectual' moods (yes I even have those, amazing isn't it!!!!!) I had one pensive reply, an exhaustive one to slap across his face. And he went bust:

LIFE is...............A Bitch I guess!Keeps on acquainting me with new horrors regularly to let me fret. Little hard for me 2 keep up with the academics here at first, so it spoilt the party a little but as of now, I m in probably the most freakiest phase of my life as of yet... Everyday becomes a succinct memory of some crazy happening! Like a slanderous pimp, life is taking me to unsuspecting thresholds, each more muzzy than the other.
Life is like having a cup of tea. You sit by the side of the window, lift the cup and take a careless sip, Only to realize, somebody forgot to put the sugar. Too lazy to go for it you somehow struggle through the tasteless drink. Until you discover un-dissolved sugar crystal sitting at the bottom... ---That's LIFE

For me if you comprehend with this "cup o' tea' idea, mine is punctuated by this crystal of sugar sitting, sauntering at the base of the cup but always inconspicuous, obscure enough to signal its presence, a sweet tinge, is what the drinker of the tea is longing for, at the same, he's too stingy in his effort for it... hope u get what's going on in my life!

His panting was heard overseas...Orkut is good!!!!!!!!

* * * *

Right now I am sitting in my lab, where we come every thursday to learn C++, thanks to my ordeals at high school with the abstruse language, probably the only one which doesn't have official abuses, I am doing reasonably, coping with it. Right now, our lab assistant, genially coined as Lab-Ass, is reading out our mid semester marks. With unaccounted liberty, I dare say that I have scored a decent 80%, a feat when compared to the amount of effort I put in. This lab is beginning to acquire a place for my surfing joints, where I employ the resources of this institute for much more productive and insinuating purposes. As today's affairs will come to an end, I am happy, not for that over credited performance of mine, but for the time that ended, an hour, a minute passes, bringing that occasion nearer and nearer when I board that train, the train of freedom. The train to Delhi.

Now that I am being a total waste, a pathetic excuse for a student, I am sharing a thought, a sentiment of the whole group. Even as a guy behind me, is flashing around his new gadget, a 2.0 MP phone, he is doing a reasonable job as a wildlife photographer, clicking all of the dormant and sleeping fauna of the lab :) I am one of the few awake, and recording all these blunders. Our respected Lab-Asses, the beholders of the venerable position are there flummoxed by this program on some honest soul's terminal, just living upto their names, asses, proving time and again their apt skills.
A smart way to complete assignments, not that smart though when there are loop holes the size of Pakistan itself, is that since there is no security to access folders of students in the server from any terminal in the lab, we take the benignant prerogative to copy the program files from the folders of some of our exponentially diligent batch mates. Exponential by our standards, you see...

Its due to this lack of control, some on themselves and rest is gleefully complemented by us, that these periods where a student is supposed to sharpen some skills, are turned into such ineffectual excursions.
Yet among all the sludge that seeps through my mailboxes and chat windows, I get across some good stuff too...

Like check out this whacky yet proficient definition of Optimism:
Optimism is accidentally falling into a river, and start bathing.

I am riding the wave of optimism, the wave which terminates at my home, flooding the place with my yearnings and memories.

So until I board the train....
Adios Amigos!

Stomach Butterfly Syndrome.

The world's most powerful leaders have it...
Many doubtful romeos have died unnoticed because of it...
Osama probably missed the loo and had to mollify the nature calling at some deserted oasis on the Afghanistan-Pakistan border because of it....
And our Pete has it...

The Stomach Butterfly Syndrome.

While at some juncture, I had its fangs digging for my mind. I was taken aback, yet unable to qualm my consternation. With a jolted calm, the oxymorons were vivid and stupefying. It was like a you have wetted your pants, having really weak penile muscles and you have to take the stage. Yes, that kind of a giddy tangibility that was infesting me. All the while, I was unwary of what was happening. And made a note of this rarity.

I will try my best to post a cogent analysis of the pros and cons of this phenomenon. But any differences will only help to analyze this syndrome further. So people, your difference of opinions and comprehensives are required...

The Stomach Butterfly Syndrome, or the SBS, is mainly reported to infect someone in particularly demanding or embarassing situations, where you are supposed to accomplish a certain task, or achieve or placate certain anomalies in any situations, particularly parties and gatherings. The latter however may not be that common but such scenarios are often found effective. The name is derived from a ticklish felt inside the abdomen which is compared to the wafted wind-strokes of a butterfly, due to the sprighty pressure. Yet, its no confimed acknowledgement from the subject, if he or she is rather suffering from a constipation, the Pizza at midnight, did the trick or what? This syndrome is more of a psychological phenomenon, but severe effects are known to materialize into puke or a discreet fart. Otherwise, in mild presence it causes light malaise or even giggles. Also, it is remarked by a bouyant senstivity, like your bottoms are in the air, the sensation before taking a skydive. Skydiving, by the way, is the most unforgiving of all professions, as it does'nt give you a second chance.

Anyways. In such a state the subject is either in a delusional state, which is marked by the uncorrigated reaction to his or her surroundings, or even unsolicited attention on elements in the vicinity, which is inturn a helplessly covert attempt to concentrate on something else, but it all is brought about in the most unsual way. In such a condition the subject is vulnerable, and is the perfect prey for pranks and loans, even the cellphone. The subject's response to any question may be in the affirmative of the view of the questioner, which is immensely beneficial if you are a politician or worse a drunkard. Such people can be advantageously used to ones benefits, as drastically as inheritance of your ancestral properties. A horrified husband can probably make his horrifying wife commit suicide, like taking her delirious self on a walk on the terrace and tell her, "Honey! you go on straight, and look at the beautiful and soothing moon and the stars, while I'll go and fetch some books on Industrial Economics(the Hell she cares!) and be right back!" What she would not realize is that you will join her somewhere after 10 other 'broken' relationships and a life or cuban cigars and the retreats of Candy and Barbara.

So it concludes the static and the mind numbing measures of this common but deadly syndrome almost chimeric to one's sanitites.

As far as the possibilities of its origin lie, its evocation is triggered by any of the yet discovered predicaments:

1) Overt curiosity. A harrowing sense of doing something, yet be too cautious about the way to go about doing it. There is a block of conscience and the motor-neuron mesh of the nervous system, where too much cholesterol or chocolates make them heavy and too sweet to function. So, a carnivore is more prone to have a homicidal suicide, if you are a female. Probably, the cats have more broken homes and squandered dealings than giraffes and chimps.

2) Decisive moments, a tense and panicking situation, like a virgin about to consummate. Something of great epochality and effect, something even remotely capable of causing alterations, a haggard "now ex"-boyfriend finding a way out of the 'clutches' of that b****, inturn submitting to this syndrome. Hitherto, about 14,259 cases have been reported where an instance has given rise to another case either in the same individual or someone close, often partners, irrespective of sex, or some celebrity on Prabhu Chawla's show, or yet one minister watching another on T.V. doing his 'usual' business, this time on a spy-cam!

3) Envy. This tactility is often undetected and compromised for something more moral like nervousness etc. In fact, about 80% of the cases have been reported to have a strong logical relation with some invidious factors, present at that point of time around the subject. When the subject's desires, for which he/she is unable to do justice to, is comprehended and carried out in a more splendid manner, or so it seems to the subject, who is particularly pessimistic within this period, there is an acute stress developed and is usually reflected by cold sweat, and a wavering speech pattern. At this time, the subject is furtively glancing at the object of his envy or is trying to liaise with him, or to deviate or even dissuade him away from his deeds. Extreme cases may find the subject talking with a vehemence, which is often ineffectual or chastising to the subject himself/herself. Our female species is specifically targeted by this form of the aspect. It can be triggered particularly at jewellery shops and on kitty parties, which serve all the purpose or the lack of it - 'to meet'.

On an ending note, I still don't know what was inhabiting me out of these three causes. But am still intrigued by the deftness with which it takes down its victim. Its withdrawal symptoms are still strong as I am forced to make up all these statistics at this time of the day, my goddamned professional life may go for a toss. To disrupt any doubtful streaming of thoughts on the screen, I shall propose that 67.8...no erm...67.97% of the statistics were corroborated before their mention to put forth my findings on this virtually abeyant topic.




And yes, even this time, it was a confounded member of the opposite sex, and the factor was probably the third one... Yes I know, I am hopeless. Go put up a hoarding on that tomorrow, I wont even resent to myself on myself.