Time to take a LOOK around!

In line with the blog's preamble of being a secular, sovereign, democratic, republic page, by the authorities vested in me, I've decided to change the directive principles of the post policy from 'appreciate and communicate beauty' to 'scratch, become aware of, appreciate and communicate beauty, raves & rants, and out of the ordinary issues' with effect from the 12th of January, 2011, by amendment 31A of the Blog's constitution.

Justification:

There are so many fantastic things that happen right around us. Things we fail to REALLY see. Recently when I had this assignment in my office with the theme of getting to know the city, I realised that there are so many heart-warming things and deeply disturbing issues happening right around us. Even after completing the official assignment and moving on to other things, I couldn't help but notice the very many extra-ordinary things that are there dead-right before our eyes. So from now on I've decided to put posts especially on things that I consider 'out of the ordinary' or lovely things that I often take for granted. This I hope would help in my self-development as a person with a better social and aesthetic awareness and understanding.

Mission-ary

Background - It is circa 2050 A.D. The whole world is mechanised and is highly result-oriented. Children are genetically modified with desired traits even before they're born. There is no fun, nor any wisdom. People are lost in information gathering and pursuit of excellence. Men are turning into machines. Homo sapiens (wise man) is extinct and the earth is inhabited by Homo machina. Words like 'leisure', 'dreams', 'arattai', and 'pot-belly' do not exist.

There is a huge commotion in an MBA (Mission Behaviour Analysis) class and people are arguing animatedly over a chapter in their book which has just been covered. Cut.

Same time period. Same chapter. Students in an MBBS (Masters in Behaviour of Bygone Sapiens) class discuss and argue heatedly. Cut.

In their desks, there is a document with a controversial chapter. And the chapter reads as follows:

In the year 2011 A.D, a man belonging to Homo sapiens, a blasphemous loafer who didn't believe in machine-like work, managed to achieve a target with an amount of focus that only machine-worshiping Homo machina are capable of achieving. This was because he had a queer illness called 'emotionalia' (caused by the now extinct species Mycobacterium emotionalisis. For MBBS students: The illness might take an aggressively violent turn, especially in aged female Homo sapiens after 6pm when they watch serials).

Excerpts from his journal:

I've started on a mission to achieve 'A$%^B%$#@C'. But I've found that I'm unfocused and inconsistent because I find routine, machine-like work boring. So I've decided to make my journey fun-filled (Students scratch their head at this new word!). When I start working hard, there are a few symptoms that keep troubling me which might lead to procrastination (students gasp in horror as this is an illness in the Homo machina world called cancer) and laziness (which is AIDS!). But I've found some medications and plan to make use of them as soon as these symptoms rear their ugly heads out.

'Can I get there?' Symptom:

You see, being on pursuit is always tricky. The question keeps coming back to you whenever you rest a bit - Can I get there?

Medication:

Get to work. Whenever in doubt, work. At the end of a power session of work, all those tricky endhorsefins will help get your confidence back. If this doesn't work, think of how Magellan must've felt when he was going around the world. He must've asked himself 'the question' more times in those three years of voyaging than we'd ever ask ourselves in forty lifetimes - Can I get there?

Symptom: Work related dreams. Grrrrr...

Medication:

For those absolute dreamers, meditation is the best medication. If you're new to serious work and these work-related dreams (when the cat says meiow-sis and the duck quakes in Richter scale, you've become a victim of the syndrome!) psyche you out, don't run to a psychiatrist for remedy. Not that I have anything against those spooky gentlemen who've been sending millions to mental health institutions through their therapies, it's just that work-dreams might actually be a good indicator of your progress. Let's look at it that way. Mission-men are supposed to eat, breathe and think only of their goals, right? Dreaming about your mission is a great you're-on-track indicator. Dyslexic cracks like me, moreover, have this advantage of getting breakthrough ideas through dreams. This way, you work even when you sleep! You can even start a dream diary and record your dreams. Many interesting ideas might pop up and it'll make a good story for your grandchildren years later.

I believe:

A mission man need not necessarily be a machine man.
A mission man can be a little ignorant and learn new things about his mission from time to time and it's okay for him to have some fun on the way.
________

Students gape in amazement.

THE END!

Yelelo Ailasa - Hauling up the moottais!

Again, a post about what happens right around us. Why do construction workers in Chennai, and I presume also other parts of India, (especially women, often with no slippers) climb many many stories carrying loads and loads of bricks and sand in baands? (for those who don't know chaste urban thamizh, baand = a concave metallic carrier instrument used for transporting building materials like cement and sand).

Why can't they use a pulley (which is a primitive iron age tool) from the top of the building to pull these loads? Is it to generate employment and use the excess unskilled human capital that India has in abundance? Nope. Surely, the building contractors don't give two hoots about such stuff. Then is it that pulleys are costlier than manual labour in India? Negative, again. This certainly can't be the case. Has the thought not occurred to the construction guys till now? Nobelium, yet again! After employing all those limited probability skills at my disposal, taking into consideration 5000 years of India's civilisation, over 1.2 billion brains inhabiting it at present, this seems highly improbable.

What then is the reason, I wonder. I can't figure out the reason. May be I'm again being that ignorant superficial onlooker who doesn't really understand why things work the way they do. But I was relieved to see that such a machine (do forgive me for my lack of imagination in civil/mech. engineering terms), obviously more advanced than a pulley, was employed in the premises of the Anna Centenary Library. I managed to get a snap of it in operation, though it meant waiting for some minutes and enduring some awkward glances.

But what didn't change was this.

Why is there a coin shortage in India?

I have often wondered why everyone is stingy with their coins here, in our India. Can't people just go to the bank and get desired coins for the desired amount of money and live in peace? Especially people whose profession demands daily dealings with a lot of change, like autokars and vendors. As ever, it turns out that I've been this naive, idiotic on-looker who whinges without understanding the way things really work.

Going into the details, Shyam's committee on the Indian Currency System Today presents the following data on the topic:

Here's why India is short on coins. The volume of rupee coins and notes is controlled by the RBI. Under its direction, the total number of rupee coins in circulation in India is around Rs. 9984 crores! (as of 2008-09)

Now coming to Rupee notes, whose printing is also the monopoly of the RBI (Issue Dept.), currencies worth around Rs. 7,88,279 crores are issued (as of 2009-10).

This explains why we're always short of coins here. Too many notes, too little coins. As simple math would point out, the note-coin ratio is atleast around 80:1. Now, I did get curious as to why the Reserve Bank has this partiality towards currency notes, but me being just a Shikari Shambu and no Sherlock Holmes, couldn't muster up the courage to go deeper and read more boring documents to get the answer. However, the wise, enlightened, economic crocodiles who read this post are welcome to give their thoughts and justifications.

Recommendations of the committee:
Let's not anymore whinge about the helpless autokars. Let's form one auto-passenger union to go and jointly whinge before the gates of the RBI!

Ore Galeej baa!

Welcome to Chennai. Smellcome, rather! I'm a product of Chennai, totally. But of late, there are two things about this city that has been tickling my tolerance very much. So here are those tolerance ticklers (TTs), listed in descending order of their intensity and score in the tickle-o-meter.

No. 1. The horror of spit: (Tickle-o-meter scale - 8.3)



Ah, you see this in all varieties, kinds, colours and is often preceded or accompanied by a range of highly vocalised throat sounds. There are amateur and professional spitters. Professionals are somewhat tolerable, but the amateurs are real killers. They don't streamline their spit like the pros you see. Especially when you travel in a crowded suburban Chennai train, you find these sprayers come out before you in footboard and bless their fellow passengers with a liberal spray of half a litre of a maroon coloured concoction. They miss holi now and again, I guess. In the trains, autos, buses, lifts, stairs, malls, platforms, markets and roads, it is there. It is here, it is there, it is every-bloody-where. Why doesn't the Indian government do us Chennai-ites a favour and name this place the Spiti valley instead of giving the coveted name to that ugly place in the Himalayas? After all, we'd be proud to call ourselves the 'spitites'. If early English rhymers visited present day Chennai, they'd probably come up with a rhyme like this:

Old MacDomer had a Pan Parag,
Eee - I - eee - I - O
After that he had a beeda,
Eee - I - eee - I - O,
With a spit spit here, and a spit spit there,
here a spit, there a spit,
everywhere a spit spit.
Old MacDomer had a Pan Parag,
Eee - I - eee - I - O..........

No. 2. St. Autodriver: (Tickle-o-meter scale - 7.6)



These spiritual people wear khakhi instead of white or saffron and are a product of the Autostand monastery. They are probably the second best known saints in Chennai after St. Thomas. There are five unbreakable vows that the St. Autodirivers follow. These are:

1. Charge five times the actual amount.
2. Never ever run your meter.
3. Scold and ridicule other vehicle-users, in a vulgar way, if possible.
4. Follow Heisenberg's Auto Priciple: Never allow any other vehicle to use the same road at the same time conveniently, when you're driving your auto.
5. Fight for more money once you drop your passenger off.

In keeping with the proud tradition of the Spitites, they also spit at every possible traffic signal. When they follow these rules meticulously, they are raised in the Autostand Monastery's heirarchy as follows:

Autoteur - Beginner
Automoboil - Rising star
Maverickshaw - Top notch - pain in the right place - maverick of the auto stand.

I do strongly recommend these two totally heartening experiences for tourists who visit Chennai for the first time. Don't you dare miss them or mess with them!

Don't think twice, it's alright!

The verse 'Don't think twice, it's alright!' is from one of Bob Dylan's songs which has always managed to invoke in me an amused smile or a bemused shake of my head. The similarity between the song and this post ends with the title. While the song is about Bob dumping a babe in characteristic style, this post is about what's happening with me right now.

My life these days has become very interesting. I know I enjoy what I'm doing but I keep thinking where this'll lead me in the long run. I don't know if there is any definite answer to such a question. So i just wanna throw my thoughts out into a void right now and be happy with it. And yeah, it is a poem this time around (The things I do to keep a blog going!!!).


Wakey wakey 'tis now when the milkman knocks,
Ah, the idea of getting up does sound like bollocks;
But oh, I've crossed three cycles of snooze already,
So I drag myself out and say - Hey there mate, Howdy?
Did I get enough sleep or did I stay late last night?
Well, don't think twice, it's alright!

Office beckons and it's indeed a vibrant team that I work with,
Variety of mates - some funny, some focused, some blobby, some lithe;
For the lucky sake of Grand Merlin's beard or Lord Ganesh's belly,
I haven't yet taken them for granted, nor do I want to be that silly.
Is my boss a Tenali Raman with a hearty smile or a Forrest Gump with trousers tight?
Well, do not think twice, it's quite alright!

Slowly comes Chennai's dusk and with it some yearning for laziness,
Yet more appealing is the thought of working now to push yourself to weariness;
Finally, do I wrap up at night and move over to a half-asleep train's extreme,
And there is this feeling of lightness that many a times fills my bloodstream;
I guess I just feel light - that lightness special to a starter in life's limewire,
Who neither bears the burden of success nor the heaviness of failure.

But hey! Don't you think twice, it's alright!

Boxer - 8994

So it's been two months since I came back to Chennai. I'm employed now but thankfully in such a place that nourishes and motivates me. I really like the profession, the place and the people. So instead of embarking on a journey of professionalism, formal suits, fake smiles and omnipresent boredom, this place hands me short adventure packages disguised as projects and encourages me to think (laterally, linearly, spherico-rhomboidically and hyperbolic-geometrically). I enjoy working in this 'wonder la' office.

I travel to my office oft times by train. But sometimes I ride my dad's Kawasaki Bajaj Boxer (note: with a registartion number - 8994) to reach the spot. This bike is at least 10 years old but somehow manages to look rickety and ancient, worse than the ones you might find in the rat bikes section of Oley's scoot-a-rama, thanks to the wonderful care and maintenance bestowed on it. The bike's horn, front brake, indicators and headlights are absolutely non-functional. But what we want is for it to run. And that it does, if with an occasional whimpering (because of an anemic engine) and regular bumps (because of a pot-bellied tyre). It has managed to shame, stain, dishonour and ridicule me in many major, moderate and minor roads of Chennai with a sense of timing that'll make Charlie Chaplin feel insecure.

Let me site a classic example. Once when I finished being the Master of Ceremony for one of our department activities in MCC, I was surrounded by some good hearts who generously congratulated me. Acting modest, I congratulated them in return for being such a wonderful audience and making the show interactive. Proceeding thus our little mutual admiration club reached the exit. I waved at my friends who were crossing the road to catch a train and kick-started my Boxer 8994. Making a U-turn I turned the bike around my friends simultaneously waving at them (yet managing to maintain a modest body posture!!). When this U-turn victory waving parade got over, I got stuck behind a bus and applied brakes. And the rebellious boxer let out a voluminous groan - Crrreeeeeeeeeekkkk! Poised at the brink of modesty now, I looked around at my friends (with an apologetically embarrassed look). Half of them feigned not knowing me, while the rest were reeling with laughter. That was your best joke, though it didn't come on stage, their eyes said. With an awkward it-happens look, I shifted gears and dragged the wretched dilapidation back home.

The moody bike's mischief reached a new level yesterday when after office I wrestled with it for close to an hour trying all sorts of bike wizardry to start it. There was one bike-aware soul who took pity on me and helped me for half an hour but the stubborn brat 8994 did not budge. So I left it at that and went back home thinking hard on how I can teach a lesson to this bullishly adamant piece of contraption. I came back to office today but couldn't look at Mr.8994 till 3pm. When I went and finally kicked the starting lever, the bike jumped to life instantly. Dear oh dear! I've seen humans stabbing you one day and smiling at you the next but this machinery seems to be the mother of all things brutus.

Nevertheless, I guess 8994 teda hai, par mera hai!

With this, Shyam's legend of associating himself with fumbling and misbehaving whimsical machinery continues... Et tu boxer!