Everybody Loves a Good Riot
1 week ago
Auditions for Shakespeare
She stepped into the car in a hurry, and slammed the front door a bit too hard. She was late. She drove the car out of the garage, and geared up to her destination on 45 miles an hour.
Outside, it was raining heavily. Thick raindrops fell lavishly on her front shield which were then constantly squished out by the careless yet periodic wipers. She did not like rain. Especially that day when it became an obstacle in finding the place where they were holding the auditions for Shakespeare.
She had read enough Shakespeare by now, she told herself, convincing her heart to stay calm and confident. It had been six months with Shakespeare's major plays, she noticed. Yes, she did remember the 18 lines she had rehearsed for the audition, she told that too to herself.
The violent rain didn't keep her forever from finally making it to the audition place. She parked too much on the outside, and so ran to the far off building, trying her best to stay as dry as possible. She was going to perform after all.
She performed. They approved. Then judges asked her to do a few more scenes for them. She did. They liked it, certainly they did. Before she left, a director met her way and said,
"You-you were good," the director nodded several times and continued, "Yeah, that was nice."
"Mm-hmmh, umm?" She tried not to sound nervous.
"I am going to direct A Midsummer's Night Dream and that's what you're interested in, right?"
"Umm, yeah, mmm-hmmm."
"Yeah, we''ll have callbacks on Thursday, once the auditioning process is over."
"M-mmm, umm, so, so, do-do I-?"
"Oh yeah, oh yeah, don't worry. I'll give ya a call."
And with that she left the room, and marched off to the exit of the building. A rare expression had crawled upon her face, which no one had ever really seen on her, except the receptionist that sat across the exit door of that building.
This time, she didn't run. Nor did she wear her over-coat to shield herself from the windy rain. She let the raindrops strike her face, and let the wind slap her waist as she walked through the storm, smiling.
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Current Book: "1984" By George Orwell
Current Music: "Give Me Some Sunshine" from 3 Idiots.
Vegetarian Woes
Note: It's interesting to observe how my writing style is constantly influenced by the authors I read. From Salinger to Steinbeck. Btw, Grapes of Wrath totally ripped me. Totally.
Now the real post, the thing I was going to talk about:
The huge dinner table is set. The party is on. Knives are flashing, forks are digging, tongues are rolling. There is barbecue. Here's pork. And some beef. Is that a rib? Is that a leg? But what animal is that made of, she asks. It doesn't matter, they say. Just eat it. It's good. No? You don't want it? Try something. Here, try a chicken breast. It's soft. If not, get some turkey. Here, c'mon take it. Put some pepper. Why? It's hard to cut? Use a knife. Cut it, tear it, pull it apart, swallow it down.
I can't, she says. Why? It's barbecue! Have fun! Don' be shy. See, the chicken wings are juicy. And red. Red with blood or topping sauce, she asks. Don' know, they say and bite at it. They forget her after a while. She sits there, and looks about the table with hungry yet restricted eyes.
Jokes are made, memories are shared, bonds are made, but the lamb is torn. Torn with delicacy. Torn with knives, forks, bony hands and neat napkins. The mirth and slaughter goes by and by.
And now the others stare at her, in wonder.
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Current Book: "1984" By George Orwell
Current Music: "Mitwa" from Lagaan
Stages of Love
Stage I: Doubting
The first stage is that of uncertainty. You spend most of the time wondering if the other person feels the same way as you do. You run all kinds of tests on your target to evaluate the response factor of love.
And perhaps you do get some feedback. If you don't, you falsely assume it. You at least let your friends believe that you got response from other party. And then you like to stay mesmerized in that hopefulness. You live in hope. Like the rest of the humanity. Only to discover later when the other party realizes that you're coming too close and slaps reality right into your face.
Most love stories end here.
Stage II: Loving
This is the middle stage on journey of love. You spend most of the time exploring other party's ideas, hobbies, body parts, what not. Because you got lucky, and your doubt has been transformed into truth, and there's mutual agreement between two parties. There could be some factor of compromise involved as well.
This stage lasts for a very short period of time, again the magnitude of time is a complex function of culture. But no matter how short this stage may be, this indeed is what people like to call "being in love". That is when their hormones are in resonance.
Blessed are those love stories that make the most out of it.
Stage III: Knowing
It is the last and rarest phase. Not a lot of people make it, unless forced to via arranged marriages. After phase II, it's hard for the mates of any species to stick together. There is hardly any motivation. There is nothing new or fresh in the relationship.
This is the true test of the so-called "love". It's when you really get to "know" a person. You know that you prolly aren't that crazy about that person the way you were when you're in stage II. Things are kindof dormant.
But there's something else in this stage, something much stronger. After making it so far, after all those years down the road, after all this history with the other party, you know that your heart aches to be away from that person. You just can't live without that person. It's like a disease which has no cure. You have now developed a addictive liking towards a person. There is this passive realization.
There is this knowing.
---
So, which stage are you at?
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Current Book: "The Grapes of Wrath" By John Steinback [zzzzzz]
Current Music: "Take a Look Around" - Limp Bizkit
Seasons
A pleasant wind caressing my face, playing with locks of my hair, hair that I throw aside from my eyes, eyes that look down at the vast ground, ground where the green grass is, green grass growing out of the new land, pushing from beneath the dead, flat leaves that dance upon the busy road, busy road with convertible cars, open hoods and crazy girls, girls with twinkling eyes, red hair and low skirts, low skirts frolicking upon their long legs looking down upon red, pink sandals arguing with chastity, chastity of those naked trees with hungry branches, branches that sharply point the sky like lightning bolts, like tridents waiting to be taken, to be accepted, accepted by a new life, by a new season, by new leaves on their branches and bodies, bodies that roam around in two's, like couples, having faces, faces that smile. And lo! The spring has come.
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Current Book: "The Grapes of Wrath" By John Steinback [Still :(]
Current Music: "Fireflies" - Owl City
Yellow Mellow Fellow
And the worst has struck now. It could be called the best too.
The kind of things I have made fun of all my life might be the things I will eventually end up doing. The kind of people I have mocked might be exactly the kind I'm going to become. All those bloody academicians, those people with scientific knowledge and all. Those goddamn scientists, PhD's.
Yeah, I might be going for a PhD after this masters thingy. People can't stop laughing when they come to know about what I am gonna do. Most of my classmates/peers won't even believe that I would end up like this.
OF ALL THE PEOPLE, I WOULD END UP LIKE THIS. Unbelievable.
Anything can happen, seriously. When I was young, I used to make fun of all those fellows which were "fellows" of some sort. I never understood why after they did well in academics, they became some kind of "fellow". Bla bla "fellow" and all.
And guess what, a US govt. department is now making me a "fellow". Giving me a fellowship grant and all. Didn't believe it when I saw their email. Had applied for it cuz everyone else was going for it. I was like, "Are you sure, govt. people?" But well, its their choice. They wanna waste their coupla thousand bucks in drain, their goddamn wish. US gotta lotta money anyway.
But the irony, you know? Doesn't make me too happy. What would make me more happy? Well I wish my art paid me. Even if it was like 10 bucks for a story in an average magazine, I would have been jumping all around. I am sitting with a dozen of rejections in my inbox for all the pieces I wrote since January. Nice. It's not like that thousands of bucks from science is bad, it's just that I feel I don't deserve it. I really don't.
I suck at science. Very hard. Prolly suck harder at art. But I don't wanna accept that reality. To be an artist is my only wish. And until I become that, this life is gonna be full of struggle and regret.
Funny govt. people. Funny. I really get a bang out of them.
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Current Book: "The Grapes of Wrath" By John Steinback
Current Book: "The Grapes of Wrath" By John Steinback
Current Music: "Fuckin' Perfect" by Pink
On Mathematics
Her love/hatred for math has followed a function which can't be defined.
#She sat at the last bench of the classroom for 7th standard, looking at her watch now and then. The bell rung at the end of yet another hour at school, marking the beginning of the Maths class. She wiped the beads of sweat on her forehead with the sleeve of her shirt. That day, her maths teacher was going to return their graded tests they had last week.
They were supposed to do good on this one. It had only easy questions, the topper had said to her after the test. Somehow she only got 2 out of 20.
"So bad scores. Why couldn't all of you even do simple trigonometric problems?" the teacher yelled at the students and then paused, as if waiting for an answer.
A muffled murmuring was the answer.
"All right, all of you below five marks, stand up with your left palm up." The sharp edged ruler felt like hot iron every time it slapped on her palm. Eventually, her soft palms grew tougher as years passed by.
#"You're in tenth class now. Tenth standard. Your percentage, your merit card, will follow you everywhere. Your college, your job, everywhere. They will ask you, how did you do in your 10th class? And what will you say? What exactly will you say?"
She stood silent, her head hung low in fear.
"Look at me. What will you say? That you failed in Maths? That you couldn't even pass the mid-terms? What will you do in your boards? Do you want to sit at home and wash dishes with your mom? Failed in maths, such a failure..."
# "Hey, c-could you help me in this numerical?" she asked looking up at the guy who had nearly missed the entrance to IIT and landed up in the same college she had, by chance.
"Hm, sure, okay, so do that," he scribbled a few calculations on the empty page, "and this, and here, just plug these numbers and then just differentiate the equation you get. Then get x from there, got it?"
"Umm, so-um, okay I'll do them like that," she plugged the numbers, wrote the equation to be differentiated, "so the-the differentiation?" she said without looking up, pointing her pencil at the equation.
"C'mon it's easy. Can't you even differentiate? It's so simple!" he laughed at her, "What are you really doing in engineering? What are you doing here in this field?"
"I really wish I knew," she said and left.
# What is this exp, exp, exp. Why this exp (delta G/RT) is everywhere? Why? Why is e so significant? Why it's use ranges so wide that it used in probabilistic functions as well as derivative ones? Why it has so many proofs for just a unique value of 2.71....?
Why, why, why, it's so.... beautiful? She must have pondered for a week on e. Because maths was what she had to learn. It was her life now. It couldn't be escaped.
# "So, this will go there and y will have an exponential increase with x and then I will formulate this equation, which will incorporate both the factors related. This will then be a one general equation and there won't be any need of separate equations. And then I would develop a model, based on the chemical analysis, whose predicted values I would verify with the ones obtained from the derived equation," she finished writing on the blackboard.
"What did you say how you got your Z value, over there?" asked her professor.
"That, I developed the equation for that. The existing equation is too simple and doesn't cover all the possible factors, but this one," she circled on the board full of numbers she had written in the past hour, "This one, does count for every possible factor. And it will be proved by multiple regression."
"It's good, it's good. It's good to think, it's always good to think different," the professor nodded his head a few times, "But I think you should just stick with the standard equations for now. Don't waste more time and energy over this. But it's good, it's good you're thinking, it's just that you're going lil bit too complex."
---
For all the math geeks, the movie "The Oxford Murders" is a must.
For all the math geeks, the movie "The Oxford Murders" is a must.
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Current Book: "The Grapes of Wrath" By John Steinback
Current Music: This
If it makes you clap,
I am tired of seeing those same kind of emails again and again. Those emails which say the same thing in minimum amount of words, over and over.
"This piece is not for us."
"Unfortunately, we can't accept this."
"We appreciate your work but it doesn't fit our publication."
It depresses me, for sure. But it doesn't hold me back, not yet. As long as I believe in myself, I am not quitting.
Even if it makes me seek external motivation to keep the inner fire kindled, I am not quitting. And to speak of external motivation, I saw Dead Poets Society today. I had heard this had a lot of promise in it. And for sure, it had.
It's a movie about an English professor and his students at a respected, disciplined high school who are part of this secret Dead Poets Society. A movie that teaches, how being different is not being odd but being unique. That why the lines you write, the beliefs you believe, the faces you make need not conform to the standards of the society.
There were moments in the flick, that made me pause the media player and clap. I clapped at the finale. I never realized that a tear had streaked down my cheek when the credits began to roll. And I didn't realize that my hands were still beating against each other.
That being different is not so bad. That being bad at something is not so bad. Because bad is just a word defined badly. It doesn't necessarily have to be bad. That I have to find my own voice. My own gait. My own pose.
And then I can walk proudly amidst the crowd. And some will accept me and my work, one day, if not all.
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Current Book: "The Grapes of Wrath" By John Steinback
Current Music: "The Reason" by Hoobastank
On Being a Teaching Assistant In US
Note: "I had a lot of people asking me about all this Tanya affair. The only and last thing I would say is, please stop caring so much. When you watch some silly and useless video on youtube, like charlie bit my finger and stuff, you don't really care who posted that thing. Do you? You just watch the video, judge it, laugh or think about it and then go back to facebook. That's exactly what you should do with this blog, read it if you think its worth it, and then go back to better things in your life." -Dk
"Ok, could you get out of here now, sonuva...?" - Tanya
Allright, since we are now done with all the Authorial issues, let's begin with the post.
#Dark matter
The first time I checked the lab reports of the students, I was amazed to see the level of truth and honesty embedded in them. Everything was reported as measured with no manipulation done at all. My beliefs had begun to shook as I began to flip by the pages of a particular report.
This report had the most amazing data in it. They had actually reported that the concrete they had tested in the lab last week had negative specific gravity. NEGATIVE specific gravity for chrissake. I was about to comment on the file whether they added cement or anti-matter in it.
But anyway, in the conclusions they supported their data by openly accepting that Sp. G is not supposed to be negative, and that they have possibly done some mistake while weighing their specimens. They hinted that it maybe an instrument error as well. But I commented that it was a human error as they had screwed up in the calculations section.
America isn't that hot about math. I am not too hot about math either. And that's why I love it.
I sort of started this cult when the first time I began giving personalized extra credit to certain homeworks and reports. These extra/bonus points would creep into the files which would amaze me, and in the end would put a smile on the faces of the students who really deserved it. Little I had known that this would have larger repercussions.
As the news passed among the undergraduates, the group who got 105/100 became famous and it evoked a sense of thrill among them. If you don't have a thrill while learning or doing anything in this world, you better not do it. My UG courses were without any thrill, so I thought I would make a difference here.
I began giving bonus points to the reports which had nice pictures added along the write ups to caress my eyes. The bad repercussion was that, the next time we had the lab, everybody had their Androids out, and the work area was blinded with flashes. The professor stood wondering why the hell they were clicking everything from sand to rock.
Of course, the good repercussion was that now I only received professionally formatted reports.
#Bigger Picture
I often ran after marks/grades/points in my life (and sometimes I still do that ;), but that's rarely cuz I staunchly believe in excellence, not success) Being on the other side of the table, the bigger picture is more clear to me now. It's not really about those grades. Nobody really gonna care about them after 5 years. Its about how much you can learn out of something. I try my best to make the students learn.
Probably that's why some teachers make assignments/exams so difficult because they desperately want their students to learn. But scaring somebody is never the right way to make them get it. Encouraging someone is the right way.
If you can't excite them, motivate them, thrill them, you can't really teach them. If you can't compare the mixing of mortar to cooking of chocolate cookie doughs, you better find a better way.
Current Book: "The Grapes of Wrath" By John Steinback
Current Music: "Be Yourself" By Audioslave (Ironic? ;)
Transition and Writerly things
The transition occurred here. - Edited.
Note: This post (about an annual writing symposium) is more or less meant for those readers who are or who will be, writers, in some form, at some point of their lives. Sorry, but this doesn't have your weekly quota of drama, comedy and glamor. But more than that, this post is mostly for recording my own views on the events that I recently saw otherwise they will be lost in sands of time.
# A panel discussion that consisted of an Agent, Editor of a state magazine, Editor of a publishing house, a writer/poet started the event. All I had imagined Editors to be was something like 'grumpy old men who butcher your piece with a red pen'. But no, they proved how they too were real book-nerds like the writers in the audience. They took down the myths about the publishing industry one by one.
It wasn't really like that they told something new or some secrets of theirs. I and mostly everyone present in the audience prolly knew all that stuff. But its different, when somebody in that position tells you all that stuff. That's when you really believe it.
# After the panel, at the break, I noticed all those writers that had attended the event. I tried to calculate the mean age of the audience and it was above 35. Yes, thirty-five. And all of them, struggling writers. Still learning, carving, fighting.
I don't know why but I get a lot of motivation when I see these kind of scenarios. Sorry old people but I am 21 right now. Pretty dumb though and that's okay. I don't have much experience at writing nor my writing is as good as theirs is. But then, atleast am on track. I realize, I just need to keep going. Going ahead, like crazy. I wonder if I'll be an old man with a half remembered dream.
# I also got a chance to speak to the agent who was crowded by so many people that I had to squeeze in myself. Everyone was busy making contacts, exchanging cards.
"So d-do you think, my approach towards my writing career, is it okay? Will it help?"
"Yes, yes," she nodded a lot, "It definitely will. I can't emphasize it enough. Good luck!"
We probably talked for about 2 minutes. And I am not phrasing my questions here because they were really silly. But sometimes all you need is reassurance from someone. And if it comes from a big person, it really helps.
# It was amazing to be among all those people that share my dream. And one of the writers in the panel also talked about finding the right gang. The right poetry club in the corner of a smoky bar. I have been looking for those crazy people all my life. I never really found them. I found them in shades sometimes, but they were always too far from me. Or at too high a position.
But it's really hard to be with those crazy people. Crazy people who are really passionate about something. They are not easy to find. Problem with them is that those truly crazy people are not often seeking out other people. They are often lost in their own proness. Its only people like me, the lesser crazy ones, that can neither find similar friends nor succeed in whatever field they are crazy about.
I think I just need to be more crazy. I am growing hair for that though.
# And then there's this friend of mine, who always keep motivating me to change my major and all. She keeps telling me that I am doing all the work an English major would do, so why not just go for it? I say to her, "I don't know. Maybe I don't even need a degree or a transcript, I just need to attend, read and learn."
And then she laughs at me. She just laughed so hard at me, that it actually became embarrassing.
But to stop her from laughing at my life, I did add though, "But yes, one day when I will have some $$ in my bank, I'll join some MFA program perhaps and quit all the science shit."
But no, really, I will quit one day. Like, quiting forever. Quiting all the bullshit and pursuing just my love.
Anyway, I have come to my office now. People are typing research papers all the time here. All that art and beauty has been left behind.
I return to science and sadness.
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Current Book: "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" by James Joyce
Current Music: "Qatra Qatra" from Family.
On Cooking
 |
| Its makes my roomateses jaws dropses. |
I am not too hot about the nutritional content shit. Although I do try to employ some cheap tricks to get all those goddamn nutritions packed in one tight morsel. In short, I abuse turmeric powder.
Anyway, my cooking strategy involves a net 2 hours of cooking once a week on Sundays which basically prepares forthcoming 14 meals for the next 7 days. Dinner and lunch of every single day. For breakfast, I try to gallop cornflakes and all. Heard they give you some nutritional shit. I don't believe that crap.
I like to munch them though. It's while munching cornflakes that I have got the most brilliant artistic/scientific ideas of my life. I don't know what's in them.
And I know there are people out there who spend about 2 hrs of cooking daily. Goddamn daily. One of them is my mother. The rest of them, well, you can figure it out. I can't afford that. I just can't. I just don't like it.
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| 1 mouth, 2 containers, 4 dishes. |
Abuse disposable plastic ware. Screw the environment etc. Have a life.
Anyway, I can keep on giving tips on making your life efficient till the point you quit this silly blog's window and go back to your facebook/youtube, so I'll stop.
 |
| Tip: Mix at higher temperature, null out the Enthalpy effect and reduce your Gibb's free energy of mixing so that final mix follows the arrow of time ultimately increasing the total entropy of the system. |
But of course no matter you do, even if you just give 2hrs of cooking every week or even become more efficient than that, you just can't beat the Chinese. You just bloody can't.
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Current Book: "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" by James Joyce
Current Music: "Witchcraft" by Pendulum
A piece of fiction. Genre: Romance
His vibrating cellphone under the pillow blurred his dreams and woke him into the reality. The scratched screen blinked madly and revealed 3:51 A.M.
It was time.
He rubbed his eyes, exited his comforter with much effort, and placed his feet on the floor below with a quick swinging motion to jolt himself up. The floor felt cold, even through his woolen socks. Grimacing, he threw back a handful of hair that blocked his vision and staggered towards the door.
Outside, the hostel's corridor was desolate with most of the hostelers deep in sleep with their rooms locked and lights off. Some of the rooms were still lit as their doors were lined with yellow light, pushing itself out in the dark night. Newspapers, soda cans swept the corridor that led to the bathroom. He almost made his mind to go back at once and rest a bit more. He finished on phone last night around 2 A:M. He needed more sleep.
But no, he went on. He began with brushing. And brushed twice. It mattered. There was no hot water for him to take a bath in this cold weather. He could try to check the geysers on other floors of the hostel but he was getting late. It was 4:20 A:M and the direct bus to his destination left in a couple of minutes from now. And cold water, was what, he poured on his bare chest.
Carefully checking around four times that he had picked all the packages that he need to carry with him, he bolted his door and nearly ran to the hostel's exit. The guard lay snoring on his seat and took no notice as a shadow passed into the night.
There was no scope for a rickshaw and he had to trot all the way from his hostel to the main gate of his university. To avoid the cold, he had warped his long shawl about his nimble body. The wind flapped and slapped the shawl as he raced against time to make it to the exit. Inside, he wore the only set of clothes he believed to be good.
Presently, the darkness began to lighten up and this made the guards at the main gate witness the innocent face that was shelled in a shawl. They allowed him to exit after eying him hair to toenail. It was too early again to have a rickshaw or auto to reach the bus-stand. Consequently, he ended up half way trotting and half way hitchhiking a ride on a bicycle. The bus started about a minute after he entered it, exhausted. Out of breath and with a face gushed with hot blood, he settled in a corner seat and wrapped his shawl about his head.
Four hours later on reaching his destination city, he found himself texting her, trying to find in what section of the bus-stand she stood waiting. Calls were expensive, his balance never stayed with him too long. But he didn't have to wait for her reply too long. He found her face amidst the milling crowd. An anticipation, an eagerness was painted between her solemn eyes.
He stopped in front of her, stood foolishly there, failing to hide a bunch of red roses behind his back, waiting for her to look back. A moment later, she saw him too and a light spread across her cheeks as her lips began to tremble into a smile. Forgetting everything else about, she came running towards him and collapsed in his arms.
His first Valentine's day, 3 years back, didn't go too bad. Every moment, hug, and kiss is a memory etched in stone, till date.
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Current Book: "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" by James Joyce
Current Music: "Valentine's Day" by Linkin Park
It was time.
He rubbed his eyes, exited his comforter with much effort, and placed his feet on the floor below with a quick swinging motion to jolt himself up. The floor felt cold, even through his woolen socks. Grimacing, he threw back a handful of hair that blocked his vision and staggered towards the door.
Outside, the hostel's corridor was desolate with most of the hostelers deep in sleep with their rooms locked and lights off. Some of the rooms were still lit as their doors were lined with yellow light, pushing itself out in the dark night. Newspapers, soda cans swept the corridor that led to the bathroom. He almost made his mind to go back at once and rest a bit more. He finished on phone last night around 2 A:M. He needed more sleep.
But no, he went on. He began with brushing. And brushed twice. It mattered. There was no hot water for him to take a bath in this cold weather. He could try to check the geysers on other floors of the hostel but he was getting late. It was 4:20 A:M and the direct bus to his destination left in a couple of minutes from now. And cold water, was what, he poured on his bare chest.
Carefully checking around four times that he had picked all the packages that he need to carry with him, he bolted his door and nearly ran to the hostel's exit. The guard lay snoring on his seat and took no notice as a shadow passed into the night.
There was no scope for a rickshaw and he had to trot all the way from his hostel to the main gate of his university. To avoid the cold, he had warped his long shawl about his nimble body. The wind flapped and slapped the shawl as he raced against time to make it to the exit. Inside, he wore the only set of clothes he believed to be good.
Presently, the darkness began to lighten up and this made the guards at the main gate witness the innocent face that was shelled in a shawl. They allowed him to exit after eying him hair to toenail. It was too early again to have a rickshaw or auto to reach the bus-stand. Consequently, he ended up half way trotting and half way hitchhiking a ride on a bicycle. The bus started about a minute after he entered it, exhausted. Out of breath and with a face gushed with hot blood, he settled in a corner seat and wrapped his shawl about his head.
Four hours later on reaching his destination city, he found himself texting her, trying to find in what section of the bus-stand she stood waiting. Calls were expensive, his balance never stayed with him too long. But he didn't have to wait for her reply too long. He found her face amidst the milling crowd. An anticipation, an eagerness was painted between her solemn eyes.
He stopped in front of her, stood foolishly there, failing to hide a bunch of red roses behind his back, waiting for her to look back. A moment later, she saw him too and a light spread across her cheeks as her lips began to tremble into a smile. Forgetting everything else about, she came running towards him and collapsed in his arms.
His first Valentine's day, 3 years back, didn't go too bad. Every moment, hug, and kiss is a memory etched in stone, till date.
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Current Book: "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" by James Joyce
Current Music: "Valentine's Day" by Linkin Park
Taking fire - need assistance.
Artistic picture: One of my most awaited result of a contest came out today and I didn't do too bad. Basically, I sucked though. I was hoping to make to the "honorable mentions" kinda level but my story only reached to the second round. As I said, not too bad but not good either.
Other than that, I got a couple of rejects sitting in my inbox. I don't care much about them though. They are all too tough to crack. But this one, I thought I could do a little better. (If you're a regular reader you can find my name there, otherwise meh, do I know tell everything now? Guh, Just press Ctrl+f and search for "garg")
Anyway, I enjoyed reading the winning story and clearly saw my writing still needs a lot of work. I am hoping to hear from some more editors and contest people in coming months, let's see how that goes. I just need to keep writing and submitting, that's all. That's what it takes to keep your new year resolutions up. I still haven't got laid though.
Scientific picture: A subject with Thermodynamics as the prerequisite and another one with Quantum physics as a prerequisite are primarily hurting me. I really never studied those things before, not to mention the fact I never did 11th/12th nor the first year at undergraduate. Gosh, the depth of my condition could only be well understood by my peers who very well know how 'good' I am at science and stuff. Prolly all they would say and remember after years from now is, "That gamer guy? He knows nothing. That sonuva.."
Anyway, so yeah, I'm trying to figure out this Raman spectroscopy on the research part while I steal some time to teach American kids about concrete and stuff. It's pretty busy nowadays.
Overall picture: I stand in the middle of the desert with my right arm hung low with the weight of the double edged Axe. The sun shines like a bastard on my Axe's steel and causes streams of sweat flow down my naked shoulders. Flinching at the piercing rays of light, I look at the horizon.
I can make out the line of orcs and beasts that are sprinting towards me. Their bloodlust fills the empty land that lies beyond. They are too many. Inside they have the souls of publishers, editors, sinusoidal equations, Raman spectra, Fick's equations and all that I face daily. Outside they are the same. Ugly. Too many to count or see. And here they come.
I swing, slash, cut and thrust. I loose blood. Blood that splatters upon the desert sand and shines back at that bastard of a sun in the sky. Heads, limbs, pieces of armory piles up on my sides but I continue to swing the Axe. I loose more blood and now my speed has reduced. They are not killing me by wit but by number. They are now almost upon me.
I am going down.
But not alone. Not alone. I'll take, you monsters, all of you, as many as possible, with me.
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Current Book: "Lord of The Flies" by William Golding
Current Music: "Clubbed to Death", The Matrix.
Other than that, I got a couple of rejects sitting in my inbox. I don't care much about them though. They are all too tough to crack. But this one, I thought I could do a little better. (If you're a regular reader you can find my name there, otherwise meh, do I know tell everything now? Guh, Just press Ctrl+f and search for "garg")
Anyway, I enjoyed reading the winning story and clearly saw my writing still needs a lot of work. I am hoping to hear from some more editors and contest people in coming months, let's see how that goes. I just need to keep writing and submitting, that's all. That's what it takes to keep your new year resolutions up. I still haven't got laid though.
Scientific picture: A subject with Thermodynamics as the prerequisite and another one with Quantum physics as a prerequisite are primarily hurting me. I really never studied those things before, not to mention the fact I never did 11th/12th nor the first year at undergraduate. Gosh, the depth of my condition could only be well understood by my peers who very well know how 'good' I am at science and stuff. Prolly all they would say and remember after years from now is, "That gamer guy? He knows nothing. That sonuva.."
Anyway, so yeah, I'm trying to figure out this Raman spectroscopy on the research part while I steal some time to teach American kids about concrete and stuff. It's pretty busy nowadays.
Overall picture: I stand in the middle of the desert with my right arm hung low with the weight of the double edged Axe. The sun shines like a bastard on my Axe's steel and causes streams of sweat flow down my naked shoulders. Flinching at the piercing rays of light, I look at the horizon.
I can make out the line of orcs and beasts that are sprinting towards me. Their bloodlust fills the empty land that lies beyond. They are too many. Inside they have the souls of publishers, editors, sinusoidal equations, Raman spectra, Fick's equations and all that I face daily. Outside they are the same. Ugly. Too many to count or see. And here they come.
I swing, slash, cut and thrust. I loose blood. Blood that splatters upon the desert sand and shines back at that bastard of a sun in the sky. Heads, limbs, pieces of armory piles up on my sides but I continue to swing the Axe. I loose more blood and now my speed has reduced. They are not killing me by wit but by number. They are now almost upon me.
I am going down.
But not alone. Not alone. I'll take, you monsters, all of you, as many as possible, with me.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Current Book: "Lord of The Flies" by William Golding
Current Music: "Clubbed to Death", The Matrix.
Life's First Concert - Linkin Park
The air was still with anticipation and cold. Desperate voices, restless eyes, aimless hands, uneasy figures called for them in despair. But presently, they did not come.
The long wait finally came to pass and the stage shimmered. For once, it looked as if the light played tricks with us. Us, the worshipers. But no, it was for real. The darkness was now being lifted. The large screen began to split and reveal colors. Somewhere far, a lost sound began to emanate. And with Papercut it began.
Giant manned lights and cameras hung from the dark sky. The black floor vibrated with loose feet of mortals. The stage was engulfed in red fire. And inside that ring of redness, their machines flashed 'Lp' once in a while. Among those machines and the noise, they played. They played. They sang. They danced.
Almost every song a fan could think of. Could ask of. Could ask for. Every number was given. One by one. From each and every album. It was given.
They even plunged down in the crowd after an hour. We, the mortals, went crazy and trampled each other to get a sliver of their skin. I was this, this, this, far away from Chester. Two meters I would say. I couldn't even get near Shinoda. He was unreachable, untouchable.
And so, that night, in Kansas City, MO, gods had appeared. Somewhere lost in the crowd, a nerd's childhood dream was realized. But so brief and yet eternal was their descent in this mortal world, that their coming was nothing but a fleeting dream.
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Current Book: "Lord of The Flies" by William Golding
Current Music: "Watercolour" by Pendulum.
Driving With The Old Lady
I had planned to take a second try at the driving test this Saturday morning so I figured I'll go to bed early on Friday night. But last night I slept late anyway. I just kept horsing around. Who the hell sleeps early on a Friday night?
So I woke up, got ready and all. Reached the driving license office an hour before it closes in the afternoon only to found that the nice receptionist I met last time was now replaced by some thin old lady. There was a bunch of old ladies in there. In fact, they are all really old. I stood in the queue behind this Chinese guy who was grilling with the receptionist. I overheard some snippets of their conversation:
"...an overspeeding ticket.." the receptionist was saying.
"..yeah...I was..." said the Chinese guy and smiled.
"...this...not funny..you got three tickets in one year" Receptionist looked kinda serious.
The Chinese guy still kept smiling like an idiot and I couldn't hear what he said.
"..banned from driving..for 6 months..if found again..heavy punishment.." finished the receptionist and signaled me to come forward.
That sure as hell was a nice morale booster for me. What a nice start before THE test. She did all the formalities and stuff and I was asked to wait before an officer (another old lady) called my name for the test. We strolled out and I tried to be all nice with her.
Anyway, so we went to my car and did the routine tests of the headlights and shit. C'mon they work all right, all right. I just bought this bitch, it sure works all right. I realized that she was the same officer who took my first test. I asked her if she remembered me. She said she wasn't really sure but she did remember the "Ganesha" statuette. Trust me, I'm a very religious type of person. I keep all these gods and goddesses with me all the time. I even sing a prayer before I leave the house. That's what like my mom would want me to be. And I'm totally that kind of person. No kidding. After few seconds she remembered all about my first test and I thought we were good to go.
I drove nicely and didn't try to scare other nice people on the road. Everything was going fine when on this road, this stupid narrow road, some guy came jogging and hopping along from the front. On the goddamn road, for chrissake. You're supposed to jog and hop on the shoulder or pedestrian tracks. Not on the goddamn road. I wanted to yell at him at that moment only. And also why you wanna jog in -15 degree C? I mean, what the ****? But I calmed myself and did not do anything funny. Except that instead of giving him adequate space to hop around, I kinda steered around close to him, kinda scared him a lil' bit. That sure as hell pissed the old lady. I saw her hand, through the corner of my tricky eye, scribbling notes down her pad.
I was like, "C'mon. No kidding officer. It's his fault." I just didn't say it, though. So we horsed around a bit in the icy and busy streets before the test finished. I asked her while going back,
"So what do you think? Did I pass?" I saw down in her notepad and it had lotta scribbling done in'it.
"Let's go back to the parking lot and talk there. The test ain't finished yet, baby," she said.
BABY? I mean, BABY? All right. Whatever. OKAY So what I wanted to bring your attention to was this word "talk". Whenever, whenever, whenever, ANY CHICK in the goddamn universe, be it old or young, tells you, that she wants to "talk", you're screwed. You're so screwed, baby. Look who's talking anyway.
"We need to talk."
This is the end of everything. You can't reach anywhere after that. Relationships or driving tests, applicable for a wide range. Remember that.
So we returned to the parking lot and I was pretty depressed already. She began to explain from her notepad all the silly and technical mistakes that I did. She gave me a sort of 1 minute lecture on pedestrian safety and how could I have avoided screwing that section of the test up. I even wondered if that jogger was their secret employee or something. The notepad in her hand didn't look so pretty. And so I said,
"Hmm yeah. I screwed up bad. Damn..I need to practice more.."
"Yup. If you race like that, an accident is coming. I'm telling you that for sure, girl."
Thank GOD, she didn't say BABY this time. I hate baby. I hate babies, for that matter. I would have called her a baby if she was a bit younger but I did not want to get deported or something so I stayed low and nice.
"Okay, so thank you for your time, I'll try again some day." I am really nice, though.
"No, you can come inside, you got it."
"What? What didja say?"
"Your score is still fine, only a few reductions, but you passed."
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Current Book: "Lord of The Flies" by William Golding
Current Music: "Yaar Anmulle" by Sharry Mann
So I woke up, got ready and all. Reached the driving license office an hour before it closes in the afternoon only to found that the nice receptionist I met last time was now replaced by some thin old lady. There was a bunch of old ladies in there. In fact, they are all really old. I stood in the queue behind this Chinese guy who was grilling with the receptionist. I overheard some snippets of their conversation:
"...an overspeeding ticket.." the receptionist was saying.
"..yeah...I was..." said the Chinese guy and smiled.
"...this...not funny..you got three tickets in one year" Receptionist looked kinda serious.
The Chinese guy still kept smiling like an idiot and I couldn't hear what he said.
"..banned from driving..for 6 months..if found again..heavy punishment.." finished the receptionist and signaled me to come forward.
That sure as hell was a nice morale booster for me. What a nice start before THE test. She did all the formalities and stuff and I was asked to wait before an officer (another old lady) called my name for the test. We strolled out and I tried to be all nice with her.
Anyway, so we went to my car and did the routine tests of the headlights and shit. C'mon they work all right, all right. I just bought this bitch, it sure works all right. I realized that she was the same officer who took my first test. I asked her if she remembered me. She said she wasn't really sure but she did remember the "Ganesha" statuette. Trust me, I'm a very religious type of person. I keep all these gods and goddesses with me all the time. I even sing a prayer before I leave the house. That's what like my mom would want me to be. And I'm totally that kind of person. No kidding. After few seconds she remembered all about my first test and I thought we were good to go.
 |
| People don't believe I'm an animorph. I still don't care. |
I drove nicely and didn't try to scare other nice people on the road. Everything was going fine when on this road, this stupid narrow road, some guy came jogging and hopping along from the front. On the goddamn road, for chrissake. You're supposed to jog and hop on the shoulder or pedestrian tracks. Not on the goddamn road. I wanted to yell at him at that moment only. And also why you wanna jog in -15 degree C? I mean, what the ****? But I calmed myself and did not do anything funny. Except that instead of giving him adequate space to hop around, I kinda steered around close to him, kinda scared him a lil' bit. That sure as hell pissed the old lady. I saw her hand, through the corner of my tricky eye, scribbling notes down her pad.
I was like, "C'mon. No kidding officer. It's his fault." I just didn't say it, though. So we horsed around a bit in the icy and busy streets before the test finished. I asked her while going back,
"So what do you think? Did I pass?" I saw down in her notepad and it had lotta scribbling done in'it.
"Let's go back to the parking lot and talk there. The test ain't finished yet, baby," she said.
BABY? I mean, BABY? All right. Whatever. OKAY So what I wanted to bring your attention to was this word "talk". Whenever, whenever, whenever, ANY CHICK in the goddamn universe, be it old or young, tells you, that she wants to "talk", you're screwed. You're so screwed, baby. Look who's talking anyway.
"We need to talk."
This is the end of everything. You can't reach anywhere after that. Relationships or driving tests, applicable for a wide range. Remember that.
So we returned to the parking lot and I was pretty depressed already. She began to explain from her notepad all the silly and technical mistakes that I did. She gave me a sort of 1 minute lecture on pedestrian safety and how could I have avoided screwing that section of the test up. I even wondered if that jogger was their secret employee or something. The notepad in her hand didn't look so pretty. And so I said,
"Hmm yeah. I screwed up bad. Damn..I need to practice more.."
"Yup. If you race like that, an accident is coming. I'm telling you that for sure, girl."
Thank GOD, she didn't say BABY this time. I hate baby. I hate babies, for that matter. I would have called her a baby if she was a bit younger but I did not want to get deported or something so I stayed low and nice.
"Okay, so thank you for your time, I'll try again some day." I am really nice, though.
"No, you can come inside, you got it."
"What? What didja say?"
"Your score is still fine, only a few reductions, but you passed."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Current Book: "Lord of The Flies" by William Golding
Current Music: "Yaar Anmulle" by Sharry Mann
Unanswered Questions
These days, I always wonder about these questions no matter I'm free or busy. They just haunt my mind every now and then. I wonder why?
Q#1 Why do some people still think that life in US is like this?
Q#2 Why that little hot chick in the gym is usually reviewing her chemistry notes while running on the jogging machine?
Q#3 Why my average of words/day output of fiction writing is so terribly less?
Q#4 Why my Chinese peers are just SO DAMN GOOD at everything (researching/sporting/flirting)?
Q#5 Why I miss Her so much?
Q#6 Where do the ducks go when the lake is frozen? No, really, where do they really go?
Q#7 Why the roads are so goddamn slippery?
Q#8 Why every casual sentence spoken by Holden Caulfield has so much depth in it? How?
Q#9 What does a Chick mean when she emails and say, "We ought to do lunch sometime!"
Q#10 What's the bloody meaning of ought anyway?
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Current Book: "The Catcher in the Rye" by J.D. Salinger (Still)
Current Music: "Dilli..." from No One Killed Jessica
Funny Assistant
The semester break draws to an end and a set of new subjects and tasks loom before me. The break can't be discarded as entirely useless as some work was done in most aspects of this life. Most important thing was the creation of a schedule since the first week of this new year, which, if am able to follow from now on DAILY, I think I'll be good. Really good. But yeah, let's see if I really can or not. Because there will be a lot of things that aren't accounted or expected but then, that's life, isn't it?
In short, by the end of year 2011 there should be major changes in the About the author page of this blog and if not, I would have failed.
Hmmm, I really don't have pretty much to say on this weekendly-post so I will devote this post to my love for my lovely Chinese Undergrad Assistant.
Disclaimer: As I might have previously mentioned, the guy is really nice, adorable and definitely more intelligent/smarter than I am (all that GPA crap, you know) but has some funny habits which do crack me up once a while in all this dark and serious research that I have chosen to pursue.
# "Ah, my back hurts. Work is killing me," We said one day in a casual tone (its our pet dialogue in this youth phase). He says, "You should get some physical exercise perhaps." "O REALLY? WHY DINT ANY1 TELL ME THIS SECRET OF LIFE BEFORE?"
# We are looking around the lab one afternoon because we got to start mixing concrete and we can't find him anywhere. We check all closets, even under the experimentation tables but he's not there. He was supposed to be waiting there for us after preparing the raw materials. Suddenly, our phone breaks the silence of the lab and we flip it to read a SMS (Which BTW COSTS US A LOT EVERY MONTH) sent by our lovely assistant, "Material gets ready. I come to the bathrooms. Be right back soon."
# And some days he's too sweet because we have to lift and transfer 2 huge barrels each of 250 kg of cement to the lab and he kindly understands that we can't do it so he brings an army of Chinese undergrads who get the entire job done while I was away in a seminar. When I asked him why did he bring Xufushu in lab, he might get hurt and liability would come on us, to that he replied, "Xufushu is a very strong man," and we both looked in awe at Xufushu.
# Once he sends us a cute message reminding that our last bus is within 5 minutes from now due to the changed schedule of bus rides. We immediately thanked to God, prayed nice economy for China and ran for the bus.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Current Book: "The Catcher in the Rye" by J.D. Salinger
Current Music: They See (Desi) Revolution by DNOAX
HNY HNY
HNY HNY.
I planned to go straight to bed at 10:00 P.M. that night. No stupid sitting till midnight for the new year and all. And then wake on the first day of the year at 7:00 A.M. and STUDY. Or WRITE. Basically try to initiate the new year by pursuing something noble like Science OR Art.
But then, I soon realized, "Who I am kidding?" I know who I am. LoL. Sleeping early on New Year's Eve and waking the next day (or any day for that matter) at 7?
MY ASS.
So basically I did nothing shitty of this kind and spent this transition pretty normally. 2010 was a great year for me, in fact pivotal in my life, career, etc, etc. I won't bore you with that shit, you know pretty much what happened in 2010 if you wasted your time reading here, so I'll skip that.
And here's a list of things I actually DID on the first day of January (I don't know if it's a good thing if I will be repeating them throughout the year. You judge.)
- Watched TV at night and learnt how people are crazy at NY Times Square on New Year. Backstreet Boys and Avril looked kinda hot though.
- Licked Ice Cream after 6 months? lol.
- Slept for 10 hours.
- Did NOT go to Office/Lab (Hell yeah, bitch).
- Learned how to drive and scared other nice people on the road and backseat as well.
- Attended an online video conference (O RLY? About WHAT?) with Darling (to be wife?)
- TRIED to read an English Grammar book and failed.
- Ate an Octopus in lunch.
Happy New Year, Honey. (HNY HNY)
P.S: RESOLUTIONS --->
1. Get Laid.
(Resolutions never really come to life, so THAT's OKAY)
How did ya spend yours, dear invisible reader? Any resolutions you might like to share?
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Current Book: "The Catcher in the Rye" by J.D. Salinger
Current Music: "Desert Rain" by Edward Maya
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Current Book: "The Catcher in the Rye" by J.D. Salinger
Current Music: "Desert Rain" by Edward Maya
Bleaky Break
(A subtle change in format of posts (see bottom) from now on, about which, a regular reader like you, might not need to be notified.)
The Holiday Break has just begun and the festive mood still evades my presence. The buildings at the University are now closed for a two week break which means limited access and no heat.
Outside, as snow pours relentlessly with flakes dotting my vision, inside, I find desolate corridors, darkened hallways, closed offices, empty restrooms, dusty door knobs, silent seats which were all once occupied by my colleagues. There is a false assuring humming sound of the workstations that were left running by them in haste as they escaped to their holiday, partner, home or life.
I ask myself why I have not been able to make much progress on what I had decided last time, but I find no answer. J.M. Coetzee helped to heighten this guilt and regret. Perhaps it awoke a quenched fire? But what is there was no fire at all? Ah, I digress and talk of things that make no sense.
Point? I have to get things straight. I have to get a lot of things done in these few days. Once the new semester begins everything will be sucked out. And I will be sucked in a hole that has no end. There will be scope for nothing but misery. I don't know if Coetzee's book is doing this to me, but I often think that my dream job would be a clerk or an assistant at a remote library of some distant town where I am required to arrange books and their shelves in far away sections where nobody bothers to look or trespass except that of a rare young couple whose presence will not cause much interference to that clerk lost in centuries of literature.
I pray for health this Christmas so that my dentist and physiotherapist stopped ruining this break. Because I can't let days pass by like this. I just can't. I must find time.
I must write.
------------
Current Book: "Youth" by J.M. Coetzee
Current Music: "Never Say Never" by Justin Beiber ft. Jaden Smith.
Silly Research
Finals exams are holding me back for producing a long rant for this weekly post, so I present before the kind reader, by his/her permission, a silly project video that I made for a course.
I solemnly declare that I do not intend to trespass or trouble the serious nature of your life with the trivialities of mine.
Note: Do NOT make inferences about my research life on the basis of what you shall see here. Anyway, I know you will. But that's okay ;)
Edit: Video removed ;)
Credits:
Thanks to Turkey and China. Enjoy in full screen, if you may.
My December.
"This is my December, This is my time of the year
This is my December, This is all so clear
This is my December, This is my snow covered home
This is my December, This is me alone"
- Linkin Park
December. A word that softly brushes upon the old stacked memories of my life, leaving them disturbed.
The reason I find this month to be most touching to me is because of the potential it brings every time I switch my calendar from November.
In every past December, I made resolutions. One month long resolutions. Resolutions to make myself better. All sorts of plans were conceived in my brain in the past years and Decembers to achieve something, something great, something worth, something. But, I failed, most of the time.
Every time, I yielded to the cold that grew around me, that crept on my sides, that numbed my bones. I hid myself under the warm blankets, beneath the warm shawls, upon the cozy bedding, within the gloves, socks and sweaters. I gave myself to laziness, procrastination and slumber. All those goals that were set to be accomplished in the most dormant month of the year, when everyone else was at rest, were lost.
But I hope, not this time. I am in much worse condition of cold weather this time in this new land. As I walk down the road, I find the grass has grown still and white at the top, the road is dominated by scattered flurries of snow, the rooftops of houses are now being hidden beneath a layer of ice. The cold wind stings my eyes and leaves my lips dry. But still, I walk.
I don't see much people now. Most of them are gone, gone like every thing else, like those rabbits and squirrels that hopped around often in good times. Gone to their resting havens. The ones I see, I am not able to recognize or characterize. They are all solitary giants made out of feather down jackets with hoods of fur propped up where their faces were supposed to be. The hoods have replaced the heads. Faces of White, Brown or Black have lost their significance. There is no skin out there. There is no color to be distinguished upon. There is nothing.
There are some people out there, whom I like and respect. Those people who are going to toil in the night when their peers are at rest. For December is like a long night. A long, chilly, lonely night. A night without any sign of the sun. In that night, they will tread alone.
But its a night that's white. As layers of snow will pile deep and shallow, the only thing that will beat this night is white. The white light. It's coming. It's going to mock this night.
So I call you my brave friend, to mock this sleepy night, to walk with me in this white night, upon the heavy snow, against the piercing wind, towards our goals that we have set to achieve in this month. Let's pick those books that were left unread, those songs that were left unsung, those rhythms that were left unplayed, those sketches that were left uncolored, those words that were left unsaid.
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About Me
- Tanya
- My little body is aweary of this great world. An Indian PhD student horsing around in Europe.
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