veni vidi writey

An inevitably, unavoidably long and morose post.

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 14:53:00 +0000

Inevitable. Unavoidable. Age-appropriate. The normal progression. Any discussion between a late 20's man and his family/friends/associates inevitably and unavoidably drifts into his marriage plans, more specifically, the lack thereof, and always advocates getting married as an age-appropriate and perfectly normal progression of events in said late 20's man. Not to forget, inevitable and unavoidable. Alright, I think I used them enough already too, I just wanted to emphasize how often, repetitive and boring these discussermons become, and you would probably register this point by noting that I have created a whole new word just for it.

The fact remains, that every walking, breathing, earning man in his late 20's is perceived by our society to have an expiry date tattooed on his forehead. And a countdown timer, much like those in game show's, hovering over his head, making louder, more threatening sounds as time goes by. There is a deep rooted fear that once the timer reaches 0, or in this case, 30, this man is done for. The neighbors will talk! What will people say! How will we find him a suitable wife? And other such drivel seem to justify his family's need to get him married, or as they say here, settled in life. Free will continues to remain a theory best left discussed as objectively as possible, inapplicable to all men in their late 20's. And it isn't fair on this man. He got through college, and many of his friends got married the minute they had graduated. He had to endure their weddings, and his parents incessant grumblings about when he'd get 'settled'. Then he was recruited, and started contributing to society by paying taxes, even though TDS is hardly voluntary. And how did society repay him? Even more friends of his got married, those who bit the bullet earlier, as they graduated, even had the gall to make babies, and thrust them in his face. The parental grumbling had by now made way to their pointed barbs, some 'random' remarks about cousins getting married, distant relatives getting the pleasure of holding their grandbabies in their arms, and playing with them in the park, you get the picture.

Then, the unthinkable happens. Our late 20's man decides that he's had just about enough of all this nonsense, and get's himself a girlfriend, to distract him, so to speak(feminazi's please pounce, I might get a date out of it). Not to be confused with all the prospective wife talk that we did earlier. Said girlfriend is now known to all in the man's family, as 'that' girl. As if her character is somehow in doubt, her origins disturbingly suspect, and her very presence in his life akin to stage 4 cancer. Of course, all of this makes our hero(see how I mould his character and make you feel for him) very, very sad. In his despair, he argues with his family, and weeps on 'that' girl's shoulder. The consequences of this arguing and subsequent weeping please his family to a very great extent. I should explain that now, you see, when late 20's man, or as we now know him, our emotional hero, weeped night after night on his girlfriend's shoulder, while she did the decent thing, and massaged his emotions, what she was really after was a very different kind of massage(now its getting weirder). And some fun in the sun, shopping, weekend trips and..., you know what I mean. So, after a while, she get's tired of washing the saline smears from her shirts(tops, is it?), and tells our hero to buzz off. In the most delicate fashion, of course. We wouldn't want people to think she was in it only for the fun, and expose her shallow outlook, deep seated insecurities and overall 'just not cricket'-ness. Hence the pleased-as-punch parents, who have since renewed their search for the 'suitable' wife, and, who are certain that their son was saved from 'that' girl's evil charms only because they fasted every Thursday, and spent every waking hour praying to a whole battalion of Gods.

What they fail to realise, is our hero, and be rest assured, he is one inspite of all that has befallen him, is now an angry, bitter, cynical man. Angry at himself more than anybody else, for his failure to control how his life has been treating him, and where his life appears to be headed. For that is all that a man in his late 20's truly desires. Not a girlfriend, not a suitable wife, not a huge house and fancy car, not anything else. Our hero lives in a world where his earning potential should be peaking, or at least pretend to be. A world, where his peers are constantly one-upping him by getting married, making babies, moving to foreign countries, sending him endless picasa albums of said foreign countries, commenting on his facebook profile about married'y things, or about babies, about the different tax saving mutual funds he should consider, about real estate opportunities that if missed, will surely be the end of the world, and everything else under the sun. Our hero, who is quite angry, but doesn't show it, who is now determined to storm silently and alone into the darkness that his future appears to be, is quite literally, a lonely man in a crowd. And his way of handling it is to further isolate himself, and keep all interactions with other people at a bare minimum. When he returns home, his only words are a 'good night' here, and a 'food was great' there. When he finds himself in an event of a social nature, he finds solace in his smartphone, a dark corner and a glass filled with whatever poison appeals to him that night. He does shake a few hands, make the rounds and make sure people remember he exists. But, after a while, he is always alone. Sometimes, he feels the need to reach out to old friends, but then remembers they are probably making more babies, or travelling to other foreign countries, and as rapidly as the thought of reaching out came to him, he shift-delete's it from his mind.

I don't know where I am going with this account of our hero's life. I don't know because, our hero hasn't told me yet. Remember, he is now intensely addicted to being alone, untouched and unbothered by the rest of his world. So much so, that he has even stopped listening to that little voice in his head, that tries occasionally, to get him to shrug away his fears and walk amongst those who have inevitably, unavoidably done so themselves. It being a very age-appropriate thing to do, and just a natural progression of events. Bah! Why do I even bother.

Disclaimer: Remember people, this is fiction, it has no reference to any living man in his late 20's, and is certainly not a self-potrait, however much your mind may try to make it appear so.

Long weekend. Quite literally long.

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 10:24:00 +0000

So we had a long weekend, beginning Friday. I worked on Friday. And tried to pass my time on a rained out weekend watching football, moto GP and F1. In between these adrenalin packed sporting events, I tried watching some movies that I had with me. I don't remember some of them, and thats how I like my movies. They should entertain me for the hour that I watch them, then get the hell out of my life. Three movies though, made the weekend seem longer than it actually was.

On Sunday, I plugged in the DVR, and selected the 2008 movie version of the popular TV show '24'. Jack Bauer, the ultimate black ops specialist, in Africa, battling the civil war thats always going on there. Incidentally, he's in Africa after spending a summer in Rajasthan, India, and he's globe-trotting in an attempt to escape his handlers in Washington who are trying to prosecute him for alleged illegal detention and torture of suspected terrorists. So goes the plotline, Jack Bauer denigrates the overly incompetent, selfish and pansy UN representative, when said UN rep values his life more than some orphan school children who, troubling as it may be, stand no chance whatsover in their own war-torn corner of the African continent. Hero that he is, Jack Bauer cannot comprehend how the UN rep can be so selfishly unbiased, and spends enough reel time to convince all of us that the UN is a complete waste of an idea. How boringly American. How predictably American. Getting past that, Jack Bauer goes through his entire gamut of facial expressions, from anger, to near tears(when his friend is killed by a land mine), to despair, with no visible changes in his demeanor. The most emotion he displays, is when he is being tortured by a rebel soldier, with a red-hot machete against his ear lobe. Even then, its as if Jack Bauer is mildly constipated, and is screaming in anger at the missing toilet paper. To add to the brilliantly boring visuals and storyline, frustratingly slow pace and plain bad editing, theres the added indignity of having to sit through blank screens with a clock counting the seconds back and forth. In the TV series, this clock screen precedes and ad-break. Which is fine. In the movie, however, it does not. Yet there is another blank screen inserted between the clock and the rest of the movie. Continuity is apparently not valuable enough for the makers. All in all, although I enjoy watching the TV series, I humbly submit, that the movie is a damp squib. Best left relegated to the imdb pages where it is crucified.

I also watched the 2008 X-files movie. Only because I am a huge Gillian Anderson fanboy. And the movie was passably good, in parts. It was just like the TV show, only longer and with no ad-breaks. True to style, there were new characters, and the plot questioned Scully's scientific outlook, but the movie reeks of stale ideas, and I think we can move on from the X-files toward other shows that can pick up where it left off. Don't even mention Lost, or Heroes.

Then I saw Vantage Point. If it weren't for the million flashbacks-from-different-character-perspectives idea that they've quite frankly taken too far, I'd have recommended this movie to all without any qualms. You have to really tie yourself to the chair to keep from running away during the movie. The first 3 flashbacks are fine, its the fourth and the next few that get to you. But, the plot is rivetting enough to keep you satisfied once the flashbacks give way to the climax.

Its depressing when three movies, all of which promise action, thrills, mystery and interesting plots, all fall flat on their combined faces. On the same weekend. Maybe I need to stick to reading books. The Blandings Castle series, (Wodehouse reigns supreme), keeps the boredom away quite successfully.

The Harley Indian dream

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 05:11:00 +0000

The Hog's are here!!

Find out how no other motorcycle in the world compares to a Harley-Davidson. Visit http://h-d.com/ridetrue

The Harley Davidson Motorcycle Company has finally launched a series of motorcycles in India. They intend to find and tie up with a dealer network around the country and start delivering their bikes to Indian customers sometime in 2010. Good news? You're damn right! Its about time we got some Hogs around here! Give me a fatboy over an R1 any day of the week! The coming of the V Twins is a time to rejoice, a time to reconsider your priorities, because they are all simply wrong. These motorcycles represent the very best things in life. Someone asked me why there is so much hype surrounding the Harley's. He had never seen one, but thought they were bad performers, and looked absolutely garish! He went on to speculate that when compared to the Yam's Hondas and Suzuki's, they were inferior and anyone with a Hog bought it simply for snob value!

My reaction to him was from the heart. It goes like this. A Harley is not just a bike, its an experience. Its the sound of life getting bigger, of your daughter running out at midnight, of a V Twin kicking life into shape, of the boys who you won't let your daughter date, of a midnight ride that lasts 3 days. There are those who will feel the call of the Hog, and then there are those who won't. Why should a bike be built just to be the fastest, or most effecient, or best to lean into corners, or anything else? Why can't a bike be built from the heart. Logic, economy, practicality be damned!
Comparing a Harley with a Japanese will not make any sense. They are different beasts altogether. A Yamaha R1 will get you to the finish line quick! But the Harley will get you there in style. Style forged in metal workshops by grease covered men wearing overalls with a cigarette hanging from their lips and a monkey wrench in their hands. Men who are not afraid to walk that dark lonely road at night alone. Men who live to ride, and ride to live.

Jeep Alert

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 06:19:00 +0000

The image in this post is of a Mahindra jeep. One of the old one's that shares its genetics with the great jeeps of the past. A jeep that came to be associated with either Hindi movie police or with hill station-roaming romantic heroes. What do people think when they see a jeep like this? What are the first impressions, the first reactions to a machine like this. If you ask today's yuppie, hatchback loving, ipod toting youth, they'd sneer back with a sarcastic, demeaning retort that would include adjectives like old, obsolete, rust-bucket, ugly and may even suggest a one-way trip to the junkyard. These demeaning words would be a by-product of their conditioning. They have been accustomed to farting around in their petrol hatches, which they adorn with decals, aftermarket exhausts, spoilers and whatnot. Their ideal dream car would fall somewhere between a Bugatti Veyron and a Porsche 911. Splendid as these cars may be, they are objects that one can only desire, with no hope to own or drive them. When anybody (me) even suggests that a jeep like this is a beautiful machine, one that I am saving up to buy, one that gives me goose pimples every time I spot, one that I feel looks more beautiful than a bikini-babe in the Mid-day, the immediate response is one of utter disbelief. Parents, friends, strangers all unite in the collective debasing of this worthy machine with no respect to its heritage, its practical and no-frills outlook and its completely delectable looks. I may be mad, but I know when I am right.

A jeep like this is a work of art that was created in an automobile factory by men. Its the ultimate weapon that men built against bad roads, potholes and traffic. Its a throwback to the times when men drove machines built for real men. Men that understood that power steering and air conditioning were for the weak. Hard tops, doors, lumbar support, and soft suspensions were overrated. Aerodynamics, sensors and ECU chips are for aircrafts, not cars! Men drove these jeeps with the canopy down, the wind in their hair and the rest of the world would look at them and go "there goes the Man". Compare that to the cars we see today. Most of them are silver or grey, low, sound like an electric shaver, and try their best to insulate the driver from the wind, the sun, the cold and everything else in Madam Nature's handbag. Many others are either pink, green, aquamarine and every other colour that Maybelline lipsticks can dream up. People lose sleep over things like losing their car in the mall's parking lot. Simply because there are so many similar cars around that they cannot identify their own. What does this say for an individual's identity, "I drive around in the same car the rest of the world does". Why this need for uniformity, for blending in, for being well adjusted and for being recognized as "normal". Is it really that difficult to imagine a world where you drove a car that you could instantly identify as your own? A car that you spent the whole of Sunday tinkering with, and cleaning, and polishing, then ruined the entire effort by going for a joyride in the mud the next morning? A car that does not offer the comforts of your bedroom. No reading lights for the passenger, no music system to drown out the voices in your head, no drive computer, no power windows, no roof for God's sake! I'll tell you why. Because we are all sheep. Yes. You heard it. We will do what the sheep next to us in the herd does. We will do it without giving it a moments thought, because that is what sheep do. We will eat, sleep and die, just like the sheep around us. Pathetic, really. I'd rather be that sheep who got eaten by the wolf when he ran out of farm at night chasing butterflies.

Mobile blogging: a first attempt

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 09:53:00 +0000

It seems funny that an auto meter made in pune, in an auto body whose design is stolen from some Italians, and whose driver is on some mad cocktail of tobacco, speed, and crack cocaine can combine to form the deadly rickshaw.
Sent on my BlackBerry®

Male pattern hostility.

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Mon, 11 May 2009 15:18:00 +0000

Go ahead, I dare you. Try it. Lets get it on. Make my day. And the list goes on. Angry, defensive and neurotic they may be, but these words are heard often enough during the course of any day. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but my bones will heal, and get stronger as a result of the break. Not so with words. Once out, there's nothing you can do to get them back. No amount of regret, however sincere can erase the effect of that pointed jibe, that uncalled for slur and most certainly, there is no known retraction for the verbal attack. That, as they say, is definitely that. It stands to reason that if chap A passes verbal diarrhoea on chap B, upon which chap B takes offence and challenges chap A to back up his talk with something more, both chaps A and B have reached the point of no return. Chap A can't back down from chap B's challenge, he risks ridicule and humiliation. Chap B too, now must realise that he has forced chap A's hand, and the resulting reaction will surely be anything but conciliatory. Enough about those chaps, you may say, they're both testosterone spewing neanderthals who need therapy, and some tranquilizers, you say, and you're probably right. After all, you've been hearing Dr. Phil, Deepak Chopra, and every other new age "expert", as well as reading the latest issue of the Readers Digest and Health magazine, where anger management articles, the evils of losing your temper, the hidden killer that is rage and a bounty of similar drivel points you to your assessment of the situation chaps A & B find themselves in. I think its about time I rain on your parade. You're oh! so wrong. You have no clue how destressing it can be to walk up to your favourite punching bag(not literal, henceforth called YFPB, for short), unleash the mother of all rages on him, all the while allowing him to counter your every punch(again, not literal), spot the chink in his defense, allow the adrenaline to fuel your cruel barb and thrust deep into the inky poison that is his ego. Definitely more interesting than a tennis match, and less dangerous than say, the Moto GP. There can be one of two results to such an encounter, result A and result B(I know, whats with the A's and B's, but bear with me). Result A is when you get your rage on and manage to demolish YFPB, reducing his self esteem to lows never measured before, all the while racking up points on your own rage meter, sometimes making a high score that surprises even yourself. This is particularly useful in future encounters of the same kind, where you can boost your performance by recollecting a particularly offensive slur, or a supremely demeaning turn of phrase. Of course, result B is the less preferred of the two. So supremely positive and irreverently mocking of negativity are we(chaps A, B, and such like), that we shall not dignify result B with even a briefest of mention.

I am very much one of the aforementioned chaps. Not A or B specifically (I'd hate to steal their thunder), but a decidedly like minded neanderthal nevertheless. I will, on occassion, gnash the teeth and roar with positive conviction. It will hurt your eardrums, and drill down to the tiniest places in your soul where you're still a little child, scared of being punished by the Headmaster for missing assembly or chewing your fingernails. I will then proceed to strip every defense that age, ego, testosterone and watching Rambo movies has afforded you, and tear you limb from limb with only the exertion of my tongue, uvula, larynx and respiratory organs. It will therefore not astound you when I reveal that my rage meter is sufficiently well endowed. And by that I obviously underplay its stupendous magnificience. All of this may seem rather self aggrandizing to you, but no doubt, you may notice the complete lack of any stress, anxiety, self-pity or similar weakness on display. Chaps A, B and the rest of us barbarians, live free of these chains that civilisation uses to enslave our meeker colleagues. We do not tolerate political correctness, and will not hesitate to go to ridiculous extremes when provoked. We are the guys you are afraid to borrow money from. The guys you won't let your daughter date. The chaps you are most reluctant to invite to your cocktail parties. We are also the guys who shall inherit the earth. That other saying was just to screw with you. Go ahead, tell me I'm wrong.

The memory of her.

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Mon, 26 Jan 2009 15:07:00 +0000

It was 10 AM on a Saturday morning, and as his eyes opened, they instinctively scanned the bedroom doorway. Force of habit, paranoia, whatever they termed it as, he knew and trusted his instincts. It wasn't his luck that brought him this far. Every closed door had been either broken down by steel-toed boots or forced open by inevitability. He showered, dressed himself and as he walked out towards the living room, his nostrils caught the slightest wisps of a once-familiar perfume in the air. The muscles in his jaw involuntarily tightened, as if in protest against the memories the smell brought with it. Memories of a time when those same jaw muscles would smile more easily and often than frown. His body, as if pulled toward the source of the perfume glided toward the balcony, from where the scent seemed to emanate. As he moved past the furniture, his limp lifeless arms and legs clumsily bounced off them, breaking some of the items they collided with. The noise from their breaking jarred him from his reverie, and he awoke as if from a dream. The first thought in his head was unpleasant. He chided himself for day-dreaming, and reminded himself that people like him are seldom allowed the luxury of fantasy, living in a world of facts, of decisions, of pressure, a world that not only demanded performance, but the very life in his limbs. The next minute he spent in clearing the damage, and loudly berated the inherited blood in his veins that drove him to passionate action, making a mockery of the quiet, deliberate nature that he spent a lifetime cultivating. He got himself a cup of coffee, and made his way to the offending balcony, determined to train his errant emotions, a determination that he completely abandoned when the scent hit him a second time. This time, there was a face to go with it. His memories painted a young, pretty enough face, that was lit up by a cheery smile, flanked by bangs of dark hair running shoulder length. His breath left him as if he taken a punch to his stomach. He could feel the heart beat in his temples, and had to grab the rails to keep his balance. Slowly, he slid down the balcony rails, to the floor, his body had the look of a defeated man, crumpled and withered, but his eyes were still sharp, still bright. How could they not be. They were being shown a picture, that came from another lifetime, that he had hidden away in the dark recesses of his past. She was not the most beautiful woman in the world, and both of them knew it. But she was the only woman who had understood him...completely. She knew of his forced calmness, of the vivacious mind behind the slovenly exterior, of the beating heart in his chest, that demanded adrenaline as much as could be had. She loved that he would whistle the notes to her favourite songs while he showered. She loved that he would pretend to be asleep after she was awake, to jump at her and grab her as she walked by. She loved when he pretended not to be affected by that emotional moment at the movies, and she always pretended not to notice him wipe the solitary tear that he couldnt stop. She loved that he filled her life with his presence.

As his eyes slowly came back into focus, he could feel the heart beating steadier, his breath approaching its usual rate, and his strength flowing back into his limbs. It was as if he had been knocked out by that memory of her. He remembered exactly the moment that the memory had been from. He had been away from home for a week and a few more days, and had returned home by the last train. He remembered having to walk the 4 kilometers that separated the train station from his house, every step taking him closer to her. He remembered the moment as if it had been just yesterday. She opened the door to his knocking, wearing the smile that could thaw the coldest heart. He remembered her welcoming eyes, her wavy hair, and remembered best of all the perfume that she wore. It wasn't overbearing, but it always defined his memory of her. The years they spent together were littered with many such memories, these memories were all he had left, to remember a time of his life when his step was light, his heart danced and his very core shone with a glow that could only be attributed to contentment. He lost her to time, to the inevitabile sequence of human existence. From the very beginning of his association with her, he had debated what would become of him should he lose her. And each time he had prayed he be taken from this life before her, to escape the loneliness and devastation her loss would bring. And each time he would pray the universe ignore his last thought, for the thought of causing her sorrow by leaving her alone instantly made him regret his words.

Now, he said to himself... I am getting what I asked for. I am living with the ghosts of our past. With the vast emptiness of the current, while the memories remind me of better times. I am happy she does not have to experience this emptiness. And as he walked out into the world, his lips involuntarily whistled her favourite song.

The story so far...

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Mon, 26 Jan 2009 05:32:00 +0000

Since October of last year, there have been good times, bad times and sorely testing times. I've survived the slowdown (just barely), spent time with my sister and nephew and bro-in-law. Turned into a soft toy for my nephew, followed him back to chennai, and watched the new year roll in while I waited to get back home.

Now that I am home, its slowly dawning in that life isnt all roses and pretty gifts. There's a lot to work for, a lot to achieve, to learn, to forget, and above all...this year looks like its the year people will change. People will have to adapt to survive. Times being what they are, each of us will be walking the path with exaggerated caution, and spontaineity will be compromised for premeditation.

That being said, you cant stop the universe from throwing you a bouncer when you werent expecting it. You may meet new people, make some friends, find your soulmate, or even better, a best friend. It may happen without your knowing it, it may happen while you were doing something else, or it may happen when you were simply living life...but this year too shall pass. Before too long we'll be into the next year, and the one after that, and another....times will change, people including you will change, not all for the better, and life will go on...you can either lament its passing, or celebrate the moments that made you feel truly alive.

The fight

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Fri, 17 Oct 2008 14:25:00 +0000

Have you ever been through that phase when you feel you need something exciting to happen, some landmark event that changes the way you deal with life, that forces you out of your comfort zone, and lands you right in the middle of chaos, with only your wits and your MacGyver-ish instincts to lead you into the light. If you are as old as I am, you probably cross yourself immediately and pray the universe was too busy to process your rogue thought. You have been there and done that already, and lived through situations that demanded more than you thought you had, and you don't want to willingly put yourself through that turmoil ever again.

In this immediate regret, you probably realise that you are simply tuning in to the self-preservation instinct that all of us have built into our psyche. It is this very instinct that both holds you back from doing something stupid and potentially dangerous, while also forcing you to hold yourself back from taking up anything that is challenging and beyond your current capabilities. How does one decide between the former and the latter. While it sounds easy to spot an opportunity for disaster versus one that opens you doors of learning and challenge, I personally cannot distinguish these for myself, and am forced to let fate throw whatever it has at me, while I battle away, picking up more scars than platitudes. Is this the fate of everyone else? Does everyone else on this third rock from the sun allow the universe to decide what their next battle will be, whether they will gain from the fight, or simply be crushed by its random, unpredictable cruelty?

All we have for reference is celebrity. Records of famous persons battling with circumstances, suppression, violent retribution and sometimes plain old hatred. For instance, Muhammad Ali was stripped of his boxing title, and banned from competition for some years. Right at the peak of his physical form. What did he do? Screamed, shouted and raised hell, but bore the punishment out, came back to the ring and still wasted his opponents. His career then slowly declined, and the inevitable enemy of age caught up with him. But he fought the good fight, and survived it. Did he gain anything apart from the adulation that we shower on him? Did he personally change for the better after battling adversity? I do not know. All I know is that he lost out on some of the best boxing years of his life to live by his principles. Perhaps that seems like a huge price to pay for the rest of us, because we may not be as rigid in our own principles as him. Who knows.

The 'greatness' factor comes into play at this point. What qualifies someone to be termed as one of the 'Greats'. Is it simply talent and performance of his physical body, strength of mind and character, his personal triumph over his personal demons, or collective good that came from his personal struggles? Why are there just a few of such 'Great' people. Are they simply better people to begin with? Or do they adapt and change and achieve 'greatness' over a period of time. Or is it just that the opportunities that life dealt them to exhibit their strength and prowess were not available to the rest of us. In our hubris, we'd like to think this is the case. That given the same opportunities to right hook and upper cut our own demons, we'd always walk away with the Gold. But it is an open question, and will remain so always. Each small battle fought leaves its scars, and adds a little toughness. During the course of each battle, there have always been negative thoughts weighing us down, pushing us to take the easy way out, to give up. Each battle has many smaller fights with the self to defeat the defeatist mentality, and persist. There is always the hope that given enough time, even we can fight our way out of this mess. Of course, there are many battles lost for every spectacular victory won. And after all the fighting there is just the one result...survived or dead. Leaving you nothing to hold on to. Nothing of the fight that you can turn back on and scrape for some confidence. A part of you aches to fight some more, just to be in the fray, and live out the madness. Another part fights against you, hoping you will take the easy way out and continue living without the madness. That is the one true fight. The fight for control on your own self. We have not yet won this fight, it never ends... it is played out each time an opportunity presents itself. Let us begin again, and let us end.

Stella

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 15:39:00 +0000

At the end of a tiring workday, I was really looking forward to a traffic-free ride back home on 'Stella'. Yes, you heard right. I name my bikes. The bullet is Bull and the yamaha is Stella. Cue snickering, finger pointing laughing. I dont care, I just like them to have names. I dont overdo this naming business, my guitar is a Hobner, my laptop is a vaio and my desktop is a plain old desktop. There have been others who have gone that bit too far, and crossed the threshold....but thats another story.

So, Stella rides like a dream, she's crazy fast, can turn on a coin, and can give these electric shaver contemporary bikes a run for their money. I ease my way through the crowded Bandra roads, turn out of Dharavi's slum, out of Sion and onto the Eastern Express Highway. For those of you who live here, you would now realise that after the 25 minutes of crawling traffic until this point, everyone who hits the highway just cannot resist its wide openness, and will break the speed limit, very quickly. So no prizes for guessing what I did. Stella's throttle is like a dream. She sounds like a couple of mad rottweilers thrown into a tube, and God! can she fly. I did the superman thing for a little bit, until I hit Ghatkopar's traffic, cue entrance music for the villain of this piece. This other yamaha screams past just as I slow down for the tangled mess of cars ahead of me. I must mention, the rider had on a skull cap and a beard, not that I have a problem with that, I'd just have preferred if he had on a helmet and the beard.

It is difficult to explain this feeling to people who have never ridden bikes, more specifically, people who have never ridden bikes the way they were intended to be ridden. Stella, is primed for speed. Every inch of her is built to be strong, light and fast. I have customised her, throwing away any un-needed metal, with tyres for better grip and lean, with an engine that is spanking new, and well run in, with a free flow muffler and with a mad balls-out fearless jackass on top. Given all of this, it just didnt seem right that the other yamaha flew past, leaving Stella behind. This sort of thing could ruin her confidence. Shake her self belief. Badly injure her prestige, while insulting her racing pedigree. She'd have nowhere to show her pretty face. Her peers would run her out of town. Maybe I need to stop rambling. Ok, I will. Next paragraph.

So I down shift into first gear, tuck in to offer less resistance to the wind, find an opening in the traffic, and let Stella do what she was built to do. From 5 kmph to 25 in first, upto 35 in second, 60 in third(she's screaming by now), shift into fourth right when she's at her loudest, and fly away at 95 kmph. All this while, I've gone past a whole herd of commuter bikes, about 20 yuppies in their cages, and a pathetic pulsar who thought he could keep up with Stella. I havent really seen the other yamaha that triggered all this madness. Then I hear it behind, struggling to keep up. This situation just had to be utilised. I had to rub his nose in it, right? So I did. Downshifted to third, tucked in again, flew away and left him for dead.

In all this madness, not once did I risk kiling myself, or anyone else (or so I'd like you to believe). I was simply riding faster than the speed limit, and in an almost straight, predictable line, easy enough for others to avoid, but impossible for them to ignore. Its not often that you see someone as big as me, tucked in flying past everything else on the highway. It's probably likely that you thought you saw me, but you cant be sure, cuz I was just so damn fast :) He He. Forgetting all the insult, the chagrin etc, I decided to be a little lenient with the other yamaha. After all, the guy probably tried all he could, and is related to Stella. So, I slow down a little, let him catch up, and signal for him to overtake us, smiling all the way. He moves alongside, folds both hands (yes they're off the bars) in a namaste, bows his head, and leaves the highway at the next exit. Smiling all the way. What a ride, what a ride. The pleasure is just too beautiful to describe. Doing it again tomorrow.

The workshop

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Sun, 14 Sep 2008 15:30:00 +0000

It's five pm on a weekday, and your palms are already greasy, your shirt sleeves rolled up, forehead (ample area there) glistening with sweat, as you wrestle with the spanner to tighten that one last nut that holds the engine head to the block. The bike is shimmering in the evening sunlight, it's potential energy aching to convert and escape as kinetic energy. The carburettor has been cleaned with petrol, the control cables have been checked and double checked, the oil level in both oil tanks is at the maximum safe level, the battery has been charged, the wiring harness is brand new, the CDI and plug also sparkling new. The painstaking attention to detail in the design of this bike, and the thought applied to its paint job, the chrome and detailing is bordering on ridiculous. For all this, it's a very sober looking piece of machinery. Black where its not chrome, and chrome where its not black. Not a very complicated design you would think....and you would be far off the mark. From the deliberately askew positioning of the speedometer(angled just right to flow seamlessly from the headlight to the handlebar), to the matte black paint job on the wheel drums, to the wicked sparkly red on black petrol tank and the agonisingly chromed engine head and buffed fins, this bike has been rebuilt from the ghastly piece of machinery it was, to a no-nonsense thrilling speed machine.

The exhaust note is distincive, and promises to scream out in fury when the throttle is opened up. That though, is a month or so away. Running in this new engine will be a labour of love, and will teach you patience. For now though, you need to scrub off the grease and oil from a day at the workshop, head back home, and patiently wait for the day your bike is ready to run.

Update: This is actually related to an earlier post (thanks ArKev) where I posted about my new (old) Yamaha. Find it (with pics) here.

I killed a crow...

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 09:41:00 +0000

Before any of you scream murderer, let me tell you that it was neither avoidable, nor intentional, nor did I gain any satisfaction from the event. I was riding my bike, easy as can be, in moderate traffic, along the divider. This crow, scavenging something on the divider, decided to fly straight into a rickshaw, about a foot and a half above the road. It smacked against the body of the rickshaw, hopefully rendered unconscious, and bounced off, belly up, wings spread, right under my front wheel. Now for people who dont know which bike I ride, let me inform you that it is a heavy, ponderous creature, very resistant to sudden direction changes.

My first reaction was self preservation, the thoughts running through my mind were, in the following order:

1. Hope it is unconscious, or its going to feel a world of pain

2. Hope its claws/beak dont puncture my tyre.

3. Hope there is no blood splattered on the underside of my bike/ trouser legs.

4. Hope I don't feel guilty all friggin day.

I didnt wait around to find out whether it survived, the chances of that happening are very remote, because I felt both front and rear wheels roll over the poor beast. The speed at which these events happened totally absolve me from crime, human reaction time is after all, restricted and regulated by the laws of evolution, genetics and physiology.

I do wonder though, did the crow intentionally fly right into the rickshaw? Was it suicide? or plain bad judgement. I've now run over a cat(it escaped), a dog's tail and finally, this crow. Wonder what/who's next...

Google and your privacy

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 09:48:00 +0000

To jump on the conspiracy theory bandwagon for a bit, I stumbled upon http://masterplanthemovie.com/. The site simply hosts a small movie, which you can either download or stream. The theme revolves around a brief history of Google, its founders, its reason for existence, its access to information, and its idealogy to make this information easily available to everybody. Yes, that means your data, my data, and my neighbours data. All available, all the time, to everybody. Considering that Google plays a huge role in our online life, search, mail, blogging, ads etc. The amount of information they process per individual is staggering. To imagine that they would store all this information in the form of a dossier, not unlike the TOP SECRET files you see in spy movies, is a leap of the imagination, but is certainly possible. What they could gain from this, is anybodies guess. I guess the whole issue boils down to the fact that the information in question is of a highly personal nature, and the control over its distribution should remain with the owners rather than the publishers/service providers, read Google. Whether this is wishful thinking, or legitimate demand, I cannot compute.

Google Chrome

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Fri, 05 Sep 2008 08:12:00 +0000

My first post from google's new open source browser, Chrome.

Built using the Apple open source webkit framework, and with a snazzy javascript multi threaded processing engine, with promises to increase page load speeds by just implementing multi threaded rendering and processing, this browser aims to conquer. They can do no evil, they stormed the search engine world, their labs are giving Bill Gates nightmares, and they will rule the internet with the launch of this browser. It is honestly much faster (16x faster javascript processing than IE7, Sun sider told me). It comes with loads of builtin features, sandboxes individual tabs, makes blogging/bookmarking/googling super easy and is by far the cleanest UI you will see.

Go for it here. The auto updates, and google's rights to data mined from your internet usage should not deter most of us from installing and using chrome. After all, "They can do no evil".

Update: Sucks that chrome cant load logmein.com, but i'll live with it till they update. Oh and btw, chrome auto updates each time, without asking ya.

The browser's Terms of use are also pretty interesting, and have been updated now, go read about that here.

Invaded on Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Fri, 05 Sep 2008 07:35:00 +0000

A rainy afternoon, a cup of coffee, a pen and some papers, comfy chair. All the ingredients to kill a few hours, recharge some batteries, ignite a few neural pathways that were once demonically active, or actively demonic, whichever you like.

Truth be told, this time it is my only escape from a house teeming with people, who although share my genealogical traits, are as unlike me as can be. Forced to flee from my own house, I hit the nearest coffee shop, my pride dented and bruised by the sheer decibel level of a bunch of kids, and some septuagenarians. Oh! How the mighty have fallen!

What drives people to spend weekends away from their own little homes, out in the rainy day, in someone else's home, invading them on a Sunday, shattering their oh so carefully created little bubble of peace and tranquility. Are our weekends not sacred? should we not treat them with more importance? with more respect!

How many times must one be made to endure an ear splitting scream, or a noisy brawl in one's own house before it is permissible to take up arms against the invaders. Kids may be the most guilty of this, however the adults aren't blameless either. Since when did conversation and logical debate equal out shouting the other person, as if the sheer amplitude at which a point is vocalized somehow converts it from inane drivel to proven fact.

Is all of this indicative of anything? Does this behaviour deserve Freudian analysis? Well, in my opinion, its all a complete waste of time, and thats a polite estimation of the pointlessness of it all. They will never stop taking your time for granted, they will always try to ride rough shod over your protestations, they will continue to act as if what they are doing is in your best interests, and you have no option but to squirm uncomfortably, while they walk all over you. Or do you?

There is something that can help. Hostility. Plain, undisguised, malevolent intentions. You know you feel these emotions. Well, let them out. Indulge them. Allow them to become part of your aura. Soon the same relatives that tried to walk all over you will hesitate to even talk to you. All you need to do, is to cultivate this perception. And believe you me, it works.

Enough ranting for now. I have exhausted my capacity for caffeine consumption, hearing the weird couple sitting behind my table(totally different story, for another time). It has also stopped raining, and it is time I reclaim my home from the invaders of this Sunday.

The return

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 17:46:00 +0000

Accepted, all 10 of you who irregularly frequent this blog, you're all right to be annoyed that the last post was three months ago. What have I been upto since then? Well, lets see...oh yeah..work! A month long stint to the UK for work, some crazily packed workdays before and after, and my inherent laziness to convert my writings from paper to bits and bytes, all of these have made this blog a little stagnant. It has been one hell of a summer, and the rains are equally tough work-wise, leaving just enough time for some extra curricular action. Although, I have rediscovered my love for poetry, I've gotten used to Sunday afternoons at the local cafe, which is damn near deserted at that time of the day(suits me fine), where I can down a couple of vegan shakes while reading my favourite book(the book shop is across the street from the cafe), or penning down whatever is rolling about inside my head. It is a routine that I hope I can stick with, because it is just so satisfying to laze about in a coffee shop, play my own music there, read, write, think....it's almost as good as riding around aimlessly on my bike(s).

Ah! I almost forgot to mention, I've managed to get my hands on a Yamaha (thanks Shiv), it's an RX-135, 4 speed, pocket rocket! I've been spending the last few weekends rebuilding it. The frame and other metal parts are stripped down, cleaned and painted. I've spent some time and money on accumulating various parts like the tank, some lights, sprocket's, hub's etc, and the bike will be reborn very soon. GS, who blogs here, has been kind enough to land me parts from his various contacts. Once the build is complete, a week or so of running in the new bike, getting the new piston and block all set for regular use, some oil changes, some tweaking and soon(read 2 weeks), I'll be tearing down Mumbai's roads, using the fantastic power-weight ratio that the good old Yam's are known for. My first bike was a Yam, moved onto my Bullet, which is still the bike that I'll never stop riding, now I have a Yam again! It never fails to make me grin like a madman. The two stroke goodness of a Yam is to die for. So it burns excess lubricant, releasing hydrocarbons in the oil into the environment, so it's not exactly fuel effecient, go talk to all the SUV owners, or Hummer morons, and then come to me. My carbon footprint is miniscule (all things being relative).

Riding in the Mumbai rains teaches one many things. Caution, appreciation for street lights, an overall increase in blood pressure and heart rate everytime the rear wheel misbehaves, and a whole lot of patience. I've been riding in the rain for many years now, and all I've learnt is, accept the rains, be prepared, have a Plan B, you'll smile. Oppose it, crib about all the little pains, and you'll hate every minute of it. Riding in the rain is the best antidote to boredom and depression that anyone could think of...try it, you'll love the ride.

Birthday

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 19:46:00 +0000

So, its my birthday....and as usual, as per tradition, the guys showed up at my door at midnight, with cake, smiles and wishes. Every year its the same thing....last year D got a dholak and woke the whole building up at midnight, banging away like a crazed bongo player on meth. This year he got me a fedora hat...or at least the closest you could get in India. Madness. So the cake is all ready, i blew out the imaginary candle, and cut it...then A gets ready to feed me a piece...only problem being, he smears my face entirely...well, I guess theres a first time for everything. I like cake...but not as moisturizer for my face...the smell itself is enough to give me a bad bad headache. So I do the only logical thing...get out my Drakkar Noir aftershave, and apply liberally till I stop smelling like the gingerbread man, and start smelling like the Marlboro man :) R slept off instead of coming to my place..and called me just now :) I guess she had a long day. So I am planning to go to work in the morning(ummm afternoon more likely), and as it is a 4 day week anyhow....I'll probably end up swamped in work until the weekend when we'll all go out for dinner. Every year, every birthday, all of us do this...midnight madness with cake, drums, wild hooting, a lot of laughs. I love it, and I love them all....my friends are completely insane, totally irresponsible, and extremely lovable. Whatever would I do without them.

Ice Cream magic

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 19:30:00 +0000

He walked towards the buffet spread, leaving the noisy, smoky table behind him with the guys from work. It was a fun evening, with much banter and he had enjoyed the food and company. He needed an excuse to leave the table, and decided to get some ice cream with the chocolate syrup on top....an indulgence that he felt he deserved. As he reached for the ice cream scoop, he ended up grabbing her hand, as it got to the scoop before his...women, they're much faster than men in general, but this one looked like she dropped straight out of heaven. The palms of her hands were decorated with intricate henna patterns, and the curls of her highlighted hair had probably given many men sleepless nights. Before he could apologize, and he was a little wary of the situation already, she smiled, revealing perfect pearly white teeth and just a hint of a twinkle in her eyes told him, it was all fine, and there was no reason to panic. As he waited for her to scoop out some ice cream, he couldn't help but notice her perfume...it smelt almost like almonds and honey and all the nice things in life. He awoke from his brief reverie, to the sound of her voice asking him, " I can't seem to be able to work this damn scoop! The ice cream just wont fall off...". He couldn't help but smile at her predicament...and leaned forward to help her. In an instant, he realised that if he used the scoop, and got it right, she'd be embarrassed at her own plight...in the blink of an eye, he pretended to fumble the scoop, and dropped it to the ground, smiling sheepishly at her, as she threw her oh so pretty head back and laughed. Before she could react, he reached for the nearest clean spoon, and scooped a big lump of ice cream into her plate, while using his other free hand to offer her the chocolate syrup..saying.."I know chocolate syrup is your favourite...". With one upturned eyebrow, a cheeky little smile and a slight tilt of her head, she looked straight into his eyes while scooping spoonfuls of chocolate syrup onto her bowl. Those 3 spoonfuls must have taken less than 10 seconds, but he was aware of each millisecond, and could hear his heart thumping loud inside his chest...almost afraid she could hear it too! As quickly as it had all begun, it ended with a waiter walking between them, and breaking the spell that had been cast. She remembered her family and friends waiting for her at her own table...looked back at him, and gave him another tender look that seemed to say..."hmm I wonder who you really are, I wish I could find out", but her lips mouthed "Thanks for the help" instead, and he nodded at her..watching her leave him forever.

Tradition

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 17:06:00 +0000

They wait until the sun sets on each Friday to meet. Its a tradition that has been meticulously followed for 14 years. Every friday evening, they meet at the local pub to discuss the week's news and events. Not for them the petty gossip that the wives spread around. They speak of matters of great significance. Global warming, the outsourcing debacle, the occupation of Iraq, the violence at Chechnya, the Israeli conflict, the Iranian question, the killers in Sudan, and other similar issues.
Over the years, their numbers have dwindled. There were 11 of them at the very beginning, 14 years back, when each of them had retired from the army. The best times of their lives behind them, each with memories of friends lost in battle. They survived wars, they survived youth, and middle age. Each now faced the evening of their lives, with equanimity. Each has a colorful story to tell, each has his own heroic tale, his own romance, his own tragedies and his own accomplishments. All water under the bridge, as they tell me. Today, the youth remember nothing, respect nothing and revere nothing. Their own progeny seem lost in the maze of consumerism, of petty urban oneupmanship, squabbling amongst others of their own generation, their lives amounting to nothing but credit card bills and mortgage payments. Each one of the 11 has been forged in the battle of life, has scars from their struggles with poverty and their life long duty of waging war against the nations enemies. Each one recognizes the value of life, and treasures every living moment. Each rememberes the ones that fell behind in the war against time. There were 11, and now there are 4. The 4 that remain still stand tall and proud. I salute you, Gang of Four....you know who you are.

Relationships.

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 16:34:00 +0000

Its 7:30 AM on a cloudy July morning, and She waits by the window, her fingers forming a delicate, elegant hook around the bars. She waits for him to turn around and wave goodbye, to give her the smile which she cannot live without. He walks on, seemingly oblivious to her eyes boring holes into his back. His immediate focus only on the wet puddles on the road, how he hates getting his shoes dirty! She's lost in thought, though her eyes still follow his every move, noticing his crisp ironed shirt, and lanky gait, taking pride in his casual elegance and beauty. Then with a slight frown on her brow, She reminds herself to keep the neighborhood girls away from Him. Her eyes sharpen, and she breaks out of her reverie, almost physically feeling the jolt of reality. Soon he will be out of sight, and out of her domain for the rest of the day. The thought of being without him for such a long time is enough to drive her to despair. She can feel the claws of loneliness digging, deep into her heart. One step, two steps more and he is almost gone.She cannot bear it any more, and runs out towards the front door...where she is met by his happy, smiling, 7 year old face...saying "Amma, why weren't you at the window....I came all the way back just to say goodbye".

The new barber

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Sat, 15 Mar 2008 08:34:00 +0000

Boys and Girls, this is a true story. You may not know (i hope), that I have changed my barber in the last eight months. I used to go to one guy, now I go to another...lets leave it at that. Well, the new barber, whose shop is a little farther away from the home, is a very talkative, prying little chap who thinks he's as suave and smooth as Georger Clooney in the Ocean's 11. Every time I visit his 'saloon' for a trim, I usually have to wait a few minutes for my turn at the blades. In this waiting time, I hear some of the most intimate, personal and troubling information pass between the client and this barber. It never ceases to astound me that men, grown men with kids of their own, spill their heart out to this, this...barber. I may not be the most sociable of people, but surely there must be some limit to the sharing of personal information! How many of you go about discussing the intimate details of your life with your barber? I bet, very few. That kind of information is normally shared with family, friends and the occassional lamp post, when you're staggering home after a few rounds at the pub.
Yet, everytime I wait for my turn at the blades, I overhear all this information, and if you thought this post is weird now, it only gets weirder after this, I promise you. The third or so time that I visited this saloon, I was greeted like a returning customer, with a smile, a wave and that greasy little pretention of familiarity that you could expect from this barber. I thought to myself that he has probably identified me as a returning client and will no doubt, now try to extricate some personal information from me whilst he wields the blades. With this troubling thought bouncing around the insides of my head, I took the seat, and settled in for a haircut, that would likely be much much more than just a haircut.
The events that followed, however unlikely and fictitious they may seem, are the complete truth, so help me god. The barber, while covering the front of my torso with a huge and brightly patterned bib, started to speak to me. He went, "Aur kaise ho Shetty Saab! Bhabhi aur bachhe kaise hai! Pitaji aaj kal walking ke liye nahi jaate hai kya? ". Translated it reads "How are you Shetty Sir! How's the missus and the kids! Don't see your dad these days, has he stopped his walks?". Now, to put the record straight, my name is not Shetty, I am very surely single, and equally certain that I have not fathered any children. After the barber so casually made such frightful allegations, I had no other choice but to deny them, and deny them vehemently. Which proved ineffectual. The man positively did not listen! He could not be convinced. I'm a relatively big built person, and am a little more aggressive than I need to be at times, but no amount of threats, cajoling or outright screaming would convince the idiot that I am not who he thinks I am. What would you do in such a situation? Do you storm out of there, with one half of your head trimmed, and the other half like a birds nest? or do you calm down, and play the game till you get a decent trim and can prevent any public embarrasment?
I chose the latter route. I surrendered to the situation, and to the immense stubbornness of the idiot who was wielding a sharp blade in the vicinity of my neck, ears and facial area. Yeah, I said to him. The wife's fine, she's spending a lot of money shopping. The kids are very energetic and dont sleep untill 2 AM. My dad doesnt walk in the evenings because of the pollution and prefers his early morning walk. To this, the idiot grins and nods and interjects occassionally with an ummm or an ahhhh or achaa.
Last weekend I visited this saloon again. I am now a part of the inner circle, as far as the coterie of familiar clients and the barber are concerned. I have long conversations with the barber about how my dad had to wear the neck brace for his spondilitis and how my pet labrador is sufferring in the heat of the city. He recommends the herbal oil massage therapy for my dad's aches, while instructing me to use only the herbal hair oil that he sells on my children's scalps. I play my role to perfection everytime, and am a little scared that I am so good at it. In facy, very soon he expects me to get my son in for a haircut. Wait a minute....I dont have a son, do I! Ah! will have to get him transferred into the boarding school out of town.....the wife will be devastated, but children need to be disciplined.

A Long time ago in a galaxy far far away.

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 18:10:00 +0000

A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, there was a guy who had 3 free email providers.
Today, him and everybody else uses gmail. Gone are the days when having rediff+yahoo+hotmail mailers were accepted as a necessary indulgence. Its probably been a long time since anybody checked their yahoo/rediff mailbox. He made the mistake of browsing through his old (ancient) yahoo, and stumbled upon so many emails written and received many years back. Its like a time capsule in there! Mails from people he has forgotten, people he tried really hard to forget, but who still crop up in his mind at the worst and weakest of times, people who've moved on to other countries, other last-names and other paths of life. Apart from the usual bunch of messy spam, subscriptions and forgettable self-forwarded reminder emails, he see's a whole bunch of nostalgia inducing stuff that if read at a weaker period of time would induce bouts of severe depression. There's the first email from that girl who was interested in him, that first set of one-liners, yucky mushy stuff, photos, poetry and whatnot. Too bad her last-name changed. Then there's the more serious stuff, mail trails from the guys who he calls his friends even today, and meets on a regular basis. The history of his association with them is detailed in the emails he sent and received, and all of this in one convenient mailbox, waiting for him to remember the password and take a trip into the past. Its funny how much of his life and times can be gathered by simply reading a set of emails. Its not so funny, however, that the same emails will turn him into a depressed, nostalgic ninny for the rest of the week....lets make that until Monday. With a promise to IMAP/POP all these emails into his thunderbird, he signs out, wistfully wiping an imaginary tear from the disaster zone that is his face, and makes another promise to never look back into the rediff mailbox(bad memories).

Staking a claim!

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Sat, 23 Feb 2008 09:45:00 +0000

Maybe its just my imagination, but when was the last time any of us ever went to a field, to a pristine beach, a temple carved inside a cave or even just to a weekend getaway without reaching there and panicking about the loss of cellular network. Technology, IT has been feeding us our daily bread for a long time now, and it is very likely that the same technology that was once heralded as the thing that will set us free is now taking a big chunk out of our daily lives. Theres a popular saying in the IT world....80 hours a week? no biggie, lemme just refill the coffee IV drip here. Why do we accept that the very technological advances that promised more effeciency, quicker turn arounds and better quality, is now eating away into not only our personal time, but our sleep, our thoughts, our very psyche seems to be controlled by the very technology that should be working for us, instead of the other way around.
Sure, the economy is driving many of the problems with the workspace. The recent dollar devaluation situation is not helping any either. Companies are being forced to make their employees work harder, longer and under greater stress than ever before. But is any of it really worth anything. I used to be proud of the smallest piece of code that I wrote...considering it a small piece in a huge machine that is doing its bit, and doing it as best as it could. I wrote code for an IVR product, you know the likes, you call a contact center, and a digitally recorded voice asks you for your account number, and then tells you how much money you have in you account, then while wishing you a very nice day (even at 2AM in the morning), it'd leave you feeling weird that you just had a conversation with a machine, in whicn the machine decided when to hang up on you. So getting back to the point, the company I wrote code for, sold the product to some other company, who hired their own bunch of code monkeys, and now my code is sitting in some other office, doing what I intended it to do, only doing it now for someone else. I am not jealous(that would be a little crazy), but I am feeling a little cheated. I wrote that code, I spent many nights perfecting it, spent a longer time trying to improve it, and now its somewhere else, and what do I have to show for it? a couple of lines in my resume. Compare that to a work of art, why art, compare it to this very post in this blog, and the glaring difference appears. I still spend more than 60 hours a week writing code for some company, putting my thoughts into some one elses property, which I could never stake a claim for. And the realisation that all the work that I do, however great it may be, however brilliant, or pathbreaking or perfect it be, will still be some one else's to have. Well maybe thats why I started this blog in the first place....to stake a claim for what I create, and to let that claim be know to all.

The script

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Fri, 19 Oct 2007 15:04:00 +0000

Today, like every other weekday, he woke with a start, perspiring, cursing the power cut, and cursing the 8 am shift. He had 20 minutes to shave, shower and get dressed before the company jeep would take him out to the site. He was the shift operator for the earth moving equipment that the British company had specially brought over to India by sea. The job was one of great responsibility. He was the only Indian who was given a key to the inventory. The crane was built by a company in an unheard of European country, and he could only understand the images in the user manual, the text was all foreign.

To add to his worries, his wife was carrying their second child, a daughter this time, he hoped. The 2 year old boy was proving to be a rascal with no scruples. Must have got it from her side of the family, he cursed again. She was a tease, he thought, as he trimmed his mustache. If only my wife was as attractive and intelligent as her, he mused. As he picked up his freshly pressed uniform, he noticed the new button stitched into the cuff which the washerwoman had broken the previous week. He paused for a moment, and the usual guilty thoughts ran through his head. His wife was a conscientious, pious woman, who never asked for anything, and never questioned him about the running of his house. He wondered if his fling with the British supervisor's daughter would land him a place in hell, forever. He had even converted to Christianity to appease her. Their concept of eternal damnation, was a very scary thought. The priest never failed to remind him that all his fellow pagans would spend eternity in the arms of the devil.

The cold water washed away all his musings, and jolted him back into reality. He would be late if he did not rush to the corner Post Office, the arranged pick up point for the jeep. He dreaded his daily commute, as it would mean sitting alongside that arrogant ass Romeo. Romeo Chettiar was a constant pain in his side, never failing to highlight that his family converted to the faith a generation before. And was always needling and taunting him. It was all his own fault really, he never should have let Romeo see him with Stephanie. But she was aggressive and independent. She wanted the whole world to know about them. How would her father react! He would be summarily dismissed from his post, and even thrown into jail. She would be sent away back to England, to cure her of her insolence. His whole existence was threatened, and he knew exactly how much trouble he was in. If his wife's relatives knew of this, he could be ostracized from the community completely. He was already in trouble after the conversion. With so many things to worry about, his wife found the perfect time to get pregnant again.

His thoughts began to make his jaw tighten into a frown so dark, he was scared of his own reflection in the mirror. Enough! he thought. Today I will make amends. Today, I will cut off everything with Stephanie, and return to my wife, my family. Even if he was thrown out of his job, he would not care. This constant worrying was driving him insane. The consequences be damned, the whole world be damned!

As I excitedly turned the page of the writers first draft, I could not help admiring the plot line. It was brilliant! An Indian family man, honest and scrupulous, burdened by responsibilities, a family, a stressful job, a British mistress! The time was pre-independence, the atmosphere was buzzing with anti-British sentiments, and the lead of the story was living right in the middle of it all. I couldn't wait to read the entire script. Of course, it would need editing, I may even have to add or remove a few characters, or exaggerate their roles according to my creative opinion. But the movie would be a super hit! The critics always loved these scripts set in the colonial past. The film would have a very decent International audience as well. Music releases, Premiere shows for the glitterati, press coverage, the Muhurat shot! The producers would pour indecent, nay vulgar amounts of money into this! Who should I get for the lead role? That tall star-son, with the super star father, and the drama queen wife, or that ridiculously popular mega star, who loves to stutter, with a violin in one hand and a sweater draped over his shoulders...Decisions, decisions, decisions.

noreply@blogger.com (Shrinivas Krishnamurthy) — Mon, 10 Sep 2007 15:27:00 +0000

Test rode the Pulsar 220 dts-Fi. Loved it. Awesome bike, loads of power, good torque delivery at moderate revs, perfect balance, rear discs are beautiful, looks good, not too gaudy, not dull either. The showroom guy tells us they have a waiting period of 2-2.5 months. That really sucks. The bike doesn't. If I had 90k to spend, I can think of no other bike to spend it on.