The Transparent Mirror

Google WDYL

2011-06-28T23:33:00.006+05:30

Google’s new service WDYL is now trending on twitter.

A visually rich web interface designed to deliver prime search results aggregated from various Google services such as Images, Maps, Blogs, Books etc. Although, the service is yet to be officially advertised WDYL promises to be Google Search Engine Evolution after its advertisement market received serious dent from rising social networks(read Facebook). Many market analysts and bloggers attributed the fall of market share of Google for lack of innovation in its primitive search approach. Does WDYL promises to be the answer Google critics were seeking?

The interface is signature of Google Search home page – stark white & plain. Given the user has no clue about the nature of service unless he uses the search to find out.

WDYL in its present avatar doesn’t really responds well to keywords of search.

Most of the results revealed are unrelated to the keyword. Even searching WDYL reveals very little or absolutely no results in some services of Google. In terms of performance, WDYL is still under development but the interface with results from all the services of Google in a single page may be the future of Google Search.

[Interestingly, during the time this article was being written, wdyl.com was not even ranked in the first page of Google Search]

Boeing Against the Blue

2011-06-21T02:48:00.000+05:30

Boeing Against the Blue Sky

At School

2011-06-20T01:35:00.010+05:30

Cane was used and abused at slightest of excuses like talking between the change of class periods, even though corporal punishment was outlawed years ago.
Cellphones were banned for students when teachers proudly paraded theirs, taking breaks even during academic sessions, to talk or check text. Many of them lacked even the decency of putting their phones to silent/vibration mode during classes.
Almost every teacher preached how students must work hard to accomplish everything they were not able to. Including voting during state and central assembly elections. I still remember Mrs.C who taught us CIVICS and confessed shamelessly never having exercised franchisee rights.
Some teachers thought they can put any argument to an end, simply by saying "Oh, so you think you know more than me?”
Every child was treated and taught in the same manner, while at times completely overlooking whether the child(even class) understood and grasped even a percentage of what was being taught. This was common, and it was up to the student to keep up with the rest of the class. Teachers who taught me felt and firmly believed, the competitive world demands and expects that students must struggle in order to excel. Just the cost of such struggles were often paid by students who failed to excel.
Rules of discipline were rigorously observed. Strict dress code, tidy hair, short nails etc. were punctually scrutinized. Those who passed were not rewarded but those who failed were severely reprimanded. An institution which claims and draws fee for instilling discipline has never and will never show any tolerance for anarchy. Conservative to the core, it inhibited change like the society it was serving. Freedom was discussed and debated, even understood and memorized by rote but seldom practiced.
In tenth standard, I was openly chastised for writing an essay in defense of homosexuality when the institution still believed it was only a form of mental aberration. Aftermath of that essay included sly jokes from class teachers who lewdly speculated my sexual preferences.
An anecdote written about the social struggle of an eunuch, was outrightly rejected by the school magazine without any cause or explanation. Later the Chief Editor, who also happened to teach me history called upon me and questioned the source of the story. I affirmed the story was an anecdote to the best of my knowledge to which I was told the school magazine cannot take responsibility to publish hearsay stories.

These and many similar observations, had made me indifferent towards idea of schools acting as institutions of social change. In school, I learnt change was dreaded so much that often if not always it was treated and greeted with denial, for sake of traditional time tested measures that held these institutions together for decades. Observations such as these, have resisted me from considering teaching as an option. I don’t think I can ever be like my teachers were.

Some of them were extraordinary and inspiring, yet there was a common thread of valuing the way of teaching more than education itself. I don’t believe any teacher should be under the impression that there is some set standard to teach and everyone in class must live up to that standard or perish trying. Yes, there is nothing wrong in expecting the best out of a student but there should be abundant variance in methods of teaching till the weakest child feels he/she’s part of the class. I have known teachers who just love practicing sycophancy where they select a few students, the ”Yes, Ma’am” & “Yes Sir!” lot who would do very little except everything their teacher asks or expects of them. Most students were either naïve or very smart, to figure out how to succeed with their teachers even if they learnt very little of what they should have at school. I understood, it was how the system at school works. Nowadays, it exist and operates only as a microcosm of the corporate world.

However I know, I was(still am) an anarchist at heart who valued(s) freedom more than rules. Rules that are usually written with good intent but practiced with shameless hypocrisy.

Three Years Too Long Too Late

2011-06-15T17:25:00.007+05:30

Don't part with your illusions. When they are gone, you may still exist, but you have ceased to live. - Twain

With only one exam left to go before I enter the final year of my graduation, I realize how almost three years have passed. Just like those terrible three years before them had. I would like to think the tough part is already over but am not sure if it is too early to make a remark like that.

I don't know. Have been too confused to talk about the future.

I finally know I have options open before me. Three years ago, there were no options, and I was literally willing to grab any straw to save my dying career from dying. No of course, I didn't have those brilliant visionary ideas which school dropouts convert into successful careers we read about. In simple perception, I was left without a way to walk on. And there was only this one tiny realization, I knew I could never become the student I was or wanted to be.

Although the scars of those nightmares are yet to heal.

I haven't proved anything yet.

Oh yes, I need to. Only to myself.

I am reading a lot more than I used to.

Measuring myself against every available opportunity I come across. It's not easy but it is required nevertheless. I have to stop believing I am meant to do everything I want to. Also, the fact - just because one can doesn't necessarily mean one should.

All I know, I am trying to get what is due of me for a little over three years now.

A little respect for self.

A PERCHED DRAGONFLY

2011-05-03T18:32:00.002+05:30

Insect on the Wire

Walk the Talk! - What’s that?

2011-05-02T22:04:00.003+05:30

We call them hypocrites. That indistinct breed of people who say one thing and end up doing something else, often the things they forbid others from doing because they say they would never do it themselves, but of course they do it nevertheless albeit discreetly. I remember reading somewhere how Al Gore once left his car on ignition while delivering a seminar on the dangers of global warming and indiscriminate use of non-renewable energy. Classic example!

In the last few years, many a times I too ended up doing what I said I never will or thought I never could. I have reversed many of my decisions concerning so many people. Ended up getting in touch with the very people I swore I would never even think of again. Now its not just human nature, but the lack of self control in minutes of emotional turmoil, does make you sound like a hypocrite.

I know such admissions affect credibility. Although by all signs, good and bad, I would be advised to save some small talk for my deathbed and yet I feel I should never have decided in such haste. I had taken some really bad decisions and I might again end up repeating my mistakes in future too. But at the same time I am trying to sober, why can't I stick to the decisions I have taken?

Fickleness, weak conviction, halfhearted decisions et cetra may be the keynotes, but the absence of a strong human will to overcome such emotional hazards is the primary cause. I realize I don't weigh the pros and cons of my decisions very well. In fact at times, I don't stop myself to think twice before taking decisions which can alter the very course of my life. It is a case of sheer callousness and the consequences of which if confronted some day, will be without any shade of doubt - devastating.

In lieu such developments, I have decided to rationalize every little matter I attend everyday. Whether I am talking to someone, thinking about something or just musing with my fantasies. Only after understanding the motive behind my day to day actions/reactions, I seek to realize - why I end up saying whatever I end up saying. It is funny because, there is nothing emotional in going about life this way. And I may probably end up learning nothing from this exercise but it is possible that I may salvage something like what-went-wrong-and-where kind. Worth a shot I say!

Of course, it isn't as easy as it sounds for doing so demands the discipline of the highest order. But one can always start by revising one’s memory and making sure that some avoidable mistakes don’t get second chances ever. Never forget what you say and try your best to say simple stuff which you’re least likely to forget. Avoid talking on subjects or matters which are forgettable and inane. Stick to stuff you believe and love the most, just so that you can remember saying them without making much effort.

And now, I am not making any sense because second to last sentence I got pinged by someone on Facebook and then on Gtalk. And so now after getting distracted by engaging with this friend of mine for about half an hour or so, I don’t even remember what I was writing about. Wait a second, was it about the great war between two alien planets over the last source of energy in the universe?

Seriously, was it?

Next?

2011-05-01T23:36:00.014+05:30

I am in, what I describe as the semi-final year of my graduation. A degree in Information Technology is not really an engineering degree. Unlike Civil or Mechanical, a B.Tech or B.E in the field of IT is more akin a elaborate and deliberately prolonged computer course. Even after three years, my university curriculum has failed to teach me anything practical. I feel a shade jaded and there is this mild misery in the tone with which I talk about my education. In a year from now when I graduate, I wonder what’s next?

TEACHING
Its not an option, strictly speaking, its more of a personal choice. And yes, unlike my peers, for me its not what I want to fall back to if I fail at everything else. It is something I have in the back of my mind since visiting various primary schools and experiencing the feeling of satisfaction teaching brings. It overwhelms me to see how much the approach to teaching has changed since my days at school. Nowadays kids are much more animated and aware. And generally speaking, they seem happier learning at school than the generation before them. Though I am not sure if I am meant for teaching, given the fact, I was a terrible student. But there is a tingling feeling within to teach by learning again what this mean world made me unlearn since I left school.

MBA
I am not the CAT material, even then I have selected a few post graduation colleges for MBA. Going for management, isn't one of my most well planned decisions but nevertheless I want to take the exams. Not for sake of it, but just to measure my own capacity for competitive exams. Having keenly followed Economics and Finance in the last one year or so, I do intend to go for a Masters in Finance, in a few years if not now.

JOB
The likeliest of all options that I have considered so far. However, the start in the industry seems a little obscure given my grades. As of now I have narrowed down my options to WEB DEVELOPMENT & NETWORKING, both are rich promising career options but Application Development in Android is a rapidly developing market which is likely to grow exponentially in coming years. I know I have to play with my strengths which are primarily restricted to WEB DEVELOPMENT but by the time I graduate, I should be able to master at least one of the many languages used in industry.

Presently, I am applying for late summer internships at a few places where I can find myself useful. Hoping to learn something during my semester break after the second week of June.

Over and Out

2011-04-23T07:04:00.006+05:30

Now, after little over a year, I decided to end what(now I feel) should never have started in the first place.

How it happened is more complicated than why it happened, so let me “let go” of the HOW and discuss the WHY. But then WHY will open the Pandora’s Box. And a lot of BECAUSE’s will jump out. Because of this and that, such and such things happened.

Or it must have been the Novikov’s Principle, which justified – it had to happen since it was meant to happen. Although walking away was a choice, not an option. Honestly, I had no energy left to support the bond that required patience and constant care. A lot more than I can imagine offering. Nevertheless, it could’ve been bright and beautiful, just like that dream I once wanted to believe it was.

Not anymore.

Unfurling With the Wind

2011-03-14T12:03:00.006+05:30

Flag of Incredible India Campaign at Upper Lake, Bhopal

How much, is too much?

2011-02-12T08:43:00.005+05:30

Typical mundane questions like that. Aaaargh!!!

She came up with the question tentatively,

"And how much do you love me?"

I froze for a second and then looked at her.

She smiled. I sighed and said,

"As much as I love salt! I can't have my day without you but too much of you makes life insipid!"

Now only if you understand what I mean.

Metro Glaze

2011-01-10T11:21:00.001+05:30

Metropolis in Motion

Universe, a decade ago..

2010-12-31T19:59:00.005+05:30

When stars converse, the spirit of the universe mumbles in cosmic harmony.

She stared pensively at the night sky. Her eyeballs glazed and glittered like the shiny stars she was staring at. She looked at the stars like a girl would look at a candy she can’t have. The night sky and the look in her eyes were mysteriously identical and seemingly idle.

I warily dangled my feet over the parapet. The moonless night sky was scattered with a multitude of tiny sparks. She sat over the parapet, her gaze fixed towards north. She wouldn’t even blink. I could never concentrate that hard. Rubbing my nose, I closed my eyes in a vague attempt imagine the sky and the elements within it.

“Over there!”

She jumped. Her finger pointed at the streak of a star shooting across the northern sky. In many moments that had passed since, the streak represented the only object of motion in the still sky.

“Stars don’t fall. It must have been a comet!”

I nodded without interest. She sensed and breaking the ice, murmured,

“Uhmm?”

“Amma says we’re there before we came here. You don’t believe that now, do you?”

“I do”

“But . . .”

“We’re somewhere far far away before we came here. All of us traveled a long way in order to find ourselves here.”

She went on to explain how she believes the universe may or may not be as vast as it appears to us. There are chances that the universe is only an insignificant fraction of a multi-verse which in turn is part of more multi-verses containing nearly identical and even parallel universes.

Listening to her talking about path breaking scientific researches in particle physics would spark intense fascination for the cosmos. Effortlessly, She would elucidate the origin of universe and all that in it and how they came into being. At eleven, I can’t say I could grasp all that I was subjected to. But the fact that I never understood a lot which was told to me, made me more restless and curious. I could sense but never realize the awe which the universe instills.

She would speak at will, then stop and stare at the sky, looking lost for a while only to remember she was still in a conversation. I observed her movement as minutely as she observed the universe. The movement of the eyeballs, her hands trying to mend the strands of hair falling across her face, the way she would hug her knees and rock herself in a rhythm, swinging in and out of the nothingness surrounding her.

Leaning against the parapet, I closed my eyes again. The bright stars dissolved in the cosmic kaleidoscope. Unseens lifeforms and balls of burning hydrogen moved lazily around me. And for the briefest of moments, I felt part of the universe and balked at the vastness it represented.

For once, there was peace and content in not understanding how the world is or was like.

To Whom It May Concern

2010-12-27T17:37:00.009+05:30

We were just acquainting when this acquaintance of mine asked me the same question as many acquaintances before her had.

“Are you always this formal?”

I smiled. I sighed.

I am not but I can pretend very well. Being formal is not being warm with people. I am, but not as much as I want to be. Also, I have a thing or two about being judged. One, I don’t like it. Two, I don’t – let’s just say feel very warm about it!

You don’t know me, probably never will and yet you have already passed the judgment. You think of me as this or that, and having placed me in one of your pre-established categories you have added more details with your own imagination. Now I won’t even care to blame you. This is what you are and I know you’re good at this. But you my dear, don’t have the slightest idea – how super or sick I can be! Yeah, I swing between wild extremes. But you wouldn’t know now, would you?

Of course there is more to me than meets the eye. But you won't see because you're not exactly looking, right? I don't mind. Not yet. Not until you decide to express yourself without understanding what you are about to say. And you out of all people out there, should know:

Your judgment is flawed. Your inferences lack clarity. Your perception has been deceived.

I won’t allow myself or my words in the open for grabs. I won’t let you in, unless I know I want to. Unless you know, I want to. Only then, we may talk and speak out heart and minds out. And also discuss our role and purpose for such deception. Now I am not trying to pretend what I am not. But I have to guard myself against being the person you think I am or must be.

Intend to pause abruptly here. Enough beans have been spilled.

Broken Nib!

2010-12-19T22:48:00.005+05:30

The title says it all. There have been times when I am not able to articulate my thoughts in words. Yes, officially the situation is referred to as the Writer’s Block but I put it as the Broken Nib Phase. The period when, no matter how hard you try, there is no coherence to your thoughts. The words used, don’t seem to mean anything apart from what they mean anyways. The sentences are out of order even to some extent influenced by thoughtless use of tenses. And most if not all punctuations are misplaced. The usually fast fingers tremble before they make up their mind to punch the letters of the board. The frown and frustration struggle to find expression in words. And thus, what first seems like a random phase and to some even a welcome interlude, becomes a stubborn and stagnant period of procrastination. And nothing but ink flows out of a broken nib.

But like all things which are never meant to last, broken nib wanes away. And with every written word, the writer’s heart elates. There is a glimmer of hope in the scribbled words when they start to mean something in a manner which the writer wishes them to mean. The coherence is spontaneous and natural. The sentence and syntax are exactly as one expects them to be. The fingers run uninterrupted. Heart skips a beat or two every now and then. The nib moves so rapidly that the ink can only leave a trace and not blot the paper.

It is about then, the writer falls in love with his own ability to express.

Of My Psyche & the Psyche of Scoring

2010-12-16T01:30:00.012+05:30

Being an average students so far in my academic life, primary as well as secondary school, my marks were never mentionable. I never excelled to find my name in the merit list. And not just that, I was never even amongst the top ten rankers of my class. But then it was never a cause of worry to me, not as much as it worried my mother and her cronies (even relatives).

However, I have met people throughout my life who didn't shy from making faces after learning about my academic record. It is what I can only describe as the oh-I-thought-you’re-smarter look. Even their extremely depressing reactions were never enough to put me in a spot of bother. But it did make pretty frightful preachers of them.

My problem was a tad different than they comprehended or assumed in their ignorance. I never chased or cheated marks. Oh yes, for a fact I never had. I always presumed, and I still do, that marks should not be the only criteria of evaluating students. There is more to a student than what meets our eyes by scanning the details of his/her report card. But nevertheless, the world continues to judge on the principle of marks and still stubbornly determines quality on the basis of percentage of marks.

Back at school, I never made notes which my teachers dictated like dictators did. In that same time and space, when everyone around me was born a scribe; lifting their heads only to hear their teacher and then diving back into their notebooks to scribble without worry or thought. Also, they would use a variety of color pens to decorate their notes and would neatly sparkle the points dictated as important from examination point of view. In the same class it was not unusual for my teacher to find me sitting blank with a ball point pen refill and hastily torn page from the centre of the notebook. I never took notes. Never had them with me when others stood in a queue to get theirs corrected. In every notebook of my classmates, I would seldom be surprised or even shocked, to find “good” and “very good” next to the sign of the teacher. It was a sign of compliment. I never had any compliments to show when they proudly paraded theirs.

The remark in the report card read “disobedient”. A trait for which I was routinely caned. For nineties was the era when many forms of corporeal punishment were still very much in practice. Human Rights were distant noise of the west and were relatively unheard of back home. More often than not, I submitted mutely. After all it was my fault that I was not maintaining the discipline of the institution where I was sent to instill the same. My father was often embarrassed in the Parent-Teacher Meetings. He would feel guilty and responsible; he would complain if there was anything he had not done for me. For all his efforts and expenses, he never understood what he had done to deserve this. It would hurt me a little but I didn’t change very much. I felt bad because I couldn’t change.

But by high school, I was still struggling to come to terms with the psyche of scoring. Yes, it would be reasonable and occasionally right to say the students who were ahead of me by margin of marks were indeed better pupils. Many of them were smart, but most if not all, were street smart. I am talking about the lot who scored well in exams but never learnt the concepts of the subject. Any question which had no reference in the book they prescribed, would give them a tough time. And they would waste no time in declaring, how the question was out of syllabus only because the book they had mugged up had no reference of the question. I would listen to their arguments, when they refused to share their precious notes. They had put in a lot of efforts to prepare their notes, they would say and I wondered if their understanding of “efforts” were their skill at writing dictations. I never counter argued or asked them for their notes.

Later when I discussed with some friends how generic answers fetched marks but those written in their own words would largely be ignored or in some extreme cases even be mistakenly penalized and marked as wrong answers, some practical conclusions were drawn.

We understood a lot of examiners who also happened to be subject teachers, were very well versed with the notes they distributed or dictated. While going through the answer scripts of students, they preferred answers whose veracity, they already were very sure of. In this case, that would be their own. This conclusion was drawn by estimating the average time which an examiner spends in going through an answer script. The time was limited and so were the number for people examining the answer scripts. So given the tedious nature of the task, they had the liberty to overlook unfamiliar answers that they judged were not related to the question; Answers which were not same to their own. Now we didn’t generalize this conclusion for all the subjects, mathematics was of course an understandable exception.

Diagrams accompanying or assisting any answer had to be accurate. Incorrect diagrams would easily mislead the examiner to conclude, the answer describing the diagram was incorrect as well. This was easy as most if not all, cases will agree to their conclusion. But again, the conclusion sidelines cases which should have been otherwise judged by the merit of their entire content and not just the diagram.

Neatness in answering was always counted as a bonus. In fact a lot of question papers framed, explicitly mentioned neatness would not go under appreciated and marks will be appropriately awarded for neat work. Now nothing personal, but I happen to know examiners who couldn't tell apart a wrong answer from a neat answer. Neatness can be misused as a decoy to hide unrelated out of context answers. Yet I am not saying students who are neat with their handwriting are unscrupulous but those who are not blessed with a good handwriting, should be judged by their content and not their efforts at neatness.

Many things said, for reason like these and more, I was never at ease with the system my school or the establishment that ran it, followed. And from various inputs gathered from students of different schools, I concluded the model practiced by my school is almost universal. The Psyche of Scoring Marks governs every aspect of teaching, learning and thereafter appearing for exams. Aptitude and understanding are words relatively unknown and provenly unwanted. Because for a fact, marks for the masses comes at an irreparable cost of overlooking individual merit of those who have it in them.

You remember? Don't You!

2010-12-04T23:19:00.007+05:30

It wasn't such a bad start as you pretend to believe today. It was after all your first day at school.

You stood clutching the wrought iron gates of St. Mary’s Kindergarten. You stood with little droplets of water trickling down your cheeks. Transfixed, you longed to discover a familiar face. Yes you, for once honestly longed for family.

Your friends played with swings and slipped over sand. They would make clay castles and print new patterns by dipping Lady’s Finger in water colors. They would shout and fight with unreasonable passion. They would sit huddled, walk in a loose line and be friends again. They would catch their ears when they were sorry. They would not shy from doing sit-ups when punished.

You didn't bother to join them. Instead you cried like a baby who wanted to find himself in his mother’s arms.

Yes, that wretched woman who fed you milk every day, wiping your wet lips with her napkin. And dressed you up like a prince for as long as she could remember, you were still a prince to her. She would wait with/for you at bus stop. Every time her hands released your wrist, her heart would skip a beat. And she would naively wonder, how safe or kind the world would be to his ward.

You stepped in the bus flooded with similarly dressed peers of your age. Your eyes wandered and wondered. You knew nobody and nobody knew you. You gaped at everyone, with curious kohl eyes. You don’t remember saying anything to them because you didn’t like strangers. You still don’t.

When you followed everyone out of the bus, you were made to stand in a line. A grim seasoned aunt, later introduced as your teacher, forced you to walk after others. You remember how instinctively and intensely you hated her. She, after all, didn’t treat you like a prince.

With every passing minute, time began to stretch. You stared outside the door towards the tall wrought iron gates. And as soon as the class was dismissed for recess, you ran as fast as you could for the gates dragging your satchel, when others preoccupied themselves with merry making. You cried. You sobbed. You forgot your handkerchief was still stapled to your shirt. You had never used it to wipe tears.

Then out of nowhere, He came. As if, your prayers were answered. He stood outside the gate, nervously parking his scooter. He smiled at you and so did you. Jumping on your feet you cried,

“ BABA! ”

Anger & I

2010-11-10T03:58:00.002+05:30

Expressed this a long long time ago here.

Did I sound angry while saying all that I said then?

I wonder.

Come to think of it, the view is little individualistic. Unlike adversities, anger is not known to bring the best out of people. I'm talking about people in general, exceptions like Marat Safin always lead us to think elsewise, yet they are exceptions. Marat Safin, the russian tennis ace, grunts, growls and breaks 2-3 tennis racquets before clinching an impossible victory after falling behind in one or more sets.

Anger of any explicit nature should best be avoided. Even one should refrain from gritting his/her teeth, just to avoid any signs of frustration!

"anger needs to be controlled, but one has to vent it."

Wonderful! But whom do you want to vent it unto? Most people vent it out in all the wrong places. A drunkard quarrels with his helpless wife, beats her because he can't beat the bar-tender if he is refused a drink, he cannot pay for! A father scolds his child for no reason at all, because he can't say the same foul words to his boss who has kept him under so much stress.

Anger robs most of us, with the basic sense of reason. In the heat of moment, we blabber out heart out and surrender all our private opinions. Something we more than often regret only a few seconds later, just when the realisation sinks.

You are right, none of us chooses to ignore our frustrations. For example, "Moral Policing" makes most of us writhe with bottled rage, but we're afraid to protest. If we are mute, it doesn't imply we're rocks. But as individuals, fear sustains over our anger! Then and only then we are to be blamed for not having enough courage to agitate...

And as far as love is concerned, it conquers everything. Anger has always served as a parameter for love. The fact that my sister scolded me when I used the F*** word, the first and the only time before her, was a proof that she loves me, she cares!

Unless you convince me, I stand a little distant to your opinion about "Anger".

p.s. all written outta impulse..sounds more like a commentary and less like a comment!

A Different Kind of Travelogue

2010-11-08T13:45:00.038+05:30

Amazing how time can dull one’s wit and other abilities such as writing.

I was twelve when I wrote my first journal. Then, I had written something about my growing dissent towards my mother’s unsuccessful attempts to dominate almost every sphere of my life. The prose was naïve, scribbled without thought and full of rants of an angry, annoyed adolescent.

At twelve, I was at liberty to express honestly what I felt, exactly how I felt. Then, I had the benefit of forgiveness being innocent. And thus, without fear and with desire, I would write pages after pages and sit in one corner of a large empty room reading them. That would be the quiet room of Sunday school.

By the time I was thirteen, my ambitions got better the of me. I wanted to script my own novel. I had a story in my mind about ghost(s), time travelling objects, supernatural elements and the plot was inspired by a graphic novel I had finished reading a week ago. But after writing the first three chapters, I became disillusioned with the story which was beginning to stretch only because I intended to novelize it. I left it unfinished.

I was fifteen when began reading poetry. By reading poetry, I mean an upgrade from Christina Rossetti to John Donne. It was not until a few months after that, I began composing my own. Free verses as they were, randomly alluring to romance, death and similar subjects. But then the realization dawned to me, I was never any good at it. And so I retired back to prose, keeping my words as simple as I can.

Seventeen, when I came across a now obsolete domain of a girl who didn’t believe in karma. Prudent and clever, her blog was something very different from anything I had read before. Though the content, by and large was very personal in nature, yet there were elements about it one can relate simply because her ideas and emotions were written with elegance.

Almost immediately I decided, I wanted to blog. It was an instant urge, fueled by my desire to express. But at the same time I wanted to design the way my blog looked. Now it seems a little foolish of me to think I can learn everything. Because I could never convince myself, no matter how hard and passionately you try, you can never know everything about anything.

The Transparent Mirror (oxymoron?!, yeah) was born. And not because the title sounded cool, ahem yes I mean that too, but the two words while referring to what is more commonly known as the two way mirror, projected my own inhibitions about knowing more about people and saying very less if at all, about myself.

When I began blogging, I knew everything I had to say would be read, referred, debated, contested and remembered. I wanted to avoid controversies and at the same time, I had no intentions of blogging about my personal life. So I started surfing for inspiration as to how to write in a manner acceptable to others as well as myself. And over the years, I stumbled upon blogs by some of the most amazing writers in blogosphere.

As I read them, as often as I could, I would marvel how amazing their life must be offline. And it all seemed very surreal to me then. Strangers just like me, blogging about life, feelings and many amongst them blogged with conspicuous anonymity.

Today I happen to know a few of them, and I am very lucky and proud that I do. They've shared with me some invaluable insights about their experiences in life. I have learnt, amongst other things, the power we lend when we share stories about our life. About our priorities in life. About our failures and how to overcome the same using our god-given wits and wisdom.

If not happy, I am content that I am part of their world as insignificant as I may be, I still matter.

Meanwhile, sadly my own efforts to write something. anything were miserable. I had nothing to say anymore. Intimidated? well yes a bit but primarily because of my increasing indulgences in other worldly pursuits which kept me from blogging. But I feel it is about time I return where my heart is. The place I yearned to return for sometime now. Here.

The journey is yet to end, I am still wandering and I still desire to express my ideas no matter how insignificant or unimportant it may be to you. I shall hereby write for my sanity and your pleasure if you find any.

Love,
Titash

Impressions of Innocence

2010-07-04T11:17:00.000+05:30

Asking Eyes

ENTANGLED

2010-06-04T11:10:00.000+05:30

That which binds, also severs - Kavitha D

Apathy Shared . .

2010-06-02T13:35:00.010+05:30

I wrote this letter about a few months ago to a friend.

P_____,

About our conversation, earlier -- truth is -- I would have continued if it hadn't been for my class. But as I already remember telling you - I couldn't forget a word about it!

It is your anger - I want to throw some light on. You don't like your friends at college and too an extent - neither do I. Not all of them. In first semester, my engineering chemistry teacher called me up and compared my mid semester answer-sheet with a girl from another branch, who has apparently scored the highest marks in first year.

It was a beautiful answer-sheet. Neatly written wrong answers. I felt like a dumbass but still decided to make a point to tell her that the girl has not answered the significance of the process of ozonization and instead explained the process itself.

She was outraged!

** whoa! how can you criticize something I appreciated **

She went on barking what a total cynic I am. Instead of appreciating her efforts in neatness and long answering - I am too busy at finding faults.

That day I felt I was at loss. I was too proud before to see the way things go around here. And I probably deserved nothing better because to my horrible MPPET score.

But on retrospect, she was right!

The real world is much different than the one I left behind in my school.

And here are some basic facts :-

* Impertinent long answers fetch marks no matter how wrong they are.

* Never question the teacher. If she fails to come up with an answer, she might probably be under the impression that you're trying to outsmart her in front of her class.

* Invisible people play safe - they are too concerned about their own spaces. Never involve them when you decide to protest. They abandon ship faster than they get on board.

* People around are not comfortable with rational reasons or conversations. Avoid having any!

* Pretend you're attentive to every word coming at you. Smile weakly to show you're confused. Impress her that you are the dumbest doof of the planet and she is the Lord of All Creation.

Rest of the facts you'll figure out as you move on. .And I'll pray you would.

regards,
Titash

Hiatus

2010-05-07T12:30:00.006+05:30

The Transparent Mirror is online again!

After almost a year, I realized I need my space back. The space I so affectionately carved for myself few years ago. Then, the very look of it was a source of infinite pleasure. Now I want to replenish the feelings I had then. Let’s see …

Moving back to Blogger from Wordpress was not an option in a strict sense. It was more like, I didn’t really had time to maintain the blog I hosted there. Beside, despite consistent assistance from my generous host, I couldn’t prevent my ftp account from being hacked every now and then. Until, I got tired and returned here, the place I felt I belonged.

I tried transferring the posts back to Blogger but not without loss of comments and post time-stamps. I have re-published them again. I had no choice. The loss however insignificant, is irreparable.

As of now, I intend to write again like I used to. I want to express that which I absorb from my everyday life. So if you're a former reader or just someone who has stumbled upon my blog, drop by and make your presence felt.

Yours,
Titash

CROSSWORDS

2010-05-04T10:55:00.003+05:30

Crosswords Book Store

Wizard Of Words

2010-05-01T23:10:00.000+05:30

Like everybody else of class V, Typical T was impressed by his new English teacher.

Mr. Singh was the kind of person who believed and exemplified - brevity of language. The kind who won’t use three words where one will do. He taught a class of students, a majority of whose mother tongue was not English. So his pupils came to look upon him as someone who didn’t boast yet possessed a vocabulary far richer than any teacher who had ever taught them before. Some of them understood Mr. Singh as an excellent teacher, others including Typical T - an underemployed talent who most certainly didn’t deserve teaching fifth grades. Nevertheless, he drew unenviable admiration not only from the students but also from his colleagues in the staff room.

"I don't recall offering the license to talk!” a line Mr. Singh used for silencing a noisy class the day he first entered it. The class fumbled and mumbled to comprehend what he meant. In another instance when Sachin raised his hand to seek permission to go to the toilet, he jocularly dismissed him, "Mr. Nair please! Don't deny yourself the privilege of attending the call of nature."

So like no teacher prior to him, in a very short span of time, Mr. Singh acquired cult status. Literally overnight his students became his fans. Behind his back, his teachings and speeches were imitated to great effect by his worshippers. To them, he soon became their God.

"I reckon he knows each and every word of the dictionary", Sachin proclaimed emphatically.

"Nobody knows all the words of the dictionary", Typical T countered half-heartedly, "I mean, how can you say for sure?"

Typical T was an atheist who didn't think very highly of God or people who were conferred similar status. He, though impressed, was skeptic of the extent of Mr.Singh's vocabulary. For every Vth standard student, Oxford English Dictionary was one of the thickest books they remember consulting then, that to very occasionally. The chances of anyone knowing all the words of the dictionary were not only remote but unimaginable.

"I bet he knows all the words of the dictionary!”

Sachin rephrased his proclamation and Typical T decided to test his teacher and their God. One fine afternoon after Mr. Singh's class, Typical T followed him to the gents’ staff room. Being shy, he waited outside for a while and then ventured to seek permission to come in.

"Excuse me Sir; I wanted to have a word with you."

Mr. Singh gestured him to come in. Typical T walked to his desk and waited again in patience.

"Yes?"

"Sir, I was wondering what the word nostalgia exactly means?"

He had prepared his part well. For hours, he had scanned the dictionary to find a word he thought very few people have ever heard of and fewer knew what it meant. When he stumbled upon Nostalgia, he realized how different and difficult its pronunciation was. Also what the word meant seemed so contrary to what it sounded like. Positive about the outcome, he decided to choose it for the test.

"Nostalgia is a feeling best described as yearning of a period from one's past."

Mr. Singh effortlessly explained without even wasting a second to think. At first, Typical T felt numb. His teacher had just place the pin on the point. He was indeed God. He felt much like a born again Christian who had just sensed the dawn of realization.

"Where did you come across this word?” Mr. Singh enquired curiously.

"I . . .”

Typical T was too overwhelmed to answer. He had not considered the situation he was in now. He was nervous and when nervous he was usually honest. Still quite bewildered, he admitted shyly.

"Sir, I really didn't think you knew what the word meant."

Saying so he fled as fast as he could, leaving Mr. Singh in fits of laughter.

An Unusual Favour

2010-04-30T23:07:00.000+05:30

That night at half past eleven, I found myself trying to grab the attention of the salesman of a crowded chemist shop. After couple of futile efforts, I yawned re-reading my prescription.

“I won’t need the sleeping pills.” I told myself and mentally cancelled the entry. Sachin, who was already regretting for agreeing to accompany me to the shop, was becoming steadily restless.

“How long?” he snapped. I shrugged uncertainly.

Our turn came earlier than expected. The salesman had dexterously disposed the needs of our predecessors. He took a careless look at my prescription and produced the drugs in a flash out of the drawer next to the counter.

“That would be nineteen rupees!”

“I would require a bill”, I said suggestively.

“Bill? It is only nineteen rupees”, he repeated bluntly.

“Still”, I insisted.

“Then you’ll have to wait”, he brushed me aside for the person who was next in queue.

“What do you need the bill for?” Sachin nearly shouted out of sheer irritation.

I explained to him how my father who works in a pharmaceutical company might be reimbursed with a certain percentage of the money he or any of his family members invest in medicine.

“But it is only nineteen rupees!” He wouldn’t stop wondering why the hell I was bothering for such a small amount. Then, I tried to make him understand how asking for a bill makes sure that the tax reaches to our government and so on and so forth. Actually I was enjoying Sachin’s irritation which was going up like a continuous curve on the global warming graph.

It was around this time; Sachin gave up arguing with me and looked across the counter, where a labourer had the salesman engaged. He was having great difficulty in asking what he wanted. He spoke in a lingo which did not have a single native word. His eyes strayed from one cabinet of medicine to another and he seemed embarrassed and afraid to point at what he wanted. The salesman tried his best to help him but failed.

Sachin, who was following the proceedings very keenly, looked at me and smiled. I smiled back at him. The labourer, when he caught us smiling at each other, looked distraught and left without buying or saying anything.

I didn't feel good about that. Conscience stung in remorse and then acted without losing another moment to contemplation. I rushed past the counter and gestured at the salesman. After realizing what I had asked for, he looked at me again.

“That!” he pointed just to make sure if I indeed wanted that.

“You’ve a problem.” I shot back tersely.

Almost snatching the packet from his hand, I ran after the labourer who was waiting to cross the road. Stopping the stranger, I placed the packet on his palm and before his eyes met mine, I was gone.

Strolling back to the shop, I found Sachin and the salesman sharing a laugh.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Sachin asked, suppressing his smile.

“That’s it! I wasn’t thinking while I was doing it.” I said, still preoccupied over what I just did.

The salesman who had settled all the customers waited to speak to me.

“You still need the bill?”

“No I don’t. Not tonight.”

I paid him his due and after that we left.