As usual one fine morning, I had gone down for breakfast at my hotel. All was fine, the hostaged MLA had still not been released and Dada had come back once again. I looked around and saw that my breakfast had to be had alone that day also. So, I was peacefully munching on the fruits and the cornflakes. Trying not be greedy, not to be hungry, not to touch that fried kachori which was just screaming at me to give meaning for it’s existence.

And just as I was going through the desserts, trying to select which was the only one I was going to eat, the chef suddenly appeared before me. With a smile, he asked me whether I wanted to order anything special. Now, being the ‘kind’ guy I thought I was, I also decided to humour him and asked him what does he have on offer. He again showed off all of his teeth like the stars in a dark night sky and said “Dosas hai. Aur Eggs bhi hai“.

And then Universe decided to play in and suddenly reminded me of my amma and the way she used to cook eggs. Fondly recalling them and remembering amma calling them as Half-boil, I asked him for Half-boiled eggs and not for one side. Now, it was not only her, but also my wonderful Madurai which had reinforced the half bayal in me. So, promptly in my broken hindi, I tried to tell him all I knew about half-boiled eggs. The chef happy that he had finally something erstwhile to do, promptly dispatched all of his minions onto this quest.

Spurned on by this act of deliberate consumerism, I promptly decided to guzzle in all that I could. With surgical precision, I began tasting all that was available within my reach. When I was immersed in the Murgh-ki-Shattabdhadhiⁱ, the chef came to me and said that the “Sirji, aapka eggs ready hai”. I nodded and after filling my plate, proceeded towards my table.

It was then that I noticed, quite a group of people surrounding my table. All discreetly trying not to see, but quite obviously trying to get the view.ⁱⁱ. So, intrigued I returned to my table, now surrounded by probably all of the people working in the restaurant at that moment.

And there waiting for me were two perfect round white eggs. Two round white eggs with their virgin shells untouched. I looked at them for quite some time and still unable to grasp the significance of them being there, I turned to the chef. He with a smile said, “Sir, Half boiled eggs”.

And I laughed. Laughed for quite some time. Enforced by the ancient laws of hospitality my hosts also began to laugh / smile / gesticulate along, as if wanting to prove that they too had a sense of humor. After calming myself, I then asked the chef How am I supposed to eat these.

With a huge sense of relief, like constrained water breaking out of a dam, he then blurted out,”Vahi Sir. Ham logon bhi isko socha, ki aap isko kaise kaayengi”ⁱⁱⁱ.

I did occur to me then to take on the challenge of consuming the half-boiled eggs, but sanity prevailed and I abandoned them. Now, I could abandon the eggs just like that, but the chef was still expectantly waiting. Waiting for me to show him how to make my version of half-boiled eggs.

So, with the entire flock at the hotel waiting and watching expectantly, I walked up to the chef’s table. Donned his apron and then trusting my newly-acquired culinary skills prepared to create the half-boiled eggs.

I broke one egg open on the floor. Spilt a considerable amount of oil not on the pan. And then, with great amount of co-ordinated work I finally managed to have those two yellow eyes look at me from the pan. With a considerable amount of pride that I’ve taught a chef in a star-hotel something new, I turned towards him.

He simply said “Par sir, ye to Fried eggs hai”^iv. And then he smiled.

They overlooked me for the best guest prize.

I have spoken

1. I was quite intrigued by it’s nomeclature
2. Now, I know that I’m famous and all, but I did think that the probability of me having a set of fans in Orissa was a little bit too much for the universe to conjure up out of nowhere
3. Translated for the Shivas out there – We also thought the same sir. How you were going to eat these
4. Again Translated – But sir, these are fried eggs.

It was sometime around in the afternoon – when stomachs are generally full and when the tidings of the day are already established. When you already know what kind of day it is going to be.  When you simply stop fighting against the tide and get amalgamated in whatever fabric the people around you have already knit for you.

I did not want it to happen. I did not want to hear that voice , which would burst the momentary bubble of happiness that I had somehow managed to concoct around me. The bubble which had stopped the tremendous revulsion that my heart launches into every now and then just by thinking of the sheer implausibility of the task in front of me.

I did not want the albeit thin nearly non-existent thread that I was desperately clinging to for my happiness cut. But somehow, somewhere perhaps by chance or a sheer mathematical union of two improbable permutations I knew it won’t work out. It was too good, too simple, too comfortable to last for long.

I was looking at my phone hoping against hope that it would choose to be silent as our learned PM and simply refuse to stand up to whatever occasion it might be put to task.

And then, just when the share market indexes started to begin yet another whimsical descent, just when some part of my grey cells began to contemplate that both of us might have actually worked it out, just when the cells in my body started to hope against despair, the damn phone  just worked.

The jarring ringtone slashed through my world of calm, like a loud, noisy serial that your apartment neighbors feel very vital to watch just when you put on some floyd.

I let it ring for some five seconds. Knowing, that eventually I had to spark of a voluntary movement to stop that unstoppable ring. Knowing, that all the elaborate gothic castles that I had built would now simply crumble and turn to useless rumble. Knowing, that a single uttering of two of the letters in the english alphabet could burn away my happiness.

In some weird, severed from my consciousness version of events, my hand moved across the entire mass of dense molecules which were resisting it’s movement towards the phone and lifted it.

I could hear her voice at the other end. Every tissue in my body was vibrating to some random frequency that entropy had spurned and every tissue was listening.

And all she said was ‘No’.
That was all she said.

And then added ‘It still shows the same error, sir.’

It was yet another normal day at technical support. And then with a grimace, I again started my search for an answer. Knowing, that I cannot give up. Knowing, that I will not give up.

Ipse Dixit
I have spoken.

Photo Courtesy: Kira Sams

One day, on yet another random whim,
The wind just picked up him
And together they were
Just together, they were.

And for a while, the crow just flew
through sunshine, moonlight and fresh dew
But some part of him always knew
Things were too good to be true.

Then one day the wind asked him why
But all the crow knew was to fly
What could he tell if asked why.

A million dreams, a thousand hopes
The crow did not desire.
All he wanted was a smile here, a glimpse there.
And All he wanted was to just fly.

Would the wind have stayed if he said why
Was he good enough forever, And if so,
How far would he go, How far could he go
Before realizing he was sure he couldn’t be sure.

In the end, because he couldn’t tell why
And because he couldn’t lie.
He couldn’t even cry. He just had to fall down and die.
Just because, he wanted to fly and see her smile.

Crow Breakfast – Courtesy Alex Hutch

25th January, 2012.
Gautham.

It’s called Devil’s Kettle. Because, no explanation exists till date as to where all the water goes.

Quote from Geology on Display: Geology and Scenery of Minnesota’s North Shore State Parks-

Not only is the outlet unknown, but there is currently no satisfactory geological explanation for the Devil’s Kettle. Certainly riverbed potholes are known to form from rocks and grit swirling in an eddy with such force that they eventually drill a vertical shaft in the bedrock. How the flow is conducted away laterally, however, remains enigmatic. As geologist John C. Green writes:

One [theory] is that, after dropping down the pothole, the river runs along a fault underground, or as a variant, that it enters an underground channel and comes out somewhere under Lake Superior. Both of these ideas have one valid aspect in common: they recognize that water must move downhill! But the main problem is creating a channel or conduit large enough to conduct the impressive flow of half the Brule River! Faulting commonly has the effect of crushing and fracturing the rock along the fault plane. This could certainly increase the permeability of the rock – its capacity to transmit water – but the connected open spaces needed to drain half the river would be essentially impossible, especially for such a distance. Furthermore, there is no geologic evidence for such a fault at the Devil’s Kettle. Large, continuous openings generally do not occur in rocks, except for caves in limestone terranes. The nearest limestone is probably in southeastern Minnesota, so that doesn’t help… Maybe the Devil’s Kettle bottoms out fortuitously in a great lava tube that conducts the water to the Lake… Unfortunately for this idea, they are not the right kind of volcanic rocks! Rhyolites, such as the great flow at this locality, never form lava tubes, which only develop in fluid basaltic lava. Even the basalts in this area may not be the “right kind”, being flood basalts that spread laterally as a sheet from fissures, not down the slopes of a volcano. No lava tubes have been found in the hundreds of basalt flows exposed along the North Shore. Furthermore, the nearest basalt is so far below the river bed, and even if it did contain an empty lava tube (very unlikely after its long history of deep burial) the tube would have to be both oriented in the right direction (south) and blocked above this site so that it isn’t already full of debris. And there are no reports of trees or other floating debris suddenly appearing at one spot offshore in Lake Superior.

The mystery persists.
Peace.

There still are things that we can find out.

Ipse Dixit
I have spoken

For the quest to define something, to understand something is meaningless, as the moment after which I had understood the system, the definition will change. The definition can only hold true only for the past. For change can be so huge and so strange that you cannot predict it.

In order to define something, you are going to need a reference set. This reference set can be so varied and so diverse that trying to find something which makes sense along the entire spectrum is practically impossible.

This is where our perception of reality in life steps in.

Life is what we perceive and what we consider to be from a particular reference.

In my search of meaning, I wish that I don’t loose track of my reference set. The normal, inane things that we as a society respect and value – good deeds, good nature and naturally loads of money.

It is very important that I don’t loose this perspective. That I don’t loose my attachment with this small thread that connects me to some point in this world – which when I’m tethered too creates at least some meaning. Else, just floating in this huge sea of cosmic infinity will be endless and meaningless.

Life is meant to be enjoyed. Life is meant to be lived. Life is meant to be taken in full drags.

Therefore, how do you define 42. You cannot. The moment you do, it is no longer 42.

Ipse Dixit
I have spoken

The back summary claims this :

” Book 2 of the Shiva trilogy takes up from the point where Shiva is dashing to save Sati at the end of The Immortals of Meluha. Does he succeed? His archenemy seems to be winning every encounter. All Shiva knows for sure is that the Chandravanshis aren’t evil. But then, neither are the Suryavanshis. So who or what is evil? And who is the mysterious Naga that stalks his family? What does he want? What is The Secret of the Nagas? “

Except for the identity of the mysterious Naga no other questions are answered. ‘The Secret of the Nagas’ remains a pretty ordinary second out of three books. The plot is developed further. The lands are explored more. The characters depth is increased. It’s pretty decent and manages to hold you on to the script.

As I’ve already explored in my review of the first book, the main point to celebrate these books is the fact that Amish has opened up possibly a new and exciting genre of Indian fiction. I’m pretty confident that this will trigger a rush of books exploring the human counterparts of every imaginable Indian god – which, to be frank tends to infinity.

And imagine having a movie – with Rajnikanth starring as Shiva

Shiva still doesn’t give up Marijuana. He still loves Sati. He is now more open and receptive to different perceptions and accepts the fact that he can make mistakes. This is where Amish triumphs. He has somehow managed to portray all the mythological characters we grew up with as humans. He has managed to breathe flesh and blood into yarns of yore. And he made those characters human and believable, someone you can visualize sharing the world we live with. All the characters are shown to have a human side and not just all-seeing, all-powerful gods. There is a logic underlying the entire story.

I love the way Amish manages to inter wine the different mythological characters that we recognize with Shiva into his epic. While he maintains a huge degree of coherence, the story does have some logical fallacies.

One huge question that a lot of people seems to be posing is the premise that Ram existed before Shiva. This falls because Raavanan, the king of Lanka was known to be a ardent devotee of Lord Shiva.

He has also managed to take digs at the real world. In fact, the book has a collection of stunning profound truths. Some of the things that come to my mind immediately are the idealistic Meluhans aka Communism in it’s perfect form. How despite efficiency the freedom of a person to live his life as he wants and how he looses respect is portrayed.

While there is nothing special about Amish’s writing style – it is plain and ordinary. This might be the very fact that has driven such huge sales of his book. More so, that it has gained mainstream acceptance and acts as another brilliant ambassador of Indian writing.

Overall, ‘the Secret of the Nagas’ continues the good job done by first book. The tale is engrossing and enthralling. While not a classic, the Shiva trilogy is certainly a must read and a showpiece of the growth in Indian writing.

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This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books!

Thanks Blogadda for giving me a free copy of ‘the Secret of the Nagas’

Ipse Dixit
I have spoken

In a nutshell, the book assumes that Shiva was some rajnikanthish hero who lived ages ago and did enough deeds that he transcends the border between myths and legends into godly reverence. And I find no reason to think this to be impossible.

That is the main aspect which makes the book so enthralling – myths and stories about Lord Shiva with which you grew up suddenly fall together in one ultimate grand story of a great hero with all bollywood style masala added in. Amish has crafted a masterpiece with character drawn from our rich mythology to produce an engrossing epic.

The characters are all human enough. Shiva as per legend smokes up a lot and even does a Bob Marley sometimes. Shiva not only does that but he also makes mistake, makes hasty decisions, falls haplessly in love and other things.

While Amish’s writing style is not too word worthy, just the manner in which he has managed to entwine the entire Shiva associated stories in one grand epic is astounding. His writing style is simple, direct and plunges straight into the action. In the process, he has managed to create an entire new branch of fiction. He deserves all the attention the book is getting.

I especially love the Har Har Mahadev explanation.

There are still a lot of logical inconsistencies. The language could have been way way better. More thought could have been given towards the writing style. This is no classic. But this is a must read.

I’m just crossing my fingers that this triggers an explosion of books celebrating our mythology.

Ipse Dixit
I have spoken

Will be updating more on the trilogy, as soon as I’m done with the second book.

For 22 long years you have been the place I called home.

I’ve walked among the dust-filled roads, braved the sweltering heat, found joy in roaming the crowded city, fell in love with our own brand of tamil. You have equally frustrated me, embraced me and nourished me. And sometime later today, I’l be moving away from you.

I’ll terribly miss

• those roads which taught me driving and caring for people’s life
• The fact that there are no traffic rules
• The buffaloes that could cross, the donkeys which would walk and the elephants which always choose to take a casual stroll whenever I want to get to someplace in a hurry.
• The Parotta-kadais, the juice kadais, kumar mess, the konar kadai, the manga-kadais, our meenakshi bazaar, the karumbu juice kadai
• the sheer number of temples that you seem to surprise me with yet somehow grant secret knowledge to my mother alone
• My teacher’s at school, at college – for teaching me stuff, for making me learn and sometimes for simple making me laugh.
• the libraries – the only place where it was impossible to find a crowd
• My school, the wonderful people in it.
• My college and the people it’s made up of.
  Feels strange calling both of them my alma mater
• the vanthaapula and vanthaainga
• the sheer beauty of twinkling lights in the Vaigai AV bridge
• the fact that our famous river is never a river of water. Heck, I still loved watching our own purebred horses race in it’s green grass.
• the Race course, the numerous football grounds where we fought to not loose and heck, even score a goal on debut.
• the theatres – which had the most insane crowds, the first days
• the thiruparankundram kamma, the anna poonga, the tvs ground
• the sheer cooling effect of a jil-jil-jigarthanda
• The music – the loud music. the madurai kuthu paatu and how you developed my taste in music from Mozart to Metallica.
• the wonderful people who will not hesitate to give a opinion on anything under the sun even if they don’t know a thing about it
• the no-word-would-suffice-as-an-adjective group of friends you gave me – I could almost call anywhere in madurai “enga area “
• the chance to meet so much people who have shaped me up into what I am today

So, thank you Madurai. Thank you for everything
You may have had flaws, you were not clean, you were too hot, you were too crowded – but you were my home. And I’ll love you and miss you.
You will always be my first home.
Take care of the people I love.

And remember, I’ll still have your face painted on my heart.
Wish me luck

And, Take care

Love
Gautham

But are all those messages really what they seem. Is a facebook wall post really equal to pat on the back, a smile and a sincere heartwarming moment friend. Obviously, no. So what is a facebook birthday wish mean ?

Consider an average person on Facebook [ as in a 21 year old ] – being in the fb-boom time we normally have around 500+ friends.

So, that means approximately a 100% chance that everyday atleast one friend has a friend, and a 30% chance that that particular day two of your friends have their birthday. But, Birthdays are not uniformly distributed so the above conclusions are incorrect .
[ hey, maybe someone can work this out using the Opengraph protocol ]

So lets say there are very few days in which not one of your friends have their birthday.

The Birthday wish ritual takes place as follows :
1 – Login ~ 5 secs
2 – Look to the Birthday reminder ~ 2 secs
3 – Click on the link to the persons profile ~ 1 sec
4 – Wait for his/her wall to load ~ 3 secs
5 – Type out a simple wish / Copy a wish from below ~ 10 secs
Total – 21 seconds

So, you’ve made a friend’s B’day better in 21 seconds. Very efficient.

A facebook wallpost means somewhere, someone has decided to spend 30 seconds of their life wishing you a happy birthday. But, it is very sobering to realize that same person will spend more time unlocking answers like whether you’re gay, raise virtual crops/ tea/ cakes, and think about incredible status updates.

Endpoint: Birthdays of which you are not reminded become even more special.