Perhaps you’ve to get lost
Get lost, broken and have naught
To realize what you truly are
And what is truly yours.

Maybe that is the secret to life
To choose to participate or not
How big is much and how little is less,
Will that work and would this work,
And in this reverie of what we think is choice
Loose yourself and all that is yours
Into believing that in all of this orderly randomness
You really really somehow do matter.

And among this intermittent of universe
In which this fragile facade of human will
Just ceaselessly beats on and on
like never ending waves on white hot sands.

Cause there is chaos in beauty
And there is beauty in chaos
For they ain’t each other
but they are somewhere quite close together

Where all of us try to bring down all of life’s chaos
Into one grand simple verse to make sense
But life ain’t psy trance nor that piece of stamp paper
It’s just one small meaningless stamp on the back of your hand
For you to choose to enter or to just pass by

These meaningful labels and pointless direction boards
Our need for company yet my desire for loneliness
Is all just yet another attempt to induce some sense
Into where you truly are and what you really are.

For whatever is your plan,
There is no plan,
And that all along
Was the plan.

Somewhere nearby Curlie’s Shack,
Sometime around Novemeber.

Lance says

“Today I turn the page. I will no longer address this issue, regardless of the circumstances. I will commit myself to the work I began before ever winning a single Tour de France title: serving people and families affected by cancer, especially those in underserved communities. This October, my Foundation will celebrate 15 years of service to cancer survivors and the milestone of raising nearly $500 million. We have a lot of work to do and I’m looking forward to an end to this pointless distraction. I have a responsibility to all those who have stepped forward to devote their time and energy to the cancer cause. I will not stop fighting for that mission. Going forward, I am going to devote myself to raising my five beautiful (and energetic) kids, fighting cancer, and attempting to be the fittest 40-year old on the planet.”

I say, whatever you say, for a man to have won not once but five times – the world’s toughest cycling competition after being diagnosed with stage III testicular cancer which had spread to his lungs, abdomen and brain, he is a cheater. He cheated failure; He cheated cancer; He cheated the doctors; He cheated fate. And he is every way the hero he is.

Lance Armstrong – A hero, whatever you say.

Ipse Dixit
I have spoken

It is essentially built for touch-devices, with support for traditional desktops thrown in as an afterthought. The entire “Metro” interface looks cool, but ultimately when working with a mouse and keyboard there are no noticeable killer features.

The Metro UI as experienced from the Lumia Phones is kinda cool and futuristic, but for a keyboard and mouse based system it really doesn’t promise any thing extra. The Metro UI unravels as soon as you want to do anything desktopish and presents you with the familiar, comfortable old windows 7 interface. But even that is striped of the beloved start button.

To be fair to them, there are a lot of minor UI improvements. The general look and feel of a lot of small things has been improved and worked upon. Like the popups that happen when you change volume, the better-looking task manager, the new Power-Shell which is preinstalled. While all these are fine, simple tasks like Shutting down your system ( You’ll have to search the first time ) are a pain.

End of the day, windows 8 seems lost between whom it should love – the touch-tablet or the hard-desktop. And in that love triangle, looses itself.

VERDICT : Do an install, explore the new found flashiness, then get back to your comfortable old servant Windows 7.

Ipse Dixit
I have spoken

Come to think of it, it’s not your smile,
Neither your ever twinkling eyes
Nor that deserting short sunshine when you’re around
But … it’s just that it’s you and I.

No amount of cool breezes nor the wide blue skies
The cusp of crimson sun, the lisp of crescent moon
Depth of the silent oceans, or even endless time
Will just be enough for those golden smiles .

With all these in mind, how can I
even attempt to pretend that I can lie
When you ask, Is love all that have I
For all your priceless smiles.

And how do I tell all this in the short time
When you are with me, say whatever I might
You’ll still anyway leave in a short while
What else can I do other than look at you and smile.

For even If I have nothing of you as mine
I would still have all those smiles,
And all those memories of those eyes
And those I’ll keep as just mine and just mine.

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