No, no, I don't have a political viewpoint now. Not yet.
But, despite all my own self-proclaimed inanity, which I duly keep to myself, some things, which are at times political, infuriates me quite a bit and drops a pebble in my tranquil mind. And, of all such things, Mr. Anbumani Ramadoss is of the highest order. So, here's [via] Karan Thapar pillorying him just like I'd have liked to. I'd like to say something, though. The man isn't arrogant and stuff. He can't be. He's just silly and immature.
Not that there's anything wrong in being so, of course, but only if you keep one's ideas, children of one's very inventive imagination, and one's mindless servility to one's parent, to oneself and private gatherings of the likeminded.
Actually, I really wanted to catch this on television when I got to know that it was to be telecasted on Sunday, but somehow missed it.
Okay, my prime source of infuriation was his call for banning smoking in films. I mean, to waste the precious time of many a soul on something as silly as that!
I do mind, the Dude minds. This will not stand, ya know, this aggression will not stand, man.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Sunday, October 15, 2006
And, while we’re at God’s grace
Check out Manoj's new Pre-1985 Ilaiyaraja Radio. Just awesome. (Yeah, yeah, the overwhelmed self wrote many a comment over there thanking him profusely.)
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Awesome!
Radha! Radha, Nee Enge?
Just awesome, this one. Oh-so-beautifully sung! And, the violin! Just awesome.
Usually, one’s deaf to lyrics, but the lyrics of this song (Kannadasan) is superb too.
And, of course, this is from the same film that has one of one’s all-time favourites, an absolute masterpiece, sung by Yesu himself.
And, what do you possibly want one to add about Raaja? Is there a temple of Him somewhere? I mean, for God’s sake!
Just awesome, this one. Oh-so-beautifully sung! And, the violin! Just awesome.
Usually, one’s deaf to lyrics, but the lyrics of this song (Kannadasan) is superb too.
And, of course, this is from the same film that has one of one’s all-time favourites, an absolute masterpiece, sung by Yesu himself.
And, what do you possibly want one to add about Raaja? Is there a temple of Him somewhere? I mean, for God’s sake!
A plug
It’s not often I get to plug. So, here’s one.
Ranga, an ardent cinephlie who can quote from many a Tamil film at will, and a cousin of yours truly [1], has started a blog on, well, what else but Tamil Cinema.
டங்கன் முதல் மிஷ்கின் வரை…
The fellow dabbles in bloody so many things that I can’t possibly list them. Apart from films, he is a big fan of Sujatha, Cho, Crazy (not to forget that yours truly also is, oh so absolutely!) and S. Ve. Shekhar.
Now, I don’t mince words much when it comes to acquaintances, but, this man is pretty much the funniest man I’ve personally known.
In short, one points the readers towards much better reading. If the posts keep coming from there, that is.
[1] - Is this blog becoming a “family type” blog by the day? Time for some Lynch-esque posts to take over, eh?
Ranga, an ardent cinephlie who can quote from many a Tamil film at will, and a cousin of yours truly [1], has started a blog on, well, what else but Tamil Cinema.
டங்கன் முதல் மிஷ்கின் வரை…
The fellow dabbles in bloody so many things that I can’t possibly list them. Apart from films, he is a big fan of Sujatha, Cho, Crazy (not to forget that yours truly also is, oh so absolutely!) and S. Ve. Shekhar.
Now, I don’t mince words much when it comes to acquaintances, but, this man is pretty much the funniest man I’ve personally known.
In short, one points the readers towards much better reading. If the posts keep coming from there, that is.
[1] - Is this blog becoming a “family type” blog by the day? Time for some Lynch-esque posts to take over, eh?
Saturday, October 07, 2006
A let-me-call-it-long interlude of absurdist hedonism
So, I, along with a bunch of jobless folks, went to Goa the last long weekend, basked in the beaches, laid down sodden in water for long, rode along the mountainous roads in bikes, reached places, and basked there, in turn.
In short, immensely enjoyed every moment of it, including the ones when I walked along the beach almost fully wet (and a bit Rum-ed too) for a couple of kilometers and came back past midnight. (And, yeah, the plain sit-and-stare-at-the-wall ones too.)
Like, for instance, here I'm examining a bottle of Smirnoff to see if that's where it lies.
And, a Leone-esque shot, albeit in a contrastingly picturesque spot.
A moment of clarity, is that?
And, this, I thought, was nice. No?
Umm, how about this?
And, here's the signature shot.
A lot of such priceless pics were taken. Some for the readers' discerning eyes.
In short, immensely enjoyed every moment of it, including the ones when I walked along the beach almost fully wet (and a bit Rum-ed too) for a couple of kilometers and came back past midnight. (And, yeah, the plain sit-and-stare-at-the-wall ones too.)
Like, for instance, here I'm examining a bottle of Smirnoff to see if that's where it lies.
And, a Leone-esque shot, albeit in a contrastingly picturesque spot.
A moment of clarity, is that?
And, this, I thought, was nice. No?
Umm, how about this?
And, here's the signature shot.
A lot of such priceless pics were taken. Some for the readers' discerning eyes.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Dining Philosophers
Author’s note: Like anything else in this world, there’s no pre-requisite per se for this post too. But, read this previous edition anyway, it’s life-affirming.
“Now, we all agree that you’ve become nihilistic, don’t we?” asked Vels addressing a grand audience of one person in one of those vegetarian restaurants where Sambar tastes, well, like it does in Tamilnadu and Vada (not Vadaa) doesn’t have coconut pieces ingrained in it.
Ashok is not a man who’d concentrate on his Sambar Vada (not Vadaa), much as he loves it, when posed with a question of such proportions, especially when he isn’t quite sure about the answer himself, like this one. In fact, that’s when he comes out flourishing with obscure drivel, dishing theories one after another. But, in this particular case, he chose silence and Sambar Vada (not Vadaa) over sublime nonsense for a few precious moments.
Then, very assuredly, he mumbled, “Huh? I am not nihilistic.”
Vels, a little perplexed, continued, “Damn you bastard! So, now, do you claim you believe in something? One of those times you even said you staunchly believed in bullshit and blah, trying to sound very cool and Woody Allen.”
“‘Positively, no,’ I should say.”
“Then, you are one.”
“But, I don’t believe in Nihilism either.”
“Another one of your failed attempt at quirky witty and whatnot one-liners. Now, I can’t bother too much to point out the absurdity in your logic, can I?”
“Don’t. I’ll do that myself.”
“Well?”
“See, I know it’s absurd. That’s exactly why I am not nihilistic.”
“You are just fooling yourself.”
“Right, that too.”
“What?”
“Yes, I am fooling myself, admirably well” – Vels started at this moment – Ashok snapped and continued, “I know, you are going to point out that how the hell would it work when I am aware of it.” Vels just nodded in anxious agreement.
Ashok continued, “It would work exactly because of that. I fool myself and I am so well aware of it, and when one’s so well aware of fooling himself” – Vels interrupted and finished, “He can’t fool himself anymore. That is all.” in a heavily M*A*S*H-influenced tone.
Just as Vels thought he had concluded the topic in an unexceptionable fashion, the hot Pongal Ashok had ordered arrived. As if to assert his winning, Vels dragged the plate by his side and gazed satisfyingly at the Pongal.
With a degree of composure that he had not feigned in months altogether, Ashok continued unperturbedly, “No. I fool myself – not to mention that I do that admirably well - and am so well aware of it, and because I am so well aware of fooling myself, I fool myself, um, very correctly. Yes, I know to fool myself very correctly, precisely, exactly. The perfection has come over the years.”
“Why do I feel that you never knew this darn crazy logic yourself just a few seconds before when I snatched your Pongal?”
“Right ho! If my reasoning was that spontaneous, it should be all the more appropriate.” Ashok closed the case, dignifiedly leaving the Pongal for his companion and deciding to have a nice Masaal Dosa (not Dosaa) for himself.
“Now, we all agree that you’ve become nihilistic, don’t we?” asked Vels addressing a grand audience of one person in one of those vegetarian restaurants where Sambar tastes, well, like it does in Tamilnadu and Vada (not Vadaa) doesn’t have coconut pieces ingrained in it.
Ashok is not a man who’d concentrate on his Sambar Vada (not Vadaa), much as he loves it, when posed with a question of such proportions, especially when he isn’t quite sure about the answer himself, like this one. In fact, that’s when he comes out flourishing with obscure drivel, dishing theories one after another. But, in this particular case, he chose silence and Sambar Vada (not Vadaa) over sublime nonsense for a few precious moments.
Then, very assuredly, he mumbled, “Huh? I am not nihilistic.”
Vels, a little perplexed, continued, “Damn you bastard! So, now, do you claim you believe in something? One of those times you even said you staunchly believed in bullshit and blah, trying to sound very cool and Woody Allen.”
“‘Positively, no,’ I should say.”
“Then, you are one.”
“But, I don’t believe in Nihilism either.”
“Another one of your failed attempt at quirky witty and whatnot one-liners. Now, I can’t bother too much to point out the absurdity in your logic, can I?”
“Don’t. I’ll do that myself.”
“Well?”
“See, I know it’s absurd. That’s exactly why I am not nihilistic.”
“You are just fooling yourself.”
“Right, that too.”
“What?”
“Yes, I am fooling myself, admirably well” – Vels started at this moment – Ashok snapped and continued, “I know, you are going to point out that how the hell would it work when I am aware of it.” Vels just nodded in anxious agreement.
Ashok continued, “It would work exactly because of that. I fool myself and I am so well aware of it, and when one’s so well aware of fooling himself” – Vels interrupted and finished, “He can’t fool himself anymore. That is all.” in a heavily M*A*S*H-influenced tone.
Just as Vels thought he had concluded the topic in an unexceptionable fashion, the hot Pongal Ashok had ordered arrived. As if to assert his winning, Vels dragged the plate by his side and gazed satisfyingly at the Pongal.
With a degree of composure that he had not feigned in months altogether, Ashok continued unperturbedly, “No. I fool myself – not to mention that I do that admirably well - and am so well aware of it, and because I am so well aware of fooling myself, I fool myself, um, very correctly. Yes, I know to fool myself very correctly, precisely, exactly. The perfection has come over the years.”
“Why do I feel that you never knew this darn crazy logic yourself just a few seconds before when I snatched your Pongal?”
“Right ho! If my reasoning was that spontaneous, it should be all the more appropriate.” Ashok closed the case, dignifiedly leaving the Pongal for his companion and deciding to have a nice Masaal Dosa (not Dosaa) for himself.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Thoughts on self-deprecation and suchlike
Self-deprecation is often quite misconstrued as a desirable quality that comes entirely out of unreserved humility. But, some discerning souls do see through it.
Chenthil, while talking about his very commendable attempt to write like this blogger (who incidentally can’t write for nuts) to showcase his ghost-blogging skills, had told me this:
Indeed! That was quite a neat, insightful, little take on a writing style usually left behind for flippant remarks. That got me thinking on what makes one bring in self-deprecation in one’s writing.
Yes, it’s certainly snobbery, a show of soft arrogance, soft enough to conceal it lest somebody see through it. In short, an act of sneering.
But, one sneers at self. And, that, one does, because one genuinely doubts oneself. And, when one doubts oneself, and very genuinely at that, it’s a sheer dilemma - or even worse, a totally tilted I-see-through-this-crap feeling - that makes one express one’s apprehension about the quality, or rather the lack of it, in what one’s writing.
It’s pretentious, of course. But, like in any other case of pretense, it’s not entirely that. And, nobody, including the sneerer himself, knows whether the sneer was befitting or overdone or plain boring patronization over oneself.
Taking a specific example, albeit quite a bad one, let me see why I bother to crack an arbitrary (bad) joke about my non-existent writing skills, time and again. Because, like Kierkegaard would have put when in deep slumber or deeper inebriation, I doubt myself!
To cut the long story short, snobs are basically very nice people, I tell you, especially if their EQ ranges from 5.7 to 5.9.
[1] - What else could one do at such moments but just “hmmm”?
Chenthil, while talking about his very commendable attempt to write like this blogger (who incidentally can’t write for nuts) to showcase his ghost-blogging skills, had told me this:
Chenthil: I had to try hard to get that self deprecation (a superior form of snobbery)
me: hmmm.. [1]
Over Google Talk. Underlining the key content and adding pointer(s) to footnote(s) by yours truly.
Indeed! That was quite a neat, insightful, little take on a writing style usually left behind for flippant remarks. That got me thinking on what makes one bring in self-deprecation in one’s writing.
Yes, it’s certainly snobbery, a show of soft arrogance, soft enough to conceal it lest somebody see through it. In short, an act of sneering.
But, one sneers at self. And, that, one does, because one genuinely doubts oneself. And, when one doubts oneself, and very genuinely at that, it’s a sheer dilemma - or even worse, a totally tilted I-see-through-this-crap feeling - that makes one express one’s apprehension about the quality, or rather the lack of it, in what one’s writing.
It’s pretentious, of course. But, like in any other case of pretense, it’s not entirely that. And, nobody, including the sneerer himself, knows whether the sneer was befitting or overdone or plain boring patronization over oneself.
Taking a specific example, albeit quite a bad one, let me see why I bother to crack an arbitrary (bad) joke about my non-existent writing skills, time and again. Because, like Kierkegaard would have put when in deep slumber or deeper inebriation, I doubt myself!
To cut the long story short, snobs are basically very nice people, I tell you, especially if their EQ ranges from 5.7 to 5.9.
[1] - What else could one do at such moments but just “hmmm”?
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
A pointless clarification
Apparently, I was the “Bombay reader” of this blog.
On any day, I’d have been tempted to think it was only me [1]. But, as life would have it, my Site Meter stats thought those visits were from Bombay and I believed it. It was a nice joke on me, I thought. A proper “Thanniya Kudi” moment.
[1] - Though I had configured the tracker to ignore the IP where I blog from, and I don’t read my blog as often; or keep one of its pages open for a frightfully long time.
Oru konjam-chinna update (on 04th Oct, 01:45 p.m.): Oh dear! This post was to enlighten the readers about the “Bombay reader” if the previous revelation was a little murky. And, about the total bulb moment of my discovery that it was indeed me. And, look what some dear commenters have turned that into! Serious'aa, Onnume puriyala!
On any day, I’d have been tempted to think it was only me [1]. But, as life would have it, my Site Meter stats thought those visits were from Bombay and I believed it. It was a nice joke on me, I thought. A proper “Thanniya Kudi” moment.
[1] - Though I had configured the tracker to ignore the IP where I blog from, and I don’t read my blog as often; or keep one of its pages open for a frightfully long time.
Oru konjam-chinna update (on 04th Oct, 01:45 p.m.): Oh dear! This post was to enlighten the readers about the “Bombay reader” if the previous revelation was a little murky. And, about the total bulb moment of my discovery that it was indeed me. And, look what some dear commenters have turned that into! Serious'aa, Onnume puriyala!
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Dear other readers, as I found out on further stalking, the reader from Bombay is not actually in Bombay. He is, in fact, from Bangalore and has never been to Bombay. And, he is male.
Just a while ago, the reader from Bombay reluctantly confessed to have been reading my blog for a while, but vehemently pleaded innocence claiming that he always closed the browser window much too quickly. The Bombay reader also claimed, more vehemently, that he stays in Bangalore.
And, the bastard has a lot of coffee. (I always guessed that it was coffee, didn't I?)
Thus, I saw all the pieces of the puzzle in place, and him typing this post.
Just a while ago, the reader from Bombay reluctantly confessed to have been reading my blog for a while, but vehemently pleaded innocence claiming that he always closed the browser window much too quickly. The Bombay reader also claimed, more vehemently, that he stays in Bangalore.
And, the bastard has a lot of coffee. (I always guessed that it was coffee, didn't I?)
Thus, I saw all the pieces of the puzzle in place, and him typing this post.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Dear reader from Bombay, I know you very reluctantly open my weblog in your browser and quite immediately step out for some hot coffee, or even to take a neat little nap wondering why would somebody write such stuff.
If that's indeed the case, and God forbid otherwise, please close the browser before you go, if it's not much work. Probably, doing that will close your session at my Site Meter tracker installed in my blog, rather than inadvertently let it make utterly false notes that you spend horrifyingly long time reading my blog.
If that's indeed the case, and God forbid otherwise, please close the browser before you go, if it's not much work. Probably, doing that will close your session at my Site Meter tracker installed in my blog, rather than inadvertently let it make utterly false notes that you spend horrifyingly long time reading my blog.
SQoSSD #7 (or) From the Things I’ve been telling people dept.
Art is pretty unfair, I tell you, unlike software.
The beauty that lies in the eyes of this much pokerfaced beholder is apparently not all that charming. Life has transmogrified into a series of conversations, musings, soliloquys, sound sleeps, hot shower baths, coffee-drinking and plain sit-and-stare-at-the-wall.
Damn the visuals, Woody Allen is God.
Damn the visuals, Woody Allen is God.
A couple of weeks back, I had been to Thailand on a 4-day fun trip organized by the company I work with. We were told that we could take a guest along with us. In saner circumstances, it'd have meant a spouse, a girlfriend, or even a sibling. But what I apparently did was one of the weirdest things I ever pulled off.
In what seemed like a chapter straight out of Fellini's La Dolce Vita, I took my appa along with me. Yes, I and my dad travelled around with my colleagues and others, visited places, parasailed, walked under the sea, ate passable Indian food, slept soundly in the hotel rooms, shopped in huge malls, and came back home.
If one skims a little through this blog, one can figure out the level of excitement I'd have towards such touring and travelling. But, my father, a man of a different generation and certainly different sensiblities enjoyed every bit of it. My appa just oozes out frenetic enthusiasm during such trips. He makes note of the places he visits (along with the date and time, no less), wakes up early and gets ready for the next place of visit, takes part in organizing the proceedings and so on. As a matter of fact, during this trip, I kept him in check, not letting him be his usual self. I did realise soon that, it was utterly preposterous of me to impose my "modern detachment" on him, but most of the men around, I was afraid, were "modern" themselves, but probably not as "detached" as I was. But, I couldn't inhibit him from being his usual self and, apparently, he won more friends than I did during the trip. And, he really enjoyed parasailing and the undersea walk (which I was supposed to not to let him do), and recalled his doing the same (against much opposition) during his long holiday in Mauritius.
Personally, I fairly enjoyed the Battaya beach and Bangkok. On the whole, it was actually nice, this stranding together a boy and his father, starkly different in their sensibilities - the son steeped in stoic cynicism and the father, zealous and with strong middle-class ethos - and yet uncannily similar, not to mention the look-alike noses.
I wasn't sure if I should have asked him if he'd like to have a drink or not, during the dinner on one of those days, but as stern stoicism prevailed, I just sat still and waded through for most part of it. And, I had quite quit drinking too. But, he'd have enjoyed a drink if somebody forced it a bit on him, I know. Now, I wonder if I should have, and what his reaction would have been.
Of the words that I repeately use in conversations and in writing, and even tend to consciously keep it in check, the topmost is probably 'bland'. That is the word. That is real. That is my drama. And, my melodrama.
Blandrama!
In what seemed like a chapter straight out of Fellini's La Dolce Vita, I took my appa along with me. Yes, I and my dad travelled around with my colleagues and others, visited places, parasailed, walked under the sea, ate passable Indian food, slept soundly in the hotel rooms, shopped in huge malls, and came back home.
If one skims a little through this blog, one can figure out the level of excitement I'd have towards such touring and travelling. But, my father, a man of a different generation and certainly different sensiblities enjoyed every bit of it. My appa just oozes out frenetic enthusiasm during such trips. He makes note of the places he visits (along with the date and time, no less), wakes up early and gets ready for the next place of visit, takes part in organizing the proceedings and so on. As a matter of fact, during this trip, I kept him in check, not letting him be his usual self. I did realise soon that, it was utterly preposterous of me to impose my "modern detachment" on him, but most of the men around, I was afraid, were "modern" themselves, but probably not as "detached" as I was. But, I couldn't inhibit him from being his usual self and, apparently, he won more friends than I did during the trip. And, he really enjoyed parasailing and the undersea walk (which I was supposed to not to let him do), and recalled his doing the same (against much opposition) during his long holiday in Mauritius.
Personally, I fairly enjoyed the Battaya beach and Bangkok. On the whole, it was actually nice, this stranding together a boy and his father, starkly different in their sensibilities - the son steeped in stoic cynicism and the father, zealous and with strong middle-class ethos - and yet uncannily similar, not to mention the look-alike noses.
*****
I wasn't sure if I should have asked him if he'd like to have a drink or not, during the dinner on one of those days, but as stern stoicism prevailed, I just sat still and waded through for most part of it. And, I had quite quit drinking too. But, he'd have enjoyed a drink if somebody forced it a bit on him, I know. Now, I wonder if I should have, and what his reaction would have been.
*****
Of the words that I repeately use in conversations and in writing, and even tend to consciously keep it in check, the topmost is probably 'bland'. That is the word. That is real. That is my drama. And, my melodrama.
*****
Blandrama!
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Friday, September 08, 2006
Last Sunday, I went back to Lawrence & Mayo and took my new pair of glasses that I had ordered. Yes, it was a full week after I had ordered for them. It felt good.
***
This week, I, along with some folks from the company I work with, was supposed to go to my alma mater for recruitment. We'll be starting on Tuesday noon, I thought. My friend calmly corrected me on Monday morning that we were supposed to start on that very day. So, I hurried up, bought a couple of new shirts, I don't know why, and reached my office just about noon, all set.
The two gentlemen whom I accompanied were both managers which brought in an obvious generation rift. But, the drives (we went on road), to and fro, were very pleasant. Both gentlemen were quintessential Tamilians. They listened fervently to 80s Ilaiyaraaja and were sort of movie buffs. Much as it sounds condescending, I was very impressed with their knowledge of Tamil cinema. We talked about many things; Tamil film songs, Ilaiyaraaja, Tamil movies, Mahanadhi, an obscure movie called Gramathu Athiyayam, yesteryear actress Jayashree, entrance exams, engineering, counselling etc. They nostalgically recalled their college days and the beginning years of their career time and again, and in lieu of their current affairs, kept talking about their kids. Such times are when I realise how much I enjoy a Tamilian company. I have never been a great enthusiast of Tamil, the language, so to say. I mostly deride my friends when they get all worked upon the Tamilian spirit or suchlike, or prove that Tamil is the one of the oldest languages in the world, and even worse, point out that Sanskrit derived a bit or more from Tamil. But, all that history and justification of it being a great "classic language" or otherwise is immaterial.
I am, for all practical reasons, a Tamilian myself, and that pretty much explains my natural affinity towards Tamilian things. Just like any ordinary Tamilian, I love Tamilian things, but not much the language itself.
And, yeah, one of them is technically not a Tamilian. Even, I am not. Whatever.
***
At the college, it was quite odd to see students going head over heels addressing us sir and all that. Yes, of course, I know that's how it was; and, back then, I too addressed such people as sir. But, much as I must have had used it to address certain people, I guess I didn't go to the levels that some students did the other day. (Had I overheard some of my batchmates attending interviews back then, perhaps, I'd have been more ready for this.) The way some candidates bludgeoned me with their sirs as they answered my questions really made me a bit uncomfortable, but I started taking it as a fact at its face value soon.
The recruitment itself was a low-key affair. About 30 candidates took the test (back then, I used to complain that the junta refers to it as 'giving the test' instead of 'taking the test'), a little less than half of them got short-listed for the interviews, I grilled some of them in data structures, algorithms blah blah blah (though I was well aware that I had to brush myself off on these subjects), and we finally zeroed in on two candidates and short-listed them for a job offer.
***
We left in the early morning, the day after, i.e. Sep 6th. The very day I first stepped in on my alma mater six years ago. I actually felt I should roam around the entire campus (esp. my room), but hardly had the time to. All I was able to visit was our beloved Octagon (it was some time between 9 and 10 in the night, so it was almost full), after a hectic session of interviews and dinner, the day before.
It was more than two years since I left the place. I am not able to figure out how nostalgic I feel about those times. Those days are the most unforgettable ones of my life and were great fun. But, I am not able to relate to many a thing out there anymore.
***
I am not even a bit sure about what I should do with my life. Enakku enna pannen, enna panren, enna pannalaam, edhuvume puriyala. I should start cooking. I'll get to peel onions, you know.
***
This week, I, along with some folks from the company I work with, was supposed to go to my alma mater for recruitment. We'll be starting on Tuesday noon, I thought. My friend calmly corrected me on Monday morning that we were supposed to start on that very day. So, I hurried up, bought a couple of new shirts, I don't know why, and reached my office just about noon, all set.
The two gentlemen whom I accompanied were both managers which brought in an obvious generation rift. But, the drives (we went on road), to and fro, were very pleasant. Both gentlemen were quintessential Tamilians. They listened fervently to 80s Ilaiyaraaja and were sort of movie buffs. Much as it sounds condescending, I was very impressed with their knowledge of Tamil cinema. We talked about many things; Tamil film songs, Ilaiyaraaja, Tamil movies, Mahanadhi, an obscure movie called Gramathu Athiyayam, yesteryear actress Jayashree, entrance exams, engineering, counselling etc. They nostalgically recalled their college days and the beginning years of their career time and again, and in lieu of their current affairs, kept talking about their kids. Such times are when I realise how much I enjoy a Tamilian company. I have never been a great enthusiast of Tamil, the language, so to say. I mostly deride my friends when they get all worked upon the Tamilian spirit or suchlike, or prove that Tamil is the one of the oldest languages in the world, and even worse, point out that Sanskrit derived a bit or more from Tamil. But, all that history and justification of it being a great "classic language" or otherwise is immaterial.
I am, for all practical reasons, a Tamilian myself, and that pretty much explains my natural affinity towards Tamilian things. Just like any ordinary Tamilian, I love Tamilian things, but not much the language itself.
And, yeah, one of them is technically not a Tamilian. Even, I am not. Whatever.
***
At the college, it was quite odd to see students going head over heels addressing us sir and all that. Yes, of course, I know that's how it was; and, back then, I too addressed such people as sir. But, much as I must have had used it to address certain people, I guess I didn't go to the levels that some students did the other day. (Had I overheard some of my batchmates attending interviews back then, perhaps, I'd have been more ready for this.) The way some candidates bludgeoned me with their sirs as they answered my questions really made me a bit uncomfortable, but I started taking it as a fact at its face value soon.
The recruitment itself was a low-key affair. About 30 candidates took the test (back then, I used to complain that the junta refers to it as 'giving the test' instead of 'taking the test'), a little less than half of them got short-listed for the interviews, I grilled some of them in data structures, algorithms blah blah blah (though I was well aware that I had to brush myself off on these subjects), and we finally zeroed in on two candidates and short-listed them for a job offer.
***
We left in the early morning, the day after, i.e. Sep 6th. The very day I first stepped in on my alma mater six years ago. I actually felt I should roam around the entire campus (esp. my room), but hardly had the time to. All I was able to visit was our beloved Octagon (it was some time between 9 and 10 in the night, so it was almost full), after a hectic session of interviews and dinner, the day before.
It was more than two years since I left the place. I am not able to figure out how nostalgic I feel about those times. Those days are the most unforgettable ones of my life and were great fun. But, I am not able to relate to many a thing out there anymore.
***
I am not even a bit sure about what I should do with my life. Enakku enna pannen, enna panren, enna pannalaam, edhuvume puriyala. I should start cooking. I'll get to peel onions, you know.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Being Periyar
Vidya’s comments here enlightened me on the controversy about Kushboo starring in a movie on/about Periyar.
She asks,
No, Vidya. You are wrong.
Just because Periyar “had *different* views on *Karpu*,” it doesn’t mean she can star in something as sacrosanct as a movie on/about Periyar.
It only means that Periyar can’t star in a movie on/about Periyar.
She asks,
And what abt the Kushboo-staring-in-Periyaar movie controvery?, makes no sense to me. As far as I know Periyaar had *different* views on *Karpu*. Now PMK is protesting that Kushboo not star in this movie only because her opinions on *it* vilified the sanctity of women in TN.
No, Vidya. You are wrong.
Just because Periyar “had *different* views on *Karpu*,” it doesn’t mean she can star in something as sacrosanct as a movie on/about Periyar.
It only means that Periyar can’t star in a movie on/about Periyar.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Hair Loss - II
Chapter 2: The Barber
He cuts my hair diligently, day and night. Mathematics is close to divinity, I used to think. And, now, I know, I was right. The precision with which He maintains the symmetry is amazing.
y2 = 4ax is for the mortals. He sees it in a glance. Like, how those theorems came to Ramanujan off-the-cuff.
Today, He said stoically, “Ah, there, dear Zero, is one left on the right, which makes it, um, less symmetric, you know…”
I feigned ignorance, and timidly asked, “What is it that is, um, less symmetric?”
“Your face,” He said and plucked.
Yes, God cuts my hair.
As part of the ambitious “Hair Loss” series. Previous post on “Hair Loss”.
Note: Since I have reprised what I had said here, this also turns out to be an unqualified entry to the haircut blogathon. Predecessors elsewhere: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.
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