A Bend in the Lane

If you stumble, pick yourself up and search for your place under the sun. Make the best of everything and do all things to the best of your ability. There is a place under the sun waiting for you. Rock the boat, but do it no harm. Leave no footprints, Leave just legends.

Most have heard of this book. Some haven't. Let me find you some thought provoking excerpts - ** "We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way ." "In some way, suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice." "It did not really matter what we expected from life, but rather what life expected from us. We needed to stop asking about the meaning of life, and instead to think of ourselves as those who were being questioned by life—daily and hourly. Our answer must consist, not in talk and meditation, but in right action and in right conduct. Life ultimately means taking t...

The other day, during one of the many arguments with Sgt Tpy, he uttered something outrageous-  "Guys need to be witty, girls just need to be pretty." No, Sisters, he is still alive. I didnt kill him. I know. I am slacking. I shall. Soon. Promise.

I am going to vacation here - Am i excited? Sorta. Well, I cant rub it into my sister's face though cuz she beat me to a more fancy place - Hawaii. Am I packed? About two days ago. What will I be reading on the trip? Machiavelli's The Prince Have I packed sunscreen? The anti tan doesnt work on me. So, I am gonna come back only 23 shades darker. Have I cleared work? umm. ummm.

There is a secret club out there – a club that belongs to die hard fans of the movie The Lion In Winter (ever heard of this movie? At least seen the play? No? Shame on you! Weep tears of repentance this very instant!) I belong to it. Before I continue raving about it, I should probably tell you what the heck this movie is about. The Story King Henry II (the aging king at 50 .. hence the metaphor, the lion in winter) wants his youngest son, John (later Mad King John), to succeed him as the King of England. Eleanor of Aquitaine, his estranged Queen, wants Richard to be king (later King Richard the Lionheart). Henry's mistress Alais, sister of King Philip of France has her own ideas. Verbal assassinations, broken alliances, wanton liaisons, and sharp-tongued banter spice medieval intrigue with contemporary wit. What LA Times said, "The Lion in Winter has more wit in every speech than some hits have in an entire evening...a growling, snarling, skin-piercing, skull rattli...

I was reading Xenephon's Memorable Thoughts on Socrates the other day and was quite captivated by this certain chapter that shows Socrates in great light. Read on, you shan't be bored. At least read the bolded parts. I thought they were pretty fantastic. CHAPTER VI.  THE DISPUTE OF SOCRATES WITH ANTIPHON, THE SOPHIST. It will not be amiss to relate, for the honour of Socrates, what passed between him and the sophist Antiphon, who designed to seduce away his hearers, and to that end came to him when they were with him, and, in their presence, addressed himself to him in these words:—"I imagined, Socrates, that philosophers were happier than other men; but, in my opinion, your wisdom renders you more miserable, for you live at such a rate that no footman would live with a master that treated him in the same manner.  You eat and drink poorly, you are clothed very meanly—the same suit serves you in summer and winter—you go barefoot, and for all this you take no money,...

I was googling the web for schools that adopted the Socratic Method for teaching. I was appalled to find that there were hardly any. Even not many colleges use the Socratic Method (barring laws schools and a few liberal arts college like St Thomas Aquinas College…which by the way is a pretty 'cool' Catholic college in California that has no textbooks except the 'Great Books' of great men, where there are no majors or minors or specialisations for the four years of education). Honestly! I mean, sure, Socrates can be a pain lots of times. Reading the Republic beyond Book 4 gave me a splintering headache. But, just reading his dialogue teaches Logic and Rhetoric that are no longer taught in many schools as subjects.   I found this interesting experiment a volunteer conducted in a Grade 3 classroom. It's pretty awesome how he simplified Binary Arithmetic to the third graders using nothing but questions (aka SM). I wish someone had taught me permutations and combin...

Should we be proud about the achievements of our fathers and forefathers?   Don't say 'of course' right away. Give it 2 seconds of thought. I first had this argument with a couple of pals on a train. Without reaching any particular conclusion, we changed the topic after a bit, as it raised a lot more ideological differences than were necessary when embarking on a vacation. Recently, it surfaced again. So, I posed the question to a eight or so people. Most, including Mom, felt along the lines of, "Of course. But not to the point of haughtiness."   There was just one who, said, "No. Maybe happy, but not proud. Because you didn't contribute to their achievements." My take exactly. Personally speaking, I have numerous reasons to be proud about my grandpapa and even my great grandfather. But, I am not proud about them. I view their achievements with gladness and admiration. But not pride. I wonder if this is just me being the fundamentally e...

My sister, who lives somewhere in an undisclosed town in the Great Mid West, usually gifts me a sack full of beauty products every time she visits me. Subtlety was never her forte I suppose. A week ago, I opened this exquisitely packed set of 'body butter' that she gave me this Feb. (Note to all boys who are reading this post: body butter is a schmanzyfancy name for moisturizer, which is something we women rub on our skin to prevent it from drying among other things) There were six medium sized tubs packaged in pastel colours and sleek black lids, quaint seeming words printed in fonts evocative of a bygone era. Each tub had a separate name, for e.g, the tub I first opened was labeled "Warm Ginger Bread". Other labels were, "Vanilla Pound Cake" "Caramel Something Something", "Crabapple Eatable Thingie" and "Vanilla Yada Yada". And, just below the label was an old school recipe for warm ginger bread or vanilla pound cake ...

Auden is to be read sitting beside your window, during the silence when the creaking crickets pause for breathe on a moonless night, with a golden lamp lighting the page and a green snake twirled around your neck for company - But all the clocks in the city Began to whirr and chime: "O let not Time deceive you You cannot conquer Time. "In the burrows of the Nightmare Where Justice naked is, Time watches from the shadow And coughs when you would kiss. "In headaches and in worry Vaguely life leaks away, And time will have his fancy To-morrow or to-day. "Into many a green valley Drifts the appalling snow Time breaks the threaded dances And the diver's brilliant bow. "O plunge your hands in water Plunge them up to the wrist; Stare, stare in the basin And wonder what you've missed." "The glacier knocks in the cupboard, The desert sighs in the bed, And the crack in the tea-cup opens A lane to the land ...

You should read this - whether you are a fan or a critic of the last pope. Even if you couldnt care less. Read it. Skip the first 20 paragraphs and begin reading where you find the B&W picture. The first few paras are dripping with a little too much Polish nationalism for my taste.

Noticed how people are generous only when their comfort isn't threatened, courteous only when in good humour?

John Constable is often relegated to the back benches when we talk about great painters. I like him. I don't care if his settings are usually parochial or too country-ish. I rather spend an evening looking at his works than getting nightmares over Picasso or Dali's work. Constable, is a marvellous painter. To illustrate my point, below is one of his best paintings (imho), At Hadleigh Castle : Can you hear the gulls cawing? Sense the clouds gliding across the evening sky? Hear the sheep bleating? Hear the hollow whispers of the wind in the ruins? Well, if you don't, its probably because, you are looking at a low resolution image of a cheap duplicate that I stole from some site. When you actually stand in Tate Britain gazing at the huge painting, you shall hear them all.

Recently, a couple of pals accused me of being uncompromising and that I do not make exceptions. (This was in the context of how if I didn't want to do something, I wasn't going to do it for anybody's sake). But isn't compromising an overrated Asian virtue?   If one begins to compromise on the small things, can one live life the way one wants to?   Too often we give up things for our foolish-rational-twin, for the brats, for the bosses, for the pals, for the partners, for the folks (this is forgivable I think), for society. I am no rebel, but must I really compromise for the little things, and one day wake up to find that I am an unfulfilled person?    

Read Harish's hilarious post here.

Remember the old myth about the origin of the nursery rhyme of " Ring-a-ring-a roses, pocket full of posies , …" ? The story goes that it's a dark rhyme about the Black Plague back in the 1600s or the first Plague in the 1300s. (There is another less popular story that it's about the children in the mining towns up North in the Isles). It's a load of hooey. The rhyme was only recorded in Mother Goose in the 1800s, about 500 years after it was began?? Surely, not. A convincing theory is that, the nursery rhyme has actually something to do with the puritanical wave that swept across New England. Dancing and revelry, incld. square dances, were frowned upon. Even banned in some places, actually. Young people found a way around these bans by calling the square dances, play-parties. Play-parties had lots of ring games with holding hands and dancing in circles. But, there are others that state that there are actually two versions of the nursery rhyme. One ha...

The other day, I was talking to a friend when he confessed that he disliked Yes Minister. I positively went wild with indignation. How can anyone not like clever plots, intelligent cynicism, acerbic wit? I vowed to convert him into a Yes Minister-ite. And you, readers of my blog, as well. For the uninitiated, Jim Hacker is a politician. In fact the Minister of Administrative Affairs (a fictitious department). Bernard Woolley is his Private Secretary and Sir Humphrey Appleby is Permanent Secretary of State for Jim Hacker's ministry. Jim Hacker is a publicity seeking, albeit well intentioned, insecure politician. He is hapless compared to the devious Sir Humphrey. Sir Humphrey and Bernard are civil servants/bureaucrats, by the way. Here are some of my favourite parts - Minister Jim Hacker : "What am I going to do with all this correspondence?" Bernard Woolle y: "You do realize you don't actually have reply to, Minister." Minister JH : "Don...

Pick a fight, go to war, Leave the hero in the bar. Fight a lion, climb the peak, Let no one guess you are weak. Very true, innit? Auden speaks to me from his grave.

Happy Birthday.

I am truly exasperated. I don’t understand women who offer their hearts to emotional cowards and let them make mince meat out of them. Why, they practically serve it up on a platter with strawberries and cream on the side. Good Gawd! What is wrong with you women folk. Protect yourself! If he can’t discipline his roving eye, discard him after you've blinded him. If he can’t decide between you and another poor woman, why are you even waiting around for him to choose? Is he Indie Jones picking the Holy Grail?? Go attend to the 15 men who are serenading outside your window. If he comes knocking at your door with roses and a charming smile, slam the door on his face, preferrably after you've punched him. You forgive once, and he will make you make a habit of it. Go, lead your life with passion but without maudlin sentimentality. Now run along, and don’t come looking for tea & sympathy from your Agony Aunt. I have little sympathy for I understand too well that you gave him the ri...

Things I Dislike: dyed hair, lipstick on teeth, coffee breath, pregnant women, garden salad, sharp elbows, olives, tousled hair, tobacco, creases in pants, smell of alcohol, bananas, loud music, cell phones, Things I Love: old-books shops, old clocks wrinkles (on other people), diners, cream soda, gramophones, cloth bags, open-air theatres, large earrings, wet dogs, gales, stormy seas, lighthouses lawn sprinklers B&W movies pickled jalapeños, musty libraries BBC World Service, gardens

How do you un-trivialize a trivial life? Pursue an education? Pack up your bags and search for your Lake Isle of Innisfree? Drink tea and discuss literature? Compulsively scrub floors? Go to the talkies to plug the leaks? Obsess over solving NYT's cryptic crosswords? Knit, crochet and marry a stranger? Travel to be disappointed, sleep to forget, read to escape, write to grieve. Is that all there is to it? Edna St Vincent Millay was right – "Life isn't one damn thing after another. It is one damn thing over and over". And in spite of this, why do I refuse to stop hoping and plotting?

Right after beheadings, custom required raising the severed head to the crowd. This was not, as popular belief would have us think, to show the head to the bloodthirsty crowd. It was actually to show to the head the crowd and the body it was severed from. You see, consciousness remains for at least 5 -6 seconds before the head dies due to lack of oxygen.

Ever wondered how your family got those funky surnames? Well, for that matter, how did the Akasapus get their name? Well below is a piece of recorded family history. My family history. At least, my mother's family history. Firstly, akasam in Sanskrit and Telugu means sky. So, Akasapu means 'belonging to sky' or 'of sky'. Family history has it (written on talapatras that existed till my grandfather was about 10 and then were later lost during ancestral wealth distribution) that the clan of Akasapus were master weavers. They were famous in their land for creating the most exquisite cloth of their times . Lore has it that they once weaved a saree out of exquisite, delicate silk with such finesse that they could fold it neatly and tuck it into a matchbox and present it to the king. The king (I forget the name, but basically, a king before the era of Sri Krishnadevaraya of Vizanagara kingdom) was so impressed by their feat, and touched by their humbleness that he state...

This was sitting in my inbox this morning. From Avy. As written in an earlier post, we share a bit of telepathy. No kidding. It came at the right time. "Went to claim my microphone from the office (my ex-office desk) where it was hibernating all these months, only to realise that somebody used it and left a note saying "Thanks, but I'm sorry I broke it". So, yes, a new one will be shipped from the neighboring galaxy and you'll have to spend some light years waiting just to hear my 'hello' :). The Gods have found a way to ban all surprises, flowers at doorsteps, messages in voice mail and most importantly 'a single red rose' from my life."

In the summer of 2002, I was in Cambridgeshire for a day. I spent some time walking around Cambridge before hopping on a bus to a little village near Cambridge, a village by the name of Lode. I had heard from someone on the coach from London that there is a pretty little abbey and a mill, called Anglesey Abbey, in Lode. Sure enough, the former priory was pretty, the grounds were impeccable. But it wasn't the abbey, I remember most about Lode. It was the Old Man of Lode. Satisfied with the Abbey, I was heading back to the bus stop to take the bus back to Cambridge. As there was plenty of time to kill for the next bus, I walked along the country road to the next bus stop, enjoying the sun and the wind. Upon reaching this bus stop I still had 15 minutes to kill. So, I walked along the road to find a lane, more like a dirt path, that took me through the fields. It was a windy day, and the fields sighed and whispered, beckoning me to enter. I did. The butterflies seemed flustered ...

Let me fly, hop, skip, leap, dash Let me outrun the brook, Let me chase the rainbow and the butterflies. Let me enter the woods at dusk, and walk in the rain Let me sit by the fire, by the sea   Set the kite free from the tree top, let it flutter and kiss the skies as I cannot. Let it be free, as I am not.  

If I had a restaurant, I would name it Fly In the Soup. If I had a fastfood chain (though, on second thoughts, I would never do humanity such a disservice), I would call it Hole In the Wall. If I had a footwear retail store, I would call it Pebble In the Shoe. A pal once said, “Ech, remind me never to ask you for advise when I need to name my company.”

With Death by my window, I slumber in his shadow, He yawns and coughs, spies and waits for the wheel to grind to a halt, the water to slow to a trickle, the shadows to cease their dances and the dinghy to be adrift. The clocks have struck, the bells have rung, the hour has come, I hear him at the door. The hour has come for a rue laden heart to to ponder the eternal verities.

Couple of weeks ago, I woke up realizing that I was being strangled. Initially I thought it was my folks (they don't like me to be in bed after 4 am). For an eternal second, I flailed and writhed like a hapless rag doll, gasping for air. Then, thanks to the spark of brilliance within, I realized that my hands were actually free. So, instead of clawing the air, I began to claw whatever was squeezing the life out of me. Within milliseconds I was saved. The killer lay limp in my hands – defeated. It was Snake. Snake is my bedfellow - a longish green soft toy with a wicked, pronged, red flannel tongue, black patches for eyes with one eye missing (I had gouged it out in sleep). This one-eyed-dopey-tongued-green-tailed-one-metered hideousity tried to end the divine spark within me. Now let me come to the point of my post. Never buy this for your child. Them toys can be ungrateful and can betray you. Just like your kids. If you have to buy 'em, make sure the toys cannot strang...

Read Jayesh's post on Monday 1 Oct 2007 at http://www.the-unarticulate.blogspot.com before you read on. Well, I think Jayesh is making a hullabaloo and cribbing about nothing. As I told him yesterday, he has to count his blessings that he has been mistaken for a Sunny Mangolassiwala or Frankie Boy or even Lucky Lou, instead of say, a Shelly Mangolassiwala or Frannie Girl or Lucky Lucy. Just this Sunday aftie, I had the misfortune of facing such a traumatizing situation . Believe you me, it does dreadful things to one's ego. I invited a few pals and an insufferable cad (you will know who soon enough) for Sunday lunch. Being the considerate host that I am, I was wasting lots of energy trying to get Sir Sgt 'un-lost' over the phone. He was walking towards my apartments and was clearly confused by the many bends of The-road-I-live-on Rd and was hence, sulking ( because h e likes to be in-charge). To be fair to him, if you take a left on The-road-I-live-on R...

Testing...123 Just a test post to see if this gets published. Fingers crossed. I am posting it via the email-to-blogger service. My bigbrother-esque office firewall blocks blogspot. So, I cannot even read, let alone post on from work...ahem..not that I would, mind you ahem..I mean, I have perfectly high work ethics...ahem

The best way to get over hurt, or not being hurt is to stop playing the victim. If you didnt get that promotion, challenge 'em. If you didnt get good service, demand it. If he didnt call back, ditch him and conquer the other 3 billion men. If you were sexually/racially/ethnically discriminated, shove it back down their throats and move on. If you didnt get into that school, well admit that you wrote a shitty essay. If you didn't lose those 5 lbs, then be prepared to keep them. If fate seems to treat you nastily, get off that couch and write your own fate. Anything but playing the victim. We live in a self-absorbed world. Nobody has too much time these days to victimise you. So perhaps, then, you will stop feeling that shit happens in life and it usually always happens to you.

I love Google. Make no mistake. But it has ruined me in a lot of ways. One of the most discernable way is I no longer remember facts. With Google around, I don’t have to. Therefore, I have come to the days where I can no longer remember how to convert Celsius to Farenheit, I forget if I am supposed to boil the water before adding tea leaves or the milk, I don’t remember any jokes, I fail to recall if “Not Marble nor …” is Sonnet #55 or Sonnet #15. Google also makes me stupid … Person 1: “Hey, whats 9x8?” Me: “Let me google.” Google makes me uncool… Person 2: “Here’s the joke: An American, a Russian and an Indian went to a World Telecommunications Confe- .…” Me: “Hey, I know that one. Came across that one on Google. Ha!(superior smirk)” Google renders me an incompetent Agony Aunt.… Friend 1: “I cant figure out if he said “I’ll call you back” in a “I-dont-want-to-talk-to-you-ever-again”-I’ll call you back, or in a “I-am-too-busy-checking-out-pamela-anderson-on-...

Some conversations I had with Kinky. We somehow have these profound conversations when we meet (which is once in every 4 months) but always end up having 5 year old arguments online... (Kinky, I am posting them without your permission, but I know you wouldnt be vexed) me : meow. i know red button = busy. but just saying meow Kinky : woof. woof me : vokays. now that we had a very meaningful conversation, let's say bye And yet another: me : why are u flying blind - u might run into a telephone pole [referring to his status message "Flying Blind"] Kinky : its a reference me : to some lame song? [referring to a previous status message of his which was the Beatles walrus song] Kinky : to how i do my work Kinky : x( walrus is a bloody good song go im not talking to u cheap woman go die me : vokay. vokay. i give up. walrus is a gud song.

I read The Turn of the Screw a couple of days ago. Probably one of the most discussed, ambiguous and enigmatic American novellas of the 20th century. I am sorry about the superlatives. But it is. Critics are divided into two camps of interpretation of this book - the Hallucinationists, and the Apparitionists. By and far, I believe that the Hallucinationist theories are a tad bit over the top, brought about by reading too much Freud. But certain sentences made me wonder and question the sanity of the narrator and whether she was a sexually repressed governess, overly suspicious about the corruption of the children. If it was so, I pity them. The terror they had to live in, one minute smothered by her volatile affections, in another braving her violent suspicions. Even if it was meant to be a literal, old fashioned ghost story, it is still disturbing. Henry James, never comes right out to spell the evil that Miles was corrupted with. Loss of innocence is vaguely grasped by the reader. B...

Rarely have I been this constant in my love for a book. Rarely. "I,Claudius" had such an impact on me that I cannot begin to write it here for I shall embarrass myself in my attempts. Instead, let me write here of some of the wisdom that lies within. "I, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus, this-that-and-the-other who was once, and not so long ago either, known to my friends and relatives and associates as "Claudius the Idiot", or "That Claudius", or "Claudius the Stammerer", or "Clau-Clau-Claudius" or at best ..." ~the famous first line. "I had perhaps traveled farther, hobbling on my lame leg, than most men would have traveled on a sound pair, because only too conscious of my disability I allowed no halts or slackening of pace." "You eat too much and drink too much. You must stop that. Make a rule to rise from the table without an unsatisfied longing for just one little thing more." ~ Xenephon, a Cos...

What they say during meetings, and what they mean....especially in the Civil Services.. What they say: "I shall review and revert in two weeks" What they mean: "I shall promptly forget about this for two weeks and then hastily make some changes to the indenting and add a couple of lines to the 346 paged document and submit it for your approval again" What they say: "The progress is on schedule" What they mean:"I havent actually gotten around to checking the progress as I was busy typing 4 mile long emails to my bosom buddy from kindergarten and squabbling with my wife over the phone as to who gets to pick up the monster-brats from school." What they say: "We are looking into solving the issues" What they mean:"We are hoping that the issues will disappear if we continue to ignore them long enough." What they say: "I am happy to answer any questions" What they mean:"Lets all just get the hell out of here as it is ...

Rice was ranked the “ Coolest College in the Land” by Seventeen magazine in 2002 (cite) . Them teenage anorexic girls should know a thing or two about being cool. Dr Malcolm Gillis, our then president, declared on that day, “If people insist on calling us cool, then maybe we should act the part. At least part of the time.” He asked all Owls (Rice students) to wear shades both inside and outside for a week or two as badges of coolness. So asking, he fished out his shades from his blazer and put ‘em on. (This explains my wearing-shades-inside-buildings habit) A huge part of the reason why Rice is cool, is most definitely the Jacks during Willy Week. You can refer to Wikipedia here . Let me copy & paste the relevant section: "Jack" is the Rice term for a prank, often an elaborate one. A simple jack might be replacing "you are here" campus map with a map of an amusement park. A well-known jack in the 1980s was "stacking" a commons, in whic...

Things I Want to do Right Now Cliff jumping – into a water body of course Run wild in the moors on Isle of Skye Live in good old Bodlein for a month Go to a hotel, and pull out all the “Do Not Disturb” signs. Make prank calls Become a vegetable hawker in India Switch off the phone Break into a dance in the streets Hop and skip everywhere instead of walking Skinny dipping Hay riding

I had forgotten how enraged I was when I first learnt about Wounded Knee. I am writing to remember. Wounded Knee, 1890 - the last of the Indian Wars. Old Big Foot's pneumonia ravaged body ridden with bullets. Sitting Bull already murdered. The Ghost Dance movement more or less in shambles. Mass grave of 350 Lakota Sioux at the foot of the Wounded Knee hill. The fall of a crumbling nation. How maddeningly infuriating it is to have the faces on Mt Rushmore, faces that represent the institution that massacred the Lacota Sioux, towering over their very own land. I cant wait for the completion of the Crazy Horse monument. A fitting, long overdue reply. Perhaps only symbolic. But it is something.

Think happy thoughts Harika! The tang of blueberry marmalade on sour dough pancakes, dripping with salty butter reminds me of the evening when I walked up to a 4o something man at IHOP (International House of Pancakes) and said, “Hi, My name is Harika and I was wondering whether you could marry me?” Without a batting an eyelid, without a pause, he asked me, “When and where?” I was mortified. While the group of rogues I was dining with in the IHOP dissolved into raucous laughter, hooting and clapping. I fled back to the table to punch a couple of noses and refused to continue playing the silly game of Truth or Dare. While leaving, the man gave me a friendly Texan wink. America is full of cool people like that.

I refuse to watch tragedies for a while. There is enough tragedy in world without having to buy my own tears.

Mediocrity In thought and deed, in humor and tragedy, in love and enmity, in life and death. It is terrifying.

This seems to be a season of talking about family :-) ****************** I and my dad constantly bicker. Over everything. Over the laptop, over the last peanut in the packet, over the ‘mess’ in my room, over his lack of ‘cool’ clothes, over his 35 km/h driving, over the best place on the couch. Everything. Dad clogs up the laptop with guzillion web browsers talking about the latest political scandal rocking the old country in three languages (English, Hindi, Telugu). Dad belongs to the generation that considers work as the essence of life. Well, ethics too. And also, honour. And integrity. And..well, nevermind, let me get on. Dad can be as quiet as a cat when he wishes to sneak up to you and catch your greedy hand in the ice-cream tub. He reserves all his clumsiness, breaking unbreakable plates, banging into furniture for the wee hours of the morning. Even his morning Yoga exercises cause weird noises that awaken the stray cats in our building. Dad gives 200% to anythi...