At Long Last!

Yup, long time. Over a month since my last post. The cry goes around town: Where the @#$% is AC? In Suze's words, did I "die/fall under a truck/get caught in a natural disaster/faint??!?!?" (Of course, the context was different but the general underlying emotions are the same.) I've got loads of mails abusing me for not posting anything for so long, thereby depriving my working friends of another avenue to waste the free Intenet time they're offered at work (obscenity filters rule out other forms of entertainment, you see). I must thank you all, it makes me feel so loved... and thus I'm back after a little hiatus...

So the next logical question (yes, this blog does have some logic) to ask would be - so where the hell was I? What was I doing? What kept me away from my blog for so long? In no particular order indicative of anything at all, I have spent the last 35-odd days:

1. Sleeping in my room
2. Sleeping in my friends' rooms
3. Sleeping through group meetings
4. Sleeping in class
5. Writing a whole series of painful exams (our midterms, and a coupla quizzes)
6. Playing the occasional game of footer
7. Participating in T-Nite!

The first four are rather self-explanatory. The fifth - the MidTerms - is a periodic ritual that every student must endure at some point or the other. It's the most cruel, shocking and disturbing way to expose several things you had a sneaky suspicion about but weren't willing to investigate or admit. Examples being:

1. You haven't read half the cases in the material for the course. EVERYBODY else has, in addition to poring through thick reference books and high-funda websites.
2. What you thought was merely an insignificant appendix to the core chapter turns out to be the only paragraphs of any consequence in the textbook.
3. Scratching one's cheek with a pen, however assiduously the act may be performed, does not give any insight into an HR case.
4. You are presented with a surprisingly easy paper. Initially, you're pleased you've scored 22.5 out of 25. And then you realise 40% of the class has scored more.
5. Teaching/Research Associates can be astonishingly stubborn when facing a student grovelling for a hike in grades from C+ to B-.
6. Inky-pinky-ponky does not work with Multiple Choice Questions in Economic Analysis.

And quizzes... don't get me started. IIMA thrives on scaring the living daylights out of facchas by springing surprise quizzes on them after the last class of the day. Picture the plight of someone who woke up late and thus rushed to class with nothing in him but last night's dinner and, if he's lucky, a banana. He struggles through 4 hours of classes, propping his eyelids up with toothpicks if necessary. Come 1:10 p.m., he heaves a sigh of relief and conjures up images of him tucking into a hearty lunch of roti, rice, multiple curries, the works. Just then, the news filters through... QUIZ! He breaks down and begins blubbing all over his desk, his dreams of an afternoon of a leisurely meal and siesta shattered.

A little explanation is required here. When I say 'quiz', I don't mean the Landmark/KBC types. I mean an exercise in academic demoralization and panic that is conducted from 2:30 p.m. onwards on any working day the PGP Office picks. In fact, I can clearly picture the chap in the Office who schedules quizzes leaning back in a comfy chair with his feet up in the air, holding a large number of darts. Which he then proceeds to throw at the weekly faccha schedule 5 feet away. Given the high ratio of darts to days, and the years of practice he's had, he's bound to hit atleast 4 a week. Which means, for us beleagueared victims, an hour of frantic shit-when-did-he-teach-all-this, Rem-Balaji-Rem!, hunting for calculators, desperate prayers and, on occasion, skipped lunches.

But on to more pleasant topics... like footer! That's football/soccer, by the way, and after an excruciating gap of two years, I finally got my rear end back onto a footer field. Which was just as well, coz it had been ages since I had indulged in any activity that could remotely be considered exercise. And it felt gooood. My thigh and back ached like hell for the next two days, but it was well worth it. And then we went on to win the inter-section footer tourney, amidst a blaze of glory, a flurry of missed shots, energetic drum beats and a nail-biter of a penalty shootout. Awesome fun, and one hell of a welcome break from the rigours of everyday academic pressure...

Speaking of which, it's very interesting to note how my morning schedule has changed since the time I entered the leafy and run-your-ass-off environs of IIMA. Here's what I mean.

Monday, June 27, 2005

Wake up at 0720 to the polite beeping of the alarm clock. Have a good bath, comb my hair, fold my dirty clothes into a neat pile, pick up my bag (already packed with the required books the previous night), lock my door and push off the mess, ambling along peacefully, savouring the fresh morning air...

A leisurely breakfast with friends at 0800, laughing and chatting over an impressive spread of omlettes, bread, dosas, a banana, cornflakes and piping hot coffee. Leave the mess at 0830, and head to the classrooms.

Enter the classroom at 0840, only to find 60% of the class already present. The rest trickle in by 0850. Review my notes and go over the key points again. Classes begin at 0900.

Monday, July 25, 2005

Wake up at 0815, after having hit the 'Snooze' button on the insistent alarm clock seven times. Have a rushed bath (perhaps just a quick wash of the upper body), chuck the dirty clothes in the approximate direction of the laundry bag, wear fresh clothes decided upon the previous night, throw books and papers into the bag, run to the mess.

Grab a quick bowl of cornflakes and an omlette. Maybe a sandwich, if I'm feeling adventurous. A glass of cold milk to wash it down. Rush out of the mess at 0850, and head to the classrooms.

Enter the classroom at 0855, and find 40% of the class present. The next 3 minutes see all the others troop in. Try to remember a few arbit points and catch a few winks before the classes begin at 0900.

Monday, August 22, 2005

Wake up at 0840, after 4 phone calls from concerned friends. I am, by now, absolutely immune to the banshee wails of my alarm clock. Then a tough (managerial?) decision - a. bath, b. breakfast, or c. none? Usually something between options b and c.

Wash my face to ensure that I don't look too sleepy. Change T-shirt if I can find a clean one lying around on the bed or under the papers. Grab my bag praying all the books are in it, and run like mad to the mess.

Head straight for the coffee, help myself to one hot glassful of essential caffiene (essential in that it helps me avoid sleeping through all 70 minutes of the lecture; my average now stands at 54 minutes). Grab a banana and head out the door at a brisk jog. Time: 0855

Enter the classroom at 0858, and find just 15% of the students in the room. Miraculously, all the seats are filled by 08:59:59. Ask my neighbour what class we have, and settle in for a little snooze until the class begins at 0900.


I notice I mentioned T-Nite on the list of stuff that has kept me away from you, dear, respected, patient and well-beloved reader. It's the single most incredible and life-changing event any student in IIMA can experience across the two years he toils here. It totally changes your perception of life! But considering the fact that it happened over two/three weeks ago, I'm sure you've read all about it already. In any case, I'll give you my two cents in my next post. That, and sundry other stories about G-14 (excited whispers across the galleries: "What's that?" "Sounds exciting!" "Is it a new type of missile?" "A new political formation!" "Mommy, can I go to the loo?"), campus romances, WIMWI learnings, adventures in the uncharted territory of the bathroom and more, coming soon to a browser near you!

D0604: National Park

He watched her through narrow eyes, judging when she would be close enough to be taken... She moved closer to him, then further, and then closer again, dancing to some unheard cosmic rhythm. She flirted and teased, flitting about just beyond his reach, taunting him to take her... He would wait. He knew his chance would come. When the trance-like movements ended, he knew he would have her. Only a slight shifting of his lithe body indicated his rising excitement... Blissfully unaware of his heightened senses and the small crowd watching the silent battle, she drew just a little closer. Too close. One quick snap of the jaws and two gulps later, he had had his fill...

I watched, fascinated, as a huge lizard ate an enormous moth just outside my room. I'm getting to watch a lot of this sort of live Discovery Channel stuff in my dorm over the last month or so. Even as I'm typing this, my eyes intermittently stray to a weird bug doing what appears to be a figure of eight on my Human Resources Management textbook (Which means it's touched it more in the past week than I have.) This insect seems to have a shiny black back speckled with bright green spots. It seems beetle-ish, though given the depth of my knowledge of natural history, you'd be well advised to bet against me on that one. Elsewhere, a grasshoppery crickety insect is performing a pirouette on my wallet. Yonder, a mini-cockroachish one is scrabbling up a wall in a desperate attempt to prove Newton wrong, watched interestedly by a dark brown spider.

There are so many more lifeforms... mosquitoes with weird stripes on their backs (anti-malarial tablets every week), brilliantly coloured birds, brightly hued butterflies, all manner and sorts of six-, eight-, twenty four- and one hundred-legged insects, a frog (that seemed even more surprised to find itself on my balcony than I was to find it there). Throw in the stray cats and dogs, with peacocks crying in the background, and the only things missing are a coupla big cats and a stall to collect entry fees.

All this is probably due to the heavy rains we had about two or three weeks back, which swamped large parts of the campus. Here's LKP before and after.

Anyways, I don't mind insects at all, they give me company during long nights spent cursing the chap who developed accounting standards. And when I'm not listening to arbit Tamil, Hindi, English and Telugu songs (in that order), their chirping and trilling and fluttering forms a very pleasant background score...

But my love for all insect forms nosedived last week because of a traumatic experience...

I gave my jeans, which were in desperate need of a good hard scrub, to the dhobi who serves my dorm. He usually does a reasonably decent job on my clothes, and I only thought twice before entrusting my beloved denims to his care.

"Kab milega?" I asked him, still clutching the jeans, unwilling to be parted from them.

"Sirf do din, saab," he said.

"Pukka?"

"Pukka milega saab."

"Theek hai, iska khayal rakhna...," I said, giving it a final farewell pat.

Somewhat buoyed by the thought that I would be jeansless for just two days, I returned to what turned out to be a rather productive session of Operations Management.

As expected, he brought back my clothes eight days later. I fell upon my jeans like a starving wolf of the steppes falling upon a plump villager who had been on a month-long holiday. A couple of loving caresses later, I placed it on my bed, ready to wear it to class the next morning...

My class starts at nine. I woke up at eight thirty cursing all and sundry, had a half-hearted bath, crammed my books into my bag, pulled on my jeans, locked my door and rushed off to the mess. Halfway there, however, I felt a strange sensation in my pants. A... scratchy sort of feeling. It made my skin crawl. What's worse, it literally felt like something was crawling on my skin! All thoughts of a refreshing and much-needed dosa abandoned, I rushed back to my dorm, barged into my room, slammed the door shut and ripped off my pants. (I wonder how many women are swooning as they read this...)

I adjusted my specs which had gone askew in all the excitement, and peered into my pants (a picture of this would make an awesome topic for an abstract GD!). And my breath caught in my throat as I beheld... ants! Not one, not ten, but a rough estimate indicated their population was somewhere in the region of 2.3 million (OK, give or take about 2.299 million...). It was an entire bloody colony there in my jeans. I had no doubt that the queen was churning out hordes of them even as I stared at the ant farm in mute shock.

Practical considerations saved the day. Fascinating as it was to contemplate spending four hours in class with ants in my pants, it was more fascinating to think of the ways in which my grades would suffer if I turned up late for class. I let out an expressive oath, grabbed a spare pant that had suffered use for the whole of the previous week and ran all the way to class...

As a result of this life-altering episode, I am firmly anti-ant at the moment, and until an ant saves my life or helps me pass an Economics paper or performs some such miracle, I am unlikely to feel any warmer towards the ant community at large.

Just a little something to end this post - if I had been bitten or harmed in any way by the ants, what medicine would I have taken? Antibiotics!

I'll keep this brief, I swear...

Yesterday, I saw no less than four people (unless my eyes deceived me, it was three guys and a girl) walking ahead of me. Not very unusual, you might say. No, it's not, I might reply. So what's the big deal, you might say. I'll tell you, will you let me finish, I might retort. Oh OK, go on, but make it quick, I've got to pee, you might plead. Right, I might say.

All four of them were wearing the kinda low slung jeans that seem to have become very popular among youngsters who have too much money to spend and too much body to show. I don't really grudge them wearing what they want, to each his own (It would have been far more impressive had I said that in Latin, but I don't know Latin, so please act impressed anyways. Thank you.) But what irked me was that for three of them, their underwear was showing.

The perverts among you who seem to frequent this site with alarming regularity and send me dirty messages are probably going, "Snigger snigger... u saw the girl's underwear..." Actually, I didn't. A clear and unobstructed view of her backside, fetching as it was, was not possible coz it was blocked by the bag she was carrying. One must take life as it comes.

Anyways, back to the undie-flashers. Come on guys, what the heck are you trying to prove anyways? That you wear underclothes?! What do u think I have in my pants? OK, that needs to be rephrased... what do you think I'm wearing below my waist? You don't have exclusive hold over the undie-market, the rest of us make reasonably regular use of our jocks too.

And presuming that the uppermost thought in your mind is not the erroneous assumption that others prefer walking around without their intimates, why on earth would you want to show yours? Does it make the region of your waist feel more airy? Do you believe it contributes in some way to the aesthetic beauty of the environment? Trust me, the sight of a polka dotted or pink striped or dirty yellow or boring white undie poking out of someone's jeans doesn't do much by way of pepping me up and making me feel good about life. It only makes me wonder what the hell the world is coming to and causes me to hammer out a blog post on it.

If you, dear reader, thought that was a pointless and uncalled-for rant, get some popcorn and settle back in your seats, coz here's more.

What's with all the swearing nowadays? Everywhere I go, I find unmentionable four-letter words being flung about with gay abandon. (I could make a joke about it also being flung about with straight abandon, but I don't know how many people would get it.) I'm no saint myself, I enjoy a good swear when I'm in a particularly lousy mood or I'm in the throes of deep tension and someone hides my spectacles so I go bumping around flailing my arms wildly and stubbing my toes and knocking things over and banging into doors and injuring people and... heck, I'm getting worked up... (deep breath).

I believe the occasional swear helps, especially when things aren't going well. A few choice, heartfelt curses can go a long way in letting out one's pent up emotions and cooling one down. Cursing also helps clear one's throat effectively so one can then proceed to loudly shift the blame for the cockup to someone else. But swearing practically all the time, for no reason whatsoever? I just don't get it.

Conversations just aren't like they used to be in the good old days... (For convenience, let's consider 'fish' to be a really bad word. If you think that's stupid, fish u.)

Then: Could you please pass me the butter.
Now: Where's the fishing butter? Oh, there it is. Who the fish put it there? Pass it here.

Then: Please do not give me bumps, they hurt. If you do not desist immediately, I shall be forced to take action against you.

Now: You bloody fishers! Just wait till you put me down, I fishing fish your happiness!

Then: (Laughing) That was rather humorous!

Now: Fish! That's fishin' hilarious, man!

Then: Why do you want to do that?!

Now: Are you fishin' crazy?! Why the fish do you want to do that?!

Then: Uh oh. I appear to have dropped my pen.

Now: Oh fish! I dropped the fishin' pen.

Then: I am not interested in dealing with you.

Now: Fish you.

Then: Please explain what is happening here...
Now: What the fish is going on here?

Then: Kindly remove yourself.

Now: Fish off!

Then: (Exasperated) I don't think I'll do this.

Now: Oh, fish it.

You catch my drift... I just don't see why inserting a swear word for every 2.5 non-swear words is essential for inter-human communication. I guess that's just the way the world is.

Have to catch up on a LOT of lost sleep, so gonna crash now... so long, and thanks for all the fish!

Week 2 - whoooosh!

Hell, the last week went by really fast... it flashed by in a flurry of group meetings and quizzes and assignments and unsolvable accounting problems.

I'm really beginning to love this place, the lifestyle here, the customs and the oddities and challenges. I feel I'm growing in many ways. Learning to fend for myself, having to decide my priorities, trying to stay afloat in a tidal wave of intense competition and mindblowing intelligence... Finding new depths to myself I didn't know existed, pushing myself beyond boundaries I had assumed could never be breached... I take up an assignment and think, "What the hell am I doing in this place? I can't do stuff like this!" and then, three hours later, "Whoa! Did I really do that myself? I rock!"

Of course, it helps that we have totally GODlevel professors, who confront us and challenge us and coax us and bully us into coming with up answers to our own questions, and throw up streams of thought and debate that we would otherwise never have considered. They aren't called teachers - they're 'instructors'. And we aren't students, we're 'participants' in the programme. All of which makes for a very unique and stimulating learning environment, worlds removed from the pedantic boredom and pointlessness of engineering. And classes can actually be a lot of fun, as this post of Oka's indicates...

The only major downside of life here is that one has to sacrifice sleep in the interests of passing the course. A very reasonable sacrifice to expect, of course. I slept a sum total of 8 hours over the nights of the 6th, 7th and 8th of this month. And didn't catch up on much in the weekend coz there's just so much happening on campus! Like last night's (this morning's!) dance party that I was at from 2 a.m. till 4 a.m... and the rain dance where we got totally drenched and threw ourselves about madly, glad to let loose all the pent up energy... and last weekends dorm party that lasted a whole five and a half hours, till 3:30 in the morning...

Such nights out are usually capped by a visit to Cafe TANSTAAFL (non-WIMWIans, guess the funda!) on the campus for a soothing cup of hot chai or a sandwich... nice food, but it totally pales in comparison to our mess.

Let me state this loud and clear - the mess here ROCKS. So much so that when we went out for dinner to a popular local restaurant, I found myself thinking, "So what? Our mess is just as good!" Here's a sample menu...

Menu for Sunday, July 10 2005

Breakfast:

Rava Dosa with Sambar

Boiled eggs

Omlette

Bread with Jam

Bread with butter

Cornflakes

Tea/Coffee/Milk

Fruit

Lunch:

Giloda Masala

Mushroom Paneer Masala

Dal Masoor

Curd

Dudi Ka Raita

Onion rings

Aloo salad

Roti

Fruit

High Tea:

Aloo vada

Tea/Coffee

Dinner:

Cabbage Dry

Dum Aloo

Curd

Onion raita

Rice

Dal Arhar

Veg salad

Moong salad

Roti

Ice cream

We sometimes have awesome naans and baturas, apart from jalebis, gulab jamun and a host of other sweets... and we're allowed as many helpings as we want! My hopes of losing a little weight by the end of the term have been dashed by my tendency to hog on all this good food...

And one of the best things about the mess is the music. Beautiful music, lots of old Hindi songs, a very pleasant accompaniment to dinner. In fact, there's music everywhere, at the Cafe, in the admin office, even in the bank!

Music has actually become quite an important part of my life here. I finally got myself a pair of speakers a few days back (woohoo!) and my comp's been playing practically nonstop since. And nice, peaceful music, not the overdose of Bunty aur Babli (grrrr) that the other dorms seem to be pumping out all day long.

There's just so much happening, so much to keep track of. In times like this - running to submit an assignment, tearing your hair out over an Economics problem, cursing a balance sheet that doesn't tally, wondering why a company doesn't just sack all its employees instead of discussing HR issues with them, frustrated that your Excel Sheet cell keeps showing #!REF - small pleasures take on added beauty. Sharing a joke with a complete stranger, trading a smile with a cute girl, raiding a well-stocked pantry at one in the morning, putting up a Juice on DBabble in a friend's name, giving people bumps for arbit reasons, eating icecream at night all alone in the vast expanse of Louis Kahn Plaza...

It feels like a whole new life.

"Muggo, facchon, Muggo!"

2105 hours, 21st June, 2005.

A tired and dishevelled group of about 10 young 20-somethings bursts into spontaneous applause and whoops of joy.

We were at IIMA, at last.

After a 34 hour journey that helped us bond far more than I expected (most of us had never met the others before) over tea and cards and anti-2-day-1-night-journey-remarks and a crick in the neck (thanks to watching The Passion of the Christ on the upper berth of a three-tier compartment!) we were in good old Ahemdabad. Then a bit of haggling with the taxiwallahs at the Ahmedabad station, and 15 minutes (and a anticlimactic and misleading Ahmeadabad Management Association) later, we were, to use a cliche, in the hallowed portals of IIMA.

At first glance (and the second and the third) the layout of this place is incredibly confusing. You can go around in circles, at three different levels of elevation and still not find your room. Of course, a ready frame of reference is the girls' dorms, which any self respecting guy on campus is expected to know. A little bit of this-way-no-i-think-it's-here-are-you-sure-#$%$#%-we're-lost later, I was settled in my room. By settled, I mean I found it and put down my bags. And ate and slept.

The next few days were a whirlwind of activity. Getting to know my dorm tucchas, who are really amazingly supportive guys - they actually take a lot of time out of their own busy schedules to help us deal with problems, teach us stuff we can't understand, and so on. Experiencing and participating in the awesome practice of tempo shouts. Attending loooong orientation sessions. Being coached on the finer details of campus life and how to deal with the fact that liqour is prohibited in Gujarat. Getting used to the fact that I have to call a 16ft x 9ft room home for two years. And learning to make 3 a.m. bedtimes and 5-hour nights a lifestyle choice rather than an unfortunate necessity.

OK, one thing at a time. I don't know if I've mentioned this earlier on this blog, but I'm a faccha. That's a combination of 'First year' and 'Bachcha' (kid, in Hindi). So its 'fuh' plus 'chcha'. NOT 'fuh' plus 'ka', as I initially read it to be. And my seniors are 'Two' plus 'Facchas', tucchas. My dorm (D6, which totally rocks!) has about 10 each of facchas and tucchas, and the kind of bond of friendship and mutual support that has built in just ten days is awesome. The dorm culture here (your primary loyalty on campus is usually to your dorm, then your section, then your girlfriend, then your institute) is very strong, since one's dorm is practically one's family for two whole years.

And one super manifestation of dorm grouping is a tempo shout. Technically, any group can tempo shout another, and one hardly needs an excuse to begin a shout, but it's most fun as a dorm. I can't tell you how it goes, coz that's an insti secret of sorts. There's a standard template, but the more creative the ones you can come up with, the better. And when 30 guys stand beneath your balcony and yell at the top of their lungs at 2 a.m., the experience is mindblowing. And, of course, if another dorm tempo shouts yours, the entire dorm rallies to outshout them. Some also scamper up to the terrace to throw bucketfuls of water (a practice called 'the dunk') on the intruders.

The campus has, of late, been echoing quite a lot with the other popular shout, that goes "Muggo, facchon, Muggo!", a little bit of friendly advice from the tucchas that it's high time you went to your room and mugged (read prepared for cases and problems - this ain't engineering!) for the next day's class while they leisurely sipped chai at the canteen and loudly discussed how light the workload is in the second year. And its not easy to be a nervous fuccha facing his first quiz in IIMA and have 200 tucchas yelling all over the campus... on the whole though, it's rather fun.

Lots more happening, of course, but I gotta go do some work or I'll have a baaad time in class tommorow.

Coming soon: Canteen quirks, plus Rain dance and party!

I'm baaaack!

Yo!

I've just got myself a computer, and it feels soooo good after having to live without one for about 10 whole days.

Life here in Ahmedabad is very very very very hectic, so I can't stop to write much now (got a truckload of stuff to do for class tommorow). Will put up a post as soon as I can. Lots to say, lots of reflections, lots of stories to narrate, lots of wacky things happening here on campus.

Until then, ta!

Goodbye... for now.

I'm leaving my home of 8 years (Chennai, that is) and family of 21 years in 2 days. Less actually, 31 hours or so. I'm off to Ahmedabad on Monday...

The last week has been a whirlwind of activity. Visting relatives, last minute packing, wondering whether I should take a pillow along or buy one there, realising I wasn't using the most efficient way of ironing a shirt, buying stationary, listening to endless lectures on why I should eat properly (padikkyara payyon), trying to remain strighfaced when sermonized by well-meaning uncles on the evils of alcohol (too late!)...

And catching up on memories. I didn't realise, until a week ago, that clearing one's desk can be such an emotional experience. The cover of a failed album by a failed band I was part of 10 years ago, old birthday cards, notebooks with more doodles than useful content, arbit quiz papers, little chits that had been passed to me in class, a forgotten photo of an unforgettable girl... I lingered on every photograph, every scrap of paper, every memory, even as my mother kept pushing me to clear everything as soon as possible.

I also met some of my closer friends, and in each case managed to hold my tears back until I was alone and have a quiet little memories-regrets-loss-missing session in private.

And I bought a suit! I hate shopping in general, and even more so for clothes. But when I saw the suit and felt the material, I fell totally in love with it. Yours truly believes he looks rather natty in it.

This, of course, is relative, since the aforementioned yours truly (not to be confused with yours Schumacher or yours Hakkinen) is usually to be found in shorts or a rather disreputable pair of jeans that are crying (actually, not so much crying as slashing their wrists in agony) for a hard, good, long-overdue wash.

Anyways, it's a whole new life there and I'm really looking forward to it. I'm very excited, and am looking forward to recording all my inital impression on this blog for posterity. I don't think I'll have a computer for atleast 10 days after I get there, and when I'll get an internet connection is something I dare not think about now. The upshot of all this uncertainty is that I will not have any contact with this blog until say, the 5th of July. So, if you find this blog curiously static, don't think I've given up blogging or have gone into hibernation or have been run over or something of the sort. In the words of Governor Arnie, "I'll be back". (Sylvester Stallone later said, "I'll be Beethoven" but no one paid him any attention. (Pause for hysterical laughter and applause.))

For any first time visitors during my hiatus, here is quick intro to my blog and life to bring you up to speed (Please do click on the links or else...):

Q. Who is this AC guy anyways?

A. I'm a regular chap in almost aspects of life and existence except that I'm just a little nuts and am an Anna University engineering graduate. For further details, read each and every single entry in this blog... If you're female and would like me to read it out to you, call me.

Q. Why is he going to Ahmedabad?

A. The truth might be in the vaguely-described "out there", but the answer is here and here, in two parts!

Q. What does he look like?

A. Oh, normal. 10 digits, one nose, two eyes, all that. Plus a paunch! Batteries not included, some assembly required.

Q. Does he have a sex life?

A. A very good question. Here's the closest I've got to it. If you are female and would like to volunteer to educate me in this respect, call me.

Q. Does he have any special talents?

A. You bet! I'm a pro at a very special contact sport. If you are female and would like coaching, call me.

Q. Does he love nature?

A. Well... yes and no.

Q. Why is he even named AC? Is there an expansion, or is that a sad attempt at trying to convince the world he's cool?

A. Ah, why I am named what I am named makes for a very interesting story. I'm just too lazy to tell it to you, so you'll have to make do with this. And if you are female and do think I'm cool, call me.

Q. Why on earth is this blog named 'The Lord of the Things...'?

A. The answer to that is shrouded in the mists of history, leading all the way back to the 11th of November 2004 when this little baby was born... And the world was never the same again... this was the beginning.

Q. And last but not the least, is AC desperate for female companionship?

A. No, of course not! But if you are female and still think so, call me and I'll tell you why I'm not.

That should answer most queries. Have fun, and cya all in a while!

Bombs away!

I am being persecuted. Attacked. Ambushed. Hounded. Stalked till my nerves are jangling like they've never jangled before. I walk/ride about in fear, trying to avoid open skies as I go about my daily life, a mere shadow of my former self.

My eyes are always open to any offensive. My ears are alert, listening, waiting for the telltale SPLAT as some incontinent bird lets loose. On me. Every time. It's inhuman, I tell you. Inhuman.

I have never been cruel to any species of bird in my life. OK, I've eaten chicken now and then, but that's hardly a reason to torment me in this manner. This relentless shadowing and frighteningly accurate aim... sometimes it makes me want to go. If you know what I mean.

"Hah, he's exaggerating", you say. "What crap!" you comment (quite appropriately). You dismiss my narrative with a careless "This one's for the birds!" Hear ye, dear reader, this be not crap. I speaketh the truth. As Yoda would testify, the truth I speak. History bears witness to the pitiful condition of my relations with the feathered folk.

Four times in the course of the last ten days. Twice on my shirt, once on my bike's headlight and once on the seat. Four in ten. Coincidence? I don't think so. The tally would have been five if I hadn't niftily swerved when I noticed a large yellow-green-white blob heading for me earlier this afternoon. It landed a relatively safe 6 centimeters away.

This has to be an anti-AC conspiracy by the birds. It isn't just the pigeons or crows, it's now all manner and sorts of birds. Some even appear to have called in distant relatives from foreign lands for the express purpose of decorating me or my vahana with their bodily wastes. And the odds are just too great for me to battle against. What chance does one pathetic human being have against a whole battalion of birds who scheme and plot against me. Maybe they even have a bird-Olympics, where one of the most prestigious events is the LALOAH, Land A Load On AC's Head.

I don't mind body art at all. In some cases I would donate rather liberally to foundations that aim to spread the culture of body arts to bring about world peace or the eradication of poverty or bringing a decent educational system (sans politics) to Tamil Nadu or other such causes that I know will not succeed in my lifetime. But I draw the line at the 'body' in the body art being my body. Oh, I know, if I let birds crap all over me and then stand in a glass box, I'd probably win the Turner Prize which, in my opinion, they award to the most insensible and downright crappy installation they find in the competition. But I'll turn down that honour, thank you very much.

I'd much prefer to remain clean and un-bird-crapped. I look just a little better without white-green-yellow blobs on my clothes or skin. I'm sure I smell a lot better without them too, though some might consider this point debatable.

Watch out...

The funniest letter my family has received in seven years. Found it when I was clearing my table, though I have no idea what it was doing there in the first place.

I live in T.Nagar, a locality of Chennai, India, that is a hotbed of politics and crime. And not just coz I live here.

Like all insecure apartment complex folk, we've hired a coupla watchmen from an agency. It never fails to amaze me that all watchmen I have come across are apparently on the wrong side of 60 and appear to suffer from creaky joints and amnesia. Fat lot of good they'd be if a burglar attacked the building. They're the kind who jump like jackrabbits even if the gate creaks. Is it jackrabbits I mean? Anyways, you could scare them shitless by creeping up behind them in broad daylight and whispering 'Boo!' in their hairy ears. You notice I haven't called them guards... Given the fact that they a) sit around all day watching the world go by, and b) would be useless in a real crisis, I think 'watch'men is far more appropriate. But maybe I'm being just a little too harsh. Our houses haven't been broken into yet, nor has anything been set on fire by outside agents. And only one guy has been kidnapped so far. (Not really... the police were called in but it was later discovered that he was lying somewhere drunk!) So maybe these watchmen are OK...

The following letter was sent to my mom (who's the Secretary of our Flat Owners Association) by the proprietor of the 'detective agency' that supplies the watchmen. (Note the impressive string of degrees after his name.) The entire family cracked up on reading this. The choice of words and the structure is priceless!

Check it out here. (Expand the image to regular size to read it.)

[Some details have been blacked out to prevent lawsuits/ embarassment/ withdrawal of service/ other undesirable occurences]

:D

PR

Was fiddling around online, jobless as ever, and decided I'd create a banner for my blog. A Google search and 5 minutes later...

A static one, for now. If I ever feel driven or enthu enough to do so, I'll make a nice moving one...

Whaddya think?