Not Entirely Nondescript

Today is more avergae than most other days. Israeli airstrikes killed 152 in the Gaza strip and 22 died when a car-bomb exploded in Baghdad. Red Cross stepped up efforts through world-wide drives to meet the holiday shortfall in blood donations. A former Beverly Hills doctor allegedly used human fat he liposuctioned to power his car. Unfortunately for him, this practice is illegal according to California State health officials. An Indian space probe found traces of iron on the moon, similar to what was discovered 40 years ago. Scientists saw nothing wrong with cousins getting married, Mahmoud Ahmedinejad and the Pope talked of peace as they adressed Christmas crowds and Barack Obama was photographed without a shirt.

Like I said an average day. The Earth spun on its axis (once), the Big ben played it's 20 chime sequence twice in four parts over every hour, many many babies were born, a hundred thousand flights were delayed, lightning struck the planet five thousand times, eighteen thousand traffic jams bothered millions going to work, we drank a million bottles of Coca Cola and atleast one war or some sort of conflict began this day.

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Have you watched a lady stuck in traffic? She will slide slightly to the front of the seat, then her nose will move up by forty five degrees. Then there is an attempt to assess the situation but obviously she is thoroughly confused. An arm goes behind the adjacent seat's head-rest and the neck hurriedly twists to check if there is room to reverse. And then the shoulders slump before, a tiny gasp follows a quick pulling back of hair from the face. The car jerks forward awkwardly.

If you are fortunate you might be able to see this from an auto-rickshaw stuck beside her car. You might even want to help her out.

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Just saw this movie. It follows the life of a smooth-talking thief. Nothing is more despicable than betrayal. When he is betrayed, all he asks for is to be allowed one slap. And as he stretches his palm in readiness he sees the poor fellow whimpering. He smiles and lets him go.

HTML [0] Design Genius [1] Punjab Mail [3.5] – Part I

Most people, who get weekends off, take weekends off. I’m not one of them; I’ve been to work every Saturday of my career, plus two Sundays and one Labour Day. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no workaholic, I am at my desk on Saturdays, well, for no clear reason.

Anyway, I just took this Saturday off. There was general celebration in the house; my mother drew a long list of items that had to be pulled out of the lofts. Sometimes I think my mother loves me only because I am tall. My dad smiled wickedly, finally a day to take me to the bank, and get me to finish the boring paperwork for some thing that has now been pending for more than a year. Cookie was happy too; she thought maybe I will cook lamb curry on both Saturday and Sunday.

Hah... They were all wrong. I haven’t taken my eyes off the computer for the entire weekend now. Except of course to sleep and go the loo and to do other absolutely essential things like picking up my eyeballs when they popped out from the strain of staring at the screen for seven straight hours. My head is so full of pixels, textures, vectors, Photoshop, HTML, CSS, error messages and low virtual memory!!!

But, here it is, the result of two straight days of tweaking the blog, through countless online HTML tutorials and design freebies… My blog is now completely free of the stupid restrictions that come with every Google template, I control the colour and texture of every pixel, I decide the padding and margin of every header and widget, in short I am monarch of all YOU currently survey. My blog is now, finally, well… mine.

I would like to thank this gentleman and these guys without whose profound wisdom and infinite largesse none of this would have been possible. Also due credit must be given to my mother for getting the driver to empty the lofts, making this weekend’s lamb curry, supplying me with endless rounds of chai, coffee and even cold drink (for which I had to eat Chyawanprash at night.) Mother’s bargain well!!! Also the maid, who agreed, rather reluctantly, to not sweep or clean the computer-side of my room, this was necessary since the process takes her no less than half a day and generally involves her randomly disconnecting the entire computer and threatening its very existence. My dad for, as usual, getting the paper work done all by himself. And last but not the least, Cookie, my dear dog, the time this took was actually meant for her. Definitely two curries next weekend!

Ladies and Gentlemen, ‘the’ slowtumblinglife takes immense pleasure in presenting to you the new look of “The Write for the Remaining Silence”.

Thank you!! Thank you!! You are all very kind! Thank you..

Autographs? No No.. Well, only this one time..

Thank YOU!!!

Initial response seems mixed. Don felt that even though the main header image was ‘singularly engaging and powerful’ the colours were ‘earthen, dull and depressing.’ Well, the blog features a lot of Bihar (earthen), and me (dull and depressing.) Maybe I will use shades of orange and red when I finally move to Delhi or become a film director or both.

BLIMBLOP felt that I should concentrate on the content and not fool readers with blank posts like the last one. And that only ‘losers’ spend weekends designing blogs. And my heart broke completely when she said she liked what she saw of the blog last morning. By that time I had just changed the font of the date header; and the rest of the blog was more or less splattered with the message ‘this image has been removed by the author.’

Anyway, so this is the blog. Feel free to tell me what you think of it.

And I promise not to change the layout for at least a year. But, who can tell, I think I love playing around with obscure textures, vectors and fonts on Photoshop. Maybe, I will take more Saturdays off; finally there is something to do, even in Patna.

POSTSCRIPT - Seems like HTML sneaked in a slimy late equalizer. The wonderful background shade (that hopefully you can now see) was invisible on every computer other than the one at home. This also explains Don's violent suggestion to change the color-scheme. Any way it has been settled now. Enjoy!

HTML [0] Design Genius [1] Punjab Mail [3.5] - PART II

Part II of this post explains its title. But before that, we must make time for a brief introduction, of this fine gentleman, Shashi. Now Shashi is no ordinary man, to the ignorant onlooker (the kind who didn’t get Mo-Dot), he handles the day-to-day life and the Human Resource Department at the organisation I am responsible for in Bihar, however, Shashi has not moved a single muscle in the last five years to ease the daily operations of that organization or added to the department he is responsible for.

Now, you might wonder why such a person continues to enjoy employment, well part of the answer requires deep understanding of the Hindu Caste System, the politics of both my organization and the cow-belt of India and why luck overtly favours some people over others. But the other part that can be explained in brief, here, and is within the scope of this blog is, well, Shashi is a wizard when it comes to hotel bookings, train tickets, banquet-hall reservations, and taking care of renegade employees.

He will get you the ticket for a train, first class with window seat, even if the engine, the roof and the luggage containers of the train are completely booked, he will get you inside a hotel room even if you call him in the middle of the night, the owners of the banquet halls in Patna behave as if they worked for Shashi and if an employee runs away with some money, Shashi will hunt him down and produce him within 24 hours and if the person escapes beyond Nepal, Shashi will produce, generally the hapless father and in special circumstances the entire family, of the employee. He is a real gem, this Shashi.

Anyway, I was to be in Calcutta this Friday for a friend’s wedding. So I walked into Shashi’s room on Thursday evening, only a few hours before the scheduled departure of my train and asked Shashi what he had brought for lunch. And then I ate half his food, finalised the salaries for the month and asked how his daughter was doing. Then casually I mentioned the ticket, to which he responded with a particularly wide yawn and then with considerable disdain he made a call that consisted of a string of whispers. Then he confirmed my ticket, at which point I tossed my laptop into my bag and headed home.

About thirty minutes before I had to leave, I got a call from the venerable Shashi. He seemed edgy and extremely embarrassed. And then, sounding like a proud Army General who had to sign a treaty accepting defeat in a major war, Shashi informed me that the ticket was not for 2392 UP Danapur-Howrah but for 3997 UP Punjab Mail. But it was confirmed, with window seat.

‘Sorry, Sir!’

‘It’s alright Shashi, Goodnight.’

At this point, the story can travel further only if we take some time out for another introduction. A preamble to a relationship; between my father and the Indian Railways. Now various people in my family have served at various levels in the Railways, from the DRM (Divisional Railway Manager), to the CCS (Chief Commercial Officer) to Station Masters. My father, as a result, has enjoyed special services in the Indian Railways. From berths that came chalked with his name in the 60s and 70s, to timely meals at regular intervals in the 80s to increasing the time Sharamjivi Express stopped at Kathgodam station. (That’s the train me and my dad took for eleven years, to get to school, we had to get off at Kathgodham, and the train would move on to Delhi. But it stopped there only for two minutes which were grossly insufficient to get off with one trunk, three bags and one hold-all.) Sharamjivi now halts there for 15 minutes; I of course no longer go to school. I am certain many a current passenger must question the judgement of the Indian Railways in awarding that deserted and dilapidated station such a lengthy stop.

So, my Dad is a collector of Railway time-tables, he is the only person who watches the Railway Budget with greater concentration than the General Budget, he is the only person that actually watches the Railway Budget, he actually celebrates the start of a new train, even if it begins and ends in Kerala or some other obscure corner of the world, in fact he is so passionate about the Railways that my name was almost decided to be Wheeler, and when my mother shot it down he had his eyes on Cookie. Thankfully by then I was more than six feet tall and could bully him back.

Anyway, I told Papa about Punjab Mail. Immediately he sprang into action. He called up almost every one at Patna Junction, introduced himself as the brother of CCS Howrah (cleverly hiding the fact that his brother retired in 1984), and demanded to know where Punjab Mail was. Then he calculated the distance, factored delays due to the winter fog and told me that the train was five hours late. Of course that’s exactly what the recorded message said too. But he likes to ascertain information.

By the way, my dad can calculate the speed of the train by looking at his watch and counting the Railway poles that go by, they are all separated by exactly 10 metres. When I was 12 years old this made me want to be like him, now of course I joke about it here.

So I fell asleep, knowing that it would be 3 AM before the train arrived. I didn’t even set an alarm because I knew my dad would be up all night. He called and tracked Punjab mail through Lucknow, Moradabad, Ara and so on, at one point I thought he was even yelling at the recorded message and after midnight he was introducing himself as the brother of the DRM of Eastern Railways. He retired in 1992.

So, I got up at 3 AM and dad and I left for the Patna Junction. The train was going to arrive in fifteen minutes. So my Dad and I took our weights (I need to cut down on the lamb curry) in those red grungy weighing machines that decorate railway platforms across the country, another father-son thing we did regularly over the eleven years that we took trains to my school. And then they announced that Punjab Mail was further delayed by half an hour. I asked my Dad to leave, mostly because I wanted to be left alone with my ipod.

I should have known; the name itself, Punjab Mail, was indication enough. I mean a train that would stick to its time table could not be called Punjab ‘Mail’. If it had been Punjab ‘Superfast’ or Punjab ‘Express’ or even Punjab ‘Deluxe’ one could conclude that the train was destined to a career characterized by punctuality. Punjab ‘Mail’!!!!

Anyway, the train went from being half an hour further delayed to one to three to five hours further delayed. All this while I cursed Shashi; and myself for not booking a flight or asking my dad to wait longer. I was introduced to the night life of Patna Junction, drunk kids, drunk beggars, drunk people in general, chai-wallahs, newspaper kids selling news from three days ago and so on. How come there is only as much news every day to fill a news paper? (Courtesy: Jerry Seinfeld)

So, I stood out like a sore thumb for four hours before being rescued. It was cold, and my ipod lost charge almost immediately, and there wasn’t even the occasional hot woman like at the Delhi/Mumbai airport, and all this for a friend’s wedding, I don’t think I’d put in as much effort for my own wedding, and if I did I am sure I'd be married twice by now!!! No?! Wait a minute... Eventually I didn’t even go to Calcutta, and spent the weekend at home.

So that's that...

A Day in the Life of THE Procastinator

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flâneur extraordinaire

You might notice that this blog has been recently redecorated. HTML code and me don't get along too well; in trying to execute my revolutionary design ideas onto this blog I almost deleted all the posts and nearly lost my dear old jukebox. Where would I be without the Wurlitzer, what would I do at work?

However, I am not one to give in easily; the search for the perfect layout shall continue. If nothing else, my pageview count shall rise to hitherto unknown levels.

The other day I was traveling more than six hundred kilometers through Naxal infested areas which were called names like Gandu (seriously!!), Kodarma and Tilaiya. To make my strange life even stranger I was listening to Yann Tiersen's album, Les Retrouvailles. The song was A Ceux Qui Sont Malades Par Mer Calme; don't even ask me what it means. It's instrumental, and I only have the guy's entire collection because he gave the score for Amelie. Hmm... It's at times like that when I stop to look for the meaning of life and start to search for some in mine. It's funny actually.

I was thinking, and I have often thought of this while traveling across Bihar - maybe I am the first and last person to bring Monsieur Tiersen to Motihari or take Messrs Floyd to Begusarai. I like to think of it as a great honour and a matter of responsibility. I often think like this. As a kid I'd throw stones right into the middle of a pond or river and be satisfied with knowing that the poor pebble would never again see the light of day.

Of course, immediately I returned to a pursuit far more intellectual. To the ignorant onlooker I might be seen nodding my head, in a bizarre fashion, every now and then while sitting in the car. Of course nothing can be further from the truth. What I am actually doing, is playing "Mo-Dot." (Copyright)

Now you will notice that windows in the car are full of spots. Pick one. Preferably a darker shade. You will find that moving your head will "move" the dot. Now the true beauty of this elite and sophisticated game is its flexibility. You can try to keep the dot between two parallel electricity wires for as long as possible. This is not as easy as it sounds, the wires have a mind of their own, they swoop and swing and sometimes the wretched things will even cross. You could try to "jump" the dot over every passing vehicle or "encirle" each one as it came. You could try to flatten the tires by "shooting" with the dot. Hell, you could even "cut" trees, people, poles and entire buildings with the dot. It's like being inside GTA Vice City, without any real damage.

Oh but my favourite variant is playable only from the front passenger seat. You need to swing your head to each side to move the dot between the gaps in the dotted white line painted on the roads. This one is certain to convince everyone else in the car of your madness.

Hah! What do they know? The joys of a simple game.

I have not watched a movie in so long! Even lost count of the ones I want to watch. Bond, and Oye Lucky! Lucky Oye!

But for now I am sleepy. So goodbye. And goodnight.

It was a great song by the way. The Yann Tiersen one. You could also try, Good Bye Lenin, La Pharmacie, La Boulange and the Amelie soundtrack of course. Actually most of his stuff is great. If I could I'd make movies and get him to give the music.

Really Jean Pierre Jeunet (dir. Amelie) and me think alike. I have thought SO OFTEN of the no. of people that would be having sex at any given point. But then to my sorrow, I saw this Amelie thread on IMDB once, apparently half the world is secretly fond of sex-statistics. Also everyone likes to put their hands into a bag full of grains, or has a favourite simple pleasure of a similar kind. I like playing Mo-Dot, and taking stairs two at a time, what are your little jollies?

When?

I don't know how to react to the recent terror attacks. It's been a week and every thing that could be said about the tragedy has already been said. You had statements that were dignified and full of remorse others that were burning with anger and some that came from insensitive and tactless assholes.

I guess like many more, as I watched the horror unfold, there was a nagging empty feeling that grew inside me, a certain helplessness of knowing that this heartbreak would repeat itself soon enough. And going by the recent past the next event would be even more audacious and deadly.

Nothing will really change, a few political heads will roll but will be replaced with similar idiots.

I guess as a society we have lost the individual gumption to do something that would lead to a larger change. We gave the world a man that shook the foundations of the British Empire simply because he was thrown out of a train. How many Gandhi's will emerge from the scores that were injured, or the hundreds that lost family or the millions that watched the tragedy on television?

As citizens we should stop concentrating only on demanding a government 'for' the people and realise that it must also be 'of and by' the people.

Life, One Egg At A Time

Eggs and me go a long way. As a kid I ate one half-boiled egg just before leaving for school. I still remember I'd sit outside on the verandah and sip it off a red cup. That was my favourite cup, red on the outside and white inside. I used it for egg, water, milk, and even watery noodles. On our trip to Kashmir, which my brother sort of bunked because it'd make him miss the annual play at his school, I lost the cup. After having milk or something I insisted on drying the cup by hanging it out of the train. Of course it went flying by.

Anyway, when you are a kid you get over cups easily. Over most things actually. Plus I was not drinking noodles anymore.

In school we got served eggs every morning. Fried eggs that were cold and insipid and covered in silvery bits of hardened oil, on Mondays and Fridays. I ate these without salt for some reason. Two boring boiled eggs on Thursday. Scrambled eggs on Wednesdays which were traded at the rate of three plates for one out of two pieces of Chicken on Special Dinner Night. Yeah, scrambled eggs were the 'in' thing back in the 90s. Or at least on the table I sat on in Class 6. On Saturdays, we got served these cold Omelettes that were 80% onion and holes.

Kashmir was great fun by the way. I got lost in Pehalgaon, slapped a kid 'smoking' a toffee-cigarette, ate a million apples, and called shikaras, chikaras.

Sundays - we got cheese toast and fries, with locally made sauce that was bright pink in colour and more pungent than anything I had ever had. Almost always I settled for the porridge and cheese toast and waited for the canteen to open.

In college, a cousin of mine thought he introduced me to scrambled eggs. He called it bhurji. I told him all about how it was worth one-third of a chicken's leg. Anyway, the eggs at college were mighty fine, plus there were the all-night canteen serving their traditional fare of alu paratha, egg bhurji, and Amul butter. But by then food had lost much of its romance, it was too easy to get, nobody was snatching it from you like in school, you couldn't be bothered about stealing it in the hostel or in bulk from the canteen itself , or with hoarding it under your bed. My parents stopped sending me parcels with dry fruits, coke cans and chips. All in all, food became, well just food. In school our lives revolved around food, and girls of course.

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So the other day I forgot lunch. Then I walked to the corner of the street to eat something. There was someone selling half-boiled eggs.

Innocuous memories are great fun too. You can watch them trickle down the snowy slope of time and grow in size. And when they slow down as they approach the present, bits of our lives stick out aimlessly from a lump of forgotten time.

I like remembering the past in minute and exact detail. However bland it might have been. It makes me feel like I have lived longer than just yesterday.

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I ate six half-boiled eggs in a row.