Hyderabad – Adilabad – Nagpur – Itarsi (780km; 6:00 am)
The journey of a thousand miles may begin with a single step. But a journey of 4500 miles begins with a paradigm shift. Not a shift in ideology for that is an exercise in self-righteousness (hence a subject non-conducive to most deliberations) but a shift in location.
There I was half-way across half the world somewhere in the jungles of Africa working a pretty fulfilling job. Of course jobs tend to be fulfilling in direct proportion to the paychecks they bring in. Even so, not everything can be monetized and Marylin Monroe was right in crooning that the best things in life were free. Three years on it was time to move on to the proverbial greener pastures.
The wife and I decided to go to Ladakh. The sensible among us fly to Srinagar or Kullu and then drive up to Leh. The smart ones fly down to Leh. We decided that driving all the way from Hyderabad was the way to do it. In these times of fast food and T20 cricket, it is fairly easy to instantly certify us lunatics. Well, who am I kidding? In most times it would be fairly easy to instantly certify us lunatics.
Anyway. The move back to India was made and the appropriate car was bought – a shiny black Bolero SLX. As the yarn is spun further more details about the car shall be divulged wherever appropriate.
The jaunt began on 20 September 2009 at 6:00am from the Script Writer house at Ameerpet, Hyderabad. As it has now come to be widely accepted yours truly got lost on a road straight as an arrow. It has never been satisfactorily explained how feats of such impressive magnitude are achieved time and again. Perhaps greatness is never meant to be fully understood. Despite all that we made it to Nirmal (about 270km off) in three hours courtesy the beautiful dual carriageway almost all the way through. National Highway (NH) 7 is possibly the best road in the country (shaayad ab tak Atalji lete hue hain us sadak par), which is not necessarily a good thing for it lulls you into believing that all roads are as benign.
About 80km or so from Nirmal is Adilabad, and then you cross over into Maharashtra. Whoever says Maharashtra has the best road network in India needs to have their head dipped in ice-cold water any day of the week and twice on a Sunday. The road to Nagpur is laced with at least 60 diversions, not counting the ones that are unmarked. It is hard enough making sense of them in the day leave alone the dangers of navigating after sunset for some diversions if not taken will land you in a 20ft deep pit. Most will plunge you into an abyss.
Nagpur is 485km from Hyderabad. 730 days of the formative years of my childhood were spent in this city. Yet I fail to understand why Nagpuris take pride in the city being the state’s second capital. I mean why be content with being the next best thing? It is a good place to have lunch, though. As you enter the city soon after you descend the first flyover on your right you find the famous Haldiram’s food outlet. You could eat there if that is the sort of thing you like to do or you could drive down a little further and find yourself a proper dhaba.
When doing a road trip, the most important thing is getting the right directions. And filling stations are great at giving you those. There is a Bharat Petroleum filling station after the Sitabuldi flyover. You will know the flyover once you take it because on your left would be Lokmat Bhavan, the city’s tallest building. The fuel station is located at a traffic junction. Take the left and head out straight on NH 69, the highway to Bhopal. Fuel in Nagpur is terribly expensive. Tank up only if you are in dire straits.
35km from Nagpur is Saoner. Somewhere after that is the border with Madhya Pradesh (MP). I would describe the stretch between Saoner and Multai as that quintessential ‘Haryaali aur Raasta’ in Manoj Kumar movies. It is the most scenic stretch of road. Absorb in the beauty of the Vindhya Mountains for it gets unbearably dusty after that.
The camera is the tool of the annoying tourist. It is sometimes a very good memory encapsulating device. Mostly it is just a source of proof for ‘I was there’. Keep it handy, especially at Betul. Some of the sunsets over the lake (Sampanna Jalashay) there will seem more unreal than modern art. More visually appealing too.
Itarsi is where we halted for the night. Considering how big the railway station is, one is bound to expect more of the town. Only, it is too much to expect even clean sheets in a hotel room. By then, you are usually past caring. You just flop on to the bed and crash. It fully makes you appreciate the depth of the Hindi proverb:
Neend na jaane tooti khaat
Bhookh na jaane jhootha bhaath
That said, drive up to Bhopal if you are not tired. It is an hour and a half away with much better accommodation.
To be continued...
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Decisions, decisions, decisions...
Every once in a while man comes to a decision. No offence meant to women for they also come to a decision as and when it is the right time in their lives to come to those sorts of decisions, whatever they may be. The use of the word 'man' is generic here. It is all encompassing, the same way the phrase 'Early Man' also includes (as an adolescent yours truly gleefully discovered in his history books) all the early women.
Make note that I did not make a gaffe like Neil Armstrong did when he landed on the moon and uttered those now indelible words, "... one small step for man... giant leap for mankind." He conveniently overlooked the insertion of the indefinite article 'a' before 'man', without which 'man' and 'mankind' mean the exact same thing. That we choose to ignore this grotesquery in the name of nitpicking explains the proliferation of bad grammar in our literature.
Moving on, every man must decide for themselves. Again, in non-sexist language, the conflict between grammatical numbers vis-à-vis singular/plural can be consigned to oblivion. However, feminists out there would hardly consider the use of 'man' to denote the entire human race non-sexist. See, I am in agreement with feminists in their push for non-sexist language. It is about time they got on with it and realised that everything else is quite bunkum.
The sharp among us would have observed that all I have succeeded in doing thus far is to postpone the inevitable, which is what most of us do before crossing over the threshold of the decision-making process. It is merely a reflection of our need to absolve ourselves of all responsibility for our actions. No wonder I am such a fan of our kind. To evolve through millions of years into a being with the greatest brain mass to body mass ratio, yet pass over all opportunity to exercise those grey cells is not to be scoffed at. Clearly, man has transcended the need to think.
Perhaps I have too. I was never a thinker. Yes, I can deliver day-long discourses on just about anything though that is largely due to the short-circuit between my mind and my tongue. But when it comes to making those life-altering decisions I have been known to take thousands of years. Some say I like making informed decisions. Others say I delay them till the time that making them does not matter any more.
Make note that I did not make a gaffe like Neil Armstrong did when he landed on the moon and uttered those now indelible words, "... one small step for man... giant leap for mankind." He conveniently overlooked the insertion of the indefinite article 'a' before 'man', without which 'man' and 'mankind' mean the exact same thing. That we choose to ignore this grotesquery in the name of nitpicking explains the proliferation of bad grammar in our literature.
Moving on, every man must decide for themselves. Again, in non-sexist language, the conflict between grammatical numbers vis-à-vis singular/plural can be consigned to oblivion. However, feminists out there would hardly consider the use of 'man' to denote the entire human race non-sexist. See, I am in agreement with feminists in their push for non-sexist language. It is about time they got on with it and realised that everything else is quite bunkum.
The sharp among us would have observed that all I have succeeded in doing thus far is to postpone the inevitable, which is what most of us do before crossing over the threshold of the decision-making process. It is merely a reflection of our need to absolve ourselves of all responsibility for our actions. No wonder I am such a fan of our kind. To evolve through millions of years into a being with the greatest brain mass to body mass ratio, yet pass over all opportunity to exercise those grey cells is not to be scoffed at. Clearly, man has transcended the need to think.
Perhaps I have too. I was never a thinker. Yes, I can deliver day-long discourses on just about anything though that is largely due to the short-circuit between my mind and my tongue. But when it comes to making those life-altering decisions I have been known to take thousands of years. Some say I like making informed decisions. Others say I delay them till the time that making them does not matter any more.
Monday, January 26, 2009
When music had its Concorde moment...
Most of us born in the 80s tend to have grandeurs of eloquence. We believe the rest of humanity is a lump of turd, that it is somehow beneath us to even have some attributes in common with them. It is always us vs. them. Heaven forbid if we should ever share a taste in music or clothes. That would be sacrilege. As Motley Crue once famously put it, "The biggest career gaffe that we could ever make was getting caught having a glass of milk." Perhaps they did not put it quite this articulately with all the booze and drugs getting in the way of their coherence but you get the drift.
The 80s was all about excess. Rock n Roll excess, Metal excess, and even bad hair excess. For all that us 80s progenies make a fuss over, the one thing we completely disown is the decade's sense of style. We lean more towards 90s grunge styling. It is a reflection of the times that we live in - contradictions are everywhere.
The latter half of the 20th Century can be described musically. Elvis Presley ruled the 50s. It was all about The Beatles in the 60s. Def Leppard rocked the 70s. Michael Jackson was the king of the 80s. That MJ managed to carve out a throne for himself atop the metal mania is a feat in itself. Of course, for us 80s borns MJ's music is beneath us. Hypocrisy? No. That is what our trait is. As I often keep saying, you do not begrudge a Scorpion for its sting.
As the 80s gave way to the 90s and then to the 00s, 80s borns entered their teens and their adulthood. Ironic isn't it that not a single artist / band stands out in the last two decades? Oh there has been an explosion of 'artists'. Either none has been good enough to rule the roost or we are a screwed up generation that does not know what it wants.
Of course, if you ask most of us metal heads we will tell you that music died with Kurt Cobain's suicide. The bands we listen to even today belong to 80s and before - Quiet Riot, Metallica, Megadeth, Motley Crue, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Twisted Sister, to name a few. We wear our taste in music almost as proudly as a mother displays her child's trophies on the mantle piece. Unlike a mother though, looking down on someone who listens to a Britney or a Mariah is a given. Today's pop culture makes us cringe.
Being as I am, a result of the 80s, I believe we had our Concorde moment in music in the 80s. For the uninitiated, a Concorde moment is one where mankind reaches the pinnacle of its achievement - ever since the Concorde no passenger aircraft has been built that can fly supersonic, and perhaps none ever will be. It is all downhill from there.
The 80s was all about excess. Rock n Roll excess, Metal excess, and even bad hair excess. For all that us 80s progenies make a fuss over, the one thing we completely disown is the decade's sense of style. We lean more towards 90s grunge styling. It is a reflection of the times that we live in - contradictions are everywhere.
The latter half of the 20th Century can be described musically. Elvis Presley ruled the 50s. It was all about The Beatles in the 60s. Def Leppard rocked the 70s. Michael Jackson was the king of the 80s. That MJ managed to carve out a throne for himself atop the metal mania is a feat in itself. Of course, for us 80s borns MJ's music is beneath us. Hypocrisy? No. That is what our trait is. As I often keep saying, you do not begrudge a Scorpion for its sting.
As the 80s gave way to the 90s and then to the 00s, 80s borns entered their teens and their adulthood. Ironic isn't it that not a single artist / band stands out in the last two decades? Oh there has been an explosion of 'artists'. Either none has been good enough to rule the roost or we are a screwed up generation that does not know what it wants.
Of course, if you ask most of us metal heads we will tell you that music died with Kurt Cobain's suicide. The bands we listen to even today belong to 80s and before - Quiet Riot, Metallica, Megadeth, Motley Crue, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Twisted Sister, to name a few. We wear our taste in music almost as proudly as a mother displays her child's trophies on the mantle piece. Unlike a mother though, looking down on someone who listens to a Britney or a Mariah is a given. Today's pop culture makes us cringe.
Being as I am, a result of the 80s, I believe we had our Concorde moment in music in the 80s. For the uninitiated, a Concorde moment is one where mankind reaches the pinnacle of its achievement - ever since the Concorde no passenger aircraft has been built that can fly supersonic, and perhaps none ever will be. It is all downhill from there.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Basic Instinct
As a race, we have always take things a little too far. Haven't believed in moderation. During the industrial revolution we worked the workers to death, which eventually led to Karl Marx having a field day. During renaissance we thought our brains out, which eventually led to grotesqueries that we are forced to acknowledge as pieces of art for fear of ridicule. During the writing of this post I was completely incapable of coming up with a third important period in history, which eventually led to the formation of this banal sentence.
As I said, extremes. With time, we have sunk lower into this nadir. It has never been truer than in this century. Green Peace activists have taken the red out of red meat, while at the same time we have dumped so much of our filth that mother nature might as well give up on us tomorrow. Why? At least let me enjoy my meat without making me think of the torture that the animal to which the shoulder on my table belonged to underwent. There is not much to look up to, is there?
They say the night is always darkest before the dawn. Things are at their worst before they get better. Just when we thought things could only get better, they give us hybrid cars. Really. Hybrid cars! Human ingenuity or human stupidity? Cars. It was the only constant in our lives. No matter what the world went through, there was always the comforting thought that a couple of hammer strokes in the right places would always get the car started. We did not have to depend on the bloke with a laptop to tell us what was wrong with our throttle response (This line, of course, is a complete rip-off of Neela's in the movie Tokyo Drift).
I remember the days when even the slightest of engine misfires told me if it was the fuel line, suspended matter in the fuel, spark plug, or distributor cap that was the culprit. Today it could be regenerative braking, battery (Yes, battery! Imagine that.), MPFI, Engine Management System or any or all of a host of other factors that we previously thought could only occur in the Star Trek universe. If I wanted to be bothered with all that I would call Captain Kirk. If I want a car, do not saddle me with a computer.
There was a time when if you could afford to buy a car you could not be bothered about the fuel prices. Those were simpler times, freer times. You could buy a Lincoln that did 8 miles to a gallon because, heck, you were rich enough to buy a car. Cars were never meant for anyone other than the rich. That is why we have public transport. That is why I love the Ferraris and the Lamborghinis. They have stuck to the basics while all around them have lost theirs.
As I said, extremes. With time, we have sunk lower into this nadir. It has never been truer than in this century. Green Peace activists have taken the red out of red meat, while at the same time we have dumped so much of our filth that mother nature might as well give up on us tomorrow. Why? At least let me enjoy my meat without making me think of the torture that the animal to which the shoulder on my table belonged to underwent. There is not much to look up to, is there?
They say the night is always darkest before the dawn. Things are at their worst before they get better. Just when we thought things could only get better, they give us hybrid cars. Really. Hybrid cars! Human ingenuity or human stupidity? Cars. It was the only constant in our lives. No matter what the world went through, there was always the comforting thought that a couple of hammer strokes in the right places would always get the car started. We did not have to depend on the bloke with a laptop to tell us what was wrong with our throttle response (This line, of course, is a complete rip-off of Neela's in the movie Tokyo Drift).
I remember the days when even the slightest of engine misfires told me if it was the fuel line, suspended matter in the fuel, spark plug, or distributor cap that was the culprit. Today it could be regenerative braking, battery (Yes, battery! Imagine that.), MPFI, Engine Management System or any or all of a host of other factors that we previously thought could only occur in the Star Trek universe. If I wanted to be bothered with all that I would call Captain Kirk. If I want a car, do not saddle me with a computer.
There was a time when if you could afford to buy a car you could not be bothered about the fuel prices. Those were simpler times, freer times. You could buy a Lincoln that did 8 miles to a gallon because, heck, you were rich enough to buy a car. Cars were never meant for anyone other than the rich. That is why we have public transport. That is why I love the Ferraris and the Lamborghinis. They have stuck to the basics while all around them have lost theirs.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
How to write a blog post
Ask not what a blog post can do for you. Ask what you can do for a blog post. No, not for the altruistic reasons of working for a bigger cause (all that is humbug) but for the obviousness of it being insanely simpler to answer the latter. You can do nothing for a blog post, save for creating it. Then again, human beings have been making babies for eons and look at where that has brought us.
Before purists start to frown (do purists ever not frown?), it should be stated that this blog is not a 10 step guide to Nirvana. The Buddhists have the 8-fold path, the Jains have the 4-fold path. This needs verification - since this blog cannot be prosecuted, I am not going to spend my energy checking facts. That reminds me of this statement made in the US Senate about the right to be entitled to your own opinion but not to your own facts, which is a complete load of bull since it violates my fundamental right as a being on this planet to be entitled to whatever the hell I want to be entitled to, not to mention how much more colourful life could be if we all had different definitions for, say, the colour red.
That brings us to the subject of stilettos. <Trinity impression begins> No? Let me tell you what I believe. I believe that my blog means more to me than it does to you. I believe if you are really serious about deciphering it, you are going to need my help. And since I am the author of this blog, if you don't like it I believe you can go to hell. Because you are not going anywhere else <Trinity impression ends>. Stilettos are such fine creations, exceeded in fineness only by the fine legs that go into them. Speaking of fine legs, I have not seen a pair finer than those belonging to the sassy Stacy Keibler.
We should pause here to note the sickness of the jibe made by whoever it was who chose to coin the word ‘lisp’ to describe the condition that lisp describes. Now that it has been noted, we can choose to move on. Only, I prefer being here. Why move on when you can be perfectly happy not moving on? Besides, if Einstein was right (and I would like to think that he was – not for any good that this may bring to mankind but to avoid the disaster its falsehood can cause, a case in point being all nuclear reactors suddenly deciding to shove E=mC2 right up Einstein’s backside turning this planet into one giant fireball (on second thoughts, that may be fun)) no matter how far you travel you would end up where you started. Perhaps that is why all political speeches never seem to get anywhere.
It is not all bad. Aside from the obvious plus of no one ever needing to listen to speeches (which, by the way, does not need an Einstein to point out) there is also the comforting relief that one part of this world is always going to get rich by sucking on the other part, or for that matter, one part of this world is always going to make the other part read their blog posts by suckering them into it, evolution my fine tight ass!
Before purists start to frown (do purists ever not frown?), it should be stated that this blog is not a 10 step guide to Nirvana. The Buddhists have the 8-fold path, the Jains have the 4-fold path. This needs verification - since this blog cannot be prosecuted, I am not going to spend my energy checking facts. That reminds me of this statement made in the US Senate about the right to be entitled to your own opinion but not to your own facts, which is a complete load of bull since it violates my fundamental right as a being on this planet to be entitled to whatever the hell I want to be entitled to, not to mention how much more colourful life could be if we all had different definitions for, say, the colour red.
That brings us to the subject of stilettos. <Trinity impression begins> No? Let me tell you what I believe. I believe that my blog means more to me than it does to you. I believe if you are really serious about deciphering it, you are going to need my help. And since I am the author of this blog, if you don't like it I believe you can go to hell. Because you are not going anywhere else <Trinity impression ends>. Stilettos are such fine creations, exceeded in fineness only by the fine legs that go into them. Speaking of fine legs, I have not seen a pair finer than those belonging to the sassy Stacy Keibler.
We should pause here to note the sickness of the jibe made by whoever it was who chose to coin the word ‘lisp’ to describe the condition that lisp describes. Now that it has been noted, we can choose to move on. Only, I prefer being here. Why move on when you can be perfectly happy not moving on? Besides, if Einstein was right (and I would like to think that he was – not for any good that this may bring to mankind but to avoid the disaster its falsehood can cause, a case in point being all nuclear reactors suddenly deciding to shove E=mC2 right up Einstein’s backside turning this planet into one giant fireball (on second thoughts, that may be fun)) no matter how far you travel you would end up where you started. Perhaps that is why all political speeches never seem to get anywhere.
It is not all bad. Aside from the obvious plus of no one ever needing to listen to speeches (which, by the way, does not need an Einstein to point out) there is also the comforting relief that one part of this world is always going to get rich by sucking on the other part, or for that matter, one part of this world is always going to make the other part read their blog posts by suckering them into it, evolution my fine tight ass!
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Of Die Hard and Romanticism
Being a man of strong opinions, I have been accused of many things. Never before, though, have I been accused of ‘pulling off a Scripto’ or something to that effect.
For the uninitiated, ‘Scripto’ is a term of supreme endearment that my favourite blog reader addresses me with. Whether the endearment ends there I shall never know – I would be shattered if it did. Thus I choose to live in my ignorant bliss.
I have been a die-hard romantic, strictly in the sense of John McClain who simply refuses to die however hard the situation may be. I take pride in my romanticism being as it is a disappearing trait indeed in these days of T20 cricket, not that I have anything against or for this brand of the sport. At any rate, I refuse to partake in an argument that has many takers. I root for the underdog, always have, always will.
Instead let us examine the psychological effects of a nude painting of Lalitha Pawar on adolescent boys. This is a thin line to walk. Aside from bordering child molestation, it verily crosses into the territory of human rights abuse. I do not know what is more horrifying – subjecting under-age boys to the anguish or having the imagination to conjure up such a scenario.
For the uninitiated, ‘Scripto’ is a term of supreme endearment that my favourite blog reader addresses me with. Whether the endearment ends there I shall never know – I would be shattered if it did. Thus I choose to live in my ignorant bliss.
I have been a die-hard romantic, strictly in the sense of John McClain who simply refuses to die however hard the situation may be. I take pride in my romanticism being as it is a disappearing trait indeed in these days of T20 cricket, not that I have anything against or for this brand of the sport. At any rate, I refuse to partake in an argument that has many takers. I root for the underdog, always have, always will.
Instead let us examine the psychological effects of a nude painting of Lalitha Pawar on adolescent boys. This is a thin line to walk. Aside from bordering child molestation, it verily crosses into the territory of human rights abuse. I do not know what is more horrifying – subjecting under-age boys to the anguish or having the imagination to conjure up such a scenario.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Gabbar, Thakur, and the rest of them
"How many men were they?"
"Two, chief."
"Hmm... They were two. You were three. Despite that you are back. What did you think? Chief will be happy? Will slap your backs? Sons of swines!!!"
Sadly, this is what my posts have been reduced to - making impressions of classic, immortalised dialogues of the holy grail of Indian cinema, Sholay. That is not to say that it has not been done in the past. In fact, that is what makes it such a nadir of creativity. When your brain cells are completely dead, you turn to Sholay.
Self-loathing aside, what made me allocate some disk space to Sholay on my blog was this bolt of enlightenment I was hit by a couple of nights ago after some frenzied sexual activity. Well, yours truly is now a married man. And that means he has the social licence to do it whenever, wherever though, unfortunately, not whoever. Ah, the vagaries and travails of life!
Driving the point home, or at least making an exercise in slipping to the abyss of writing by using phrases as hackneyed as this, the question to ask is whether Gabbar really cut off Thakur's hands. I know in the movie they show us he did. But then, they show a lot of things in the movies. We can't go around believing everything we see on celluloid, can we? What if Gabbar did not cut off Thakur's hands? Does that not leave a new line open for alternate thought?
Picture this. Gabbar has Thakur by his balls, not literally of course. The only way out is for Thakur to give Gabbar a handjob, literally of course. Thakur, like any man facing a life and death situation does what any man facing a life and death situation would do. It was not the handjob that was disgusting. It was the aftermath of it. Not everyone is smart enough to use as hair gel a body fluid that has had no precedent of being used this way before Cameron Diaz. The fluid spills over Thakur's hands. And Thakur was so grossed out by it that he could never bring himself to use his hands again. Ever.
Now, that sounds like a logical explanation.
"Two, chief."
"Hmm... They were two. You were three. Despite that you are back. What did you think? Chief will be happy? Will slap your backs? Sons of swines!!!"
Sadly, this is what my posts have been reduced to - making impressions of classic, immortalised dialogues of the holy grail of Indian cinema, Sholay. That is not to say that it has not been done in the past. In fact, that is what makes it such a nadir of creativity. When your brain cells are completely dead, you turn to Sholay.
Self-loathing aside, what made me allocate some disk space to Sholay on my blog was this bolt of enlightenment I was hit by a couple of nights ago after some frenzied sexual activity. Well, yours truly is now a married man. And that means he has the social licence to do it whenever, wherever though, unfortunately, not whoever. Ah, the vagaries and travails of life!
Driving the point home, or at least making an exercise in slipping to the abyss of writing by using phrases as hackneyed as this, the question to ask is whether Gabbar really cut off Thakur's hands. I know in the movie they show us he did. But then, they show a lot of things in the movies. We can't go around believing everything we see on celluloid, can we? What if Gabbar did not cut off Thakur's hands? Does that not leave a new line open for alternate thought?
Picture this. Gabbar has Thakur by his balls, not literally of course. The only way out is for Thakur to give Gabbar a handjob, literally of course. Thakur, like any man facing a life and death situation does what any man facing a life and death situation would do. It was not the handjob that was disgusting. It was the aftermath of it. Not everyone is smart enough to use as hair gel a body fluid that has had no precedent of being used this way before Cameron Diaz. The fluid spills over Thakur's hands. And Thakur was so grossed out by it that he could never bring himself to use his hands again. Ever.
Now, that sounds like a logical explanation.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Much ado about nothing
Guys like me can make their entire careers out of making mountains out of mole hills. No wonder then that it has never happened. Partly because as a race we do not appreciate mountains enough, but mostly because there aren't guys like me. And do we even want to get started talking about me? We could but then we would never get to the point where the conversation ends, such is my all pervading aura that binds those around me. How aura should relate to end points in conversation I cannot elucidate as of this moment. Suffice to say, that it is there. The aura, that is.
Now that we have brought that thought out in the open, I am not sure there is anything that as a race we appreciate enough. As a non-race? Well, that is completely left open to interpretations depending on one's predilections. What those interpretations and predilections should be I should not say. Not that I 'cannot' say, I 'should' not say for there is not much that I believe I won't be able to say about. But if you believe that keeping your mind open and your legs closed if you happen to be a woman or your legs open and your mind closed if you happen to be a man is the road to eternal happiness and bliss then I must say that someone went wrong terribly somewhere or something went wrong'ly' terribly somewhere, depending on (what else?) your predilections.
For the longest time, there has been this eternal confusion about predilection and predisposition. I am not one to rant and rave over incorrect usage of words. I usually bite anyone's head off who does not know the basic nuances of language. Say for instance, the difference between beside and besides. I would definitely love to sleep beside Mary should Mary happen to be a smoking hot biologically active woman. And I would definitely more than love to sleep besides Mary should Mary happen to be a cold frigid maid. If you don't get the difference now, you are never going to get it in which case you will probably end up sleeping beside a cold frigid Mary, and sleep besides the smoking hot biologically active one.
Followers of my blogs (I am not sure she is alive any more - may her soul rest in peace - but it is the thought that counts, right?), would recollect that there are things in the paragraph above that I have already stated before. Actually, they wouldn't for anyone with a memory span greater than that needed to remember where the bookmarks are stored would have a life. That would make the exercise of sojourning on these pages redundant unless they are one of those self-righteous masochistic sods.
PS: This post is dedicated to Twigrl. She seems to be the only reader I have left. Attagirl!
Now that we have brought that thought out in the open, I am not sure there is anything that as a race we appreciate enough. As a non-race? Well, that is completely left open to interpretations depending on one's predilections. What those interpretations and predilections should be I should not say. Not that I 'cannot' say, I 'should' not say for there is not much that I believe I won't be able to say about. But if you believe that keeping your mind open and your legs closed if you happen to be a woman or your legs open and your mind closed if you happen to be a man is the road to eternal happiness and bliss then I must say that someone went wrong terribly somewhere or something went wrong'ly' terribly somewhere, depending on (what else?) your predilections.
For the longest time, there has been this eternal confusion about predilection and predisposition. I am not one to rant and rave over incorrect usage of words. I usually bite anyone's head off who does not know the basic nuances of language. Say for instance, the difference between beside and besides. I would definitely love to sleep beside Mary should Mary happen to be a smoking hot biologically active woman. And I would definitely more than love to sleep besides Mary should Mary happen to be a cold frigid maid. If you don't get the difference now, you are never going to get it in which case you will probably end up sleeping beside a cold frigid Mary, and sleep besides the smoking hot biologically active one.
Followers of my blogs (I am not sure she is alive any more - may her soul rest in peace - but it is the thought that counts, right?), would recollect that there are things in the paragraph above that I have already stated before. Actually, they wouldn't for anyone with a memory span greater than that needed to remember where the bookmarks are stored would have a life. That would make the exercise of sojourning on these pages redundant unless they are one of those self-righteous masochistic sods.
PS: This post is dedicated to Twigrl. She seems to be the only reader I have left. Attagirl!
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Losing my religion
There are events in a man's life that make him lose his faith - painful heartbreaks, bankruptcy, and E! becoming a subscription channel. Note that I have spoken entirely in the masculine gender on a blog that is completely anti-sexist. No, I have not changed my outlook. I am only talking about the male of the species.
Why don't we talk about men? All 'they' seem to be bothered about is the fairer sex - glass ceiling at workplaces, unequal pay, exploitation, trafficking, etc. Has anyone ever thought about the everyday agony of men? Trying to find a pair of matching socks, dishes piled a mile high, eating without the tie getting into the soup bowl, getting through office firewalls to find the good internet porn, picking out curtains that go with the sofa? Okay. Strike the last one. Let us pretend I never said it and move on.
In the midst of all this, there is an image to cater to. We are not supposed to cry during a movie. So what if I cry buckets even in movies that can only be termed plain pathetic? At least I don't not cry in movies that are truly moving. No pun intended, intentionally or otherwise. That brings us to a bigger question. Is something happenning better than something not never happenning? Sample this.
An optimist and a pessimist are walking down a street. A pigeon does its thing on the optimist, and he is smiling about it. The pessimist looks at him quizzically. Basically gives him the 'you must be freaking out of your mind, gone bananas, lost your marbles' look. The optimist is simply happy that elephants can't fly. This goes beyond the 'half empty and half full' shenanighan. It is plain nuts. QED.
Except that, there is more. There is always more with me around. More not sugarcoating, presenting things as they are. That is why children are so difficult to please. They see things for what they are and not for what you want to make them out to be. There is nothing more misleading than the phrase 'child-like innocence'. 'Grown-up ignorance' is more like it.
Why don't we talk about men? All 'they' seem to be bothered about is the fairer sex - glass ceiling at workplaces, unequal pay, exploitation, trafficking, etc. Has anyone ever thought about the everyday agony of men? Trying to find a pair of matching socks, dishes piled a mile high, eating without the tie getting into the soup bowl, getting through office firewalls to find the good internet porn, picking out curtains that go with the sofa? Okay. Strike the last one. Let us pretend I never said it and move on.
In the midst of all this, there is an image to cater to. We are not supposed to cry during a movie. So what if I cry buckets even in movies that can only be termed plain pathetic? At least I don't not cry in movies that are truly moving. No pun intended, intentionally or otherwise. That brings us to a bigger question. Is something happenning better than something not never happenning? Sample this.
An optimist and a pessimist are walking down a street. A pigeon does its thing on the optimist, and he is smiling about it. The pessimist looks at him quizzically. Basically gives him the 'you must be freaking out of your mind, gone bananas, lost your marbles' look. The optimist is simply happy that elephants can't fly. This goes beyond the 'half empty and half full' shenanighan. It is plain nuts. QED.
Except that, there is more. There is always more with me around. More not sugarcoating, presenting things as they are. That is why children are so difficult to please. They see things for what they are and not for what you want to make them out to be. There is nothing more misleading than the phrase 'child-like innocence'. 'Grown-up ignorance' is more like it.
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