Don’t restrain your mind, my daughter
Let it go where it wants to
It’s ironic I know
To tell you to ignore what others say
After four decades, I feel half-boiled or stillborn
Because I didn’t let my mind be
I looked around, the crowd, the cheer, the expectations…
The fear of failure stopped me
From performing, from enjoying, from living
Today, when I know it’s now or never,
When I’m desperate to see my mind take off
When I no longer care for other views
I feel numb and cold
I pull my mind, I shake my body
Nothing happens
I am dead, my dear, I am dead
All I can is to tell you...
Let the world be, it's not after you
Be free! And fly!
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Friday, September 07, 2007
I will miss you, Sony Ericsson
Last November, I bought my first Sony Ericsson phone—a K750i, a very pretty phone with a 2 mp camera and an excellent music player. Overnight I became a Sony Ericsson fan. It was my first non-Nokia cell phone and within no time I thought I had already seen my last Nokia.
Just a couple of months after I got it, my wife had bought a Nokia 6300, a sleek pretty phone with almost all the features of K750i. Yet, I found my phone far better. For me, the camera was the biggest differentiator. Although the time it took to click a picture often irritated me, I loved using my K750i as a camera. Although the Nokia could produce as good pictures, since you could handle a K750i exactly like a digicam, with both hands, the danger of shaking while taking a photo was minimal. Yes, I took some decent photos with the phone. It even had a flash though not powerful enough to light up the pic. Its yellow pictures can carry the mood of an evening; 6300 can’t even think about it.
Also, long conversations were hundred times better over my Sony Ericsson than my wife’s Nokia. Perhaps because of its metal body, the 6300 gets unbearable hot for your ear very fast. I’d noticed that my wife had to recharge her phone much more frequently than I needed to recharge mine. Agreed her phone is busier, but then I used to take a lot of pics with mine.
Yet, despite all that, now I think I’ve seen the last of Sony Ericsson. My K750i has long turned into an expensive paperweight. Although my terrible-two daughter is the primary culprit in its poor fate, I would think the Sony Ericsson service team was very much a partner in the crime.
I really suspect that it was the company engineers who really finished my phone. Well, it could be my frustration in helplessly watching my cherished gadget going totally waste overnight— yes, it still pains—that makes me say that, but I am positive that Sony Ericsson has a very poor service team. Here’s why.
Some two months ago, one fine morning, my daughter spilled almost a glassful of milk on my phone. Am still not sure if she did that deliberately—for she has never been fond of drinking milk unless being breastfed by her mother—but she was candid enough to inform me. When I saw it, the screen was blinking with the message somebody was calling. There was no sound. My first instinct was to accept the call. But the key won’t respond. I quickly opened the handset—it was completely drenched—and pulled out the battery and everything else I could pull out. I cleaned the pieces with a dry cloth and kept them open on a table near the window so they could catch the sun for an hour or so. I left it like that for two days.
I really didn’t have any hope. But on the third day when I checked it out, to my great surprise, it was working. I checked the camera and even took a pic. But the Horlics milk had made the keys stiff and I thought a servicing-cleaning would do it good. So I dismantled it again and left it on the table. My wife told me there was this Sony Ericsson service centre near her office at Noida and carried it to there the next day. The warranty period was on but there’s no guarantee if your phone has got wet—hello, why these guys are not making waterproof phones yet? They would try and we would have to pay. Agreed.
Meanwhile, a friend of mine gave me an old, almost extinct Nokia phone that he had long replaced with a new Nokia phone as a stopgap solution for my connectivity problem. (Think about it, I’m not sure if I had ever set my eyes on a telephone in the first decade of my life and now I can’t do without my mobile phone—despite having landline phones at home and in office—even for a couple of days!)
Presently, after almost a week, I got a call from the service centre. “Sir, your phone is ready; the camera is not work, otherwise it’s fine.” I was disappointed and asked him how much would it cost if I wanted the camera replaced. The guy promised to get back with that information within a couple of days. So far, my bill was Rs 600. Fine. I got the next call after almost a week. This time it was a girl. She told me the phone was ready.
It took me another 3-4 days before I went there with my wife. The phone looked fine. But the camera just wouldn’t turn on. Asked about it, the girl at the desk said an engineer would soon attend us and meanwhile we could check the phone. I turned on the music player and we could hardly hear it. My wife gave me a ring and the ringing was hardly audible. Then, when we tried talking on the phone we realised my voice was not going through and the voice from the other end too hardly reached you!
It really was a big disappointment—to be told that the phone was ready and to find it as good as a paperweight. The engineer guy looked as if he couldn’t believe it. He tried all that we had tried and conceded it was not working. Now he wanted more time. But I’d already lost my trust.
A week or so later the farce was repeated. This time my wife went alone. Frustrated, she just took the phone and told them, “Thank you very much”.
Thank you, Sony Ericsson, I’ll miss you!
Just a couple of months after I got it, my wife had bought a Nokia 6300, a sleek pretty phone with almost all the features of K750i. Yet, I found my phone far better. For me, the camera was the biggest differentiator. Although the time it took to click a picture often irritated me, I loved using my K750i as a camera. Although the Nokia could produce as good pictures, since you could handle a K750i exactly like a digicam, with both hands, the danger of shaking while taking a photo was minimal. Yes, I took some decent photos with the phone. It even had a flash though not powerful enough to light up the pic. Its yellow pictures can carry the mood of an evening; 6300 can’t even think about it.
Also, long conversations were hundred times better over my Sony Ericsson than my wife’s Nokia. Perhaps because of its metal body, the 6300 gets unbearable hot for your ear very fast. I’d noticed that my wife had to recharge her phone much more frequently than I needed to recharge mine. Agreed her phone is busier, but then I used to take a lot of pics with mine.
Yet, despite all that, now I think I’ve seen the last of Sony Ericsson. My K750i has long turned into an expensive paperweight. Although my terrible-two daughter is the primary culprit in its poor fate, I would think the Sony Ericsson service team was very much a partner in the crime.
I really suspect that it was the company engineers who really finished my phone. Well, it could be my frustration in helplessly watching my cherished gadget going totally waste overnight— yes, it still pains—that makes me say that, but I am positive that Sony Ericsson has a very poor service team. Here’s why.
Some two months ago, one fine morning, my daughter spilled almost a glassful of milk on my phone. Am still not sure if she did that deliberately—for she has never been fond of drinking milk unless being breastfed by her mother—but she was candid enough to inform me. When I saw it, the screen was blinking with the message somebody was calling. There was no sound. My first instinct was to accept the call. But the key won’t respond. I quickly opened the handset—it was completely drenched—and pulled out the battery and everything else I could pull out. I cleaned the pieces with a dry cloth and kept them open on a table near the window so they could catch the sun for an hour or so. I left it like that for two days.
I really didn’t have any hope. But on the third day when I checked it out, to my great surprise, it was working. I checked the camera and even took a pic. But the Horlics milk had made the keys stiff and I thought a servicing-cleaning would do it good. So I dismantled it again and left it on the table. My wife told me there was this Sony Ericsson service centre near her office at Noida and carried it to there the next day. The warranty period was on but there’s no guarantee if your phone has got wet—hello, why these guys are not making waterproof phones yet? They would try and we would have to pay. Agreed.
Meanwhile, a friend of mine gave me an old, almost extinct Nokia phone that he had long replaced with a new Nokia phone as a stopgap solution for my connectivity problem. (Think about it, I’m not sure if I had ever set my eyes on a telephone in the first decade of my life and now I can’t do without my mobile phone—despite having landline phones at home and in office—even for a couple of days!)
Presently, after almost a week, I got a call from the service centre. “Sir, your phone is ready; the camera is not work, otherwise it’s fine.” I was disappointed and asked him how much would it cost if I wanted the camera replaced. The guy promised to get back with that information within a couple of days. So far, my bill was Rs 600. Fine. I got the next call after almost a week. This time it was a girl. She told me the phone was ready.
It took me another 3-4 days before I went there with my wife. The phone looked fine. But the camera just wouldn’t turn on. Asked about it, the girl at the desk said an engineer would soon attend us and meanwhile we could check the phone. I turned on the music player and we could hardly hear it. My wife gave me a ring and the ringing was hardly audible. Then, when we tried talking on the phone we realised my voice was not going through and the voice from the other end too hardly reached you!
It really was a big disappointment—to be told that the phone was ready and to find it as good as a paperweight. The engineer guy looked as if he couldn’t believe it. He tried all that we had tried and conceded it was not working. Now he wanted more time. But I’d already lost my trust.
A week or so later the farce was repeated. This time my wife went alone. Frustrated, she just took the phone and told them, “Thank you very much”.
Thank you, Sony Ericsson, I’ll miss you!
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
The Many Deaths of Rambabu
Rambabu Gadaria, a dacoit in the Chambal ravines, is dead—for a third time. No joke, no fantasy, it’s official. The Madhya Pradesh police have claimed that they have killed the leader of the notorious Gadaria gang in a fierce (thought about it, but can’t do away with this word where Indian police force is involved) encounter. Only the police have made the same claim twice before. The first time, in 1999, a police officer even got a promotion for killing the most dreaded dacoit in the region after Phoolan Devi took VRS. But Rambabu was back in action before long, for the poor policeman to be demoted. Early this year, once again, the police claimed Rambabu was done with. And now again!
Could police be lying so blatantly, so many times? There could have been some mistake the first time around. But before claiming the second kill, they must have confirmed his identity and death if only to avoid looking like a bunch of idiots yet again. And there was Rambabu again!
What is Rambabu, really? Will he come again? It’s said that Saddam Hussein used to have many dummies to confuse the international police that is America. Could Rambabu have done the same thing to poor MP police?
Or, could it be that Rambabu is the Son of God, or one of the many gods? He has already outdone Jesus Christ in the matter of resurrection. And he definitely has the potential for more.
Or, could he be plain fictitious, as the protagonist of Jorge Amado’s The Two Deaths of Quincas Wateryell?
Whatever he is, Rambabu is nothing less than a legend. Even if you don’t get anything concrete about his whereabouts for a while, just look at the immense business possibilities that exist: there could be films, documentaries, non-fiction novels, research reports and background studies (who wouldn’t want to know about what was Rambabu like as child, what turned a village boy into a dacoit, what kind of a man was he, who loves him, who hates him, his likes and dislikes, his loves and revulsions, etc, etc); animation series and comic books (Heroics of Rambabu); video and internet games (Catch Rambabu If You Can); puzzles (Find The Real Rambabu); memorial and museum, memorabilia and auctions; Rambabu T-shirts, knives and hairstyle; adventure tourism (Rambabu Trail); and, why not, there could be even Rambabu temples.
Well, that could be bit too ambitious a list and most of it would perhaps require Rambabu to die a couple of times more (trust our police force to do that) to take off. But Rambabu is already more than good enough for a story like this if not more.
Also, forget the Second Coming, wait for Rambabu’s fourth coming; that’ll happen sooner. Long live Rambabu and the other police-made legends of modern India.
Could police be lying so blatantly, so many times? There could have been some mistake the first time around. But before claiming the second kill, they must have confirmed his identity and death if only to avoid looking like a bunch of idiots yet again. And there was Rambabu again!
What is Rambabu, really? Will he come again? It’s said that Saddam Hussein used to have many dummies to confuse the international police that is America. Could Rambabu have done the same thing to poor MP police?
Or, could it be that Rambabu is the Son of God, or one of the many gods? He has already outdone Jesus Christ in the matter of resurrection. And he definitely has the potential for more.
Or, could he be plain fictitious, as the protagonist of Jorge Amado’s The Two Deaths of Quincas Wateryell?
Whatever he is, Rambabu is nothing less than a legend. Even if you don’t get anything concrete about his whereabouts for a while, just look at the immense business possibilities that exist: there could be films, documentaries, non-fiction novels, research reports and background studies (who wouldn’t want to know about what was Rambabu like as child, what turned a village boy into a dacoit, what kind of a man was he, who loves him, who hates him, his likes and dislikes, his loves and revulsions, etc, etc); animation series and comic books (Heroics of Rambabu); video and internet games (Catch Rambabu If You Can); puzzles (Find The Real Rambabu); memorial and museum, memorabilia and auctions; Rambabu T-shirts, knives and hairstyle; adventure tourism (Rambabu Trail); and, why not, there could be even Rambabu temples.
Well, that could be bit too ambitious a list and most of it would perhaps require Rambabu to die a couple of times more (trust our police force to do that) to take off. But Rambabu is already more than good enough for a story like this if not more.
Also, forget the Second Coming, wait for Rambabu’s fourth coming; that’ll happen sooner. Long live Rambabu and the other police-made legends of modern India.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
long time
It's been a while. A long while. A year, perhaps. Perhaps more. A friend just asked me why people blog. I said it was to write or display (he's a designer and an illustrator) whatever you felt like. But I was defensive, I sort of disassociated myself from the blogging crowd. Of course am not really a blogger. Still there's something wrong with my attitude. I'm always on the defensive and disassociate myself from whatever I talk about. The otherday somebody asked me if I meditated. The way I said no, she thought I was being defensive. I thought I wasn't but I know it's extremely difficult for me to completely associate myself with something. Except for my family. And to some extend drunks. If it's a positive thing or negative, I don't know. Aloofness can be good too, I think.
Well, does anybody in the world really care about what I'm talking about? I don't think so. So? So, why am I blabbering about myself? I don't know. I don't need to. :)
The beauty of blog, this blog, is that I don't have to worry about what I say. What I say here is something anybody can read but perhaps nobody would. So at the same time I am talking to everybody and nobody but me. It's both a letter and a diary. And since am an irregular, almost non-existent blogger, I would rather treat it as a diary. An open diary that I'm keeping in the library. Only, you won't find it in the catalogue. And I don't have to be defensive. :)
By the way (now it's an open letter), dear imaginary friend who's been following my postings and is interested in the developments in my life, Appu (that's what we call Anosha at home) is two years and three months now. She's an angel and a lovely menace who always pisses in her pants, throws her food, fights for toys, cries for nothing, insists on sitting on my lap when I'm driving and nonchallantly asks me to bugger off when she's sleepy and wants to be breastfed (when she wants to play with me she gives that to Bindu) and is smart enough to demand that "bad" toy when we are on the street.
I've switched jobs again. Am back at ET with a better pay packet and designation but doing more or less (in fact, less) the same thing I used to before I left. (I hope I would develop new skills before I price myself out of the job market.) Bindu has started working too. So we are a double-income-one-kid family. I leave Appu at Bindu's parents on my way to work (am on permanent late shift) and Bindu picks her up on her way back from work.That's our life like right now.
Good day.
Well, does anybody in the world really care about what I'm talking about? I don't think so. So? So, why am I blabbering about myself? I don't know. I don't need to. :)
The beauty of blog, this blog, is that I don't have to worry about what I say. What I say here is something anybody can read but perhaps nobody would. So at the same time I am talking to everybody and nobody but me. It's both a letter and a diary. And since am an irregular, almost non-existent blogger, I would rather treat it as a diary. An open diary that I'm keeping in the library. Only, you won't find it in the catalogue. And I don't have to be defensive. :)
By the way (now it's an open letter), dear imaginary friend who's been following my postings and is interested in the developments in my life, Appu (that's what we call Anosha at home) is two years and three months now. She's an angel and a lovely menace who always pisses in her pants, throws her food, fights for toys, cries for nothing, insists on sitting on my lap when I'm driving and nonchallantly asks me to bugger off when she's sleepy and wants to be breastfed (when she wants to play with me she gives that to Bindu) and is smart enough to demand that "bad" toy when we are on the street.
I've switched jobs again. Am back at ET with a better pay packet and designation but doing more or less (in fact, less) the same thing I used to before I left. (I hope I would develop new skills before I price myself out of the job market.) Bindu has started working too. So we are a double-income-one-kid family. I leave Appu at Bindu's parents on my way to work (am on permanent late shift) and Bindu picks her up on her way back from work.That's our life like right now.
Good day.
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