This business of parallel life is getting serious. Dead serious. I remember reading a play called The Balcony long ago, perhaps in the late 1980s, sitting on a corner bench by the huge glass window in a long, serene, almost holy, hall of a university library, somewhat darkened by rows of humungous shelves. I think it was by Jean Genet. Why guess, let me Google…yes, it was Genet. The play takes place in this weird brothel where the clients get to play out their dreams or fantasies for some hours or even days. Irma, the Madame of this dream house, arranges the set and organises support cast. For example, if you want to be a judge, there will be a courtroom, an accused, witnesses, lawyers, whatever. You just pay what Irma asks for and play by her rules. It was a great book. I remember being overwhelmed, out of grasp, by the larger-than-life performance of the players. And I thought the concept made great business sense too. Everybody loves to live their dream. Sadly, there was no Balcony in the neighbourhood, to my knowledge, at least.
Now it’s different. To live my dream, I don’t have to walk the dark alleys of the underground world of entertainment—that I’m sure would dwarf Hollywood and all the casinos of the world in size and in innovation—in search of a Balcony. I can play out my dream virtually in my living room, on the internet. That’s what half the humanity in the positive side of the digital divide does—living a Second Life.
For the uninitiated, Second Life is a 3-D internet-based virtual world game that allows its users to create what they call avatars and interact with each other. Second Life, developed by Linden Research Inc in 2003, is one of the several virtual worlds inspired by Niel Stephenson’s science fiction novel Snow Crash, informs Wikipedia. And it’s been a huge success, lighting up the imagination of, let’s say, a vision-starved, self-centred, generation.
Well, I’m not a Second Life citizen. And I don’t know if Niel Stephenson got the idea from The Balcony. It doesn’t matter. The thing is the world, the influential world, is sold to it. Second Life is not a fantasy tour or voyeurism, not even a pastime. It’s a parallel life. There is a complete ecosystem there. And people live as real a life there as in the physical world—and they enjoy better control, more freedom and have less moral hang-ups and no physical constraint. Only their body is, well, digital. Just like their world.
And it’s not just the dreamers flocking into Second Life. It’s big business, big money, big opportunity. Big corporates are all there, searching for talent and marketing products and services, all for the real, material world of you and me.
Yes, Second Life is both virtual and material. It’s the digital life of a material world! An avatar, as they call a Second Life resident, can even buy the real shares of ArcelorMittal with Linden dollars, the currency of Second Life. In fact, the other day, the world’s biggest steelmaker held its AGM in this digital world. And I read a news report—in print, mind you—on how it went off in the imaginary world where people fly around. What next? Digital steel, perhaps. And then? Digital man, certainly.
The truth is, it’s not steel that’s making one sit up and think about this digital reality, though. Or the fact that global news agency Reuters has a Second Life bureau. It’s the level of involvement. I remember reading about people who spend most of their waking hours in the Second Life. And I remember what the wife of one such guy, who has another family in Second Life, said. It went something like this: “You fetch something to dink for a guy who spends his whole day on the computer only to see him making love with a cartoon on the screen!”
Now, who is this guy? Is he, let’s say, the failed saxophonist Milos Kovac, living in Warsaw with his wife Karla or, Carlos Mascarooni, a successful casino baron, living with his super model wife Camilla McLahan, in Second Life? Who is his ‘I’? When he’s glued to his PC living his Carlos avatar, will he respond if you call him Milos? My guess is as good as yours.
Its website informs me that Second Life already has over 14 million residents! That’s over three times the population of Singapore, with multiple identities. You don’t need to be a Nostradamus to see many of these guys are going to end up with an identity crisis.
I can see a generation for whom the first person is plural! People will be talking about many I’s. OK, the early 20th century muse may have written: “Countless lives inhabit us. I don’t know, when I think or feel, Who is it that thinks or feels… I have more than just one soul. There are more I’s than I myself.” But now it’s not about an odd poet. We’re going to have a whole generation of people with several lives. I am us! Perhaps, we’ll replace ‘I’ with ‘we’ in conversations.
Or, perhaps, our digital selves will take over. Imagine a generation that feels its life. Yes, to live, for them, will be to feel. They are going to redefine existence. For all you know, the biological body may become just a preserver of the mind. A body blow to body in the historical mind versus body battle. Oh, man’s intellectual history seems to be at a turning point, I just can’t resist the temptation to predict. Perhaps this is the next big development in evolution—the coming of the digital man. A generation of supermen that lives in Second Life—or third or fourth or tenth—that won’t be called virtual anymore.
As for we lesser mortals, let’s keep our fingers crossed and pray the physical world doesn’t end. For the sake of our blood and sweat and DNA. Or, rather—this has more appeal—for the sake of body lotions, deos and condoms.
Let the world move on to a digital existence, let the Second Coming happen in the Second Life, let that be the most beautiful place without poverty and starvation and racism… But, a cartoon on bed? I’m fine here, sir, thank you.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
my head, my head
I must find my prefrontal cortex. I hope its somewhere there in my head. But it's all a big mess, my brain, and I don't know how to run a search there. Is there a help menu in my head? Hello, God???
If you are still wondering, as I did some three minutes ago, what the heck prefrontal cortex is, well, it's that part of your brain that helped you learn things as child and still helps you be innovative and learn new things. Scientists have found out that there's something similar in young birds. But they lose it once they grow up. It's OK for them, I guess. They won't miss prefrontal cortex or LMAN as scientists call it; they have their wings to fly. But I need my imagination to fly.
And I have my ambitions too, yes. I need all my innovative circuits to create, word by word, the greatest piece of literature and to make, shot by shot, the greatest film ever produced. I just can't keep dreaming about a Nobel or a Cannes Palme d'Or. I've done enough of fooling around. Any serious work is now or never.
When did I lose it, my prefrontal cortex? When did I last learn something new? When did I last do something innovative, if at all? C'mon, think, brain. I know you're an old bloody piece of junk but don't tell me you've conked off, absolutely. Brain, hey brain, o'brain, I'm talking to you.
I'm positive I learnt nothing in the last two-three years—perhaps, six-seven years—except for picking up a couple of Hindi words like "kachua" (turtle, stupid!) from my three-year-old daughter. Except for some plots and characters that pop up in my head once in a blue moon—only to be completely lost to my inherited laziness and unflinching trust on my memory—there has been nothing new happening in my head for years now, other than rapid graying of hair.
The last time—perhaps that was the fist time too—I wanted to do something concrete was almost a decade ago, when the dotcom craze was at its peak, when internet instilled a sense of empowerment into the minds of humanity, when the wired half of the world went on an idea rush. Anything looked possible. Imagine and it's done. I wanted to set up a worldwide individual-level exchange of goods and services. A place where one could sell one's skills either as a service or a product. It was to be a one-point source for all your needs, from grocery to fitting a bath shower to buying a flat to investing in Chinese market. It was to be a place where you could bid for jobs, be it editing, marketing a product, building a skyscraper or making a movie. Where you could sell your farm produce, cement, paintings or ideas.It was to mark the end of employment, the finest mode of slavery. A world of ultimate outsourcing. There are customers and there are service providers. Every buyer would be a seller too.
It was to be a place where true price discovery of skills happened. It would have been the ultimate market-driven world. Yet, I thought, it had the elements of socialism. I remember I was keen to do it, to at least float the idea. But it never happened. I never managed to work out the finer details.
And I lost it, just like that. What was it? A journey? An encounter? Another thought that I thought was even more precious? Or just a bottle of rum? I can't remember. I lost it, I don't know how. What I know is my head is a mess. And I must find my prefrontal cortex. To fly.
If you are still wondering, as I did some three minutes ago, what the heck prefrontal cortex is, well, it's that part of your brain that helped you learn things as child and still helps you be innovative and learn new things. Scientists have found out that there's something similar in young birds. But they lose it once they grow up. It's OK for them, I guess. They won't miss prefrontal cortex or LMAN as scientists call it; they have their wings to fly. But I need my imagination to fly.
And I have my ambitions too, yes. I need all my innovative circuits to create, word by word, the greatest piece of literature and to make, shot by shot, the greatest film ever produced. I just can't keep dreaming about a Nobel or a Cannes Palme d'Or. I've done enough of fooling around. Any serious work is now or never.
When did I lose it, my prefrontal cortex? When did I last learn something new? When did I last do something innovative, if at all? C'mon, think, brain. I know you're an old bloody piece of junk but don't tell me you've conked off, absolutely. Brain, hey brain, o'brain, I'm talking to you.
I'm positive I learnt nothing in the last two-three years—perhaps, six-seven years—except for picking up a couple of Hindi words like "kachua" (turtle, stupid!) from my three-year-old daughter. Except for some plots and characters that pop up in my head once in a blue moon—only to be completely lost to my inherited laziness and unflinching trust on my memory—there has been nothing new happening in my head for years now, other than rapid graying of hair.
The last time—perhaps that was the fist time too—I wanted to do something concrete was almost a decade ago, when the dotcom craze was at its peak, when internet instilled a sense of empowerment into the minds of humanity, when the wired half of the world went on an idea rush. Anything looked possible. Imagine and it's done. I wanted to set up a worldwide individual-level exchange of goods and services. A place where one could sell one's skills either as a service or a product. It was to be a one-point source for all your needs, from grocery to fitting a bath shower to buying a flat to investing in Chinese market. It was to be a place where you could bid for jobs, be it editing, marketing a product, building a skyscraper or making a movie. Where you could sell your farm produce, cement, paintings or ideas.It was to mark the end of employment, the finest mode of slavery. A world of ultimate outsourcing. There are customers and there are service providers. Every buyer would be a seller too.
It was to be a place where true price discovery of skills happened. It would have been the ultimate market-driven world. Yet, I thought, it had the elements of socialism. I remember I was keen to do it, to at least float the idea. But it never happened. I never managed to work out the finer details.
And I lost it, just like that. What was it? A journey? An encounter? Another thought that I thought was even more precious? Or just a bottle of rum? I can't remember. I lost it, I don't know how. What I know is my head is a mess. And I must find my prefrontal cortex. To fly.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
disappointed
how boring have i become. the blog posts i see here are impossibly boring. lifeless. meaningless. that's me. my thoughts. there used to be a time when i thought i could write. but what i see here disappoint me. i won't delete them though. why hide yourself? if i am boring, let it be. i can try and change but i won't hide it. you can't stand it? get out, please.
bindu was sharing a funny incident on the phone. she was disappointed that i didn't laugh. i was listening to her. and the joke did strike me. but i didn't laugh. i'm not sharing like before. am not open anymore. where am i? hello? has my head turned into a shell?
my head has perhaps stopped functioning at all. when i try to think all i feel is a burning sensation in my head. i know my problem. brain paralysis.
now what? some vodka, of course. cheers!
bindu was sharing a funny incident on the phone. she was disappointed that i didn't laugh. i was listening to her. and the joke did strike me. but i didn't laugh. i'm not sharing like before. am not open anymore. where am i? hello? has my head turned into a shell?
my head has perhaps stopped functioning at all. when i try to think all i feel is a burning sensation in my head. i know my problem. brain paralysis.
now what? some vodka, of course. cheers!
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Redemption Song
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!
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!
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.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Saturday, October 22, 2005
new outlook
it's been a while since i blogged. things happened besides hurricanes and earthquakes. i switched job. anosha has grown another tooth and she looks not too far away from walking and perhaps talking too. and we had loads of visitors...ajichachan, navanki, jeevanchettan, allumol... we went around town...drove down to jaipur a couple of times...and took lots of photographs...here are some...
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Karat and stick
Here's a little puzzle: a comment on a computer screensaver has cost somebody his 15-year-old job and left him with nobody to turn to; where could it be? Ask any Indian communist and he would perhaps say, why that's where capitalism is anyway leading the whole world to. But it didn't happen in the USA. It happened in Kerala.
Yes, the red hot Kerala that owes its lack of private investments to its notorious labour unions. Impossible? It could have been if Padmakumar, the photographer who lost his job in the most bizarre way, was not working for Desabhimani, the CPI(M)'s official Malayalam daily.
As things happened, Padmakumar, a staff photographer of Desabhimani for over 15 years, allegedly made a comment when he noticed partygeneral secretary Prakash Karat's face on the new screensavers installed in his office computers in Kochi. He, according to colleagues, said the party could do without such "idolising". The walls had ears and the word was spread.
The CPM state secretariat jumped into action. Within a week, it mulled over this act of "grave indiscipline", formed a committee and conducted an official probe. Padmakumar was summoned and told to quit or be sacked. Nothing on record, not even a show-cause notice. End ofthe road, full stop.
Well, the idea is not to dispute our communist friend's comment on capitalism. He may well be right too. We have already heard about the US entrepreneur who threatened to sack any employee found smoking at office or home or anywhere else.
The point is, if capitalism at its worst will bring back slavery and call it labour reforms, the communists will do the same and call it party discipline. These Left guys, who sell this dream of equality among the poor and the underprivileged, are still no different, despite the fall of Soviet Union. They still can't make it any better than AnimalFarm. George Orwell long back told us how some are more equal in aworld of equality.
And, even if they have a problem with God, apparently the Leftists are all for idol worship. Why, if only Karl Marx was born in India we could have had a temple for him. And, who knows, a Marx janmabhoomi issue to boot.
A friend once told me she loves mirrors because they tell you the truth. I said yes, but left side right. Oh that doesn't make a difference, she had said. I laughed her off at that time. But now it seems perhaps she was right. It's all the same. Left, right and centre.
Yes, the red hot Kerala that owes its lack of private investments to its notorious labour unions. Impossible? It could have been if Padmakumar, the photographer who lost his job in the most bizarre way, was not working for Desabhimani, the CPI(M)'s official Malayalam daily.
As things happened, Padmakumar, a staff photographer of Desabhimani for over 15 years, allegedly made a comment when he noticed partygeneral secretary Prakash Karat's face on the new screensavers installed in his office computers in Kochi. He, according to colleagues, said the party could do without such "idolising". The walls had ears and the word was spread.
The CPM state secretariat jumped into action. Within a week, it mulled over this act of "grave indiscipline", formed a committee and conducted an official probe. Padmakumar was summoned and told to quit or be sacked. Nothing on record, not even a show-cause notice. End ofthe road, full stop.
Well, the idea is not to dispute our communist friend's comment on capitalism. He may well be right too. We have already heard about the US entrepreneur who threatened to sack any employee found smoking at office or home or anywhere else.
The point is, if capitalism at its worst will bring back slavery and call it labour reforms, the communists will do the same and call it party discipline. These Left guys, who sell this dream of equality among the poor and the underprivileged, are still no different, despite the fall of Soviet Union. They still can't make it any better than AnimalFarm. George Orwell long back told us how some are more equal in aworld of equality.
And, even if they have a problem with God, apparently the Leftists are all for idol worship. Why, if only Karl Marx was born in India we could have had a temple for him. And, who knows, a Marx janmabhoomi issue to boot.
A friend once told me she loves mirrors because they tell you the truth. I said yes, but left side right. Oh that doesn't make a difference, she had said. I laughed her off at that time. But now it seems perhaps she was right. It's all the same. Left, right and centre.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
musings
sexy page! it's rocking, man!
welcome to the news desk. we're into the business of news. producing and packaging news with the same precision a nike does its footwear. and building up your brand the way a coca-cola does. so what if heat waves claim hundreds of lives across the country, as long as it doesn't go with your brand image nothing's news. after all, in the news commodity market, there are thousands of sexy items we can acquire for free and sell for a fortune. and every brand conscious businessman knows the worth of news space. so we sell that also for...yes, much much more than 30 silver coins that god was worth for judas.
welcome to the news desk. we're into the business of news. producing and packaging news with the same precision a nike does its footwear. and building up your brand the way a coca-cola does. so what if heat waves claim hundreds of lives across the country, as long as it doesn't go with your brand image nothing's news. after all, in the news commodity market, there are thousands of sexy items we can acquire for free and sell for a fortune. and every brand conscious businessman knows the worth of news space. so we sell that also for...yes, much much more than 30 silver coins that god was worth for judas.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
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