jun

repost

2012-01-16T21:52:00.001-08:00

a floop from the past

http://flippidy-flip-jun.blogspot.com/2009/12/uttarayan.html

happy Uttarayan

i'm such a fan of the bruce mau people.

2011-10-19T21:59:00.000-07:00

DX Salon: BMD’s Paddy Harrington meets

Jeremy Vandermeij of the Gladstone

DESIGN | BY RAYLENE KNUTSON | OCTOBER 19, 2011

http://www.torontostandard.com/daily-cable/dx-salon-bmds-paddy-harrington-meets-jeremy-vandermeij-of-the-gladstone

“The New Scotland Yard” Rules

2011-10-17T04:58:00.000-07:00

dear Messer Blackberry and Funskool

“The New Scotland Yard” Rules

PLAYERS
Unlimited number of detectives
1or more player X

REQUIREMENTS
Hardware: Blackberry phones with-
blackberry messenger activated.
camera

GPS
Software :
Google maps with google latitude activated
blackberry messenger group made for this game.

Hardware: Basic mobile phone with
camera
Google maps with google latitude
internet access to facebook.

GPS
Software :
Google latitude activated
Facebook page

OBJECTIVE
Mr X is on a treasure hunt. X has to take photographs of five separate pre-decided artifacts

Detectives have to "catch" mr X , by photographing him and tagging him on facebook or uploading him to bbm group. Mr X must be recognizable.

HOW TO BEGIN
All players have to be assigned on google latitude.
They must be conversant with the options of switching their visibility on and off.
Players assign roles.
Artifacts are decided.
Boundaries can be decided.
BBerry group is formed for the duration of the game.
Game can begin at any time and anyplace. Ie players may not be in close proximity when the game is beginning.

ARTIFACTS
Artifacts must be one or all of the following.
1: mobile
2: photograph able.
3: photography should be possible from far away and any angle.
4: each artifact should not be less than 100 meters from each other.
5: not place specific. For eg: it can be any spire of a building, but not the spire of san marco tower.
6: the total number of artifacts must be in the ratio of not less than 5 artifacts per player X.
Examples:
gargoyles atop buildings.
Covers of selected music cassettes.
Ice crea m flavours from different vendors.
wada pav stalls on the street.

RULES FOR MR. X
Mr X has to be visible for 5 minutes every half an hour.
Every five minutes he transmits a photo of the street in front of him that will give a hint of his location.
Photos of deadwalls not allowed
He must stay on the road! If he stops for refreshments he has to locate himself.
Every time he alights or gets into a taxi or bus or train, he must inform on bbm
Everytime X clicks an artifact, he uploads them on the bbm group.

RULES FOR DETECTIVES
Detectives must stay on google latitude
Detectives can stay off for the 5 minutes in the half hour when X is visible.
Every time a detective alights or gets into a taxi or bus or train, he must inform on bbm so that the information and account is lodged with Mr or Ms X.

THE MONEY SYSTEM
Each detective has an expense account of INR300
Each taxi will be INR30
Each bus will be INR10
Each time a detective uses a facility his money is credited to Mr. X's account.
X cannot exceed the spent amount of all detectives combined.

First to complete objective wins.

My List of Things To Do in America and New York

2011-10-17T04:34:00.000-07:00

an avid anti americana that i am, i have never really given this any thought. but i am quite pleasantly happy to note that not all my wishes are design oriented. so here is....

My List of Things To Do in America and New York

IN NEW YORK

Eat a hot dog at a hot dog stand

Attend a def poetry session

Visit times square at midnight

Explore central park

Visit highline

Eat a slice of pizza at a take away pizza place

Witness " manhattenhenge"

Try and bump into Bruce mau

Eat at a diner

REST OF THE STATES

See Yosemite national park and the hanging valley

Check out Seattle library

Visit an Indian reservation

Drive through San Francisco undulating roadways

Go down steam on the lower Mississippi and new Orleans swamps

Drive through prairie agricultural landscape

See bozeman and the mountains.

Run up the Philadelphia rocky steps

Check out millennium park, Chicago

See the Vietnam memorial by Maya Lin, in Washington.

the new and improved chain mail !!! (with two extra exclamation marks and added oomph)

2011-09-15T05:13:00.000-07:00

Have you read the kind of modern chain mail that goes, "99% people of the world say i love you without meaning it. if you're in the 1 % that does, then waste someone else's time with a completely impersonal spam forward, which will then........."?

Yeah well, me too...... so here's my new and completely true to spirit chain mail

99% of the people send dumbassed chain mails to piss off the world. If you are in that one percent that doesn't - then send this chain mail to all your friends: and if i gets it back from you, I'll know ur a freaking genius!

If u send to all your friends your trueeee love (note the extra e's) will call you, meet your parents, get their permission, have a traditional Chinese wedding; have two kids, one dog, three cats, two rat holes, no termite problems, no dandruff and your next door neighbor will be hot!

cheers

An Open Letter to the 3rd UA Students 2011 Explaining the Value of Documentation

2011-07-22T02:43:00.001-07:00

-July ‘11

Dear students,

Today, while discussing an exercise documentation and compilation with a couple of students, I was asked why we need to document this entire exercise. This is probably the first vocal statement I have heard, from a class that seems to be unanimously struggling with this aspect.

I also notice that most of the softcopy compilations is quite half-heatedly done and just look like stuff thrown together digitally for record.

For one thing, this is going to need a real change in attitude in how students approach the tasks handed to them. On the other hand, one of the causes of such an attitude is that the students do not understand the value of the exercises carried out by them. I hope to address that here.

Since this is a fairly novel requirement, your discomfort at this aspect of the exercise is understandable. However, as part of the ongoing exercise, it is important for students to appreciate the point of documentation of academic work. This understanding will come in handy throughout your academic duration.

Documentation of class work material is a method of summarizing and articulating the growth that takes place as a result of an exercise.

Take for example a student who has been given a problem. He arrives for class with a particular approach to solution. The guide responds with suggestions and the student makes the requisite revisions or addendums. this process continues for some time and the students now has a bunch of sketches express a “comprehensive thought process”, made up of all the multiple layers of discussions that have taken place.

This sketch we are referring to is a process sketch. These are drawings made by the student for his or her understanding. Now, very often, what happens is that after delving deep into the mental exercise of the process sketch, it is difficult for the student to take a step back and reflect upon the value and understanding gained from this exercise.

So, we see that, when this sketch is transferred to the compilation, students very often forget that when viewed after some time, it is impossible to make head or tail of the sketch. The sense of context is forgotten. There is no explanation on the drawings. Third person viewers have a hard time following the train of thought. There is just this cryptic series of sketches that independently make no sense.

Documentation allows the student to review the project from top to bottom. It allows him/her to read and reread the entire journey of the exercise and question whether the thinking process of the exercise is well articulated.

Very often, a presentation requires a concise and brief explanation of the project. For e.g. time given for an urban design presentation is barely five minutes OR (the most commonly occurring) the limitation in number of pages for each presentation).

Conforming to such stipulations requires a thorough understanding of the logistics of all the processes carried out.

what exercises have been carried out?

Why has it been carried out?

What are the inferences?,

Are the inferences significant?,

How is that so? and

Is it important enough to be explained or to be left in the appendix?

These are all necessary undercurrents that have to be appreciated by the presenter. But the presentation becomes almost impossible for the student to handle simply because that level of mental organization has not taken place. The process of documentation is meant to create a situation where such a reflection is possible.

As in many other cases, the process of documentation also develops additional skill sets. Learning how to document, learning how to use softwares and techniques involved; learning how to manage time and how to use it effectively; are all part of the learning process. It is not (and should not be part of the syllabus) but it is a requirement all the same, and must be mastered by every student.

There are of course other aspects to documentation that lie outside the narrow walls of the classroom.

Documentation is an extremely important tool to review the work done at a later future date.

More to the point, the role of an educational institute is to create capable professionals and advance the school of thought. We can only do that, not by distributing graduation certificates, but by getting students to execute the right kind of practice exercises.

It only seems logical, then, to state that documentation of student's exercises is the only mode of measurement of their intellectual growth in an academic institution. This mode of measurement may not seem worthwhile now, but it is an exercise carried out for posterity.

Lastly - this year being an experimental year in undergraduate landscape pedagogy, review and critique of the programme, by other faculty members and the students themselves, will be fundamental to the continuation of this programme.

This can only be done by reviewing the work done by students during exhibitions etc.

Students may not be present at this exhibition- so the documentation must be done in a way to explain itself to a third person also.

REMEMBER

1) Documentation is an articulation exercise where students learn to be clearer about their thought process.

2) Documentation of students work is the most important tool in measuring intellectual growth in an academic institute.

3) Documentation is made for posterity: its life is longer than you think and might be circulated around long after this class has passed out

4) It will be read by many others outside your class: they will read it for reference, they will discuss it with their peers and they will draw wisdom and learn from it.

5) Documentation will play an important role in shaping a better landscape programme in the future. Your contribution will make that difference.

I hope this somewhat clears up why we have introduced documentation as part of the exercises, and also give to students a sense of gravitas about this aspect of the project.

If you have any doubts please feel free to write back with questions and comments. I look forward to an interaction with you on the matter.

Regards

arjun sharma

your attention plis

2011-05-28T06:48:00.000-07:00

dear reader

further to the blog entry titled "talaak talaak" i am glad to bring to notice the following link. please tread with kind intentions :)

http://sites.google.com/site/whiffsandwhatnots/

with regards

jun

LANDSCAPE URBANISM BULLSHIT GENERATOR (BETA)

2011-05-09T10:46:00.000-07:00

so i'm researching landscape urbanism and ecological urbanism on the internet (because i just might be caught offguard with a silly question ) and i find this site

LANDSCAPE URBANISM BULLSHIT GENERATOR (BETA)

http://www.ruderal.com/bullshit/bullshit.htm

here are the first ten clicks on what to do while "landscape-urban-designing" the text after colons are interpretations

click number 1: "diversify successional nests" : do epic wierd shit

click number 2: "reclaim scalable clusters" : free running is cool

click number 3: "architect frictionless thresholds" : that bus door was rat hole sized!!

click number 4: " anticipate fluid contexts" : shits goin DOWNNN.....

click number 5: "transform hyperbolic technologies" : that star wars game is cool

click number 6: "integrate invasive interventions" : i, i, i, i, i,

click number 7: "enhance plug-and-play gradients" : KOTOR 1 was better...

click number 8: "seize latent programs" : whaaaaaaaattt?

click number 9: "enhance customized deliverables" : with a choice of your topping and would you like garlic bread with that?

click number 10: "mesh scaled peripheries" : um....... well... this is where i say, add your own lines and interpretations here.

man!, i love internet research. I suppose it takes a special kind of aptitude to start with looking up Bulgarian models and thendrift on to the nature of Bulgarian and Ottoman constitution as a related topic. (Bulgaria is a unitary constitutional republic, unlike India)

"Are you feeling embarrassed?"

2011-03-29T23:28:00.000-07:00

ten individuals a party table.

one copy writer,
one online copy content developer
two dancers, (one of which is quite fun after three shots of B52)
one youth channel marketing manager,
one singer/composer and audio engineer,
one celebrity choreographer,
one brand image developer,
one corporate social responsibility planner,

and one ol’ me, a landscape architect.

and they repeatedly asked me if i was “feeling embarrassed”. so odd.

Some quotes i picked during my stay in Ahmedabad

2011-03-01T03:45:00.000-08:00

Prof Chayya quoted quotes

“....Experience the city through the eyes of a cat or a dog or other animals.”

“....The geography of pathways created by children, do not necessarily respond to roads and property lines.”

“....layer your work with many pre-occupations and many issues. Once the basic core of the design is stripped away, there should be more that still holds you at an intellectual level.

some questions to take seriously while designing gardens.
1) how can I design so birds and butterflies will visit here.
2) How do I consume less water.
3) How do I create lazy spots for reading.
4) How do I bring in colour
5) How do I design for the sky and frame the skyline.

- Prof. Aniket Bhagwat

random comments on Le Corbusier during presentations at Mill Owner's Association building.
“size of a project didn’t matter”

“he knew where he wanted to go even if he didn’t know where his next project came from. Like working out a goal on a football field. Every small design is a part of a continuum”

“every small design is part of a continuum of philosophy that makes that project a part of the universe of that architect.”

“We are free to invent our own futures.”

“Are we sensitized to the idea of the sky in our city?? In old ahmedabad you have structures so close to you that you have a ribbon of sky winding through the city.in other landscapes this sky is something else.”

- Prof. Aniket Bhagwat

“Technique with no fresh idea is inferior to spirited amateurism in our times. Hopefully, enough of us will still be around to draw the singularity when it happens.”
— David Berman (from McSweeney’s More Things Like This)

after reviewing my design at length, he looks at me approvingly and says... “you’re enjoying yourself (designing) aren’t you!”

-Prof. Prabhakar Bhagwat.

“His house was perfect, whether you like food, or sleep, or work, or telling stories, or singing or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all.”
-JRR Tolkien The Hobbit

“Why do we design in on a blank sheet of paper? The stone, the slope of the land are the natural riches of the site and are the bounty on which we insert a home or our design”

-Prof. Prabhakar Bhagwat.

Excerpts from Martin Luther King Jr.'s Letter from a Birmingham Jail:

2011-02-24T01:36:00.001-08:00

16 April 1963

My Dear Fellow Clergymen:

While confined here in the Birmingham city jail, I came across your recent statement calling my present activities "unwise and untimely." Seldom do I pause to answer criticism of my work and ideas...But since I feel that you are men of genuine good will and that your criticisms are sincerely set forth, I want to try to answer your statement in what I hope will be patient and reasonable terms.

I think I should indicate why I am here in Birmingham...basically, I am in Birmingham because injustice is here. Just as the prophets of the eighth century B.C. left their villages and carried their "thus saith the Lord" far beyond the boundaries of their home towns, and just as the Apostle Paul left his village of Tarsus and carried the gospel of Jesus Christ to the far corners of the Greco Roman world, so am I compelled to carry the gospel of freedom beyond my own home town. Like Paul, I must constantly respond to the Macedonian call for aid.

Moreover, I am cognizant of the interrelatedness of all communities and states. I cannot sit idly by in Atlanta and not be concerned about what happens in Birmingham. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly...

You deplore the demonstrations taking place in Birmingham...You may well ask: "Why direct action? Why sit ins, marches and so forth? Isn't negotiation a better path?" You are quite right in calling for negotiation. Indeed, this is the very purpose of direct action. Nonviolent direct action seeks to create such a crisis and foster such a tension that a community which has constantly refused to negotiate is forced to confront the issue. It seeks so to dramatize the issue that it can no longer be ignored. My citing the creation of tension as part of the work of the nonviolent resister may sound rather shocking. But I must confess that I am not afraid of the word "tension." I have earnestly opposed violent tension, but there is a type of constructive, nonviolent tension which is necessary for growth. Just as Socrates felt that it was necessary to create a tension in the mind so that individuals could rise from the bondage of myths and half truths to the unfettered realm of creative analysis and objective appraisal, so must we see the need for nonviolent gadflies to create the kind of tension in society that will help men rise from the dark depths of prejudice and racism to the majestic heights of understanding and brotherhood...

...My friends, I must say to you that we have not made a single gain in civil rights without determined legal and nonviolent pressure. Lamentably, it is an historical fact that privileged groups seldom give up their privileges voluntarily. Individuals may see the moral light and voluntarily give up their unjust posture; but, as Reinhold Niebuhr has reminded us, groups tend to be more immoral than individuals.

We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed. Frankly, I have yet to engage in a direct action campaign that was "well timed" in the view of those who have not suffered unduly from the disease of segregation. For years now I have heard the word "Wait!" It rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This "Wait" has almost always meant "Never." We must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that "justice too long delayed is justice denied."

...There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience. You express a great deal of anxiety over our willingness to break laws. This is certainly a legitimate concern...One may well ask: "How can you advocate breaking some laws and obeying others?" The answer lies in the fact that there are two types of laws: just and unjust. I would be the first to advocate obeying just laws. One has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws. I would agree with St. Augustine that "an unjust law is no law at all."

...One who breaks an unjust law must do so openly, lovingly, and with a willingness to accept the penalty. I submit that an individual who breaks a law that conscience tells him is unjust, and who willingly accepts the penalty of imprisonment in order to arouse the conscience of the community over its injustice, is in reality expressing the highest respect for law.

Of course, there is nothing new about this kind of civil disobedience. It was evidenced sublimely in the refusal of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego to obey the laws of Nebuchadnezzar, on the ground that a higher moral law was at stake. It was practiced superbly by the early Christians, who were willing to face hungry lions and the excruciating pain of chopping blocks rather than submit to certain unjust laws of the Roman Empire...

We should never forget that everything Adolf Hitler did in Germany was "legal"...

I must make two honest confessions to you, my Christian and Jewish brothers. First, I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro's great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to "order" than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: "I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action"...Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.

...I have been disappointed with the church. I do not say this as one of those negative critics who can always find something wrong with the church. I say this as a minister of the gospel, who loves the church; who was nurtured in its bosom; who has been sustained by its spiritual blessings and who will remain true to it as long as the cord of life shall lengthen.

When I was suddenly catapulted into the leadership of the bus protest in Montgomery, Alabama, a few years ago, I felt we would be supported by the white church. I felt that the white ministers, priests and rabbis of the South would be among our strongest allies. Instead, some have been outright opponents, refusing to understand the freedom movement and misrepresenting its leaders; all too many others have been more cautious than courageous and have remained silent behind the anesthetizing security of stained glass windows.

...I have heard numerous southern religious leaders admonish their worshipers to comply with a desegregation decision because it is the law, but I have longed to hear white ministers declare: "Follow this decree because integration is morally right and because the Negro is your brother." In the midst of blatant injustices inflicted upon the Negro, I have watched white churchmen stand on the sideline and mouth pious irrelevancies and sanctimonious trivialities. In the midst of a mighty struggle to rid our nation of racial and economic injustice, I have heard many ministers say: "Those are social issues, with which the gospel has no real concern." And I have watched many churches commit themselves to a completely other worldly religion which makes a strange, un-Biblical distinction between body and soul, between the sacred and the secular.

I have traveled the length and breadth of Alabama, Mississippi and all the other southern states. On sweltering summer days and crisp autumn mornings I have looked at the South's beautiful churches with their lofty spires pointing heavenward. I have beheld the impressive outlines of her massive religious education buildings. Over and over I have found myself asking: "What kind of people worship here? Who is their God?..."

...There was a time when the church was very powerful--in the time when the early Christians rejoiced at being deemed worthy to suffer for what they believed. In those days the church was not merely a thermometer that recorded the ideas and principles of popular opinion; it was a thermostat that transformed the mores of society. Whenever the early Christians entered a town, the people in power became disturbed and immediately sought to convict the Christians for being "disturbers of the peace" and "outside agitators."' But the Christians pressed on, in the conviction that they were "a colony of heaven," called to obey God rather than man. Small in number, they were big in commitment. They were too God-intoxicated to be "astronomically intimidated." By their effort and example they brought an end to such ancient evils as infanticide and gladiatorial contests. Things are different now. So often the contemporary church is a weak, ineffectual voice with an uncertain sound. So often it is an archdefender of the status quo. Far from being disturbed by the presence of the church, the power structure of the average community is consoled by the church's silent--and often even vocal--sanction of things as they are.

But the judgment of God is upon the church as never before. If today's church does not recapture the sacrificial spirit of the early church, it will lose its authenticity, forfeit the loyalty of millions, and be dismissed as an irrelevant social club with no meaning for the twentieth century. Every day I meet young people whose disappointment with the church has turned into outright disgust.

...Never before have I written so long a letter. I'm afraid it is much too long to take your precious time. I can assure you that it would have been much shorter if I had been writing from a comfortable desk, but what else can one do when he is alone in a narrow jail cell, other than write long letters, think long thoughts and pray long prayers?

If I have said anything in this letter that overstates the truth and indicates an unreasonable impatience, I beg you to forgive me. If I have said anything that understates the truth and indicates my having a patience that allows me to settle for anything less than brotherhood, I beg God to forgive me.

I hope this letter finds you strong in the faith. I also hope that circumstances will soon make it possible for me to meet each of you, not as an integrationist or a civil-rights leader but as a fellow clergyman and a Christian brother. Let us all hope that the dark clouds of racial prejudice will soon pass away and the deep fog of misunderstanding will be lifted from our fear drenched communities, and in some not too distant tomorrow the radiant stars of love and brotherhood will shine over our great nation with all their scintillating beauty.

Yours for the cause of Peace and Brotherhood,
Martin Luther King, Jr.

An insight into why NASA in academy works so well (and why the vertical studio thingie might not)

2011-02-21T21:45:00.000-08:00

Transcript for Jane McGonigal: Gaming can make a better world (at ted.com)

"So, the big question is, "What exactly are gamers getting so good at?" Because if we could figure that out we would have a virtually unprecedented human resource on our hands. This is how many people we now have in the world who spend at least an hour a day playing online games. These are our virtuoso gamers. 500 million people who are extraordinarily good at something. And in the next decade we're going to have another billion gamers who are extraordinarily good at whatever that is. If you don't know it already, this is coming. The game industry is developing consoles that are low energy and that work with the wireless phone networks instead of broadband Internet so that gamers all over the world, particularly in India, China, Brazil, can get online. They expect one billion more gamers in the next decade. It will bring us up to 1.5 billion gamers.

So, I've started to think about what these games are making us virtuosos at. Here are the four things I came up with. The first is urgent optimism. Okay. Think of this as extreme self-motivation. Urgent optimism is the desire to act immediately to tackle an obstacle, combined with the belief that we have a reasonable hope of success. Gamers always believe that an epic win is possible, and that it is always worth trying, and trying now. Gamers don't sit around. Gamers are virtuosos at weaving a tight social fabric. There is a lot of interesting research that shows that we like people better after we play a game with them, even if they've beaten us badly. And the reason is, it takes a lot of trust to play a game with someone. We trust that they will spend their time with us, that they will play by the same rules, value the same goal, they'll stay with the game until it's over.

And so, playing a game together actually builds up bonds and trust and cooperation. And we actually build stronger social relationships as a result. Blissful productivity. I love it. You know there is a reason why the average World of Warcraft gamer plays for 22 hours a week, kind of a half-time job. It's because we know, when we're playing a game, that we're actually happier working hard, than we are relaxing, or hanging out. We know that we are optimized, as human beings, to do hard meaningful work. And gamers are willing to work hard all the time, if they're given the right work.

Finally, epic meaning. Gamers love to be attached to awe-inspiring missions to human planetary-scale stories. So, just one bit of trivia that helps put that into perspective. So, you all know Wikipedia, biggest wiki in the world. Second biggest wiki, in the world, with nearly 80,000 articles is the World of Warcraft wiki. Five million people use it every month. They have compiled more information about World of Warcraft on the Internet than any other topic covered on any other wiki in the world. They are building an epic story. They are building an epic knowledge resource about the World of Warcraft.

Okay, so these are four superpowers that add up to one thing. Gamers are super-empowered hopeful individuals. These are people who believe that they are individually capable of changing the world. And the only problem is that they believe that they are capable of changing virtual worlds and not the real world. That's the problem that I'm trying to solve.

There is an economist named Edward Castronova. His work is brilliant. He looks at why people are investing so much time and energy and money, in online worlds. And he says, "We're witnessing what amounts to no less than a mass exodus to virtual worlds and online game environments." And he's an economist. So, he's rational. And he says ... (Laughter) Not like me -- I'm a game designer; I'm exuberant. But he says, that this makes perfect sense, because gamers can achieve more in online worlds than they can in real life. They can have stronger social relationships in games than they can have in real life. They get better feedback and feel more rewarded in games than they do in real life. So, he says for now it makes perfect sense for gamers to spend more time in virtual worlds than the real world. Now, I also agree that that is rational, for now. But it is not, by any means, an optimal situation. We have to start making the real world more like a game....."

dear anonymous, I'm a fan of your signoff

2011-02-21T03:41:00.000-08:00

"WE ARE ANONYMOUS.

WE ARE LEGION.

WE DO NOT FORGIVE.

WE DO NOT FORGET.

EXPECT US."

-anonymous signoff..

dear anonymous,

i'd like to join.

- signed

the non-computer friendly guy with a public profile making a public inquiry.

I just had to reproduce this from the "about us" page of the wikileaks.org site

2010-08-29T08:24:00.000-07:00

"Corporate corruption comes in many forms. The number of employees and turnover of some corporations exceeds the population and GDP of some nation states. When comparing countries, after observations of population size and GDP, it is usual to compare the system of government, the major power groupings and the civic freedoms available to their populations. Such comparisons can also be illuminating in the case of corporations.

Considering the largest corporations as analogous to a nation state reveals the following properties:

The right to vote does not exist except for share holders (analogous to land owners) and even there voting power is in proportion to ownership.
All power issues from a central committee.
There is no balancing division of power. There is no fourth estate. There are no juries and innocence is not presumed.
Failure to submit to any order may result in instant exile.
There is no freedom of speech.
There is no right of association. Even romance between men and women is often forbidden without approval.
The economy is centrally planned.
There is pervasive surveillance of movement and electronic communication.
The society is heavily regulated, to the degree many employees are told when, where and how many times a day they can go to the toilet.
There is little transparency and something like the Freedom of Information Act is unimaginable.
Internal opposition groups, such as unions, are blackbanned, surveilled and/or marginalized whenever and wherever possible.

While having a GDP and population comparable to Belgium, Denmark or New Zealand, many of these multi-national corporations have nothing like their quality of civic freedoms and protections. This is even more striking when the regional civic laws the company operates under are weak (such as in West Papua, many African states or even South Korea); there, the character of these corporate tyrannies is unobscured by their civilizing surroundings.

Through governmental corruption, political influence, or manipulation of the judicial system, abusive corporations are able to gain control over the defining element of government — the sole right to deploy coercive force.

WikiLeaks endeavors to civilize corporations by exposing uncivil plans and behavior. Just like a country, a corrupt or unethical corporation is a menace to all inside and outside it."

for your linking pleasure -- http://wikileaks.org/wiki/WikiLeaks:About

here's to an amazing creation!!!!

Prelude to a Thesis

2010-07-22T09:21:00.000-07:00

A couple of days ago I found my thesis copy in my cupboard. For those who don't know, my pride in my thesis had less to do with a medal, than being able to quote my favorite heavy metal band "Iron Maiden" in the introductory chapter of my thesis.

I loved the chilly cold morning of the April summers on the ‘I’ block terrace, in Ahmedabad. It was a beautiful way to start the day. Our hostel blocks were like monoliths, spread out in the vast wasteland of the Gujrat university hostel campus. Spending evenings and mornings on the terrace, I would imagine myself on the summit of one of the hills surrounded by plains. There was nothing around as far as the eye could see; just space, and dirt. The weather would sweep across the waste plains and erode a bit of the hostel blocks each season.

I think it was the wind, or it was the cold clean air or the constant sense of solitude every morning, but without knowing it, I would wake up to that tune and those words in my mind:

“Wake alone in the hills ; With the wind in your face ; It feels good to be proud; And be free and a race ; That is part of a clan; And to live on highlands ; And the air that you breathe ; So pure and so clean.”

Then there was the thesis too, and nandigram, and the aboriginis of australia and the tribals of orissa and how they were all connected with questions of livelyhood and the enigma of culture, and all those thing that you let swim in the subconscience of your mind. And it simply wasn’t too long before the rest of the song played itself out in my head.

“Can’t you see what they do; They are grinding us down; They are taking our land; That belongs to the clans;”

“Its a time wrought with fear; Its a land wrought with change; Ancestors could hear; What is happening now; They would turn in their graves; They would all be ashamed; That the land of the free; Has been written in chains”

What could one do though? I suddenly had clarity, but with it I saw history’s tragedy in progression’s mask. I saw grim repetition, and this time it wasn’t all comedy either. What could one do?

I did the only thing I could do. I did it in what I was good at. I made the case study of the white man’s eradication of the American Indians, one of the cornerstones of my thesis premise.

“And I swear to defend, And we’ll fight to the end, And I swear that I’ll never, Be taken alive..”

Who would've thought: "Iron Maiden" being the fountainhead of my hypothesis?

“No, no we cant let them take anymore, No we cant let them take anymore, We’ve the land of the free”

As tribute, I faithfully represent the lyrics of the song “The Clansman” written by Steve Harris (founder member, bass guitarist of ‘Iron Maiden’) in original format. (Although this song was orignaly meant to be based in medieval Scotland, It fits snugly into an American Indian scenario as well)

“The Clansman”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TaJKDYZ-n38

Wake alone in the hills
With the wind in your face
It feels good to be proud
And be free and a race
That is part of a clan
And to live on highlands
And the air that you breathe
So pure and so clean

When alone on the hills
With the wind in your hair
With a longing to feel ..
Just to be free

Is it right to believe
In the need to be free
Its a time when you die
And without asking why
Can’t you see what they do
They are grinding us down
They are taking our land
That belongs to the clans

Not alone with a dream
Just want to be free
With a need to belong
I am a clansman .....freedom

Its a time wrought with fear
Its a land wrought with change
Ancestors could hear
What is happening now
They would turn in their graves
They would all be ashamed
That the land of the free
Has been written in chains

And I know what I want
When the timing is right
Then I’ll take what is mine
I am the clansman

And I swear to defend
And we’ll fight to the end
And I swear that I’ll never
Be taken alive
And I know that we’ll stand
And we’ll fight for our land
And I swear that my bairns will be born free

And I know what I want
When the timing is right
Then I’ll take what I want
I am the clansman .....freedom

And I know what I want when the timing is right
Then I’ll take what is mine I am the clansman

No, no we cant let them take anymore
No we cant let them take anymore
We’ve the land of the free

No, no we cant let them take anymore
No we cant let them take anymore
We’ve the land of the free
Freedom

Is it right to believe
In the need to be free
Its a time when you die
And without asking why
Cant you see what they do
They are grinding us down
They are taking our land
That belongs to the clans

Not alone with a dream
Just want to be free
With a need to belong
I am a clansman

And I know what I want
When the timing is right
Then Ill take what is mine
I am the clansman

talaak talaak ....

2010-07-19T23:54:00.000-07:00

Hello all,

My blog is splitting. I am moving the entire section of "whiffs" and "operating systems" to a new location. This is mainly done to split the content in terms of that pertaining to design and that relating to all those amazing things outside the world of physical design.

I can assure you that the divorce settlements have been civil, and without any bad blood. The jun blog shall be keeping custody of one "whiff" post, in addition to the current address, and joint custody of another "whiff" post. The design content, shall be moving to another residence.

Happily, this new location is called "whiffs and what-nots at work" and i hope to share it at a, somewhat, future date.

with anonymous regards

Student letter form for our 'academy' students

2010-07-08T10:34:00.000-07:00

for those who hate writing letters to the management!

please click on the picture to enlarge

The Ascetic And The Aristocrat

2010-05-16T10:26:00.000-07:00

Somewhere on the outskirts of a hitherto Vedic-age village, in what is today, known as modern day Bihar, stood a large ‘Copper pod’ tree over a ‘katta’. Copper pods are generally not large enough or famous enough to have seating platforms built under them. But this one was a favorite of the village Rishi.

The Rishi was a Brahmin and an honorable one at that. But he also knew the ways of the world. The village headman, who was also a friend, sought his advice regarding domestic issues, complicated calculations of agrarian rationing and strategic diplomacy with neighboring tribes. The Rishi, in return, thought nothing of enlisting the free help of his people in erecting paathshaala for the farmers, gurukuls for the Brahmin boys and guest houses for travelers, not least among whom were other Brahmin friends who came to the village for discussions every third new moon and, incidentally, lent blessings to the villagers. He had even managed to induce a young, but scholarly Vaishnav to live in the paathshaala to teach economics to the boys.

Indeed, the Rishi was a very good administrator of the village’s spirituality, and he felt proud as he looked on to the view of the village farms and the hamlets over the horizon, from under his tree. Even the tree and the ‘katta’ were located with care by him.

There was a time when he was a businessman. Unlike most others of his class, his grandfather who was a devout Brahmin himself was gifted a large estate by the regional king. Since then his family were more concerned with the administration of his land. Ten years ago, when the Rishi turned forty-five, he decided to honor the calling of his caste and retire to a Brahmin’s way of life. He sold his land. He changed his clothing, his lifestyle and his routine. The influence of his wise counsel, however, had refused to leave him.

Presently, he noticed a man as he wandered through the farmlands. Even from afar he seemed lost and tired. He wore a tunic of deep blue and seemed to be moving across the land aimlessly. Going nowhere in particular, but always maintaining a general sense of direction. The young traveler picked points of interest on the landscape, like an abandoned cart, or a boundary tree, and wandered to it, observed it, and then moved on.

He came by the ‘katta’, and the Rishi being the only person around for many ‘gunthas’, made eye contact. On instinct, the Brahmin flashed him a welcoming smile, a trick he used every time to endear strangers and which worked well for him. The traveler smiled back and approached him. The Brahmin was all the better for it, he liked company from time to time.

The traveler was a curious sight. He had a look of nobility, but none of its aura. He looked like a man who is used to comforts, but now does not care at all. But most of all he looked sad.

“Nice afternoon for a walk,” said the Rishi. The traveler smiled. “Where am i?” he asked. He really was tired. The Rishi was weary of vagabonds and passing cat-burglars. he decided to keep the discussion focused on the traveler. “What brings you here my friend?”

the traveler was hesitant. “I was looking for guru Nachiket, I was told he was in these parts, I had some … questions I wanted to put….some questions……. to him.

The Rishi knew the name well, he was here only days ago. “Well, he was here, but he left three days ago, I’m sorry you missed him”

The news did not seem to ruffle the young traveler, he accepted it with tired passivity. “Oh, it doesn’t matter now. I had a long journey and much more time to think. My question have … how should I say,…morphed into other question. Questions I’m not sure I can ask, just yet. He smiled an embarrassed smile. “Isn’t it odd how questions become answers which become questions again….”

The Rishi blinked, secretly glad that the question was rhetoric. The boy was clever, he could see that. Maybe too clever. Why was he in rags then? And more pointedly, why were the rags once a rich fabric? “You’re quite a thinker aren’t you, what is it that you do for a living?”

The traveler withdrew inward as if the Rishi had touched a nerve. “Sometimes I feel I have been sleeping all this while, I feel I have only just woken up. That is my profession I believe” he smiled, “to be in stasis”.

The Rishi took a second look at the traveler. His clothes were rich silk but they were tattered at the bottom, crumpled and not washed for days. His shoes were made for comfort rather than walking. The soles had almost disappeared from wear. He had a gold amulet in each arm, they were dirt laden and had been unclean for a while, but the traveler did not seem to mind that at all.

This mildly irritated the Rishi. Having once been an administrator of his own land, he had always been mindful of the state in which the things in his charge were. He made a rule of having his servants wash the cows, clean the stables and polish the jewelry every fifth day. He had once taken great pride in his skill of management and it shone throughout his possessions.

What was most odd, was that the traveler was simply not concerned with the state that he was in. it seemed his attire did not matter to him at all. “Where is your necklace? you seem to have a stretch mark around your neck.”

“Oh!, I gave that away. This beggarly woman… she… was carrying a child…” he trailed off again. He didn’t seem to miss it very much “I’m not sure if it did her much good though..”

A curious hold took over the Rishi. He was enticed by this provocative traveler. He had he garb of nobility but the temperament of a thinker. He had to know more about this young rich man who was visibly aging in front of him.

And getting people to open up to him was the Rishi’s specialty. Part of the reason he was so popular was that he took a genuine interest in people and their lives. He was a good talker and an even better listener. “I can give you directions back home if you tell me where you’re from,”

“I don’t have a home, well, not anymore at least.” The traveler’s face was drawn. “I had one. But then how can it be a home if I cannot belong there. Somehow I feel like I have belonged nowhere. My home…. These things ...I feel so unaffected by it. I seem always to be lost somewhere… so out of place sometimes, like I was meant to be someplace else.” He looked towards the hills and the forest beyond.

“So what keeps you from going?” asked the Rishi. “Life” answered the rich traveler. At last he opened up to the older man. “At least that is what kept me thus far. I left home a week ago, but I feel … so tormented still. I feel bound to my heritage, and yet I know I cannot stay there. I have to go away. But I am so confused; I think I will go mad. ”

“if you will permit me to say so, you most certainly look uncomfortable in the form of your lineage.” The traveler looked at his clothes with embarrassed realization and sighed. “yes, you’re right. I wish I had more world-wisdom as you seem to.”

“World-wisdom? That’s a new phrase. What do you mean by that exactly?” “Do you really want to know?” asked the traveler. “Well then, I’ll tell you.” The traveler took a deep breath as if preparing for a confession.

“My father calls me a hermit,” he said almost with sadness, “I, for some reason, suffer from lack of attachment. My clothes are old, don’t care. My amulets and jewelry are in a state of disrepair, it doesn’t matter. I am more comfortable without any of these ‘requirements’ and I choose to do things without worrying about my lifestyle and standing in this realm.” He reflected for a while. “So the hermit thing fits, much to my dismay of what I am expected to be. I suppose that is why I have had to leave home.”

“But you on the other hand” he continued “come across as the opposite of that. Not exactly, but in a way...”

“Hmm...” the Brahmin mused with a smile; it was his first meaningful conversation in weeks, indeed, his first meaningful human contact for a long, long while. He wasn’t going to let this conversation slip by. “Then that makes me a little superficial, no?” he asked.

“Not really, I don’t see it in that way....” frowned the rich traveler. It amused the Brahmin that the traveler was more concerned more with a technicality in an intellectual discourse, than the possibility of an unwitting insult. “…. I think it is to do with attachment.” He said. “To care about your surroundings, to be affected by it. That is a different kind of state of mind, is it not? I come off as disrespectful.”

“Are you referring to your surroundings or just where you live in general?” the Brahmin observed his new friend closely. He had large ears.

“Everything around me. I mean, I seem to be living in a day dream. You, however, seem to be very conscious of the environment around you, social environment. You seem to be more able to help the people around you, to understand them. Indeed, I see that the turning of the world comforts you. And somehow, I feel an urge to go away somewhere where I may ponder for a while. And of course I can’t do that,” he looked at the raggered state of his silk garment, “I mean, look at me,” he paused “Is this sounding too stupid?”

Slowly, the traveler’s words dawned on him too. He may not have been enlightened, but he was wise. “In a funny way, not at all!”

“Really? I’m not sure if I’ve said what I mean. It is all so muddled up in here” he tapped his head, deep in thought

“It did not sound stupid, Incomplete, but not stupid.”

“Incomplete describes it best”, the young man drifted away. The elderly Brahmin observed him keenly. He saw his sadness and his confusion. He saw his despair. But most of all, he saw all the things that he himself wasn’t. This traveler was lost and bewildered and innocent in a way that only a prince could be. This green horn had probably never heard of ‘meditation’ all his life. And yet, the question that he had asked of himself and the doubt that ensued made him more of a seeker than this older man himself could ever be.

The Brahmin also realized, with some dismay, that there seemed to be a vulgar divine irony at play here. He realized that this traveler’s path threw into sharp relief, his own. The Brahmin saw that this traveler heralded a change for him too. He knew what would happen. He knew he risked violently altering his own life in lieu of this traveler stranger. But most of all he knew that he had to reach out and help him.

“Do not be so disheartened, friend,” the Brahmin said “This is no predicament. You believe that this a predicament because your world expects you to be someone else, someone who you cannot be.

But that is a folly, troubled one. You cannot be who you are because of your birth, no more than a man can be ascetic by wearing simple loin cloth or be an aristocrat by wearing jewels.”

“Take heart young man. And let me give you that what you need most.” Spontaneously, the Brahmin tore off a bit of his garb and held it out to the traveler. The traveler was surprised but wary.

“You were right about me, I understand that now. I am no more a Brahmin than you are a nobleman. Neither of us is suited to our state. I am a son of the soil after all, I have felt the pull of the material world all my life. But I see that I have to go back to the world now. Just as you must go away from it.”

He urged with his hand carrying the piece of garb. “Here, if the appearances of things matter so much, take this loin cloth, and give me your amulet in return. I shall sell it and buy myself a piece of land and start anew where I belong. And you shall take this cloth and go to the woods and leave your memory behind. Accept this pact and let us help each other be the person we should be.”

The boy sighed. The obviousness of the Brahmin’s words echoed within him. His mind cleared. The Brahmin was teasing and the traveler understood that. Surely, he did not need a piece of cloth to go into the forest. He decided to leave, to move on. But in his newfound clarity he saw himself, and his new friend, and knew that appearances had their own symbolic significance. The young, rich traveler took off his amulet and laid it at the Brahmin’s feet. He took the piece of cloth. And treated it with a reverence he never felt for his jewelry.

“What is your name, friend” asked the traveler.

“They called me Acharya Chetan,” He smiled “I am the only ‘Rishi’ for three villages, you see. What’s yours?”

“I am His Divine Hig… ….” , The young one smiled as he consciously detached his title, once again, from his name. “They called me Siddharth.” He said.

The traveler moved on and never looked back. The Brahmin waited for him to pass out of view, then got up and made way for the village market. He never returned to the tree.

And so it is, that two strangers became friends, never to meet again.

Serendipity, Random Associations and a Pair of Ducks

2010-02-28T21:48:00.000-08:00

(published in “Leveraging Leisure” magazine, distributed during the ISOLA Goa 2010 Annual Conference)

Two imaginary ducks flap in a pond and wait for the cows to come home. Three fellow convention attendees chance upon this mirage and sit on the imaginary grass besides. Four and ten minutes well spent.

lazy lady: ...But why are we the ducks?

Bored bub: Because…we are sitting...sitting ducks?

lazy lady: nice.....

serious sam: can you imagine a space that is designed specifically for serendipity and leisure? I mean a place that induces leisure…?

Bored bub: (sigh)…unmowed lawn does feel nice to lie on, doesn’t it? like a spongy bed of nails

serious sam: But, I wonder if this is ironic. Is there such a thing as the business of leisure?

lazy lady: It seems that leisure has no rules for encapsulation. Like enlightenment then? Or humility? The minute you begin to be deliberate about it, is it gone?

serious sam: (is discomforted) It’s a five minute walk back to the conference, so… do you think we should…?

Bored bub observes - clouds have an evening red hue at the edges, and the the breeze and the ducks are in a ripple making competition.

Bored bub: oh look! (smiles) and the ducks are giving each other snorkeling lessons...

a quiet minute

lazy lady: Leisure doesn’t seem purely design orientated, does it?

serious sam: probably not designable. It seems to me that "happy" leisure is not so much decided upon, as chanced upon

(sigh) But this is detrimental in the final analysis. We negate the entire realm of discussion. Is there any point in delving into the non design, non tangible issues of leisure?

Ants are marching through the moist grass, on a collision course with the mountainous bulk of bored bub’s fat arm. He thinks of earthquakes.

Bored bub: “Does the irony of it not strike you? To take time off to write on leisure?” (smiles) My friend quoted that.

serious sam: ... I doubt if we have time for this.

lazy lady: “…who has time? Who has time? But then if we do not ever take time, how can we ever have time?” –

Bored bub: Aha!! ‘the Merovingian’ in “the Matrix Reloaded”

serious sam: Not to put too fine a point on it, but I believe, we are here for more serious things

lazy lady: Of course, sir, Of course! but this respite can only be thrown in sharp relief by the backdrop of pressing work.

serious sam: we need to go back to the conference, guys.....!!!

Bored bub: But - "It was such a lovely day I thought it a pity to get up." -W. Somerset Maugham (smile) …. well ....

Bored bub trails off as the ducks chase each other in languid vigor

lazy lady: I wonder who built this pond…

The clouds move faster now, the sun shines harder. Bored Bub, tries to smell the earth in the air… futile. Lazy lady is counting the grassy itches on her back and wonders if unmowed lawn is really worthwhile. Tree shadows play hide and seek with the cloud....

serious sam: Does this have a point?

lazy lady: would you like a box full of leisure then?

Bored bub: Yes, serendipity in the case of leisure is at odds with deliberation. It is a paradox.

serious sam: But, Is there a point to this whole discussion? have we gotten anywhere for all the paradox in the world?

Bored bub: well, that depends,

serious sam: on what?

Bored bub: on whether you like getting anywhere on a pair o' ducks.

Author’s note: Come to think of it, there are a series of paradoxes in this piece. Yes, I did take time off to write on leisure. No, I wasn’t able to write this at ‘my leisure’. Yes, I attempted to meet a deadline with this piece. No, I do not expect this article to be taken seriously. Yes, I am serious about this story though. No, it isn’t out of character. Yes, this does strike me as being ironic.

But then again, not so much.

Letter to the editor explaining the article:

Dear SriGanesh,

I thought I’d add a small footnote for this piece. As the editor of the magazine, it might be required to understand what my intentions, for this story, are.

To be honest I had started with a more formal tone critique / treatise on the nature of leisure, full of Samaritan intentions. But half way through the article, more than feeling empty about it, I felt embarrassed about the way I was writing the thing.

And so, encouraged by our conversation that followed, I stumbled upon an idea that not only allowed me to talk about leisure, but also make the format of the article true to the spirit of the subject.

The story I have forwarded to you is in the form of a dialogue script between three people.

"Serious sam" is the analytical thinker, much focused, very serious, and probably a little too serious. SS's whole attitude throughout the story is problem solving oriented.

"Bored Bub" is SS's alter ego. Flippant, sedated and probably suffering from ADHD(without the hyperactivity). He has probably not recognized the existence of problem yet, to really want to solve it. Throughout the story, BB is unable to consider the matter at hand, and as a result there is an immense abyss between the communication banks of either protagonist.

"Lazy lady" on the third hand is a narrative tool to bridge the gap between the two polar opposites, and sincerely tries to cut her throat both ways. She is also relaxed, but cannot match BB's pace of making random associations and delving into non related opposite ideas.

What transpires in the backdrop of this story allows the story to delve into the state of leisure, and the observations of environment when one is in a languid state. So, using this story, I think I am able to offset some of my somewhat analytical ideas, against some of the more agreeable, flippant and romantic notions about being at leisure.

The end product is deliberately meant to sit on a fence and not be for or against any idea or notion. It is not meant to have any morality. It only exists.

Arjun Sharma (Dec ‘09)

Uttarayan

2009-12-06T01:06:00.000-08:00

The short stories of the terrace, the warrior, the diver, the white car, the paper flower tree, the electric wires and the boy.

Dedicated to Italo Calvino

The terrace

By the time the first day of the Uttarayan has arrived, the winds have already changed direction, and their gusts are in full sway. In the west and the north, one can always tell the coming of the lohri, the uttarayani, the makar sankranti, not by looking at the calendar, but by the change in the air. Never is the unfathomable power of nature more pronounced, than when one realizes that a sun based Gregorian calendar, and moon based hindu calendar and a moon based muslim calendar, and countless others still cannot pinpoint the exact moment when the sun begins its northward journey.

Whatever significance this day may have had for our ancestral agrarian community, may be all but forgotten on the terrace of Building no2, Bhaskar road which stand at the center of the landscape of kite flying.

The terrace knows this, as the day that everybody climbs onto the terrace and donates a kite to the large collection of decoration exhibitions that hang on the electric wires around the building. “Of course, that is the game they play”, the terrace supposes. The trick is to paint the sky and not drip on the electric wires.

It plays dumb witness as the previous days are spent in restless preparations of securing, kites, manja strings and making those strings for deadly, kite-cutting effect. The women folk put their kitchens on a war footing to prepare for all kinds of guests, small and old, nice and loud, loved and unloved. The older boys, the babas and kakas, break in the younglings by taking them to the terraces and showing them how a kite is tied, how it is balanced, how the tail is attached, how the winds can be harnessed by the silkiest manipulations of these seemingly inert pieces of string.

On this day, the flat roof architecture plays its ephemeral part in the transformation of a city. The whole world takes flight in kites. It is not the wind, that is under their papery wings, it is the shouts; wishing and pushing and edging the kite to soar, to rise on, to take flight.

The mohalla changes overnight. It is an entire landscape of people on terraces, looking to the sky. The city erupts upwards in glee.

The warrior

A little away from the paper-flower tree, is a nest where the fearless warrior resides. “To ‘defend’ for home, mother, brother hatchlings and country! ….To strike fear! ……To fight!”

The ‘red menace’ of the sky attacks! “On guard!!!” the warrior screams. “to the death!!” he yells

He spreads his flightless wings to strike fear into the ‘red menace’. The enemy perches itself on the nest, ready to descend onto sacred ground. It is now or never!. Adrenaline pumps through the little defender as he rallies his courage to make his stand.

The warrior attacks first. He jumps an impossible jump into the air and meets the ‘red menace’ midway. His beak tears through the papery fabric of the enemy. The enemy is wounded!!

But, it’s not over yet. The warrior has spent his energy, but the red menace’s presence lingers on. Heroes are baptized on the threshold of certain loss or certain death. Our hero, exhausted, hungry and gasping, refuses to fall back. He spreads his wings once again and limps to the edge of his home, and prepares for the final push.

He has done it! He pushes the kite hard and the enemy slides and falls out of view. It is sinking. Terribly tired, yet alert the warrior finally drops down on the edge of his sacred ground, his home.

The mother bird is annoyed. “The little one seems to know no rest!!!” she frustrates, “This time, he almost ran away from home. And look at this kite he tattered and tore up!!!”.

She flicks the kite aside into the open air. It falls and drifts towards an electric pole, that is crooked by virtue of an accident a few decades past.

She picks up her child and carelessly tosses it into the softest corner of her nest. The kid lands on its feet and cowers a little, and then sleeps.

“restless little devil, aren’t you…” the mother bird teases.

The diver

He ran for it. Chintu’s limbs ached, but he didn’t care. He ran for limb, life and country. For love, a dream, a laugh, a smile, for pink. He ran for all that he had.

It wasn’t much, what Chintu had. It wasn’t any more than a malnourished little urchin running on the fuel of a half-breakfast, half baked, could conjure up. He did not have much to put into his run. But he put in everything.

‘Everything’ is all that matters

There was a moment when he almost missed it. A horrible, horrible moment when he almost missed it. It was out of reach. Just that arms length out of reach…..

There are marvels unraveled in the fading light of dusk, when nobody is watching. And nobody ever cares later on. That poor, half naked boy dived for the kite. Clean onto the road. It was an act that mocked and laughed at the word ‘consequence’. He caught the paper with one outstretched hand and braced himself as he hurtled towards the sea of asphalt.

The diver survived that day. Four ugly scratches, a bruise and a pink kite.

The white car

The yellow and green kite just did not care to pick a fight with someone its own size. She picked on the white car with the bored, but recently turned pensive, driver, just as he was shifting gear to move along the “traffic monster”.

With the expression of a teenage brat who enjoys and abuses her impunity, the kite latched onto the white car’s windshield wiper. She fluttered and danced as she taunted the pensive, but recently turned irritated, driver. The driver switched on the wipers but the kite only seemed to dance its way tighter into the long rubber stick.

The car parked itself at its destination. The irritated, but recently turned frustrated, driver got out and proceeded to untangle the mad kite from his windshield. But, the kite had latched on tight. She had somehow pitched and yawed and executed a reef knot right along the entire length of the stick. She was a beautiful kite. The yellow and green complimented each other very well. She stood out nicely against the white colour.

And then, for some reason, the bored, turned pensive, turned irritated, turned frustrated, turned pensive again, driver, just gave up and left her to decorate his white car. It was the second serendipitous moment of his day.

The paper-flower tree

Among buildings that began aging the very day they were made, stood an aged tree that had already achieved its vitality, had borne the cycles of brown and green leaves, had been pregnant with flowers, and had been a benevolent elder to the insects and birds that came to carry on the pitter-patter of their cosmic existence.

But as some trees grow old, she had grown sad. Maybe, it was a lack of understanding, of watching a changing world leave her behind. It is a sense of bereavement that is not so much, the opposite of joy, but the opposite of wise contentment.

On the morning of Uttarayan, her unhappy arms were empty and bore no flowers. This year she was childless and her branches almost disappeared in the glare of the sun. But she did not know why, or how.

She watched the kites lend their gleeful colours to the sky. She watched, and a smile soothed her dead roughened skin. Life is hard when you smile through the joyful eyes of another. She waited for the day to pass

A falling kite can be a happy accident. Some of them cut themselves and wafted gracefully to her. The tree looked up and smiled a gentle practiced smile.

“Let us be your flowers, mother….” they said to her. She had no idea what they meant.

A driver in a white car chanced to look, as the ‘traffic-monster’ crawled past. He saw the sun shining blindingly behind the tree. And yet, through the translucent papery skin of her new born flowers, she glowed, beautifully, in breath taking colours of paan red, gulal pink, pista green, lemon yellow and even crayon blue. The flower that was highest had large eyes and a tail that even a monkey could swing on.

The electric wires

Electric wires have a nasty sense of humor.

“how’s life, bhai?”

“Same ol’ same ol’, just hanging, what’s the agenda?”

“Oh well, the usual…. Power cut during cricket match?”

“Sounds good….. What order is Tendlya batting today?”…..

They also have a penchant for obscure collectable items. Crows, the random string of rope, and once annually, kites. The electrical lines on Bhaskar road, however, have got a real scam going on. The children of that terrace don’t even get beyond the first gust of wind when any one of the fifty thousand wires laying siege to the building, simply grab a kite and whip it around themselves like paper, fur coat.

They have single handedly “re-“invented the phrase “kaaay---ppooo—chheeeee!!”.

This evening, the streets are lined with wire hangings of the most outrageous form and colour. The passer-by is treated to an exhibition of urban decorations a’la origami. They are in pristine condition.

Except one. Only a single tattered, red and defeated, kite hangs from the crooked electric pole. Its days of tyranny are over.

The boy

He had been busy, working. He had tried to run away. Unfortunately though, an intangible sense of professionalism had got the better of him. But he traveled a thousand miles and a thousand lives in that office of his, in that mind of his. Through that small window, he had his fill of this world.

Night had fallen, finally. Tired and hungry, he stepped on to the road. He’d pick up a wada pav on the way he thought. Or at least he thought he was hungry, until he saw a beggar mother, alternatively beat and then molly-coddle and then try to feed her bruised, street urchin son, with the only half chapatti she had. The boy however, seemed to be responsive only to his pink kite that fluttered in the chilly breeze

He saw his own reflection in the tinted glass of a white car. He wasn’t the boy he used to be. His hair was disheveled, he did not wear ‘their’ smile. He did not smile much. “Too much thinking,” he thought. But that can’t be helped. Yellow and green kites are meant to be airborne. Why was this one attached to the windshield wiper?. It seemed to be fluttering happily in the night wind. “funny,” he thought, “how happy one can be out of place, and another be unhappy in place….”

A song unraveled as he looked onto building no 2 , Bhaskar street. His home, where the day’s joy unfolded, where the incessant shouts went on and on, where the electric wires and even trees, for that matter, bore coloured paper, as if to herald the history of the day… for all those who missed it. Here, every citizen worth his salt played his part in decorating the blue plate above with specks of green and red and any other colour they could get their hands on. Oh, how he longed to be a part of that symphony. How he longed to have his fingers bloodied with the deadly strings that floated a kite, as if by magic. “Next year..” he promised, “…next year….” He swore.

Even now, he cannot sleep. He is kept awake by the incessant chirping of the new hatchling bird outside his window. The chirping is almost like a child’s battle cry.

He does the work, but he lives another dream. “One day they will come true”, he tells himself. He tells himself that, every time he steps onto the street, when his boredom comes to haunt him, when he sees his visions of the kites in flight.

In the end, the only kites he sees, are the ones that have ended flight, and died, and have passed him by.

You Bring Out The Townie In Me

2009-11-03T09:14:00.000-08:00

You bring out the townie in me

You bring out the madness of sweet sixteen on marine drive in me

The “car rides through the town like we own it” in me

The detailed study of the female form bathed in townie luxury in me

The joy of breaking into crusty chocolate sauce on the Snowman’s ice cream in me

You bring out the townie in me

The “like like like you”, in me

The “Who the hell are those heathens beyond Worli?”, in me

The “Oh elephant’s mother!!” in me

The “Oh mother!!!” in me

You bring out the townie in me

The gusts of the Haji Ali breezes,

The sun drenched Malad stone

The back alleys of the “Taj” hotel

The quietness of the Willingdon Sports Club library that fronts the golf course, in me

You bring out the townie in me

The floodless monsoons of the colonial old town planning in me

The gargoyles of the Victoria Terminus in me

The humidity, The grade II/d mania, the redness of the BEST busses in me

The lamp lights of the queen’s necklace in me

The secret hatred of local trains,

The secret love for wada pavs,

The secret gratitude for being anglacised,

The open denouncement of this so-called Maharashtrian regionalism in me

You bring out the townie in me

The star plus and cable days and nights in me,

The Manifest Destiny of the “imperialist” American cultural invasion in me

The wonder days of watching “The Wonder Years” in me

The mad dreams of the Teenage first kiss, in me

You bring out the townie in me

You bring out the ultimate fear of leaving this global city in me,

The loneliness of the long distance runner

You bring out the sea breezes of the Napensea road

The deep sighs breathed in the unseen corners of Carmichael road in me

You bring out the townie in me

Yes, you do. Yes, you do.

Let us run away somewhere

To a hundred years exile

Let us drown ourselves in that feeling we have learnt to crave, through books, through the television, through the townyness

Let us love like ignorant fools that we crave to be and then laugh at ourselves

You bring out the unabashed lust of wanton, “ghati” kisses in me

Let my fingers caress your beautiful hair, washed on Wednesdays,

Let me walk behind you as I let your back haunt the deepest, darkest fantasies of my mind

You bring out the pang of loss of citizenship in me

The adolescent pain of not belonging in me

The certainty of impermanence in me

You bring out the townie in me

Yes, you do

And now, let me claim you for my own

And now, let this nomad, this hermit, this wanderer, belong to you

Let me take you away from this place

You bring out the townie in me

Yes, you, Yes, you.

Author’s note:

There is a poem named “You Bring Out The Mexican In Me “ by Sandra Cisneros(1994). (http://florycanto.net/links/inxochitlincuicatl/YouBringOutMexican.htm) It was then accordingly appropriated into various, beautiful versions such as

“You bring out the UP-walli in me,” by “imemyself”( http://allinadayswork-imemyself.blogspot.com/2008/12/you-bring-out-up-walli-in-me.html)

and “You bring out the Vietnamese in me” by Bao Phi (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=owJBY8SoBy0)

They brought their own regional depth and talents to this format and made it their own. The resulting groups of poems become a beautiful song, rich in personal and cultural exploration borne out of a sense of love.

This poem here , (which does not even remotely as good as the above three are), is written after such poems, and tells of a “cultureless / cosmopolitan” boy, displaced from the city he grew up in, and who is trying to come to terms with an uncertain end and a seemingly destined path.

Straight From The Back Of My Mind!!!

2009-08-17T08:43:00.000-07:00

You are an obsession, I cannot sleep; I am a possession unopened at your feet; There is no balance, no equality; Be still I will not accept defeat; I will have you, yes I will have you; I will find a way and I will have you; Like a butterfly, a wild butterfly; I will collect you and capture you; You are an obsession, you're my obsession; Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me??; I feed you, I drink you by day and by night; I need you, I need you by sun or candlelight; You protest, you want to leave; You say there's no alternative; Your face appears again, I see the beauty there; But I see danger, stranger beware; A circumstance in your naked dreams; Your affection is not what it seems; You are an obsession, you're my obsession; Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me; My fantasy has turned to madness; All my goodness has turned to badness; My need to possess you has consumed my soul; My life is trembling, I have no control; I will have you, yes I will have you; I will find a way and I will have you; ; Like a butterfly, a wild butterfly; I will collect you and capture you; You are an obsession, you're my obsession; Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me; You are an obsession, I cannot sleep; I am a possession unopened at your feet; There is no balance, no equality; Be still I will not accept defeat; I will have you, yes I will have you; I will find a way and I will have you; Like a butterfly, a wild butterfly; I will collect you and capture you; You are an obsession, you're my obsession; Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me??; I feed you, I drink you by day and by night; I need you, I need you by sun or candlelight; You protest, you want to leave; You say there's no alternative; Your face appears again, I see the beauty there; But I see danger, stranger beware; A circumstance in your naked dreams; Your affection is not what it seems; You are an obsession, you're my obsession; Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me; My fantasy has turned to madness; All my goodness has turned to badness; My need to possess you has consumed my soul; My life is trembling, I have no control; I will have you, yes I will have you; I will find a way and I will have you; ; Like a butterfly, a wild butterfly; I will collect you and capture you; You are an obsession, you're my obsession; Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me; --- "Obsession" by animotion- 1984

The Visiting Card

2009-08-15T02:34:00.000-07:00

“What’s the matter, kiddo?” the father asked, “…. Not hungry? Finish your two idlis quickly!”

“I’m not hungry puppa. I’ll eat only half”

“OK,” the father bargained, “you can eat half of the second idli.”

“Which one is the second idli?” The boy asked as he intensely studied the two rice dumplings. Father wondered whether five year olds could outsmart the general adult public.

“Most, bloody, likely!” he thought.

“Just finish the chikoo milkshake will you. Then you can do what you want.”

The boy brightened up, gulped down the thick pseudo-chocolate syrup and made a mad dash for his new found spot, and that green insect, that currently held his interest.

It was just another of those parties. Another host, another gathering. It looked all the same to the son. The food was the same. The house looked the same and everybody wore the same clothes. The floor was the same kind of marble, the same yellow.

The hilly forest outside was always different though, although it was the same forests that the different houses skirted at the edge of the national park.

Father would make new friends here. He talked to them and would then hand them his visiting card. Father always had a wad of visiting cards. The boy always got one too, one every party. “Pleased to meet you, sir” Father would say with a hint of decorum, as he would customarily give his little boy his visiting card.

The son had a large collection, technically speaking. About thirty-two cards had made their way from the father’s hands, to the sons, to the son’s pockets. From there, the cards found themselves in the hands of the family launderer who owned a gala down the road. There, a customary read and then the corner bedside dustbin.

VASANT ALAMVALA

Sales Rep., Western India division, “ab-ORI-ngli-F-E” ltd. Company, Mumbai

The phone numbers and other contact details were written in small print

The son rarely read much. He hated long sentences. Instead, he liked the long lines that ants made. He preferred the novelty of forgotten corners of the earth, and the worlds that opened up to those who paid, only with their attention and imagination.

It happened at such a party, that a cloud burst above and the ensuing downpour prevented the boy from his venturing, much against his will. The rains have such a magical effect on the basaltic hillscape. The ground seems to mist faster. But fathers are adamant, and the big people don’t care much for the slow misting of vision and the wet shivers that follow.

Indoors, the boy found a spot by the verandah and stared. Presently, father joined. The boy turned to him as he sat down.

“What are you?”

If there is anything in nature to spark such a thought, regarding identity, one may never know. The father frowned, being caught unawares for a moment. Then he recuperated with a broad grin.

“AA-ha!! you mean ‘what do I do?’ ”

“’What do you do?’?”

“I am a sales representative.”

The boy stared

“A. SaLe-zz. Re-Pre-Zen-Ta-Tive!!”

“What is that ?”

He smiled, it was that talk finally

“I am a sales representative for our company. I research potential markets and clientele where our products could form a base niche.” He knew he was being technical. Well, sooner better than later. He’d have to tell his boy, sometime, what his job was.

“It’s written on that card in your pocket, see. Show me that card, we’ll read it together. “

The doting father straddled the little one and ran over the letters with his son. It was the kind of Kodak moment that most people miss. He let the boy lead, as the little one recognized most of the hieroglyphs.

“you see?, ‘sales representative’. I give this card to tell people who I am.”

Something felt odd though. What was it?

“What else …….?”

The father’s face darkened slowly. “Nothing else, I’m a sales representative.”

“You do this all day?” the boy wondered.

“Well, …..I have to….” It was innocent enough. Didn’t he do anything else?

The boy looked down at the card. He seemed disappointed. He only seemed so. But when people are unable to read another’s mind, the only messages they read on other’s faces, are the ones that are their own.

Father darkened even more. Was his boy saying something to him? Why was he disappointed? What did he expect? Did he think his father was a mythical hero? A superman? Was the father expected to be the dreamer he always wanted to be?

“That is his age” he thought. Father found himself making allowances for his son’s innocence. Yes, innocence was tricky. A time when doing and being was the same thing. Suddenly, he sighed.

A long time ago, he had begun mentally preparing himself for the day when he would have to explain to his boy that, life isn’t simple, that Santa Claus didn’t exist, that the Mahabharata and the Ramayana are epic poems- not, technically speaking, history. That he needed to dedicate his entire adult life to the pursuit of survival. That was what he did. Being a sales representative was a significant necessity. It was a good job, and somebody had to do it. And besides it was just a job. It paid the rent; it did the meta-stuff. It did the necessary things.

The father was lost in thought. But the son was too. His little mind seemed to look as if it was wrestling with an irrational number. Why was this so difficult for the child to digest?

What is it beta??... talk to me??...

“……You are this card?”

It took a while before he registered the question. What a simple thing to ask! It was a question wasn’t it? The father felt himself gripping his card tighter.

“No!... of course not!!” He thought but not aloud.

“No!... of course not!!” He said but without thinking.

Was this a trick question? Was it rhetoric? It was asked so sweetly, why did he feel like he was being attacked? “No!” he though. It was just a simple question.

“Yes!..” He decided defiantly. That was all there was to it. He was a Sales Representative. That’s it. It wasn’t poetic, sure. It didn’t have to be. But then, what are we without our poems, our dreams and our faith? But without the necessities, there would be no poems. On and on, on and on the debate continues. “Yes,” he thought, “This is just a job. This isn’t me. It’s just my job. A job that I do everyday, every waking hour……. It is just a job…….”

The father stared out the window. Then he watched his boy wander away. And then he thought about the boy.

Sometimes, the most amazing thing about children is that they cannot appreciate abstract values. In these innocent, un-intellectual, almost zen like eyes, an unwitting wisdom prevails.

Maybe, it suited well that the child forgot this conversation ten minutes hence. Maybe it suited well that the idea that “his father was on that “card” ” simply did not register in him. Maybe, it suited well that the boy forgot that card in his pants, and moved onto his next adventure. Maybe… who knows?

A few weeks later, it was another party. Another host, another gathering. Once again it looked all the same to the son. The food was the same. The house looked the same and everybody wore the same clothes. The floor was the same kind of marble. The same yellow, only more so yellow.

The father had a twinkle in his eye. He handed out his cards in the same way, but something was different. The old guys looked at the card in surprise. Some were amused, some laughed, some looked puzzled.

Something was wrong with the cards.

The father noticed the son’s curiosity and smiled on him. “Pleased to meet you, sir” he said with a hint of decorum, and handed out one of his cards for him.

It was another thing all together. There was much more writing. He couldn’t understand it. It irritated him because he still hated long sentences. He looked up at his father, the eyes were still laughing. Father winked, and walked away, now smiling to himself.

The boy gave up. He put the card in his pocket, and walked to the dessert counter. He forgot about the card.

Days later, the card found itself in the hands of the family launderer who owned a gala down the road. A customary read there but it confounded him too. Then, it finally ended up in the corner bedside dustbin.

VASANT

son, student for life, father (hopefully a good one), husband, lover, Sales Rep, friend(I wish to be a better one), brother, citizen, daydreamer, scared shitless, worried sick, wannabe idealist, pretending to be confident, pretending to be good, pretending not to pretend, a hopeful role model to my son, human.

The phone numbers and other contact details were written in small print

Random hind-sights and blind-sights on youth - 6

2009-08-15T01:02:00.000-07:00

Of Man, Science And Artistic Words

He was a limited man. That is to say, he was a man who worshipped science. It was all logic, and numbers, and synchronicity and the balance of equity and purpose.

URGH!!

He greatly underestimated the power of art’s whims, to seduce and confound the foundations of science, with its idiosyncrasy, its inconsistency, its absolute disregard for the status quo, its being and its fridgy-fojiness!

The prisoner

I’ve stopped drinking and using mind altering substances. There are those who need it to free their minds. But a mind like mine needs to be shackled in soberity !

The detective

To be naturally skeptical is to believe that the only co-incidence in this world, is being born on you birthday.

A lame thought on “Happy Independence Day”

Ah yes!... “chai in the States”, “getting Bangalored” and “Bollywood and Rajnikanta everywhere”

Those guys might be trying to globalize India. But can they stop us from “India”nizing the globe !!!

the intellectual-idealist's motto of honor

2009-07-25T08:57:00.000-07:00

"yes idealism, yes the dignity of pure research, yes the pursuit of truth in all its forms, but there comes a point I'm afraid where you begin to suspect that the entire multidimensional infinity of the Universe is almost certainly being run by a bunch of maniacs. And if it comes to a choice between spending yet another ten million years finding that out, and on the other hand just taking the money and running, then I for one could do with the exercise."

(with special thanks to D.Adams)

The Precursor

2009-07-11T21:57:00.000-07:00

Out of the recesses of my memory, fourteen years past, I rediscovered an old old song. This is “Nobody’s Hero” by Rush. At first I had mistaken it for a pro-gay song until I realized fourteen years later that there was a second verse.

So why am I talking about it? Well, apart from the fact that it has beautiful lyrics and is a great song, it feels to me like a million-times-better precursor to a poem I once wrote on heroes.

( http://flippidy-flip-jun.blogspot.com/2008/04/ill-rhymed-ode-to-invisible-heroes.html )

And although this may sound lame, its amazing to see footprints in the sand in the direction of my own journeys.

NOBODY'S HERO

Rush

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kV4lBf320vk

I knew he was different, in his sexuality

I went to his parties, as a straight minority

It never seemed a threat to my masculinity

He only introduced me to a wider reality

As the years went by, we drifted apart

When I heard that he was gone

I felt a shadow cross my heart

But he's nobody's ---

Hero --- saves a drowning child

Cures a wasting disease

Hero --- lands the crippled airplane

Solves great mysteries

Hero --- not the handsome actor

Who plays a hero's role

Hero --- not the glamor girl

Who'd love to sell her soul

If anybody's buying

NOBODY'S HERO

I didn't know the girl, but I knew her family

All their lives were shattered

in a nightmare of brutality

They try to carry on, try to bear the agony

Try to hold some faith

in the goodness of humanity

As the years went by, we drifted apart

When I heard that she was gone

I felt a shadow cross my heart

But she's nobody's ---

Hero --- the voice of reason

Against the howling mob

Hero --- the pride of purpose

In the unrewarding job

Hero --- not the champion player

Who plays the perfect game

Not the glamor boy

Who loves to sell his name

Everybody's buying

NOBODY'S HERO

As the years went by, we drifted apart

When I heard that you were gone

I felt a shadow cross my heart

Hero

-Words by Neil Peart, Music by Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson

On a related note, what is incredible to me, is that this song (and the video) predates the American media’s changed stance regarding the potrayal of the general public. I consider this to be a landmark, yet subtle, change for the good. The only instances (recent examples) I remember are "the people of New York in “Spiderman 1 and 2”, and “the people of Gotham in The Dark Knight:” two of the most unexpected places where you would see a sympathetic rendering of the commoner / the average joe in the shadows of a huge protagonist.

I also remember a beautiful advertisement, (once again New York) that featured on CNN. Its shows (what I think is ) Times Square, and its raining cats and doggies. This woman with a baby is waving for a taxi(or a car while no one stops to offer a ride), while the narration goes something like “there are no heroes in this world today blah-blah”. Finally a taxi stops and she gets in. And unnoticed by her, in the corner of the screen, a guy gets out from the other side of the cab and starts waving for a taxi for himself. His face is never seen by the camera or the woman. (I’m looking for this video, but cant find it. )

One of the new values that we as Indians and Indian Film-makers should really emulate is precisely this. Our baseless notion that Indian laws and movies need to be stupid for the sake of the stupidity of the majority of the nation is, to me, one of the most detrimental. This is why movies like “Taare Zameen Par” anger me so much.

Humor, Ill Timed

2009-07-05T06:07:00.000-07:00

A sense of humor is a wonderful thing. There is positively no excuse for not having a sense of humor. A classy, clean, socially acceptable, politically correct and god-loving sense of ‘candor comedy’ is considered one of the cornerstones of civil upbringing. Just ask any social gathering and they will tell you.

It is even worse, however, to have a bad sense of timing! Jokes too long and too moronic have gone down in recorded history as social crimes. And, what is more, humorous quips which are too vague are blasphemy.

Alas, it is to this author’s deep sadness to admit that the secrets of anecdote delivery have always eluded him. There have been more enemies made, and comrades, irrevocably irked, by this author’s inane humor, than there are days numbered in heaven.

However, every joke ruined is an insight gained. And it is by the careful, documented, scientific observations of the surrounding life form and the jokes that don’t work, that this author has deduced the following ground principles for anecdotes. And they stand as follows.

Firstly, anecdotes must have an average intelligence quotient of below seventy. In matters of humor, like management, the ground principles are based on the ideology of stupidity, meaning everyone else is either stupid or dull, or working in management (which means both). Professors and intellectuals, on the other hand, are to be summarily forbidden from joking. On pain of excommunication. they are just too clever, too witty and so unpopular.
If alluding to a particular person, that said person must be either absent or deaf or dumb and preferably all three.(although the victim being dumb saves the tyrant from all sorts of future troubles)
Jokes of a sexual nature are acceptable only after four glasses of hard drinks. It is preferable that such jokes are not spoken in front of the opposite sex. Unless, of course, the members of the opposite sex present there are either too old or too unattractive, in which case it would not matter.
Humorous statements of a racist nature are to be considered as unfashionable. Especially considering that, we as a general rule, never fraternize with people who are different from our own anyways (in which case this rule falls within the purview of rule two)
Furthermore, one must be mindful of the fact that humor is absolutely taboo in certain situations. Funerals (which are the same as academic lectures), Marriage anniversaries (which are the same as death anniversaries), and professional interviews, (which are the same as arranged-marriage interviews) are to be kept scrupulously sober and serious.
Lastly, humor is all about delivery, delivery, delivery……and delivery…and delivery!....”…

Of course, nothing works better than a broken rule. Which is a point of view, I’m sure, our protagonist boy will concede……

The boy has finally received his summons. It is his common ritual. He waits in his room till the greeting formalities are over and attention would be drawn to him. His parents are already in a state of excitement.

Marriages may be made in heaven, but they are brokered by the whims and schemes of erring humans. And when it comes to the methods of erring humans, (erring middle-aged humans at that) the reader may allow himself to be flabbergasted by the salient features of this particular ‘arranged marriage’ interview.

That the boy was told only fifteen minutes before the meeting that a certain so-and-so family were bringing along their only daughter over for tea. That the boy and the girl were to consider the possibilities of further socializing based on this soiree. And that the boy was to understand that this was “only a casual, friendly visit”, (as the father put it) but that the boy should be sure be mindful of the girls height, looks, education, personality, inclination towards domestic life, and of course, sense of humor.

The boy has long since, given up on sense and sensibility. He quietly agreesto go along with what, he would explains to himself, is a “necessity of social protocol”. Only, which protocol, he has no understanding.

The parents of the girl are incredibly casual. Much the same way the boy’s parents are. They talk of this and that, and about them and theirs, and a little bit of the state of the nation.

And all this time they make meaningful glances at the boy and the girl who, according to their grand design, are suppose to be getting to saying hello, and freely and casually talking about their own “this, that, them and theirs” and their idealistic youthful philosophies about life, happiness and other dreary things that civility expects us to do.

And of course, things are not going according to plan. The young are not as free and outgoing as today’s media and MTV seems to suggest! Just because youth is youth, do they really expect the youth to be casual about marriage?

Things are not going as planned and we are running out of time. The girl’s mother makes a desperate ruse at turning attentions towards the girl. “My daughter has a beautiful singing voice….” the mother says, (the boy and girl are alert to the alarm of what is to follow next). “…she sang at society festivals too.” She beams proudly.

The boy’s mother is quick on her feet. (a little too quick the boy thinks). “oh! Really!, isn’t that sweet” she smiles. “We love listening to soothing singing”. The travesty comes full circle with the girl’s mother. “Why don’t you sing something for us beta…??.”

All heads turn to the girl. The embarrassment of the situation knows no bounds. In the boys mind, this situation has passed from a necessary protocol to a theater of absurdity. The girl on the other hand seems confused……

“Is this an arrange-marriage thingie!!??” she asks incredulously, and a little loud.

A current passes through the room. Every one is caught offguard and shocked. We now have a problem. Not only is the girl an unwilling member to this party, the girl’s parents have taken the girls consent for granted, and the boy’s parents and the boy have become willing accomplices to this wily hand of match-making. The situation would have certainly been a serious one, had it not been so embarrassing.

No one says anything, not even the girl, who seems to be trying to make eye-contact with the boy. The boy catches her eye. “Is she trying to tell me something?” He tries to pay attention to her from across the room, but all he can make out is a smile in her eyes.

“……..They say I have an enigmatic sense of humor….” She tells him (for all to hear) and half-smiles.

Another current passes through the room. This time everybody seems puzzled with realisation. The boy gapes and his mind is reeling with understanding. Suddenly, he bursts out laughing. He throws his head back and bellows out gargantuan laughter.

It is a rich, deep and mirthful laugh, of one who truly loves humor. Nevermind the embarrassment the girl caused the girl’s parents. Nevermind the absolute shattering of decorum, and etiquette, and consideration, and all those old-fangled words that boring civility imposes on us. This gag took guts!. It does not matter to the boy that his outburst must seem inappropriate, nor the fact that no one else has laughed with him.

The boy is already smitten. A sense of humor is a wonderful thing.