Lessons as King of the Apartment

Unbeknownst to the common multitudes, there exists a bunch of parallel universes. The most notable and well known among them of course is the ballpoint pen universe where all ball point pens and whiteboard markers silently slip away, never to return when one's attention is directed towards the keyboard. A not very well known example however is the rather tersely addressed onsite. For the benefit of the unaware, I put forth the facts. This particular variety of parallel universe is well known to individuals who are acquainted or related to those merry souls dabbling in the very lucrative Information Technology racket. Onsite is that nebulous alternate reality into which one's acquaintance shall disappear into for protracted periods of time and emerge after this period with significant alterations in wardrobe, girth, hairstyle, accent and marital status.

Having armed my scant readership with the essential facts, I would now like to unship the sad news that G., (the light of my life) has also gone onsite. When I confer the title of the light of my life to her, I do not do so with the frivolity of a traipsing teenager. G., over all these years has been singularly responsible for also paying my electricity bills apart from the other assorted collection of ransom notes which invariably rear their ugly heads at the beginning of every month. Now, left to my own devices, I foresee darkness.

Every tumultuous dark cloud however is not bereft of its silver lining and these dark times too are not devoid of merit. We are all aware of that old saw about a man's home being some sort of a castle and the man in question being the king of that castle thingy and we also are equally well aware that it really is all tish-tosh. I have however decided to implement the word and spirit of this old saying. I am therefore proud to break the news that due to the very regrettable temporary absence of G., I (completely disregarding prevalent laws) have proclaimed myself as Actual King of my proverbial castle, thereby elevating my status from that of a piece of coveted furniture to the lord and master of the limited 1200 square feet I survey. I am sorry, but I am quite drunk with power. I however feel obliged to admit that apart from the power, there might also be an assortment of other potent stuff which might be responsible for my inebriation these days, but shall not do so because it really is not of any relevance in this particular discussion. In my prudent nature however, I am aware of the temporal nature of this high position of advantage I hold and ere I relinquish it to the proper authorities, have decided to document below the salient points and revelations of this heady experience.

Revelations and Learnings:

The good news is that leaving the wet towel on the bed after that refreshing shower is not cataclysmic. We have been led to believe that this act is responsible for bad things like the WWII and the way Hrithik Roshan dances, but it is not true. It however does leave your bed and the surrounding environs smelling like a goat.

That thing called the refrigerator is actually useful. It is not one of those wall hanging thingies one is forced to spend hard earned money on, but finds no practical use for. When not crammed with indigenously formulated facepacks, organic vegetables and the wide array of leftovers, the contraption is fully capable of storing a significant percentage of one's 24 pack of Fosters with significant residual acreage for the soda (which we all know goes well with the whisky). Quite miraculously, after all that, it even has some space for the cold meats and the mustard which we all know are of vital importance when the heart thirsts for that sandwich to go with the beer. In all honesty, I am rather pleased with the my refrigerator's recent form.

The division of the happy home into specifically purposed rooms always has been a bit inexplicable. After some research, I am happy to announce that it is all really bunkum. It is yet another superfluous, extravagant superstition. One may successfully maintain the status of a healthy, balanced and happy individual by having dinner, watching television, and going off to sleep at the same point of space. There is absolutely no requirement for one to frantically move from point to point for each of the above mentioned activities. All things may be executed from the same place and that venerated location being in front of the television.

Tags: Situations, refrigerators, onsite

An Elegant Couplet

Is tauba par hain naaz tujhe, zahid is qadr,
Jo toont ke shariq ho mere gunah mein.
-- Daagh Dehlvi

The castle of the vanity of your abstinence o holy one,
Is the mere dust, to mingle with the ruins of my indulgences.
-- Inelegant translation by Bald Monkey

Tags: Urdu, Shayari, Daagh

Air Deccan aka Simpli-Fry

I just have had the good fortune to offer Air Deccan some custom. The experience has been in a certain way, rather exhilarating. There is a robust quality about the way the merry lot go about conducting business. Any captain of industry will tell you that the secret to an admirable and successful business are not the satisfied customers, but the hapless, suffering and inextricably trapped ones. I am happy to deplane the news that Air Deccan has managed to amass the latter variety in droves. As already mentioned, I too was a proud member of this not-so-exclusive club a few days back, and am back with a first hand account of the whole blood curdler.

In all honesty, the hair-raising episodes begin with rather benign, innocuous notes. Upon checking in, one is given that dull yellow boarding pass by a slightly surly stewardess. When enquiring about the conspicuous absence of the seat number on the boarding pass, one will be informed that the seats have been allocated by a brand new method called free-seating. Free-seating when taken upon face value, sounds like a rather benign, democratic phenomenon which can be tackled with the nonchalant wave of the hand. However I am sad to state that very much akin the elections in Bihar, ( which again, taken on face value does sound like an exercise in benign, democratic hobnobbing ) is certainly not to be taken liberties with. It is an exercise fraught with frenzied activity and ruthless blood spilling. I will therefore venture to digress a bit and explain the mechanics of the whole racket for the benefit of the innocent. This free-seating thingy comprises of the following steps:

1. Collect roughly 2/3^rds of all your material possessions and check it in as cabin luggage
2. When inside the craft, seek and destroy all available space in the overhead bins by cramming your stuff into it. If the refrigerator does not fit in the bin above your seat, try and shove it under the seat in front of you. ( That is the law.)
3. Distribute one's family far and wide inside the plane and try and ensure that nobody else occupies the intervening seats so that the loud conversation during the flight is unhindered.
4. Try and browbeat any bald, unattractive man from occupying any seat near one, or the rest of one's family.

The watchful reader however, will have noticed that to conduct and excel at the spirited activity of free seating, one must be inside the craft. I will now try and describe the process by one may insert oneself safely, and effectively into an aeroplane. The following treatise might not help one at all times to get into the desired aircraft, but will certainly ensure that one is in some variety of flying vehicle, with some nature of destination.

The first point one should note is that the time and date for departure expressed on the boarding pass is not be taken literally -- It is more of a metaphoric direction, like a miasmal Nostradamus prophecy or the 30 minute pizza delivery promise from Dominos. A departure is destined, and the faithful are urged to wait. The scheduled departure time shall arrive and then slip away quietly, but the prophetic boarding call shall not do the same. Therein lies the second catch -- there is no boarding call. Air Deccan does not involve itself in such shameless spoon-feeding, but in turn depends on the enterprise, guile and cunning on the part of the passenger to get him/herself boarded. So, here are the broad directions if followed, will prevent one from languishing and withering away at the terminal for the rest of one's natural life.

1. Roughly after an hour after the indicated departure time, take a wary, but careful look around. In one area of the departure terminal one will notice a large, thronging multitude of aspiring passengers waving random objects in the air. Upon closer examination, one will discover that the attention of the merry mob is directed towards a particular door. One is advised to make a mental note of the location of that particular door, since that is the area in which all things interesting shall occur. One is then advised to mentally and physically prepare oneself for the ensuing struggle with the above mentioned thronging multitude. I have, for the convenience of my fellow human beings captured a picture of this doorway:
   
2. One must be warned that getting to the door is not for the faint hearted. Prepare to push, shove, kill and maim to get there. Also do not forget to carry one's hallowed boarding pass.
3. Once one has arrived at the door, standing amidst the remains of many fellow human beings who have perished on the way to the very place where one stands exhausted, one shall encounter a surly sphinx. Upon meeting with him, one is urged to vigorously wave one's boarding pass under his nose. The man then might allow one through. If one is rejected ( One should be prepared to be rejected about a seventeen times), re-insert oneself behind the mob.
4. Repeat from step 2 till desired results are obtained.

Once one has managed to please the sphinx and get into the plane, and has managed to grab a seat for oneself, one is urged to discuss with at least five fellow passengers regarding their personal opinions on the destination of the flight. If three or more individuals concur with one's views on the same subject, one possesses a fighting chance of arriving at the desired destination. The rest of the journey is much simpler -- It mainly comprises of twiddling one's thumbs and gritting one's teeth when being subjected to blank stares from the hostesses.

The whole experience is however not completely devoid of merit and I, in my truthful and informative nature cannot deny the reader this fact. The pleasant aspect of the whole Air Deccan operation is that it does not serve any food, or water on the plane and I, for one am extremely pleased with the revolutionary step. I, do not react extremely favourably to free munchies or dinner served during a journey. I shall not lie -- I gorge and I uncontrollably eat. I have without fail, walked out of many a Rajdhani Express and langar, feeling rather uncomfortable and dyspeptic ( to say the least). Air Deccan has however not subjected me to any such tribulation at all. When I finally trickled out of the airplane, (about a four hours late) I might have been tired, scarred and disoriented, but there were absolutely no signs of heartburn or dyspepsia, and amazingly I was ready for dinner too ! Like numerous other things during the journey, this too was unprecedented.

Tags: Air Deccan, Airports

A Bengali Man's Guide to a Punjabi Wedding

My good friend D. just got married. Heres wishing the brand new couple all the cookies, biscuits and munchies. The news is that I was fortunate enough to have been able to occupy the much venerated position of awkwardly-dressed-gawking-friend at the ceremony. Also, despite my frugal social skills, I did manage to have a whale of a time. All in all, just the thing what the doctor would order.

Reading of my favourable review of the whole racket, my markedly scant readership must be wishing to be a part of a similar cermony so as to make themselves available for the above mentioned whale of a time. I however feel compelled to warn one and all that it is not all that rosy and pink. The punjabi marriage is one fraught with nuances and if one does not keep one's eye's skinned for them, they tend to hit one's face with the intensity of a voluminous, cold, dead fish bunged by an extremist vegetarian. I have therefore garnered a few salient points which will keep the hapless, boring bengali like me in good stead and well prepared for the exigencies that inevitably ensue during the punjabi marriage.

It is Fun : Punjabi weddings are just like the bengali weddings in most ways. It is full of the normal stuff -- the bewildered bridegroom, the coy bride, incoherent sanskrit mantras, the general confusion and the bad clothes. There however exists a profound difference -- the punjabi wedding, in sharp contradistinction to the bengali wedding, is rip-roaring fun. The individual habituated to the bland bengali wedding is warned in advance -- Please do not expect the moribund, machiavellean mukherjii marriage. Be prepared to have some serious fun and one is urged not to feel too guilty or alarmed about it.

Dancing : There will be dancing -- and certainly not in dollops. There will be dancing in large, generous, kingsize portions. Dancing, for me always has been that activity which involves the vigorous shaking of the head to some obscenely loud Deep Purple number. The head may also be repeatedly banged against an object whose hardness is determined by the degree of inebriation. The variety of dancing in question however, is a totally different glass of lassi. The bhangra is more of a rhythmic flailing of hands and knees to some extremely similar sounding songs. Rhythmic movement on my part however has always been an impossible task. Like left-legged souls are therefore warned to steer clear from these immense dancing arenas lest they be dragged in by some extremely enthusiastic individual and subjected to the ignominy of awkwardly jerking one's legs amidst a collection of smooth, silk-shirted bhangra experts. The next logical question that would naturally spring to the mind of the astute two-left-legged individual would be "Where are these immense dancing arenas ?" So, here is the helpful answer: Be very wary of the carpeted areas. Also, if there is a part of the floor which has multicoloured rectangles which abruptly illuminate themselves at regular intervals, that is the part of the planet which is to be treated with extreme caution. The larger problem however is that the action is not confined to these areas themselves. They are just epicentres. It spreads. Therefore, simply zeroing in on one stationary location is utter foolhardiness. Any standard text book on bhangra avoidance would always suggest one to be dynamic, observant and agile. One is urged to keep a very close eye on the mass movement of the dancers and frequently shift base, pretending to have something rather important to execute at any spot where no dancers are present. Language Tip: For some reason, the bhangra is not danced (nachna) it is poured (dalna). Do not say "Woh bhangra nach raha hai !" (He is dancing the bhangra). Always say "Woh bhangra dal raha hai !" (He is pouring the bhangra). If you are in a position where you are about to say "Mein bhangra nach raha hu." ( I am dancing the bhangra ) and you are as talented as I am in the bhangra department, you might as well go and say it, since you have already embarrassed yourself.

The Horse: Somewhere during the proceedings, a white horse shall make an appearance. Even though one will have been crazed by the surfeit of vegetarian food, one is very very strongly urged not to rub one's hands in glee at the hope of some meat on the table. The horse is not for eating. The poor animal, dressed like Kareena Kapoor will be the beast of burden which shall carry the bridegroom into the land where leaving a wet towel on the bed is punishable by death and drinking binges and good food do not exist. To add insult to injury, all and sundry shall cruelly mock the poor bloke by gleefully dancing ( See above ) in front of the very horse while the victim haplessly observes from atop it. I too in my sadistic nature, threw caution to the wind and showcased a few of my personal steps for the benefit of my friend, but was hastily stopped from displaying any more since I was scaring the poor horse. In review, one is advised not to scare, or eat the horse.

Language Tip: The horse in question is a mare and not a stallion. So do not say "Ghoda aa raha hai" ( The stallion is coming ). Instead, say "Ghodi aa rahi hai" ( The mare is coming ). For some strange unexplained reason, "Ghodi aa raha hai" is also not very well received.

Tags: culture, bengali, punjabi, weddings, bhangra

I reiterate about valentine's day as to what I said about the blighted occasion last year. I am a man of unwavering principles !

A Traumatic Experience

The good news is that I do not have stones in my bladder or kidneys. The bad news is that I had to go through two of those ultrasound-scan thingies to make sure. The memories of the ordeal are still fresh in my mind although it happened yesterday. The stout hearted may opine with scorn at my marked pusillanimity, but one must trust me that this whole business of having one's innards judged by this ultrasound contraption is not one to be anticipated with relish. If one had a wide-ranging bouquet of emotions to pick from before the whole exercise, my personal recommendation would be a single Silent Trepidation.

Most painful procedures (like eating at in Bangalorean restaurants or talking to Hutch customer care) are preceded by a protracted waiting period, which by no means is more wholesome than the subsequent gory proceedings. This rule, regrettably holds true for ultrasonography too. The waiting business however has never fazed me. I have been in queues of different flavours and have (in all modesty) performed rather well in all of them. I had once been in the queue for tickets at a movie theatre, vying for the tickets for a cinematic abomination called Barsaat. Due to my unbridled enthusiasm and my go-getter attitude in the field of movie-ticket procurement, the friendly neighbourhood policeman who had been appointed to keep the peace in the area was forced to draw the conclusion that beaning me with a stout stick was the only way the peace could be kept. He then had proceeded to bean me. Still too, I had managed to get tickets and even did tolerate a quarter of the whole movie. Using this pointless anecdote, I intend to impress upon the reader that when it comes to queues and waiting, I do not cower and I do not quail. The sad truth however is that during the wait for my ultrasonography, I did both in rather generous portions.

Let me put forth the points. The biggest problem in queing for a ultrasonographic scan is the competition. The other members of the waiting party are all expectant mothers, and walking into the waiting room is very much akin a sudden, uninvited appearance at a rather sombre slumber party. As soon as one trickles into the scene, the assembled gaggle unleash a barrage of glowers at one. These glowers then proceed to intensify in malevolence with the passage of time. I am sure that there is some warning on the wall outside which attempts to outline this particular peril to the unknowing man, and I in my customary pig headedness, missed it. If I have would have known that I would be at the receiving end of such persistent looks of disapproval from such a formidable assembly of pregnant women, I would have taken the easier way out by braving those pleasant little kidney stones. It is not that I have not been at the undesirable end of a look of disapproval before. It is an established fact that women hate ugly, balding men and I do fit the ugly, balding profile to a tee. This combination of alopecia and lack of visual appeal on my part has led to many a disapproving glance and I have handled them with aplomb. This phenomenon however was brand new -- whereas one has had to brave one withering look at a time, this was more of a concentrated community effort -- A sort of democratic movement to wither one's soul. I therefore, respecting the popular sentiment, dutifully folded. I started with some quailing and followed it up with some serious cowering.

The above mentioned community driven brow beating exercise however is not the only blood curdling detail to the wait. The second part to it is as weighty as the first, if not heavier. The secret to a respectable standing in the ultrasonography world is the fullness of the bladder. That sadly is true. One might be brimming with sterling qualities, but if one does not happen to have a bladder with the precise degree of fullness, one's name sadly is mud. The path to a full bladder however is not an easy one. The whole process involves the imbibing of indecently huge amounts of water and then gritting one's teeth through the subsequent effects. As an additional test of character, the waiting hall is always adorned with roughly seventeen signs pointing to the numerous restrooms in the vicinty. One must trust me when I say that it is not one of the most enviable situations to be in.

When one has survived the waiting period, the actual process might begin. The actual act is rather benign compared to the hellish aura which precedes it -- It involves the plonking of cold jelly and some severe prodding of various parts of the anatomy with a cold metallic thingy, on the part of a sombre gentleman. The problem with the above mentioned prodding is that the prodder is not really interested in what he is prodding at. The merry individual absentmindedly gives one a poke or two at regular intervals, while gazing into a screen which throws up strange fuzzy images. I do not blame the poor man. If I was in his place, I too would not have liked to look at me. I too would pretend to be interested in the soap opera on that malfunctioning television. The only problem however, was that I was not in his place. I sadly (as I have been all my life), was in my place. Occupying the status of the irritating commercial break which interrupts the airing of a rather gripping hazy fog is not exactly one of the most desirable situations one hopes for. When the credits for the hazy fog (equally hazy), finally started showing, the couch potato turned to me and said in a voice full of scorn -- "Your bladder is not full enough. Please come again tomorrow when you are aptly prepared !" Although tears were in order, I gave the man a stoic, wan smile and walked away. I just had been subjected to yet another new form of rejection.

Tags: ultrasonography, humour

A Bad Poem ( with Hyperlinks! )

For some time now this blog has been quiet.
This bad poem ( hopefully ) will set it right.

"Has Bald Monkey had it ?" they say.
"No more verbal diarrohea coming this way ?"

Something's amiss -- they can surely tell.
"For days now he hasn't fought over the GPL !!"

"We know for real. The man is wasting away...
He has reloaded Slashdot only thrice today.."

They think that tis' a brain failure thats taken me aback.
The truth is more serious -- It's like a DoS attack !!

In some strange web my source code is ensnared.
All my quicksorts are going O(n²) !

It is strange. It does not make sense.
My kobject has an unexplained reference.

I however have with me the healing power of caffeine !
A few sleepless nights and back I'll be, where I have been.

Tags: humour, Linux, geekdom, bad poetry