Word of the Day.

apocryphal \uh-POK-ruh-fuhl\, adjective:

1. (Bible) Pertaining to the Apocrypha.
2. Not canonical. Hence: Of doubtful authority or authenticity; equivocal; fictitious; spurious; false.

Apocryphal ultimately derives from Greek apokruphos, "hidden (hence, spurious)," from apokruptein, "to hide away," from apo-, "away, from" + kruptein, "to hide."

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Days like these convince me, that Dictionary.com daily subscriptions are far more prophetic than the horoscope.

Because...

It's raining. Water falling on leaves, on soil, on the ground.. on everything that is and everything that can be. And the sound of it(and the scent) is so thrilling, it's surprising.

Nature does such wonderful things to the senses sometimes.

And this is the most beautiful thing I've come across in ages :

Amazing. In ways far more than one.

Truth Hurts?

"Parliamentarians on Wednesday demanded that TV reality show Sach Ka Saamna be banned, terming its content as against Indian values and morality."
Source : India Today

"NEW DELHI: Hours after the furor in Rajya Sabha over the reality show 'Sach Ka Saamna' broadcast by Star Plus, the government on Wednesday issued a show cause notice to the TV channel.
Source : The Times Of India

The TV show in question is an Indian spin-off of the American one "The Moment of Truth". It features participants being hooked up to a polygraph machine and asked questions about their lives, which may vary from being slightly embarrassing to highly controversial. And as long as their answers tally with the results of the lie-detector test, they move on to win greater sums of money. So yes, there have been disclosures tantamount to people admitting to peeing in a public swimming pool and cheating on their spouses. Ordinary people, that are exactly what our society is made of.

By no means do I think the show deserves applause. I personally hold the opinion that this trend of large-scale dirty-laundry washing is just plain tacky. But this is what this multi-million dollar industry of reality TV churns all the moolah out of. Voyeurism sells. Period.

And this is what society is about. People making personal choices regarding their lifestyle. And instead of cowering under a guise of dutiful adherence to what is considered "decent", if they have it in them to unapologetically speak about it, then so be it. No one has any business telling them what they should or should not do. It's a free country.

Having said that, I wonder what caused Mr. Maini to file a public interest litigation in this regard. Does he really think that a shroud of feigned sanctimony does not amount to hypocrisy? Would he rather have people pretend to be pious little heaps of virtuous jackshit, while their days and nights remain tales of culpable damnation? Or rather, what he likes to call "culpable damnation" in his view of things. Is the concept of Indian morality so vague and non-existent, that it needs pretense to support itself? Is it so fragile that they can't hold its own in the face of true-to-life fact?

The way I see it, any purported sense of values that completely excludes facts of urban existence is, in effect, nothing more than play-act. So, what character do you want to be?

These Lives of Quiet Desperation.

My words are never found
where you like to look for them.
But in the 20 inches
of sparks and smoke in between.

Draped on bare walls,
spilled on the red carpet.
Or perhaps in your black coffee,
that tasted like Quinine.

Mute, and silent.
My words still hang in the air.
Though they would rather
be wrapped around you,
than nestle in melancholy.

You ask me why
I do not speak.
My silence is awkward,
jarring, and indiscreet.

And yet those words of mine,
will still wish upon a lost cause.
That you grasp them soon,
and stay.

I Am a BEETROOT.

Yep, right there. Neck-deep in ****.

I'm growing roots. Sitting right in front of my computer all day, I'm turning into one of those tuberous vegetables that grow neck-deep in the ground. They get food and water staying right where the are, never moving an inch. That's the life I lead these days. The only difference being that the beads of sweat that sprout on my forehead aren't quite indicative of transpiration. They are the result of having spent all night staring at source-codes and being unable to trace the single error that causes a script to crash repeatedly. Never before have I felt more like a computer-geek-moron. Fifth semester is already getting to me. Which is bad, because it hasn't even started yet.

To add to the idiocy of the situation, my gmail theme is the one that displays an animated view of the sky, depending on location. So, that is how I know whether it's bright and sunny or raining cats, dogs and cows outside. Yesterday, there was a rather formidable-looking thunderbolt sprawled across the mailbox. Trees were getting uprooted right outside my house. Today, gmail looks like tufts of white cotton candy floating in blue. I reckon, the city must be on fire. Isn't technology just awesome?
*sigh*

I Think

There is something to be said
about the finality
of a small black dot.

And the
continuity of three...

Amusing,
that hope comes in shapes
of bent teardrops.
(,)
Not of beginnings
and not of ends.
Separating instances of many,
and mildly disfigured sentiments.

Try Twenty.

I turn 20 tomorrow. For someone who hit the proverbial quarter-life crisis at a ripe old age of 17, I'm quite looking forward to the event.

Because everything comes with a best-before date. Everything is stagnating.
This is going to be me starting over. New people, new places, new paradigms, new beginnings... many ends.

Tonight, at midnight, I know that I will be smiling. With the knowledge that there is one single fact that makes be über-happy.
Two decades on, still living sans regrets. And I intend to keep it that way.

Happy Birthday to me.
Cheers.

Approximation. Not Quite.

These almosts.. I think,
have a knack for quiet.
I tell you, they are muted taciturns.
Unkind, almost.

The fault, I believe
is not their own.
Disappointment, after all
was never clamorous.
Settles in melancholy,
breeds in silence.

It rained today.
Well, it almost did.
The sky did turn gray.
Winds did blow.
Birds did crow.

But that's the thing about almosts.
Almosts and half-promises.
Uncertain. Dangling in between..
of is and isn'ts,
of have and have-nots.
And among losses,
of an entirely different sort.

Smoke-Signal or Fortune-Cookie?

You were one of those pretty little things. Ones that occur in nature only by sheer accident. Yes, you were astoundingly pretty. With bright innocuous eyes that sparkled like an onyx, glistening hair that made people stare open-mouthed. You looked like you were carved out of marble. You inspired awe.. or jealousy. Mostly both. And as is the norm de rigueur, your prettiness was your first class ticket into the charmed circle of manicures and eyelash curlers. Tomes of knowledge were replaced by Cosmo, and friends by giggle-brigades and disposable boyfriends.

I am merely an observer, and I choose to view from a distance. But I feel sorry for strayed, lost souls, even though a part of me is convinced that their own stupidity called for it. And now that I am convinced that you have acquired dysmorphia and no longer have any concept whatsoever of how you are perceived by others, there is something I think you should know. The cakes of makeup, bleached hair and mere inches of clothing make you look like a trampy transvestite. And none of the farcical dolts you surround yourself with, will ever have the heart to tell you that.

Sad. Because you really were very pretty.
Beauty is wasted in the most distasteful of manners. Sheesh!

A Song For The Occasion.

Because Morrison was a great man. And because I find myself wishing I had been a part of the era, when he was still alive and kicking. (Quite literally, considering the on-stage histrionics. The man wasn't called Dionysus for nothing.) But alas! Even my mom was a young tyke of 8 when he died. And would never have heard of him, had it not been for the errant juvie daughter born about 2 decades later. And I feel sorry that there just isn't enough audio-visual media documenting him.

So, he had an IQ of 149. Sang in baritone. He wrote absurdly profound poetry, spoke like an erudite philosopher, and walked like he ruled the world. He lived to taste the heights of success, and yet adopted a self-destructive lifestyle. It fascinates me. Having been the sort to deride celeb-monomania in the most explicitly graceless of terms, I still speak of Morrison in hushed, reverential tones.

“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that's bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they're afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they're wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It's all in how you carry it. That's what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you're letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.”

-James Douglas Morrison

Yeah yeah.. I'm a borderline masochist.
But what this man achieved, my friends, is as close to immortality as it gets. Period.

Eternal Sunshine of the Inscrutable Mind.

"Blessed are the forgetful: for they get the better.. even of their blunders." -Friedrich Nietzsche

Needless to say, I love the movie.

Summer Loves.

Owing to the daily perils that come as a part of the existence of an engineering student(to call it "life" would be most unforgivable) , I have had to sacrifice a great, torrid romance. The stuff that dreams are made of. Drama, thrill, ceaseless obsession, smiles, tears, sleepless nights.. all of it. But having known a love so complete, and having to go without it, is not easy. It's like something is missing. Something indispensable. Irreplaceable.

And now that summer is here, and what we techies get as an excuse for a vacation is on, I am going back to what still waits for me. In the face of nefarious, abominable evils such as summer training to be completed, and massive projects to be coded.. I will now have what I've yearned for, all this while.

I will read like there's no tomorrow. Like I'm a crazed lunatic. Like I'm a starved piece of trifle, and have just acquired a decade's supply of butter chicken. And I will know bliss. Amen.

P.S. The pretty things you can see in the picture, were what I brought home today. Original, pirated, second-hand, brand new. But then, I've always had a fascination for the "older" ones. *wink* Nothing beats the appeal of a slightly aged book. The musty, woody scent. The paper that gets a little darker at the edges. The delicate fraying. The tiny history it has of its own. There is much love to be found in this tiny,skewed world.

By The Way.

There are days when you come across news that fascinates you beyond rhyme and reason. This, my friends, would be a novel instance.
"Bovine burps are the cause of 3/4th of the world's net methane emission." (Source : Reuters)

Methane, as in, the extremely potent greenhouse gas.
I am amazed. I have no words left at all. Screw the Kyoto Protocol, all we need are genetically modified cows that burp less. Yey!

The Week That Was.

Delhi is melting.
No mincing words here. With temperatures shooting to 45.3 degrees C and still rising, with no hope of respite on the horizon, things look pretty grim. It's HOT! To top it all, the city is also experiencing unprecedented levels of load shedding. And what does the BSES attribute a 25% difference in demand and supply of power? Delayed monsoons. No hydroelectricity. Burn baby burn.

So, drawing an outline here. The country that lauds itself as the next superpower, as an emerging center of economic and infrastructural development and one that is supposedly on the fast-track to absolute excellence and glory and blah blah blah.. is unable to meet one-fourth of the power requirement in its CAPITAL! Because, apparently we still depend on seasonal rainfall to keep the country up and running. That's world class technological development for you.

That's not all. Water supply is also down and out. People are getting murdered over disputes centered entirely on a bucketful of water. Rare, exotic animals in wildlife reserves are dying of dehydration, because there is just no water at all.

India. The country with such immense geographical diversity, with every possible variety of terrain, with all these rivers, a relatively significant forest cover, astounding reserves of natural resources and minerals. With a population that, with adequate planning, can be harnessed as a vast pool of cheap and efficient labor. Sheer luck and random chance has been more than favorable to the county. And yet.

Sawasdee Ka!

Flashback to Thailand

March 2008
Bangkok

I had all of two days to explore the city that blinds your senses with color and curry. Also known as "Krung Thep Mahanakhon Amon Rattanakosin Mahinthara Ayuthaya Mahadilok Phop Noppharat Ratchathani Burirom Udomratchaniwet Mahasathan Amon Piman Awatan Sathit Sakkathattiya Witsanukam Prasit ". Ha! That's the full ceremonial name of the city. And here Pingu(BFF) thought her hometown of Tiruchirapalli was albatross-y. ;)

Well, this is how my checklist ran :

1. Visited the many Wats(temples) in the city, each flaunting ornate sculpturing and thoroughly unpronouncable names. Example : Wat Benchamabophit.


2. Bravely tried the local cuisine. (Which includes more types of arachnids and insects than I knew existed.) Suffice to say, I developed a passionate love for Thai food since that very day.

3. Shopped for trashy souvenirs and beautiful wooden candle stands at the Night Bazaar. (Which is so unimaginably huge and labyrinth-like, I could be lost there forever and never run out of things to gawk at.)

4. Rode a Tuk-Tuk. (Refer to picture)


5. Toured the city along the Chao Phraya river, in a boat steered by a drunk Thai.

6. Haggled about a set of handcrafted chopsticks with a woman who spoke absolutely no English, at the floating market on the river. Also, after providing for the amusement of the waiters at a posh restaurant for about half an hour, I managed to master their use. I now use them to eat Maggi noodles at home, and pooh-pooh at forks..

7. Squeezed into a traditional Thai silk dress. The pretty black thing now adorns my wardrobe to up its exotica quotient. Right next to the GAP hot pants that never got out of the same Alcatraz. ;)

8. Last, but definitely not the least, explored the highly infamous Patpong market, which, unbeknownst to me, was flanked on both sides by strip clubs. No, make that two unending parallel lines of supernumerary strip clubs, one next to the other, catering to all tastes and *cough* orientations. Crossdressers are all the rage, apparently.And yes, we landed up there as innocent wanderers, with no clue as to what we were about to see. My eyes found more reasons than one to turn into saucers every now and then. Memorable, in a hilarious sort of way.

And you've got to love a matriarchal society. Not like Thailand has much of a choice in the matter. Men hardly exist. That might be a slight exaggeration, but the sex-ratio there is majorly skewed. So essentially, it's a society dominated by women. For women. The only congregation of the male specie I saw, was a group of farmers on strike(doing nothing at all) . That's a study in contrasts for someone born and brought up in India.

Moving on, the cab driver we hired to show us around turned out to be a riot, in his own right. He was named Dow-Dow, and chuckled like a hyena at the slightest provocation. :) Nice guy, he was. Thai people, from what I observed, are extremely friendly. From the woman in the silk store who welcomed us with "Andar aaiye", and through the course of the next 15 minutes, worked at acquiring as extensive a Hindi vocabulary as we could offer her, to Mr. Dow-Dow himself, who insisted on playing a DVD of Himesh Reshammiya's songs to make us feel right at home. Heh..Little did he know!

So there we were, out on a starry starry night, in a foreign land and cruising in a luxury sedan, with that irritating nasal voice blaring out for the entertainment/horror of all and sundry. It could easily have been a truck in Bihar, with little difference. That was the moment I almost felt a certain respect for Reshammiya. Thankfully, the state of mind didn't last long.