Month: November 2010

>The Naming of the Shrew


Some of you might have noticed that this blog has been having different names during the course of the last few days. It remained one for a long time before the utter pretentiousness of the title finally bore into me. Naming it something which was not at all true began to gall me as it should any sensible person. Neither were the posts random, nor were they rants (hopefully), nor was/am I raving, nor am I in any way a good story-teller (yes that is what raconteur means FYI). I actually thought that the title was rather cool back then. But I guess I have matured with time. Then I had an intermediate title which meant “Tale of Damodaran, Speak friend and enter”, but then it was a shameless rip-off from a master, whom I venerated beyond everyone and therefore felt that it was an insult to him, to name something so vulgar from one of his great works. That had to change and it did. I guess the spate of name changing has shown how clueless I am. I guess for the time being at least, for the near foreseeable future at least, till I mature even more and realise how bad the title is at least, the blog is going to be titled “Who am I kidding?”. 

Of course as Shakespeare said and many other idiots including me repeated, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet”. So if you have enjoyed reading even one post of mine, please continue visiting as only the name has changed, the author is still the same. On the other hand, if you have not enjoyed even a single post, hell who knows a name change might have been all that is needed. Numerology might indeed be true!!!

So please continue visiting and commenting.


Mysteries of Life

The four years that I have spent in college has been a very enlightening experience. Multilingual, multicultural people and all that shit. One great thing that I have learnt is to talk to perfect strangers. A great way to kickstart a conversation, particularly during meal time is to complain about the food, and mention in passing that you have had a better experience at home. That is all that is needed for nine out of ten people to start reminiscing about the fond memories that they have had with home food. The cooking virtues of their mothers are then expounded upon in such detail that you feel duty bound to notify the people organising “Top Chef” that they need search no further, “Gentlemen we have our winner here”. Even extremely good food joints are rubbished when compared to the awesomeness of their mother’s food. “Dude, eat my mom’s dosa. Then Saravana Bhavan will feel bad to you”. Call me racist but the most susceptible people to this trickery are Tamil Brahmins.Just mention good food and then expositions of filter coffee, dosa, pongal, mysore pak(“its Mysore for God’s sake”), and the millions of types of Sadams will follow. Americans will be scared by the existence of so many Saddams, sambar saddam, curd saddam etc etc etc. Okay bad joke.

Doesn’t anyones’ father make food? My dad makes kickass payasam(“here I begin”), better than mom. What is the secret behind “Ma ke haath ka khana”? Why does all food have to be compared with it. I guess it will remain one of the great mysteries of  life. Will 42 solve it? Many a domestic tiffs might have happened due to the unfair comparison of perfectly good food made by ones’ better half to the grand old lady. I guess I will tell my wife,” don’t worry, our progenies will exhalt the greatness in your cooking”.
Aah!!! POM makes me do everything else 🙂


“Should we do it one more time?”
Her warm touch was answer enough for him. It had been a day he will never forget in his entire life. The frenetic activity had begun at 9 in the morning. And it was now 2 30 in the night. They had taken breaks only to eat food. His eyes had become puffy and his back was hurting him. But he was determined. Years of taunts from his friends because of not doing it till his 4th year came back to him. He now wanted to ask each one of them whether they could even dream of doing it for as long as he had done. She was of course more experienced but he felt that she understood his need. And that was enough for him. Someone who understood the fire inside, someone who would be there for him. And he did it one more time.
And kids, that is how in the monsoon of 2010 your father watched the final episode of the 5th season of “How I Met Your Mother” on Uncle Abhishek’s computer.


>”You have attendance shortage”- proclaimed the message that was disturbing my peaceful football match. (Fifa 11 is simbly awesome, can’t get enough of it!!!)
The message was from our class representative, a nice guy who does a lot of work and has a kickass t-shirt. I was struck dumb by that message. Not that I was speaking or anything, just a figure of speech (don’t know which one). I grabbed nothing (why should something be always grabbed when in a hurry?), hurriedly put on my chappals, and dashed downstairs just after confirming whether he was in his room or not. The 100 meter journey to his room felt like eternity and Yours Truly had one of those metaphorical “Life paused for me” moments. The entire college life seemed to “flash before my eyes in fast-forward”. My placement procedure as well as all the “High” attendance records that I marked during the teacher evaluation seemed to be giving me the big middle finger on my face. Hell I was almost going out. Lame jokes of being 3/4 or pi/4 an engineer were scorning me. I began to think back on the semester that was.
The class which had just screwed me was undoubtedly one of the most boring hours of my existence. The teacher used to come in and immediately start writing on different sides of the board and by the time I looked up I didn’t have any idea of where to start writing. Of course the before-mentioned teacher had already taught us earlier and of course I was referring to that semester and of course I had got screwed in that subject. This semester I didn’t even bother to look up and was usually sitting as though attentive but in my dream world. Attendance time was the only duration of that hour that I bothered to pay attention to. Or did I? Because after a few classes I realised that he just was not going to call my name. Rupesh Sah would immediately be followed by Vinay Kaimal and I was stuck in that big region of discontinuity. So I no longer bothered about attendance and sat there coolly whenever I could drag myself into the class. I generously bunked classes but still was aware that I was not that close to doom. But now I started doubting myself and my mathematics which had given me that false sense of security. I met one of my friends on the way and asked him what to do in case of shortage and was sensibly told to apply for condonation. But I didn’t even have a clue about what classes that I had attended and what I had missed. So I walked, the walk of a man bereft of all hope, going to meet his executioner. And I walked and finally the 100 meters ran out and I was left with no choice but to meet my demons. I knocked, filled with dread, and entered his room. He was perched on his comp, with no worldly worries.

This is the conversation that followed:
Me-“Yaar mera attendance kya hua?”
He “Kya hua?”
Me-“Tera message aaya tha ki shortage hai”.
Me-“Haan tera”
He-“Tera number kya hai?”
He-“Toh yeh Dash ka number nahin hai? Main Dash ko bhejna chahta tha.”

And I walked out.