Posts Tagged ‘Random’
I spent the better part of my week promenading the City of Krowsville*. No, not the pub capital of India (or was it Asia?). Nor the symbol of the nation’s faith in the future. Nay, I was in the Kapital resting my backside in the humble abode (in his own words) of the Mallu Panjabi, to whom I owe my heartfelt gratitude. The most productive aspect of my sojourn was discerning that despite the bravado that he exudes and the numbers that he readily provides about his Punjabi comrades, the fact remains that the MP is all avial, and hardly any sarson ka saag. More so than even he would like to believe himself. But this post is not a chronicle of MP’s Hefner-esque lifestyle, and as envious I may be of him, I divagate to return to Krowsville. Legend has it that once when Akbar posed a conundrum to his courtiers asking about the number of crows in K-ville, the ever-so-astute Birbal promptly retorted, “Your majesty, there are exactly forty two thousand crows in K-ville”. Birbal seems to have missed a zero at the end. Or two.
I strongly believe that, God, weary of six days of arduous labour, decided to give the seventh day a miss, thereby making seven the magically most indolent number. As he was resting, he saw a bunch of aunties roaming around in oversized shades, and conversing in an accent even he couldn’t fathom. Impressed by their demeanor, and mindful of their esotericity, God in his usual benevolence uttered, “Let there be a place teeming with such elite individuals, abounding with beauty and kindness. This place shall be known as Krowsville”, creating what we call today our national capital. This is why Krowsville is so affluent, be it the magniloquence of the people, or the resplendent beauty it provides to the beholder. Wise men proclaim that there are two sides to every bed. Krowsville-ites unfortunately have heard of only one, the wrong-side.
Yet, even the sharpest critic of Krowsville cannot but laud the sheer impeccability of the Krowsville metro and amount of foresight that must have gone into its construction. Madame Diskhit, a self-confessed fan of the inimitable Mallu accent, decided to call a 75-yer old Keralite out of retirement just so that she could sit back and laugh at the accent in press conferences. All was well with the world, till some guy pissed the above-mentioned Mallu off. Deciding to punish every single male on the face of the city, the Mallu engineer created a separate cabin for women in the Metro. The rest as they say is history. Deprived of my primary metro sport and what is probably the national male pastime, of bird-watching, I decided to turn to my secondary avocation. No, not guy watching but the lost art of observation. Observing people always gives me kicks. Paraphrasing Al Pacino, “Big ones, small ones, stupid ones, scratchy ones”; I’m not too sure if god was a fricking genius, but he sure did have a good sense of humour. The Krowsville metro reminds me of Lord of the Rings, and middle earth in general. There is always a venerable dude with a “Fly you fools!” expression on his countenance. A slovenly, shaggy fellow flirting with a fair maiden (Yes, in all probability the only lady in the cabin), a couple of blokes shivering as if they are on their way to Mordor and a short, fat, belligerent man. Of course, the rest of the cabin can be divided into goblins and orcs, who get into a brawl every time the door opens.
In the interest of safety of the few people who do read my blog, here are some general guidelines for the Krowsville Metro.
1) Keep your hands in your pockets all the time. You’ll appear suave and worldly to the few female passengers inhabiting the cabin. More importantly, you won’t get pickpocketed
2) Sit or stand next to someone who is on the phone or is messaging furiously. Eavesdropping is an excellent source of amusement. In fact, I was sitting next to a guy on the phone with some girl and he kept me entertained from Kashmere Gate till Gurgaon. Overheard:
“Yaar, just because he said so, why did you remove me from your friends on facebook? This is just not fare yaar!”
3) Twitch your face to act as if you are in great pain, or constipating. It’s hard to tell the difference but at least people won’t come anywhere near you.
1) Keep your hands in your pockets all the time. People will know you have something valuable in there.
2) Give up your seat to the single ladies who enter the general cabin. It’s like encouraging begging really. The more you give, the more you’ll find.
3) Offer to play with babies or little kids. Before you know it, they’ll have peed all over you. Or worse.
But that’s enough cribbing about Krowsville. In other news, Ricky Pointing is a rich, rich man, my old school cricket coach has invited the West Indian board for an 3-ODI away series, Saina Nehwal has left her lucrative Squash career in order to patent her new discovery – oil which ain’t oily and oh, I seem to have achieved something big. Or at least, so enunciate the myriad congratulatory messages on my wall. For some inexplicable reason, I find the nomenclature “Wall” extremely comic, not that “Scrapbook” betrays any superior intellect. “Writing on Walls” – as Chandler would say “Come on! Surely, that’s got to be funny”. But I digress. Anyone afflicted with facebookerlust stumbling on to the aforementioned wall would mostly assume I am getting married this weekend, glimpsing at the sheer deluge of laudatory posts. Nothing succeeds like success, it seems. Strange are the ways of people. Stranger, the ways of the Social Networking clan. The reclusion has begun.
I am not exactly a bibliophile nor does my done-reading list come anywhere close to that of the few abstruse nerds this place has introduced me to. And yet, there is something about holding the papyrus and savouring words that can bring cheer to even the most despondent of aortic pumps. Combine this with the 20% discount that Midlands offers and you have all the makings of a sweet dream. Thank you Messrs. Rajaraman and Mateen and wishing my (non-existent) readers all the very best for the upcoming test series.
*For the uninitiated, the word krow is also known as “Peter” in some dialects and “Show-off”/”Pretentious Moron” in the queen’s tongue.
T’was, if my memory serves me right, the fall of ’00. Fall of course being a misnomer as far as Chennai is concerned. Despite senescence stripping from my memory most joys experienced as a kid, vague recollections indicate in ways more than one that I was in fact the rockstar of fifth standard C section. I had fulfilled the ultimate fantasy of many a fifth grader. I was in possession of a box full of Imation’s very best, 3.5 inch magnetic drives better known as floppy disks. That year saw my fame flirt with hitherto unseen levels. I had it all, the setup of QBasic obtained by coaxing the computer teacher, DOOM, Alladin, a million other DOS games, and virtually anything and everything that could fit under 1.4MB (Oh wait, I had the split software as well). My time at the top though, was extremely short-lived. Imation started manufacturing CDs and the morons who called themselves my classmates soon discovered that 700 is metaphorically a million multiplied with 1.4. I painfully watched the blessed ones burn their way to the top, literally! I was at their mercy, for Claw, for Visual Basic and mp3 files which had by then gained prominence. I patiently bid my time. Revenge, I promised myself, would be sweet.
2006, a million RAM and motherboard failures later, we decided to go for one of those sleek new AMD Athlons. I was a man with a vision. Nothing less than a DWD RW +- would satiate my hunger, I growled. “Smart young man”, the chap who helped us assemble the system patronized, with sarcastic undertones that went totally over my head. 4.7GB was still a lot. I even bought a DVD RW with a friend, promising to update it with the latest software, a geek repository of sorts. Blinded by the constant burning, I was totally underprepared for the USB revolution that would follow. ‘Flash’y drives, no bigger than my own thumb had pied pipered my entire school. After that, I could never catch up; always two steps behind. My own 4GB pendrives became obsolete as the world oohed and aahed at those portable hard disks. 320GB, they claimed. More space than you could ever hope for, inside your palm. The following summers were filled with woes, and vows. I digress.
This summer was memorable in more ways than I myself could have ever imagined. Unlike the Pahadi Shutterbug, the sole purpose of whose internship was to return with a few million photographs, I do not have the fortune of sepia to relive my summer. No relics but for two Digital Versatile Discs with tales from a galaxy far, far away. This summer, I also treated myself to a Seagate Freeagent Hard drive. 1TB (931GB to be precise) of zeroes and ones shall fill my precious. And very soon, I shall once again be in vogue. Life comes a full circle.
P.S: I know that 2TB hard drives are commonplace nowadays but what the hell, Bill Gates once said
640K ought to be enough for anybody