Shopping: The Curse of the Intelligent Classes

Of course, I made it sound a lot more impolite.

It's an activity that I try my best to stay away from as far as possible. The reason for my grouse is this:

Whenever old or current (female) friends decide to meet up for a quick get-together, this is almost always the situation:

And so it is. I am mysteriously busy every time they make plans.

I choose to generally answer with: 'I need to water the cat, and feed the plants -- yes!'

And my mix-up is not met by any blank stares or questioning glances, because they know in a way that I despise this single activity that has the XX chromosomes reuniting all over the world.

After a day or two I see Facebook status updates along the lines of:

'Oh my God, so much fun on Saturday with X, Y, Z, A, B, C, D, E, F, G, and H! We spent an hour trying to find THAT perfect shade of lipstick to go with my new sweater! Lololol. Priyanka, better luck next time!'

Throwing Subtlety Out of the Window

There. I'm experimenting with some new templates to... er, snazz it up, as teenagers say today. For a long time the blog's been looking like the insides of a brain-dead surgeon's -- well -- brain. Now, however, it screams out at me. In a nice way.

Who doesn't like being screamed at in a nice way?

Edit: I think I'll keep changing the theme often. That way I won't get bored and will actually feel like reading my own stuff!

Like, Like Like?

'Like' is not only a Facebook expression. It is a demonic proposition.

Gone are the days I used to associate unnecessary usage of the word like with Shaggy from the Scooby Doo series. No, now the matter has gone out of hand.

This is the new buzzword. Now adolescents get judged on the basis of the number of likes they can effectively use in a sentence. Since I cannot succeed at this, I am admittedly uncool.

But I like being uncool (the other like). It's not promising that a whole new generation is being raised solely on alcohol, hormones, and likes.

There should really be a decree forbidding usage of the word.

Perhaps we can also let loose a pack of termites into the ear of the rule-breaker. Or ants, really. It doesn't matter. All we need is a complete ban of the four most hateful letters composed by man.

As long as there is (sigh) peace of mind.

... And the 30th is Nearing...

India is going to host its first Formula One race ever, and all I see is grid girls on ads?

I was playing some online games the other time. (Yes, so what? There is no shame in admitting it, I suppose.) While I was waiting for the game to load, it immediately sensed that I'm from India, and played me an ad showing a grid girl doing, well, what a grid girl is supposed to do.

And all this while, there has been nothing on television; no publicity that should be garnered before the first-ever race occurs (or else I'm just watching all the wrong sorts of channels). And on the other side of the quadrant we have a new movie release of a prominent actor. I went to McDonald's today and the Happy Meal toys were centred around that movie's prime character, when in fact they should have started with the F1 car toys!

Damn it, I want an F1 car scale model.

I didn't even know about the track! Nor did I know what it had been named. So I Googled it, and sure enough, quicker than waiting for an informative ad to pop up on television:

So this is it.

And apparently, it's one of the shortest tracks. So we'll be looking at an excess of 60 laps. (In fact, I just looked it up, and it'll indeed be 60.)

This will be the stuff of awe for India. Although we have produced professional racers, F1 has never been promoted as a large-scale event in a cricket-crazy nation. I believe our last contact with it was when David Coulthard had come over to Mumbai to drive his Red Bull car over the newly built sealink.

Will Vettel continue his high-flying streak? Does it really matter, now that he and Red Bull have already won the Championship?

But this is what I really want to see first in the Qualifying Session on the 29th:

Wish Kimi Raikkonen were here.

I Endorse the Serial Comma

Plain and simply, that means I use a comma before 'and' in a list.

This means I'd rather write a sentence this way:

'Rhino horns, orangutan hair, and french fries are all rather delicious.'

instead of eliminating the comma after 'orangutan hair.'

We've all been taught in school that this is wrong, and that it's possible we'll die a gruesome, elephant dropping-related death if we do use it. But personally, I love the serial comma. It's the saviour in a bucket of mud.

Here are the technical bits now. 'and' used between two words can signify a group. If we talk about bread and butter, or the famous fish and chips of England, it's a group -- bread and butter go together (even though you can have it with jam and mayo and what have you). It's a tradition.

So you won't write 'I had milk, bread, butter, and cornflakes for breakfast.'
In this case, you'll group up the bread and butter and write 'I had milk, bread and butter, and cornflakes.'

But that isn't the only reason. It's not just the matter of how confusing 
'France, England, Bosnia and Herzegovina'

sounds to the layman. Without the serial comma after 'Bosnia', it's impossible to deduce if someone is writing about today's collective 'Bosnia and Herzegovina' country, or whether they're referring to the pre-World War times, when Bosnia and Herzegovina were two separate provinces.

No, the main power of the comma is in the organisation. The multiple commas in the first few elements prepare us for a list, and getting a cold 'and' with no comma is very heartless.

Now examine the aesthetic value of these two sentences:

The dog ate my homework, shorts, catapult, computer, remote-control and spectacles.

                                                VS

The dog ate my homework, shorts, catapult, computer, remote-control, and spectacles.

Not only does the latter avoid the grouping up of the remote-control and spectacles (they aren't even similar objects), but it also looks more in control of the traumatic situation. (If you disagree, may the heavens help you.)

Commas are not always pleasing to spot, especially in the case of three-line long sentences, where the sentence is so long you lose track, and ultimately, tired, you attempt a slow step-by-step breakdown until you come to terms with its meaning, implications, and sheer cleverness.

But you can't deny that the comma after 'implications' gave you an aesthetic pleasure that can only be brought about once a sentence ends.

The serial comma, ladies and gentlemen, is the hero of the day.

Of course, semicolons are a bit better than commas, but unfortunately there is not much opportunity to use them; they're a slightly complex punctuation.

An Indian Local Transport Epiphany

Everyone must doubtless have heard stories and/or seen pictures that depict the famous local trains of India. Now here's the thing about them: all of them are at least partly true.

People do hang out of trains during peak hour. They do not sit on top of them, fortunately.

Buses are more peaceful. But here again, the noisy chatter of the vehicles outside really upsets the deal.

In any method of public transport during peak hour, this is what you'll see (and apologies for the crude image):

 Random objects and human parts

In the same vein, this is a list of rules that should be followed by a newbie in the ILT (Indian Local Transport) field.

1) Expect major odour issues.

Whether you're standing up or have got a place to sit, you will be surrounded by the complete lack of hygiene. Brace yourself and always carry portable handwash.

2) Master the Art of Reservation.
In a train, it is absolutely mandatory to ask (and answer when asked) a person when they will be getting off. This is done so that you can 'reserve' the seat  for yourself when the passenger gets off (assuming you will get down any stop after his). This process requires a lot of skill and tact. You have to have the knack of picking the correct person, and then get to him before anyone else can.

3) For some reason, this is never done in buses. Here they follow a first-come-first-sit principle.You have to be nimble and enterprising.

4) Beware in buses. There are about 35% of seats reserved exclusively for women. Now assume a male has no place to sit except in the ladies' section (buses always have two-seat groups). He will sit. But about 70 percent of them will not shift when the males' section seat clears up, and will continue to obstinately latch on to this special seat, until someone (politely) asks him to please get up and get the hell lost.

5) This is for you if you're a 'foreigner', especially female.

I had one on my bus today. This poor lady had all the commuters watching resolutely. Everyone was minding their manners though. All eyes flew up when she got up to disembark. Once she was gone, all of them started laughing like madcaps and basically just threw sheets to their manners again.


Indian transport will (sigh) remain like this for a long time. But then again, it is still a big ground for minute observations and people-watching.

(PS/Disclaimer: If I have scared anyone, please understand this whole piece was a bit of exaggeration. A bit.)

Follow Me...

No, by 'follow me' I don't mean for you to follow my path of laziness. I mean for you to follow my blog. You see, I want to be a writer, and a supermarvellousamazing one at that. I don't want to be a ruddy journalist, or work in advertising, or be a news reporter. I want the real deal (yes, you may say I'm a dreamer).

For that, I need to be famous on the Internet. Okay, okay. I know it's as far-fetched as the idea of someone idolising George Bush. (It may be easier to revere a plank of wood.) But I need a decent bit of followers.

However, you only need follow if:

a) You visit the blog often and seem to like it, or

b) You visit the blog often and don't understand a thing, which well means I'm smarter than you by a long shot, or

c) You visit the blog often and think I'm absolutely bonkers.

There you go.

And now, as reward, I give you:

Lentil cappucino.

Ugh.

The World Population's Average Age is Reducing

How do I know? I'll tell you how.

Users have come to my blog for the past one week only courtesy my Driving Licence post (I'm not even going to provide a link; see, there it is, in the 'Best Ones' table).

In fact, Google says the searches were dominated by 'turn right', 'to turn', and 'turn right traffic sign'. And hence were directed to the picture I had taken off Google Images. And that yielded visitors from (excluding India itself) -- wait for it -- Indonesia, Thailand, Philippines (and some more; almost all southeast Asia countries), Brazil, Colombia (a few South American), Australia, the UK, and USA, plus Mexico.

Now this observation surely means that more people want to see this particular sign. But why? Are they preschoolers wanting to inculcate some civic sense? Now that is good news.

Some may argue these visitors only want the picture, maybe for some project. But then that means all of them are writing about roads and traffic signs and driving.

It also means that Google has acknowledged my blog as a force to be reckoned with, and has promptly included it in popular searches.

But the question remains: My dears, why did all of you want to turn right this week? And why did you ask Google for the answer?

Product 'Placement' #2

Following my very favourable stint advertising a towel, I'm here to explain why a certain new brand of potato chips would do you a lot of good. And just like the towel, each segment of each chip will have different components of flavour, healthy ingredients, and even the not-so-good parts which will destroy your bladder but which will make you feel good in the fifteen minutes following your indulgence.

a) It is crisp to perfection. Everybody loves the crackle of a potato chip when it is bitten into, or heck, even the crispiness of a french fry or the thin crust of a pizza. Something so delicate cannot be compromised, and the width of a potato chip* is found to be measuring between 0.20 and 0.25 mm.

*results of test conducted on one full bag of chips, serial number SE541##21, in daylight hours, and with micrometre screw gauge, with remarkably good precision.

b) It is flecked with oregano, garlic (0.12% by weight), chilli, and five-spice powder. Talk about fancying an international cuisine!

c) Exotic ingredients have been used to make this product. Don't crib at the markup price. Here are the difficult situations researchers have gone through to extract these ingredients:

  i) engaged in a showdown with a Nepalese yak (to obtain yak tears)

 ii) bought a very expensive Bugatti Veyron for chasing the fastest bird (for Perigrine Falcon's droppings, 1.21% of weight)

 iii) battled the mimosa pudica for hosts of insects (this was just for fun; our researchers are also esteemed zoologists)

You have to admit this is an impressive record.

d) Finally, this is the breakdown of a single potato chip:

Now you wouldn't say no to this, would you?

Enjoy.

What Has the World Come To?

In the 20-odd days I took for Blogger break, the world has changed in a variety of unspeakable ways. How could these things be allowed to happen?

1) If you go to Google images and type 'p', this is what comes up first:

Damn you, Autocomplete!

Really, is the world developing such distasteful interests out of choice or boredom?

I'd rather check Images for pizza or even Periodic Table. (PS: Pink?! What is the world thinking?)

Shame on you, Population. Shame.

2) Again, if you type 'g' in Google Images, you get:

But with 'b', there's no 'boy'. This is what one calls horrible population distribution, and the best way to explain the skewed gender numbers in India.

But then again, we also had news like:

(quoted directly from BBC)

'A cross between a Chihuahua and a Chinese crested has had the dubious honour of being crowned the World's Ugliest Dog 2011 in a competition in northern California.

The winner, Yoda, was found abandoned behind an apartment building, and her owner says at first she thought it was an overgrown rat.'

Goodness. Yoda may be ugly (both of them), but the things people do for their pets... Remarkable.

So, to get away from all this pain and misery, here is this piece:

	U2 - U2 - Mission Impossible Theme .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

And don't you tell me you don't like it.

The best part about this song is that you don't even have to imagine yourself wearing black overalls and snooping around restricted premises trying to steal something. No, you can just simply enjoy the music by itself and wonder to yourself when they stopped making such songs.

5 Annoying Things Worth Doing Intentionally Just to Infuriate People

Yes, the answer to everyone's deepest question is here. These are fairly easy to execute and are the perfect consequence of raised spirits. What's more, they may well be normal everyday scenarios, so you won't have to go out of your way to do them.

#1  A SMack

Taking a scarily long time to finalise the order at the front of a self-service booth line.

# 2  Trial Sentence

Keep on trying clothes, harrying both the waiting crowd and shop assistants, and never coming out of the trial room, finally buying nothing at all.

# 3  Bludgeons and Blabber

Distracting keynote speaker with unrelated tripe. Of course, it's better to be in the back rows and have a loud voice.

# 4  Keep the Change

Fiddle for change at the front of the line. Enough said.

# 5  Esca-late-or

Taking your time to step onto the escalator when you know there are scores behind you waiting for lunch.

It will need (almost) no practise too.

(PS: My first post using a scanner. Just saying.)

Product 'Placement'

I'm here to *ahem* advertise a towel. No? Who'd pay me? Why would I? Well, here's the deal: it's a nicely multipurpose towel, and here's why....

a) The towel is handy for any mutant fight, be it a physical tussle or mental:

    i) For a physical tussle, the thick fibres of this Turkish towel withstand any amount of force -- pulling or flinging -- which is within 1750 Newtons.

    ii) For a mental battle, draping this towel like a shawl over your shoulders exudes considerable amounts of charisma, wit, and logic.

b) The towel protects you from mishappenings or confrontational events: Whenever faced with a situation, cover your head with the towel, such that your whole face is covered. Since your brain does not register what it does not (and cannot) see, you will be safe.

c) This particular towel is, if you noticed, slightly thicker on the edges. The reason this is so is because there are health capsules and drinks hidden around the perimeter, and each serves a different purpose. All you have to do is gnaw it off at the right spot (explained in detail in the manual).

d) The material is soft and fun and does not tickle, so there is no reason why you shouldn't have it.

(No guinea pigs or humans were harmed in the making of this towel. All said they enjoyed the experience.)

Happy Towel Day to anybody who cares and/or understands. (I'm a day too late.)

DON'T PANIC.


The post is dedicated to Douglas Adams.

Monoblogue

Post me.


Oh, PLEASE post me. No, really.

I'm missing it. I'm missing the fame, I'm missing the lights, the show, the drama, the surprises... I'm missing everything.

It's been what, two days since this absolute fool of a woman - who thinks she's very smart in the first place - posted me, and after some really long (but not tedious, mind you) debates and discussions with dear ol' Blogger, I have finally decided to post myself.

It was getting too much, you know? And it's not that I'm an attention seeker or anything, but... You know what I mean. *obvious nods*

Just look at me. My beautiful beige body. My flashy fonts, my countless and colourful colours!


I am beauty defined! I am skill personified! I am the Halt Ahead of Turbulence itself!




And now come the long awaited Random Musings of my Lost Soul:


Polyvinylchloride.

Temporary disorder of the intestines can lead to stray misconceptions, ego clashes, and thermionic emission.

Fleeting woodpeckers give dirty glances to passers-by solely due to the movement of tectonic plates. Peck.

And finally, randomness isn't really as nonsensical and random as it appears, given that it's random; almost how an inexpert dancer decapitates himself on an inert garlic bread.

Go figure.

Geavanceerde? Yo? Ce n'est pas possible...

There has been a tiny option on the Google page that I've been using for far too long. Next to the search bar, there's 'Advanced search' in minuscule font, as if it wants to be missed. Shoddy.

Now, the reason I do this is to get an idea of the complexity of language I use for my blog.

This is what it gives me:

(I hate this going into the sidebar. --->)

This means almost all the people who read (and understand) my blog are smarty-pants (language-wise, at least).

Also, notice that site called 'Turbulence Ahead' at the bottom?

I should have rechecked thoroughly before naming...

Anyway...

I better start raking in more 'basic'. An alternative good way to have begun this post:

'There has been a small option on the Google page that I have been utilising for a very long time. It's just next to the search bar, in absurdly tiny font so as to make the average eyes skip over it completely.'

Oh, wait...

PS: I understand this is option is for all the results bearing these three words, but it's just a qualitative, fun review of what it could be had I not known what it really shows.

A Series of Failed Occupations: Careers That Never Took Off (Part Three)

PART THREE: Archaeologist

Expectations

The regular kid won't really prefer to go for archaeology. But that doesn't mean only a history buff will. Anyone who's obsessed with finding out 'secrets' about the past and discovering new things could well like it. (Did that just sound like a bunch of teenage girls?)

Anyway, at any age, here are archaeology's expectations:

The dinosaur remains is the ultimate dream.

Realistic Expectations

By this time, out prodigy has discovered that this isn't as simple as it appears. It requires top grades, tons of skill, and horrendously tough endurance. So he resigns himself to:

The fact that a job like this may not exist shows the youngster's motivation and desperation to get into the field.

Motivation

There's the exciting prospect of adventure never experienced before. It's not the money here; it's the inviting lure of nature's innards. The fame that may (should) go with it is another piece altogether, but nothing beats the thrill of a hot desert sun. (For some reason, it's always a hot desert sun. Never a pleasant autumn.)

What Does It

Now, our protege has become old enough to be adept with computers. He learns that the job requirements do not exactly fill his criteria, meaning he would most likely be ending up as a:

curator

professor

Yeah, that does it.

Dream Crash-Landed In...

An upper limit of ten years.

Last Resort

Convince yourself that dinosaurs are eggheads anyway; who'd want to be excited looking for a peripherally dumb mutant who couldn't even foresee an asteroid?


Verdict: Makes you get down in the dirt and enjoy it too!

(Read Part One: Astronaut

Read Part Two: Artist)

A Series of Failed Occupations: Careers That Never Took Off (Part Two)

PART TWO: Artist

This is the creative doodler of the class, always looking for pencil stubs for reasons other than poking into others' eyes.

Expectations

Our subject expects this to be a strictly part-time 'job'. After all, painters work when in the mood. But the money earned in that little moody spell is aptly illustrated thus:

This is the famed Irregular Pentagon of Success.

For point A, there are way too many working hours required, so it is eliminated.
For point B, approximately half the working hours of (A) yield at least 5/6ths the money earned.
Point C is also good, but nobody cares about a downward spiral when there are points between B and C and between C and A to be covered.

Realistic Expectations

There are many art galleries around that offer solo exhibitions (at a price, of course). But producing many paintings for the task is excruciating pain. So a group exhibition it is... with one painting.

But hey. that's the aim for next year. Why 'paintings' anyway? Why don't people make masterpieces of crayon? Is it because it won't work on the canvas? (Hmmm, I seem to have given myself an idea.) Dullards.

Motivation

Here, the millions of ₤₤₤ and $$$ and €€€ get them going. Something like

means nothing at all. The bright Sun doesn't mean dispenser of energy, or dawn of a change. Nor does the blue swirl mean 'transfer of energy'. Artists like being asked, and askers get happy.

That's the idea. To help humanity.

What does it

The 'good mood' associated with paintings rarely comes into the picture. When it does, our charge produces something like this and speaks gibberish.

Finally, tired, he puts down the palette and chases another dream.

Dream crash-landed in...

Four years at most.

Last Resort

Paint pictures for family and distant relatives and pass around, hoping one of them is a big-shot in the market.


Verdict: Splattering is the most fun.


(Read Part One: Astronaut
Read Part Three: Archaeologist)

A Series of Failed Occupations: Careers That Never Took Off

PROLOGUE

What am I talking about? I'm talking about exciting careers most of us (if not all) wanted to take up at some young point in our lives, only to either a) end up in an altogether different profession, or b) find out the hype was unnecessary, as in, discover that marine exploring was not so much diving for treasure as observing rare varieties of rock.

Here I'll try to encapsulate a few lofty plans I've had in mind.

PART ONE: Astronaut

Astronaut dreams usually have a short shelf life, but it could be extended substantially in the event of feigned ignorance.

Expectations

When five-year-olds think of being spacemen, they imagine this:

Fifteen-year-olds are slightly different in that respect:

Realistic Expectations

Well, what is one supposed to do aboard the spacecraft?

float... check

eat... check

wear marvellous spacesuit... check

Motivation

The idea of outer space is both fascinating and frightening. Lots of progress has been made in the field, although it's still something jaw-dropping and exotic. There are always risks involved, and often, thoughts like these sometimes seep through:

'I frequently become sea sick; how can I handle the space sick?'

'Will I be able to do whatever it is that astronauts do in spaceships while floating around like a fat balloon?'

However, these questions fire a sense of determination which is shortly followed by the 'Oh, I'll be so rich' line.

What does it

By this time, our subject has realised that if he wants to really harbour these dreams, there's no point working anywhere other than NASA... which needs US citizenship. So if he doesn't really fancy living in the States...

Oops.

... and 20/20 vision.

Oops.

... and a minimum height of 5 feet 4 inches.

&*^#!@*!!

Dream crash-landed in...

Usually the dream's duration is between 3-12 years.

Last Resort

Become rich and go for one of those 'civil astronaut' trips.


Verdict: Fun and enjoyable while it lasts.


(Read Part Two: Artist
Read Part Three: Archaeologist)

Daffynitions: My New 'Thing'

At one point a few years ago, I used to be madly in love with anagrams. You won't believe how much. Really, you won't. I had even downloaded an application or two that could 'anagram' any phrase, or words, however long, and give a nicely ordered sequence.

Anyway, my current obsession is 'daffynitions', and I have two-pages-full of them (so far).

Here are just a few of them (well illustrated, though pointlessly so):

1) An otherwise flightless teatime commodity:

 

Butterfly.

2) A pipe unbelievable beyond the regular:

Parachute.


3) A portion of a horned quadruped:

Rampart.


4) Meaty intelligence:

'Cleaver'ness.


5) Foul-smelling needle:

Sty.


I do have buckets more, but that's for when I'll be able to draw twenty of these... Sigh.

An Utterly Useless Post (of Sorts)

It's been nearly a week since India won the World Cup. Here's my way of commemorating it: making a list of the most popular interjections.

• Yahoo!
• Yippee!
• Hooray!
• Ha!
• Bingo!
• Whoa!
• Cheers!
• pwned! (Internet slang counts.)
• Yeah! (Well...)
• Bam!
• Bravo!
• Wow!
• Zap! (Yes, I can.)
• w00t!
• Aha!
• Ding-dong! (No, really.)
• Ta-da!

Indeed. They deserveth.

A Finger Burn, a 103° Fever, and a Driving Test

Yes, indeed. You guessed it.

Pity, really.

I was handling some steaming daal in a vessel. As I ladled it out into a little bowl, BAM! Unbeknownst to me, my third finger was touching the bottom of the bowl. And the bottom, as Physics and Chemistry tell you, piles on the degrees super-fast, like an obese sponge hopping for even more water, never content.

Regrettably, it expanded to the size of a bulbous wart on a toad's surface.

Thankfully, it was my left hand, so I'd still be able to do menial jobs like eat.

Unfortunately, I was supposed to have my driving test that very Friday.

This meant I had less than three days to try to get rid of it COMPLETELY.

Oops.

(Look away if you're squeamish.)

'No driving for you today,' said the instructor, and he told me to get out.

'But I can manage,' I protested.

'No,' he said firmly. 'It could burst when you're driving, and that would be a problem.'

He started rummaging in the glove compartment. Finally, he brought out a small, dangerous, shiny safety-pin.

'Look,' he said, 'Find one at home. Prick yourself. It's only water. No need for drama.'

'I'm not the one doing drama,' I muttered, 'I was ready to drive.'

I couldn't summon the guts to prick myself, so I went to the doctor.

My bulb got nicely tweezered out and my finger was wrapped in white bandage.

'You'll be fine,' said the doctor cheerfully. 'Now, you should take your booster injection.'

'Booster?'

'Booster. At eighteen years.'

And the syringe pricked my upper arm.

'By they way,' he continued, 'You could be getting fever later, because of the injection. I'll give you a couple medicines to take in case that happens.'

'I could get fever?!'

'In case.'

I didn't get fever, and had a nice, memorable day.

At night, I started shivering. I measured 100.7° F.

Oops.

I had the tablet... And woke up in the morning with 103.2°.

Oops.

What ensued was, in one simple word: CHAOS.

It was already Thursday.

Then came a prescription of strong, quick-acting medicine.

Fortunately, I only had to use one tablet before I was fine. (I still have five left.)

In the evening, we called up to confirm about the driving test.

'Nahi, nahi, no driving test,' came the reply.

Eh?

'No test conducted at all this week. Do next week.'

That was last week. My finger is still not a hundred percent healed (though of course I've got rid of the bandage), and my test is (most probably) tomorrow.

Ah, sunshine.

Oops.


(UPDATE: The test is next week. Darn. ;))

The Sword is Mightier than Irrationality

Here's what I wanted to be doing at seventeen:

Reading about my own work being read

Here's what I ended up doing at seventeen:

 Reading others' work (being read)

Arts? they asked. Why Arts?

From the three functional streams in India of Science, Commerce, and Arts, it seems to me that yes, I do need Arts.

I have tried out Science, of course, and loved it. But I can't make a career in writing with it. (You're nothing without a degree, though there are a few Indian 'writers' with 'bestsellers' which make me question their education at all).

'Arts?' says a close, middle-aged relative. 'I know you like drawing and painting, but was it this much?'

(Yes, Your Honour, this actually happened.)

My grandfather still points out to me MBA courses in the newspaper (though it's considerably reduced to maybe once a month; earlier it was a few times a week).

'Arts will only require a handful of marks for admission,' one laughed, as if buckets of 42-percent-marks were hovering in like termites.

Old-timers are stubbornly still old-timers. They cringe when they see mobile phones, the Internet, atheism, or inter-caste marriages. Can't really blame them. That's the whole purpose of a generation gap.

Well, who cares, I'm doing Arts.

And Thereby Hangs a Tail...

Time to be subjected to one of my untasteful poems again.

This time I'll do it live with a Random Word Generator, and even keep track of the time I took to compose it.

Now, noun: madhouse

         adjective: flameproof

         verb: flow

         adverb: flaccidly

(of varying difficulties)

Time begins... NOW.

A flameproof madhouse once walked,

Through a city chalk and cheese;

And as the madhouse just gawked,

The citizens began to wheeze:

'Who,' one asked, 'Is this madhouse

Who makes us sneeze and wheeze?

And why, oh why, is my house

Falling apart at the beams?'

For indeed, the house, made of

Chalk and cheese was limping now,

It hung flaccidly as if

It were yielding a pleased bow.

At once, all the houses collapsed,

And there began to flow a

River of cheese, with infused

Chalk -- a river light yellow.

They went after the madhouse

And hurled flaming sticks at him

For destroying their houses,

And making them sneeze, and then some.

But the madhouse was flameproof,

And he stayed unaffected;

He solemnly expressed grief,

Then quickly trudged on, offended.

(Yeah, what do you expect if I'm under a time limit?)

Well, I took 19 minutes and 32 seconds for this piece of wisdom.

On the way to geniusdom? Too close, perhaps...

A Roundhouse Kick in the Mouth

Sportspeople are champions at shooting. Shooting unintelligible things out of their mouth, that is.

To commemorate the newly begun Cricket World Cup (sponsored by -- to the best of my knowledge -- TATA [for lighting], Airtel [for relaying scores over the phone to faraway relatives too lazy to switch on the telly], Sony [for that amazing HD experience], and Bisleri [for drinks breaks], as they've never failed to remind us), I've made a lovely list of the greatest comments ever made by cricketers...

Trophy for the funniest quote here?

Geoff Boycott: 'Corey Collymore and Adam Sanford wouldn't bowl my mum out.'

Mike Atherton: 'My back is my problem. It's not a cause for national concern.'

Dennis Lillee (on Geoffrey Boycott): 'He fell in love with himself at a very young age and has remained faithful ever since.'

Wasim Akram: '(Using) gel is more macho than a hairband.'

Daryl Cullinan, after Shane Warne told him he'd been waiting two years to 'humiliate' him: 'Looks like you spent it eating.'

Driving Licence application + India + Confusion = Well, Confusion.

Actually, it's not even a Licence application.

It's a Learner's Licence application.

We had to get ourselves down to the Regional Transport Office (Road Transactions, rather) in Andheri, which is an hour away from home.

Now here's what they normally do.

1) If you've enrolled with one, the driving school gives you a big chart which has common road signs and signals and vehicle laws and which number they come under. (E.g. U/S 126: No person driving or in charge of a motor vehicle shall cause or allow the vehicles [where did the second vehicle come from?] to remain stationary in any public place, unless there is in the driver's seat a person duly licensed to -- Oh, forget it. here's what it means: No driver can leave his car unattended in the middle of the street.)

 Snippet of the chart. With spelling mistakes. (Click and zoom if not clear.)

They give you this sheet a day before the test and say that the officials may 'ask you questions. Please read / learn well.'

2) You are made to stand in a line like

 (off thehindu.com)

Even that's not explanatory enough. Well, it is my fault. I forgot to click pictures of the thousand-odd people swarming around the different blocks of the Office.

Anyway, the point is, you have to wait for so much longer if you've come all by yourself. The driving institute guy stood in line for us, at least.

3) The inspector will not ask you a SINGLE question about how the sign telling you to turn right RIGHT NOW

is different from the sign to turn right AHEAD:

(wikimedia)

4)
You know what? This is boring. I'm not doing finishing this.

I think what's important is the fact that we got out of there in one piece, and that I can start learning from Monday.


(PS/ Disclaimer: Road safety is important and so are signs... For the common folk, that is; not everyone is as smart as I am.)