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Part 2, When the going gets tough, the tough get going..

2009-09-07T06:40:00.026+02:00

So, where was I ? Yes, I'd made it to Rishikesh, all in one piece. That's where I finally caught up with the others. Sid, Baccha and Adrian, who had been slightly more fortunate than me as far as travelling logistics were concerned (only slightly though, for their version of events click here). From there we took a taxi, a fairly decent Ambassador all the way to Govindghat, our pitstop for that night. There are share taxis and buses to Joshimath, from where Govindhghat is just an hour away but we opted for the relative opulence of the clapped out Amby to save on time.

The taxi ride was fairly uneventful. There were a large number of rocks and boulders lying by the roadside, remnants of landslides from some days before. We were forewarned that July-August is landslide season in these parts, but the size of some of these boulders did get my heart rate up. The entire ride we followed the Alaknanda river, and we traced it as it cut through valleys, tracing it almost up to it's very origins. The scenery throughout was jaw-droppingly amazing. I enjoyed almost none of it though, with my head moving like a pendulum, as i drooled on one neighbouring shoulder and then the next. Occassionally I'd awake from this stupour and start clicking photos like a mad cockaroach with a bad case of the twitches before I reverted back to 'rest' mode as suddenly as I'd broken out of it. I followed this pattern for most of the entire ten hours our journey took. Even my driver was very sypathetic to my case and bore with a smile the frequent head butts he got on his shoulder as i nodded off to sleep in the front seat. The tip was definitely well spent on some jandu balm for his bruised shoulder.

I must say though, taxi drivers have the most bizarre taste in music! Mine was no different. Do they have music stores dedicated to cater to their eccentric tastes? I still remember one of the songs. The girl kept crooning about how she had lied at home about going to the temple but kept a romantic rendezvous instead while her lover reassured her she hadn't lied as she had come to the temple of love (pyar ki mandir or some such rot)! This one had us in splits and when it played again (and again, our driver's taste in music may have been eccentric but was limited to two tapes, which he played over and over) we were singing along with it too!

We were at Govindhghat by sunset and took up lodgings at the first in a long line of hotels, Kuber Guest House. Rooms were decent and bathrooms clean, so no hotel horror stories to report. We were there for just the night, as we had an early start the next day. The place was jam packed with pilgrims, Sikhs coming in from all parts of the globe to pay homage at Hemkund Sahib, the highest place of worship in the world! After visiting the local gurudwara, we had dinner at the restaurant getting the most foot traffic (Nano's, Nany's, or something like that). The food was standard Punjabi fare, with all it's desi ghee goodness. This was followed by gulab jamun and a glass of whole milk at the adjoining halwai (sweet shop). I could see my diet flying out of the window and rolling down the grassy slopes of the Garwhal mountains.

The next day we started out at 5.30am so that we could get a headstart and not get stuck in the pilgrim traffic. A good head start meant we were at the next town Pulna at 7.00 am, by which time we were ravenous. We stopped at the last in a long line of shops that lined the route and sat down for some well earned Maggi and chai almost at the foot of the Pulna waterfall. As we resumed our journey, we saw our 'restaraunteur' following us with a plastic bottle in his hand. Upon enquiry he informed us that he was out to go behind the bushes to complete his morning ablutions. Only on further enquiries was it revealed that we'd actually woken the poor bugger up from his sleep to make us our breakfasts! I was amazed! I would have been breathing fire if four city slickers woke ME up early in the morning demanding plates of Maggi and cups of tea but this man seemed remarkably well composed. Incredibly nice of the fellow I thought. If I were British, I'd probably say, 'Jolly good, old chap'.

The trek up to Gangria was long and ardous. We were breaking our backs to complete the 14km. Our backpacks felt like bags of lead dragging us down. Frequent Maggi stops not withstanding we'd have collapsed on the side of the road and been killed by a stampede of mules, who would have then probably defecated on us in contempt for blocking their path with our corpses. So imagine to my consternation when we came across a septegenarian(at least) Sardar who was slowly but surely making his way up with what seeme like no great exertion on his part. On seeing our sorry state he felt it was his duty to give us some advice. 'Akke baar guru ke darshan karne nikal padde to phir guru apki kalai pakar ke neele ghode pe baithake le jaata hai. Aap jisse bhi bagwan maane chahhe wo ram ho ya rahim bas usko apne dil me baitha lo aur aap phir rukoge nai baas chalte challe jaoge aur apne manzil tak zaroor pahunchoge', he said. He went on to say much more. Very profound stuff. Only one problem, my Punjabi, at best, is atrocious. So most of it went way over my head(except for something about a blue horse). I wish I'd paid more attention. Apparently it made the trek a lot easier for the others, but I do remember this: The intense conviction and faith that some of the old-timers seemed to have blew my mind away (even with the flying blue horses still floating around my head). With chants of "So bole sohnihal" following which the entire valley would echo with a "Sasriyakaaale...." these people were making their way up at an age when their peers may find an evening walk a challenge. It was truly inspirational. To me it really showed the power of faith and made me question my own views on God and religion.

The scenic beauty was another real show stopper for me. As we trudged along we came across innumerable spots where we just HAD to stop and stare in wonder. The river powering down the valley in full force was another aspect of the trek I found quite soothing. The only real annoyance was the packs of mules and horses taking pilgrims up and down. The more trips they made, the more money the owners could make, which meant that they were made to hurry up and down the hill side as many times as possible, even if it meant barging into the pedestrians and pulverizing them on the rocks to one side or plunging them into the river on the other.

Many a waterfall, and many a cascade of horseshit later we were finally at Gangria. We flopped into one of the first hotels we could find and settled in. We went out exploring the small town, taking in the sights, and generally limbering up for our next stop, the Valley of Flowers....

Valley of Flowers, An Adventure in many parts

2009-09-01T10:15:00.039+02:00

Part 1 - Going, going....... gone!

Ladakh downscaled to Valley of Flowers. Ten days to four! And after some earnest pleading and reasoning upgraded to five. My feet were itching to move. Get the hell out of hot, grimy Noida! I planned, and planned and planned some more. Things were set, tickets and co-travellers arranged and I was all ready to go. There was nothing to stop me now, or was there?

I anxiously awaited the 13th of August, when I could escape the confines of my drab cubicle to the wild outdoors. Usually dates come too soon (like exam dates!) or take too much time (like birthdays), but this one arrived with near perfect timing. I brought my backpack to work so that I could head straight from there to a friend's place for some chole batture before hopping on the bus to Rishikesh.

Somebody up there must have a wicked sense of humour because he decided to have some fun at my expense. By testing my resolve to travel. The first sign came straight after lunch. My boss comes up to me and asks me to join in on a site visit and before I could say ,'but...' he was off in a flash to get an early start on the long weekend! Since I have spent most of my time here rueing the fact that I don't really have much work I felt I shouldn't complain when I do. Anyway, it would take just two hours and I should be back by 5.00pm, enough time to make it for dinner at Sid's. Being the sticklers to punctuality we Indians are known to be, we left propmtly at 4.45, reducing significantly my chances of having a much awaited home-cooked meal. Still, my hopes were up.

First stop, Ghaziabad. The floor manager sat us down in his plush air-conditioned office and fed us tea and biscuits, which I proceeded to gulp down like a shot of tequila, scathing my tongue and palate in the process. It didn't help matters much that the rest of my party were treating the tea as if it were fine wine, sipping it at leisure while making all the approppriate appreciative noises. To cut a very long story short, it turned out that the part we had come to inspect was in a totally different factory all together, where we were plied with more tea and biscuits, most probably to ensure that those portions of my tongue which escaped being scathed the last time could get it's due retribution. The time was now 6.30pm, and my chole batture aspirations had all but evaporated. Frantic phone calls were received from friends. Reassurances were given as to the possibility of making it to the bus stop in time. Alternate plans were made for the chole and the batture to simulatneously reach their final destination, ie. my tummy. Due to further unavoidable delays (note the sarcasm), and the fact that Schumi hadn't come out of retirement to drive me to the bus stop I found myself stranded in god forsaken Ghaziabad with not a chance in hell to make it in time to Connaught Place.

Time for quick remedial action, and like Chacha Chaudhary, my brain works faster than a supercomputer at times of crisis ( the rest of the time it still works as fast as a supercomputer, but with the power plug pulled out). The driver was asked to drop me off at the railway station from where a general class ticket to Rishikesh was purchased. I got on the next train to Rishikesh, the aptly named Delhi-Rishikesh Passenger. So happy was I with myself that I was oblivious to the hordes of sweaty people I had to share the oven that was my railway compartment. The dreamy look and smile plastered all over my face as we rolled out of Ghaziabad made me look positively silly. I awoke from my stupor when I saw the brand name of the coolers which almost half my co-passengers were carrying : "Murphy's". Definitely a sign of things to come....

Murphy's Law !!!

Ingenuity, thy name is sleeping in general compartment!!!

Sure enough, at around two in the morning the train came to a standstill at Sahranpur and quickly emptied and soon it was just me and the cleaners. I smelt something fishy, despite being nowhere close to the coast and decided to investigate. I reached the engine just in time to see the engine driver packing his bags and hopping off! I blocked his path and said he better take the damn train to it's intended destination as mentioned in bold black one it's bright yellow board : "DELHI RISHIKESH PASSENGER". And here I was, a passenger who was neither in Delhi nor Rishikesh. Something had to give right? Wrong. Apparently the train doesn't go beyond Sahranpur after August 7th and I had the misfortune of travelling on the 13th. After that the train's name is just a ruse to trap innocent people like myself into visiting Sahranpur. 'But I have to go to Rishikesh', I squealed, and just like in the nursery rhyme, 'Oh!', said the engine driver, 'I don't care!'.

So, very relcutantly, I got off. It was half past two in the morning, and Sahranpur station was bustling eith activity for this ungodly hour. Yet, it felt like the site of some major tragedy. Scores of bodies lay motionless end upon end, the only sign of life being the slow guttural snores emnating from them, almost in symphony. I hop, skip and tripped my way to the exit from where I got a bus to Haridwar. Around this time I get a call from my friends who managed to catch the bus. The driver was taking his own sweet time getting to Rishikesh and had just stopped for 'lunch' at Meerut (if you want to compare I crossed Meerut at 8.30pm, before they'd even started!). They didn't expect to get to Rishikesh before nine in the morning. This left me in quite a fix, because I would be in Haridwar at 4.00 am!

Dead or Alive?

On reaching Haridwar I was mobbed by touts for hotels, motels, rooms,taxis and what not. I had a few hours to kill so I proceeded to 'Hari ki Pauri' , which is where devotees take a dip in the holy waters of the Ganga. The recent rains meant the river was flowing with tremendous force, free of all her inhbitions. There were plenty taking a dip in her ice cold, silt rich waters. There were plenty of sadhus , all decked in bright orange in ash ready to perform pujas for my redemption, all for a price which was quite aggressively advertised. The place was kept remarkably clean by normal standards and there were quite a few 'govt. officials' asking for donations for it's upkeep. One caught me and tried to extract as much as he could (they must have targets to meet). Asked for Rs.501, expected Rs.101, and got Rs.11. Imagine the stink eye he must have given me, triple it and raise to the power of ten and you will only get close to the look he gave me.

Haridwar, 4.00 am

Hari Ki Pauri

Daybreak

I spent daybreak loitering about here and was wondering where to visit next when my friends called again. The driver' suddent burst of energy post-Meerut meant that they had crossed Haridwar and almost reached Rishikesh. I quickly made by way back to town, rescuing a couple of Japanese tourists from the clutches of an evil auto driver enroute before catching a shared auto to Rishikesh, where I finally, finally, FINALLY caught up with my friends whom I was supposed to meet at 8.30pm the previous night. It was 8.30am....

The trip was on!!! Save a few landslides, there was nothing that could stop us now. Stay tuned for more adevntures.............................

An Interesting Day

2009-06-23T06:40:00.003+02:00

aka Why I should never fall short of blogging material...

The day began well. Very well, infact. For one, the heat didn’t kill me. I had a song in my heart, and the same was emitted from my lips as completely indistinguishable cacaphony. ‘A Beautiful Day, ey ey, don’t let it get away’, my heart prompted but my karoke skills are only a shade better than Godzilla’s, and the sound that emnated went something like this : “Garble Bargeley, ey ey, garble some more dey”. No matter. It was indeed a ‘garble bargeley’ and my spirit was as light as a feather, a far cry from my actual self.

Now for those of you that don’t know, my means of transport to work and back are the ubiquitous public auto things fondly called Vikram (don’t ask me why). Autos on steroids is what I like to call them. They are also known as tempos, but they set no such thing, travelling at a snail’s pace, despite which they are more dangerous to pedestrians than a drunk Salman Khan in pursuit of a black buck. Usually they are driven by daredevils (read maniacs) in the eternal pursuit of the Guiness record for maximum number of bodies, preferably human, that they can pack into these dastardly machines. Bodies reaching their destination alive is fairly low on the list of priorities. Being that as it may, it still finds immense popularity as a mode of transport, as the only less lethal option is possibly a flying carpet, which in these recession ridden times are extremely hard to come by. Office timings are particularly bad as the drivers’ zeal for setting, breaking, and re-setting the record is the highest at this time. I usually end up hanging on to the sides, for dear life...

This day was going to be different. There was actually a seat for me! Ok, it was this stool that the driver had so graciously tied to the back of the vehicle, large enough to accommodate about half of a single Kate Moss butt cheek(the standard unit of butt cheek measurement), which roughly translates into about one-tenth of mine. As Bono kept telepathically telling me all morning, I wasn’t going to ‘let it get away’. I chased the auto down, got him to stop, hoisted my self onto the stool, taking the support of the cushioned seat in front to get my above average frame up. Only, the cushioned seat was actually the well padded shoulder of a lady with a much larger frame than me….

Dirty looks ensued and in my shock I let go of what little support I had (however unsupporting she was to my cause) but a few acrobatic moves and a near death experience later I had managed to plonk myself on the stool. The rest of the journey to work was uneventful, thankfully. I was scheduled to participate in some software orientation that day, which made me feel slightly more useful than before because upto that point my job description could at best be described as ‘professional web surfer’. So in I marched into the conference room with a single minded and dedicated purpose to master the software and prove to be a useful asset to my company. In one smooth motion I switched my screen on, swivelled myself into place and punched out my password. Staying true to form, my computer did what any self respecting machine working on any mechanism more complicated than a simple pulley would do when the user is feeling extremely productive. It crashed, gloriously, like it had been given a 'stunner' by Stone Cold Steve Austin.

Me and machines have never got on very well(Yes, I know… I am a mechanical engineer. It’s ironic. Don’t laugh). I think it all started back when I’d got a new CD player, from ‘Aunty in US’ (all of us Indians have at least one of those no?) , rendering my up to then faithful Philips Walkman redundant. A few CD buying sessions later (ok, who am I kidding, shameless downloading and burning sessions later) I figured I could try figuring out how my walkman actually worked. I ended up massacaring the poor thing. It wasn’t a pretty sight. I tried soldering the wires I cut with candle wax. I guess Electronics never forgave me.

The limit of my computer maintenance skills are switching on and off the system, which I religiously did, ten times, but to no avail. My computer screen was showing absolutely no change. In the background I heard one of the co-particpants remember his sister with some fervour. ‘Oh bahen, oh bahen’, he kept saying. ‘Must have missed her birthday’, I thought, ‘ Poor chap, she’ll give him such a tongue lashing now. No wonder he is so riled up’. It took me a while to realize that the reason for his sudden outburst was that the system I was fiddling around with was actually his.In fact I even remember the precise moment it dawned upon me. It was when he exclaimed ‘Oye bahen di fuddi, yeah kya ho gaya! Woah teri! Apne aap switch on-off ho raha hai bhai yeh….’. Silently I moved my fingers away from his sytem and spent another fifteen minutes surreptitously looking around for mine.

If that wasn’t enough to derail me, the incident in the evening was the final nail in the coffin! As many of you may know, I have been a loyal foot soldier in the Battle of the Bulge for aeons now. Loyal doesn’t imply I have never deserted the cause but I have always returned to the legions (on gaining 5kg or finding that my pants get stuck half way up my thighs, whichever comes first) in our aim to make the world a lighter place. Luckily for me, there’s a gym in the basement. After a rigorous workout, comprising of stretching , shaking hands with the trainer and making false promises to, and I quote ‘actually move my fat ass’ (in Hindi of course, which went like this : 'apni moti gaand tho hilao') the following day, I decided to weigh myself. Imagine my consternation when I got on the thing and it read ‘ERROR’ ! I know it’s wrong to be so unhealthy but who did this digital weighing scale think it was to give me health tips ?? I proceeded to get on and off it, so much so that some of the other new members at the gym thought it was a new piece of exercise equipment. The machine kept giving the same message though, until after about 50 reps it became ‘ERR’. So now it was mocking me! I persevered, and after what must have been my best wrk out in yeras the ‘ERR’ too began fading into nothingness until the screen went completely blank. Yes! Deepak 1, Evil Weighing Machine 0. And that, my friends is the end of my wonderful day. The fat lady (yes, that very same one I physically molested that morning) has sung.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise then that the following morning the song on my lips was ‘Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow’, with the ‘yesterday’s gone, yesterday’s gone’ sung with particular joy, happiness and relief. Of course, to you it would have still sounded like , ‘Garble bargling garblow’……..

Safety Policy

2009-06-11T06:33:00.011+02:00

a song that will tug at you heart strings

'There comes a time, (ever so rarely)

When I heed a certain call,

When the world must come together as one, (and visit blissinswiss.blogspot.com)

There are people dying, ( to read my blog)

And it's time to lend a hand to life,

The greatest gift of all...'

....Ok, getting a little too conceited aren't we? It must be this 'God' status I have recently acquired. Power and fame has got to my head. As Spidey puts it, 'with great power, comes great responsibility' , so I suppose that means it's time for another blogpost... (now, now, squelching, screaming and retching not allowed)

There comes a time when the blogger likes to sing (usually in the shower). There also comes a time when the blogger likes to refer to himself in the third person, but more on that later (but don't bet on it). Anyway, most of my last few days have been spent being jobless and so, I took time off from my jam packed schedule (being jobless is hard work!) to come up with this song. Now, before you begin thinking that it's a full on major self-composition and all, like A R Rahman, let me assure you I belong, very much, to the Anu Malik school of song composition which believes in pilfering and ripping off any hit (or non-hit) western song, adding a smattering of pelvic thrusts liberally and voila, we have Filmfare Award winning material with minimum effort. Jai Ho!!!

(To be sung to the tune of Fool's Garden's Lemon Tree)

I'm sitting here in the boring room

It's just another sunny weekday afternoon

I'm wasting my timeI got nothing to do

I'm hanging aroundI'm waiting for you

But nothing ever happens and I wonder....

I'm surfing around on my comp

I'm surfing too fast

I'm surfing too far

I'd like to change my point of view

I feel so lonelyI'm waiting for you

But nothing ever happens and I wonder....

I wonder howI wonder why

Yesterday you told me 'bout the new project to fly

And all that I can see is just a stupid safety policy

I'm turning my head up and down

I'm turning turning turning turning turning around

(I have swivel chair at my desk you see)

And all that I can read is just the damn safety policy

I'm sitting here

I miss the power

I'd like to go and take a shower

But there's no water in my room

I feel so tired

Put myself into bed

Well, nothing ever happens and I wonder.......

Isolation is not good for me

Isolation I don't want to read the safety policy

I'm steppin' out into the desert outside

And maybe I'll get a sunstroke ‘nd die

And nothing will ever happen and you wonder...

I wonder howI wonder why

Yesterday you told me 'bout the new project to fly

And all that I can see is just the stupid safety policy

I'm turning my head up and down

I'm turning turning turning turning turning around

(Warning: swivelling=fun+giddines)

And all that I can read is just the damn safety policy

And I wonder, wonder

I wonder howI wonder why

Yesterday you told me 'bout the new project to fly

And all that I can see, and all that I can see, and all that I can see

Is just the damn safety policy.............

My New Life's Philosophy

2009-06-04T14:32:00.016+02:00

Hello again ! I am back !! Now before all of you start jumping up and down in glee, and dislocating your knees (or jump off your high rise apartment to plummet to your deaths as the case maybe), let me assure you that I haven't the faintest idea if this lame attempt to recussitate my blog, which sadly has been in a comatose state for a while now will bear fruit. It will take a ginormous effort of Munnabhai MBBSeque proportions to get this thing back and running.

Anyway before I begin recounting the sorrowful trials and travails of my life for your enjoyment, let me, as promised thank a certain Ms.Divi Nair who implored, begged, bribed and threatened her way into getting me to 'write something'. This post would still be silently gestating (without causing much labour pain may i add) if I wasn't convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that Divya's very existence depends totally and entirely on the words that flow out of my 0.5 Staedtler MARS777 (doesn't say much for Divya does it?). And the words aren't really flowing out, they are spluttering out in stops and starts accompanied by constant head tilting and 'hmmming' and 'haawing' much like a cross between a badly maintained Bajaj Chetak from 1975 and an aged horse on it's last legs (which funnily would be the same legs it started out with as a strapping young pony, but you get my point. I hope.). So I write this not as Descorpio86, he who shares mundane drivel from his oh-so-normal life but in essence as a life-giver, as Brahma if you will. With this newly acquired status conferred upon me by none other than myself I have decided, as the first act of my glorious existence to anoint the aforememntioned Divi Nair as my 'Fan No.1'. Which is a pity, because what I need right now is not a fan, but an air conditioner.

Since moving to Noida (Yes, my dear sympathisers and point-your-finger-and-laughers, NOIDA. If you think that's bad here's more. Noida is not some cute name for the place. It actually stands for New Okhla Industrial Development Area. Yeah, that's right, I am not staying in a city, town or even a village, but in an 'area'), it's been a long, hard and energy sapping struggle against the heat. Heat here is not just a feeling (as in 'I can feel the heat'). Here, the heat is alive! It can kill, moving silently among us, much like the 'monster' in Lost (ok...too much drama you think?). I can still clearly recall my first encounter with the NCR heat, mostly because the memory was seared onto the side of my brain, the side that stores painful memories, as I stepped out of the Jet Lite flight S232. The heat came rushing up and gave me one huge sucker punch smack in the middle of my already distorted face, blowing me off my feet and set me tumbling face first down those unbelievably rickety stairs-on-wheels thingies which are deemed safe only at airports. The wind was blowing with full gusto, but it wasn't a cool or refreshing wind. It was hot, dry and very likely to cause a sunstroke. Appropriately enough, this dastardly phenomenon is called the 'Loo', because it does make you feel absolutely 'shitty'. The shuttle ride from the plane was funny in a tragic sort of way in that the seats were too hot to sit on and the plastic from the handles was (or is it 'were'? I am confused..) slowly but surely melting and forming little yellow puddles on the floor of the bus. There was no point opening the windows and the air con wasn't working. A little part of me just died, or evaporated.

After this initial 'warming up' to the situation I basked in the lap of luxury for the next two weeks. An air conditioned car would take me from an air conditioned guest house to a centrally air conditioned office and back. Enquiries regarding my well-being and my coping of the heat were met with cheerful responses, no doubt tempered by the air, which at 24 degrees had been cooled and dehumidified for my thermal comfort. I was oblivious to the fact the Sun had declared jihad upon me, indeed as it does so annually in this region between the months of May and September, and was quite intent on boiling me into oblivion.

Then I moved into a PG. For those who use the words 'my life is a living hell' way too often, I prescribe a short stay in Noida. It will shut you up, or kill you (which should in all probability shut you up as well). Residents of Noida visit Hell to cool off ! ( Thus, saying 'go to hell' to a Noidawalla results in much mirth and merriment for the latter) . The Uttar Pradesh Electricity Board obliged in giving me the 'fultu summer effect' by outing the power for the better part of the night. A severe case of shallow water drowning might have been registered with the Sector 56 police if I hadn't woken up just in the nick of time to find myself bubbling into a puddle of my own perspiration, smelling a lot like how I felt (kindly refer to earlier passages related to 'the toilet wind'). If this indeed had become a police matter, 'foul' play would definitely have been suspected. It gets so hot here that the air you breathe out is cooler than the air you take in, and post 6.00pm breathing feels more like eucalyptus steam inhalation therapy! With a tiny tweak. The eucalyptus is replaced by oil of the transformer variety. (Edit : So hot in fact, that my blood boils by the mere mentioning of it..hehe..)

A UP summer it is not without the almost suffocating prescence of the ubiquitous 'cooler'. You can buy one, rent one or lease one but steal one seems to be the preferred mode of acquiring possession. Names such as Polar, Icy, Artic, Snow, Freezy and MahaKool (yes, with a 'k') do the rounds, all of them conjuring up pictures of polar bears gracefully doing the ballet in slow motion on the Arctic Ice Cap while penguins gently serenade them. The name belies it's true purpose as an instrument of torture, and this indeed has confused very many UP bhayyas. What this 'thing' actually does is when filled with water (which has to be done every three minutes), heats this water up and then tries to fling it at your face hoping to cause at least Level 3 burns. So, now my room is not just hot, it is also humid. That does have it's positives. You know those television ads which ask you to 'feel' the experience? Well, thats exactly happened yesterday, while I watched some mindless Chuck Norris nonsense on HBO, Braddock : Avenge of The Some Shit or the Other (Part 3, no less). As Norris, sweated bullets to find his illegetimate son and wife and save them from the Vietnamese tyrants, all the while being chased by the CIA, I felt like I was in the trenches too searching for my own ba*&^rd child as my 'cooler' recreated to perfection the hot and humid climes of 'Nam, complete with an all pervading sense of death and decay.

Given these circumstances, can you be surprised that there's been a change in the philosophy by which I live my life ? It happens to all of us at some point or the other. A moment that makes us see the light. Such events act as a catalyst for a catharsis. I've seen this sea change in many of my fellow Paying Guests (unfortunately, you'll shortly find out just how unfortunate). This new outlook on life is best described by that great American poet, Nelly :

Its gettin hot in herre (so hot) { Note the 2 'R's}

So take off all your clothes (eh)
(Background voice: uh uh uh uh uh)
I am gettin too hot, I wanna take my clothes off

(repeat, many many times over, till the power comes back)

[Edit : There! I hope those words randomly strung together tickled your funny bone. Don't forget to leave comments with raves or rants!! ]

Crazy Night, Part Zwei -- The Craziness Continues

2008-09-10T10:59:00.027+02:00

If you haven't read part one, you can do that here .

So, where was I? Aah yes, I had chills down my spine after my driver decided to go all 'filmy' on me. We proceeded to his car. I was offered the front seat but I politely declined. If I was going to have my mouth slit into a wide grin I was making sure I knew about it. No stabbing me behind my back, thank you very much. If I was going down, it was going to be with a fight. Why I didn't just not get into the taxi I'll never know.

If I wasn't tense enough to begin with, we began heading towards Luzern, where I had just returned from!The driver didn't seem overly concerned about the preservation of his own life either. He was racing along the highway, animatedly discussing something with my co-passenger, his arms flailing wildly in what seemed to be his best impression of an octopus writhing in pain on having six of it's eight tentacles cut off. I was fairly certain the end was near. When we entered a dark tunnel, I hoped against hope I'd survive to see the 'light' at the end of it. Maybe they were discussing how best to dispose my body? Being a fan of crime shows on TV didn't help me one bit. I thought of all the possible ways in which they could make my remains 'disappear'. I thought of the possible mistakes they could commit which would lead to the discovery of my body and how the Swiss police could trace it back to them. Yes, I had an episode of CSI running through my head, with my obliterated body as the show's centre-piece. In fact, I was so embroiled in my own macabre thoughts that if the driver did something stupid like spit on me I would have inadvertently berated him for his stupidity and carelessness. I would have then probably gone on to tell him how to do it right, how to make sure he wouldn't be caught.

My poor head, almost at bursting point, finally received some respite when we dropped the other guy at a seedy looking hotel. But Mr.Respite didn't stay for very long. I thought he would take me home next. Uncle Cabbie had other plans. Our next stop was this bar in G0d Knows Where. We waited for like forever , and just as I began getting the heebie-jeebies again, out stumbled our next two passengers. One was a waitress who worked there. The other was very drunk. We dropped off the drunk at God Forsaken Place and continued on the highway, now speeding towards Basel, another place that WAS NOT my home.

'Wow! Crazy night.' I thought to myself, and just as the thought left my head, things got a little crazier. We came across a girl, with her pants down to her knees sprawled across the side of the road surrounded by three fairly sinister looking guys. We felt obliged to stop and check if everything was alright, but Waitress, who turned out to be quite the firebrand jumped out of the moving car screaming, 'Damsel in distress! Damsel in distress!' in German. I suppose she felt morally responsible for all the drunks on the road. By the time me and driver reached the spot, Naked Girl's pants were back where pants rightfully should be and she was vomiting her guts out on the road. One of the 'sinister looking guys' happened to be her boyfriend, but the only part that rang true about that was the boy part. Letting the poor girl get so drunk that she developed a healthy disregard for clothes and think that jumping out of moving vehicles to fall face first on the curb to be a brilliant idea didn't strike me as being particularly 'friend'ly . The other two punks were helpful strangers like us.

Glad that things had been sorted out we began trudging back towards the car when Waitress decided to pick a fight with one of the Helpful Punks, and proceeded to practice her punches and slaps on his face. The driver on seeing this began seething, and foaming at the mouth. 'Oh this woman!! So aggressive she is. Always getting into trouble. Oh, this woman! Mmmmm....AAArghhh...' , exclaimed the driver in what I assume was an exasperated tone. All I could do was stand and stare in amazement at the scene that was unfolding before me. Why on Earth did the driver continue torturing himself by taking this crazy woman home every night if he knew that she was as mad as a hatter?! Helpful Punk, on the other hand seemed quite stoic about the whole thing after some initial resistance on his part. Quite chivalrous I thought. Not laying hands on the woman. What a noble thing to do. I would have thought otherwise had I known then that he planned to return the favour to the two men accompanying her, me and my new best friend, the man who I thought was out to murder me, the poor driver. It is indeed true that tough situations bring people together.

The punk inched his way slowly, towards us. 'Is this your girl ?' , he asked the driver in an ominous tone. The driver shook his head vehemently. The punk turned towards me next. ' No, of course not ! Do I look like I can handle a crazy, insane woman like her ?!' , is what I wanted to say, but my German wasn't good enough. The only German that was in my head right then were two words which would have ensured that I got beaten to pulp and got my head carved out like a Halloween pumpkin :'Genau' and 'Yahwol' (because both words meant 'yes, you are absolutely right'). I wanted to stick my head into the sand like an ostrich but I was surrounded by a sea of brick and concrete. I imitated the driver and we both did our best to pry the woman off the punk, stuff her into the back seat of the car. Then, just like in the cartoons, we sped away leaving behind a trail of smoke and dust.

Luckily the 'Patron Saint of the Drunks' didn't have to offer her services anymore that night. We managed to drop her back home in one piece, after which both me and the driver let out a collective sigh of relief. I was the only passenger left now. He had no choice but to drop me off next. I wistfully thought of the bed awaiting me at home. The driver was going on and on about old Swiss houses he was doing something to protect but I was too sleepy to care. I just wanted to get back.As we got closer and closer to the final destination for the evening, I got sleepier and sleepier. And then the car stopped.

I woke up to a blinding light pointed straight at my eyes. Felt like an alien abduction. It was just the police. First they asked for Pablo's ( see, now I know his name. I told you we were friends.) license. We had a mini archaeological dig inside the car as Pablo excavated through layers and layers of junk on his dashboard to finally come out, almost magically with his license. If you didn't know better, you would think he was David Copperfield performing his most astounding trick. The police seemed suitably impressed as well because they turned to me next. 'You don't seem Swiss. Where is your identification?'

It was at home of course. Who carries their passports to watch a movie? I thought buying a ticket would suffice. The only form of ID I had on me was my GA card, and guess what?! Your rail pass serves as an ID in Switzerland! So one of them took it to the squad car and began speaking into the police radio. I was visibly uncomfortable about the whole situation because not only were the police discussing me and my personal details,but I was also on the verge of dropping to sleep and I still had a bloody bright torch aimed straight at my face! Pablo tried his best to comfort me, in what I thought was his attempt at comedy. 'Don't worry. They are just checking if you are a murderer or rapper', he said. He obviously didn't think much of rap and he had a lame sense of humour as well. Wow, we had more in common than I initially thought. ' You don't do rap no?' , he continued, half jokingly. 'No, no', I said, half sniggering, half sleepily mumbling,' I listen to rock'. Now it was his turn to be confused. 'No, no, no', he said, ' You don't know rap? The having of the unwanted sex?!'. (In case some of you are reading this half asleep as well {well, my stories do serve as good bedtime stories..they are sure to put you to sleep} , he meant rape)

My response didn't change though. I don't rap, and I don't rape either. The light was finally focused somewhere other than my face and at long last, we were allowed to leave. Fortunately, there were no more adventures during the five minutes it took to get me home from there. I don't think my bird brain could have handled much more. So, if you are an adrenaline junkie with a thirst for adventure and find yourself stuck at Zurich railway station, call 079 669 33 18 and ask for Pablo.

Pheeew!!! Long post no? I hope it managed to capture your interest all the way through.....

Crazy Night, Part One -- Midnight at Haupbahnof

2008-09-01T10:32:00.019+02:00

So, there I was at an 12.30 am, at an unusually empty and eerily quiet Bahnof,like one of the scenes from the Matrix trilogy. I awaited Agent Smith, to come crashing out from one of the tunnel walls and do his computer generated stunts on me. Confused? Feel like you have jumped into the middle of a narration with no idea what happened earlier? Right. Flashback time.

Flashback to a few hours before :

I had been to Luzern to watch the Dark Knight, a movie which leaves you all quiet and contemplative, unlike other superhero movies which make you want to wear your briefs over your spandex pants, tie a bedsheet around your neck and jump off the closest skyscraper hoping that you've been bitten by some hybrid spider species. I bid adieu to Sarah (the afore mentioned friend whose directorial debut was a resounding success) and caught the last train back to Zürich. From there I'd have trains to take me back home all night long, or so I thought.

If anybody working at SBB is reading this blog,' Dude/ Dudette, DO SOMETHING about the timetables to my place! The trains arrive Zurich just in time for me to make a full fledged Usain Bolt-like dash to my platform to see my connection slowly chug out. If not, I am going to start saying that my trains to Zurich are always 30-90 seconds late and you wouldn't want me to commit sacrilege like that which means eternal damnation for you now would you?' So anyway, I missed my train by fractions of milli seconds, AGAIN, but I was not worried. There would be one more in less than an hour. I just needed to buy a night pass. The station though was unbelievably empty.

Back to the present :

I knew something weird was up. Usually there are more people at the Zurich main station than there are in all of New Zealand! But today, there were just 7-8 people other than me, all equally lost and looking dazed. The time tables showed no trains. What happened? What was wrong? Was there a nuclear holocaust? Had zombies taken over Zurich? I sighted a solitary ticket checker in the distance, on her way back home. I accosted her and enquired why the time table for the night trains were not displayed, rather haughtily I must say because now that I am Swiss I expect everything to be in near-perfect order. She obviously didn't like my tone or think much of my 'Swissness' because she took great pleasure in responding that the night trains don't operate on weeknights and ended with a half-snigger and half evil laugh which basically meant,' Your F***ED'.

Resigned to the fact of having to spend the night at the station I scouted for benches to sleep on. The stone bench could definitely freeze the balls off a brass monkey (oh, 12th std. English lessons with Poo memories full full coming). The metal one left a pattern of checks on my cheek which on the next day might inspire someone to solve the sudoku or crossword on my face. Draw one or two cartoons (Garfield and Calvin and Hobbes if I had the choice) on my other cheek and put in a gossip headline on my forehead and I'd become the most popular tabloid around. If you know me, you know that I have this amazing capacity to sleep. I can beat Rip Van Vinkle to pulp if I wanted to. I've slept through earthquakes, slept standing and once, even in mid-sentence! So, I figured it's best I sleep on the platform on which my first train back is. I didn't want to miss it as I was in the middle of a marathon test to determine whether I would be offered a long term position at my company.

On my way to the time table to check and re-check a hundred and one times (for want of nothing better to do) when my train was, I was ambushed by a man who proceeded to assault me with a slew of German words, of which I understood not a single one. When he finally realised I understood as much German as the Queen, he switched to English (I wont use the Queen's name in vain here as his English was definitely not the Queen's English). 'You miss train ?', he asked. I answered in the affirmative. 'Where you stay? You want taxi back home?' The idea of a bed seemed very inviting right then and so I said yes, if the price was reasonable. He offered me a 50% discount as I was a student. That reduced the fare to 'just' 60CHF (about 2400INR).

He then proceeded to ask other fellow stranded folk if they wanted a ride back home. He got one new customer. He offered to reduce my fare by five franks if he could drop off the other chap first. Being the scrooge I am, I readily agreed, little knowing of the epic proportions of the journey I was about to undertake. What did strike me as unusual was that the two of them got quite pally, regaling each other with what seemed to be extremely funny recounts of their lives. Swiss strangers are polite and distant. They don't even like sitting next to each other on the train, going so far as to plonk their bags and belongings on all the surrunding seats, just in case, God forbid, someone sat beside them. What they are not, are chummy like these two were. Just returning from a screening of the Dark Knight didn't help. Scenes of chaos and anarchy were running through my head. Were these, two crooks out to get me? Would they just take me somewhere deserted and run away with all my money and leave me for dead? My face puckered up, my brain was lost in a sea of morbid thoughts. What brought me joltingly back to the present was a question the driver posed, and although he didn't say it with the same raspy tone or with any of the blood curdling lip smacking in Heath Ledger's performance, those three words almost terrified the living daylights out of me. ' Why so serious?'

To be continued.....

Zurich Street Parade - The Call of the Weirdos

2008-08-10T16:57:00.022+02:00

Oh man, every time I think I should write something and log in, as soon as I hit the new post button my mind goes as blank as the wall I am staring at. I have about half a dozen half-posts waiting to be completed which I am mighty afraid I will never get down to doing. So, help me out. What do I write about? Ah, well some news updates. My influence on the blogosphere has been extended thanks to a collaborative blog I am now a part off. Check out the storm I started brewing over there , here. Also, got this very cool map which shows from where my readers are. Can you see it? I am hoping it's a giant sea of red soon. Need your help to do that though, so visit often, make sure you take plenty of international vacations and log in while holidaying as well!!

Last Saturday was the Zurich street parade, the largest techno rave in the world. So there I was with my band of merry IAESTE revelers to soak up the sun and fun. The Swiss are a pretty obedient lot. You tell them to work 8 hours a day, and they'll do that with a dedication, bordering on passion right down to the last second. You tell them to party and you can be assured they will till they drop dead from fatigue. The second Saturday of August is such a day. The Swiss are called out to throng the streets of Zurich and hang out at one giant party! Some interpret this a little too literally and let it 'ALL' hang out.

There were people of all shapes, sizes and ages on the streets, dressed in costumes ranging from cute, to kinky to the downright bizarre. But the prize for best costume, if there was one has to go my new house mate TT. Where 'less is more, but nothing is even better' seemed to be the motto of the day TT showed up to the event, on a 30°C, sunny summer day in a sweater and jacket. How he didn't bake himself into a human Shepherd's Pie is beyond me. I wasn't doing myself any favours in my Swiss sweatshirt, which felt more like a sweatshop.

Pensioners were prancing around in minimal clothing, all happy and gay. I am sure the children present were mentally scarred for life. Imagine, if you can, your grandmother, in a bikini, at best, dancing to the latest electronic shit they call music.I am 21 and I was deeply traumatized. Just imagine what nervous wreck those little children will grow up to be!

When I told my colleagues I was going to the parade, they all told me one thing. 'DO NOT CONSUME ANY PILL THEY OFFER YOU'(Yes, they said it in CAPITAL LETTERS). They obviously thought that I was a hypochondriac under the impression that I was attending the celebration of the discovery to cure the common cold. Thanks to all the dire warnings, I was hoping to get a stash of pills,powders and leaves sizing up to atleast a small hillock enabling me to become the Pablo Escobar of my tiny Swiss village. But, no dear readers,even half a pill of Ecstasy didn't come my way. Maybe it was the 'Say No to Drugs' campaign launched by the government and event organisers, but the number of people sprawled on their backs by the lake-side, in artificially induced comas seems to suggest otherwise. I guess they just weren't feeling particularly generous that day.

Now, that my dreams of becoming a powerful drug lord had gone up in smoke(quite literally), there was not much to hold my interest there. There is only that many crazy people one can tolerate in a single day and my threshold was fast approaching. I am no 'tranceformer' (that's a term I have coined for people who transform from peace loving humans to toe crushing baboons on hearing trance) and neither am I addicted to any type of house, other than the ones which have beds, fridges and TVs. Moreover I had smoked passively just under a million cigarettes and needed to leave before the onset of lung cancer. I hobbled back home, choking and sputtering like an Ambassador car well past it's prime...

Bond, with the Best

2008-08-03T23:56:00.015+02:00

A few weeks back I found an invitation in my inbox. To do a bungee jump. Not just any bungee jump, but the world's highest. This is what it said about the jump:

"The jumping height of 220 m not only means world record off ground, it is also the most famous bungee jump world wide. Mr. James Bond, in the film Goldeneye, jumped off this very wall of the Verzasca dam exactly here in Ticino. It is considered to be the best stunt in movie history. Professional jump masters on site ensure your safe jump. All you have to bring along is the courage to jump."

Yes, you read that right. 220 m above the ground, that is just a trifle over 710 feet. A body would free fall for 7.5 seconds and attain a maximum speed of 120km/hr. And all I needed to bring was 'courage to jump' (they conveniently forgot to mention the money). They also forgot one more thing. Copious doses of stupidity.

Now, it's common knowledge that stupidity is something God gifted me in abundance with, so I seriously considered doing the jump. It didn't help matters when during the Rafting Weekend (to which i will dedicate an entirely different post later) in Interlaken I heard about a fatal jump in which the 'professional jump masters' used a 180 m cord for a 100 m jump. Me and a good friend, Tony , made a pact. Each would do the jump if the other did. Unfortunately, he didn't make it to the list of participants in the weekend and his registration died a silent death in the waiting list (hmmm...is that poultry I smell?). Now it was all up to me. Unfortunately, God was also responsible for making me a top rated wimp. I sat on the fence for the longest possible time, until after a strenuous trek, dam safely hidden from view I handed over my money. I even borrowed some of it from Emma. I would have normally taken that as a sign from God to let sanity prevail and not jump. I am still to discover what trance I was in then. I suspect dehydration and hypoglycemia were the culprits.

A few steps up lead to a birds-eye view of the dam. I got up there and the first words out of my mouth were,' F*^#K! I paid the money. What have i got myself into now!' As I signed the release form, which basically exempted the company from any responsibility if I were to die or become a useless vegetable I silently cursed the 'land divers' of Vanuatu, young men,responsible for inspiring the invention of this deadly sport, who jumped from wooden platforms with vines tied to their feet as a test of their courage(and of course, stupidity). Finally, after a wait that lasted almost forever I was finally saddled up to a wide assortment of ropes and hooks. I was given some initial instructions and asked to repeat a few exercises. I made an absolute fool of myself and thought of quitting then and there, but braved on. I thought of my school motto , "Courage is Destiny". Would it be my destiny to have my life come to a crashing halt due to a crushing blow at the foot of a dam? If my school motto was anything to go by, that could very well be.

They asked me to step up to the platform. I did. I tried to look nonchalant, as cool as a cucumber. To everyone else, the sight of me tapping my heels like a 'stud macha' seemed like I was waiting impatiently to jump. In reality, inside me emotions were boiling over. There I was, about to free fall more than 700 feet, with the only thing preventing me from marmalading myself to the rocks below being a glorified rubber band tied to my lower limbs. The jump master said i should do a full stretch jump. It would look good on the video he said. 'Really?', I thought to myself. I wondered if they would play it at my funeral. 'Should I use these last few moments to choose a song to be played at the service as well?'.

The previous jumper had been reeled in. It was my turn now to take that leap of faith. Out of nowhere came this sea of calm that swept through me. I think my brain just switched off. ' 3....2....1', I remember the jump master said, but I don't remember jumping. I could see my shadow descending rapidly down on the dam wall, but I couldn't feel myself falling. Not until the cord extended and jerked at my leg. On my second bounce I let out a scream. Not out of fear, I was ecstatic. I was flying. Before I knew it, my body had bounced 4-5 times, like a yo-yo, and I was reeled back in. The jump was over. My experimentation with 'Learning to Fly' done.

Thanks to Sarah I have this lovely video of me doing 'the jump'. It's a real stunner. A good old-fashioned girly scream in the background would have been nice though. If I ever make a Hollywood movie I'll ask Sarah to direct it. If you ever make a Hollywood movie you should ask Sarah to direct it. She'll do it for as little as the loaning to her of a good book. Talking about movies, if any of the Bond producers happen to be reading this. When you get bored of old Danny boy and want a new 007, give me a ring. I don't have a funny accent. Plus I do my own stunts...

And if you want to watch how Bond did it in Goldeneye :

About a Photo

2008-07-30T21:46:00.010+02:00

WARNING : The contents of this post is unsuitable for certain audiences ( ie. minors below the age of 18 and blood relatives).

As the title suggests, this post is about a photo. Not a great photo, not even a particularly memorable one. Just a photo. Some photo. But it managed to bring three people together to create one of the wackiest conversations in the history of conversations. It also brought flooding back, memories of school, memories of friends, and together they spell out only one thing. FUN. Who says time travel isn't possible? It happens all the time, everywhere. All you need are jobless people, and maybe a photo.

I will take this opportunity to thank the inadvertent co-authors of this post Raj and Siddharth (who incidentally has started his own blog and though it may not be as cool as mine, maybe you should check it out ?). I would also like to thank Booths/Coolio for her single word contribution to this post (which, to make it even cooler, is a palindrome). Of course, a few of the jokes are inside jokes among my friends, prime example being cool flux, which will take a few posts to explain, but, eventhough you may not undersatnd parts of it I think in it's entirety it makes for fairly entertaining reading. So without much further ado, I present to you a teeny weeny peek at insanity that is my life.

Deepak wrote at 8:51pm on April 21st, 2008 sanjay looks like he just farted ,karthik like he can smell sanjay's work and kudi like he wants to murder the photographer...

Amrutha wrote
at 10:17am on April 22nd, 2008

hahahahahahaha!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Deepak wrote at 12:37pm on April 22nd, 2008 oh and yes, raj is grinning from ear to ear thanks to all the positive cool flux he is getting...

Raj wrote
at 2:25pm on April 22nd, 2008

hmmm....i wonder...is this photo worth all the attention its getting???

Sid V wrote
at 4:12pm on April 22nd, 2008

i know... deepak's suddenly getting nostalgic

Deepak wrote
at 5:07pm on April 22nd, 2008

ya, maybe..after all, all my chaddi dosts are there in this pic no..

Sid Vwrote
at 5:38pm on April 22nd, 2008

btw.. where's the hot swiss girlfriend?

Deepak wrote at 5:42pm on April 22nd, 2008 what hot swiss girlfriend??

Sid V wrote
at 5:53pm on April 22nd, 2008

the one u were supposed to marry and have swiss kids with...

Deepak wrote at 7:00pm on April 22nd, 2008 was i ?? you told me to but i never said i would..

Amrutha wrote
at 10:08am on April 23rd, 2008

you said you would..... don't lie.... lol....

Raj wrote
at 3:17pm on April 23rd, 2008

eh...wat is this swiss wife business.....u sure u don mean swiss knife....cause the 2 words are phonetic....and its deepak we're talking about man!!!!...swiss wife it seems.....PS: get me a swiss wife!!! :P

Amrutha wrote
at 3:47pm on April 23rd, 2008

lol.... raj you've given up on Indian chicks and behind the Swiss eh????

Deepak wrote at 5:17pm on April 23rd, 2008 and what is 'and its deepak we're talking about man!!!!...swiss wife it seems' supposed to mean?? that i am this full stud machan who s too busy HnD ing swiss chicks to find time to get a wife? or tat even a blind person wont go out with him so what chance does he have with swiss chicks?

Sid V wrote
at 5:18pm on April 23rd, 2008

hmmm we'll let raj answer that!

Deepak wrote at 5:23pm on April 23rd, 2008 oh ho...sid v too much for u eh?? just because you got into some stupid college which has creepers growing on it s walls (ivy) you have become too elitist to take part in our conversations uh??!!

Sid V wrote
at 5:24pm on April 23rd, 2008

oh shut up.. i didnt make claims as to your dateability or layability as the case may be.. raj did.. so hence let him clarify

Raj wrote
at 6:12pm on April 23rd, 2008

all indians are my brothers and sisters.......calm down boys.....@deepak....i meant the 2nd thing you said....HnDing chicks was a good one though!!!!

Amrutha wrote
at 10:09am on April 24th, 2008

lol... why all these comments tagged to this fairly good, half-group snap da??? think cash should object to it considering the snap is in his album.. lol.....

Sid V wrote
at 11:24am on April 24th, 2008

notice.. all coolio's posts have atleast one "lol" in it.. ideally at the end... lol

Deepak wrote at 1:19pm on April 24th, 2008 he he..i just noticed that..lol..i suppose its cool to say that now so i ll add one more..lol.. @ pandit petu, you are a fat one to talk that i have no chance! and i love that this snap has become like a hang out place for us..it s way better than one of a gazillion of coolio's coffee days anyway..(and just for good measure)..lol..

Deepak wrote at 1:20pm on April 24th, 2008 and raju mone does that mean you will be go bride hunting in distant shores out of fear of committing incest??

Sid V wrote
at 1:31pm on April 24th, 2008

haha.. lol... true... lol.. but.. lol.. one more.. lol..

Raj wrote
at 2:12pm on April 24th, 2008

aha....good point....im actually looking at extra marital affairs...so deepak...watch out.....i just might be at the other end of your swiss wife.....(and not to be left out)....LOL

Sid V wrote
at 2:14pm on April 24th, 2008

at which end ;) ?... not gonna miss it.. lol

Raj wrote
at 2:18pm on April 24th, 2008

that's the thing....surprise element...ill be at some end....and when u least expect it...TADAAA!!...my head will pop up....(and once more...)....LOL

Raj wrote
at 2:21pm on April 24th, 2008

@deepak....can you imagine how jobless we must be to hangout...with a freaking photo???!!???.....and i just realised...if the other ppl in the snap havent changed their settings on facebook....their mail boxes would be flooded with e-mails giving updates on the comments made on this photo!!!...hehe....oh wait....forgot....LOL

Deepak wrote
at 3:09pm on April 24th, 2008

ha ha ha ha..tat is funny!!! it really deserves a..wait for it..LOL.... ya, and i have actually resigned to the fact that we are totally and utterly jobless..and i really dont want to get into the sexual connotations of what you just said...head popping and all..
and yes, the whole basis of an EXTRA marital affair is that it is extra, ie. there has to be a primary MARITAL affair first..and since that is extremely unlikely, nay impossible in your case, whaaatever u said is just one BIG FAT joke and thus deserves only the following response..LOL

Sid V wrote
at 3:09pm on April 24th, 2008

LOL

Raj wrote
at 3:56pm on April 24th, 2008

now i think we're spiralling outta control man....shit....from where to where we've gone....you do realise we've long stopped commenting on the photo....and gone into unchartered territory????

Raj wrote
at 3:56pm on April 24th, 2008

oh shit...my previous post didnt have an LOL....LOL....

Amrutha wrote
at 4:59pm on April 24th, 2008

copyrights for 'lol' resevered... go and get yourselves some other word to use........

Deepak wrote at 5:09pm on April 24th, 2008 it s a LOL not an LOL raj...lol..

Deepak wrote at 5:27pm on April 24th, 2008 ok..just to get back on course since raj is worried we ll all be flung out of the milky way into a galaxy far far away due to the centrifugal force of our 'out of control spiralling', uchil looks high, but of course that is just stating the painfully obvious..

Deepak wrote at 10:29pm on April 24th, 2008 apparently raj has retired from this insanity to do BETTER things like counting the stars in the sky...almost forgot..lol

Sid V wrote
at 3:12pm on April 25th, 2008

ok yes.. back to the photo.. (lol) .. why does ram look like he's squatting on the floor?!

Deepak wrote
at 3:45pm on April 25th, 2008

well, it may just be that his chair/ couch is a low one but the more likely reason according to me is that ram is a low life(tat s a sad sad one..) due to a combination of 2 factors..

1. he very intelligently realized that a fart is nothing but smelly hot air, and since hot air rises a good way to avoid it is to keep low..(for people who lost track of our conversation refer to the 1st few comments)
2.he is being suppressed by negative cool flux and is therefore forced to go even lower..LOL..

Sid V wrote
at 3:56pm on April 25th, 2008

true.. both factors are equally probable..

i think we should invite more people to add to this discussion...

lol

Deepak wrote at 5:06pm on April 25th, 2008 yes , we should..but i think we r the only active facebookers..or atleast maintaiin this level of activity atleast..he he ..lol

Sid V wrote
at 5:23pm on April 25th, 2008

btw.. did anyone notice the chick-in-a-cup?

Deepak wrote at 7:51pm on April 25th, 2008 you didnt say lol...lol..

......the saga might continue....

Butlers should go on Strike

2008-07-29T15:43:00.006+02:00

All my loverly peoples, I am overcome with the desire to type in absolutely rotten butler/chaprasi English (Why do we call it butler English? if anything butlers have impeccable English, take Jeeves for example. It's a wonder they haven't gone up in arms protesting such random, arbitrary and totally unjust characterization.). me wish me knew why. Strange it is, those whims and fancies of my half demented brain. also, some interesting stuff has happened which i want to write about but i am suffering from writer's block (whoa...too much i think of myself). but seriously, every time I sit down to write about it my fingers just freeze up. I also just don't feel like correcting what i write, you know, like starting with a capital letter or writing I's in capitals (oh, i just did) or ending the sentence with just one stop....i wouldn't even have crossed my t's or dotted my i's but luckily using a keyboard means that i don't have to. but i will not stoop as low as to skip vowels, and other less important alphabets of a word.

On a totally unrelated matter (well..not totally), do any of you remember English grammar? I dont mean propositions (oh my god!! propositions it seems...prepositions, PREPOSITIONS) and conjunctions or the Past, Present and Future tenses. I am talking about the more complicated tenses like Past Perfect and Present Not So Perfect and Future Totally Imperfect.. Do you remember being taught this at all ?? I remember teachers fruitlessly trying to stuff it down our obstinately thick heads at a very early age, sixth standard or something, but it kept oozing out of our ears. Why were we taught this stuff, which could have your stomach in knots and your brain convulsing in the 6th standard?? On the other hand, in the 10th and 12th all we did was fill in the blanks with conjunctions and PREPOSITIONS and re-arrange sentences, which seems kind of daft to me. Also, can anyone tell me what an 'adverb' and a 'participle' are ?? When a participle kicks the bucket does it become a 'Past Participle'?

Also, Mr.Facebook tells me :

This is a summary of reasons that people gave when asked "Why would you date Deepak Padmakumar?"

1. funny (1 vote)

Now, first of all, I have no issues with girls who might want to date me. Quite happy about the prospect in fact (prefer them to guys any day). But only because I am funny?? hmmmph.. I was hoping for some terms like 'studly' , 'guy of my dreams' and all..But you know what?? I ll be funny till the day i die. Good looks last only that long. Those six packs of abs will soon become paunches due to six packs of beers in no time.

Ok, so now that I have made peace with the fact that I am only funny and not much else, I deserve much more than a measly one vote for funniness!!! So what are you waiting for?? Go, log in to facebook (please don't tell me you don't have an account..even my mom does now), add whichever this stooopid application is which lets you letch at your friends, friends' friends and friends' friends' friends (i dont know which one it is, i must have been bored out of my mind to add it and now i am too lazy to care to remove it) and tell me you will date me because I am funny(Ams, you don't have to do this, that will just be weird). Both guys and girls!! Either way I will be flattered.

P.S. What a random post no? Sorry about that. I am mad. More than you can imagine. More than I can imagine too I am sure...

Our Dumb World - What's in a name?

2008-07-24T20:37:00.004+02:00

Just when you thought that evolution is a scientific fact, and that we are making progress, there comes GOD to give you one solid slap on the face. I am sure now that the Bible was right and scientists are wrong. Evolution is all hearsay, because there's not a chance in hell that the main characters in the following story would have survived evolution.

A family court judge in New Zealand has had enough with parents giving their children bizarre names here, and did something about it.

Just ask Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii. He had her renamed.

Judge Rob Murfitt made the 9-year-old girl a ward of the court so that her name could be changed, he said in a ruling made public Thursday. The girl was involved in a custody battle, he said.

The new name was not made public to protect the girl's privacy.

"The court is profoundly concerned about the very poor judgment which this child's parents have shown in choosing this name," he wrote. "It makes a fool of the child and sets her up with a social disability and handicap, unnecessarily."

The girl had been so embarrassed at the name that she had never told her closest friends what it was. She told people to call her "K" instead, the girl's lawyer, Colleen MacLeod, told the court.

In his ruling, Murfitt cited a list of the unfortunate names.

Registration officials blocked some names, including Fish and Chips, Yeah Detroit, Keenan Got Lucy and Sex Fruit, he said. But others were allowed, including Number 16 Bus Shelter "and tragically, Violence," he said.

New Zealand law does not allow names that would cause offense to a reasonable person, among other conditions, said Brian Clarke, the registrar general of Births, Deaths and Marriages.

Clarke said officials usually talked to parents who proposed unusual names to convince them about the potential for embarrassment.

Day 2, Split....Part 2 , Toeing Off

2008-06-29T21:21:00.009+02:00

We reached Split at around nine in the morning and after a coffee and putting my luggage at the counter, it was time to go exploring. Ofcourse Split is most famous for two things. One, being the home town of Goran Ivanisevic (I love how that comes first in my head) and two, for Diocletian s Palace, the retirement home of one Mr. GAIUS AURELIUS VALERIUS DIOCLETANIUS (and that is just the first 4 in a list of 22 names by the way. I suppose he had a tough time when someone asked him his middle name. And it was 22 when he was emperor. He added a few more just for the fun of it on retiring. I suppose he decided to retire when visiting dignitaries never got his name right. Infact, I am sure he never knew his full name himself. Just imagine waking up and trying to remember what your name is? And then continuing to do that the entire day after which you finally give up and go check the plaque in front of your house) .

Diocletian was famous for his persecution of Christians in the latter half of his life and strived to eradicate Christianity all together. I found it ironic and somehow typically Christian that what was once his masoulem is now a cathedral containing the sarcophagi of two of the saints he had tortured and killed. Infact the only proof that exists that this was old Diocletian's humble abode at all is a small little inscription hidden away in the dark corners of the masoulem. There was even a cafe called LVXOR on the steps of the ruins and I just had to have an espresso there. What i didnt enjoy however was having to pay to enter each and every attraction within the palace walls. It's not the paying persay that I had a problem with, but the number of times I had to take my wallet out. I would have much rather prefrred to pay 50 Kuna at the entrance rather than pay 10 kuna at five different points. There is something quite alarming in seeing your wallet reduce in size like Tom Hanks in Castaway.

Outside the 'Golden Gate' (it's not actually golden, just called golden. the other two gates are called silver and iron. Apparently bronze was not vey highly thought of, as it is today) is a huge statue of Gregory of Nin by Ivan Mestrovic, the most well known of modern Croatian sculptors. The monumental sculpture shows the bishop reading the Bible with his long, reedy fingers (a characteristic of Mestrovic's style) seemingly pointing to his hat, which he seems quite proud of. Grgur Ninski was a 10th century bishop that strongly opposed the Pope and official circles of the Church and introduced the Croatian language in the religious services after the Great Assembly in 926. Until that time, services were held only in Latin, not being understandable to the majority of the population. Not only was this important for Croatian language and culture but it also made the religion stronger within the Croatian nation. Mr.Gregory apparently also had a foot fetish and is quite prepared to bestow upon you good luck and grant your wishes if you give his big toe a good rub. If only he had been my co-passenger last night on the train. He would have been quite the happy chappie. Anyway, his big toe was nice and shiny as a result but the rest of his toes looked neglected. I felt a bit bad about that so gave all his toes a decent rub. I am hoping that earns me brownie points.

Then I hopped onto a bus and went to Kasjuni beach surrounded by pine trees and a lovely mountain back drop. After a quick swim it was time to head back to the bus station to catch my bus to Dubrovnik. I wanted to catch a late night one but that wasn't running that day. This means an extra, unplanned night's accomodation at some hostel. With just 1000 swiss francs with me and no way of withdrawing money from here, it's a scary proposition. I hope I have enough to last the trip. It doesnt help that Dubrovnik is supposed to be really expensive due to the influx of tourists. Otherwise it's the benches at the bus stop for me tonight....

Day 2, Split.... Part 1

2008-06-29T16:31:00.004+02:00

Had dinner with Jelena at her mess, moussakka which was quite good. Had an interesting and enlightening conversation with her regarding the war. Then boarded the train to Split. The train was supposed to leave at 10.55 but finally decided to start rolling only at 11.55 or so.When I was saying good bye to Jelena at the station I thought I would impress her with all the European etiquette I had picked and say good bye in 'their' way. It's a dizzying process, touch your cheeks on th either side of theirs three times, all the while making kissing noises. At the end of it your brain is doing cartwheels. When I had finished the 2nd round of these exchanges and, dizzy and faint, proceeded for the third and final one I saw the look of murder in her eye. She looked like she wanted to take a traditional Croatian knife, stick it into my stomach and go to town exploring my insides. Apparently, and sensibly so, Croatians exchange 'fake kisses' only twice when saying good bye, and their 'not so friendly neighbours' Serbia, follow the rest of Europe (or Switzerland atleast) and do it thrice. Hence the look.

In the train, I was joined by a busybody grandad who seemed bent on giving his wife and grandkids the hardest time, lugging them and his million piece of luggage from one compartment to the next. He was soon replaced by a group of three students, part of a larger group, from the UK I think, judging from their language, one of which was a not bad-looking girl. I was soon half asleep, and was playing with my seat cushion (why, I have no idea, just those random things you do when you are half asleep I suppose). It was only when i woke up for some water later in the night that I realized that the 'cushion' was actually the girl's foot. Luckily, she was fast asleep and hadn't noticed that I had been giving her an unsolicited foot massage. I went back to sleep making sure my hands were nowhere near her or her feet, and prayed that we reach Split before I did something worse.

Day 1, Zagreb, Meeting with a Hired Assassin

2008-06-27T17:23:00.008+02:00

The flight from Zurich to Zagreb was just one ham sandwich and a glass of coke long. We were landing even before I realized we had taken off! I first thought that the captain was just kidding but the flight is actually only that long.
Met a friendly American chap from Los Angeles, who surprise surprise, came and spoke to me because he saw the Lonely Planet guide in my hand. To all solo travellers looking for some company, my advice to them is to carry a LP in their hands. Within a minute someone is sure to come up to you and ask you about the stuff LP recommends. Anyway this chap said he works in some geo-politics thing, said he works for different governments on short term basis and has an 'independent contract' which gives him the freedom to work how he wants. His work has taken him to Iran, Iraq, and Afghanistan among other places. I suppose you must have reached the same conclusion as I have by now. He has to be a professional killer!! Anyway he was on his way to Sarajevo he said, so if there are any readers from there, and you are important, if you die in the next few days dont tell me I didnt warn you! We took the bus to the central station together after which he split to Split (he he..you can tell how much i wanted to use that phrase, cant you?).

I headed to my hostel, a quaint little thing at the outskirts close to the football stadium,called Ravnice. Had a late start to the morning after a good night's sleep and have been exploring the city since when i decided it s time to give my poor legs a rest. Zagreb is a heady blend of Eastern and Western Europe. There are examples of lovely baroque architecture and glum looking residential buildings, typical of eastern Europe all rolled into one.

The popular pastimes in the capital city include renovating buildings, driving in reverse all the time, parking on the pavement and abandoning vehicles in the middle of busy streets. The number of buildings getting a work over is simply astounding. Unfortunately, these also include some of the tourist attractions so I have't been able to see them in their full glory.

Considering that Croatia and Turkey are not really 'chaddi dosts' ( Turkey have been trying to invade Croatia since the medeival times and in the modern times, most recently in Euro 08, they have proven to be Croatia's nemesis in football) , there seem to be an awful lot of Turkish kebab restaraunts. The same is the case in Switzerlnd as well. I am convinced that kebab is the cornerstone of the Turkish foreign policy.

So , what have i done today? Visited the main churches of course, apart from roaming the streets of the old town and Maksimir, which is apparently the largest and most beautiful park in South East Europe. Also, visited the Mirogoj cemetery which is the most beautiful cemetrery in the world (yes, they have a beauty rating for cemeteries too it seems). It's outer walls are built like a fortress with giant cupolas on them . I dont know why though? Not like the people housed inside need any protecting, they are all protected by God now. I suppose it's a back-up just in case God fails. Also hunted for a place to cut my hair, bought apricots and cherries from Dolac fruit market and also this notebook called Moleskine. It's tagline says, 'the legendary notebook of Hemingway, Picasso, Chatwin'. I suppose they should add, 'and now also by a wannabe blogger'. The cost was a bit steep, but I like it, especially the elastic band and leather binding. But for me to hope that it improves my writing is taking it a bit too far don't you think?

Anyway, my hour is almost up now. Need to go resume my hunt for a salon/saloon or whatever and visit Lotrscak Tower for a 360¨panorama view of the city. Leave by train tonight to Split.

Bliss in Swiss in Croatia !!

2008-06-27T17:18:00.003+02:00

Hello, As you might have guessed I am in Croatia on vacation for a few days. Not to fear, I will still try to keep keep you up to date with the mundane, day to day happenings in my life. It's way easier than writing a mail to each and every one of you anyway. Pictures will be missing from the posts I suppose but I'll add them once I am back home in Ruti. So stay tuned...

College Bakchodi

2008-06-25T10:20:00.008+02:00

College Bakchodi

Director : Mohit Mahajan

Release date : 7th sem, 2007.

Genre : Comedy/ Drama/ Action/ Thriller/ Suspense/ No Romance Whatsoever

Tagline : Exam fever strikes Manipal !! Everybody beware...

Run time : 194 seconds

Location : Room 213, 7th block, MIT Hostels

Cast :

Aravind Kumar : Tragic hero
Shomik Dutta : Village idiot/ Country bumpkin
Mohit Mahajan : Voice that spurs the action on
Vaibhav Aiyar : Accomplice and fellow action 'spurrer'
Deepak Padmakumar : Villain/ Caffein addict

Plot and Review :

Aravind Kumar, in a stellar performance plays the very Shakespearean role of the tragic, fallen hero. An industrious, hard working, studious and intelligent Instrumentation and Control Engineering student ( that's an oxymoron right there) , the first scene shows this endearing character trying hard to prepare for the next day's examination. In walks the class dunce, Shomik, who didnt need to prepare much for his role. He just needed to be himself and the result as you can see is quite natural. There follows some brief exchange of dialogue which basically consists of double entendres. As the characters are built up right before your eyes, in walks the villain, Deepak Padmakumar. He plays his role with aplomb, and the viewer is immediately attracted to his persona. He manages to be endearing and repulsive at the same time.

It 's obvious that Deepak would do anything for coffee. Eyeing the flask at Aravind's table he plans and executes his strategy in a meticulous fashion, ably supported by his sidekick and confidant Vaibhav Aiyar. The ruthlessness with which he shreds to bits Aravind's notes is heartbreaking, a scene that will surely be a tear-jerker even for the coldest hearts. The next scene is downright disgusting. The impudence with which the shreds are scattered over Aravind's head and into his coffee, following which Deepak proceeds to drink the coffee is quite symbolic (symbolic of what? I have not a clue) . It may cause you to revulse and maybe even regurgitate the remnants of your last meal.

This is the last straw for Aravind. Consumed by passion, overwhelmed by anger, a catharsis takes place. Pent up emotions are released, violently. He resorts to violence and raises doubts as to the legitimacy of Deepak's relations with his female siblings. Thus falls our great hero, from the high esteem we held him in so far. Rage made him an animal(and not a domesticated one). This is what MIT does to people.

Mayhem ensues and there is a battle of epic proportions, following which like all good Indian movies, suddenly everything stops (no mothers accidentally killed in this one, that would just be cliched) and everybody lives happily ever after.

The End.

Rating out of 10 : That s for you to decide.

'Blowing' it Out of Proportion

2008-06-20T08:40:00.005+02:00

Firstly, I must ask the Swiss to forgive me for I come from a land where blowing one's nose is regarded as an activity to be executed only under extreme neccessity , and that too rather surreptitiously, with a slightly embarrassed look on the face widely considered a must. This might come as a surprise to many non-Indians but though blowing one's trumpet is encouraged, blowing one's nose is looked down upon. It is to many the ugly step sister of more remarkable feats such as spitting out juicy, bright red ghutka on footpaths and other people's walls and ofcourse the holiest of holies, that act in which partake only the purest, thoroughbred gentlemen of the land, urinating in public.

So pardon me if I seem naive, maybe even ignorant but I just dont get it. The Swiss have taken this seemingly feral activity and elevated it to a position of such grandeur that many a time it is considered the test of a man's virility. This is not to say that women do not take part. This is an activity in which both sexes take part on the same platform, with equal enthusiasm and thefore fits perfectly with the Swiss attitude on women's rights.

If you know one thing about the Swiss, it's their inane drive for perfection. Just as as they ensure that their trains are punctual to the second, that their watches tell you the right time when you are sitting at 'The Restaraunt at the End of the Universe' a trillion years from now, that their chocolates and cheese taste just right, when it comes to nose-blowing too, achieving perfection is a matter very close to their hearts. Gone are the days when you would receive standing ovations for blowing it loud and hard for 5 minutes. Now, it's commonplace to hear Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite or Beethoven's 9th Symphony, renedered to near perfection on what is at the end of the performance, very wet tissue paper almost annihilated beyond recognition.

In this quest, as in any other quest, the Swiss have had to face many obstacles, some of which you may term comical or even, dare I say it, farcical. Two prime examples spring to mind. One ofcourse is the infamous incident when a runny nose literally dampened the spirits of Mr.Wildmer Blowhard in the midst of performing his magnum opus, a 5 hour long self composition. The poor man was so distraught, his nose never recovered that timbre which had made him a household name. The other was when in a widely televised performance of the Swiss Nose Blowing Symphony Orchestra , the artist blowing the violin was completely out of tune. Later reports revealed that the performer in question had forgotten he didnt have a cold, and as is customary in such circumstances, forgotten to stick his head in a bucket of ice before the performance. Needless to say, he was fired on the spot. Tragically, he now makes ends meet by blowing Vivaldi's 'The Four Seasons' in front of Theatreplatz in Zurich and the Kunstmuseum in Luzern, depending on the public for alms.

Traditionalists fear that the death of this art is near. Gone are the days of the classical maestros they say. 'All you can hear coming out of those young ignoramuses' noses are the latest house hits, rap songs by bow wows, snoop dogs and other rappers with similarly demeaning names, and Sexy Back by Justin Timberlake' is an oft heard gripe. Others believe that this is the only way to attract the younger generation and hence necessary for it's survival. There are some more who believe that the way forward is to attract people from around the world. So far, the Italians have been most receptive to the concept of nose blowing as an art but they are still only taking baby steps. Connosieurs fear that the art will never have a big impact on Asian societies. Juliet Schneider, President of the SNOT ( Swiss National Organisation That nose blows) , known in her day for her long drawn out, extremely complex performances has another view and says the day of fusion performances with Western and Asian or Hindustani nose blowers is not far away. ' It will be a coming together of civilizations, of beliefs, of traditions like none have ever seen before' she says. The biggest obstacle? ' Asians believe in blowing their noses into handkerchiefs and as you very well know cotton never brings out the true musical quality of a blow. What they need is good quality tissue paper' Juliet concludes.

What do I think? I think it's blown out of proportion.

Not very cute

2008-04-09T14:00:00.006+02:00

Blogger's note: OK, to fully understand where this post comes from you will have to do 2 things:

1. listen to the following piece of music(Just follow the link below). Pay particularly close attention between seconds 2:19 to 2:25

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h8JppA8MWyg

2.Once you finish listening to the song, you have a time limit of 10 minutes to complete reading the post. You will find out why later.

Now i proceed presuming that you have listened to the lyrical masterpiece by Keating. I was listening to my mp3 player the other day when this particular line from the song really moved me. By moved i mean it had me on the floor laughing my head off! If you still have no clue what I am referring to, it is to this one particular line in the song, 'cuter than a bug in a rug'. Yes, his lady love(s) is cuter than a bug in a rug! That is the best he could come up with! Doesnt say much about his girl though if she is only cuter than an invertebrate insect on treated animal skin used as floor covering. I am sure African pygmies high on Savanna grass can come up with better lines than that.
I figured that we should create a database for such brutally honest crooners who want to sing love ballads with an essence of truth in them. This is for those a cut apart from the rest who dont want to sing the usual 'My heart will go on and on ' crap because they know that no matter what, one fine day, your heart WILL stop. So here is a list of 'cuter than...' similies for singers whose girlfriends are not necessarily cuter than a bug in a rug. Feel free to add to the list..

1. cuter than a witch in a ditch

2.cuter than a panda in a anaconda
This would be ideal if there is a musical collaboration between the Chinese and the Amazon jungle dwellers, but for that to happen China will have to resolve the Tibet issue.Apparently the Amazonians are firm supporters of the Dalai Lama and the Free Tibet movement.

3. cuter than a snake on a cake
( the girl will have to be particularly hideous for someone to use this one i suppose)

Reason for the time limit: When i re-read the post after writing it, i didnt find it the least bit funny although when i wrote it it seemed hilarious. I attribute that to temporary insanity caused by the song. After conducting a number of scientific tests (that number being zero) I have ascertained that this insanity lasts for 10 minutes. So to find this post the least bit funny you will have to read it within 10 minutes of listening to the song.

The Paradox of Our Age

2008-04-04T12:16:00.006+02:00

jus added the pic to make my number of posts reach double figures..but these words really got me thinking..so i thought i d stimulate your brains as well..ha ha

(click on pic for larger image)

NASA Baffled by Failure of Straw Shuttle

2008-04-03T14:48:00.003+02:00

another great article from theonion.com

NASA's lightweight straw space shuttle tragically burst into flames upon rocket-fuel ignition

NASA officials watched in horror Monday as the $68 billion straw space shuttle, Explorer 2, burst into flames just after liftoff from Cape Canaveral.

The four American and three Russian astronauts onboard were killed instantly, despite their protective all-straw space suits. Technicians were stunned by the failure, which capped a flawless six-month pre-launch test period. They count faulty twine among the possible causes of the accident.

"The straw ship was dry, light-weight and well-bailed enough to break the earth's orbit, but inexplicably burst into flames when ignited with 3,000 gallons of rocket fuel," said NASA Chief Engineer George Toshikima. "This is a devastating setback for NASA."

An estimated 30 birds, eight voles and 23 mice who had nested in the ship's outer hull or burrowed homes deep in the ship's straw engines also perished in the blast.The material holding the ship in place was top-quality burlap bailing twine, purchased in bulk from Cape Canaveral's leading farm equipment supplier.

The straw ship was constructed with over 200,000 bales of U.S. Grade E straw, baled, tied and pitched from NASA's Cape Canaveral farm, and stored over the planting season in the launchpad barn. "It was nice and crisp and dry," Toshikima said. "Which is the best condition for straw headed away from the earth's gravitational pull."According to accident reports, the one-eighth-inch thick string was possibly not tied tightly enough or not weaved correctly around a critical fuel-delivery gasket, which may have caused the ship to unravel.

Toshikima does not believe such a small imperfection could have caused the massive explosion. "We are still trying to determine why it suddenly burst into flames," he said. "In all the pre-fueling tests, the procedure went perfectly, but as soon as we ignited the fuel, it exploded. Why?"
Some insiders fault a problem that occurred last week, when a section of the ship's starboard high-pressure re-entry tiles was eaten by a horse.

"The horse should not have been on the launchpad," NASA grounds coordinator Nathan Meersen said. "He ate a critical section of the ship, and it set us back one full day to re-bale and re-tie that section."Meersen said the horse was returned to NASA stables and given a suitable meal, remnants from the department's long-abandoned, all-hay Mars probe.Although some reports indicate goats may have gnawed at the ship's exterior cables, NASA scientists maintain that there was never a problem with goats.

Explorer 1, NASA's first straw ship, was built in 1994, but after 11 months of painstaking preparation, it was destroyed the day before the launch when it unexpectedly rained.
The Explorer 2, like its predecessor, was headed for the sun, where it was to be the first spacecraft to land on a star."We'd hoped to bring back and study sun rock," Toshikima said.
The straw ship had been equipped with a special reinforced-wicker basket to hold the sun lava for its journey back to Earth. A straw-enforced robot arm was constructed to scoop the lava, which is reportedly as hot as the center of a nuclear holocaust, and place it into the wicker basket.The ship's debris is slated to be used as mulch.

Amazing Google!!

2008-04-01T16:03:00.002+02:00

http://mail.google.com/mail/help/customtime/index.html

The most amazing e mail service provider in the world, with another outstanding application..You can virtually travel back in time using this application. Click on the link above to find out more!!!!!!!!!!!

COMMENTS people!!!!

2008-04-01T10:13:00.006+02:00

Hey all you people with nothing better to do than read my blog,

(that's me showing you a monkey face...he he)

For all of you who think that i write this blog as an outlet for my emotions and thoughts, or a tool to improve my literary prowess or for just the joy of writing, I am sorry to say that you are sadly mistaken. The only reason i write is to read all the good things you have to say about my writing and bask in my own self-importance. So, you have two choices....

One is to feed my narcissistic tendencies by saying how supercaliflagilisticexpealidocious my blog is and how all the Victoria's Secret supermodels are going to fall head over heels, over one another to date me. Or you can just tell the truth. Either way, please do leave comments!!!

yours bloggingly,
the guy who should be treating his readers better considering he has so few of them...

No Country For Shaved Men

2008-03-27T11:06:00.008+01:00

If you are a hapless tourist in Switzerland at this time of the year you would be excused for thinking that the lack of facial hair on the male form of the human species is frowned upon here. All across Switzerland from Zurich to Geneva you will find bearded men (and maybe even women) silently smirking at clean shaven passers-by. You might think it's considered effeminate to not have one, maybe you will even try growing one yourself just to fit in, but this annual ritual has a much more 'logical' explanation. So what makes the generally quiet, reserved, peace-loving(and clean shaven) men of this country transform into beard growing, beer swigging brutes?? HOCKEY season!!!

Now you should know that 'hockey' in Switzerland means the one played on ice, with players skating on shoes with knife edges so sharp it would make the guillotine operators of the French Revolution proud. The objectives are also slightly different from the more traditional version of the sport which we Indians are more accustomed to. The less important one is to get a small black disc called a puck past the goalkeeper into the goal which looks like it's been shrunk by the mad scientist/dad from "Honey I Shrunk the Kids", while the goalie prowls around it like a bear protecting it's honey filled cave. The second and much more important objective is to maim and murder as many of the other team's players as possible. To fully illustrate this second objective here's a picture:

Another thing you should know is to never tell someone here that actual hockey is played with wooden sticks and a ball on a surface of grass or Astro-turf, and the bloody venture that they so fondly refer to as 'hockey' is infact ice hockey. I tried once and was almost bludgeoned to death.
Anyway, getting back to the point, during hockey season a very popular tradition is to grow a beard as long as your home team is still in the championship. As the tournament progresses and teams get knocked out you will see drastic reduction in beards, which occurrs in phases depending on which canton gets knocked out when. Ofcourse, this is not a great time for the women what with all the hirsuteness everywhere but i suppose they learn to take the rough with the 'smooch'...

This tradition got me thinking. What if this practice caught on in the cricketing world? What if fans decided to grow a beard until their team lost? One thing is for certain. Come Christmas, Australian men will be in high demand the world over to be Santa Clauses (or Santa Clausi, i am not really sure what the plural form of Santa Claus is) in malls and supermarkets for their prolific, all natural beards. But what about India? What would happen here if we were plagued by this insanity?

I let my imagination run wild, and by wild i mean as wild as a man-eating Royal Bengal tiger thirsty for blood (I know what you are thinking.. that i have too much time on my hands, to sit and imagine utter nonsense). This is what i came up with....

In a cricket crazy nation like ours, the tradition would be taken to extremes. Cricket fanatics, and there are a lot of them in India, would decide to grow their beards irrespective of whether the team is winning or losing, as a show of confidence in the team they consider the best in the world. This would in time lead to a new religion, and 'non-beardites' would be persecuted for not being patriotic enough. Politicians, being the weasels they are will try to use the situation to their advantage by classifying this latest addition to communal turmoil as a religious minority and then implementing a fresh quota system, all to garner a few extra (million) votes. Luminaries from other sports will cry foul about all the hullabaloo, as they do now, and nobody will really care about what they have to say, again as they do now. On the upside, the persecution will churn out a few new terrorist organizations against the 'beardists' and this will hopefully lead to better looking terrorists. (My opinion has always been that it's all good to talk about the genocide of infidels but who is going to take you seriously if you do nothing about the bird sanctuary growing on your face?)

The new tradition would land a big blow to the expansion plans of the ICC. The next big market for cricket in their opininion is the United States of America, but Uncle Sam is quite like my grandmom, they both don't approve of facial hair. The establishment there even considers a stubble to be a sure sign of an Islamic radical (my grandmom in comparison is quite liberal in her views).

Whatever the impact of this new religion, I think I'd be an ardent follower, not because i am a cricket fan, but because i consider shaving a terrible chore and an absolute waste of time. What better excuse to not do it? Now i have to figure out a way to counter the stiff resistance from my grandmom against my new found religious beliefs....

Shroud Of Turin Accidentally Washed With Red Shirt

2008-03-17T14:49:00.006+01:00

To keep all you guys in good spirits and keep you waiting patiently for my next 'original' post, here s another hilarious article I came across and would like to share. The blogger would like to thank Onion, America's if not finest, then funniest news source for their contributions to the world of journalism. Such journalistic masterpieces is sure to win them a Pulitzer or two.

Blogger's note: It has come to the attention of the blogger that some of my readers believed that the following incident actually took place. Let me assure you that it's completely a work of fiction. Putting the Shroud in the laundry is like white-washing the Pyramids or re-building the broken parts of the Colosseum. And for those readers who believed this really happened:YOU ARE EXTREMELY DUMB. PLEASE SEEK MEDICAL HELP TO EASE YOUR SUFFERING OR GO TO AMSTERDAM AND GET YOURSELF KILLED TO EASE THE SUFFERING OF OTHERS.

VATICAN CITY—The Shroud of Turin, an ancient linen cloth believed to bear the image of Christ and considered by many clerics and devotees to be one of the holiest relics of the Christian faith, was inadvertently dyed a light shade of pink after being washed with a red T-shirt, sources reported Tuesday.
The holy antiquity, thought by some to be the very garment Jesus Christ was buried in, was discovered in 1354. Though it has suffered oxidation and fire damage over the centuries, this is the first time that the shroud has been harmed in a laundry-related mishap.

Cardinal Giovanni Lajolo assures reporters at a Vatican press conference that it is far too late for club soda.

"Simply because the shroud has been given a slight pinkish tint does not in any way diminish its sanctity," Vatican spokesman Cardinal Giovanni Lajolo said during a press conference held to address the spiritual repercussions of the shroud's staining. "It is still very much the icon of the suffering of the innocent of all times."
The Vatican stressed that nothing out of the ordinary happened to the shroud during the initial preparations for its monthly laundering in Rome. As is custom, on the third Sunday of the month, the priceless relic—which is kept in the royal chapel of the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist in Turin, Italy—was taken from its hermetically sealed, bulletproof glass case and stuffed into the Blessed Papal Laundry Sack, and it was then transported by a retinue of Swiss Guards to Vatican City without incident.
According to Lajolo, the damage occurred when Pope Benedict XVI, whose turn it was to do the Vatican laundry, did not notice that a brand-new, bright-red Hanes Beefy-T belonging to Cardinal Angelo Sodano had been placed inside of the consecrated cleansing vessel, the Holy Whirlpool 24934 top-load washer.
The pope then started a load of white vestments, including the shroud, only realizing what had happened when he returned to remove the sacred artifact, which is always line-dried.
"His Holiness was distracted with trying to scrub a tough Blood of Christ stain out of Cardinal Nicora's miter," Lajolo said. "Not that this was some sort of mistake on his part. The pope is still infallible. We have to keep in mind that this is all part of God's greater plan."

The papal laundry room where the shroud had been washed thousands of times without incident.

"And who are we to question or reject the ways the Lord works through our laundry?" Lajolo continued.
Church officials said that the shroud's staining was not in any way due to negligence on the Vatican's part. An investigation into the matter showed that the detergent had been properly blessed before the laundering, and the holy water softener that was installed last summer was working perfectly.
"We must not allow ourselves to fall into despair, for, as sinners, we are flawed and must seek forgiveness in the Lord alone," said Lajolo, who later hinted that the damage to the shroud was possibly God's response to the sins of the world, and especially homosexuality. "As Christ teaches, let he who has never overly starched, shrunk, or rent his garments cast the first stone."
Though the discoloring of the Shroud of Turin has come as a shock to many Catholics, it is not the first time that a holy relic has been damaged. In 1983, several pieces of the True Cross were water-stained after being used as coasters during Pope John Paul II's birthday party, and in 1572, the knucklebone of St. Olaf was accidentally thrown out with a plate of half-eaten chicken wings.
In the wake of the incident involving Christ's death shroud, the Vatican has been exploring possible ways to restore the raiment back to its original color.
"We do not want to attempt to use caustic cleaning agents for fear of turning the blessed shroud an unholy bright orange," Lajolo said. "We continue to look to God for divine guidance as to the purity and virtue of using a color-safe bleach."

Cricket takes a 'back' seat

2008-03-13T09:34:00.003+01:00

I just had to share this pic of our 'rising' (sexual innuendo intended) cricket stars enjoying a bird's eye view of well...a bird(chick if you want to get more specific about which bird). All it takes is a woman to make mere mortals of men deemed as 'gods'.

Event-ual-lee

2008-03-11T16:26:00.002+01:00

Ok... Today let me tell you about one of my colleagues at the office, let's call him Mr.O to avoid any defamation suits that may come my way if I told you his name was Oskar Hugenthobler (oops..).For some reason unknown to me he is particularly fascinated with the word 'eventually' and he has even developed his own unique style of saying it. First comes the 'event' part which is a grand event in itself, each syllable as crisp as a San Darshini masala dosa(for all of you who dont know San Darshini, it s your loss, the dosas are really crisp and the vada-sambar is quite awesome too). This is followed by a momentary pause for good effect which gives you the eerie feeling that the next few words out of his mouth are going to be the answer to all of life's unanswered questions and as you wait with bated breath out comes the remaining 'ually'. Ofcourse there is a sense of anticlimax and a feeling of being let down(I mean, there you are expecting the whats,whys and hows of crop circles, Bermuda triangles, women and all the other confounding mysteries that plague mankind and all you get is a measly 'ually'. Who wouldnt feel let down?), but, it sure is a pleasure to hear him say it.

Atleast it would be, if he didnt say it so goddamn often Now it just gets on my nerves. Irrespective of circumstance, situation or conversation he always manages to throw in (quite a) few 'eventuallies'. For example:

Me: O, could you please tell me why he has made this modification to the design?
Mr.O: He has done this because I don't know why, but i will ask him and we will find out eventually.

Me: Ah, so what changes do you want me to make in the Bill of Materials?
Mr.O: Well, eventually you will have to change it manually.

Me: Ok. What about the drawing? Any modifications required?
Mr.O: Eventually just make sure you show a section view so that the hidden screws can be seen eventually.
(By now apart from making a section view to show hidden screws i plan to eventually thump him on the head with a view to tighten his)

Me: Ok, thank you.
(Begin to leave hurriedly before I try to execute my murderous plan)
Mr.O: And please let me know when you are finished so that i eventually check and release the documents.

Ofcourse there are times when i purposely try to get him to say the word, which really is not all that hard as the following conversation reveals from when our coffee breaks coincided once:

Me: I heard it rains in Switzerland in March?
Mr.O: Yes, eventually it does.

Me: So when will it get warm?
Mr.O: Eventually.

Me(trying my best not to burst into a guffaw and managing to constrain it to wry grin): I cant wait for the weather to become better. I want to do so much travelling then.
Mr.O: Ya, ya. All the flowers are blooming then and eventually it will be really beautiful.

(I begin choking on hot coffee and end up with a burnt tongue)

Now that my interaction with him has increased since he is the one who assigns me work presently, sometimes i feel that I have begun to use the word too often as well. Maybe this entire post is just an outlet for my addiction, but you know I am sure it's just my imagination playing tricks on me. I am sure I won't feel the same way when i get used to it, eventually.......

P.S. Sorry about providing all that free publicity to San Darshini earlier in this post. I had written that part just before lunch and as you must have guessed, food was the only thing on my mind. If anyone who works for San Darshini is reading this, please pay up(unless you are the guy who makes the dosas, if so, thanks for all the dosas).

The Hunt for the Elusive Urinal

2008-03-01T22:15:00.001+01:00

A piece of advice for all those people out there planning a trip to a strange land: the four words in the native language of the country you are visiting that are absolutely essential for your survival are: WHERE IS THE BATHROOM? The story behind this great discovery is a tragic one, for my poor bladder had to endure incessant torture and great pain, but, unlike the Greek tragedies of yore, this story has a happy ending where justice prevails, truth triumphs and and an innocent bladder finds a Pissario.
It all began with a visit to Zürich. I was to attend an IAESTE meeting there. I thought I d reach a little earlier than scheduled, walk around and discover the place a bit before the meeting. My bladder, for the past 21 years having experienced a tropical climate was suddenly thrust into the harsh Swiss winter and sub-zero temperatures. It put up a brave fight for about an hour but then it was forced to raise the white flag. I decided to head back to to the Bahnof, which is German for station for all you illiterates, which was sure to have a public restroom. If you have ever wondered what 'searching for a needle in a haystack' means try searching for a measly toilet in a railway station with 54 platforms,an underground mall, and to boot in a country where they speak 4 languages of which not one do you know!
I finally managed to find one, a place called McClean (i think i smell a lawsuit coming). For those of you who think that you have come to the fruitful completion of another pointless story, let me tell you that thats when the fun was just beginning(not for me but for that superior being out there with a sadistic sense of humour, commonly referred to as God). The guy in charge was this old, balding man bulging from everywhere, yes EVERYWHERE, and his two sizes too small track pant and tee weren't helping any. I saw a sign that said,' Toilet- 2CHF'. All i had on me was a 20CHF note which i handed over to the ancient chappie. It was promptly returned and i was directed to a machine. I fed it the 20, only to be given four 5CHF coins in return. I then put in one of the 5CHF coins and the machine spat out five 1CHF coins. The only rational explanation for what i did next must be that my brain was starved for blood as all of it was being directed to the southern regions, in a frantic attempt to keep me from wetting my pants. As i put two of the coins into the slot, I instantly realized my fatal error in judgment because the machine began excreting change, splattering it all over the place, like a woolly mammoth with a severe case of amoebic dysentry!
I somehow manage to survive the onslaught and swore to never put a coin into that possessed machine ever again. Only later, in less trying times did I realize that it was a machine dispensing change! I handed over coins of various denominations summing up to 2CHF to the bemused granddaddy at the counter and requested him to let me use the bathroom. It turned out that his English was as good as my Swahili. Instead of letting me through he starts asking me a bunch of questions which sounded all Greek to me( although i do relent to the voice of reason which tells me it must have been German, what with Zurich being in the German speaking part of Switzerland and all..). All i could do in reply was to stare back at him with a pleading look while simultaneously praying to God (yes, that same aforementioned sadistic, yet omnipotent creature) to end my ordeal. My prayers must have been answered because what followed was indeed a miracle. The old man, now exasperated with the one-way talk suddenly had a moment of brilliance, which far exceeded his mental prowess and single digit IQ. He points to his penis and asks,no wait, shouts,'PEE PEE??!!'. I nod my head in earnest and he guides me in the right direction. The urinal was on the other side and as I scurried towards it I couldn't help but praise the Lord.
If you ever come to Zurich, please do remember that urinals are called Pissarios(not to be confused with Pizzerias which are Italian eateries). I had to pay 1CHF to use the urinal and although it didnt seem like much then, looking back i can't believe i had to pay close to 50 bucks just to take a leak!!

P.S. After many more visits to the urinals at the Zurich station i have come to realize that they are not Pissarios but in fact Pissoirs. Still sound like Italian restaurants to me though.....

Before we begin....

2008-02-27T23:50:00.000+01:00

Well, how do i begin?? I am not sure actually, never written a blog before..I find a blog kind of ironic. Isn't it? I mean, it's basically your personal journal but one that the whole world can see, but still, here I am writing one.
I suppose a few words about the title should come next. Well, 'entsculdigung sie mich bitte' is German for excuse me please. I like to think of it as an equivalent of a term that is truly Bangalore,'swalpa adjust maadi', but in reality it isn't. So why did I choose this title? Well, I enrolled for a German course when I knew there was a good chance i might be coming here to Switzerland. For various reasons I managed to attend only a grand total of 4 classes and one of the phrases that left an ever-lasting impression on me was this one. I used to repeat it all the time and I am sure all my friends know this one German expression because of my incessant and irrational drive to master this one particular phrase.
The funny thing is now that I am finally here and can put this one phrase i know to practical use I find it terribly inconvenient to use. Imagine for a moment that you want to interrupt someone with your two penny's worth (or two rappen's worth in this case). By the time your tongue acrobatically moves around your mouth and you manage to spit out the 4 words in question, the conversation has reached an entirely different topic, and some times the people you were talking to have finished the conversation and left for their workstations while you are still there staring blankly at the wall. What does this pointless story have to do with my blog? Nothing at all(which is why it is pointless), but this is my blog and i can write whatever i want.
Anyway, I am sure this a brief sampling of what my blog is going to be like. Here's to lots more pointless stories.....