City Lights

Mission Rescue Blog: Accomplished

2008-06-03T17:20:00.005+05:30

Finally, I have managed to recover my old blog, on which I had started my illustrious blogging career (*smirk*). I have my sister to thank for coming back to the hideous writing that I thought I had carefully hidden away from the rest of the world.

This blog was started long before Google integrated all the Blogger accounts with Google accounts, and somewhere in the melee, my id and password got lost. I forgot the answer to my secret question that was to be answered for recovering my password, which was an enigmatic "Why?". It was like the Universe pleading with me to stop committing the atrocities on the written language.

Anyway then it all looked like the grand design of the universe to help me begin anew, and I did. My new blog is at http://wnwek.wordpress.com, and this blog has been canned. All rotten eggs, tomatoes, and brickbats to be directed there now.

YKWWBACI? - 1

2006-06-13T17:06:00.000+05:30

I have often been ridiculed for my larger-than-life posterior (I have also been stared at for my dimple, but getting "back" to the matter-at-hand...). Life's so unfair. Halfway round the world, if I were a pop singer, I could have insured my butt for millions, but being an ordinary-looking Indian engineer, with a paunch to match, does not entail such benefits. Its quite disconcerting when you are walking with a group of friends who slowly fall back, which you don't notice until all of them are literally sniggering their hearts out at my swaying hips.

Though I always retort with a mischievous smile and a haunting "Don't be jealous!", these pricks have a way getting to you, no matter how many layers of fat you have. (I'd rather refer to them as reminders of good meals past.)

So, next time you meet me and my chair is squeaking or my seat is quaking, don't be alarmed. I am merely shaping up my bottom.

You know what would be a cool idea? (YKWWBACI?) An ad-hoc processing network built to interface with every device through every possible means. Yes, it is a stale idea called the Grid, but hear me out. You have a large problem you need to solve. Instead of coding your problem in such a way that only one computer can process it, you code it for multiple computers at the same time. Yes, that's plain-Jane parallel computing. What I am proposing is a little different.

Its something like the SETI, only at much grander proportions. Suppose, SETI had a street office in, say New York, which could possibly transmit or upload processing modules. Everybody carries a Blackberry (just assume it!). What if when they are going to office, they download a particular module for processing, process that module during the day, and when going back home, return the results in the same manner, or upload them to the Internet?

Now, let's improve the scenario. Everybody doesn't have just a Blackberry. Some of the privileged ones will have laptops and most of them will have mobile phones. Heck, some of them will even have mp3 players (though how they are going to be interfaced, I have no clue, USB ports in the streets, perhaps? or probably Bluetooth? Now Bluetooth is something that has other advantages too.) All of these devices can download a module, too.

Now that we are really going wild, why not include IPTVs, etc., anything that has a resident OS and processor. See the proportions this idea if really worked upon can reach. Instead of bringing laptops to warehouse, to create a momentary supercomputer, we have a really good fault-tolerant one with infrastructure in place. I know the financial implications and inconveniences, including the ones at the individual level, will make it really hard to implement this idea. But hey, it's worth a try.

You know what would be an absurd idea? (YKWWBAAI?) A Linux with just the basic kernel, designed to run the Java Virtual Machine. Every process is then coded in Java, including the command interface.

The only possible use of this version of Linux could be on the new smart phones, where most downloaded applications are coded in JME (Java Micro Edition). But will coding the entire interface in Java, help in making the development of the Java applications to be run on it easier? Probably, because all the components are referenced in the already coded Java library. Another question, will the changes in this library for different platforms minimal, if we use interfaces feature in Java? That's for the developers to say.

A big disadvantage is the JVM itself. Java applications are really heavy and if the menus and interfaces are going to be Java applications, is the cost of running them really worth the customisability, if there is such an advantage?

This will be my last post for a month. I'll be going on a holiday and will be back with a revamped blog. Adios, muchachos!

I'm baaaaaaack!

2006-06-11T16:00:00.000+05:30

Its fitting that I revive my blog on the last Sunday I will spend in the city I love so much. So much for nostalgia, let's get down to business...

I don't shave very often; very intelligent on my part if you sit down and analyse it, cheap and less pain. But then the other day, I decided to put the beard to the blade. I went to put some after-shave and my bottle of Denim had long gone evaporated.

So I decided to borrow some of Dad's Old Spice. So I jerk some of it into my hand and then not finding the same agility as my dad's in me, I do a little jig to prevent it from falling out. Seeing that its not working, I decide to put on what's remaining on my face.

Somewhere down the line, my Mallu instinct intercepted my neuronic commands and changed the instructions.

So I end up putting it on my head.... and start rubbing it in my hair vigorously.

Uh-oh, says my Mallu instinct interceptor box(MIIB).

You can say that again, says my brain. You started the problem, so you solve it.

My MIIB slinks away quietly and cranks out a solution.

Next thing, my brain sees on its sensors, is the same hand trying to salvage the after-shave lotion from what did not get rubbed into my scalp.... and applying it to my face.

Oh well..., says my brain.

Our college had so many sentimental idiots; I didn't know. Its hard to make out through the tears.

The Big Chill Cafe is an excellent place. Its decent enough for a family affair, cosy enough for a date, lively enough for a get-together and tasty enough for the afficionados. They serve exclusively pastas, lasagnes, icecreams and pastries. And the wonderful thing about them is you can't complain about the lack of variety.

Its apparently run by a Bengali woman and the people on the floor and in the kitchen, are mainly twenty-somethings from the North-East. The only grouse I can think of is that they do not serve alcohol, but that does not seem to deter the crowds. They don't make reservations in advance; you can end up waiting upto half-an-hour for a table to get free.

I don't know how authentic the Italian food is, though my father claims the lasagne bolognaise is not as smooth as it should be. But I can surely vouch for the fact that BC will not leave you disappointed. Try the ice-creams, they are made in-house and they are amazing.

To get to BC, go to Khan Market. There are two outlets, one near the MCD-run parking lot, in the same line as Sugar-and-Spice and one in the middle lane, behind McDonald's. There is another outlet, but I cannot recollect where exactly it is.

Storytime - 2

2005-11-02T11:53:00.000+05:30

I am sitting at a bar. Heavy music resonates in my ears, I hardly notice. The dim lighting and the glitzy underworldish look messes with my sense of time. I can't tell whether I am supposed to go or stay; to ask for some more or just shut up; to look around or to look into my glass. God, I am drunk. I am confused.

A gorgeous girl walks up to me. And in a haunting voice hisses the obvious question. It jerks me back to reality. This is why I came here. I look into her eyes, looking for a hint of sarcasm, or even pity. I find none. Instead, I find cold indifference, completely disinterested with life, with me.

Suddenly, my wedding ring tightens, my finger hurts. My mind starts racing. I get scared because of the dillema I am in, of the time I am taking to answer her. I shouldn't have been confused.

And then, in a corner of my head I start thinking, am I good enough for her? And my brain yells, no thunders back, hell you're paying her for this. My other half hasn't decided yet - to go or not. Hell, I thought shopping was easy.

Something metallic flashes in front of me. Thank God for the bartender, I slur "Would you like something to drink?". Anything to delay this. God, anything. Will I see this as a lost opportunity? What's wrong with me? Lost opportunity?

Should I say no? It won't complicate stuff.
It won't make things easier either. I need this.
No you don't. You'll find somebody. This is not why you came here.
Hell, with this, I am doing it.
Really, with what? Since when can you do anything without pills?

Computers were so much easier. And you didn't have to pay them, either.

Disappointed at myself, I tumble the words out of my mouth somehow. God, my head is reeling. Is the celing really moving? Does this restaurant revolve?

I get up, resolving to never come back again. I look around for my keys. Oh yes, in my pocket. What did I have today? God, what is that colour?

I stumble in the parking lot. The doorman helps him. Instinctively, I bat his hands away. I shouldn't have. Who is going to find my car for me? Did I bring the Blue Pontiac or the White Taurus? Hell, Everything is a White Pontiac here? Do I have a White Pontiac? Hell, I'll walk home. Which way is it? I'll ask somebody on the way.

I see a couple of girls. Maybe they know where my home is. I go towards them. Or are they coming towards me? I can't tell. Anyway they are closer, I yell at them. Strangely, none of it is about where my home is. They run. What is happening to me?

I walk. Atleast I think I am walking. Never assume stuff, my philosophy teacher told me, or something to that effect. I keep meeting tall blacks, really thin chaps. Like they are guarding the road or something. Pretty silent guys, don't even flinch when you kick them. Must be basketball players or something. Hey, there is my shadow. Hmmm.

Can you kill your own shadow? Let's see. Here you go, you. I throw my bottle at him. Shit, he hasn't moved. Still standing there, staring at me. Is he going to attack me? I run. I look back to see him comfortably keeping up with me. I turn into a dark alley to lose him. Thank God, he won't find me here.

I cover myself with some newspaper. I sleep, hmmm, heavenly sleep. I don't want to get up. Good night.
-
........MAN FOUND DEAD: A man, 65, was found dead last night in an alley behind the upmarket restro-bar, 0. He had high levels of the narcotic, LSD, in his blood and police suspect he died of overdose. No identification was found on him and so far, no one has come forward to claim the body.....

lonely people

Storytime

2005-10-31T18:22:00.001+05:30

There was this market just like all others in delhi, hustling-bustling with people going about their lives, buying stuff, you know what a market looks like. Just that in this market, there was something different. There was a man, sam, always found splayed on the ground in the same old dungarees that he had always been in.

Nobody even knew whether sam was his real name; it had always been that ever since...well, I can't remember. All I remember is that he wouldn't get anybody's way. And he was a sort of a grounding post for the market; if they had anything in common, like the mithaiwallah put it, it was sam.

He wasn't a beggar, but then again he wouldn't refuse the few tidbits that people would hand him, with a compassionate, "Here, sam". A gruff show of gratitude that vaguely sounded like "Shukriya" was all that the most generous of all dole-out would elicit of him.

sam was there at his spot, day in and day out, every public holiday, guarding the market. He would have a glazed look in his eye, observing the world go by him as he would remember a lost loved one - watching them frolic in a forgotten garden of roses and butterflies through a kaleidoscope with clayderman playing in the background a octave higher and a beat slower. Who knows, maybe he didn't have the courage to carry on after his darling went on to the great big amusement park in the sky.

Much water flowed under the bridge; it was nearly ten years, since all of us could collectively strain our memories and remember sam. Then one day,

The mithaiwallah was just closing his shop for the day; all his earnings in hand he was going to the bank to put in what he didn't require for the rest of the week. A group of youths had been watching and waiting. As he turned the key in the lock, they made their lunge. Two of them came zipping on a motorcycle, The chap on the backseat grabbed at the mithaiwallah's suitcase and then the motorcycle made a dash back.

But it was not to be. To avoid sam, the rider swerved towards the left, a bit too quickly perhaps. The motorcycle fell and skidded towards a wall. The screech of metal tearing across the pavement was only stopped by the sickening crunch of their skulls. The third boy fled; he couldn't understand how it had gone so horribly wrong.

Dazed, the mithaiwallah just walked over and picked up his suitcase and gathered his things which had fallen out and just walked away. It was too much to comprehend.

He didn't hear sam saying, "You're welcome", him getting up, taking his blanket, folding ever so tenderly, seemingly oblivious to what had just happened. He didn't see sam just walking away, whistling, light hearted, like a man whose job was finally done.

It was only the next day, when the mithaiwallah was relating the story to anybody who cared to listen, he noticed sam had gone. And for the first time, the aithaiwallah probably understood where he he had come from.

You see, its not that we do our bidding silently in the shadows; its just that nobody cares to ask us who we are.

the angel

I am poetic about prose and prosaic about poetry. I don't think a well-written piece requires the embellishment of rhyme and meter. The beauty of a piece, I believe, should be in what it means and not how it looks and sounds.

Besides, I suck at poetry.

Vivek

Arbit stuff

2005-10-25T20:11:00.000+05:30

Here's a luxury...typing my post while I am online...should kind of tell you the kind of cheap miser I am...

Saw chocolate today. Has a story of sorts but the cameraman was hell bent on ruining it. me thinks suni(e?!)l shetty was great friends with the cameraman, making things easier for him.

And who tells these people they can act? Somebody should find this great enemy of mankind and hang him alive...

satyam is a great movie hall, bit too expensive but then good things do come at a price...

I have been noticing that I use cliches a lot. Another one of those paragraphs, I don't know how to end. Sorry, azeez.

Some of the stupidest things in the world ...

2005-10-17T20:10:00.000+05:30

"Give me the names of the people who blocked your car, and I'll have them arrested."
--Chief Minister of West Bengal saying to industrialists when they were blocked by protesters.

How generous of you, sir! I'll just call up my PA and have him rattle off the names from his diary. Not only me but every prominent industrialist and corporate executive has a habit of noting down the names of such miscreants. I'll even tell you how we go about doing it.

Industrialist: Sir, could you please tell me your good name? Miscreant(smashing the windscreen of the industrialist's Merc.): Yeah, Daku Singh. Thank you for asking. I: And your address? M: Hold on a sec, will ya? (beats up the driver, deflates the tyres, then turns to I) ..Yeah, behind the Post Office...anything else? I: No, that'll be all. Thank you for your co-operation ...

Sure, sir, that's how we law-abiding industrialists go about our business.

A moment of silence for all those who perished in the devastating earthquake. May their souls rest in peace.

Its not funny at all when an earthquake happens. Thank God, and all the forces that be, that atleast we were awake when it happened. Imagine the horror if it happened during the night when everybody was sleeping. God forbid, the toll would have much higher.

And, if it were strike Delhi, God knows we are not prepared for it. If any of the buildings were to collapse around CP, then we are done for. I don't even want to think what would happen if it were to hit a densely populated area in Delhi.

Right now, most people in my year are preparing for the lives ahead, some CATting, some apping(slang: applying to universities abroad.) and the others just plain studying college stuff. Suddenly, my classmates have become a lot more sober and quiet. The realisation that the world outside may not be so rosy a fter all must have hit them.

Guys, don't take it too hard. There's always place for good people and we are not thaaaaaat bad. I mean, we are slightly minisculy so, lazy but we do work our asses off when its grind time.

And, please don't think you are losers. People who I am talking about know who I am talking about. Don't quit before you start fighting. C'mon what are you, 20,21, 22? You have 40 more years to go, atleast (even if you fag like a chimney). Don't defeat yourself before the campaign starts. Don't do that horrible thing to yourself: denying yourself the chance to fight.

People lose. People aren't good at everything they'd like to be.But they're better at most at something. If you don't know what it is, then you are not doing the right thing or porbably you are not doing the the right way. Success isn't passing all the exams that you face, its passing the right ones and letting go of the failures and masquerading the blemishes as stepping stones to success.

And to people who think, that I couldn't possibly be in the same situation as these people, mujhe itna mat chadhao. I know where I am weak and what I am good at. Its just that I don't give up. Don't kill the only chance you have to win just because you think you are going to lose. More wonderful miracles have taken place. Haven't you heard Jesus converting evian to bottles of absolut way back? By the way, how do you do that? I am sure that's what all the alchemists were after, not some stupid yellow metal....

Here's Vivek, signing off from MV, βT.

"Spam you, Nick!"

2005-10-11T15:50:00.000+05:30

After all the spam I've been getting heres my missive to them,

My dear coastal-nick and inland-dick,

you wanna spam, play fair, ok? do it by email where I can trash your f****** message. Don't desecrate my blog by your graffiti, you vandals.

And Nick, puhleeze, don't dome a favour by adding me to your privileged "FAVOURITES" list. I can get by and so can my blog. If you really want to know I don't mind the audience of my blog numbering in single digits.

And damn nick, you bumped into my blog looking for coastal vacations? I mean, how ill-informed can you be. You are beyond ignorance. Who in his right mind looks for info on coastal vacations on blogs and that too on an inlanders blog? And what is this weclosealldeals.com link that you have plastered all over my blog, huh? A "everything-for-a-price" portal? what are you - the transporter 3?

listen, nick and listen good, next time you even raise your fingers to click onto my blog, i'll take out a virtual voodoo doll of you and give it extreme acupuncture in places you find very valuable on a horny Saturday night. b****** sons of b******

So nick, dick, and other potential-do-me-gooders-"by-adding-me-to-their-f******-favourites-list", people who want to post comments better be genuine. At the most it can contain your blog links and it would be preferrable if you knew me in the real world.

Thank you for not spamming.

Vivek

Just Surviving

2005-10-05T17:48:00.000+05:30

Just in case any of you thought I had disappeared (something an online chess group declared when I hadn't replied to the players' moves for over a month) no I am still here out to bug the world...

seher is one of those hard-hitting movies which influence you in an indescriable way.

Guys' Day Out

2005-09-23T20:48:00.000+05:30

"If there is a paradise on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here."

Akbar could have as well plastered it on the walls of Andhra Bhavan.

If there is a place in Delhi where you can spend just Rs.50 (a little more than $1) and eat to your heart's content delicious spicy Andhra food, just like you get it at home, it's here at Andhra Bhavan. The service is excellent, your plate is never empty and they keep on asking you if you want more...truly a glutton's dream come true.

Andhra Bhavan is the office of all Andhra officials who visit Delhi. And the canteen there is the place I am talking about. They have a roaring business, and the amazing thing is that they haven't felt the need to expand or to mark up their rates. It is basically a mess and have a fixed menu for lunch and dinner, but their stuff is good. The place has remained unchanged for years and hopefully for many years to come.

For all those foodies who haven't given Andhra Bhavan a whirl, just come up to the India Gate circle, and get off at Ashoka Road. Take the left turn on the first roundabout and there it is on your right. Bon apetit!

Sometimes life's like hanging onto a piece of rope on the edge of a cliff, beyond hope, beyond help, beyond despair even. At such times, one would think death would be worth giving up the struggle, for the few seconds of freefall, for forgetting it all, letting it go.

What they don't realise that life's probably worth the struggle to the top. Hang on guys, if this is the worst, then it can't get any worse; anywhere you go it's going get only better.

salaam namaste is just like one big episode of Friends, replete with an obnoxious landlord, all-weather buddies and couples and live-in relationships and house-hunting and now a staple of the slick side of Bollywood: gizmos and creature comforts.

Sure, they have got some pointless but catchy songs that act as fillers and which could have been done away with but then, the movie required some body as the story was predictable and short. Everybody has got an excellent body in the movie; everysingle body. And then, Jaaved Jaaferi has done an excellent job in providing some comic relief as the Crocodile Dundee landlord.

The last scene could have been little less crazy and Abhishek Bachchan compeletely exaggerated his overacting (note the superlatives). Unless that's what the director wanted to do, that bit could have been avoided.

An all-in-all slick and enjoyable movie for a sundry afternoon. Best seen with a loved one.

Diary Of A Trainee At NIC...

2005-09-16T20:36:00.000+05:30

One of the first things that strikes (practically slaps you in the face) when you train at a government concern, is the sheer amount of stuff just lying there unused and that's just the stuff. Don't even get me started on the people.

Wastage is such a pervasive way of life here that it has creeped into everything,including procedures. Take for example the ordeal you have to undergo to enter the building. They present you with a huge register, ubiquitous at every point of entry in Delhi by now. You fill in your name, address and the person you want to meet, your date of birt, when your second dog's sixth puppy's hairball removal procedure was carried out and so on so forth. The huge point to this: hmmmmm, oh yes, SECURITY.

But, look at it logically, the only thing you can actually glean from this mindless business is that a person arrived at so and so time. Then what the hell is the CCTV they have installed doing?

And then, they have installed these card readers at entry points. They work in such a way that they cannot be opened if you don't have a card. Good,....if you were the RAW, not even remotely appropriate for a public organisation. And c'mon NIC, who would want to blow up NIC? As a result, there is a guard standing with a spare card next to the door from dawn to dusk to let people in and out. (Oh yes, its a full time job. Ingenious, don't you think?)

We have lunch at the department canteen which serves the most horrible food among all the company cafetarias in Delhi. Which is only to be expected. But I couldn't understand why people didn't gripe about it. Until today that is.

The canteen make food in limited quantities, so limited that food that you have bought tokens for from the cashier, get over while you are standing in the line. And by the time its your turn you are so bloody famished, that you actually bless the guy for the crap that he serves you and relish it and actually think you got quite a bargain. But seriously, four rupees is a bit too much for four miniscule oily puris and dal served by a guy so grim, you would think he personally gave birth to each grain of food you are eating. Its so bad, that even if you are a higher-up, you get crap, but atleast you get it. Personally, I would prefer sexy bikini clad models feed me Chicken Afghani, "any way you want". But realistically, NICians (permit me this gross obscenity) could do with more food.

On the upside, NIC is the place to be now for Linux enthusiasts. People there are trying to slog it out and build ERP software for themselves, in the true Linux sense (without telling each other that is :-) ). But seriously, among the coalpits of the software world, some discarded diamonds may yet be found...

Will Blog-boy survive until next week? Will the scheming Teacher get him? Are these exams his end? Check out next week the same blog time, same blog channel.....Blog-boy....tannananannannana...Blog-boy (fade out).

And There Was Verbiage...

2005-09-11T20:35:00.000+05:30

After seeing a lot of blogs, I decided to start writing my own blog. I wanted to do it a little differently, write my own script, and host it onmy own page, etc. And like it is with most of my projects, it was a non-starter. Ob-la-di ob-la-da,life goes ooo-on, fra-la-la-la.

Anyway, let me start with a quote from Kill Bill Vol. 2:

"...I find the myth of Superman fascinating. He's different from the other superheroes in a very subtle way. Peter Parker, Bruce Wayne and the lot dress up to become Spiderman and Batman. But Superman dresses up to become Clark Kent. Peter Parker when he wakes up in the morning, he's Peter Parker. He needs the costume to become Spiderman. But Superman is Superman when he is awake and he needs the costume to hide himself. Clark Kent is Superman's critique on the human race. That's how he sees us: weak, cowardly, stuttering...."

A very profound piece of dialogue, I must concede. And all his movies are like these, die-hard Quentin Tarantino fans assure me. Sorry, guys, I might be arbit junta but even I fail to see the point to his movies. He deserves to die just for inflicting True Romance on me. Though I'd like to meet his script-writer someday... and discuss his comic-book fetish.

Yup, the blog's going to be just like this, thoughts that filter through me, incidents that happen to me, people I meet, movies I watch, music I listen, anything anytime. And if you want to know my political inclinations, I don't have any. I don't argue about facts and I don't care for other's opinions. So there.