Requiem

I am at the crossroads,
But I won’t look back.
Back at the road I’ve travelled,
I’ve covered all my tracks.
No, there’s no going back.

You don’t have to feel guilty,
I don’t hold a grudge.
The pain I felt all alone,
I found a way to merge.
No, there’s no going back.

My shoulders don’t hurt anymore,
The pain is off my back.
Shed thirty years of baggage,
Sealed all open cracks.
No, there’s no going back.

Burned all my diaries,
threw away my phone.
Photos dumped in the river,
now I’m truly alone.
No, there’s no going back.

So you won’t be reminded,
Of me when I call.
Searching for things to say,
Conversations crawl.
No, there’s no going back.

I felt like a stranger, in the place I knew.
A singer in a land of the deaf, who'd vanish like the dew.
Hollowness I fought to banish, but it only grew.
Friends I thought I had so many, turned out to be few.
No, there’s no going back.

Wonder what lies yonder,
But it can’t be worse.
Worse than talking to walls,
Life that is a curse.
Oh no, there’s no going back.

No attachments, no expectation,
No hopes, no conversation.
No regrets, no betrayal,
No disappointments, no farewells.
No, there’s no going back.

A Quill Runs Dry

I have said and written all i had to,
And now my treasure chest has run dry.
And yet I feel there's so much left
Unsaid and untried.

Words that never matched the depth
Of what i truly felt.
Emotions that failed to appear in my voice,
As silences went unrent.

I can think of so many better ways,
So much I could have done.
But my hands lie weak and stilled,
While my heart refuses to run.

Time, how quickly you have gone by,
Empty notches on a vacant post.
How much I had and frittered away,
And now I am a whispering ghost.

Haunting crumbling places,
That the world will never know.
As it moves on, ignorant of
The last embers of my fainting glow.

A cruel fate, a punishment just,
Bear my scars as I must.
Faces and names, voices and sights,
Hatred and love, envy and trust.

All I am is an ancient relic,
My only function- to gather dust.
The spiders bid adieu long ago,
Their silky threads flecked with rust.

I speak a tongue that has long since died,
No one to mourn in sorrow.
No one to know if I smile or grimace,
Whether I live In the past or tomorrow.

Regret and guilt, long, deep sighs,
Abundant wealth like fame gone by.
Coins of memories, spent each day,
To ease the pain, as you lie.

My thoughts, my sole companions,
I seek solace in my cry.
It’s futile to put them down in words,
My pen has long run dry.

A whispering ghost,
Is all am I.

Two years of tuxing

Two years ago to the day, my sister got herself a blue Acer Aspire one. It was my first brush with a netbook and the awesomeness that is SSD. More meaningful however, was my first interaction with a modern Linux distro.

I had dabbled a bit with Mandriva and Red Hat way back in 2004 and had wrung my hands in frustrationat having to visit the terminal each time i wanted to install a program. Also, the repositories were as big as they are now, plus internet speeds were still only a notch up on the ancient dialups i grew up on. Suffice to say, I couldn't figure out what the great fuss was and i decided to give linux a pass then.

Circa 2008 and i switched on the system and lo behold, in 6 seconds, the SSD launched me into the desktop. i was taken aback and i searched around to see if this was a reworked BIOS screen that would lead to a booting sequence, but no, it was the desktop of the Linpus Lite distro.

While limited largely by hardware, the OS was snappy, and once i activated the XFCE desktop, way more productive. And thank the stars, application installation was relatively hassle free once i figured out how to use the YUM installer. But i kept thinking - There has to be a better linux experience out there!

So i took a plunge and downloaded the 9.04 version of Ubuntu (Jaunty to us) and installed it. Although it gobbled up 4 GB out of the measly 8 GB HDD, it ran lightning quick on the netbook, and the apps base was noticeably larger than Linpus. Despite the horror stories, most of the hardware ran well with all drivers installed in the background.

In the next six months, i got myself a netbook, went through Karmic, Lucid and Maverick on it and the experience got progressively better. I ran Open Suse, Fedora, Mint in Virtual Boxes but kept coming back to Ubuntu. It was simple, similar to Windows, almost ascetic in hardware requirements and NEVER crashed on me. I also noticed that I booted into windows less frequently, maybe down to three times a week, just to keep my patches and AV definitions up to date. Windows was also required to run those oddball devices that refused to run on non windows systems, or to hook up to external monitors/ projections.

Well, i discarded my netbook and got myself a nice HP DV6 and dual booted it. This was the first time i ran into problems with Ubuntu, and Open suse. The thing with Linux is that it's great for Hardware that came out a couple of months before the last kernel release. What it's not so good at, is being compatible with upcoming or brand new hardware that's come out. With a new computer, You are playing a game of roulette, hoping that your computer will work pretty well out of the box.

I had problems getting my Wifi and my Switchable graphics working under 10.10. Of course the ever friendly forums helped me figure out how to get the wifi working, with a bit of compiling and making, but with windows, you don't have to do all that. It's something that Linux must work on. Having to figure out how to get Wifi working was something acceptable in 2003, not 2010. Of course the switchable graphics don't work, but I've made peace by not installing the radeon drivers for linux (They crashed my ubuntu desktop anyway) and making do with the Intel HD graphics which run all the compiz options on max.

Win 7 unfortunately for Linux, is just as a good an OS and i think that most people would be happy enough to carry on with it. that's where i think the linux community missed it's chance to go mainstream.

But still, as a great example of how open source can really work, i recommend everyone to atleast try out a live CD, if for nothing else, the novelty of an idea that an entire OS can be run off the USB drive and still access your hard disk files and do some productive work.

Back to Bashing.

Fast of the Furious

Something unfortunate will happen in the next 48 hours, but i will be very surprised if it makes it to the frontpages of newspapers. Not when we have plethora of distractions in the forms of Diwali, Star celebrations and new releases. But if you will take some time, please ponder over what Irom Chanu Sharmila has undergone for the last ten years.

A decade in which she has been on a fast non stop. To put that into perspective, ten years ago, Shri Amitabh Bacchan hosted the KBC for the first time. Ten years ago, i buckled and stumbled my way into Senior secondary. I completed schooling, bid adieu to college, crossed the sea, watched friends get engaged, married and deliver babies. All this while, Irom Chanu Sharmila continued to fast. And she fasts still.

For those interested, she has been on a peaceful fast, protesting the carte blanche granted to our army, in their operations in the troubled paradise of the north east. I claim to be no expert in the happenings over there, but surely, ten years is a ridiculous amount of time for any government to not step in, if only to save what is by now, a shortened life.

In a world which grudgingly allows anyone their 15 seconds of fame, perhaps Irom's methods were doomed from the start. Our ignorance of her path, tread so effectively by Mahatma Gandhi before, is symptomatic of the general apathy of the mainland, towards her peripheral daughters. Hers is not a cause celebre, and when a state can be blockaded for months without central intervention, it's perhaps too much to expect anyone to step in and talk to her.

Fasting is the least of her privations. To avoid a scandal, the local authorities have regularly arrested her and force fed through the nostrils and released her when her health improved. And each time she's been released, she goes back to fasting and gradually weakens. When the point of alarm is reached, the authorities step in again, and the vicious cycle continues. over and over. for ten years. non stop.

A stark contrast from the heady and bustling scenes witnessed when any of our beloved politicians or actors decide fast for a day, under the careful glare of the camera and our commentators have a field day. Who can forget the money shot- The governor or a junior minister walking with a smile and a glass of lemon juice which is then magically held by both parties, for the benefit of flash photography, and then a great roar of triumph as the fast is broken. But then again, life is not fair and not equal for everyone, so why must legitimate, non violent protest be any different?

I have not found any interviews of her, so from the outside, i can only express my respect for her continued faith in democracy and justice, when the said institutions have only neglected her doggedly for the last ten years. I am humbled by her determination to continue but i can only hope that someone steps in and saves her. A democracy is strengthened not just by a show of numbers at the ballot box, but also by lending platforms for all sections of society to voice their opinions, without fear of being in the minority, and with a faith that the state will oblige and at least grant them a fair hearing.

It is not enough to pay lip service to assert that the assimilation of all sections of our society is complete. Not when we have such examples of our neglect and collective failure to engage with our fellow Indians. So, while the rest of us burst crackers, light our lamps, meet our friends and family, and pray for the gift of light in our lives, spare a thought for someone who starves for justice, and if nothing else, at least a sympathetic ear.

MADrasi Lite

Necessity might be the mother of all invention, but right now, I am being forced to innovate out of desperation. As I await another flight to take me back to Dubai, let me share a quick tip to anyone who is traveling via Anna international airport to any destination outside. Don't bother reaching the airport 4 hours in advance. It's a precaution which is not appreciated and hence not rewarded either.

A bonus tip, when trying to make yourself comfortable on the luggage trolley due to the lack of seating, make sure you sit across the luggage rack and not parallel to the hard, cold metal rails.

Ranting aside, the main purpose of my entry is to highlight something which struck me as I traveled to the airport late at night.

Chennai has changed of course. Something that is always expected and is natural. We change as people and when we return, we yearn to return to the old and the familiar even though we know that the world as we remember it no longer exists and that the passage of time bestows rose filtered glasses on our eyes. The same thing happened to me.

But the changes are not readily apparent to anyone, during the daytime. But when you travel the road at night, the city undergoes a transformation. Gone is the gaudy heavy artifice that dots our city in the name of modernization. Look closely enough during the night and you will catch a glimpse of the timeless beauty who lurks inside the modern, swinging city trying to make its presence felt on the national stage.

The lovely tree dotted roads that twist and turn and writhe through the various hidden pockets. Roads which have been tread upon by millions during the day, sun beaten and dust worn. But at night time, she runs free, inviting you to travel along with her, thrills and bumps on the house. Gone are the playgrounds where I continuously embarrassed myself till I could take no more. A decision that I’ve had ample opportunity to regret ever since. All I see in their stead are apartments. Concrete blocks that hurt the eye with their uniformity.

The haunting beauty of the flickering neon lights as they fade away, their purpose served and no eyes to catch. They hang from every billboard, every market, every eating joint, shopping malls. White, yellow, red, green, blue. A reflection of different sensibilities, moods and tastes. A city synonymous with giant cutouts of its idols, who nowadays adorn not the posters of their upcoming “Mass Movies”, but instead appeal to their fans to try products which, to paraphrase “ even their dogs will not use”.

The huge sprawling malls that seem to have sprung up all over the city. Paradise where the young throng, budding passions engaged, ambitions birthed, wants and needs, disappointments and resolve created. Hey, chennai is growing. Spencer's isn't the only hangout anymore. They jostle for space with the small shops, the ubiquitous Potti Kadais, sacks of grains locked up safely, where things are still sold while being weighed in cups. The lifeline of those who have been left out of urban india's progress.

The wooden stools and benches that shake in the wind as water trucks thunder by, spilling water in thick splashes on the road. Trucks that were eagerly awaited during the thirsty summers when pots of water divided united families. Now, the only ones chasing after them are the loyal dogs, who never forget who they are supposed to bark and chase, no matter how flat the world becomes. How the mighty have fallen.

Walled off compounds that lay a curtain on the lives of the well to do, their gardens still moist and filled with the echoes of birds. Benchmarks by which ambitions are judged and plans hatched as dreams take flight. Places where the capital L has long lost relevance, replaced instead with the capital C. In the land of Ambassadors and Marutis, I was glad to lay my eyes on a Porsche and a VW sedan. Heck there's a huge BMW showroom en-route to the airport. Progress it certainly is.

Chennai. Dependable like piping filter coffee. Fiery like the molagga podi in Murugan idli kadai. Swaying and nodding to rhythm like the madisar gang at music academy.

Then you hit the airport and the illusion is shattered. Sigh. When, oh when, did the airport become Howrah station, I say?

Homes have become buildings, friends have become strangers, haunts are now haunted, tastes have become old fashioned. I have become old in a city where I was once treated like a child. Each time I visit the city, the whispers from past grow fainter and fainter. All that remain are dying echoes calling out, ebbing away. They don't even sound familiar anymore. And yet, like a rubber band, I keep coming back. With a yearning that dies when I step on its soil and which grows stronger when I’m away.

What is the source of this longing? That the city reminds me of a time when I never pondered over my frailties? A sweet time unencumbered by expectations of self and life? A period where I lived life one day at a time, carefree? A place where I was myself before I learned how to wear different masks to adapt to this world? Or the promise of the unattainable, that which we've lost and know we'll never regain?

Until next time Chennai. Until next time.

A Mausterpiece

I have a confession to make. For the last few months, I have been suffering. Suffering from a complete lack of interest in things around me. The scheme and pattern of life seems monotonous, with nary a break in between, to relieve this bored soul. The monotony of daily humdrum grates inside, but there is little to no interest in pursuing a solution for the same.

This extends from (remaining) relationships, interest in the happenings around me (Whoop dee doo! Women have reservation in a parliament that was founded on a bedrock of equality in the first place), movies, music and yes, even books.

A dear friend of mine had mailed me and had asked me what book I was reading at the moment. His question had me stumped, as I was unable to give a definite answer one way or the other. On one hand, I have not been reading the traditional bound books regularly of late. There have a been a couple of wrestling related biographies, two Pynchon novels I am still trying to figure out, and a whole stack of classics that I bought at a good price at the book fair, and which have been gathering dust ( and religiously cleaned) since. But it's not the same sort of reading that I had been erstwhile pursuing in school or college even.

However, there is a caveat. There has been one form of fiction which I have been doggedly pursuing for the last 7 years. That form of fiction usually associated with the younger ones of society. Our first introduction to the world of infinite colours, shapes and lessons in morality, achievement and the maze of relationships that await us in adulthood.

Comics.

Sure, I follow the mainstream comic arcs like anyone else. I too await with bated breath for the resolution of the Blackest night and welcome the Return of Bruce Wayne. But outside of Marvel and DC, and to some extent Vertigo, I have been spreading my reading list and picking some true gems. Two graphic novels in particular, have made me pause and think and consequently elevate the appreciation I have for comic books.

One of these was the brilliant Aesterios Polyp, which I will write about someday, and the other one is the subject of this blog post.

Maus by Art Spiegelman.

Ever since I read The Watchmen by Alan Moore, I started thinking that maybe, just maybe, comic books could at time push and stretch into the realm of literature. Very few books have generated that kind of a response from me. I felt the same way reading Maus, aware that I held in my hand a piece of work so remarkable and so unlike anything i'd read before, that it was sure to provoke long sessions of introspection in the days ahead.

I have read, heard and watched quite a few material dealing with The Holocaust in my time. I have been horrified and saddened by those stories. But the personal connection just wasn't there. It was like reading about the World wars, looking at the maps, pausing at the fading photos in our history books, before moving onto the cold war period.

But this book! It's not just the metaphorical transformation of Jews into mice, Aryans into Cats, Poles into pigs, Americans into dogs that grabs you. No, what is remarkable is to read about the story within the story that unfolds. Art's battles with his past, his guilt whenever he sees his father, coming to terms with the baggage of his father's survival, the ending of the first part, where his father stands outside the gates of Auschwitz for the first time. Remarkable scenes the sent a shiver down the spine.

It is a relentless merciless tale that pounds you with details of human suffering and indignity. The tragedy in the tale is not just the horrors Art's father survives, but, as another survivor puts it to Art, “It was not the best who died, nor the best who survived. It was random”. No, there are no fairy tale endings here either. We find out that Art's mom, who battles both a frail health, depression as well as oppression, still fails to find an anchor of happiness and succumbs to fatalism. Art's father survives the worst of the war, only to wage another war against loneliness, trying in vain to reconnect with a son who is more interested in his tales of past suffering, but shies away from helping Art out with his present suffering.

Two things that linger on for me. After his father talks about the gas chambers, Art comes out onto the porch with his wife, where they discuss their inability to comprehend the full extent of what his father had endured. A couple of bugs sting them and Art sprays the bugs with pesticide with a nonchalance that the Nazis had in the concentration camps. The other of course is the beautiful way he shows the Mice donning a pig's mask (assuming a polish identity) at various times, to survive in various situations. If there has been a truer depiction of the various garbs we adorn in our lives, I would love to read it.

Maus is work of brutal, honest art. There are images in there that will haunt me forever. It's as much a celebration of survival as it is an exploration of our innate darkness. It is also depressing to realise that a race which has been subject to persecution of the worst kind, today indulges in the same atrocities that were once lent upon them.

Sometimes, literature like this can make elements of nihilism seem very compelling and hard to argue against. Stuff like this can both increase your hope in humanity and decrease your optimism about the future at the same.

After reading Maus, I can no longer feel feel a twinge of embarrassment at revealing what I have been upto. My friend, I read comics. Proudly. And I am not a kid.

Thoughts through a free fall

Well, whaddaya know, I finally managed to watch a movie in that hallowed realm of budgetary reality, last minute arrival and fear of returning from the theatre empty handed, without a ticket. Yup, I finally became what I had long imagined myself one day to be, a front bencher.

The movie chosen for the honour was Avatar. Not much of a story as such, but what a rich canvas! 3D is the way of the future for sure. But since coming into touch with my limited critiquing abilities, I have ceased reviewing movies and games. What I will talk about instead, is the one image that I carried back with me, all the way to home. That magical moment when we dive into Pandora, from the gates of heaven. A heart stopping, breath taking moment that left me numb and smiling wistfully like a dumb pup.

Why do flying and diving hold such fascination for most of us? Is it an inner expression of freedom that rings true throughout the passage of time? A defiance against the oppressive bond of gravity that makes us drag our feet through the earth? And the activity of diving, when you return to your abode, picking up speed, wind whistling around you, wind buffeting and holding you up, the ground swelling and sprinting to embrace you. And in the last second, you hold up, and pull thumb your nose at the eager earth below as you take your time in making contact again.

We build the tallest buildings in the world, straining our necks to see the top and imagining what the view must be like from up there. And when you get there, the first thing you do is look down at the ground you just left. Why?

It's the same thing with flying. On the ground you can't wait to be airborne and during take off, a weird thrill courses through your head, as you wait with bated breath for that magic moment, when the wheels break free of the runway and the wings shudder. A couple of drops and rise that churn your stomach. All this while, your eyes are not focused on the unfamiliar neighbourhood you're passing through, but instead gazing back at the land below, taking in its shapes and contours, even though you've spent all your life on it.

Is our life then spent in jealousy of the birds and insects, free to go wherever they want, unencumbered by visas and passports, not fazed by the huge tracts of lands between destinations? All the shifting of bases nothing more than a throwback to our migration instincts? Is it why each time, a plane passes overhead, we all crane our necks up to take in its passage, even though it remains a sight as familiar as the bus or train arriving at their destinations? Is that why poets soar on flights of fancy to reach new heights and crash to all time new lows?

Cripes, where's the rip cord on this thing? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH

The Trap

Beads of Sweat rolling down my head.
Breath comes catching, careful i tread.
In a frustrated punch,palm meets palm,
as I tiptoe around the calm eye of a storm.

One by one, did i watch them fall.
Surrender their freedom, as chains are worn.
I cringe as i gnash my teeth,
their looks of contentment, let me down.

A farewell to a happier time.
Smiles and cheers didn't feel like a crime.
When we rode the winds without a care,
worries didn't drag us, death did we stare.

Now my fellow riders are bogged down,
bearing a cross made of worries, a world of doubting frowns,
Lines of sorrow, do mark a once cheerful face,
Mighty steeds, tragic, as they slow down.

A beacon that calls to those who would heed.
as i stand firm, in the bulwark of single hood,

Hark unto me, escape the noose that hangs,
to yank you into a life of servitude.

Heed my clarion call, turn a deaf ear to marital vows.
Women and men, learn to overthrow the yoke.
Live life as we were meant to live,
Not reduced to rehashed sitcom jokes.

Those trapped do yearn to be,
free as nature, like you and me.
Stay happy, stay single, stay strong.
A life full of grief, despair, arguments, inadequacy,
is surely a way of life that is wrong.

A life without commitment or "Quality time".
Guilt free to pursue what I think should be mine.
Sample the various flavors, drink in all the hues of the sun.
Why stop an epic tale, with an end at Chapter One?

Grounded Roots

You know how things go in the twenties. Your thoughts oscillate like a teenager, your mind clamors for stability like a middle aged man and your sighs betray a want for a break from the hectic pace of life, in the stages where one should enter Vanaprastha and Sanyasa.

Tumultuous, torrid, confusing, soul shattering thoughts that makes one relive the imagined glories of the past in the morning, contemplate the exciting mysteries of tomorrow in the afternoon, before being dragged kicking and screaming, to live through the weary, burdensome chores of today, in the evening.

Well, one particular morning, when pangs of nostalgia proved exceptionally enchanting, i pulled out my school album. Besides the initial shock (S#$T, i used to look like that!! Wow, i had so much Hair!!) one thing that particularly struck me was, almost everyone in the album had moved outside Chennai. I'll be the first to admit I'm rotten at keeping in touch with folks. There's just a couple of people from school I keep in occasional touch with. But i do know that a lot of the people smirking, giggling, whispering, with a shine in their eyes, unaware of the disappointments, joys and turbulent phase of life ahead of them. As i looked at them, i wondered, how many of them will look at their school photos and wonder, Chennai is where i became the person i am today?

And as is usual, my thoughts then extended to a generation before us. A lot of them from small corners of India. In a Tam Bram family like mine, places you come across frequently in the journey into what has gone past include Kumbakkonam, Sriperumbudur, Virudhangar, Thanjavur, Karaikudi, and so on. A lot of those folks used to tell me, that Madras (love that name) used to be the promised land for them. A place with the promise of ever flowing rivers of milk and Coffee. A place where people got rich, and linked to the grand engine called South India.

A lot of them have grandchildren growing up in America. And in the span of two generations, a chasm has emerged. A gulf dividing cultures, sensibilities, viewpoints and beliefs. I have sadly, never made a trip to the towns where my grandparents grew up. Yet, i can imagine that my urban upbringing will bring about a disconnect if I ever do manage to make a trip.

There are stories there that i will never know about, sadly. About the frustrations at the moment when it dawns on you, that the well which forms the limits of your world, the arduous fights that mark your climb outside, being awestruck at the expanse of the world which awaits outside, yet which doesn't greet you. And the knowledge that once you cross the line, you can never truly come back. And the consequences of that moment.

The struggles of adjustment in a foreign land, coming to terms with the demands of frugality. Learning to cope up with the battles of being a lone wolf, away from the cocooned existence in the pack. Watching your children grow up as total strangers to your way of life. The proud moment when they spread their wings, and the sadness which marks their journey away from home, to lands beyond the extent to which eyes can see.

And finally, the loneliness. In the twilight of your life, in a land which you made your home. Cutoff from the past, yearning for it.

Stories that repeat themselves, over and over. Stories I would have loved to hear, Stories that will sadly, remain unknown to me.

Why do such thoughts occur to me? I really don't know. Will they continue to come to me? Absolutely. Will I make something of them? Working on it.

That's all i wrote.   

The Sword Unsheathed

Red is the colour,
of the blood,
streaming from beheaded foes.


Red is the colour,
of the warrior's eyes,
before facing the gallows.

Red is the colour
of the evening sky,
as day draws to a close.

Red is the colour,
of his flag,
A symbol of the fight against woe.

A hero arose from a people suppressed,
questioned those who did not forget.
Marked him for sacrifice, an example to make,
of those who questioned the steerage of their fate.

Oh they mocked, with glee they cackled.
And smote his village, with fire that crackled,
and burst and thundered, as it consumed,
the lives of those chained, now lost in fumes.

A black heart was created, with the cindered dust,
that rained on ravaged land, on a fiery dusk.
He howled a last cry, and with an oath,
unsheathed the sword, enemies to smote.

Silent as the night, invisible like sin.
All knowing yet untraceable, like misty wind.
Strong as a storm, fueled by rage,
furiously calm, a warrior sage.

He fought a long battle, won a few wars,
his sword gleamed red, his face earned scars.
Retribution, eye for an eye,
left the kingdom blind, toothless to try.

Try to stop him, they did,
with methods old and new.
Bribe, seduction and other vices,
the jolly motley crew.

Impervious he proved, and the losses kept mounting.
The final battle approached, the hour of reckoning.
And he walked onto the fields, where once flowers bloomed.
The assembled army quivered, awaiting their doom.

What happened at the battle, is a lore we'll never know.
No one returned alive, neither hero nor foe.
The ground had turned red, a stench filled the air,
severed limbs scattered everywhere, in the mad stampede of despair.

They say that when he went down,
he took thirty more with him.
They say when the authority taunted him,
he spat and smiled back at them.

And that was the last that was ever heard,
of the man who never spoke a word.
Who conquered the cowards who hid behind arms,
and never fell prey to their corrupting charms.

The tale of the warrior of the unsheathed blade,
lives on in legend of the truly brave.
We whisper his name, to grant us courage,
while he rests under an unmarked grave.

Make mine UBNR!!

Time for a quick little post. Have booted my beloved Aspire one with a live Ubuntu Netbook Remis distro. Gotta say i am totally impressed. This is my first brush with a live CD and the more i use it, the more i like it.

I mean, yeah, having to save all those passwords each time can be a minor headache, and I have to install adobe flash each time i boot off the USB drive, but still, the idea of running an OS from USB and leaving my poor old SSD alone, holds an irresistable charm at the moment.

The default setup does include Open office, Firefox, Rythmbox, Pidgin, Evolution and a rudimentary movie player that is not a VLC substitute, but still, pretty much covers almost everything that i use my Aspire one for. The right hand SD reader doesn't show up at start, but since i use the left expansion slot permanently, it's a fault that i can live with.

The more Linux i use, the further away i go from MSWindows32.exe. Now, if only there was a decent WINE script to run those Directx and OpenGL wrappers.

Overall first impressions are very favourable. love the redesigned interface, with Maximus being the pick of the lot. Boot times aren't as good as Linpus and i think the battery dies out half an hour quicker, but otherwise, being Ubuntu, everything else works well out of the box.

Will give this baby a live trial for about a month. If I don't ever feel the inclination to get back to Linpus, then UBNR it is, for the aspire one at least. That or Linpus Lite 1.2 which should be released in a couple of weeks.


Make mine TUX 4 eva!!!

Progress

Go on a trip to the museum,
All those chimps, when you see em.
Give yourself a pat on the back,
We've come a long way baby.

Take a look at the ground,
sinking under footsteps all around.
It once was the floor of the jungle,
but We've come a long way baby.

Can you hear the roars of the cars,
the cacaphony of conversations?
The bellow of civilisation, that surely proves,
We've come a long way baby.

See that bird, or that majestic beast,
that adorns the giant TV screens?
Once they roamed the earth, in their multitude,
when our deserts were green.

A time when waters flowed free and clear,
gave rise to life, and which now fear,
the return of her plundering murderous children,
snuffing the life that she holds dear.

Sorry, please excuse that cough,
dust riddled lungs don't do me proud.
A cancer on the planet, clogging our skies,
Death in pollution's disguise.

As we strip our forests bare,
and suck the oceans dry.
Our time may be running short but still,
our ambitions still fly high.

And till the last man draws his last sigh,
each of us will still smile.
Pat ourselves on the back and say
We've come a long way baby.

Temptations

There you are, in front of my eyes.

You linger on in the periphery of my sight.

Your tantalising form, mocks and burns,

the lightest touch, sends shivers through the nights.

/

I know you do me no good, killing me slowly.

A shadow of who i was once, awaiting only,

another interlude, a stay in paradise,

A hunger that grows stronger, approaching its demise.

/

You have no idea, do you? Of what it takes,

To turn my head away, only to hesitate.

Another glimpse stolen, weakening resolve,

Fingers start twitching, tremors cascade from above.

/

I thought that i was strong, I thought I had the steel

to remove you forever, from the kingdom of my dreams.

But the worst part of all of it, is that you just don't care. 

You lie there, mocking, resplendent, shining in my hungry stare.

/

All those sweaty nights, spent trying to rid myself, 

of your lasting effects, the curse of your spell.

I still can't quit chocolate, diet as i might,

a burden heavy on the heart, and yet filled with delight.

/

Some day i will leave your shores forever, 

and hopefully move on another vice.

Meanwhile I'll have another,

filled with nuts and crispies rice.

Pavlov's World

There's this great joke doing the circles everywhere. You know it all too well. Every day now, some random unknown banker/world bank official/ previously unknown economist will tell you, quite seriously, "There are serious indications that the Recession has bottomed out and the recovery has begun". Flip over to the next page and you're greeted with " (Insert region name) Unemployment still at worrying levels/Decade High)". Flip over to the India page and you'll have bankers, consultants, ministers pat themselves at the "Fundamentally Sound Indian economy which has emerged unscathed". Right next to the para talking about rising prices and negative inflation(talk about about mutual incompatibility).

Nothing works on Time? Recession

Prices are high? Recession

Fraying relationships? Recession

Hate your job? Recession

The latest buzzword for chai wallah to your respected retired uncle? Recession

We parrot the word, dive into panic, and follow the herd without pausing to ask the 5 Ws and 1H we learnt about in journalism. Who caused the recession? What caused it? Where did it start? Why is a property bubble implosion in America threatening my paper wallah? When exactly did it start?(2007, 08 or 09? make up your mind Friedman). How exactly is the global economy (read America) different today from what it was three years ago?

Oh, it's not just economics. Let's talk about healthcare. We know all about the Swine Flu. However, how is it fundamentally different from the regular flu? Or the Bird Flu? I am not knocking on the unfortunate victims, but I question the panic mongering and (sadly) profiteering indulged in by pharma cos, in the name of treatment. The sad fact is, all of us take so much of what we've been told for granted, that if I were to ask you about how exactly black money could be brought back to india, when we don't have any idea about it's size, you'll splutter in indignous  disbelief. "It's money that will go into children's education(like the 2.5 % we have been charged on every item, to see no visible difference in schools), healthcare (like the supposed thousands of crores the government is pumping into the sector every year) and development( the biggest black hole in the indian budget)."

Hey if Rajni and Vikram have made two movies about it, it must be true, right?

/ End Rant 

The Invisibles

Not inspired by the mind bending series by Grant Morrisson, so there.

The newspaper delivery boy
The Onyx worker who cleans the garbage dump
The Bus Driver and Conductor
The people working at ticket counters
Your fellow passengers and driver on a bus/ share auto
The waiter who serves you at a hotel/pub
The beggars you meet in a day
The shop owner at the mobile recharge place
The store assistants at the grocery/clothing store
The temple boys
The doctor's assistants
The usher at the movies
The petrol bunk boys and girls
The people who clean our excrement ridden railway tracks
The lady who sweeps the dust off the roads in the morning
The iron man
The chaukidaar who shouts on nightly patrols
The electrician/plumber
The cable guy
The delivery guys

The list of people who we see but do not notice. The new invisibles. I'm sure there are tons of people i've missed.

Austere Penance

Doesn't the word Amar Chitra Katha conjure up images of yellowed pages, their glorious rustling and those pages after dripping with glorious 4 color art(i hate the desktop era 16 million print) ? In my case, Uncle Pai's merry crew served as my first introduction to the rich, under explored and ill understood world of indian mythology.

There were certain formulae, certain rules which every story followed. There would be an Asura, who is fuelled by certain motivation, to seek certain boons from either Bramha or Shiva. And the way to get your boon? AUSTERE PENANCE!!! I am not kidding, right from Hiranyaksha to Rahu to Chanur, and so on, every major antagonist undergoes severe meditation (with the classic anthill forming on their bodies) and god miraculously appears, grants their boons, (indirectly sowing seeds for chaos) before god/goddesses save the day.

Well, imagine my surprise when i opened today's paper, to see the word "Government's Austere Drive". Having once watched the Lok Sabha channel once (don't ask, it was a dull and lonely afternoon), i could not for the life of me imagine any of our beloved saints in delhi undertaking fasts and chanting sessions. But then again, i could imagine them as the Asuras of myth, seeking forbidde boons to obtain forbidden fruits.

But as i read through the article, i couldn't help but laugh. Austerity in India means a minister must fly economy class and make a fuss about not making any fuss. Austerity in India means only taking 3 additional people along( when only the minister is needed). Austerity in India means "Sacrificing" five star hotel stay and "only" living in posh government guest houses, situated in heart of the cities.

Do away with austerity and start collecting their dues i say!! the mountains of unpaid BSNL bills. The Crores of unpaid travel bills (for family and friends on official trips), electricity overuse, and plain old bungalow grabbing, even after being booted out by their constituencies! levy charges from their personal pay and disqualify them, when they fail to attend even 30 % of the parliament sessions.

Cynical i know. perhaps i should switch over to Hindustan Times. what say?

Invasion

You return home after a tiring day out,
a sigh emanates from your lips.
Feel like whooping, too tired to shout,
and slowly, with a dream, sink into the couch.

The world goes silent, or perhaps you grow deaf,
and listen to the music of your soul.
A light that shines from within, fills your eyes,
and you discards the burdens of growing old.

Then the sting, that travels up the spine,
eyes flare open, bliss left behind.
A dread that throbs and burns you up,
a buzz announces terror, come to sup.

The nightmares that never ever leave,
on stormy nights, or humid dreams.
An enemy who cannot be slayed,
mock our progress, to our dismay.

They dwell in our homes, much before we do.
And linger long after we've left.
An evil so ancient that it will endure,
and outlast humanity, with contempt.

You slap your skin here, Oh another spot there!
Stop moving so fast, it isn't fair.
There's one of me, and thousands of you,
powerless in the glare of your stare.

There goes that hum again, the call of pain.
Of parting with blood we'll painfully regain.
I've tried smoke, mats and gel,
yet you soldier on, with total disdain.

I close my doors and windows are shut,
The lords outside try to burn you out.
Yet you always killed and continue to,
helpless we are, our defenses few.

Perhaps we only get our due,
for killing this world to suit our needs.
We may conquer space, land and sea,
but your creed conquers us with glee.

Through the ages, you've truly earned,
the title of being our greatest foe.
We will pray and hope for a day,
when we lay to waste, the menace of the mosquito.

The Great Game Resumes

Well, i am taking a break from all the rhyming and indulging my verses for once. A recharge as it were, for regular prose, lest i forget how to compose it.

I recall a quote i read somewhere, which said " Politicians are bullies who never grew up and Politics remains an extension of playground warfare". Which just about sums up my feelings as i read about Chinese incursions into Indian territory.

I have tremendous respect for the men and women in uniform, who stay awake so that we may sleep. The armed forces always command a sense of respect and gratitude in India. But their masters, our ministers seldom do so.

Far too often, our politics has used the might of our army for public display and bragging purposes. Remember the year long standoff that India and Pakistan indulged in, post the attacks on the Parliament? What purpose did that action serve, besides keeping soldiers on both sides on high alert, with tensed nerves? I can't stay in a nervous state for more than five minutes, so imagine what 13 months of "High Alert" mode can do to a person.

Those who bay for the blood of their enemies, all in the name of "national honor and pride" are seldom the ones facing enemy fire in the battlefield. It is this disconnect between the glamour and horrors of war, that result in inexplicable delays in procurement of equipment, revision of pay, and upgrade in post retirement benefits. While the babus themselves are busy in increasing their salaries and extending the reach of benefits doled out to them.

As far as Chinese incursions go, my gut feeling is that the Chinese authorities are playing mind games with our leadership, to gauge their reaction levels. In today's world, apart from USA, no country has the sanction to invade another in the name of "liberation and spread of democracy". But what can be tested, is the reaction times of foreign armies, as well as the strength(or the lack of) of their intelligence network. Officialese notwithstanding, the People's Army can add another feather into it's cap, with two successful exercises of incursions into hostile territories.

This "Bluff" game has made the Centre nervous and left them high strung. While our ministers spend their time in drafting the expression of outrage, General Ping and his boys must be patting themselves in the back, over a job well done. The scars of the lost war may have healed, but the wound festers within.

Hindi Chini Bhai Bhai. Just like the Ambanis.

Adrift

I bob gently, up and down,
nauseous and yet not.
Seldom does panic desert me,
the way to the shore, lost.

While i try to ponder and decide,
is it murder or suicide?
To waste your life as it goes by,
Always shrinking and shirking,
from a burden only you can feel.

Not an anchor on whom to fix,
my empty reserves of prayers. Bliss
which teases and never comes,
into my arms, efforts undone.

Am i alive? Am i dead?
Not a feeling left in my head.
A heart that pumps a blood so cold,
freezes love and blackens gold.

Where is the rope that will bind,
a person to what they hope to find?
What is this elusive hunger to live?
A shoulder to lend, a hand to give?

The kingdom of life, a paradise, an island,
on the ocean of eternal sleep.
As i bob up and down, i slowly part,
with all the memories that i keep.

The temples of Beauty, Love and Lust,
Affection, Sympathy, Hope and Trust.
Their flames burn a bright farewell, to those who travel
ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

The silent sea all around me,
frothing and never still.
Impatient to claim me for itself,
moving in for the kill.

No regrets or unfulfilled wishes,
Stilled ambitions, lost kisses.
No remaining ties to my world,
nothing of note to remind.

As i bob up and down, I duck and sink
and leave the living world behind.

Flying to the Moon

I can hear her, when she comes calling.

The moon, when she croons.

The sweetest song, enthralling,

which she whispers, to us loons.

When she bathes the world at night,

our stage is flooded with her spotlight.

The dogs and cats let us know,

and await us, as their eyes do glow.

And the winds that rush through the trees,

bring noises and messages with the breeze.

A whole world ripe, ready for taking,

filled with chaos of our making.

The fools who term our freedom as madness,

shiver with fright, that we harness.

Your deepest fear, always thus,

that you too could be one of us.

Why bear one life, when you can be,

not one person, but rather three.

Why live chained by a moral code,

and not take a journey down our road?

To do as you please, live in the now.

Focus not on the why, but the how.

fearing death, why live so weak?

Stop the talk and start to speak.

See the world the way we do,

break the cages you're shackled into.

See reality, so mundane,

bland enough to turn one insane.

It's not too late, even for you.

Take not one life, spare not two.

Behind every circle lies a square,

happiness is a mask for despair.

It's not a thing entirely bad,

to be called a person mad.

It means that you don't conform,

like these idiots, from the day they're born.

The moon, she knows all this.

Smiling as she sees our bliss.

As long as she guides our flow,

our blessed tribe will continue to grow.