Grandeur doesn't Die

"That ain't working, thats the way you do it"

Read the Fountainhead, plan to read the Deathly Hallows, become a Fiction-maniac, jive to Money for Nothing, post yourself on job sites, crack the wittiest jokes of the millenium ... "cocktail ka naam bolne se ingedients yah taste nahi pata chalta" .


You surely did not speculate this, Risk Management can kill.

No, I am not blowing my nose.

its raining, its raining

and I want to run away. I hate green. I hate the smell of All-out in my room.




perhaps my last lines on this ever.
Bye





P.S. : It was good to blow my nose here.

A feeling to last forever

Is there one? Don't we run out of our emotions as time keeps beating by?
Hatred stays for long, for how long does love stay? Does it change with temporal/spatial changes? does dx/dt disturb our lives?
I read myself everyday, I try to feel myself and I fail. I have heard of " Befriend one who hates you". I practically hate everybody, and I hate everybody more with each passing dx/dt .
I listen to music which most intellectuals reject as noisy crap, no sur or raga. I listen to yesteryears' hindi commercial breakers. I accept them, I don't deny being a lesser mortal, I don't claim to be full of aesthetic sense. I live in a messy room, mostly, because I don't find a reason good enough for setting it up.
My life seems to be a psychedelic experiment of retrospection. I think, think, think and get nowhere. I know well why I hate those who I hate. The whole picture is sharp and clear in my mind. But those I love?
I can never figure out why. What makes me love at all?
I love books, purely fiction, decent storyline, and great writing styles. I also love to haunt blogs. I also, yes also, read testimonials people write for their "dear" ones. I derive selfish , evil satisfaction when I do. I look for mistakes, in grammar, spellings, unassuming and amusing. I am an unnerving critic. I hate everything poetic, especially when every twenty-something-wannabe writes about blood, love, stars, what not.
I hate screechy croony voices. I like tabla, dholak, harmonium in my music.
I not, I beg, not a metal-head. I choose my life with care, to fail myself at every point.
I wanted to be a physicist forever. Today I am not. I also know that I cannot be, because I don't go around assuming that I am one. I don't speak of hamiltonians, leptons and fouriers for lunch dinner and toilet.
I like watching hindi cinema,I was brought up like that. I cannot relish a friday night with subtitles, I rather like my heroes dancing and crying in love.
Do I love?
I am confused.
What I liked yesterday, today seems to be the stupidest thing I ever set my eyes on. I know I cannot love. I cannot because I consider everyone below my standards for all practical and emotional purposes. False.
I cannot love because my feelings don't stay forever. They fluctuate, they hurt me. They fail me, I fail them.
I cannot slander when things leave my hands, I can just sit and watch.
As for my likes, they will not stay forever. Today you are my best friend, I am sure I will hate you tomorrow.
Goodnight!

Victuals

Food.

Day zero:
Jet Airways:
Nimbu paani
Continental lemon grilled chicken on *&%^(&$^% Pasta
Orange Melange
Salad
Bread
Australian Red Wine
Ice Cream

Aloo samosa

Chicken Kathi Roll
Raaj bhog
Chai

Day One:
English tea

Maggi

Boiled Rice
Ready-to-eat dal makhni

Strawberries

Day Two:
English tea
Biscuits (Indian Cream Cracker)

Pilao with Cream Chicken

Biscuits (Cream cracker again)

Rice
dal makhni

Day Three:
Tea
Egg Mayonnaise cream cress on oatmeal bread

Ceaserian Salad with chicken and mature cheese, with minced lamb

Creamcracker

Rice
dal makhni
mango-coconut cake

Day Four:
Pomegranate juice
Egg and tomato on white bread
Tea

Chocolate cheese biscuits

Vegtable and cottage cheese chopsuey
Cheese pudding with mango ^%&^(&£Cheese pudding with mango ^%&^(&£$&% syrup
amp;% syrup


*English tea is tasteless. Zero on flavour, zero on liquor. Tastes best with milk and jaggery sugar.
*Coffe is awesome, and the english are addicted to caffeine.
*They put more of salt than sugar in desserts.

Donedone in LONDON

I know I deserve to be )*^*$&%£"£%)($$$ for the delay in this post, but I was ROOTed (details on that later).
Ok, so from the airport in 'saddi dilli', the immigration officer told me that bengalis are VERY INTELLIGENT and the sutoms officer said I could bring back a lappy with zero taxes. Duh!!!!
On flight, I watched Khosla ka Ghosla, and Sanjeev kapoor's crooked recipes, and then the screen blew off. Then for the first time, after five flights I realised that from above, clouds tell many a more stories.
The screen was reset and I watched Notes on a Scandal. Yeah, yeah I know you are NOT interested in this, but I must go on (I am a compulsive blabber mouth).

Down at Heathrow airport, I realised that in order to be CLEARED in a minute, one needs to stand for two hours. I got muged, bought a £5 calling card valid for 5 minutes (DONT shoot me for this).
1 hour drive to Wantage and that was all I saw of London.
Then at the Divall's place. (Did you see my room video?). Marta, Edwin and 17 months old Benjamin Divall, and there is yet another Divall in the pipeline.
I fell down dead as soon as I hit the pillow. Not much next day, I went oon a walk with the Divalls around the village, and I must emphasize that this place is BEAUTIFUL, all green, much like it was in HRI, quiet, clean and green. And the Brits are helpful and they don't like the Americans.
Marta is Hungarian and makes great cakes. We watched a brit movie "Very Annie Mary", the girl was dopey, the script was very english in humour (I don't know what it means, but Marta said it, so I think its the best way to describe it).
The next morning Edwin took me to RAL. 20 minutes by car, and the way is something like the hills and greenery you must have seen in LOTR. There are horse riding clubs, and just hills on the way. Then there are also houses with thatched slanting roofs which look like white huts on the hills.
I got a day pass for visitors at the RAL gate. Edwin works in the same building as me in the next extension. He took me to Bill's room.
What I now saw was a TALL, LANKY, Rectangular faced man who said,"don't call me Sir, call me Bill". Ok then, Bill.
So I was intoduced to my computer, which according to Bill is terribly slow. Enough work for 30 minutes discussing what I don't know. (Bill started with what I may know, but it turned out,ofcourse, that Kgp hadn't been of help, and we talked about whati didn't know, and what I still don't know).
Restaurant:
Because Bill needed to refill his system with caffeine, and he can't do without it.
I another Bill, BIG,FAT,WHITE HAIR; typically Scottish in his ways.
I learnt that he had partially lost his eye sight in an accident a few years back, so he peers into books n monitor with a magnifying glass, which is really very disconcerting for a new person. I still haven't come to terms with it.
Back to Office:
Started with something called the ROOT. Its a programming language, and it is SICK. And just before lunch I realised that I didn'thave a wallet anymore and no money, no I-card.
Thankfully the Divalls don't have locks on their room doors (spare the toilet and bathroom, THANK GOD for that!), so martha found it in my cupboard when I asked her to take a peep in.
Bill paid my lunch bill again (why else did he get this name !). His also invited me to his home in Abingdon (another village between Wantage and Didcot).
For your information, Bill (Dr. WJ Murray had his education in Oxford, Doctorate in Cambridge and has two sons and two daughters), (this was for Mummy and Mashi, because they are always interested in offline stuff).
Back "Home " with Edwin, and I had a very heavy lappy bag to carry. It took good two hours of Edwin, Marta and Me to set it up on their home wi-fi. MAC address sMACked us all. Finally I had a room, a table, a cupboard, an INDIAN PIN PLUG point, and internet conection, all at the same time. Alright, so i cooked my supper (boiled rice and heated ready-to-eat dal makhni ). And I went to bed with quarks and leptons and of course Peter Higgs, teh man who has tormented all souls in PPDs* around the world.

Day 2 at work:
I tooka bus to work. Its a good half an hour ride through all the villages between Wantage (where I stay) and Didcot (where I work). Tickets are £4 for a single side journey from Wantage to Didcot! For four weeks its £34 throughout the whole of oxfordshire!! I wonder where they got their arithmatic classes from.
My boss (thin Bill) is out of station, and I was under the scottish eyes of Fat Bill. He took me for breakfast, and his name is Bill for the same reason.
There was a lecture by a German prof, and I realised that germans speak english with a lot more clarity and the brits.
Lunch was with a sea of cynical brits. Each one of them hated America, the science they had developed, and teh director of the PPD at RAL asked me if I had learnt english in school or not. One of the brits reminded him that indian history has an english part to it. And the director was amused that we still had english in our educational, technical and social veins. Cynical, I had said.
The english accent is awee bit harder to catch than the american one, and the first two days I just smiled or laughed whenever they did, not getting the joke very much!
In the evening, I lost my way to home.
Jane Bruffel, the HR secretary in PPD offered to drop me home, and I insisted that she left me at Sainbury's, a departmental store. I shopped well, Vaseline (because its cold here), apricot petit, apples (Happy Baba?), oatmeal bread, cheese (with onions and chives), chocolate cookies and pomegranate juice (Mummy!). So on this parade to make my parents happy, I realised I din't know the way back (or rather had forgotten it). So I walked back to the main market circle and started walking downhill. I spotted the man who got up on the bus the same morning with me. I started following him. Uphill, downhill, into the lanes, on the roads and then he just vanished into thin air. Wasborough Avenue was nowhere in sight. 6 people and 1000 directions later I found Barnwell. Kept walking ahead in the hope of getting somewhere atleast. And suddenly (after a good 35 minutes of walking) I realised I had the village map!
Bang at 27, Wasborough Avenue. I still wasn'tquite sure if it was the same Wasborough Avenue that the Divalls lived in, till The key clicked open the door and I found myself inside.
Benjamin crying. Yes! I was there, right where I should have been an hour earlier.
For some strange reason, the Oxfordshire authorities want houses on the same avenue, or street look the same. So, if you want to build a house there, it must look exactly like the ones in your lane, even though they may be a hundred years old.
I ate a mango-coconut cake that Marta had made for May-day market. The 7th was a public holiday because it was the first monday of May, and they celebrated May-Day.
Day three in to work, and I am still ROOTed, but know the quarks and the leptons better.
P.S. ::
# I wonder why were english toilets made.
# These firangis eat nothing more than cream, cheese, potatoes and salt. Sometimes bread too.
# They have a peculiar traffice system. You see a car coming, you wait. So when the road is absolutely clear, you turn or cross. And nobody overtakes. Buses wait! Drivers wait till you get on, insert your ticket in the machine and have it read, then the next one gets on, etc. And, they never get late!
#Martha used to cook Indian stuff a lot before Benj was born, so she has loads of spices, and oil, which she said I should use.
# I am better off being desi.
*Particle Physics Department.

Back to Beta

Everything on KGP earth looks vague, every sound in the KGP air sounds vague, every being under the KGP sun feels vague.

Quantum particles are vague, atomic spetra are vague, contours without singularities are vague,and ofcouse, Lorenz method of some or the other crap is vague. I really don't believe you when you say you understand what I ever mean. I am vague.

Three years and still running, KGP changed my perspective of everything to vague.
She is vague.
He is vague.
They are vague.
And I am vaguely unhappy.

We make promises when we know that we will break them. Brittle.
And we never dare to promise a word we know we will keep forever.
Is THIS why people divorce afer they have uttered the supposedly holy "I Do" ?
Is THIS why one of us will die before the other?
Are promises to just break and punish the ones we said we loved?
Vague.
The most vague word ever whispered on the womb of earth is love.We never mean it, we can never mean it, because we hardly know what it means. I say it aloud atleast fifty times a day, another hundred times in my mind, but I can barely bet that I know what I say.
Have I ever sacrificed?
Never.
I have always wanted, begged for, stolen, snatched away whatever was never mine, immaterial and non-vague things like time, attention, appraisal. And now they come to an end. Fullstop.
I complain, whine, call life a bitch, but what have I ever done to make it a tad bit beter?
I said I love.
Oh hell!!
I love what? Theatre? Books? Music? Physics?
Heaven knows I am not entitled for the higher ranks of intellectualism that swoon around books, music and theatre. I am not a smoker, I don't booze. But I still pretend to love. I also do not fit my tongue easily in a language that involves frequent use of eigenvectors and divergence.
Hence, I pretend, I pretend to love which in itself is vague. I pretend that I understand what a poet says, or atleast I try to derieve a meaning. But ofcourse, I emphasize that I pretend. All our loves in life are pretensions. Life is an act we put up to entertain others, sometimes trying to believe that we are entertaining ourselves. Finally, in our last breaths we know, how poor we were in the play, that scene or that scene.
Then we remember that one scene in which we were true, on the stage, yet out of the play, deceiving the prompter behind the wings. That one scene when we believed that the audience was not watching. For that one moment, we will see the gates of heaven and return.
I do not know where the end is, to my lies, your lies, my deception, your deception.
Dreams speak when I see a lunatic blowing his nose on my arm. Then I know, in my dreams, that the lunatic is the end to my lies, my deception.
I will see you on the other side of the moon, if you like me can deceive the prompter behind the wings.
Till then.....

Every breath you take
Every move you make
Every bond you break
Every step you take
Ill be watching you

Fairly HAPPY Blog

When my days begin before 6 they are cloudy, misty, gloomy. And then there is sunrise, warm, bright and the way I like the day to be. And then the talktime slides down and down and down.
Perhaps for the first time in the history of arid grandeur is a blog that says, GOOOOOOOODMORNING.
How desperate are those onset of summer when one has to wait for weeks for one microsecond of crowning glory, for more days to go...
I don't like much of coffee, I like tea, and tea hasn't tasted half as good at chhedi's as it used to when I was a fresher and sophomore. Things on the to-do list are hence :

• Double poach, double chai, maggi
• Masala dosa and sweet corn soup
• Chicken cheese macaroni with alu dum and poori
• chaat and bread-omelette at Eggies
• daal roti
• Chicken Tandoori and Daal makhAAAni
• Utthapam

For now, thats about it. I can't wait, hope it doesnt rain.
Oh yes, FOOD PLAZA!
I must end, with a smiley this one time { :-) }

Of Love, Hate and Nothing in Particular

I see, I analyse, I decide.
All about others. Their lives, relationships, ideals, morals. Then I write stories. Hide the files and let no-one know of them.
Then I scream, I accuse, I unfrock unchaste sinners. Then I think of them more, and hate them more.
I have for some inherent fear never analysed myself, never pinned up a tag of decision on what I do or say. As a youth atom, I have seen love blossom at every corner down the round road. I have seen them break down right at my doorsteps. The place I live in is, afterall, the haven of all heartbreakers. I see those who love a new love every half a year, I see those who stick for four long years to look for greener pasture in foreign avenues. I see those who burn themselves in midnight lamp to lie tired as black soot.
I see lovers, I see players.
I don't realize that somewhere down in those dark galleries lives a me. A me of lies, deceit, hatred and fear. A me who is obssesed with myself, my ideals, me decisions. I hate this analysis part, particularly when it scathes me, scratches me.
I have lied, I have also loved. I have lived in a heaven of days to rot in hell for the next eternity to come. I have never really liked myself, never much hated too. But, I shall never be courageous enough to own up and bow down.
I don't understand these modern concepts of personal space in relationships. These ideas induced in Indian society by Mr. Farhan Akhtar don't define which part is to be his space, which part her space, and which iota their space.
She boozes, she is loose.
He fags, he is manly.
They date, they are in love.
And love encompasses to limits where He says, "Get a life! I am not your dog". Where She says, "You didn't buy me as your slave".
I have seen these, never understood these. The haven of heartbreakers was where I realized that love must be bounded in singularities.
I have seen men and women encompass love in domains of space-time, where honeys moon all weekend at the same place for four years with different keyword. I ask are they too dissatisfied with the term love?
I see girls run elope with lovers, and the lovers loving their loves with all their love. How much is that love after a decade? Is it over? Or does it flourish with someone else over some other space and some other form?
Till I was about 18 I always knew that love was when two people flung all cliffs to stay together because they had no other motive in life. They loved themselves, and they loved others.
All changed with number 18. I saw people hate themselves enough to love. Bubblegum boys and spicegirls. And I saw space. His, Her and an iota of Their. Then I learnt that it was not cool enough to commit, to give and take roses from the same person over years, to explain your little moves, to cry out when overwhelmed, to adhere to the little demands of the other one. I mugged these without understanding. I could not apply them in the examination. Then I realized I was made for love that was before 18 struck.
And now I know that love can be loved just once, and forever that once.

Test of Time

I have yet another exam. Spectroscopy. Some lines of light and ultra light, to sneak into.
Sneak into the spectrum of life, catch the colour of love, violet. Cry, howl, writhe, scream, loose, subside, mistrust, give in but never give up. Scratch your cheeks that itch with saline. Let loose all you ever wanted to keep for yourself.
Charity begins with love. Never ask back, never turn around to find your pillar.
Life is one lap of bungee-jumping. Plunge but don't look down. The master could be busy snapping strings.
Ever experienced strong spasms within your soul, that have no origin, no song to play for? Do you then grope around in the dark for that one shoulder you clung to when you balled?
It is your complex conjugate. Add it to yourself. Then make the real you, without it. Live, don't survive; Struggle till the last penny of talktime, and life will soon be over, much like the talktime.
Seen a crowd? You can spot me in it. I hold my head low, grounded with failure. Ever eaten sweets with the bitterest of expressions on your face? Ever displayed to the world your banner of vanquish? Ever told your soulmate the darkest of your nightmares? Ever known that your soul exists? Ever cried out to infity with your hands reaching out to hold it? Ever been plain simple human with pains, heartaches, childlike demands? Ever got chocolates for your bithday? Ever stared at the closed window corner of your shell, where lavish cobwebs sneer indignantly at you? Ever hated yourself to the extent of crying for the wrong reasons all the while?
Ever collected chocolate wrappers over three years? Ever written your life out and deleted all at once? Ever banged your head to guage which pain is more?
Then tell yourself that you are you and nothing else. Write a blog. Blow your nose. Hit publish. Rush back to spectroscopy.