"Save the EARTH"
This statement has been used, reused and recycled in every imaginable context.
"Save Electricity,Save the Earth".
"Save Water,Save the Earth".
Puhlease."Save your own ass!" would be more appropriate. The earth doesn't need saving. If the polar ice caps were to melt submerging all the land masses thereby driving humans to colonize mars or any other convenient planet, the earth would still rotate about its axis with a slight tilt, completing a full revolution around the sun once every 365.25 days. Earth minus humanity. It does not make a huge difference in the overall picture of the universe. What are we after all. A mere spec in cosmic time.
Even in the green house gas infested atmosphere and watery grave that we might leave behind us, a new life forms may evolve for whom o2 is poisonous, which thrive in uv light and suffocate out of water. If these creatures were to fuck up the water and tamper with the precious green house gases, they too would perish.
The cycle goes on. A new Yuga begins. The earth plays host ever graciously, not the earth as we know it but still spherical and slightly bulged at the poles none the less.
In the big picture, we're pretty small indeed.

An ocean of round, precariously poised rocks in the midst of which flourished one of the greatest medieval metropolises. The waters of the Tunga Badhra cut through the landscape like a silver knife and everywhere you turn there’s something that catches your eye, frozen in time inviting you to go and explore. Beautiful sculptures carved on every inch of every structure, each having its own story to tell. As I watched the sun rise from Matunga hill, lighting the rocky landscape like a yellow electric bulb, I thought of all the places that I had ever been to and ever would in the future. None had left me felling the same and I doubt anything ever would.
Wish I was in Hampi right now.

the seige of jamalabad

I’ve had a deep yearning to travel for a long time now and after reading “In Xanandu” by Dalrymple I couldn’t help feeling a sense of injustice and irony. Before us we have this incredibly fascinating labyrinth of history beckoning us to explore but we turn a blind eye to it.

Sheki, who is partly responsible for turning me into somewhat of a history aficionado, went on an elaborate fort hunt on Wiki and produced a list of places around Mangalore which would accommodate the criterion of being close to college and light on the wallet. We agreed on jamalabad fort which was described rather beautifully in a blog. Further research told us (or rather Sheki) that the fort was built by Tipu in the late 18^th century which he (Tipu, of course) promptly named after his mother. The next task on hand was to assemble (in Sheki’s words) “an army for the siege of jamalabad”.  These being not an altogether difficult task as most of the fella’s were pretty jobless after the mid semester exams, the final line-up looked as follows: Sheki, Heda, Nishkarsh, A.Abi, Vyas, Rushil and I.

Date:27th September,2008

5:30 am: I wake up to the incredibly irritating tune of sheki’s alarm. So this is what 5 30 am feels like!

5:45 am: The two of us knock on ponky’s door.

                   Sheki: Are you coming?

                    Ponky: Yea. Wake me up in fifteen minutes.

6:00 am: Sheki (Again, Ponky’s door):   You coming?

                   Ponky: Can’t come. Not feeling well.

7:00 am: We wait at Reddy’s and forgo an express because it seems pretty crowded.

7:15 am: It’s getting late so we board a “local” bus much more crowded than the express. Damn you Murphy. It stops every 100 meters. Mangalore seems at least an hour away.

8:00 am: We have breakfast at the “Taj Mahal”, Hampankatta and parcel fourteen puri’s to be eaten after we’ve “conquered” jamalabad.

8:45 am: With moderately filled stomachs we walk to the SB bus stop. Our destination-Belthangadi. We board a bus which bears a striking resemblance to the one which brought us to Mangalore. We look for an express but there is none. We stick to the “local”. 

9:00 am: When the bus is sufficiently full, it labours its way towards Darmasthala. The road is surprisingly smooth and on either side lush, green fields abound with the occasional hillock. Sheki’s camera is put to use at times of monotony. On enquiry, we’re told that Belthangadi is an hour and a half away.  

11:00 am: We arrive at Belthangadi and are told to catch another bus to the foot of the hill.

11:15 am: Arrive at “base camp”. The village is laid back and we look at the hill which we are to scale. The sun is blazing away on all cylinders and it seems a pretty steep task. We gather a few bottles of water and head off towards the foot of the hill which is 2 km away. On the way we see a church, a mosque and a temple in close proximity. There’s a stream with crystal clear water inviting us to jump in. Sadly, I hadn’t neither a pair of bathing trunks or a towel with me.

12:00 noon: The guy in charge, presumably from the ASI, asked us to cough up an amount which I’m not able to recollect at present. I think he even took one of our college ID’s.  These formalities being completed, we began the ascent. Its funny how things never pan out the way you imagined they would. When we were told that the climb would take us an hour and a half or probably two, I laughed silently thinking it was child’s play. The first two hundred meters or so dispelled any lingering notions that the trek was going to be easy. The path was manmade and carved out the rock. The steps, being quiet high, took a toll on our ill exercised bodies and we were huffing in about 15 minutes. The heat was blistering and we halted every 5 minutes or so taking gulps of water while we rested on the smouldering hot rocks. Sheki and I proved to be the weaklings, if I might use the word. The sedentary lifestyles which we shamefully lead were reflected throughout the trek. Anyway I must add that the view at various points was very pretty indeed. Below us there was a vast expanse of fields, coconut groves and plantations and the Kudremukh hills kissed the clouds in the background.

The first sign of the fort was a wall which fooled us into thinking that we had reached the top. This was especially cruel on Sheki who was exhausted (to the point of crying out “I’m dying”) and was led to believe that the journey was complete.  There was a broken cannon which I doubt was made of iron (can iron fracture?). We hadn’t reached the top as yet.   There was a flight of steps which was the steepest yet and wet in portions. This, I must admit, was the hardest part of the trek. The steps were carved out of the rocks and the hardships faced by the people who constructed the fort became apparent when we glanced down. We were at a height of about 1500 feet and relying on the rather precarious grip the slippery rocks could afford.

2:00 pm: We’re at the top. Or are we? There is no sign of a high walled, magnificent structure I had conjured in my mind. Nothing but a small observatory of sorts which has been thoroughly defaced by tasteless graffiti. It’s a shame we treat our monuments like they aren’t worth a penny. The view, as I have already commented was breath taking. From the scale of the fort, or whatever is left of it, it becomes apparent that it was a small structure but commanded a bird’s eye view of the surroundings. But why did Tipu select such a remote location as a military outpost?

After doing a bit of exploring, we lunched in a shady nook and snapped a few customary photographs. As we had run out of water, we filled the bottles from a spring at the top. The water was cool and sweet, quiet refreshing in the sapping heat. At around three we headed back. The descent was much easier and we didn’t halt as much we had on the way up, as a result of which we were back downstairs in an hour and a quarter.

4:00 pm: My legs were trembling and my muscles ached. All I wanted was a hot shower and a comfortable bed. The stream which I had mentioned earlier beckoned us with its musical sound as it caressed the rocks. We took off our footwear and dipped our bare feet in the swirling waters. The result was as soothing a massage as I have ever gotten. When we finally decided to leave I was completely rejuvenated as I’m sure were the others.

The return to Mangalore and finally to college was a haze. I was pretty exhausted and did not even have the appetite to gorge at Nishkarsh’s expense.

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mr .Tambourine man

X cracks a joke. Y erupts into peals of laughter. Z looks dumb struck with an expression of what-the-fuck-is-this writ large on his face. Y explains the joke to Z, who fakes a laugh, still not getting it. One thing about laughter, other than being the best medicine, is that it is spontaneous. I can’t explain why a joke is funny the same way I can’t explain why I like my favourite song. Sure I can say that I like the riff ,the vocals or the solo but there’s something about it and I can’t really put your finger on that “something”.

Our minds are what we make them. As infants and thereabouts we’re fascinated by everything. Something as ordinary as a key chain or an aeroplane. Magic shows and ghosts in closets. A silly looking clown can make a toddler laugh his tiny little head off. But the calculating and analytical mind is swift to debunk the mysteries of closeted ghosts and magicians. That magician is a fraud! The rabbit was already in the hat. The same way the clown is just another guy in a stupid costume and an aeroplane is just like a bus only that it flies. Big deal.

But no matter how much we’ve suppressed our instincts, some things remain unchanged. Artistic appreciation and laughter being two of them. We don't have to "think" to realize that a crack is funny. Its funny because, well.. it just is.

Sometimes it’s better to give the mind a rest and let the soul do the thinking.

the evolution of love

Warning! Sexual content ahead. For mature audience only.

First Crush(A long long time ago)- Well,this is weird. Racing heart . Sweaty palms. Scarlett face. Something strange is happening down south. This is embarrassing.

First “love”(three years ago)- This is it. I love her. She’s perfect in every way. Last time was different. I’ve grown up now. Things have changed. But why does she hate me so much? This sucks. I can’t get over her.

Second “love”(a month later)-I’m over her. What a b%#*^ she was! There is only one girl for me now. She’s so cool. She gets me. But she doesn’t see me like that. And now I’ve to leave for college. Can it get any worse ?

Post NITK(currently)- My constant companion. Always there for me like a faithful dog. I mean bitch. No questions asked. No long, awkward telephone conversations where I have to say “so, what else”. No feelings or emotional bullshit. No strings attached. You might call it unconditional love.I call it my right hand. It?Should I have said her?

A year ago my neighbours moved to London filled to the brim with excitement. A week ago they returned, not very excited but a little glum. The lure of money aside, they were not very happy with the quality of education England had to offer for their son. I was a bit surprised since he was all of twelve years old. They complained that the books were wafer thin and as beauty is always skin deep they felt thin books and extracurricular activities would be a hindrance to their son slogging for CET/AIEEE/blah blah blah and become a “software engineer”. Having fallen into the same trap myself I feel a brotherly sympathy towards the kid. There seems to be a disease spreading thick and fast. Every teenager in middle class India has it drilled into him to take up PCMB/C/again blah blah in 12th and thereafter become an engineer preferably with the prefix “software”, or a doctor. Commerce and humanities are for dull kids. That’s the message given by nosy aunties and uncle’s who haven’t the vaguest idea about what they’re talking about.

Let me deviate from the point a little bit. Every individual is born with a certain something called intelligence. It’s our ability to make decisions other than “What am I going to eat for dinner?” that makes us superior to pond life and apes. And this “intelligence” when measured follows the law of averages quite neatly. There are those who are exceptionally bright and there are those who are like Paris Hilton. A majority of us humans fall somewhere in between. There is a serious snag in the “measurement” of intelligence. The standard IQ tests (and most of our examinations,/entrance tests) only measure the individuals’ logical and mathematical skills. There are a whole lot of factors which aren’t taken into account in measuring it thus. For example you can have a guy who’s dazzling at math but when you give him a map and let him loose in downtown Mumbai he might come a cropper as the task demands something called spatial intelligence. Then there’s linguistic intelligence, musical intelligence and a whole bunch of other “intelligences” which aren’t tested in the regular IQ tests. Muhammad Ali had an IQ of 75 (tested by the U.S. army) which is as dull as anyone can get without being retarded according to the traditional notion of “intelligence” but he possessed , in abundance, something called body kinaesthetic intelligence which determines how well you can co-ordinate your skeletal system to excel as an athlete.

Now think about the situation in India. From about the time a toddler begins to walk, it is drilled into him that engineering and medicine are the only holy paths to a successful career. I’m talking typical middle class India here. No consideration is given to a fact that an individual and therefore his inteligence, is what the word means in itself. Unique. One of a kind . Individual A might be a great musician but he’s compelled to sit for JEE, an exam that is demanding on one’s logical and mathematical skills, only to be disappointed by not qualifying. Aren’t his parents satisfied with this? No. He sits for CET in every state till he gets ECE or Computer Science. So he does a course, which he has no aptitude for whatsoever, and struggles through college only to be placed as a “software engineer” which is a dream come true for a parent. Music be damned!

If you ask me this neighbour of mine would have been better off in England. An essential catalyst for happiness is an environment in which an individual can assess his capabilities and choose a path which is suited to his mental makeup. Everyone can’t be an engineer or a doctor. When will this seep into heads of our aunties and uncles?

the smell of rain

Amongst the wilderness of Nandini Layout stands a funnily shaped building which, as of 2004 still awaited its first coat of white wash. I say wilderness because the acres of trees, weed and poisonous plant that cover most of the curvaceous landscape might be mistaken for grassland and the open sewer lines that snake along can be one of the brook’s that Wordsworth raves about. I say funnily shaped because of the absolute lack of architectural and aesthetic sense on the part of the guy who designed it. To the residents of Nandini and to the pupils who graced its suffocating corridors, the depilated structure is goes by the name of Presidency School. The place which shaped my mind , or whatever is left of it. The place where I learnt dirty jokes that transcend boundaries. The only place, other than a traffic constable’s convention, where you would find five hundred guys wearing khaki trousers and white shirts. Where sex education was left to capable hands of the internet. Where the school playground was a public park quarter of a kilometre away. The place where I had my first crush. Most importantly, the place which taught me a-b-c with which I can string together these sentences. I mean the a-b-c of the alphabet and of life.Ah, those memories.