Exams are on, it's raining cats and dogs outside, and I've grown tired of both. Been a dreary week with projects, presentations and exams, and we are not done with the week yet(or rather, the week is not done with me yet). Sigh. And yet, I find the time to blog and tell-all. How, you ask? Well, I looked at the blog after a long time, and it looked so forlorn, like a neglected(No, not that one. How would I know?), so, like a neglected parent(My parents always feel neglected and go into mini-depressions when I have exams. Mini-depressions. Like mini idlis or mini meals). I felt so guilty that the hit counter was zooming along even when I had not posted anything worthwhile for a long time. So I was on my weekly blog-idea hunt, when a couple of medical officers dropped into school to educate us about the swine flu(We don't use the s-word on this blog, so we say H1N1 flu). Aha, I thought. This time I didn't have to look far for inspiration. I just had to twist and turn whatever these good gentlemen said, change some text into italics, parenthesize, and we're done!! Little did I know what was in store.

I think one of those officers had the swine, sorry, H1N1 flu himself, for I started feeling a bit woozy soon after they had left. Hacking cough and a baaaad headache followed, and so, for the safety and health of those around me, I decided to go to the health center. Now the whole health center idea here is very funny. The center is located a long mile away from campus, therefore, if you are ill, please wait until you're strong enough to walk to the health center, and then when you get there, you will have the best possible medical care. Wisecracks notwithstanding, I dragged myself to the health center, showed them my ID cards, and sank down thankfully onto the couch. Back in India, I used to call up my doctor(a highly gifted school senior), tell her the symptoms, and she used to send across the medicines. Of course, she would also call back in a couple of hours to check whether I was still alive. A typical conversation would be like this:

Me: "Hey Doc"
She: "Hey Dumbo"
Me: "Dumbo yourself. Listen I need some advice"
She: "Left hand or right?"
Me: "Not fractured hands, re. I think I'm coming down with something bad. Need some medicines"
She: "Ok, tell me the symptoms"
Me: "Headache, feeling exhausted, high body temperature, cold and I'm spitting blood"
She: "Ok, are your pupils dilated?"(She's quintessentially cool. That statement about spitting blood didn't affect her at all)
I stare at the mirror with the phone cradled on one shoulder.
Me: "No, I don't think they are"
She: "Well, even if they were, you wouldn't know"
Me: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
She: "Bend forward and let your neck loose"
Me: Ok.(Loud noise as I tumble from my chair. Curses and threats follow)
She: "Ok, you can sit up now. Did you feel anything heavy in your forehead or behind your nose?"
Me: "Yes"
She: Ok, I'll send you some medicines. Take them, take rest, and you should be just fine"
Me: "Okie, thanks"

(After two hours)
She: "Hey Dumbo."
Me: "Hey Doc. What goes?"
She: "Nothing, just checking. Tc, Bye."
Me: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Sigh. I miss those days of innocence.

Here, the diagnostic process is more thorough, long-drawn, and psychology-oriented. But prone to gaffes, as we shall see. After registering at the front-desk, I was sitting and chatting with two friends who had accompanied me to the health center. I was bragging about how I had written that I had flu, in order to ensure prompt attention. A group of people walked out of an office and called my name. One of my friends raised his hand, presumably to say that he was with me. Before any of us could say another word, they had put him on a wheelchair, put a gauze mask on him, and wheeled him away to a diagnostics room. The entire party returned in a minute, the friend all flushed and upset, and the doctor party sheepishly grinning. Quick and efficient, but inaccurate. This time around, they correctly identified me, even looked at my ID card, and wheeled me in. Everybody was masked and gloved. Except me. Left me feeling like I was highly radioactive or something. They took a blood sample from me and then left me alone. Just imagine. Alone in a HUGE room, draped in a white sheet, lying under a pool of light. I, of course, used the time to catch a few winks. I woke up to someone gently shaking me. The light was off, the gown had vanished, and so had the masks and gloves. There was only one doctor.

Doc: "Hmmmm"
Me: "Hmmm?"
Doc: "Hi Shszzzrijeethth. Is that how you pronounce your name?"
Me: "Yeah that's fine"
Doc: "Ok. We ran a few tests on the blood sample and found that there is nothing wrong!! Aren't you relieved?"
Me: "So what is wrong? Why am I feeling tired and feverish?"
Doc: "First, let me ask you a few questions. Do you stay with your parents or siblings?"
Me: "No"
Doc: "So you stay with your partner?"
Me: "No. I stay with friends"
Doc: "Do you have a troubled romantic relationship?"
Me: "^$#*(@#"
Doc: "Strained relationships with flatmates?"
Me: "No"
Doc: "Strained relationship with family?"
Me: "No"
Doc: "What did you have for breakfast?"
Me: "Cereal"
Doc: "How is your academic work going on?"
Me: "Good"
Doc: "Do you have any financial problems?"
Me: "No"
Doc: "Ok, this looks like is a case of seasonal flu. I will fill out a prescription for you. Take rest, and you should be just fine"

So, avoid strained romantic relationships, strained family relations, have cereals for breakfast, maintain your grades and plan finances well if you want to avoid swine flu. Sorry, infection by the H1N1 virus.

So, let me take rest and study for my exams while you guys run along and have a nice (rest of the) week. In my absence, please keep the blog alive, by appropriate activities in the comments section.

Stay healthy and I'll see you in just a few days. Ciao.

The time has come to shake off the sombreness of the past week. The dark template is out. Until I finally get myself to sit down AND work on designing a new template, I have decided to keep rotating through blogger's offerings. I like this template because it doesn't make a long post look like an intricately carved pillar. Yes, until I get tired of this one and say "I want something that makes my posts look like an intricately carved pillar". The next post is shaping up nicely, but sadly, very little time to work on it(finals week is here, and studies and work weighing heavily on my time). Stay tuned, I should get bored of studies in a while.

God be with ye all.

The change in the template is temporary. Yes, I know black is the color of mourning, and that is precisely the reason behind the new color. I never imagined I would do something like this on The Yarn Factory ever. But then, acts of God, as always, know no questions. This is the least I can do by way of paying a tribute to a dear dear friend.

Why, was 24 years justifiable enough to snuff out a young life?
Why this life, when I would have gladly given mine in return?
If it was for this, why did she come into contact with me after 15 long years?

Many many such angry questions well up from the depths of my heart, but I have lost the voice to ask them. You know why? Because, Acts of God know no questions. Because we mortals are too powerless to question His divine intelligence.

Vini, you live on forever in our hearts and thoughts. Right in this beautiful world that you so loved. Right in the midst of the people you so loved. We will never miss your song of life, because it rings forever in our hearts and souls.

May God keep you forever in His loving care. Rest, dear friend. In peace.

For me, elections in India have always been happy times. During school and college days, elections were eagerly awaited for the holiday on the day of election, another on the day of counting, and yet another for some other reason. When I was working, if the elections did not give me a long weekend, I would take off all the days in between the holiday and the weekend, and go on a jaunt with my friends, where it was not raining, snowing or voting, and the sun was shining bright. This time around, the talk of elections is making me all wistful.

The other day, I was talking to Mahesh about the upcoming elections in India, and Karnataka in particular. No no, not the politics part of it. He was just telling me about how, without a long weekend, he was going to be stuck in Bangalore on a holiday. That set me thinking(though I don't look like it, I'm perfectly capable of thinking, thank you) - this was going to be the first election I'm going to miss since I turned 18. Democracy has danced a few times since my 18th birthday, and I have been proud to exercise my vote and participate in nation building. Even though the real reason was to have my index finger marked with a glob of unerasable ink. On a side note, I wonder what if the government had mandated that the marking should be on the middle finger, rather than the index finger? Hahaha. Can you imagine a line of voters going up to the electoral officer with their middle fingers raised? Would have served them right too - for screwing up my Voter ID cards(Yes, I said cards. I have two of them. Both with different names). The names were so off mark that I can't remember what was really printed on them(How do they type out these names?), but I do remember a few situations associated with the voter cards. One day, Dad had just come in from work. We were standing near the gate, chatting. A middle-aged man with broken spectacles approached us. He had some cards in his hand. He said something which both Dad and me did not understand. I was trying to place the language, but Dad had already decided that it was Gujarati(Why Gujarati? Makes for another post) and said "Illa illa. Mundhe(I know the "h" sound is unnecessary here. I put it there, lest readers pronounce it like I used to refer to a particularly irritating classmate) hogu. Shanivaara baa"(meaning "Don't beg here. Go on ahead. Come on Saturday" - since, on Saturdays, we are extra charitable to escape the malefic gaze of Shani). "Illa saar", the poor man protested, "nimma voter-id card bandhide"(No Sir, I have just brought your voter-id cards). That was no Gujarati - the poor man was trying to pronounce what was written on the cards as our names. My sister's name, however was printed correctly. But not her photo. Any guesses why? Correct. She was not in India, and she had never applied for a card. The next time we got our cards was a few months down the line. Dad, Mom and me were relaxing at home after lunch. Knock on the door. Mom opened the door. The smart guy standing outside handed her three cards with a flourish "Amma, nimma voter-id cards"(Ma'am, your voter-id cards). Mom took one look at the cards and handed it back to the guy saying "Nammadalla. Pakkada maneyavaradu irbeku"(Not ours. Must be the neighbours'). Smart guy glances at the cards and says "Illa Amma. Idhu Neevu"(No Ma'am, this is you) showing her a seemingly deranged woman captured on photo just before she killed the photographer(Reminds me of an examination during my engineering days. We, from Information Science, sat alongside students from Electrical engineering. VTU's plan to foil copying. Bah. It was our examination in Data Communication. The invigilator handed out the question papers. It was, what we called, a "bomb" paper. Most of us were rendered speechless, and kept staring at the paper. One of my classmates stood up and handed his question paper back to the invigilator telling him that he had handed us the Electrical paper by mistake. As we were sighing sighs of relief, the invigilator, with a sly smile, said "No. Read the subject code carefully, not the questions. It's your paper only". It was.) Amma hurried away to hide her card before Dad or me could get to it(I think this is the real reason why Amma does not vote. The photo must be too much of an embarrassment). Scratching his chin, Dad contemplated his card which had a photo like a mug-shot. Dad made an agreement with smart guy that he would accept the card if smart guy could guarantee that it was really his. Smart guy, of course, guaranteed (The irony. The cards were meant to prove our identities to the authorities. Here the authorities had to prove our identities to us). I gasped when I saw my card. There were some sort of bubbles all over my face. Only my eyes and hair were intact. "Problem with lamination machine, Saar" said smart guy. But of course, these gaffes were just waiting to happen, given the conditions at the offices where they issued these cards.

Dad, mom and me had gone together to apply and pose for photographs for the voter-id cards. First to go was Dad. They found his name, scrawled it on a slate and made him hold it while posing for the photograph. Seeing this, Mom and me burst out in laughter. Explains why Dad's mug-shot came out apt for a title like The Smiling Criminal. Mom sat down next, determined not to laugh. I was too busy searching for my name in the list, and I missed making her smile. I think the extra effort to keep a straight face did her in. As for me - when the official said "Look cemera(camera), Saar", I started searching for a digicam to grin into, not realizing that a webcam was capturing my face at that instant. From the id-card, I found out sadly, that I was squinting elsewhere, searching furiously for the elusive digicam. Sigh. These always happened in the run-up to the elections.

The actual election days were no less fun. People with multiple identities roamed the place. Like this aunty who had come to the polling booth armed with no less than four voter-id cards. The names were all shot and sent to hell, the photos were all of people she had never seen before in her life. The poor lady was not asking much, only to be identified by her address, from atleast one of the id cards. What next, age? My fate was better - I chose the card with the better photo and set out to exercise my vote. Exercise, I did - walking from one booth to another, since my name did not figure in any of the lists. Finally, I spotted the name that was written on my card in a polling booth, which, I suspect, was in another constituency. I voted without further ado and fulfilled my civic duty. These are lots more of such instances, but I think I'll leave that for another post.

Hey, by the way, this post was intended only in light humour - I am not aiming to deride the democratic process in any way. I am a proud member of the world's largest democracy, and I will have it no other way. This was, as I said, just for laughs.

Until next time, stay enormously happy. Just like me.

Ciao.


Today is the Malayalam new year. Across the world, Malayalee families begin the new year on this day by viewing the Vishu Kani, and I wanted you all to begin this year viewing the kani too(The photo has been shamelessly lifted from the net(this is not a tradition). There is another tradition of presenting money to the people you love the most. Does anybody want my account number?). The kani represents good things in life like God, sweet fruits, vegetables, grains, clothes, and money(There's money again. Did you forget to ask for my account number?)

It is a widely held belief that what happens on this day will continue for the rest of the year(I know. Don't start giving examples or sending me hate mail. I'm only saying it's a belief. When I was home, Amma used to carefully discard my torn clothes, lest I wear them on this day. I don't know why, but it was another quirk of mine to wear torn clothes. Not just on Vishu. Any day) Anyway, this is the logic behind the kani - you want to see good things on this day so that it continues for the rest of the year. Also, parents don't scold kids on this day, students don't give exams, schools don't distribute report cards, etc. It's a belief. And then there is the fabulous feast. The number of dishes run into two digits, not counting the chips and the pickles.

My Vishu this year is very very special. My first Vishu away from home. Even when I was working, I managed to be home on this day. Sadly, today, even the mention of home seems so far away.. Instead of the Kani, I saw the back of a chair. Does this mean I will keep seeing chairbacks for the remainder of the year? Had cucumbers for breakfast, since the pantry ate up all our supplies. Nice outlook for the rest of the year. Compared to my present state, Amma's feast back home sounds like a week's worth of food. Sigh. Instead of receiving money, the first financial transaction I made this year was paying a bill to the Cable company. What does this forebode? Shudder. Anyway, all I'm praying is that it is just a belief, it doesn't happen really. Can you think of a year's worth of yesterday and today? I can't.

On the bright side, I have managed a post on this new year's day. Hopefully the trend will continue throughout the year. I was exploring the feasibility of hiring somebody to write articles for me. I could then put in a few italics and (parentheses) and post it. Hopefully I won't have to. Been the worst start of the year for me, hope it is much better on your end. And yes, this is the last time I'm reminding you of an ancient Vishu tradition.

Ciao.

It's official. My India plan has been called off. But I don't know why I am feeling as if I have lost something forever. Another plan will be made in less than 10 month's time. I don't know why I am feeling this way. I will continue to bless weddings and birthdays over email, talk to friends and families over VoIP, and generally maintain a regular online presence. But I will miss a lot. Among other things, I will miss my cozy little home, my friends, regular trips to Jayanagar with Mohs, Raghu and Vineeth(Why Jayanagar? Nobody knows. When we guys meet up, we just drive to Jayanagar and come back), tiffin at Veena stores, wandering around Malleshwaram streets with school friends, the planned treks to Nagarahole, Anaimudi and the open-jeep Pondy trip with Mahesh, Ajesh and the SAEC gang, the (again!?)Pondy trip with the college gang, the Karwar and Goa trips with the Infy gang, the Silent Valley and Chinnaar trips with cousins, and the Guruvayur and Cochin trip with Mom and Dad. Should teach me not to build castles in the air. Hopefully Jayanagar, Malleshwaram, Nagarahole, Anaimudi, Pondy, Karwar, Goa, Guruvayur and Cochin will all be right where they are now, in a year's time. Yes, and Veena stores too. I came to this country to achieve something, but feels like this country is squeezing everything out of me. No pain, no gain, they say. I reserve my judgement. Time will tell.

In totally unrelated news, Achan and Amma today announced that they will be coming here in a few weeks time. That should offer some balm to my aching soul. I'm just waiting for the news to sink in and begin the healing process.

A trend of using footwear to express dissent and protest has been catching on lately. US president George Bush was the first visible victim of this trend, but it did not take long for our own home minister Mr. Chidambaram and politician Naveen Jindal to be elevated to the elite club of victims.The world thinks that the Iraqi journalist who lobbed his shoe at the visiting US president is the preceptor of this trend. This trend has it roots in an ancient village in Bangalore, India. There was a young boy in the village who loved for people to visit his home. Neighbors who dropped in to use the only phone in the village(much like a municipal water well) and to catch the weekly episode of Chitrahaar were welcomed with open arms and cherubic smiles. The boy used to be distraught when the neighbors decided to go back to their home to sleep. In protest, he used to throw their footwear into the open drain in front of his home. As the elder child, the boy's elder sister was tasked with retrieving the guests' footwear out of the drain with a long stick, while the father struggled to focus the dwindling light of a torch onto the missing footwear. Thus, this boy is the real preceptor of the shoe-lobbing trend, and not somebody else, as alleged in a section of the media.

On the economic scene, the hit counter reads 169. It had already registered 69 hits before I managed to block my roommates' and my visits to the blog from being recorded. This means that we have just had the 100th hit. Cheers!! to the 100th visitor. May your tribe increase.

In other news, I have been receiving a large volume of emails from people who are reacting to the news of my aborted plan to visit India. Many are outpourings of relief, some are ambivalent, and the rest express disappointment. Half of the disappointments are put-on, I gather.

I can already see some of you copying and pasting images of footwear to be sent to me via email, therefore, I will take leave now. Moreover, there is nothing interesting or funny to write about. Absolutely nothing.

Ciao.

Disclaimer: The events described in this  post are not fictitious, but real. Any similarity to any person is true. If my description of the said persons/events sounds fictitious to you, that is merely coincidental. I assume no responsibility for it. Why should I??

I was walking home last night after a puzzling encounter with a professor. He seems to be suffering from Multiple Personality Disorder or something. Nothing else can explain the wide variety of behaviours up his sleeve. This prof would be the best fit for the title bestowed by Mahesh on Anoop - "Navarasa Nayaka". Suddenly, I realised that many other people around me displayed mysterious behaviour, and I thought it nice to share my observations with you. Almost all of us behave differently in response to events, but some behaviours and triggers are mysterious. Read on.

Irritata Lingua Differendum
Some people switch languages when irritated or angry. Reverse engineering principles help you know when they are irritated. Let's start from home. I have never known Dad to speak English with me except when there's somebody around who doesn't know Malayalam. Or yeah, except when he's annoyed with me. He scolds me in English. I don't know why - it's just mysterious. I don't think he knows why, either. If he says "Monu, come here", I know I'm in neck-deep trouble. Another indicator is calling me by name. He's called me by name maybe 5 times since I was born(and one of those was during my naming ceremony). He does it only when he's seconds away from strangling me for some brainless thing I did. Therefore, I better take the first flight, train, bus, cycle or rocket leaving Bangalore when he says "Sreejith, come here". Totally unexplained.

Amma is different. She can scold me in chaste Malayalam for hours together(No kidding. Once she scolded me so long I slept off twice in between and she was not done yet when I woke up). But when she switches to Tamil, it's bad news for the house-maid, vegetable vendor, broomstick seller, etc. Not that she doesn't know Kannada. Just mysterious why she would want to scold only those people in Tamil. I can already hear something like "Sreejith, what is this?" with some fluent Malayalam prose interspersed with bits of Tamil in the background, therefore let's go post haste to the next section.

Irritata Chronoma
Some people react mysteriously at certain times. I've been with some of these people for hours preceding the said behaviour, and I can vouch that it was not triggered by an event.

I have a friend who is now married and living in Bombay with an equally puzzled husband. While in college, we used to study long hours together with other friends at the public library in Malleshwaram. Usually, she was the life of the gang(still is), joyful, jolly and unbelievably funny. But every couple of weeks or so, she had to get her batteries recharged or something. She would go all depressed and snapping at all of us, until we backed away with hands raised above our heads. She would be fine in a few days, only to repeat the cycle. One of my friends told me something scary about the moon and behaviours that made me shiver in the hot sun on a terrible May afternoon. Mysterious.

We had a teacher in 6th standard. She was the favourite teacher in the whole school, very friendly and lively. We were a class of boys and we played numerous pranks and all that, but never got punished for it. She was that cool. Except that she would stop talking to the class a few days at a time once in a while. She used to talk and laugh with other teachers and all, but refused to talk to us. She would come to class, read out the textbook and leave. No smile, nothing. Some of us even went into minor depressions when that happened. Not me, though. Unsolved to this day.

There was a conductor on a BMTC bus that plied near my home. I loved the trip on that bus back from school. I used to wait for that bus everyday, missing the one that came 10 minutes earlier. Almost all days I travelled on that one. Yeah, almost. Somedays the conductor used to cuff me on the ears and push me out of the bus after looking at my bus pass, and somedays he would grin widely and talk to me until we reached my stop. I never unravelled that mystery.

Functiona identity crisisum
Some people experience identity crises while attending family functions(What else would explain the question "Tell me, Mone. Who am I?"). Especially the old people. They would then ask me to identify them. For example, at a cousin's wedding last year, I was approached by a man who looked vaguely like my grandfather's third brother(I don't know whether he was my grandfather's third younger or third elder brother), and asked me to identify him. As I started sputtering and babbling, pretending to choke over a cup of palpayasam, he started laughing. Mission accomplished(This is much worse with elderly female relatives. If you do not correctly identify them, they tell the whole gathering of the obnoxious thing you did to their clothes when you were only a month old. And you stand there with a sheepish look on your face and a cup of palpayasam in hand, amidst the peals of feminine laughter. It's unnerving. Fortunately, they also mention your age at the time of the said incident. Else just imagine!!) I undergo so many of these identification parades during each family function, that I think these people start fighting among themselves(Me first!! No, me first!!) as soon as I walk into the hall. Mysterious. Why do they do this?

I can think of many more mysterious instances, but this is reasonable length for a post. Will tell you the rest later. Have you noticed such mysteries anytime? Please tell us on the comments section.

Stay safe and stay healthy until next time.

Ciao

Now I know who is influencing my writing style. Not that I have any, but still. Yeah, you said it. Microsoft's message writers. But more about that in another post. I plonked myself in front of the screen right now, just to give some updates on promises I made in the past. Yes, I did say that last week’s happening would be up soon. I had also threatened to put up the second story of the pentology. These promises will have to remain promises just yet, for reasons beyond my reasonable control. Read on, and then you can go to the comments section or send me hate-mail, just as you please(No, I’m not making this up. According to the stats, I have 11 readers; by observation, I have exactly 1 commenter(excluding my distinguished self) and 1 mailer. This person sends me hate mail for no reason, although I have now enabled comments for anonymous users and invited him/her/it to post comments. Fortunately, though, the mails are razor-sharp criticisms on posts here and not personal. Phew). Back to my lame and limping excuses. Or so you think.

I have not been busy last week. No bad case of writer’s block(hahaha). Lazy? Not me. Then what, you ask? I’ll tell you. Nothing remarkable happened last week!! Except for a failed meeting with my thesis advisor, Vinay’s birthday, the near-miss with the cops and the fantabulous day over at Dipali’s, nothing was new. Now that is not something to be blogged about, right? Well beyond my control.

Now the hue and cry over the story. My friends opine that I have written enough tragedy to last four generations(were you guys referring to the content in the stories, or are you saying that it is a tragedy I maintain a blog? Whatever). Ok, let me see what I can do with the theme(I was just about to post a story about a huge maelstrom flowing into a valley, killing all it’s people and leaving untouched an ancient temple where a Goddess has been frozen into a wet and smiling statue of stone. And the next one about fireballs burning a valley. Great stories, I tell you. You guys don’t know what you’re missing out on). Anyway, nothing new coming to mind, I’ll post the rest of the pentology as soon as I finish. And that is the real reason the posts are delayed. Not my fault.

Already, this week is showing signs of being very “unposty”. I sure hope something remarkable happens and gives me enough ideas for a dozen long posts. I live on hope.

Ciao.

Now that I have your attention, please lay down your pens, put down your coffee mugs, minimize your excel sheets and pause Winamp. No No, this is not the new program installation message that I have written for Microsoft. This is just a preface to the many secrets that I am going to lay bare today. Some readers who are too secretive prefer to send emails rather than post comments; I have also noticed that emails contain more direct questions and sharp accusations than in the comments section(of course I understand you cannot ask me such questions on a blog where families with young children come to spend a quiet evening. You naughty boy. Yes, I know that "sensible_girl@*****.com" is a guy. You naughty again). But I'm targeting a slightly more mature audience, therefore, I will post the answers here. Feel free to comment now. Concerned mothers would have already taken off before the last full-stop.

Why do you write stories that deal with violence and death?
If you know me personally, you would know that I'm very very dramatic. I present even mundane, everyday situations very dramatically. I was once telling my lead about a snippet of code that refuses to compile, and till I got to the last part, he thought I was asking for a day off to stay at hospital with somebody who had a terminal disease. On another occasion, when I was instructing my young Gulf-born cousin on how to light a Diwali cracker(he knows how to cap oil wells and calculate peak production rates, but lighting a bijli was not his area of expertise back then), Mom thought I was explaining the big-bang theory to his elder sister who had a physics exam the next day. The bottom-line is, I'm very dramatic in real life as well as blog-life. Violent-themed stories have a lot of scope for drama. (For ex., Amit pushed the light switch. The click of the switch resounded in the quiet room and the room was bathed in incandescent light all of a sudden. Amit jumped.) You get the drift, don't you?

Why do you write stories at all?
Excellent question. I don't have an answer for you at this moment. When I launched a blog, I tried to choose an area of writing I would bore readers to death with. It was not an easy choice, mind you. I briefly considering writing humour, but then discovered that it is not at all an easy task; and without humour my daily life would at best read like an online diary that could be made into a sad art movie.  I briefly toyed with the idea of writing poems, but then, writing poems requires rhythm and prose - you might have a sense of my rhythm from reading a few posts here; I have no rhythm, I'm all over the place all at once. It was late at night when I hit upon the idea of writing stories, and since I was very tired from all the evaluation procedures, I went to sleep without debating on the idea. I have tried to give you a picture. That being said, I do not usually write stories at random. I write mainly against contests and challenges, where a theme or some other constraint is given. If you have something you would like me to write about, write in or leave a comment.

Why do you write at all?
Alright, now I guess you're exasperated. I write because at that moment, I have nothing else to do. My friends are all dead drunk, only waking up once in a while to tell me that they love me shinsherely, I have run out of movies to watch, the future of computer science research looks bleak, it is the dead of the night and I cant go out anywhere, etc. Nobody is born a blogger, it is society and circumstances that turn him/her into one. So there.

How do you pick topics to blog about?
I'm giving away the next secret. I pick out ideas from everyday instances(For ex., I see a man slipping on a banana peel. I'm already thinking out a blog post as I help him up). I pick up inspiration from blogs of friends. I also strike gold when I receive emails from phony ids. So please keep all those emails flowing in. I will never run out of ideas to blog about.

Did you have a love failure? Or more than one? I thought so from one of your stories.
Yes. Many. So many that I can start a blog where the stories are exclusively about my escapades. So many that all these stories could be called my Signature collection. Infact, so many that I am thinking of adopting "I love failure" as my personal punchline(Did you get the pun in the punchline?). You are not the first one to read my stories and think so. Female colleagues shot me sympathising looks with mascara-lined eyes and included me in their gossip sessions(thereby shooting down any further romantic opportunities in that direction) and male colleagues took me out to pubs for days together after "Snake in the grass" was published in the company magazine. My manager even suggested I take a vacation for a few days.

Does somebody read your posts before you publish them?
How did you guess? No, though I would like to have such a mechanism in place.

Last question, do your "close friends" encourage your writing?
Thank you for asking only so many questions. By the way, why are close friends in double quotes? Typo, right? Ok. I have very few "close friends" who encourage my writing. Most of the others consider the Sunday editions of a particular newspaper to be timeless literary classics. They don't just yet see the point in starting another blog when there are so many already around. Someday, when I'm a world-renowned blogger, they will see my perspective(Yes, I had dreams of becoming a world-renowned software engineer, a world-renowned bungee-jumper, a world-renowned flautist, a world-renowned fighter pilot, but that's not the point here). I can see the looks on some faces when that happens. Takes me back to the only time I stood first in class. In 5th standard, I think. I was at home with chicken pox and everybody else in school was involved with preparing for the school day. I had nothing to do, so I studied, while the others were distracted. As luck would have it, I came first on that monthly test(I still remember the amazement. I thought the ranks were being announced backwards). Later that evening, when an equally amazed Amma was buying me chocolates at the local store, I remember the shopkeeper lady shooting poisonous looks at Amma and banging the change on the counter(shop-lady's son was the traditional first rank holder), which Amma ignored. The trend didn't continue, since chicken pox usually happens only once in a lifetime, and school days only once a year. Oh no, I digress. I just wanted to say I can see the looks on their moms' faces when I become a world-renowned blogger.

Ok, I have to stop now, or I risk losing the loyalty of the handful of readers that this blog has. Last week's news should be up in some time, so please come back soon. Till then, ciao.

This post is dedicated to weird behaviour on gtalk. Some are funny, but some very irritating at times. Each type displays a different dimension to online behaviour; however, it should be noted that the vast majority of my contacts are "normal". It's ironic that I have to dedicate a whole post to a lame minority, but then exceptional behaviour warrants accolades, so here we go..

Type-1. A gtalk chat session is like a free session with a psychiatrist or psychologist, for this type. Does not ping or even waste a passing "hello.." unless they need some advice. Like I am some agony-aunt or wailing wall or something. For example: One guy apparently waits online to see my name popping up on his window. Before even the notifications for new mails wind up, I get a cheery "Hi!!". Trouble-time, tra la la la.. For him, a friend in need is only a friend in need. I particularly dread a "Hi!!" from this guy. Because that can only mean one thing - I'm going to be politely bored for the next half-hour. Never takes hints that I'm busy or bored. Seeks advice only on a specific topic, everytime. Girls. Yeah, right. As if I am this amazing love guru, here to help guys turn into chick-magnets. I'm surprised he still has his nose and eyes and ears in their God-decided positions, considering the amount of outrageous solutions I have given him. Either he doesn't follow them, or his face is cast in concrete. Well, if he doesn't follow  my advice, why does he even bother to ask..

Type 2. The next kind observes the color of the status dot minutely and reacts violently if the color is red (something like an electronic bull, eh? Yeah that makes their eyes bulls-eye. Sorry, bad joke). Case in point: There's this guy whose only job(I think) is to sit around logged on to gtalk and maintain an excel sheet with the names and status-colors of all his unfortunate contacts. I have a contact who specialises in this domain. I'm guaranteed a ping from this guy if the color is red. "Hey, are you busy?" Is he color-blind or what.. That's it. No number of replies from me will elicit a reply from him. A few minutes later, his dot turns to grey. Or I temporarily turn color-blind.

Type 3. A close cousin of Type-2. Observes the color of the dot minutely. Reacts violently if the color is green. Example: I have this contact who remembers the recent status-colors of all his contacts. The rare day that I change my status to a relaxed state, I have a nice lil conversation with the man himself. "Hey how come ur not busy!!" I frankly don't have an answer to that one, but try typing, backspacing, re-typing, re-backspacing and re-re-typing a reply to him. I have more than my fair share of these contacts. A handful of them together online ensures that I'm busy when my status-color is green, and actually free when my status-color is red. After a few pings, I am forced to quickly change the color to red. This triggers Type-2 into activation.

Type 4. Monitors status messages closely for signs of non-conformance. Takes every status message personally and makes it a point to react. For instance: I once posted a witty status message about marriage and it's hardships(Yada yada). Tang! comes the ping. I endured half an hour listening to the sacrosanctity of the institution called marriage. Finally I had to to tell him that although I considered and respected marriage and married people very highly, I was not averse to something witty once in a while. The poor guy had taken my status message very personally, as if I had opened a chat window with him and addressed the message to him. He was newly married you see, and people were still not over teasing him. People, my status messages are just some witty one-liners I found on the net, or something I read off a t-shirt. Dil pe mat lo.

Type-5 is a pompous, showy kind. Does not ping usually. Very dignified, does not usually mingle with lowly simpletons like me. The ONLY reason Type-5 pings, is to show off. When Type-5 says "Hi.. you there?", I reach out for my sunglasses. Chatting with such bright personalities may blind me, atleast temporarily. If I'm there, yes, they would like to update me on some wonderful thing happening in their life. Yes, I'm very happy for you, but unfazed by your achievement. I long knew I was a failure, a burden to the earth. Any further questions on a different topic will evoke a terse "Sorry. gtg. Bye". Though the dots stay green for hours after they "gtg". They came just to "let me know", you see. Yeah, and please remember, Type-5s, every dog will have it's day under the sun(Hey come on, hope is not a dangerous thing).

All this being said, it should be noted that the vast majority of my contacts are close friends from school, college and work, and are very dear to me. They all have their own online behaviours, but do not fall into any of the categories above. Some say hi just to stay in touch, some smile and say nothing more, some just share a warm greeting, somebody always has a few words of inspiration for a rough day ahead. Friendly, supportive, jolly and funny - my friends are all that. Type 6.

Ciao.

Din't know comments weren't working, just thought noone was reading :) Comments are enabled now, though I have to work on it a lil more to tune it to my liking. If you're reading, I'd love to hear from you, so go ahead and send me your bouquets and brickbats!! Thanks Divya, both for trying to comment, and for letting me know!!

Me..

Aspiring computer scientist. Aspiring writer. Aspiring Nat Geo traveler. Aspiring musician. Aspiring pilot. Aspiring chef. Yes, I'm constantly growing up.

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