15 Minutes

In the future, everyone will be famous for 15 minutes. Everybody will have their faces transmitted across the ‘global village’ to the proverbial idiot box for at least 15 minutes. Tom will finally have his day in the sun, Dick will not be denied his fan following and Harry will see himself lit up on every billboard in Jaisalmer.

The future is now. Today, so called ‘reality shows’ are just the rage. Even as I write this piece, some enterprising suit in some multi-million dollar media corporation is cooking up a revolutionary new idea for yet another reality show – shocking, scandalizing and even more titillating than ever before. And of course, it is going to star you and me.

Stars have to look the part. People are getting better looking with every generation, women get better looking every day. Pretty soon, ‘plain Jane’ will be extinct. Or as near extinct as won’t matter to the rest of the world. This genocide is, in part, the responsibility of the innumerable beauty products of numerous cosmetic and health care companies.

The gap between the faces we see on television and the silver screen, and the ones we see in our high schools, colleges and local pubs is getting shorter every few years.

Every once in a while, you are struck with the strange feeling that the World just got prettier. Well-proportioned, healthy people, with perfect skin and complexion. Above all, people who know how to make the best of what they already have.

Throw in the miracle of plastic surgery, laser treatment, hair replacement and the myriad other ingenious ways by which technology helps us regain our lost youth and beauty, and you have a pretty formidable mix. Especially when the new you can be a whole lot better than the real you ever was, at least externally.

Technology is the fountain of youth. And it comes with a price tag.

Value is always relative. If everyone is pretty, no one will be beautiful. If everyone is on television, it won’t be enough to make you famous.

Earlier, you had to be special to be famous. Now, you are considered special if you are famous. In the near future, you’ll have to prove yourself special if you want to stay famous.

The trend can already be seen. Most people who turn up for the American Idol auditions are not really there because they think they have a shot at the title. They’re there to be on television. But they won’t be, unless they make a fool of themselves in some outlandish way – unless they entertain.

And when all you have is 15 minutes, you have to be very entertaining if you hope to be remembered.

The conclusion? In the future, everyone will be Famous. And Special (in the same way that a child with half his brain missing is special).

But hopefully, the sun will burn out before that day dawns.

Bess

She came from darkness into light. But it seemed more as if her very presence had vanquished the night, and set the little room aglow. Indeed, the brilliant white light seemed but a manifestation of her inner fire.

Such was Bess.

She knew truth, she had the answers. In her, lay Earth’s eternal salvation. She was God’s chosen one.

But Earth is no heaven. God’s messengers do not have it easy here. And so it was with Bess. Her own people had shunned her. Her neighbours had derided her, and her parents had driven her out. You see, her society was a rigidly structured one, and there was no place for heavenly messengers there. Even ones so obviously touched by the hand of God. Such is the lot of all true prophets.

But she hadn’t lost faith, and God had shown her the way. He revealed himself to her in a dream, and told her to go to the Others – the only ones capable of ruling the planet if her people were not ready for the Message.

The devil had tried his tricks with her then, sowing uncertainty in her mind and hoping to reap her soul in return. The Others were very young after all, and fragile. They were of little faith, and even less wisdom. All true. But they had also accomplished much in their short time, and there were a few among them who were capable of higher things.

The devil retreated, disgruntled. Such was her spirit.

Her journey had been a long one. And without the support of her people, dangerous in the extreme. But she had climbed over every obstacle with courage. And gone around a few, with wisdom. In the end, she had prevailed. And God had shown her the way – a devout family with an intelligent child who showed much promise for her age. They were the ones who were to receive the Message first. They were to be her first disciples, as per God’s wish. But she only wished to be a true friend. Such was Bess.

And so the moment had finally come. And she stepped out of the shadows, and revealed herself to the family. ‘Here I am, the messenger of Truth and God. And I bring to you salvation, the hope of heaven. Wilt thou listen?’

“Eeeeuuu!! Mum! A roach!”

And so did Bess become a martyr.

6X3

“The magic of discovery is not in finding new landscapes, but in finding new eyes with which to see them.”

Sitting in the darkness, contemplating stories with roaches for stars and human vices for subplots…where are we going, you and I? Heading inexorably toward some nameless destination, maybe our destruction, why do we rush so? Where did the excitement go, the wonder of it all? Now the only wonder left to me is to watch myself go through another day without a clue.

I set the scene carefully – not too much light, not too little. Story of my life. Perhaps a life lived in mediocrity is a blessing not to be realised until harder days fall upon us.

And then there’s the music. Oh, the music! Sometimes I do think I am sick of it – those carefully arranged expressions of other people’s creativity. Nameless strangers invading my mind with their experiences, leaving bits of their souls to fill the gaps in mine. And yet I do need them as much as they need me.

Locked in a 10ft.X20ft. room I sit, my mind enclosed in a 3ft.X6ft. home. When will I escape? Where would I escape to? The questions are endless. The answers may seem easy at first but then I realise they don’t answer anything at all. A tangled web of lies posing as solutions that neither solve, nor gratify.

What is it to live, if you do not think of the after life? Always lived for the future, and now that it's here, I do not know where I am.

And here I sit, dreaming up stories with roaches for stars, carefully arranging sentences and subplots to express my creativity – baring my soul on lined paper.

And the world turns around once again.

Immortal

We are God’s middle children. Born into Man’s middle ages. Too late for heroes and rock stars. Too soon for eternal salvation.

There are no more world’s to be found, no more ocean’s to be navigated. The mountains have been vanquished, the skies conquered. The virgin forests have all been raped.

Where do we go from here? How do we find the light when we have forgotten the feel of darkness on our skin, in our souls?

How will we live, when man cures death?

I hurt myself just to feel alive. Like a lens focusing, the pain brings my existence to life. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

I want to run, the wind in my face, the devil behind me. I want to run, reckless abandonment in my stride and the exhilaration of fear in my veins. I want war, I want rebellion.

I want to die, but only as an immortal.

One

One life
One love
One dream, all our own
One place to call home.
One more day to take flight
One more gift to make it right.
One last day, before endless night.

In my twentieth year

I didn’t know a bawa from a tava
And I’d never heard of bawis.

The only Mac I knew was McDonald’s
And Reddy was a chap I went to school with.

I couldn’t tell the difference between a Muslim and a Christian
And didn’t know there was any, between Mangloreans & Goans

Today, I’m out in the real world
And know all this and more

And I’d just like to say:
Thank you to all my friends
Who shared my ignorance
Thank you to my teachers
Who encouraged it
And thank you to my parents
Who gave birth to it.

Writer's Bloc

I want to write. The ink flows freely, but the words do not.

I’m so ugly. But that’s ok, cuz so are you.

What do I say? How do I begin? This moment is the difference between genius, and a life wasted.

This, is Sparta.

The moment of creation, of birth. Everything could change tonight, if only the world would shift a little to the left.

I stand on the brink of greatness. And mediocrity. Tonight, is the difference.

Tonight, we die in hell.

Glory. Or eternal night. I can see the fork, but which one will my pen take?

One word, that’s all I need. A revelation.

Yea.

I can sense what is not yet here. I just have to dip into the stream and fish it out. But I cannot.

I need to write. I feel the night steal away, taking my destiny with it.

If I go crazy, will you still call me Superman?

How can you fear something that does not exist?

A portal into another dimension. A place where our thoughts have a life of their own. A stolen glimpse.

Sweet dreams are made of these.

It flickers. The trick is to watch with your eyes wide shut.

The creatures that live there are calling out to me. It hurts. It festers. It keeps me awake, and rules my dreams. It chokes me.

What kind of thought are you?

And still I wait for the word. A revelation.

Q.

Will time heal the pain or kill the memory? Did the illusion of choice set Sisyphus free? Can you lose your way and find the destination? Or will nuclear war be our salvation?

With love gone will god need Man? Would you have done enough if you do all you can?

If repeated often enough does a miracle stop being one?

Is the journey just beginning, or are we done?

Growing up sucks

Someday, you’ll hear the concern
behind every censure.

Someday, you’ll be kinder to your parents
and feel sorry for others’.

Someday, you’ll find a stranger
in your mirror.

Someday, you’ll miss the comfort of certainty.

Someday, you’ll want real food.

Someday, you’ll be all grown up
and hating it.

No Rhyme, Just Reason

We could have been in love,
introductions got in the way.

We could have smiled,
fear got in the way.

We could have flown,
gravity got in the way.

We could have been beautiful,
appetites got in the way.

We could have made a difference,
a beginning got in the way.

We could have lived the dream,
mornings got in the way.

We could have been famous,
names got in the way.

We could have made it,
colour got in the way.

We could have been at peace,
God got in the way.

We could have created perfection,
but work got in the way.

We could have won,
economics got in the way.

We could have died,
love got in the way.

We could have been friends,
egos got in the way.

We could have been happy ever after,
but life got in the way.

The Last Words

“So, you want audience with the King, huh?”

The fat soldier’s thin friend laughed at his ready wit, relishing the look of acute discomfort on the visitor’s face. It wasn’t often that they got sport like this, trapped as they were behind their desk job. But when it happened, it was good. Only the truly helpless come knocking at these doors and they make soft targets.

Growing truculent, the fat one spat out “We have orders not to let anyone in. Now get out of here before we hand you the same fate as your King!”

The visitor didn’t seem unduly worried by the threat. (He was an old man, the lines on his face making it impossible to judge his true age. Looking at him, one only knew that he’d lived too long for his own liking) He merely reached inside the rags that served as his robe, and pulling out a piece of parchment, placed it on the table in front of the soldiers. Face up, so they could not mistake the seal on it.

One glance was enough. The fat soldier took his feet off the desk, and sat up straight, his face ashen. His thin friend was already escorting the visitor to the cells downstairs. It didn’t even occur to either of them to read the note.

The thin one was back soon enough. First he had a swallow of the glass the fat soldier had filled in his absence. Then both stared at the parchment in silence, as if wishing it away by the combined power of their fear.

“I thought he’d washed his hands off it,” the fat one finally ventured.

“Do you think they’ll release him?”

“If they do, it’ll be our heads. You weren’t there that day. The people will have his blood. Or ours.”

“I heard rumours that many were incited by a few. Do you think…”

“Shh! You think too much for your own good.”

X--------------------------------------X---------------------------------------X

The cell was small, filthy. Rust coloured stains covered the walls – reminders of the trials of others. And also served as warning to the new guests: “Countless men have been broken here, spirits crushed, futures erased. Do not think you’ll be any different. Soon, your pride will be gone, and so will all resistance. All that’ll remain, will be these four walls. And an eternity.”

Huddled in the corner, he seemed to have lived his eternity already. But had he been broken?

The visitor was there as well, the sight almost too much for him to bear. But he too, had a job to do.

He opened his mouth, but the other spoke first:

“It is done.”

Silence, as both men contemplated what was to come next. Hard as the last few days had been, the visitor knew that the worst was far from over. Finally, the visitor spoke:

“Pontius has done what was required of him. Everything is at the ready. But remember, a nation hangs on your final words. We have come this far, do not...I pray... do not fail us at the end.”

“A kingdom, not a nation. The kingdom of God.”

The visitor felt uneasy as he heard these words, escaping like life itself from the still form. A whisper, yet more than a shout. Was he, in his final moments, falling prey to his own myth?

“You know that this miracle cannot come to pass, as others have. It is outside our hands. Your last words must give a reason for this – a reason for the followers to believe. Without that, all this will have been for naught.”

The visitor paused, waiting for a reply – some sign that he understood. None came.

There was nothing more to be said. The visitor had done what he had come for. Now, it was up to God.

X--------------------------------------X--------------------------------------X

The next day, the visitor joined the carnival. There was no other word to describe it. He winced as he saw the enthusiastic crowd milling about, waiting for a man to die. Housework was put aside in favour of endless debate on whether he would beg for mercy in his last moments, or die in the same silence with which he had borne his trial. School was forgotten as the young ones ran alongside their elders, boasting how they would have shown their courage in the same situation.

One good man’s life for a million saved. It seemed a fair enough bargain. And yet, the visitor wasn’t sure anymore.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

It was done. The visitor turned back, away from the crowd waiting for an encore. It was done. The faith would live on. The endless debates, theories & counter-theories about why the promised miracle didn’t happen would see to it. As long as there’s room for doubt, there’s room for faith. And so, a nation would be built from the ashes of another.

But as he walked away, he couldn’t help wondering, ‘and what about the Kingdom?’

An exercise in futility

Life is incredibly frustrating. All the while you sit, and to an extent it allows you some amount of freedom to believe whatever little insanity you call a philosophy, and to use that as a coping mechanism, and then when it really starts to settle in, and you get comfortable, you get hauled out and you have to start all over again, you would think that this is a solid warning to not go i nthe same direction again, but no, the mind is an incredibly fucking stupid organ. It will go the same route, saying "I'll fashion something different this time, albeit with th same tools" , and 2 years later you'll find yourself in the same ditch you had to dig yourself out of some time ago. It's general really. It could be love, relationship, falling for the same psychotic women again and again, it could be a career, not knowing what you want and so condemning yourself to the tedium of basically raping your soul everyday when you get to work and have to deal with people you'd rather see under a tombstone with a cute little epitaph marking their unremarkable lives, and then making that statement, looking at the elitism and arrogance that caused you to say such a 'mean' thing and then realize that that arrogance is contributing more to your isolation from all the things that life on this planet is about.
The more miserable you get, the more you surround yourself with this wall of impenetrability, the more you try to appear composed to people around you so they wont see the cracking foundations within, the more you try to keep up appearances, to hold on to concepts you consider "constructive" while desperately trying to hide the big gaping holes of doubt that come across whenever you or someone else deliberately or innocently questions a core fundamental precept of whatever crap you chose to call a belief.
Life doesn't suck though, it can be nice, but the head won't let you see that, and when you are down, it will kick you in the shins some more so you can crawl a little longer. But eventually you have to crawl out, you either do that by abandoning yourself completely to nihilism, which is really not advisable, because then you have a "nothing can stop me now cos i don't care anymore" attitude, which makes you into a pretentious little bitchy goth, or you can say "we add our own meaning to life" and embark on your own quest to redefine your concepts again and again and again till you either go mad, or weave something so durable that it can withstand anything life throws at you, from random deaths of people you love, to instances that appear out of nowhere and have no tangible lesson to offer. Naturally, this does not happen often, many people who do try have incredibly ridiculous (to me) ideas wihch do not stand up to any form of scrutiny. These people are best left alone. These ar enot the only two methods. I am sure there are more, but unfortunately my moods are being severely limited by my criticism of every observation i make. I am stuck at a stage where I am trying to build something stable. A concept that involves having no concepts of life, which well, is completely self-defeating, and yet i do it, for the few moments I am able to look past that paradigm i am able to experience balance equilibrium, and this fleeting feeling that maybe life is not an ordeal after all, that it can be pleasant, that there are squares of light in the dark. But like all things, this too will pass, and it leaves you again with the uncertainty of doubt, the vulnerable feeling in the morning, the pain on seeing someone you don't wish to speak to anymore, the hundred things that make existence a roller coaster, and they keep washing on over you and spinning you around in an unstoppable vortex of change. I am desperate to get out of it, to be in it, yet be outside it watching myself be in it and not feeling numb, feeling things yet realizing the futility of emoting about something that is entirely out of your hands, yet I realize that that very desperation also keeps me very firmly in it.
Unfortunately, I fail to see the point in many things these days,love perhaps being the only exception, because it has some good benefits as far as mental health is concerned, other emotions,anger,rage,despair, they come, they stay, they go, and i still stay the same. I won't say i don't care..i do care, but there is only so much you can do for yourself and others. The exhaustion that follows the realization of futility is indescribable. I feel it pretty heavily now, so I think I'll spare you the torture of reading more of this tripe, not because I am kind, but because I can't go on without sounding like a complete charlatan.

“I wanted to clear our misunderstanding…”

The pain shot through me like an arrow. An intense, searing arrow straight to my heart. ‘This can’t be right’ I thought, as I turned to face her. That misused, shriveled up mass of hard lead shouldn’t have been able to feel anything. And yet it did.

The initial shock gives way to numbness as further words assail my ears. A twist here, a shove there, a delicate slice elsewhere – the conversation progresses.

Not that I didn’t have my part to play. But the numbness had spread to my mind by then.

“So yea. I just thought you should know how I feel. Goodbye.”

She left, leaving me on my knees, bleeding. From the kitchen knife sunk in my chest.

..................................................................................
I wrote this quite a while back. To those who know what I'm talking about, this has nothing to do with recent events. If anything, I am the one left holding the knife today.

Out here in the living planet

“Out here in the Living Planet we come to grips with life in all its ferocity… we see all the majestic power of God’s creatures… the Living Planet… out here, with me, we will meet life itself in the Living Planet…and…”

I watched, entranced, as the little man shouting these words leapt from continent to continent. Sometimes wading across the cold waters of Siberia. Now slashing his way unconcernedly through the forests of Africa. Now again, somewhere on the plains of India, surrounded by idiot natives gaping at his antics, and the colour of his skin.

And yet, while I watched, something in what he was saying bothered me, like a discordant note being played repeatedly by the idle finger of some musical madman.

A discordant note…what was it?

“Out here in the Living Planet…”

Where was I then? And where he?

As I sat there, watching him cross continents at the whim of an editing machine, I realized that to him, I and all the others who were moments ago getting our daily dose of indifference, and are now being subject to him, are not in the living planet. To him, we’re the ones through the looking glass. As surely as he is the same to us – ethereal, made of light.

But isn’t there more to it? Has he ever been a part of this ‘living planet’ to which I have membership?

Oh sure, he must have been living at some point. When he was struggling to reconcile his parent’s expectations with his dream of being an actor. When he was wandering the long road to success, with obscurity and failure awaiting his every misstep. Sure, he must have known what it is to live once.

Or have I got it all wrong? Is he truly the one living now? Living his dream. Wandering from place to place, with the firm conviction that millions across the world tune into his words and are affected by his view of life in some way, never realizing it to be a figment of the producer’s greed and the statician’s necessity.

But perhaps that is the life. It may not be the ‘real living planet’ but where is that to be found anymore? All of us live our dreams in one shape or another. The chosen few, like him, live a beautiful one. The ordinary, like you perhaps, are trapped in their nightmares.

And then there are the rest, who merely flip channels when the commercial’s done.

"We now return you to our regular programming..."

And then the ink ran dry

On nights like these, I feel equally close to greatness and insanity. On the brink of madness, I fling my arms out, ready to take flight. Or plunge to everyone’s doom. Is this delusion of grandeur? Or the elixir of Supermen? Perhaps it’s whatever I want it to be, and I don’t have a clue.

On the halfway point between insanity and greatness, I pause. The forks clear but my path isn’t. I hear it in every empty laugh sent echoing across the deserted house. I see it in the monsters lurking in the dark corners. I recognize it in the fly I just killed. I drink it out of my fridge everyday.

My pen says “Experience the Power Within” and the ink has run dry. I still continue to write. The patterns on the floor fascinate m…

8 steps to being a better corporate whore

These are some random guidelines i have compiled that might help you be a better employee/manager, and might help you prolong your stay with your company, for upto two weeks at a time.

a) Kiss your director's ass thoroughly, reaching into every cobwebbed nook and cranny, make sure there is no kidney stone left unturned.
b) Never turn down a promotion by saying "i hate the people, i would rather work in my old group because atleast i didn't want to die everytime i opened my eyes in the morning". It will cause people to say untrue things about you..like "he is negative. unnecessarily mean, rude. not a team player" that last sentence is pretty much the nail in the coffin by the way. if you get that not a team player tag around your neck, you may as well go shoot yourself.
c) Never ever ever ever say "dude this code is totally gay man!" to a gay guy who has stopped by to help you with some fuckup. It will make a serious difference in both your day(s).
d) If some senior management guy has no teeth and happens to be gay, do not make statements in public relating the two *seemingly* disjointed facts together. Sorry, i can't be plainer without being disgustingly explicit.
e) If big bitchy senior lady asks you why you have turned down a promotion, focus on the positives, the positives of being in the older group as opposed to the newer group, never ever say, "There wasn't enough work". you won't appear honest. you will simply be looked at with the "too good for himself" lens, which as you know, is notoriously misty, and will get you fired before you can say "hello HR guy. how are you today?"
f) If someone in the toilet did their big job all over the floor instead of in the pot (as people are apt to do when they simply forget the purpose of a toilet, a common enough occurrence in IT companies, owing to people being too full of it), make sure to send a lot of company wide emails lamenting the fact that you've never had to write an email like this in your entire career. If you are a manager, and you want a headcount of all the kiss-asses in your company, simply wait for the Reply-to all mails you get from various employees who say "Well Said!" or "Hear Hear!" and do a brief count, and there you have it.
g) Fire those bastards the coming friday, because they wasted company resources saying well said and hear hear when they could have used the bleach and the mop.
h) The HR manager in every company is usually a sub-human product of his parents' lust, often a symbol of failed family planning programs. Have him do it. This will also give you a chance to glow from within, and feel warm and happy when you picture him muttering to himself.. "chief recruiter..and i am fucking cleaning up shit. This wasn't in my job description you goddamn sons of bitches"

That's about all i can think of. I might add to it from time to time, but don't count on it. I have a job to keep too.

Disjointed

It's like awakening from your dreams. Except things aren't the same as they were when you went to bed. It's like awakening from your dreams, into a different world. It's like awakening for the first time.

This world was built for giants, not squirrels. But life makes squirrels of us all.

So busy gathering twigs to build the shelters for old age, the summer of youth passes away. Unnoticed and unacknowledged. All that I could, or almost could be, lost in the pages of books never written, lost in the verses of songs never sung.How do you stop life, and start living? How do you break the bonds of love, and habit, and custom, and certainty, to become all you were meant to be? To give all you should, and taste all you can?

The lands have been discovered, the stars breached, the elements conquered. Where do I turn to for inspiration? For divine intervention? I wish I was a rock star. I wish I was a highlander. I wish I was the song of the ages, the eye of the prophet. I wish, I wish…

I wish I were alive.

This is no story. Nor yet a piece of poetry. This is a plea for help. This is a dark room, a strange bed. This is a mind struggling against itself. This is not me. This is not you. This is us.

Heroes

Something I wrote recently...still a work in progress, so keep an open mind...

Tonight we're heroes, my friend. We're the reason, the means, and the end - you and I. Tonight, at the bottom of this mountain, we met our destiny. And at the top, we shall make a new one. For each other. And for every man, woman and child that will step up with us. Step up into the new heaven. One made by mortals greater than Gods, built of stone harder than Valhalla, coloured with the blood of innocents.

I see the fear in your eyes. See it, and feel it too. The climb is a difficult one, and the will is weak. The darkness immeasurable. But what are these, to the thing that awaits us at the top? Do not fear the journey my friend, for I have glimpsed the destination. It is a thousand times more vile than this rock, a thousand times darker than this night. Do not fear my friend, for we are doomed.

When death is a certainty, what is fear? Stand up and embrace it, as you would your saviour. For it shall set you free. It shall remove all your bonds, unshackle your very soul. It shall put fire in your veins and lightning in your mind, when the moment of truth comes. At the top is our destiny waiting to be written, and death shall be our bedfellow through eternity.

The climb is a long one, but do not weaken. The enemy is strong, but do not despair. For tonight, we're heroes. Truth will be our shield, and righteousness our lance. The vile shall not touch us, nor the ignominious stop us. Listen to me, for I shall be alongside you as you face the rock. And I shall be alongside you as we force our destiny. And I will give you wings as you go into the battle, and I shall lift you higher when you fall.

Listen to me, my friend, for I shall be you.

Pogramming with your Cube Mates

I know it's been a while, but i've been saving and bottling up all my pissiness, so that my outburst will have finesse, magnitude, and direction.
Right.
So, let's get down to business. Praveen has been a little bitch that hasn't posted since...since a very long time. In that interval, i've even managed to have an operation, spend time in hospital, recover, and shave beards that would make mullahs proud.
I've been 'promoted'...i use quotations because it sucks, and i would rather have my old position back. Back then i was the groundling, the object of scorn and the curled upper lip by many a developer who thought his code was so important that the company would not function without him, in fact, they sure made it seem so..I work in a place where if you manage to do your job, they call your name out at meetings. It's like telling your wife she's not fat. It's something you're supposed to do, you don't get honoured for it. Either it is duly noted and filed away by the wife, or you get yelled at : "What do you mean i am not fat? What made you think that i thought i was fat?" (this often happens if you were idiotic enough to preempt her question)..and it's the same thing about work, atleast, that's how it should be. If you say nothing about it, some head honcho should stick his head out and give you a polite nod as you walk past his glass-walled office while he is burrowed behind his pc surreptitiously looking at porn, and, if you tell your boss very nervously, while standing on one leg.."you know, i did, like, this thing, you know, and it like, brought this company a lot of money, you know", in which case you are sent to your desk with a sharp rap on your knuckles, or if the boss is in a particularly expansive mood, a pen case. So yeah, you get the picture. if you go above and beyond your job, only then should your name be called out..otherwise what happens? Everytime some stupid senior ditz calls out your name and says "Couldn't have done it withoutcha!!!!!! *FLASHY SMILE*"(she will never make a mention of your name because you are not important enough for your name to be remembered. there is very limited brain space. it is used up by acronyms for words and sentences that do not make any sense when strung together, nor have any meaning), people make the mistake of assuming that they are somehow above mediocre, and they start throwing their weight around.
I program in a language that britney spears could pick up within minutes. It is not something to have an ego about, yet as you walk by people's desk, you will find them chewing their lip thoughtfully, and discussing issues about the language that a bored toddler could tell you the answer to. Case in point.
"How would we get the person's name from a database"
"Hmm..that is a good point..good point *long pause*..oh wait! isn't there code that already does that???!?!?! EUREKA. I AM A GOD!"
Horrible, isn't it?
So, you get the picture, a company where the code is easy, and most of the work involves finding already implemented stuff, carefully selecting, clicking "Copy" and then transferring over to the new destination. 5 minutes of tinkering and 4 hours of table tennis later..finished shiny end product that will promptly break because the old code never worked anyway, whereupon the reaction is.."oh well..let the bug fixers handle it. i worked hard on this and busted my balls"..so that was what i was..a bug fixer..i would fix their shit, and it helped me get a good understanding of how the world, and that particularly shitty program, "worked". it was good in a way, it was mostly easy, the guys around me were fun to work with..there was constant laughter and table tennis and endless hours of fun to be had by all...until i got promoted.
Now, i sit in a dreary and dark cube all the way on the other end. My companions are, let's call them hbfb, and peewee. hbfb=heavy-breathing fat bastard. 6 feet tall, 17 feet wide. One word description: Yokozuna. I can't even run him over with my car, because it would total my car, and leave him with barely a scratch, although i've wanted to on many an occassion.
hbfb happens to work in a company, as a side project, and they wanted my help to make a song that their product could use. The negotiations were as follows
1st day
hbfb: Hey i heard your music. I want you to write some songs, and we'll pick. we'll give you cash for it.
me: how about...no? i'd like a cut of the profits
hbfb: I will have to discuss with my compatriots on this issue
me: yeah, whatever. let me know.
2nd Day
hbfb : Hey, i spoke to my colleagues about this joint venture
me: yeah, and?
hbfb: There are two opposing schools of thought on the issue
me: you actually have schools of thought on this shitty issue?
hbfb: uhhm..yes we do.
me: That is the most pathetic thing i have heard in years.
hbfb: You're not the most positive guy here are you?
me: Not unless you mean blood group.
Day 3
hbfb: Apparently, they don't want to pay you
me: so i have to do this for free?
hbfb: yeah
me: it took you 3 days to tell me that?
hbfb: Well there were ongoing discussions
me: wow.gay.

hbfb is the type of individual that will look up something on the internet, some code-related issue, and then talk like he wrote a ground-breaking book on the subject. The talk will be merry-go-roundy, and any piercing questions will be cleverly deflected with "Well *important look* it depends on the context in which you refer to the subject material"
.."with assays and windlasses of bias, by indirections find directions out", only in this case, direction is a blank wall and me desperately looking for ways to end it all.

Onto peewee, peewee is smart, sassy, and kiss-assy. If there is a butt with upper management written on it, peewee's lips will be glued to it faster than hbfb's to his dinner plate. He has a nasal voice, and whenever he talks, plaster falls from the ceiling, and i turn the volume on my mp3 player up to levels that would make deaf adders uneasy.
The only problem i have with peewee, is the fact that he gets by doing no work at all. He comes in at 10:30, or whenever his calendar tells him is an auspicious time to do so, watches rap music videos, and says things like "Yo Wuassap man!" to his bosses (he is not black. he is simply cool and down with it, and we all wish we could be like him). Then when it's 2pm, he disappears, and you can't see him till 10am the next day. He logs 8-9 hours every day.He's quite smart though, so i have to give him that. When i become president, he will be the last against the wall, and there will be a special silver bullet for him.

So, these are my new cube mates. It is tough working..all i hear when i am not listening to music, is his heavy breathing..i feel like my chair is getting pulled closer and closer with every inhalation.
every day is a punishment, well mostly. I take out all the anger on my friend at table tennis.

What is worrisome is the listlessness that working with these two fucktards has spawned. I don't care about work anymore. all i care about is getting my 8 hours, and leaving the place. Which means, that there is trouble brewing on the horizon. If the only guy there who works is only working 8 hours, out of which 5 are spent playing table tennis, then, someone will have to pay dearly. hbfb is in wedded bliss..so he won't be fired..apparently...the best thing about getting married is "dude, she brings me food to my desk.how awesome is that" ..i wasn't sure whether i was supposed to be envious, or nauseated by that remark.

It won't be peewee, because peewee is down with all the head honchos, even if he doesn't do anything..so, guess who will be sent home early some friday because "Statistically it has been demonstrated that office workers are less likely to cause a scene if fired right before the weekend" ??

The Indian "Talent" Show

I went to an "Indian Talent Show" on Saturday night. I felt life had been too easy and I needed to punish myself for being happy. Atleast, that must have been the only rationale that prompted me to go there, and also the vague hope that I might meet some nice Indian students at the university, preferably female, preferably quiet and nice and not overly yappy. We sat down, amidst a throng of babbling Indians. The show started 40 minutes late with a girl with a squeaky pseudo accent telling us in grating syllables that they were sorry they started late. Everyone clapped, whether it was in anticipation or despair, I couldn't tell. My friend who had come with me to see if there were any good looking girls, stirred in his seat uneasily. They handed out cards that had the show's schedule on them. I forgot what they are called, but at any rate, my friend was happy reading the names, according to him they all sounded like they'd be 'hot'. They then proceeded to sing the national anthems of India and the US. I have never seen a song being gang-raped before, but they managed to pull that one off smoothly. There were two groups of oily looking females singing the anthems, and they were both desperately fighting tooth-and-claw for last place. Everyone else had their hands on their crotch as it was too informal an occassion to stand at attention. The Indian anthem didn't sound as bad basically because everyone was singing louder and louder to drown out the squeaky voices of Oily Exhibits A. The american anthem however would have gotten us all deported if any of the sullen americans sitting listlessly in the corner had the energy to walk over to the phone booth and summon the justice department. It was an effort not to laugh out loud, and on many occassions i got glares from the local senior citizens who had surrounded us and were trying to threaten us into behaving like good boys. The show proceeded, true indian style..with item no. 17 on the list being performed first, followed by the introduction, a dance, more dances, and an intermission. The dances started and my friend leaned forward expectantly. "monisha will now perform mehboob mere" ...He uttered a stricken cry of anguish. Monisha was 7 years old, and definitely not his type, and the same followed for most of the other contenders for rock-bottom. There was one number by some actual college females of age, and it was very remiscent of peasant women stomping on great blobs of cowdung to soften it into patties ( a very common thing in rural villages in india). It should have been called "The Death March of Bataan-Anu Malik" but they give it a rather juicy sounding filmy title. There were some American girls seated in front of us. They couldn't take the excitement and had to leave their chairs to go forward and stand and clap. The funny thing was they left their purses there, and would glance back at us suspiciously from time to time to make sure we wouldn't do a quick number and disappear with said purses. "blady thieving indians"
At this point, a colleague from work and his girlfriend, both americans, decided to join us. "Hey Madman, What're you performing?" ...yes..because i'm indian, and this is an indian talent show, I must perform like a wound-up drummer monkey for your enjoyment so you can purse your lips at some weekly Poker meeting with your friends and make statements like "Hmm..You know, Indian culture is quite interesting, there was this one time...". fucking morons. You might think i'm being unnecessarily harsh. I'm not. This guy writes awful code. I have often fantasized about catching him by the tuft of his beard and beating him mercilessly because I've had to debug said code on many occassions.
The show went on, proceeding smoothly from item to item. The only way you'd know if a particular performance was over was by the listless way in which the 'contestants' would tangentially walk off stage, while the music was playing. now bows, nothing. it was like watching a group of mexicans get caught at the border. the same resignation, the same shoulder-shrugging acceptance of a harsh fate.
The DJ, a white guy, normally asleep, would suddenly realize the stage was empty, stop the music, and clap, and the rest of the herd would follow suit half-heartedly. He also decided to rap for us by the way, and that was the best performance of the evening. That should tell you how good it was.
The show sucked, so I thought the dinner intermission would atleast make up for it, but right before dinner they decided to make a few announcements. The audience, their appetite whetted by all this torture was clapping enthusiastically to everything the squeaky female was blabbing out, in the hopes that they'd be loosed on the food quite soon, then came the announcement. Apparently, the university had refused to fund this event(not surprising. If i were in charge of funding, I'd think twice about paying out good money to watch 8 year olds sing yeh tara woh tara with an american accent, rolling the r's), so there wasn't too much food, and what food there was, had to be rationed. There was a stampede when that announcement was finished. It was reminscent of photographs in The Hindu about the plight of Andhra farmers, and food rations. They literally served us half a spoonful of vegetables, two puris, and some rice, and if you asked for more, you'd get a mournful stare from two girls whom they had stationed expressly for that purpose. As a clever tactic to stop second servings, there were no spoons or forks to be found, only knives, so no one would come back for the rice, and the puris were anyways like Indian Railways material so unless you were dying of hunger, you wouldn't go back for that. At this point, i was saved by my work. I got a call from a guy at work saying something had to be uploaded to some servers, and I headed for the exit, and into the cool, comforting night.