Random Rant-4 : The Shoulder Block

So here's the situation: I'm riding my motorbike on the highway, and I need to take the exit so I can get off and get home. In essence, this could be any road, and any turn that you need to take. The exit off a highway is usually marked by a shoulder (if you don't know what that is, you can check here). This is generally a very easy operation.

So here's the problem: there's a big fucking truck in the middle.

Now, navigating around trucks is a part and parcel of taking to the road, I can't complain about that. But Murphy's Law has a way of augmenting the situation.

Inevitably, it so happens (in my case, several times) that there will be a truck trudging along in the vicinity of this very important exit, which in itself is not a horrible scenario, BUT it does so at a frustrating pace. The frustration arises not from the fact that it is slow or fast. The truck, or other heavy vehicle steamrolls along the road on the very side of the exit you need to take just in range of your exit and its speed is such that
1. You cannot overtake it in time to make your exit.
2. You cannot choose to go alongside it, for obvious reasons. Also, the gap on the near side of the truck is too small for you to fit into.
3. It is going far to slow for you to be able to stay behind without losing your temper.

Too slow                            Too fast                       Ah, just right

Clearly, neither of the above mentioned scenarios is navigable with much panache, lest you wish
to risk ending up as road kill, which you most likely will.

How it can be all these things at once, only Murphy can tell.

However, after a long, annoying day at the crap factory, why must I have to deal with this? Stupid troll truck at the point of the last exit blocking me off the shoulder? How is it that in the all the infinite permutations of traffic, and considering the arbitrary and highly variable nature of the moment I left my destination and the moment the truck left its destination, that the two of us would cross paths in that very 100 meter stretch of the universe... it seems highly unlikely, yes? It would seem I had a better chance of getting struck by lightning while getting attacked by a shark, yes? Maybe even a higher probability of getting a girlfriend, yes? But then how does this keep on happening? Murphy's Law be damned, and the truck driver be damned!

And you can't even do anything about it! Because goddamn if the driver is going to pay any attention to you. No matter how many pointless visions of using Magneto's powers to angrily fling said truck into the horizon, you have to ride it out, or risk death. The choice is yours.

Of course, death may be a better option than trying to overtake evil troll truck and pulling out at the last moment. For if you miss the exit (at least in my case) you have to face the humiliation of riding out the rest of the highway- because the next turn is 10km ahead.

Invariably, the situation results in the precipitation of pure rage. Road rage. Fffffuuuuuu!!!!!!

Bell The CAT

CATastrophe. CATaclysm.

There are problem half a dozen more such puns I could make. Mercifully, these are the only two I can think of.

The point is, hopefully, clear. The CAT (Common Admission Test, for the uninitiated. One of the many entrance exams in India for MBA programmes) is a fighting animal, a dangerous one, and quite intimidating. And much like the lolcat pictured above, it means BUSINESS.

I've always wondered what in tarnation does "bell the CAT" mean. Every year, around this time, I would see articles in the paper with the same stupid headline: "Belling the CAT" (or something to that effect). And then I would laugh at the morons that would be tripping over themselves to give this very competitive and difficult exam. And then, a few years later, here I am, giving it. Well, just gave it. Anyway, "bell the CAT" brought to my mind an image of hitting a cat in the head with a cricket bat (not a baseball bat, mind you. I'm losing touch with my roots. Hmm. That's a private joke, please carry on) after which the cat vibrates with a loud gong sound, much like in a Looney Tunes cartoon. But apparently, it is an actual phrase derived from a fable, with a pretty interesting history, which you can read here. Oh, what a wonderful mix curiosity, the Internet, and Wikipedia make. One learns so much these days!

Right, so the CAT is in itself a pretty difficult exam. Added to that is the competitiveness. In a year, no less than 200,000 give this exam, and the number of seats in the "good colleges" are, predictably, quite less. The scores they require are stratospheric, and the spread in that rarefied region is razor thin. People miss a seat by a matter of a fraction of marks. One could do an MBA at one of the many spore colleges that have popped up on this rock, but every wants the Main Mushroom.

My point being, of course, that this is the reason that people make such a big deal out of giving CAT. If you are going to give CAT, you might as well do it right. And if you are going to do it right, you DO NOT want to fuck it up. Yes, the previous paragraph flows properly into this one and from the one before. Mon dieu, I'm treating my blog like a Reading Comprehension... which pretty much sums up my state. I have been attending weekend classes for the past few months, and have taken all of last month off from work to prepare for this exam. I wake up thinking that the ratio of time left to sleep is inversely proportional to speed, so I need to sleep faster, at which point I jerk awake wondering what the hell I'm thinking. I'm finding remainders of ungodly division (like 3 raised to 2011 divided by 7, which is actually quite easy once you know how) in my dreams. I'm beginning to doubt my English- my first, and only, language.

Yes, I've prepared as best I can. I would give practice tests and do miserably, and almost throw my new laptop against the wall. Such has been my state. But it's over. I've burned through all my official leaves, gone through several notebooks practicing sums, gone mad trying to understand and then remember a hundred concepts in math, while leaving English largely to an instinct which I found out is not as developed or refined as I once thought it was. And the test got over in a flash. But that's the funny thing about tests, isn't it? You spend countless hours that add up to days and weeks preparing for it, losing sleep, losing hair, losing your mind, and all the while the grains of sand are falling, counting down to the inevitable. SO MUCH TIME has gone by... and yet the damn thing is over in under 3 hours. All the work you've done in a week, in a month, in a semester, in twelve years of school, in four years of college: it all comes down to those three hours. That's pretty fucked up, and a concept that has always amused me.

I always envisioned studying as arming myself with weapons, and the final act of giving the test is personified by myself and the test in corporal forms going at it in an epic Jason Bourne-esqe battle. In the vision, I always come out on top, albeit battered and bruised. In reality, it hasn't always been so. Hopefully this time, it will be. Perhaps I should have thought of working with the CAT, treating the CAT as a friend, as someone whom I must go through this journey with together, instead of something that needs to be attacked and conquered (blame the male ego, or whatever Freud-esqe psychological or Darwin-esqe evolutionary theory it is). Maybe I've been giving exams wrong all along...

Whatever. The whole reason behind giving the CAT in the first place is that I've been failing in the exam that counts the most, the one that begins as soon as you pop out of yo' mama's womb. And that's something I mean to amend.

And hello, Blogger. I'm back.

Answer the following question on the basis of what you have read in the passage:


1. The author earlier despised CAT aspirants because:
A. They're a bunch of wankers.
B. They are way smarter than him, and hence prove a threat to his fragile ego.
C. Because coaching classes and geeks are making more difficult an already difficult situation. Just because you can crack and exam (be it CAT or JEE) doesn't mean you deserve to be or are ready to be in IIM or IIT. The whole system is corrupted by what may have once been a high ideal, but is reduced to something resembling a joke.
D. He has no idea what he's talking about.

2. What is the purpose of the author referring to the "Main Mushroom"?
A. Because all these tiny little colleges are wank, and it's pointless to go to them.
B. Isn't it obvious?? He's a fucking hippie!! Mushrooms indeed, I bet the fucker's high!
C. College students like pizza and you can put mushrooms on pizza.
D. Isn't the picture of the lolcat funny?

3. The author is:
A. A wanker
B. A delusional, egoistic moron
C. Pissed off (and a closet Glee fan)
D. All of the above

Time Dilation

I am currently witnessing a time dilation. It's extremely odd. Period so of time seem longer than they are. The weekend seems like more time than it is. It seems like days since I've been to office. When I sign in for a locker in the gym, it seems like a week since I last did it, even though its only been a couple of days. Earlier it seemed like time flew by, especially on weekends... and it still does... yet, now, it feels so drawn out.

It's raining outside. God, it feels like its been raining forever. It must be this weather that's having this effect on me. Or is it something else?

I'm listening to this song ("What I've Done") again. And the words are more true than they have ever been. A song from several monsoons ago and it makes more sense than ever now.

I made my mistakes, that is true. But I paid my debts. And now that's over. I can't keep accepting punishment for things I did long ago. I've done my time. Now its done. I get to start over. A clean slate. Tabula rasa.

How much longer can I chastise myself? How much longer should I carry this cross? How much longer must I sail Purgatory alone? My time is up. I have earned my release.

So I'm learning to let go. And one day I'll be over you. And that will be it. No more sorrow, just a new chit and a second chance. And then the clouds will clear and I'll be able to see again.

It's weird though, this stretching of time. It's not something that bothers me though. I'm feeling kind of numbed to it. It's almost kind of pleasant. Like I've almost re-found that old magic of the monsoons.

I start again
And whatever pain may come
Today this ends
Forgiving what I've done...

Random Rant-3 : Tangled Earphone Wires

I want to listen to music. NOW. The iPod is in the bag, which I extricate with ease. The earphones are somewhere in there too, let me just... yeah, I think I got it... nope, that's it there... eureka, and here we go... WHAT THE FUCK.

It is a veritable mesh of rubber casing, and somewhere in the jungle I can see a 3.5mm jack poking out, struggling for breath, imploring me to save it. And thus begins the epic (quite literally) quest of untangling the friggin' mess.

And it's never easy, no. You can see one end of the wire entering an abomination that would put a seaman's knot to shame, but you cannot for the life of you find where it comes out from the other side. Okay, so finally you do and manage to squeeze it through only to land yourself in the same predicament again. And rubber does not slide easily on rubber (especially with iPod earphones, what the fuck is up with that?), so you can't pull it out easy. Repeat this procedure about 12 times till you finally get it untangled.

I'm so angry that I just want to rip it apart, that fucking wad of irritating tangled bullshit, but I can't, because they are so fucking delicate. And decent replacements will cost, what, 800 bucks? Fuck that!

And it's not only earphone wires. All wires. We all carry a lot of gadgets these days, with a lot of accessories. Chargers for mobiles and laptops, mice (or mouses?), lan cables, etc. etc. And yeah, sure, they are bound to get tangled, I get that. But then how the fuck do they end up in this apocalyptic knot to end all knots? It's like, you bound them up properly and put them carefully in your bag, but how THE FUCK did it manage to get like this, how was it even physically possible for it to get so intricately intertwined, as though a thousand tiny fingers were working overtime to get it done? Because if you sat down to actually do that, you would never get it done. It would take you hours, maybe days even to complete such a work of art.

Pardon me for being knotty, but Murphy's Law can only hold so many times. This is fucking Chaos Theory. Oh, what a tangled web we weave.

Random Rant-2 : The Public Stereo

The Fresh Prince is not amused.

It's happened to all of us. And it can happen anywhere, at any time. We all have seen someone like that.

Say you're enjoying a nice game of pool with your buddies. Hey, you're even playing pretty good for a change. Or you're in a really slow line to buy movie tickets for that summer blockbuster you've been waiting ages for. Maybe trying to have a snack in the cafeteria. Any public place.

That's when some cool dude, who's far cooler than you are, whips out his iPod, iPhone, or otherwise musically enabled electronic device, selects the most bombastic track he can find, and presses play. On speaker. So that everyone in the room is treated to his most refined and excellent taste in music.

Himesh Reshamia. Soundtracks from Ajab Prem ki Ghazab Kahani or Dabaang. Hip gyrating item numbers or Anu Malik's latest. Justin Beiber or that old Backstreet Boys album.

You look over at him and are all like, "'the fuck?"

As time passes, your anger bubbles more and more.

Why? Why do people do this? Why the fuck do they think we want to listen to their music? I just don't understand this. It's like they think they are doing everyone a favor bu playing music very much at their own expense. Trust me, assholes, its more at our expense.

It's as if every one of them believes he is a great aficionado of music. That their taste is unparalleled and ground breaking. Everyone must hear my awesome playlist, says they. Not only am I providing myself this pleasure, but I am trying to infuse culture into these flea bitten mongrels that call themselves "people". Do you really want everyone to know you listen to that retarded club thumping drivel?

Seriously? Akon? He's the Himesh of the west. Lil' Wayne? Yeah nigga, you's from the ghetto. Pull your pants the fuck up and turn it down. Rap is bullshit (god bless, Mr. Smith, you are a far better actor). Don't even get me started on Beliebers. Oh, and metal heads. The cocks who think that no one else knows what real music is, and if you listen to anything else, you are simply of subpar intelligence. It's 10 minutes of growling and disoriented guitars, jackass, don't cleanse humanity of us lesser mortals just yet.

I suppose you could ask him to turn it off. But, you know, life could be so much more simple. If you want to listen to music, well, there is this nifty little invention called earphones that will spare the rest of us your music that is really, in all honesty, way to cool for the rest of us that are just trying to have a good time. Try them.

Random Rant-1 : The Elevator Tango

So its Monday morning (or really, it can be any day and any time, but somehow Monday morning has a lot of scope for pissing people off). You reach the lift (say, in my case at office, but again it can be anywhere). There is no one in sight. There's no way in hell you're taking the stairs (because you woke up at 6:30 to go for a jog and want a break, or you're just a lazy bastard).

You press the button and the machinery makes that annoying bing-bong sound. Down comes the lift, nice and empty, not a soul in sight. You're quite pleased, it's never so easy. Well, of course it's not.

You enter the lift and the door closes... but just as its about to shut- bing-bong - some prick just reaches outside and presses the call button, requiring the door to reopen.

You take a moment to curse under your breath because it's not that hot girl you would kill for a moment alone with, but rather some fat, out of breath guy with a week's worth of beard growth. Prick can't even shave properly and come on Monday fucking morning. You glare at him. The elevator music is starting to piss you off.

The doors close and you regain your composure when suddenly - bing-bong - and enter two giggly, airheaded girls talking animatedly about the latest airhead Bollywood movie they saw. They see your scowl in the reflective doors and smile knowingly at each other, trying and failing miserably not to laugh. Oh yes, its a fucking riot. Ha ha. I can hardly control myself.

Which is fine, except as the door closes- bing-bong - and in walks in a hefty Punjabi, jovial and spirited, all smiles and sunshine, all on a Monday morning. I love the ol' Punjabi energy. But on a Monday fucking morning? Do I really need to face such a chipper attitude from anyone? Which would be fine, except he holds open the lift and shouts, yes shouts, "Oi, jaldi aa jao!" You roll your eyes. Sometimes I think they know one language and one volume. Of course, whoever he was shouting to does not come jaldi, they come at their own damn pace. In waltz in a handful of colorfully dressed happy-go-lucky crowd, all of them very expressively excited that they made it in time. You grind your teeth.

And so it continues. Person after person suddenly appears out of nowhere. They don't come together, oh Lord no, that would be too easy. But as though it was practiced, they all come exactly on cue just as the lift doors are about to close completely. Your back is pressed against the wall, and you are assaulted with the scent of breakfasts from around the country: poha, aloo parantha, idli sambar, chicken roll, coffee and croissant, and what seems to be an entire tandoori chicken. You look at the Punjabi again.

A minimum of 6-7 minutes later you disembark on your floor, shoulder pushing everyone you come in contact with, lips pursed into a fine smile, all the while grumbling to yourself, WHY DIDN'T I TAKE THE FUCKING STAIRS???

The Masochist

You are the great educator. As soon as you entered you began teaching me and I started to believe in things I hadn't before. You are the destroyer. It's like everything I had fell to the ground and I was back at square one.

You are something special, something different... words fail. I can't put my finger on it. Words used to describe you come off as shoddy euphemisms. You would require a new language. For your beauty is something else. Your beauty is such that I don't have to go looking for beauty anywhere else anymore, I just have to find you. Your beauty is such that it humbled me. It changed me. And you didn't even have to say a word.

Just over the hill is where you live, and I come over to see you, hopefully to talk to you. Million of ideas of science and creation whirl through my head, but when I talk the words are infantile. In front of you, I speak the words of a child. It's as if I'm in some joyous daze. When the moment is over, I can believe it's already passed.

It's enough for me just to gaze on you once. To see your smile once (a smile that's enough to move a man to tears). To hear your voice once (and I can carry it the rest of the day). And I have to come and see you. For the day is a wasted one, only half completed when I don't see you. It's a grayer day, the one when I don't talk to you.

Yet I know the harsh truth. I can never have you. You will never be mine. No matter that you entertain me when I come on one of my visits. Do you how much I look forward to them? But you couldn't. You float on a cloud where nothing mundane can touch you. But it doesn't matter to me, the moments are golden.

And I know the only way to cure myself. To cut you out. Out of sight and out of mind. If I can't see, then I can't hurt. Wouldn't that be worth it? I promise myself that today, I stop this. I won't come to see you. I won't speak to you. And then I'll be proper again.

But I'm a liar. I know I'll make that journey. And I know when we've said goodbye, it'll hurt again, and I'll just wait for the next time I get to see you.

But I don't care. I'll take all of it. And swallow it down. It's all worth it anyway, just to see you. Yes, I would do that, and you'll never know of my immense sacrifice, but that's alright. I don't even know if you'd care, but it's alright. I'd risk all that just to see your smile. I'm happily resigned to it. This is what you've done to me.

So I guess I love my own pain. I'm a masochist, among others things, for you.