Around the same time as Ammani's QT160
Samaya Balraj was out for a jog in the park. The new surroundings don't look new at all. It was a week since he moved to this suburb (a demotion according to him) but he can't clearly make out the differences. Places, these days don't have a character about them, he muses. Have to make friends with some regulars at the park, he resolves. Ha! A brown face jogging towards him. Maybe a Hi, a smile or a nod wouldn't be out of place, he hopes. He is almost near her, an arms length, when he notices the look on her face. She has recognised him from someplace, he realises but he can't, for the life of him put a name to the face. Not a clue. Eyes meet and still no name. He can't afford to say he doesn't remember, can he? What if she was someone that he must remember? He quickly averts his gaze and jogs on. His forehead creases in a frown in an attempt at recall.
Time whizzes by and I, I write of glimpses I steal
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Rivalry
Around the same time as Ammani's QT 158
Two brothers are trying to solve a puzzle. The answer to which is 'flamenco'. But they don't know it yet and they have been staring at the page for a few minutes now. Gypsy, dance, clap, stamp - clues keep flashing in his head, the elder one's. He knows it from somewhere but can't quite get it yet. He looks at his brother , equally frantic to solve the puzzle. "Poor sod, his life is a mess. I wish I could do something to help him", he thinks. Eight letter word with third letter 'a', sixth letter 'n' and ending with 'o'. 'Flamenco' - the answer has to be flamenco. It checks out. He feels like yelling out loud that he has cracked it. But he looks at the younger one's frenzied efforts to better him, something he has had to do since his kindergarten. He restrains himself and then calmly suggests, "The answer is on page 56. Should we take a look?"
Two brothers are trying to solve a puzzle. The answer to which is 'flamenco'. But they don't know it yet and they have been staring at the page for a few minutes now. Gypsy, dance, clap, stamp - clues keep flashing in his head, the elder one's. He knows it from somewhere but can't quite get it yet. He looks at his brother , equally frantic to solve the puzzle. "Poor sod, his life is a mess. I wish I could do something to help him", he thinks. Eight letter word with third letter 'a', sixth letter 'n' and ending with 'o'. 'Flamenco' - the answer has to be flamenco. It checks out. He feels like yelling out loud that he has cracked it. But he looks at the younger one's frenzied efforts to better him, something he has had to do since his kindergarten. He restrains himself and then calmly suggests, "The answer is on page 56. Should we take a look?"
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Pope goes Oh Poop!
Everyone makes mistakes. It is part and parcel of being human. Even saints and scholars are susceptible to it. I mean, if someone held a hand grenade in their hand, it is so easy to absentmindedly pull the pin. You can't blame them for that, can you?
Look at the Pope. He was sitting there, alone in the Vatican palace, getting bored. Apart from a few tourists who managed to fit in a coupla hours at the Vatican in their All-Europe tour itinerary, there weren't many people to even wave at. And the world, the world was getting too sensible.
Bush had admitted that perhaps the war on Iraq was possibly a mistake. I don't mean to say it was wrong. But maybe, the possibility that the war could have been a mistake cannot be entirely ruled out. If you know what I mean.
Blair was going to be kicked out. Israel was going to withdraw from Lebanon. Oil prices were stabilising. Even hurricanes petered out to harmless storms.
The world wasn't without problems. There was rain in Malaysia that stole the thunder from Sachin's comeback and the new baby boy 'Sutton', who was born to pop diva Britney.
Still, there really wasn't much happening. So...
poop... (that was the grenade pin if you didn't realise)
This Pope totally rocks. He will be the pin-up poster boy of every dreamy-eyed Muslim. Only the true Muslims. Not the "We are peace-loving, faithful followers of Mohamed" posers. He has retracted his comments and almost apologised but that's like trying to put the pin back in. In some models of grenades, that would work. This one... I am not so sure.
Look at the Pope. He was sitting there, alone in the Vatican palace, getting bored. Apart from a few tourists who managed to fit in a coupla hours at the Vatican in their All-Europe tour itinerary, there weren't many people to even wave at. And the world, the world was getting too sensible.
Bush had admitted that perhaps the war on Iraq was possibly a mistake. I don't mean to say it was wrong. But maybe, the possibility that the war could have been a mistake cannot be entirely ruled out. If you know what I mean.
Blair was going to be kicked out. Israel was going to withdraw from Lebanon. Oil prices were stabilising. Even hurricanes petered out to harmless storms.
The world wasn't without problems. There was rain in Malaysia that stole the thunder from Sachin's comeback and the new baby boy 'Sutton', who was born to pop diva Britney.
Still, there really wasn't much happening. So...
poop... (that was the grenade pin if you didn't realise)
This Pope totally rocks. He will be the pin-up poster boy of every dreamy-eyed Muslim. Only the true Muslims. Not the "We are peace-loving, faithful followers of Mohamed" posers. He has retracted his comments and almost apologised but that's like trying to put the pin back in. In some models of grenades, that would work. This one... I am not so sure.
Monday, September 18, 2006
A review on reviews
Are the Film reviews in our print media changing face? After reading the review of Naaga in Hindu's Friday Review recently, I am beginning to think so. It is likely that the movie is so pathetic that people need to be warned to stay away from the theatres. It is also possible that reviewers have a moral authority (and responsibility) to flame bad films and maybe Hindu always did write scathing reviews. Still, I find reviews like it unpalatable. I admit I know very little about the process of reviewing and much less about cinema. But as a reader, I find the tone of the review less objective, why, even almost arrogant.
This same review on a personal blog or community forum wouldn't look out of place at all. Thats what blogs and other alternate media are for. But on a newspaper that atleast I consider The National Newspaper, it is unbecoming. If you don't have anything good to say, and all you are going to do is trash the movie, then why take the trouble at all. Isn't it better to just not review it. Not every movie that gets to the theatres find a place in the Friday Review, do they?
This same review on a personal blog or community forum wouldn't look out of place at all. Thats what blogs and other alternate media are for. But on a newspaper that atleast I consider The National Newspaper, it is unbecoming. If you don't have anything good to say, and all you are going to do is trash the movie, then why take the trouble at all. Isn't it better to just not review it. Not every movie that gets to the theatres find a place in the Friday Review, do they?
Monday, September 04, 2006
Teachers' day special
Priya has 'remembered' her teachers and I felt a post to thank my teachers was called for. Bear with me, my reminiscences.
Even before Kindergarten, I was in a Creche and though I have no memories of it, I am told that I had a great time with Vasumathi aunty. Starting school, I simply have to acknowledge the benevolent Principal of Karthikeyan at that time, Mrs. Balamani.
I believe that there is something about Anglo-Indian Kindergarten teachers. My KG teacher Beena was wonderful. Later having also seen my sister's KG teacher Esther, I have to say they just fit the bill. Like a Nair tea-kadai.
My First standard teacher, Mrs. Sitalakshmi had some trouble with me, what with me refusing to accept her as my teacher. However all the antagonism was offset after my parents found out that we shared some common friends and worked on building a personal rapport. Needless to say, I became one of her favourite pupils after that.
If there was one person who was the 'terror' of my primary school, it was Pushpa miss. Cane in hand, she sent shivers down every student's spine (and pee down the pants for some). The martinet, she has made us kneel-down in the sand for hours, trained us mercilessly for the Parade and simply made our lives miserable. A few years later, I understood how her iron-fisted regime shaped me and I was fortunate enough to see her softer side too before she passed away.
Then came the Golden age... some of the best times in my school life. Meena Subramanaiam ma'am, Mahalakshmi miss, Sharadha miss and many others teached me during this time. Meena ma'am was the Tamil teacher and she groaned unremittingly that I needed to maintain my classwork. Three years I got by without writing down stuff from the board in her class (and I continued that in my 9th and 10th under Latha miss).
Sundarrajan Sir (Maths) with his straight-out-of-sumo-wrestling build was sinister despite the permanent naamam in his forehead. He hated all of my extra-curricular activities and wished that I would settle down to spending more time on acads instead of squandering good time writing crap. Krishnamurthy sir (Physics) saw an aptitude to teach in me, I guess. He encouraged me to teach lab for the rest of the class and I think of him when I do lab demonstrations now in Australia.
The favouritest ofcourse were Mahalakshmi miss and Sharadha miss. Maha miss taught history and geography. She also helped out in school administration and when she was relieved of teaching our class in precedence to her administrative duties, I led a rebellion against it. Students of 9-A refused to eat their lunches. My sathyagraha was noticed and I (and my co-conspirator) were sent for by the Principal, who failing to convince us, let Maha miss continue to teach one subject (History).
If I ever wrote a My experiments with Truth, that would be the moment I realised the power of Sathyagraha. I went on to repeat it again; this time for Indra miss. Fresh out of college, she was so sensitive that she would start crying as soon as someone said something harsh to her. Students of 9-A again forwent their food to stop her from resigning her job (she resigned after a skirmish with the principal) but this time we weren't so successful.
Sharadha miss deserves an entire post for herself. She was the one who induced in me a love for language, introducing me to the joy of reading and writing. One thing I can never forget about her is the way she cried (not so secretly in the staffroom) after having punished me for not completing an assignment. She loved me so much she couldn't bear the thought of sending me out of class. I have never thanked her enough for being the best teacher in the world.
There were many others after that, in high school and later in college.
I am indebted to all of them for sharing their knowledge with me and for sculpting me chip by chip. I know it must have taken a lot of effort and I may not have expressed my gratitude earlier but 'Thank God for all teachers'.
Even before Kindergarten, I was in a Creche and though I have no memories of it, I am told that I had a great time with Vasumathi aunty. Starting school, I simply have to acknowledge the benevolent Principal of Karthikeyan at that time, Mrs. Balamani.
I believe that there is something about Anglo-Indian Kindergarten teachers. My KG teacher Beena was wonderful. Later having also seen my sister's KG teacher Esther, I have to say they just fit the bill. Like a Nair tea-kadai.
My First standard teacher, Mrs. Sitalakshmi had some trouble with me, what with me refusing to accept her as my teacher. However all the antagonism was offset after my parents found out that we shared some common friends and worked on building a personal rapport. Needless to say, I became one of her favourite pupils after that.
If there was one person who was the 'terror' of my primary school, it was Pushpa miss. Cane in hand, she sent shivers down every student's spine (and pee down the pants for some). The martinet, she has made us kneel-down in the sand for hours, trained us mercilessly for the Parade and simply made our lives miserable. A few years later, I understood how her iron-fisted regime shaped me and I was fortunate enough to see her softer side too before she passed away.
Then came the Golden age... some of the best times in my school life. Meena Subramanaiam ma'am, Mahalakshmi miss, Sharadha miss and many others teached me during this time. Meena ma'am was the Tamil teacher and she groaned unremittingly that I needed to maintain my classwork. Three years I got by without writing down stuff from the board in her class (and I continued that in my 9th and 10th under Latha miss).
Sundarrajan Sir (Maths) with his straight-out-of-sumo-wrestling build was sinister despite the permanent naamam in his forehead. He hated all of my extra-curricular activities and wished that I would settle down to spending more time on acads instead of squandering good time writing crap. Krishnamurthy sir (Physics) saw an aptitude to teach in me, I guess. He encouraged me to teach lab for the rest of the class and I think of him when I do lab demonstrations now in Australia.
The favouritest ofcourse were Mahalakshmi miss and Sharadha miss. Maha miss taught history and geography. She also helped out in school administration and when she was relieved of teaching our class in precedence to her administrative duties, I led a rebellion against it. Students of 9-A refused to eat their lunches. My sathyagraha was noticed and I (and my co-conspirator) were sent for by the Principal, who failing to convince us, let Maha miss continue to teach one subject (History).
If I ever wrote a My experiments with Truth, that would be the moment I realised the power of Sathyagraha. I went on to repeat it again; this time for Indra miss. Fresh out of college, she was so sensitive that she would start crying as soon as someone said something harsh to her. Students of 9-A again forwent their food to stop her from resigning her job (she resigned after a skirmish with the principal) but this time we weren't so successful.
Sharadha miss deserves an entire post for herself. She was the one who induced in me a love for language, introducing me to the joy of reading and writing. One thing I can never forget about her is the way she cried (not so secretly in the staffroom) after having punished me for not completing an assignment. She loved me so much she couldn't bear the thought of sending me out of class. I have never thanked her enough for being the best teacher in the world.
There were many others after that, in high school and later in college.
I am indebted to all of them for sharing their knowledge with me and for sculpting me chip by chip. I know it must have taken a lot of effort and I may not have expressed my gratitude earlier but 'Thank God for all teachers'.
The Crocodile Hunter
The charismatic Steve Irwin, the quintessential Aussie bloke of Crocodile Hunter fame died today while filming a documentary off the coast of Queensland. Apparently a stingray barb pierced his chest and he succumbed to the injuries.
In India, thanks to AXN, he was the most popular non-Cricketer Australian, more popular than even the primeminister John Howard.
All Australia mourns his death today. Perhaps many from across the globe as well.
He brought a smile to everyone's lips. May he be remembered well.
In India, thanks to AXN, he was the most popular non-Cricketer Australian, more popular than even the primeminister John Howard.
All Australia mourns his death today. Perhaps many from across the globe as well.
He brought a smile to everyone's lips. May he be remembered well.
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