Cause and Effect

Putting down useless words on paper was the besetting sin of the 20th century; putting them online is that of the 21st.
I believe this is the only justification for my blog.

On my way to office last week, I was stopped by a group of protestors near Neelayam theatre. I wasn't entirely sure who they were, what they were protesting against or why I had been stopped. The leader - a tall cadaverous looking fellow, asked me quite politely to step down from my car. I declined equally politely, turned back and zoomed off, much to the disgust of his merry men.

I discovered later that the cause of this protest (in Pune, Maharashtra) was the decapitation of a statue of Mr. Babasaheb Ambedkar (in Kanpur, Uttar Pradesh). This in itself was disturbing; I do not remember the last time that repercussions of a hate crime manifested themselves so pervasively in such a short time. Vehicles were burnt in Pune, shops were looted in Chinchwad, scores of civilians were indiscriminately attacked by mobs and police alike and seven bogies of the Deccan Queen were torched. The 'elaborate mechanism of democratic law and order' that we learn about in our History textbooks, went kaput.

While many found it incredible that such things could happen to 'a civilized nation in the 21st century', that a defacing of a statue could result in such a bizarre display of raw fury, there were others who opined that it was a disaster waiting to happen.

Any competent analyst will tell you that major failures are the result of cumulative errors. So what were the factors that led to this rampant anarchy across three states?

1. The inadequacy of the existing system for ensuring law and order irrespective of caste
(the Bhandara incident where a family of four Dalits, including two women, was killed)
2. The growing gulf between the oblivious few and the unfortunate many
3. The internal strife between Dalit political leaders
4. Sheer apathy on the part of the so-called upper caste sections of Hindu society

(to be continued...)

An Introduction to Critical Reasoning (CR)

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A murder of sorts

While cleaning out my cupboard today, I discovered the stock of cheap fiction with even cheaper characters, which had sustained me in my Deutsch lectures in school. Looking over them, I felt remarkably nostalgic. No Shaw or Hardy or Austen had ever given me the vicarious thrills which these novels with their sleazy characters and entirely predictable plots gave me. This was written as a tribute to the Spicy Mysteries and the Dime Detectives, although it turned out to be an inferior imitation of something pretty dubious in the first place.
I have tried to include all the standard elements in such stories - the sensational (if macabre) start, the obvious clues, the presence of a corpse, the digressive "atmospheric" preoccupations that S.S. Van Dine laments about, the morbid ratiocination of the narrator and the eminently predictable and ridiculous end. Warning : This part was a spoiler but the article is going to spoil your mood anyway, so what the hell...
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I had killed her. It wasn't the first time I had killed but the now-familiar feeling sent the blood to my head and made me slightly dizzy. I felt insanely happy and foolish at the same time. I stood there holding her dead body, contemplating the evanescence of the tangled mess that we euphemistically call life. There would be more, but now was not the time to think about it. It was a moment to be savoured.

It began around two-thirtyish at night. I was sitting in an easy chair next to my window looking at the odd car or rickshaw pass by while being overtaken by its own shadow under the series of sodium-vapour lights which lined the street. A tom-cat, with white socks that shone under the brilliant yellow light, was sitting on the wall which separated the garden from the street, with the serene complacence exhibited only by felines. He had somehow contrived to look dignified while licking himself clean which I found incongruous, yet impressive. He concluded his ablutions and sat there erect with a majesty which reminded me of the geometric but oddly realistic paintings of the ancient Egyptians. It was about then that she came in the room. I had never really comprehended the nature of instant and unreasonable irritation which many experience and some betray but at that moment I knew exactly what it meant. I cast a futile glare at her which she ignored entirely. I gave some more subtle indications that she was unwelcome. It was of no use. She epitomized the infuriating single-mindedness of her sex. She was here to stay. I looked at her with cold disdain and opened the door, waiting for her to leave. With an intimacy which astounded me, she went and perched her dainty little body on my bed, waiting for me to come closer. The message was clear. She had needs. I had to fulfil them. After the deed was done, she would leave. This was outrageous! Not only was she was intruding on the sanctity of the moment, but also taking me for granted - the cardinal sin. I felt righteous fury bubbling up inside me which was not unlike that of a primal God who demands instant subservience and wreaks havoc when it is not forthcoming.

I had offered her a reasonable option. She refused to take it. She had to die.

I did the deed with my bare hands with as little emotion as that of a bus-conductor tearing out tickets. Looking at the blood on my hands, I couldn't help feeling suprised that such a frail body could have held so much blood. I felt sated and closed the window. I knew I was going to sleep soundly that night.

Damn, I hate mosquitoes*.

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*In mosquitoes, only the females drink blood.

The flame of the forest

It doesn't seem fair that the world is this colourful when my life is so drab.
Fortunately Nature doesn't really care how you feel...
Took this at my bro's place...It's a Gulmohar tree.



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Of Orals and Disasters

I dug this out from my archives of junior year inanity. This is something I scribbled in the middle of an Applied Electronics lecture that was extraordinarily boring, even by Kelkar's standards.

It eventually wormed its way into the college magazine, the vociferous objections of the magazine secretary notwithstanding .

T.E. was a time of mulish and wilful disobedience when I didn't know or care about 'central ideas' or 'thesis statements' or 'structure' or 'flow' and didn't suffer the attendant writer's block or rather, writer's paralysis, as I do now. Consequently, this piece is even more pathetic than my other attempts to disgust. I've kept the article as it appeared when I first penned it not because I wish to preserve the original flavour (or lack thereof) but because I'm too lazy to edit (or correct) it .

Any derogatory references to the people (dead or alive) and the incidents in this plot are intentional and should be construed as offensive unless specified otherwise. The responsibility for factual or other errors of course, remains my own.

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Of Orals and Disasters

It was a warm and sunny afternoon – the sort of afternoon where you just sit and stare at nothing and feel incredibly philosophical and peaceful- if a bit on the drowsy side. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping and everyone else was doing what they were supposed to do. But my mood was somber and my countenance grave. I was about to take the first engineering oral examination of my life.

Mention the world ‘orals’ to a layman and he might start thinking of prescriptions or naughty American presidents. But to an engineer this word brings back visions of sleepless nights, anxiety bordering on hysteria and an acute and painful comprehension of the term ‘tongue-tied’. I’ve seen the memories of these blighted things rankle decades later which is especially incredible in engineers, who are generally known for the gift of selective amnesia.

The subject was ‘Workshop Technology’- one that involved lathes and shapers and an assortment of other weird contraptions. It could have been Greek as far as I was concerned. I entered the room where the oral was supposed to be held with trepidation. The overall setting was one designed to strike terror in the stoutest of hearts. The room was on the ground floor and was about 20 x 40 feet (I learned later it was a vacated drawing hall). The architect evidently belonged to the old school of thought and found these new-fangled concepts of light and airiness repugnant because there was only one window to illuminate and ventilate this dungeon which it didn’t because the drapes were drawn. The lone tube-light in the center of the room did nothing to alleviate the sepulchral ambience. The external examiner was seated in a corner behind two cupboards and the students were milling about the hall, conversing in hushed tones. I noticed incredulously that even in this funereal atmosphere, romance was rearing its untimely head. My colleagues were trying to make an impression on a good looking lab assistant– one of the two women in the room. The other had been left alone, presumably because she looked on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

One of my partners, I discovered was a guy called ‘Katariya’ who seemed to have used copious amounts of coconut oil to straighten his recalcitrant hair to no effect. I noticed enviously that he was entirely at ease. The tense female was also to be a compatriot. I never did find out her name. “Next!” bellowed a diminutive peon seated in a corner of the room, just as we were beginning to relax. “Come on, that’s us!” whispered Katariya and we marched towards the cupboards, looking I daresay, like lambs being led to a slaughterhouse.

“Come in, Come in, Come in”, said the external who was a kindly looking fellow with a face like a horse. My spirits lifted at the sight of this old gentleman, for in my dreams I had always visualized the examiner as a tall and hefty guy with a wart on his face and a nasty smirk to boot. “Sit down, Sit down, Sit down,” said the horse, who was either addressing us individually or had a tendency to repeat himself. We took our seats on the badly crafted stools which apart from being extremely uncomfortable, looked like they had been designed for midgets. “Roll numbers 21, 22, 23?” queried the amiable equestrian. We responded in the affirmative. “Let’s begin, shall we?” he said. “Yes!” we responded in unison (I and Katariya that is, the girl had apparently been enraptured by a crystal paperweight placed on the desk).

“What are the different types of screwdrivers?” was the first question.

There was a long silence.

‘Well?” said the external. He looked at me. I looked at Katariya. He looked at the girl. She looked at the paperweight.

“There are many types”, said Katariya airily, breaking the ominous silence.

“Such as?” asked the external.

“There’s a small screwdriver…then a big one. Then sometimes you have a slightly bigger one”, said Katariya, oblivious to the consternation he was causing.

“And then an even bigger one, I suppose?” asked the external acidly.

“Exactly” Katariya replied imperturbably.

There was a brief silence while the external digested Katariya’s gems of wisdom.

“What is the principle of operation for a planer?” he asked us.

“What?” said Katariya, who seemed to be enjoying himself.

“What?” said the examiner turning to me.

I was confused. “What?” I asked him.

The external seemed to be rattled. “What? What? What?” he mumbled.

I began to wonder if this was an engineering oral or a literary one. Q1. Make interrogative and so on…

“Did you people study the operation of a lathe?” he finally asked.

‘Sure, why not?” said Katariya.

The external seemed to be baffled by the cryptic reply.

“Why do manufacturing industries use shapers?” he asked me.

“Er, to shape.” I replied promptly.

The external seemed to be struggling against some strong inward emotion.

“Which assembly did you use while performing a threading operation?” he said turning to the girl.

There was a long silence once again. The external’s face was turning a dull shade of purple, I noted with alarm.

“You, WAKE UP!” he barked at the poor gal who came to life with a start and noticed Katariya and I staring at her. She looked at us pleadingly.

I decided to throw caution to the winds.

“SLIDING ASSEMBLY!” I yelled, before she could say anything. “THREADING ASSEMBLY” yelled Katariya, almost simultaneously.

“So,” said the horse with a nasty smile, “Sliding or Threading Assembly?”

“THREADING ASSEMBLY” I said. “SLIDING ASSEMBLY!” said Katariya, synchronizing the answer to perfection.

The horse seemed to be on the verge of apoplexy by now. He jumped up from his chair, bumped his knee against the table and burst into a stream of colorful language.

“Get out you@##***”!!! he screamed hopping on one leg, holding the other with his hand. I noted with a bizarre detachment that he would have made a good dancer.

“OUT!OUT!!OUT!!!’ he added for good measure.

We fled from the room.

It was D-day- the day of the result. “1 oral down”, I thought gloomily as I walked into the registrar’s office to collect my mark-sheet. But by Jove, there IS a God in heaven and miracles DO happen! I got 34 (out of 50) and Katariya got 26.

The girl, I regret to say, got 45.

Tap dance of the sugar plum fairy

Ta ta ta.... tut ta tuta...Ta ta ta...tut ta tuta
Ta ta ta.... tut ta tuta...Ta ta ta...tut ta tuta

Ti taa Ti Taa Ti taa Ti Taa Ta
Ti taa Ti Taa Ti taa Ti Taa Ta

Ta da!

I think that I think and I think why I think...

The lark's on the wing,
The snail's on the thorn,
God's in His heaven
All's right with the world...

Back to blogging after a long break - I was under the misapprehension that meaningful blogs necessitate eventful lives. However, being an engineer and an English teacher to boot, I have given up all pretense of having a social, let alone an eventful life. And the term 'meaningful blog' is an oxymoron. But blog I must and blog I will. As the incomparable Pu la says,

'Hya jagaat khoop mothe kirtankaar houn gele
Mhanun kaay hya Kadmadya Joshyanee kirtan karuch naye ki kaaay?'

Translation for non-Maharashtrians : "Learn how to speak Marathi."

Jay Maharashtra!
Jay Hind!!
Jay Jaykar!!!

(Edit: These comments were a supposed to be private joke directed at a non-Maharashtrian friend of mine. I've drawn a lot of flak for them. Taken in the light of recent events involving the Navnuksan Sena, they suggest that I'm a racist. Not true- I hate everybody equally.)

Ahhh, that felt good! Keeping up a pretense of sanity or reasonableness is tiring in the extreme. Paradoxically, I find myself becoming increasingly intolerant of intolerant people. A quarter-life crisis perhaps?