Interesting

Interesting, in particular, is—ummm what shall I say--a very interesting word. It has got different meanings—ranging from one end of the spectrum where it might mean virtuous and groovy to the other end where it may also mean spoilt and ridiculous.

“You are actually a very interesting guy,” alleged a stranger whom I had met barely half an hour before when I apprized him that I was a big critic of Amitabh Bachchan’s contemporary works. For an avid fan of Amitabh that he was (he loved his every film--even movies like Mrityudaata and Boom), listening my statement was almost an offence and he wanted to call me names which I had never heard before. He, for some mysterious reasons beyond my mediocre intellect, opted for the softer choice of calling me interesting. I couldn’t decide if I would have liked him calling me names more, for I struggled to decipher what he exactly meant when he tagged me interesting. That was mental harassment.

The word interesting is also used when one struggles to find a suitable adjective to describe a particular person, thing or event—something like what I did at the beginning of this post (if you haven’t noticed yet). It also buys you time when you are not quite sure about the quality of something. “It’s an interesting tactics,” says a commentating Rameez Raza whenever he isn’t sure why the captain made a particular field placement. If the very next ball produces a healthy result, he would quickly replace the adjective with a more absolved one and say—what a splendid tactics by the captain. He surely has got a thinking head over his shoulders.

Similarly, this word saves you from public embarrassment if what you think is in complete contrast with the ideas of masses. Even if you think that Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa is a pure tragedy of art and complete shit, you can save yourself from being abashed if you arc your eyebrows, curl your lips and call the painting interesting first and then pass priceless comments upon how Da Vinci could have made minor adjustments in the picture to make it look a bit better. You will invariable be tagged smart and a pundit in the field of painting. Now you know how certain journalists who don’t know the basics of a subject cleverly write half-a-page long columns in the newspapers and once you end up reading it, you feel overwhelmed. Overwhelmed because you couldn’t understand what he actually wanted to say. The melodic theme is that he never had anything to say.

Words having blurred and vague meanings always create an atmosphere where the speaker is invariably uplifted to the position of a great thinker and his listeners who couldn’t understand a single word discuss his profound greatness among themselves. Such is the power of obscurity. It sells. Things that are less understood have more magnetic power than their obvious counterparts.

I am again tempted to use the word interesting—with some caution and ingenuity. It surely is worth trying. Interesting is indeed an interesting word.

Addicted I Am

As a kid, I learnt the eight parts of speech of English from my English teacher. I was told that adjectives held an enormous power--much more than any other part of speech--within themselves. After a decade and a half, when I was virtually forced to write a testimonial for someone for the very first time, I understood why my English teacher called adjectives the powerhouse of English. They indeed serve the purpose of pleasing others.

When I was first introduced to Orkut, I found it anything but captivating. I was in fact hesitant to join it at the first place. But one of my mates sent me an invitation to join Orkut and despite my unwillingness, I joined it just for my mate's sake. I was doing more or less fine with a long list of friends in Yahoo Messenger. And hence, I hardly bothered to check my Orkut account on a regular basis. I never added anyone in my Orkut account, despised each and every community and people felt blessed if they received scraps from me. I never understood why people were so concerned about the number of scraps they have had. "To know the value of invaluable scraps, you need to use Orkut, mate. The unwritten rule of Orkut is--the more you use it, the more scraps you receive. Scraps are earnestly precious. Lesser mortals like you won't understand the addiction," said someone to me. The two words that caught my attention in his speech were 'lesser mortals'. How dare he call me a lesser mortal, I thought. By the time I satisfied myself by knocking him a punch or two in my imagination (of course), he was gone. What the heck! I could have hit him in reality as well. It's a different matter altogether that I would have received many more long-lasting bruises in return.

Today, one and a half years after joining Orkut, I check my account innumerable number of times daily, keep refreshing the page in hope of receiving one more scrap and I yell when I find that no one has scrapped me in last ten minutes or so. "How can people do that to me," I often ask myself. I haven't found an answer yet. These days, I am on a spree of writing testimonials. I have actually mustered a huge set of oh-how-sweet adjectives and I often use them while writing testimonials. Girls tell me that I write testimonials that are lovelier than teddy beers while a diabetic had once said that my testimonials were sweeter than artificial sweetener. As a matter of fact, I am yet to write testimonials for alcoholics and terrorists. I wonder what kind of comparisons they would make.

Believe it or not, the real charm of Orkut lies in the fact that its scrapbook acts as open email ids--open for all to view the contents. A cheesy scrap from the opposite sex can be invitation to disaster if your friends somehow take a look at it. But then, it can also serve as a means of enhancing the number of scraps. Consider the case if a girl proposes you on Orkut. Your friends will surely send you 100-odd scraps asking who she is. And your scrapbook is almost flooded on the eve of your birthday. People don't mind faking their birthdays in order to enhance the influx of scraps. And the number of fans you have had is considered as the only parameter to gauge your popularity.

ATTENTION READERS-- the crux of the article is that if you want others to honor you, enhance the number fans you have, even if the means of acquiring fans is cheesy. Third law of Newton says that every action has equal and opposite reaction. So in order to gather scraps, send more and more scraps to your friends and also to their girlfriends. You can send scraps to your own girlfriend(s) as well if you find time after watching your friends' girlfriends' albums. This is indeed a battle of mustering scraps and fans. And everything is fine, as the cliché goes, in love and war.

And yes, I won't mind lending you my sacred book of adjectives if you are about to write a testimonial. Till then, bye bye. And don't forget to add me as your friend. My identity on Orkut is Full Throttle...! See you on Orkut.

Meet The Rockers

These days, a guy with hair long enough to shroud every square inch of his face and a strange beard on his chin (if his hair allows a glimpse) roams on the streets of IIT after midnight. He is not seen in the day because alcohol, doping materials and drugs generally take over him during daytime. He wears jeans that can accommodate the thick legs of an elephant. To make matters worse, his jeans is at least two feet longer than his own legs. Body builders holding mikes are printed on his every shirt. The back side of his shirt reads—I love Metallica. The body builders on his shirt have looks of a monster that would tear you apart if given a chance to come alive.

During night, the guy listens to rock music at full volume on his Altec Lansing 5-in-1 speakers and 1500 watts woofer, doesn’t let his neighbors sleep and occasionally comes out of his room to have a round of cigarettes and iced tea. That is the only time his neighbors manage to sleep. He is a rocker, I was apprized by one of my mates as we sipped cold coffee. Now I know why he looks so strange, I replied back with arced eyebrows and narrow eyes. Perhaps overwhelmed by the eminent praises he received from me, the rocker stared at us with eyes more close than open. Not interested, bhaisaab, we felt like saying. He kept staring. No words, nothing. Silence. Time refused to move forward. But irrespective of the ideas time had, I needed to move forward. Backwards, I mean. Time can wait. Scared by the look that was anything but polite, we hopped away from him. Looked like a beast. Didn’t he, I said after gaining a fairly safe distance from him. He looked more like a statue to me, my mate said. My heart was still pounding. They all look the bloody same, I was informed again. Thank you for the information. Hey, I spilled all my cold coffee, I cried with sheer pain. That rocker owes me some cold coffee rather than that cold stare.

I have never had a chance to know what rock music was before I entered IIT. I had heard that rock is another form of music—very lusty and magnetic. I dreamt of listening to rock during my pre-IIT days. I got through JEE and got my chance to know more about rock. By the time I listened my first rock, I despised why I dreamt such a nightmare. Man, you need to develop a taste for rock, my seniors who rendered immense love for rock, told me. OK, I will try to develop such taste, I thought. Three and a half years after listening to my first rock song, I have strict reservations against calling it music, let alone lusty and magnetic. I often see rock lovers playing virtual guitars, waggling their heads and extracting pleasure from it. Their fingers move so fast on their virtual guitars that they can put world’s leading guitarists on shame. The wagging of their heads is so severe that their brains come under serious threat of being blown out of the skulls. While listening to rock, they get as animated as a bull at the sight of some red cloth. When I asked one of the rock lovers if he really understood the lyrics, he answered—It’s not about lyrics, man. It’s about feeling. I am, perhaps, too numb to feel rock. My inability, I accept. Most of the guys who take pride in saying that they are lovers of rock music fail to understand the lyrics on their own. It is only after finding lyrics on internet do they understand what the singer is actually singing(singing or shouting??!?). I understand that love for a particular kind of music is not a slave of any particular language--An American, for instance, who might not know a single language other than English can find Ugandan folk music awesome. But for a person like me--naive and foolish if one finds joy in stating--an effort won't be made to love something. There are certain things that come naturally to people and mustn't be imposed. Music is one such thing.

I came across the same rocker the other night on the same place. He won’t spare me today, I thought. Hello man, how are you, he asked. I somehow managed to capture a glimpse of smile of his face enshrouded by long, dense hair. I am fine, I flinched. Want some cold coffee, an invitation from the rocker. Rockers are actually not so bad, I found my lips whispering.