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.

Cellphones And Their Users

“Daddy, I want a new cellphone,” an eight year old kid demands his decently rich dad. “But son, you had recently bought one,” contends his decently rich dad. “The latest model that arrived in the market yesterday has a 10 megapixels camera. Moreover, I bought my last phone six months ago,” he says with all his effort to make six months sound like six decades. “OK, we will get a new one tomorrow. And give this old one to our gardener’s son. He was also saying the other day that he had got bored with his cellphone. And he wants the one with MS Office.” World in 2009.

Mobiles phones are as basic a necessity for the younger generation as controversies to Rakhi Sawant. If you don’t own a cellphone, the general notion would be that you are a son/daughter of an unemployed or something. His family conditions must be really miserable. He can’t even afford a mobile, you would hear someone saying. And if you don’t know about the latest trends, you are tagged ancient. You haven’t even heard about Nokia N60? You must be living in Stone Age, you will inevitably be informed with raised eyebrows.

For most people, buying their first cellphone brings a delight with itself that can only be compared to Bill Gates handing over his empire to you. As soon as the phone is bought, the urge of letting others know that you have actually got a new cellphone takes over. The easiest way goes something like this. You go to one of your pals who seems relatively free and talk to him for a couple of minutes, bring out your cellphone, (pretend to) watch the time and say—Oh God, I am late again. I am doomed. I will call you later. Hey I have lost your phone number. Give me your number again.” “Nice cellphone,” he would invariably say despite knowing that you would never call him. You are delighted. Mission right on track!! As long as he keeps mentioning that your cellphone looks cool, you don’t mind him calling you the ugliest creature in the world. “Thanks, bought it yesterday only.” Then you go on talking about all the features it has got. Fifteen minutes pass by. The guy in front looks anything but involved. You sense that. Now that your mission is accomplished, you tighten your tie, keep the phone in your pocket and leave in hunt of another soul who would call your cellphone great. After a week or so, everyone in your family, office and friend circle gets to know that you have got a new cellphone. Meanwhile, one of your friends apprizes you that a new phone with superior features has been launched. Now the cellphone no longer remains new to you!! Can I afford to buy a new one, your cellphone-obsessed-mind thinks. Next day, you stand in front of some cellphone showroom and ask yourself the same question. The next salary-day isn't very far away, you remind yourself.

Now a days, it's difficult to guess whether a cellphone includes camera or is it the other way round. A cellphone is now a multipurpose device---camera with all sorts of zooming facilities, FM radio, mp3 player, MS Office, palmtop and yes, I almost forgot to mention that it includes a phone as well!! The level of facility of course, depends upon the depth of your pocket, with the facility to call others being the minimum one. Wonderful. Sounds like magic. To me, at least!

There are guys who know almost everything about cellphones—the latest models, models introduced in US but yet to arrive in India, their elusive features, their prices, their reliability, their battery life—virtually everything. Living cellphone encyclopedia, in short. And you can find such guys everywhere. They might possess the most ancient cellphones but dare not question their knowledge in this particular field. If one is about to buy a cellphone, he need not surf the sites or decide right at the cellphone shop. He just needs to meet one of those guys and give him the price range. The living encyclopedia would put his index finger on his chin, look towards the window pane, calculate something in his mind and then tell you--- Nokia xxxx is your best deal. You can trust his divine words blindly, go to the shop, ask for Nokia xxxx and come back gladly. No site-surfing, no decision-making! What more—such guys are always ready to company you to the cellphone shop. Angels, they are.

My cellphone is my lifeline, people are often heard saying. They just can’t imagine taking their hands off their phones. They might be right in front of their homes but they would still call their moms and say—‘yes mom, I am coming. I hope my food is ready.’ Some of the cellphone users have lots of money in their wallet (may be in their dads’ wallet) and they would participate in every contest that needs sending an option by sms. By the end of the day, they discover that they have sent 50-odd messages with no success in those contests. And there are people who call their mates whom they had talked in person 15 minutes ago and usually the chat goes on till eternity as if they hadn't talked to each other for centuries. And there are few (like me) who keep cellphones just because they are asked to. They don’t actually need them but they use them as clocks. Yes, clocks!! They often forget to carry their cellphones with themselves, put their phones in silent mode while going to sleep and calls they miss embarrassingly outnumbers those they attend. Someone calls to one such person and says—hi, what’s up? And the inevitable reply is something like—“Nothing’s up, everything is down. Come to the point. Why did you call?” These are the kind of people whose phone bills struggle to cross Rs. 100 mark per month. Telecommunication service providers try their best to allure such people to use their cellphones more often but they just refuse to talk. For them, cellphones are strictly SOS messaging protocol. When one of such persons (read: Abhieshek) goes to pay his sub-Rs100 bill at the service provider’s office (in case, it’s post paid), the bill collector almost bursts into laughter and is tempted to ask—‘How much did you actually spend to reach our office? I reckon it was threateningly close to your monthly bill. Wasn’t it?’ Thank God, the bill collectors are polite and understanding enough to refrain themselves from asking such mortifying questions. I love bill collectors!!

Yaad Nahin Main Yaad Nahin

zameen nahin, main aasmaan nahin
tinkaa nahin, main jahaan nahin

khush nahin, main khafaa nahin
dariya nahin, main hawaa nahin

jeet nahin, main haar nahin
nafrat nahin, main pyaar nahin

prashna nahin, main hal nahin
vada nahin, main chhal nahin

dur nahin, main paas nahin
dhadkan nahin, main saans nahin

mook nahin, main awaz nahin
zaahir nahin, main raaz nahin

jal nahin, main aag nahin
sur nahin, main raag nahin

jalaa nahin, main bujha nahin
ujdaa nahin, main sajaa nahin

kundan nahin, main kaath nahin
dhan nahin, main raakh nahin

jashn nahin, main shok nahin
mukt nahin, main rok nahin

manzil nahin, main raah nahin
hassi nahin, main aah nahin

behosh nahin, main ehsaas nahin
zinda nahin, main laash nahin

chalaa nahin, main thamaa nahin
prithak nahin, main ramaa nahin

ujala nahin, main raat nahin
tanha nahin, main saath nahin

bas ek pal mein simta hoon
aur fir, yaad nahin, main yaad nahin...

Lost In Colors

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”—Juliet says Romeo in Shakespeare’s arguably the most famous play, Romeo and Juliet. Had Shakespeare’s soul not departed for some romantic sessions with beautiful angels somewhere in the heaven above, today—in 2006--he would have certainly acknowledged the importance of names. Names of different shades of colors, in particular.

People have time and again made me believe that I am hopeless when it comes to distinguishing subtle variations in colors. Wait a minute. You are not assuming me to be color blind, are you? To clear the fog, let me tell you that I can perfectly distinguish black from white. OK, OK, I know even the color blinds can do that. (I was just testing your general knowledge for a change.) But I can even distinguish red from green and blue from yellow. See, now you know that my eyes haven’t deteriorated a bit. Though it’s a different matter altogether that I find it difficult to differentiate between Sky Blue and Persian Blue.

“I like this red color of you sweater. It’s my favorite color,” I told one of my female friends over a cup of coffee. I didn’t know I was asking for trouble. I should have rather said—“I like this color of your sweater. It’s my favorite color.” (Almost) Everybody knows how particular females are about colors. Sadly, I had never come across any such universal fact. “It’s not red, it’s Crimson,” she almost roared back with a how-dumb-you-are look. “Whatever!” I whispered, trying to divert her attention towards the cup of coffee. “You don’t even know what color this is and you say this is your favorite one! Now that’s ludicrous,” she said with an overwhelming delight on her face. I knew instantly that she had not had someone for last few days to make fun of and somehow I found myself imagining how helpless an about-to-die deer felt as it saw a hungry lioness pushing it into a corner. Needless to say (but I would still say), my position was not any better than that of the almost-dead deer. “What’s in a name, what’s in a name,” I flinched. I just hoped that she had had some amount of respect for Shakespeare and his sayings. She went on to count different shades of blue and red on her fingers and wanted me to learn at least a few of them. But how can she expect a guy to learn hues of colors who often struggles to recall his mobile number? Too much of an asking.

People generally have one and only one color as their favorite. But he may not choose everything around him painted in that particular color. For instance--Someone like me, whose favorite color is red (may be crimson!!!) will not like his formal trouser or shoes to be red-colored. Going a step further, I won’t like my hair tainted red either. Similarly, no matter how crazy a person is about blue (say Persian Blue, to be very specific), she won’t like her lipstick blue. But there is no shortage of frenzy creatures in this world. You will see them every now and then. Anyway, let’s go ahead.

I had seen people around me wearing kurtas of different colors (now don’t ask me the particular shades). I found that cool. Even I am a human being (oh yes, I am!!) and I also have desires. So, the other day, I went to a shop to buy cloth piece for my kurta. The shopkeeper showed cloth pieces of different colors and shades. I didn’t like any. More colors. No success yet! I had seen someone wearing a blue-colored kurta and wanted something like that. More colors put in front of me. But I am a difficult person to please! After rejecting some genuine, honest effort from the shopkeeper, I could sense frustration in his eyes, as if saying –For God’s sake, will you now leave? He was about to cry as I insisted him to make one last attempt. “What exact shade do you want?” he finally spoke as he wiped sweat along with all his patience from his forehead. Now that was one hell of a question for me. I could calculate the rate of mass transfer in a packed bed (IIT says I am a chemical engineer, though I have never accepted!!) but shades—not my cup of tea. “Something in blue would do fine,” I told hesitantly but politely. I didn’t want to make that poor soul cry. By the time I collected the receipt, the owner of the shopkeeper had made me learn that it was called Ultramarine. I felt embarrassed. I recalled the giggling face of that friend of mine. I have decided to teach Shakespeare a lesson (read: kidnap all his angel girlfriends) if and when I happen to visit heaven. There’s surely something in the name, I tell you. Don’t believe the words of that 16th century ancient guy. He bluffed all of us. A rose in 2006 called by some other name may not smell as sweet.

Physical Features

I receive an amused look whenever one meets me for the very first time. Though people try to conceal their awry sense of joy, I have got so used to that particular subtle look on their faces that I invariably catch those glimpses effortlessly. It’s not that I am unbelievably good looking or I possess attractive physique that introduces a smile on their faces but the fact that I possess an embarrassingly slim body structure makes them do so. To make matters worse, an abnormally large face rests over my shoulders and a pair of hands that can be detached by applying minimal force hangs below the shoulders, imparting me the looks of an alien. If you have no idea how an alien looks, do watch some movies like ET or alien v/s predator and if you are a die-hard Bollywood fan, you can always watch Koi Mil Gaya. Now if you are through with the movie, you can move on with the post. No, no let me tell you that I don’t look exactly like an alien if you have already started painting my structure in the canvas of your mind. But I must confess (I am almost into tears!!) that most of my features do resemble those of an alien. Similar height (just managed to cross 5 feet a couple of years ago), similar large eyes with pupils adamant to come out of the iris, voice difficult for others to understand and an above-average intellectual mind (that’s what I think)!! To add to that, my sense of dressing isn’t very different from that of aliens. Can you imagine my structure now? People often ask me what I generally eat in a day and they get an idea what not to feed their kids to save them from attaining alien-esque features.

Some of the people who really feel sorry about my physical features often suggest me to eat properly. They regularly let me know that if I continue like this for few more years, I would inevitably vanish. They suggest me to eat the amount of food in one meal that I generally have in 2 days. What they fail to understand is that a small belly lies in a small body. Enhancing my appetite is something that is beyond my control. I love food but I can’t eat much (Drops of tears are falling on the keyboard!!).

Most of the people I regularly come across are well built, possess height around six feet and hence, they see it as a moral responsibility (towards me, of course) to make me realize of my gradual drift towards un-human physical features. Every time I see a well-built person, the first thought that comes to my mind is--can I afford a fist-fight with him? The second thought that crosses my mind is—-I can’t!!

But I was not the same during my childhood days. Though I was born with a relatively bigger head than most other children, my good enough physique--firm arms, strong calves-- reconciled with it. But as days passed by, my weight refused to increase while the rate at which the size of my head increased knew no stopping. Result is in front of you. These days, with hardly any serious work to do, I amuse grown-ups and scare kids. That is one job I am really good at. If you can’t recall the last time you had laughed, do meet me. Your days of laughter are not far away.