tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-282035002024-03-14T14:52:39.145+05:30The TrampPersonal blog of Saptarshi ChakrabortyAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.comBlogger218125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-81486237596003253732017-05-13T10:22:00.001+05:302017-05-13T10:24:57.953+05:30Our new project on Bengali food!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This is awkward. Does anyone read this still? Just checking in to say that Insiya and I have been working on a new project to document <a href="https://bongeats.com/" target="_blank">Bengali recipes</a>, a part of which is the<a href="https://www.youtube.com/bongeats?sub_confirmation=1" target="_blank"> YouTube channel</a> which has awesome videos like the one below. It is called Bong Eats. Go look at it!<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-33598826935279441972012-03-26T11:02:00.000+05:302012-03-26T11:04:04.245+05:30Good ol' MegalomaniaThe weblog is <i>finally</i> up. Suggestions are welcome (and encouraged). Either mail me or comment on this post. Thank you.<br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">http://saptarshichakraborty.me/</span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com0Chennai, Tamil Nadu, India13.060422 80.24958312.936679000000002 80.0916545 13.184165 80.4075115tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-64995492978461102872012-03-13T10:30:00.001+05:302012-03-13T10:34:43.729+05:30Kahaani<span style="font-family: inherit;">Late morning. Phone call from Subhayu:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Bhai ajke college-ta kintu jetei hobe. Prochurdin jawa hoyeni. 9-taye Baghajatin."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ten in the morning. At the bus stand. Take that auto to Garia where we inevitably realise that we are not going to college today. But the question is where do we go then? Presi? JU? Or Aasma? Now, one of the strange things about Aasma is that when pitted against any given destination, the answer is always Aasma. Kind of like a zero-multiplication. Aasma is the philosophical zero/origin of our lives. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Aasma, Baruipur local, beef <i>biriyani</i>, <i>chaap</i>, Chutki and cold drink, take the longest auto-route back to the city. Another auto to JU. Eyes on the JUDE ledge across the hanging bridge. Doyeeta, Bimbo, Suchismita, sometimes the very talented Ragini. Crow-chicken noodle dotted with sperm infused ketchup. Thums up. Some mild coercing later we are off to Golpark. 'Pick up the Shonai' is the name of the game. If she is back from Presi. Then walk to chayer dokan. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Or if it had been some other day we would have taken the metro from Tolly straight to Central. Walk to the Presi canteen. Laddu had to be called from the union room. Shonai had to be called too. <i>Gnaar mein danda</i> was the song of the moment. Yummein, pan-fried momos at Chini's. Steaming cauldron of gastronomic awesomeness for twenty-five rupees. Then, in the afternoon a metro back to Kalighat. Walk to champadir chayer dokan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So, there were about two courses of action in our lives. Both of which led to the chayer dokan. Simple. But not as simple as it sounds. Poulami, Rommo, Teko, Koushiki. Of course, every day would bring some random person or the other. Some of them would go on to become a part of the group. Some had to be shaken off like dirt, or gym-going gropers. Some times when we had money, there would of course be a party. We would skip the chayer dokan and head straight to Laddu'r shattolah. The hazy Calcutta quiet in the hot summer afternoon stretching out as far as one could see from the window. The guitar, the 5.1 Creative speakers. The Old Monk. The Sun would set and more people would turn up. They talked about their day. About their current crushes, heartbreaks. In the evening the small lamp with the umbrella would be lit up for 'mood-lighting'. Mohiner ghoraguli, bawraa mann and then someone would start playing Pianoman and we would all sing together - voices cracking with sincerity at the line that goes - </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But it's better than drinking alone..."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Everyone had their songs. If it was 'Wish you were here' you knew Laddu was going to play it. Then one by one we would leave. I would walk down Southern Avenue. If it was quite late there was always the fear of being followed by transsexual-looking prostitutes. It was okay though. Very often there were not so kind words from the mother. But who gives a shit? We knew, yes we all did, that these times, they are not going to come back. That was the most beautiful thing. All along these five years we were very keenly aware of the fact that this <i>was</i> happiness. There was no doubt about that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now when I talk to people in various parts of the country/world they talk about things like 'exposure', about 'keeping the options open' and other vague terms I do not understand. If you asked me, when I see what I love best I just go after it. Yes, I know. I am like one of those irritating people who cross the street in diagonals. Calcutta is where I will be because all I need is to be happy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">“When I was 5 years old, my mother always told me that happiness was the key to life. When I went to school, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wrote down ‘happy’. They told me I didn’t understand the assignment, and I told them they didn’t understand life.” </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19968.John_Lennon" style="background-color: white; color: #666600; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">John Lennon</a> </span></blockquote>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-2860588958925269602012-01-01T11:52:00.002+05:302012-01-01T12:08:21.323+05:30On social mediaI rarely write these days. This is the age of "re-sharing". We consume and we share what we like or what we would like people to think we like. We are constantly at work trying to project an online personality, sometimes more than one. Because, after all, we are different things to different people. Or we would like to be. Opinions on an issue need to be formed fast, lest we are considered ignorant, or worst, insensitive. And hence, opinions are borrowed. They are hashed together from various sources of ready-made opinions, checked for consistency with our accepted online personality and - shared, promptly. And then in battles online we sometimes begin to understand the opinion we so vehemently defend. Sometimes. But there is not always time, for we have not just one battle to fight, not just one issue to be seen possessing an opinion on. In this fast-paced system of factory like opinion construction there is no time for looking inside. The conveyor belt keeps carrying opinions to us. No time to think quietly. Always shifting, always full of sensitivity. This is the age of conforming non-conformists fed on the homogeneous goo of constructed opinions.<br />
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So, people create less and less. And consume more and more. We have a group of people who produce content at lightning speed and voracious consumers. And social media is the connect. What does that mean? That means the death of the blogs as we knew it. When was the last time you published a post and did not "share" the link on your social network? There was a time when we posted the link on Facebook in the hope of widening our readership beyond the regulars. But now the dependence has grown to an extent where unless you post a link to your post on every social network you are on you are not sure anyone will know. The truth is no one checks blogs for new posts any more. The quality of discussion on blog posts has suffered with most comments being reduced to mere roll call responses at best, that too not on the blog, but on Facebook. So, even though the number of "visitors" may have increased, the good old readers are gone.<br />
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Unable to stand the tyranny of Facebook and the enthusiasm of its users, I have stopped using it. But they will not let me delete my profile. All I can do is "disable" it. Apparently it is done because Facebook is worried that I may in a fit of childishness delete my profile only to want it back when I realise the magnitude of the mistake I have made. So, it helpfully gives me the option to join back whenever I want and they are sure I will. They store all my data, connections, and all I have to do to join back is sign in. You heard me right. That is all I need to do. The same Facebook that makes me go through at least 3 stages of detailed questionnaire trying to dissuade me when I am trying to "disable" my account does not so much as wink when I join back. So disabling my account is essentially like logging out of Facebook. Facebook does not even allow me to export my contact details saying that the contacts are owned by the respective owners. That does not sound quite right, now, does it? The contact, by way of access/privacy control (such as adding/accepting me as a friend, or putting me in a group where her/his email, phone number, etc is visible to me) has given me the implicit permission to use the detail for contacting her/him. Even if we were to assume that Facebook genuinely believes this protects the privacy of its users, it has no qualms importing contact lists from our email service providers (Gmail, Yahoo,etc) to add to its database. Remember when you had allowed Facebook to see which of your Gmail contacts are already using Facebook? (You probably don't but that is because it was so long ago. Three internet years!) Now, when you were doing that Facebook did solemnly swear that it does not save your Gmail password, which it doesn't. What it does however is save that contact list imported from Gmail on its servers forever. It uses that to "suggest" you "people you may know". Double standards? Kind of reminds me of that line in Hotel California that goes:<br />
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"You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave (legendary guitar solo...)"Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-42062945121519476892011-09-28T08:56:00.002+05:302011-09-28T08:59:53.822+05:30Coming back to LifeReaching Calcutta on on the 30<span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span>. Can not wait. I have made a list of places that I must go to. Anyone who knows me knows that by places I mean places to eat. What can I say?<br />
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Had a reasonably good <i>Mahalaya</i> in our house in Madras with friends and food and Birendrokrishno Bhodro. Missed the visits to the ghat. Missed Rommo, Daniel, Subhayu, Teko, Tautaar, Shonai. Missed the early morning bus ride to Rashbehari, a subsequent bus ride to Esplanade row, the walk, the photographs, the thousands of people, beggars, <i>sadhus, </i>Decker's lane, Kumortuli, Esplanade, <i>kochuri</i>, <i>cha. </i>I know I have said this quite a few times on this blog, but really, 'What novelty is worth the sweet monotony where everything is known, and loved because it's known?'<br />
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That, plus, Calcutta is just awesome. As awesome as Barney Stinson, or Sheldon Cooper. Or both of them put together. They have their issues, but really, how can you not like awesomeness?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com0Madras, Tamil Nadu, India13.060422 80.24958312.936679000000002 80.0916545 13.184165 80.4075115tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-32618731585344223602011-08-12T23:01:00.003+05:302011-08-12T23:02:38.788+05:30Google Plus Invite<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.ducttapemarketing.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/google_plus_logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.ducttapemarketing.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/google_plus_logo.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Here is the invite link for anyone who would like to join Google Plus:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><a href="https://plus.google.com/_/notifications/ngemlink?path=%2F%3Fgpinv%3Dlpe0YLgq5W0%3Agl5j5rJCqDI" rel="nofollow" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">https://plus.google.com/_/noti<wbr></wbr>fications/ngemlink?path=%2F%3F<wbr></wbr>gpinv%3Dlpe0YLgq5W0%3Agl5j5rJC<wbr></wbr>qDI</a></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I won't say it's better than Facebook- that is obvious. It's better than Twitter.</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-75246071033302607452011-06-09T17:42:00.001+05:302011-06-09T17:45:47.089+05:30Madras Mail: Part 4It is easy to forget things, especially when your life depends on it. Calcutta, my Calcutta, you are such a fair city.<br />
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None of my friends were given a lot of pocket money in college. But I remember we had a great life. Rarely ever was there an occasion where we felt constrained by money. I mean, yes, we had to think about money. But for God's sake we hung out at Park Street it was perfectly possible to spend an entire day there without spending a hundred bucks. When we did save up, we went to respectable places and had gourmet meals and believe me those were not very infrequent occasions either. We rarely ever took cabs, unless we were in a group, or had a screaming mother/ father at the other end of a phone call. And yet somehow we seemed to stay out late all the time. I returned home at one in the night every once in a while and it would be fast walks followed by shared autos, or buses. I would not have to pay a lot because it was late. The auto driver did not think of hiking the fare just because he could. Even if he did it would be 5 rupee instead of 3 kind of an affair. And oh, the number of options! If you wanted Chinese food, you could go to Chini's where you would be stuffed for 25 rupees. You could go to Tibetan delight if you were in the mood for spending a bit more. If it's a larger group you could go to Tangra- even there you can choose from expensive to backyard restaurants. Still more money? Well, Barbecue, Tung Fong? Still more money? Mainland China. Just look at the options! And the best part - all of them are delicious. Every one of them.<br />
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Had I grown up in some other city I would have said- in Calcutta there is something for everyone. But I didn't. In Calcutta I can be all the ''everyone''s. I can share a table with strangers while I hog pan fried mystery-meat momos in the afternoon and go on a fancy date to a fine dining place at night. Why will I be expected to visit a certain kind of a place because I earn a certain amount of money?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-56246884071418845582011-05-30T11:24:00.003+05:302011-05-30T11:29:56.313+05:30Realisations in IT<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://dilbert.com/dyn/str_strip/000000000/00000000/0000000/100000/00000/2000/000/102053/102053.strip.sunday.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="http://dilbert.com/dyn/str_strip/000000000/00000000/0000000/100000/00000/2000/000/102053/102053.strip.sunday.gif" width="400" /></a></div><br />
The Indian software services sector is a wonderland. Everyone bullshits everyone. Your job is to make it look like you have enough work for you to be drawing a salary. You are paid to justify that you should be paid. And how do you justify that you should be paid? By preparing elaborate slide shows and spreadsheets. It is one giant work of fiction in Power Point and Excel.<br />
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No one talks about efficient code. Even you wouldn't if your effort were to be measured by the Lines of Code. Just imagine. The more Lines of Code, the better. If you spend five minutes working on something, you put two hours in the tracking software, no kidding. If you spend two hours copying code from various pre-existing programs (which had been copied from other programs - you see forty years of Mainframe does give you a sizable chunk of obsolete code) you put your effort as forty. Yes forty hours. Of course, at regular intervals you need to send out mails to various people about various things and demand they give you a solution by EOD (End of Day). If you are at the receiving end of such a mail, do not panic. A solution is usually a mail or any other form of engagement. Never mind if your solution is shoddy, just send it back. Or, better still, say that your solution depends on solutions/feedback from other teams and shoot out threatening mails to them CCing it to your sender demanding that the said team sends you back whatever it is that you hope it is going to send you back by - you guessed it - EOD. No body wants you to wade through the marsh of code and come up with an actual solution. You are discouraged to. You see, the idea is to keep the facade of work going on but never really solving the main problem.<br />
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No one but the really desperate should join (and continue in) the IT industry. Because getting out is hard and time consuming. Sometimes it is the only way to go - in the beginning. Small product companies are rarely in the mood to take up or train young engineers. But if you love programming, or life in general, know this from now. You must get out.<br />
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.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-16188233604157192292011-04-24T21:41:00.003+05:302011-04-24T21:43:38.793+05:30Rangiye diye jao jao, jao go ebar jabar age...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.southasiatimes.com.au/news/wp-content/uploads/cpi-m-flags.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.southasiatimes.com.au/news/wp-content/uploads/cpi-m-flags.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Picture Source: South Asia Times.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-75105386412380149632011-04-22T14:05:00.001+05:302011-04-22T14:05:24.497+05:30Talkin' bout a RevolutionLet this be the end of CPM. Of the most cold blooded organized plundering in the history of India. The Socialist Revolution ended the day they came to power. What began was nothing short of a slow transfusion of poison that continues to this day.<br />
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They must go. Thankfully, they will. Nothing, nothing can be worse than this. No madness, no chaos, no amount of lack of organization can come close to the planned assault of the educated <i>bhodrolok</i>.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-25200390783753778732011-03-13T15:48:00.005+05:302011-03-13T15:57:35.590+05:30Crimson Chakra- Adyar: Eating well in Madras:<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">If you are trying to decide whether Crimson Chakra is where you should go for your quiet dinner for two or a boisterous dinner with friends/ colleagues, this post is for you. And I will make it simple for you. Don't go to Crimson Chakra unless, of course, you <i>love</i> pretentious food places or you hate the people you are going out to dine with (and this is your only chance of getting back at them.)</span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">If you understand anything about food, you are unlikely to go back to the place. <i> </i>I had read somewhere that their t<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">able d'hôte</span> sucks. It's true. I was continuously reminded of the opening lines of Annie Hall where Woody Allen talks about two women conversing in a restaurant:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Boy, the food at this place is really terrible." The other one says, "Yeah, I know; and such small portions."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 17px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 17px;">Well that pretty much sums up Crimson Chakra's </span>t<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">able d'hôte menu. Armed with this knowledge I decided to give the fixed menu a miss and order from their a la carte menu. The menu is a spectacle of sorts with the first half full of bizarre <i>tamil</i> names and english explanations that made each item sound more suspicious than the previous. I jumped to the second half which proclaimed itself to be the continental menu. I ordered a roasted duck in orange sauce secretly hoping that it would turn out to be better than what the others had ordered (the fixed menu). In the end however, it was difficult to tell which was worse. The duck was doused in a very, very sweet sauce. The vegetables were not blanched properly. And the fixed menu, let's not talk about that. The food is atrociously expensive. The fixed menu which has a soup, a kebab quarter plate (4 chicken, 2 mutton, 2 prawns, a quartered tomato, some bean sprouts), appams/rotis, a choice of identical tasting chicken/mutton or fish curries, curd rice (!) and a scoop of vanilla the size of a 3 rupee Calcutta rosogolla costs 650 rupee plus taxes.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">The décor of the place is nice. The ambience is nice too. If you must go you can try the desserts. The menu is clearly made by people who have a limited knowledge of food. But that is not why the place fails. It fails because it seems to be run by people who don't have a genuine love for food and for feeding people. You cannot make a good restaurant by just hiring the best chefs and the best interior decorators. You need love, no matter how cliché that may sound to you.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-83717626785000049942011-02-05T22:08:00.003+05:302011-02-05T22:14:11.318+05:30The Tramp's Message to Humanity.<br />
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People, here is my message to humanity, yes it's the one the world has been waiting for, so listen carefully -<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>'Stop buying bread. Toil and save up and buy an oven. Also sell that microwave oven while you can. Then go and make your own bread. It is easy (you need flour, water and yeast, that's all) and so heavenly you will never be able to wipe your arse with white bread again. Start with not eating bread until you make your own. You will never regret it.'</i></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1WTSuR_cEsCBZb_rV_U-MG5Yteg6ShG1otO4iPYGPwHBDB-whVIWUEoe9wvf9llPScQ6bMAEKT3jxaaBF839HhpfrcsHeC4zv0j5lthEJryjFNy97g_p7gaOmdlmMqZ4lO1xf/s1600/DSC_3600.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1WTSuR_cEsCBZb_rV_U-MG5Yteg6ShG1otO4iPYGPwHBDB-whVIWUEoe9wvf9llPScQ6bMAEKT3jxaaBF839HhpfrcsHeC4zv0j5lthEJryjFNy97g_p7gaOmdlmMqZ4lO1xf/s400/DSC_3600.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
Now go forth and do as I say (and do).<br />
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.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-31287744630888740442011-02-03T11:15:00.001+05:302011-02-03T11:18:27.150+05:30Madras Mail: Part 3Ok, Mainframes are a pain. We had our training in LISP and suddenly COBOL happened. It specially irks me because I know there are so many beautiful languages out there that people are doing amazing things with and here I am stuck with a bunch of ugly languages. And I have not even started talking about people who have known nothing but this all their lives and believe their dabbling with COBOL is what is keeping the Universe from collapsing on them. They want to avoid that, especially because at least in their minds, they are at the centre of it and it would not be pretty.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>What enthrals me is the work going on right now on the web. I look at the stuff and wish I could in some way be a part of it. Well, I am a part of it, we all are. But you know, in a more active way, by creating things that are beautiful. There is something I am working on. I wish I had more time and space to pursue it - but I am still at it and hope I will be able to talk about it soon. I travel for about an hour in an office bus to and from work and I have been doing a lot of thinking on usability- in general and in connection with my project.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I have lot of ideas that I do not yet have the skills to implement. I have learnt a lot and am taking it in stages. One of my problems, if you call it a problem, is that I feel very very happy when I learn something new- however small it may be. In fact, I get so overwhelmed by it that I take some time to cherish the moment. I do that. I stroll around. Day dream about it and how I am going to in all probability change the world with it. I am too much of a romantic to go on doing things in a matter of fact way. This means I take longer to finish the same things than I ought to have. But there is nothing I can do about that, I guess.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Which brings me back to the work I am doing. Here I am expected to just get things done and get them done fast. Because my client does not like to pay for my day dreaming. Fair enough. That also means I feel uncomfortable working here. I don't like most of the work. They are unchallenging to my intellect and challenging to my well-being in general. I have done better work. And I have done quite some work before I joined this company.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I won't be here waiting around for a miracle. Frankly, I find this entire industry a sham. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-63326075251804419872011-01-17T10:33:00.001+05:302011-01-17T10:33:51.843+05:30We shall overcomeThere is no bigger crime than mediocrity. Wait, but there's hope.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/RkNsEH1GD7Q?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div><br />
</div><div>Someday. It won't be long. I promise.<br />
<br />
.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-36459316672229168532010-12-19T12:13:00.004+05:302010-12-19T12:36:18.935+05:30Back in CalcuttaSo I am in Calcutta. I arrived in a Taxi quietly as my city slept in the early hours of the morning yesterday. Quite a few things have changed since I left for Madras half a year back. My parents have moved out of the house I have grown up in and they have put up in a rented house on the bypass nearer to Garia. They are making a new house and they want to stay closer to the plot of land so it's easier to look after the work.<br />
<br />
This house is rather nice and quite in the lap of nature. There are birds right out of the window that one only reads about in Jibananada's poetry. The mornings smell different from the afternoons, or the evenings. It's colder too. It's quiet. Though it gets tiring after a point. Thankfully, I can take a metro straight to the centre of the city when I want.<br />
<br />
There are a lot of walks planned out. Lot of places to eat at. Lot of friends to meet. Calcutta is so much more beautiful than other cities that it hurts. It is cleaner. (yes! Yes! YES! Stop looking like that!) It is better. It is just so full of things that really matter. And you know what? I am glad that the medieval communists fucked up and did not let this city turn into an IT hub.<br />
<br />
I mean, seriously. IT is bullshit. Anyone who works in IT knows it. People in Calcutta have far better things to do than set up hideously huge offices in glass and steel that all look like each other and work on god-knows-what. Most people in IT are half-dead. People who are not remotely interested in technology (and no, just having an Android or an iPhone does not make you technically inclined). I have met so many people in my company who carry an Android but don't know anything about it. My friends who have studied history know more about technology than they can dream of doing. I am very happy that Calcutta is not a tech-hub or a commercial capital. Even if it means staying away from Calcutta for me. For the time being, at the least.<br />
<br />
People in Calcutta are nicer. They get angry. They get moved by things they see. They comment on things even (and especially when) they know that nothing will come out of it. They invest their faculty on so many things that won't ever give them any returns. They do things for the sake of doing things, knowing that it won't matter - that nothing really matters in the end. For example, no one in Calcutta has asked me why I take photographs. Specially if I am not selling them. No one here tells me I should try to sell my photos just so I don't end up pursuing something 'pointlessly'. Apparently, if you are good (or even mediocre) at something, you should try to make money out of it. Well. I am not saying it is bad. But why would the act of interest in itself be enough? Why will it be imperative to, why, almost unimaginable not to attach every interest with some goal?<br />
<br />
Anyway. I want to meet everyone. Please meet me.<br />
<br />
.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-41372577228360371252010-12-16T07:06:00.001+05:302010-12-16T07:06:57.014+05:307EThere will, of course, be parties. But this is the end of an era.<br />
<br />
Here's to Shattolah. To the best times of our lives. To <i>bawra mann</i>, <i>nishitho rater badol dhara</i>. To <i>Pola</i>. To the definite refuge, the mother of all havens in times when everything seemed screwed. To an apartment that couldn't have been more aptly named.<br />
<br />
Here is to Laddu and 7E.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtw0aWE9hNbw-0j4VF3YdmoaQDk-WRIBceXhVyLRIn3XuhLDgatxAVs5BvcRMUO-MOhX3f3ZrKdnV0pEIPEPp5WoWRBBV1_KcUA-Dv1BVltbqMqTrXLDxWVySJ8boYZStVhwg5/s1600/Laddu_7E.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtw0aWE9hNbw-0j4VF3YdmoaQDk-WRIBceXhVyLRIn3XuhLDgatxAVs5BvcRMUO-MOhX3f3ZrKdnV0pEIPEPp5WoWRBBV1_KcUA-Dv1BVltbqMqTrXLDxWVySJ8boYZStVhwg5/s400/Laddu_7E.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-31419993098023396522010-09-12T22:46:00.003+05:302010-09-12T22:51:52.573+05:30Madras Mail: Part 2<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I have never felt this scattered in my life. In the past six months I have lived in three corners of the country, changed five beds (and sometimes with no bed at all), basically living out of a suitcase. Madras has been more difficult than I apprehended. I have tried not to react, jump to conclusions, but it <i>is</i> a difficult city to live and set up a house in if you have no one you know. The common people, and by common people I mean shop keepers, auto drivers, bus conductors, pedestrians, co- passengers, the teeming hundreds you see around you are quite hostile to anyone who is not a local. The hostility is not very evident in the beginning. Over time you will start noticing it. Initially I had mistaken it to be the general nature of the language. People came across as rude even when they were not. But now I have realised that they generally have very little patience with anyone who does not understand their tongue - to an extent that they may not even want or care for your business. There is, of course, another class of people - the cooler English speaking, goatee/French-cut bearing upper class who you will find quite rarely unless you happen to move in those circles. However, there is somehow a scarily large chunk of people who are completely bereft of manners or general niceness, who are frankly uncivilised and scornful in away that shows a deep contempt for everyone who is somewhat better off.</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-43802213799540027992010-09-08T01:05:00.001+05:302010-09-08T01:10:31.309+05:30<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">In the middle of the COBOL lines in fluorescent green for some reason I remembered the walk down Southern Avenue. My heart stopped. I could not breathe for a few seconds. I am a bad friend But I miss you all. All the time.</span></span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">By the way, for those of you who have never seen a Mainframe (very very old computers, lets say, in layman terms) here is how a screen may look like:</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.sevenforums.com/attachments/chillout-room/8704d1240468764-hi-old-timers-ibm-mainframe-mvs-370-win-7-assembler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="http://www.sevenforums.com/attachments/chillout-room/8704d1240468764-hi-old-timers-ibm-mainframe-mvs-370-win-7-assembler.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-84242619079070705512010-08-31T23:54:00.001+05:302010-08-31T23:54:53.944+05:30Sorry BobYour workplace inspires you. It does and you know it. This is about a boy and the shirts he wears to office.<br />
<br />
'How many times must a man wear a shirt<br />
And pretend that it just doesn't stink?<br />
The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind<br />
The answer is blowing in the wind.'<br />
<br />
I <i>said</i> sorry.<br />
<br />
.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-31746580587098463512010-07-25T17:49:00.000+05:302010-07-25T17:49:49.175+05:30Eating well in Madras: Bin Laden Burger: Pupil at Besant Nagar beach<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There are times you just want to gorge without caring much for fineries or refinements. Next time this happens and you happen to be in Madras just take an auto to Besant Nagar Beach. (If you are coming from Thiruvanmiyur, just get a bus right up to Adyar bus stand. Then take another bus or auto to Besant Nagar.)</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Ask someone where Pupil is. Anyone will show you. Otherwise ask where Arun's ice cream shop is. Pupil is just a couple of shops away from Arun's Ice Cream Parlour. It is round a corner where there are a lot of good food shops along with a Dhaba, a cafeteria, and a continental restaurant. They run the shop from a small kitchen with chairs and tables laid out outside. A typical restaurant by the sea with food that includes burgers, sandwiches, salads, momos, soups, french fries, etc.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<iframe frameborder="0" height="350" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&source=s_d&saddr=Thiruvanmiyur&daddr=Besant+Nagar,+Chennai,+Tamil+Nadu,+India&hl=en&geocode=&mra=ls&sll=13.005519,80.268388&sspn=0.022622,0.042272&g=Besant+Nagar,+Chennai,+Tamil+Nadu,+India&ie=UTF8&ll=13.005394,80.268345&spn=0.02927,0.036478&z=14&output=embed" width="425"></iframe><br />
<small><a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&source=embed&saddr=Thiruvanmiyur&daddr=Besant+Nagar,+Chennai,+Tamil+Nadu,+India&hl=en&geocode=&mra=ls&sll=13.005519,80.268388&sspn=0.022622,0.042272&g=Besant+Nagar,+Chennai,+Tamil+Nadu,+India&ie=UTF8&ll=13.005394,80.268345&spn=0.02927,0.036478&z=14" style="color: blue; text-align: left;">View Larger Map</a></small><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What they are famous for is the George Bin Laden Burger. It is a huge burger which comes with a choice of two meat patties cushioned between three layers of sesame laced white-bread and a choice of sauce. Here are your options:</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b>Patty:</b></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b><br />
</b></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You can take two patties of either beef or chicken. (as in both beef or both chicken or one beef one chicken, although I would very strongly recommend the beef patty. Let me rephrase that. I will shoot you if I find you ordering the chicken patty.) </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b>Sauce:</b></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b><br />
</b></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You can choose between a mayonnaise or a barbecue sauce. The mayo sauce is a personal favourite.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Plus there will be pickled vegetables and cheese between the patty and the bread and some french fry on the side. Be warned. Don't be too happy about the free french fry. It is quite meagre in quantity. But I bet you won't notice because you, dear reader/drooler will be busy finding ways to take a bite out of this HUGE burger while making sure you don't drop the yummy mayo sauce on your shirt.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The George Bin Laden Burger costs 106 rupees (roughly 2 dollars).</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I will try to put in some photos of the burger sometime. I also plan to write about one of the finest chicken roasts I have eaten from a shop a stones throw away from Pupil. I will also tell you about the Continental Restaurant by the same owner (as Pupil) that is rumoured to sell a better version of the Bin Laden burger and also very good steaks and sizzlers. Next week may be.</span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com4Chennai, Tamil Nadu, India13.031317682570821 80.2359008789062512.864077182570821 80.002441378906255 13.198558182570821 80.469360378906245tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-76871269037497006392010-07-18T12:21:00.007+05:302010-07-18T12:34:12.778+05:30Madras MailI have been living in Madras for the past two weeks now. The city reminds me of Calcutta in more ways than one. The colonial architecture. The narrow bus routes that run through bustling bazars. The humid sloth in the air. The prolific public transport system with plenty of buses, share-autos, trains, etc.<br />
<br />
But I am yet to find a city as forgiving as my Calcutta. Madras sees you fall and laughs. Then when he sees you are hurt he will probably help you get up. Probably. He is ruthless and retort-ful. Yes. Madras is a man. A caring man at best.<br />
<br />
The sea is never far from you in Madras. Which is a wonderful thing. I had never imagined I would live by the sea. Now that I do I cannot believe my luck. I have seen the sea on a bright sunny day. On a rainy evening. In pitch darkness. The sea soothes. It takes away all your troubles for a while. Then returns it to you just as you are about to leave. 'Excuse me sir. I think these would be your troubles. Sorry'.<br />
<br />
Office has been generally good. I have a good project and a small team of five people. My office is the most forgiving of the things in Madras in fact. Don't believe what people say. TCS is a good company to work for.<br />
<br />
Madras has fantastic food. What was all the rumour I heard of food cooked in coconut oil and curry leaves in everything they make? I have had everything from stir fried rabbit to chilly beef to brilliant chicken roasts! Madras is the first place where I find beef is almost as mainstream as chicken. I was walking along a stretch of Perangudi that day and it is lined with small fast food shops that had stuff like beef chowmein, beef fried rice, chilly beef sharing the same board as chicken fried rice, chowmein.<br />
<br />
My hunt for a 1 or 2 BHK house continues. I had almost started living in a 2 BHK but I vacated it only yesterday when I realised that there were a couple of serious flaws that could not be ignored specially considering the amount of money I was paying for it. Finding accommodation in Madras is a pain, I tell you. And brokers are very dangerous creatures to handle. I am so tired of them. And of looking for houses. Please find me a nice house :(Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-52887663853700806352010-06-07T07:22:00.002+05:302010-06-07T07:25:40.343+05:30It rains in GujaratWas woken up five in the morning by the roomie. It was raining heavily. Thunder and all. Stood by the window looking out wondering if I should go down and do a rain dance. This was the first rain of the season.<br />
<br />
It is completely dark here till six in these parts of the country. The raindrops glittered in the streetlight. Pearls of joy. Suddenly I saw a Sagar the great Ipte running out in the rain - still sleepy and groggy and jumping around, splashing water. I ran downstairs. Into the rain. So we jumped together. Such fun. The red soil formed red-soil coloured puddles all around. The wind was cold and I was shivering. Came upstairs.<br />
<br />
Took a warm bath. Made myself some Earl Grey from the pack Dibyo had given me. Sipped tea as I sat by the window looking at the pouring rain. Called the Poo who was only too happy to be woken up by such news of merriment. Thankfully I had, before my ritualistic rain dance, managed to click a picture that I will so graciously post for your viewing pleasure.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE2QTLrvXUA0zNhP6FmBTMZRkMwQsIkN_la9e8xY974w5QwPqjBWqr_L0lGfnt7-IJYWBFcAFIQkFayJkitNljiu70CzD064_N7OJRFOL6fPFl_UrlfxFrRuswNLuGdaaw_10G/s1600/IMG_0652_edited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE2QTLrvXUA0zNhP6FmBTMZRkMwQsIkN_la9e8xY974w5QwPqjBWqr_L0lGfnt7-IJYWBFcAFIQkFayJkitNljiu70CzD064_N7OJRFOL6fPFl_UrlfxFrRuswNLuGdaaw_10G/s400/IMG_0652_edited.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>You will notice that it does look quite a bit like the rain in Calcutta, doesn't it? Now if that is not a coincidence, I don't know what is. The Obvious is but a perfectly good Coincidence taken for granted.<br />
<br />
So there goes my monday morning blues. Out of the window. What better way to start a week?<br />
<br />
Oh and I found <i><a href="http://www.blog.hatfullofrain.com/2008/05/rain.html">this</a></i> post from earlier on in life.<br />
<br />
<br />
.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com6Infocity, Gandhinagar, Gujarat, India23.1956968 72.635074323.1759738 72.6058918 23.2154198 72.6642568tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-74833508512291915312010-05-11T08:00:00.000+05:302010-05-11T08:00:37.141+05:30Blues is a WomanMusic, my love I miss you. For me there is no feeling greater than making music. Nothing gives me more adrenalin rush than playing on stage. The music pulsating through your nerves, your blood through your band's collective body. You play. You listen. You learn to feel musical signals. You learn to be spontaneous. To give in. Today, in this land so far away from my music, and people I made music with, it is easy to forget those moments of ecstasy. But it comes back to you at times. And it overwhelms you to tears.<br />
<br />
I miss my piano. I hallucinate about playing it in the middle of a boring session. Or at night when I'm half asleep. I miss Subhayu, Soumyadeep da, Andy da, Shreya di, and Shinjan da. I miss you Nevermind. I miss the Blues.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-62268083842102571562010-04-30T08:09:00.003+05:302010-04-30T08:20:19.548+05:30Random Acts of Madness<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">What would happen if I had not bunked a Mechanical Workshop class one afternoon on a whim and gone on a limb to a desolate mall along the bypass with a guy I had just got to know? Cool chap. Crazy about music. I was terribly depressed about something I cannot recall clearly. He was heartbroken about something else. Bothered by what seemed to be grave matters at that time we set out aimlessly. </div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">A pointless impulsive act of randomness changes your life more than the the really important stuff. Most of the things that really makes me who I am today are not things I planned or decided to do. Strangely what matters in the end are things I never really actively decided. Many of the plans I had about life did work out. But I cannot think of one decision that involved a lot of thought and planning that brought half the memories as the impulsive ones did. None of the things in life that I would guard with my life are things I thought would be of any consequence when I came across them first. Because I was busy looking at things that matter. I was worried about my own designs on life.</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I might be worried about a lot of things right now but I know that none of the things I am worried about will actually cause me trouble. May be there will be no trouble at all. Even if there is any, they will be because of things I have not taken into account. I love the way life works. I totally do.</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div></div><div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0UoaVn83dIKpDufZLXO-ERDJFBJNKAmjz08UCiLD3z5tN8aNxgacOtZ3LN_0AUUTWK2yrurWVKXtOLe91FvtuX7zs4Yg_NgJz7LCLGY4XmBDr0J3JKP6SBWpWnWEO_iOXgsHN/s1600/Life.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0UoaVn83dIKpDufZLXO-ERDJFBJNKAmjz08UCiLD3z5tN8aNxgacOtZ3LN_0AUUTWK2yrurWVKXtOLe91FvtuX7zs4Yg_NgJz7LCLGY4XmBDr0J3JKP6SBWpWnWEO_iOXgsHN/s400/Life.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Madness matters. More than method, in fact.<br />
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[To the techies, do let me know what you feel about the cardinality of the class relationship?]<br />
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</div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28203500.post-17197621301695834442010-04-13T22:27:00.001+05:302010-04-13T22:29:20.056+05:30I see You, You see me: The Magic NumbersI have made my peace with this place. It is fine. I have met some people who are nice. I have my group. I won't think about you. You who can crawl to Chayer Dokan after a day at work. You. And You. I love the food here. I love how there are no mosquitoes here. How I have wide footpaths. Pruned shrubs all along the way and archways of more pruned shrubs to change lanes while walking. I love the Tangri Kebab at Punjab King. It is a two minute walk away from the ATM which is a two minutes walk from my room. Asma I don't think of you any more. I don't think of you Spider Man, you who are dusty from hanging on to a pole in front of a dying New Empire and a flourishing KFC. I only read the Calcutta pages on The Telegraph and TOI everyday. I know you are alright. With every passing day I hear rumours that grow dense with despair. It becomes increasingly clear that I won't be returning soon. Anyway. Not that it matters. Not that I would let it.<br />
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At night I close my eyes and I am walking on Park Street. How are you?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15010339802506979153noreply@blogger.com0