The Year Ending Post

No time to dream up a punny caption, just a few hours left for 2009 to end. It’s also the end of the first decade of the new millennium -the ‘noughties’ as some insist on calling it *Yuck* – but as I’m not old enough to start thinking of my life in decades, I’ll lay off that angle now.

2009 was a momentous year . Yes, it’s obvious , right? Tiger Woods and all that. I’ll not speak about the world for once, it’s been done to death, and much more completely than I can ever hope to do. 2009 was momentous for me too.  In many ways. Any year leaves us with things to remember, but I think this year had things which left impressions which will last more, compared to others.  The Chicken pox scars, for instance.

This was the year I turned 21. The door to maturity. I think that’s BS though, maturity is a matter of opinion. I think I’ve been mature from birth while my father thinks I won’t be mature till I die. Maturity is a farce they invented to aid legal proceedings anyway. And to control porn sales.

This was the year I got offered my first job – 2 of them, in fact. Whether or not I end up slaving at Infy/Accenture next year, that will remain a special memory of mine. My parents/peers probably considered my getting a job not only unlikely but positively a signal the world is going to end. I had even less belief than them in my academic prowess – sadly a criterion in job hunts – but I did manage it at last. I’d like to stress that it’s not that I feel happy because I managed something to be very proud of, but I managed to avoid something which could have caused some discomfort.

In contrast, I can afford to be marginally a bit more – only slightly  – proud of the fact that I managed to clear the written rounds of IIFT though the elation can only be preserved if I manage the even tougher task of clearing the next and final round. Hopefully, if I manage to do that or go one better than that by getting through to a better – few are there – B-school, then 2010 will be a more momentous year and you can all forget any contradictory statement I’ve made so far.

While 2009 thus brought some life into my acads after 3 years of embarrassing fuckallness, it will also be remembered as the year where I got my first suppli/backlog/backpaper/paper/arrears. Database Lab, thou are a heartless bitch. I wish you could be the one and only , but there’s a strong possibility you were just the first of many. The first is a red-letter day for all Engineers, anyway.

Moving on to health, it was a nightmarish year. I managed to break a leg, contract Chickenpox and then Measles, all in the span of 3 months. I have been a reasonably healthy child over the years- Not to my Grandma – and this year blotted, nay, ravaged my record. The time spent on sickbed was mostly wasted on the Internet – well a lot of healthy time was , too – while I could have spent the time thinking. On second thoughts, I did think, but I could have thought something more thoughtworthy.

No, I was not hit on the head in 2009, thanks for asking.

I started being regular at 2 things, which I should have seen to, at least 2 years  back – Quizzing and Blogging. Quizzing-wise it was not a very successful year counting trophies, but still, I will state 2009 as a successful year in quizzing for me, simply because I grew a lot as a quizzer. Whether or not this implies the sorry state I was in 2008, I am pretty happy at the way things are going. Lady Luck will hopefully smile on me more often in 2010.

On my quizzing quests, I set foot in a lot of God forsaken corners of Kerala I might never even have heard about otherwise. Yes, travel-wise , 2009 was a busy year. Happy.

I did not take any major step towards deciding on my future in 2009, I still have it narrowed down to a choice between 3 paths. Very hard to choose one. Let me see. I’ll have my answer in 2010. Again, 2010 is promising to be a more important year than 2009, I wonder why I am bothering with 2009 here.

I did not meet any interesting girls in 2009. Actually I did meet some interesting girls but no interestingly available girls.

No I do not want the *Bleeding-Obvious-Prize* of 2009. Thanks.

Less than 3 hours left. Maybe the time could be spent on creating a Resolutions list.

1. Do not think up resolutions you are not going to keep.

No resolutions then.I’m bored. And confused.

What an ideal way to end 2009.

The Truth About Trains

The software for allotting berths in Indian Railway has just gone open source. For the non-geeks, that means, they’ve released the code for all to see. And I’ve reproduced the same here.

#include<stdio.h>

void main()

{

if(traveller=male && is 18-25 years of age)

{

remove from( compartment with ladies of 18-25 years of age)

put into( coupe x)

if

x=Boring old uncles who disapprove of modern-day youth and are prone to long-winded lectures on social degradation

or else

x= Depressed old aunties with 3 or more ailments

or else

//On a really terrible day

x= babies ( crying non-stop(volume++))

}

if (traveller = Any other than 18-25 yr old male)

{

allocate(random)

while(in any way as to the seating scheme of previously mentioned young males is not compromised)

}

A view of Trivandrum Central from the Railway Overbridge

Well, my programmer friends may raise their eyebrows, as there are some very unconventional programming methods used. But you get the point.

Regardless of whether a software does the dirty work or a human does, it is my firm belief that there indeed exists a huge conspiracy to eliminate the little joys we derive from travel. So much so that even the involvement of Taliban in Indian Railways cannot be ruled out. This is no unfounded accusation, it’s an observation fuelled by years of train journeys.

However, a software cannot be faultless, and a human even less so. So, on rare occasions, we do find ourselves in the company of a beautiful female, and rarely in the company of an intelligent female and even more rarely, in the company of an intelligent and beautiful conversationist. *Bliss* I cannot put enough stress on that ‘rarely’ though. So rare that it remains a dream .

However, on this particular occasion I am about to recount here, the computer had fucked up and fucked up royally. I had made the reservation late and hence was able to obtain only a side upper berth. My tall frame offers considerable difficulty in contorting it into a teeny side upper berth. Hence I was not very pleased with the seat allocation. Till I boarded the train.To be precise, till I dragged my heavy bag over to the seat, deposited it with a sigh and straightened up to face my fellow sufferer.

Well, she was a stunner. I cannot recall her features in detail, all I remember is that she looked good. In an ideal situation , we would be alone in the compartment and she would react with mild amusement to my ridiculous stare and I would take out my guitar to strum a romantic song and impress her and it would later blossom into a full blown relationship. But this was not  Vaaranam Ayiram a.k.a ideal -ridiculously so- situation . So I had to check my gaze and settle down with my customary kill-time-in-train magazine.

*To be continued later….

Sorry for the half-baked post.

I hit sort of a roadblock with the tale, and I just can’t finish it.  The blog’s been held up for a long time, and if I put off posting any further, it’ll go dead again. I’ll complete it later, I swear.

Meanwhile, this almost-post is dedicated to my friend Harishanker who’s incidentally on a train himself, right now. He’s the guy who urges me to keep on blogging. Cheers and best wishes , buddy. Bell the CAT.

I Am Doomed to 14 Years of Bad Luck

Yes, I am. Because I didn’t forward the divine mail I received, to 27 people. In fact, horror of horrors, I deleted it. I wish I could have done more, though. Hopefully they will invent a mail client which will allow you to manhandle your messages. And then I’ll haul the mail out and stomp on it, 27 times. Waiting for the happy day.

Few things on cyberspace irritate me more than one of those mind-numbingly stupid forwards. The luck-letters are top of the shitpile but the petitions to ‘make an effort to stop the murder of dolphins in Timbuctoo’ , to ‘condemn the treatment of Indian PoWs in Pakistan’ and to donate 1 paisa towards the treatment of my inflated head’ come pretty close.

Even fewer things baffle me more than the objectives of people who create/propagate these. What do they stand to gain from passing on the misfortune to 27 more people – Some people overdo the requisite <Insert-random-number> and send it to their whole address book. I mean if you are gonna do this, you can at least do this properly.

Anyway, my point was, why do people forward these ?Is it because

• Unlikely as it sounds, they actually believe sending/discarding will bring you luck/bad luck? Oh please. We are all healthy youngsters here who are perfectly capable of creating  our own ‘luck’. I am sure we can manage the hard work of screwing up our own lives without the blessings of Gmailmaa or Yahoo Bhagavathi.

• Duh!! Who believes in them? But you know, to be on the safer side? Why tempt fate, eh? Again a minority, but a sizable minority. I know people who belong to this school of thought. And it is a valid line of reasoning. If you are braindead. In the unlikely event that the president of Argentina received this mail, it is even more unlikely that he read it and unlikeliest his son died hence, do you think? – For the record, the president of Argentina is Christina Kirchner so it’s a ’she’ and She has a son Maximo who’s very much alive. False claims!!! who would have thunk?

• I like forwarding mails and I forward anything and everything .  I am not a forwarder and do not take kindly to relentless forwarders unless it’s a rare awesome-joke-you-haven’t-heard-before or a must-check-out-bro-NSFW Forwarding is NOT a way of saying you care, folks, it just means your address book includes me. And I’m sorry it does.

• I am a patriotic Indian/animal lover/kind heart and I am making a difference. Yes, You maybe and No, You’re NOT, respectively. I am appalled by the disrespect shown by the terrorists and I am bothered about the little panda missing its mother but that doesn’t make me clutter the cyberspace with just another useless piece of junk that goes nowhere. Assuming the ‘petition’ reaches the Pak Army Headquarters, adding your name to it in violet Monotype Corsiva with 36 font size is not a helping hand, it’s just an eyesore.

• Noone, repeat , NOONE tracks the number of times a mail gets duplicated to pay Rs. 500383.78 for the little girl’s surgery. I told someone this recently and his reaction reminded me of a kid being told Santa is a myth. Honestly!

• I thought you might be interested in knowing your horoscope. Yes I may be, but not 3456 times. And my star sign is the same since the last time you checked. I am still a Virgo and I am still as Dominant in relationships, Conservative, Always wants the last word, Argumentative, Worries blah blah…. – as the last time you sent me my horoscope. AND Horoscopes are stupid. To quote Sheldon Cooper

• It’s a mass cultural delusion that the Sun’s apparent position relevant to arbitrarily defined constellations at the time of your birth somehow affects your personality.

Totally.

Motives galore and not one of them makes any sense. Not to me, anyway. I hope some of my tormentors take note and desist from sending me luck anymore.

You may feel I made a mountain out of a trivial thing, but try getting one of those when you are eagerly waiting for an important mail/sms. Yup, that’s what triggered this post though this has been simmering in my mind for some time.

And now you’ve read this post, and there’s no turning back. You’ve to forward this link to 17 friends or you will have 17 years of bad luck.

*EVIL LAUGHTER*

Catman and The Full Circle

One of my earliest childhood memories feature a scared cat. A scared cat in a deep well. Cats are supposed to be tough. At times they are even braver than dogs, particularly when dealing with humans. But even the toughest of cats would be scared shitless if they fell down a pretty deep well like the one we have at home. And it’s bloody dark in there.

Back then, we had just moved in to the new place and there was still work to be done. Like fitting an iron mesh on top of the well. My father put it off because there were more important stuff to be done first. But then we hadn’t accounted for the incident of the curious cat in the nighttime.

Cats are, as a rule, curious. The well enticed them and there would often be a snoop squad around it. And occasionally, one of them got too curious for their own good and fell over. fortunately, Curiosity did not kill the cats here and unfortunately, we were left with a yowling beast perched precariously on top of one of the lower rungs of the well.

I would crane my neck over the wall of the well, trying to locate the poor beast and if fortunate, some adult around would oblige with a brief lift-up. More often than not, I got reprimanded and warned that I would be following the cat down. The bottom of the well is  not a pleasant place to be, and having to share it with an angry cat doesn’t improve it one bit. I would reluctantly step off from the wall and whine “But when are you gonna take it out?”

Cue entry of our very own neighborhood Zuperhero. A spectacle of every other neighborhood in India, the Zuperhero takes on world-saving missions like… well every other errand that needs doing. Replacing a blown fuse, Harvesting – for lack of a better word – a coconut tree, fixing the leaky pipes and when push comes to shove, even climbing down wells to rescue adventurous cats. He is the fuseman, coconutman, pipeman and several other men all rolled into one – to unroll as the situation demands.

So word gets to the Zuperhero pretty soon- I told you, the cat yowls REALLY loudly – about the cat in the well. Whether or not he requires a personal visit from my father depends on his market at the moment. On a relatively stable-fused, sturdy-piped, no-coconutty week he will present himself by the well-side, overlooking the lack of an ornate invitation. But on a typical Indian week, he plays hard-to-get. The time before his appearance stretches accordingly and when the cat is particularly loud, we may make several calls to his PP number – Poyi Parayaam – before the irate neighbour refuses to be disturbed anymore. Of course, this being before the advent of mobiles, I assume it would have taken 10 missed calls today. Anyway, sooner or later, in true tradition to the ilk of Zuperheroes, Arrive he will.

The Zuperhero – henceforth to be referred as the Catman for the purposes of our discussion – has a distinctive style of attire and NO, he does NOT wear his underwear outside his pants. But we can glimpse his bermudas peeping out under his Kaavi – more often than not – lungi. The baniyan would be different shades of white, depending on how long it had been with him. A red towel – a Thorthu – would be draped around his neck and fulfills its multiple functions as a headgear before starting work and simply as a towel AND often as a fan after the mission is accomplished.

An imitation Rado watch – I came to know of the imitation part later – would adorn his thick wrists and is often an bone of contention among the younger bystanders who regard the duty of guarding it as its owner climbs down very prestigious. The footgear is a sturdy Hawai – I reckon the US forces should try it in Iraq – and last but not at ALL the least, a burning beedi stuck in the brown lips completes the Catman.

A silence descends among the crowd – with an average age of 8 – around the well as the Catman prepares to take on the daunting mission. I believe even the cat grew silent as it contemplates the silhouette of its rescuer from down below. He ties one end of the thick rope to a nearby tree and the other to his waist and begins his descent. When a circular array of little heads bobbing up and down around the rim of the well blocks the light he yells to stand back which is promptly repeated by any adult above and we all draw back. for a little while. But we are too fascinated by the art of climbing-down-wells-and-taming-cats to obey for too long.

For it is a sight to behold. The delicate art of descending down wells left me in the same realm of wonder that a Federer shot or a Sachin straight drive takes me to. The Catman shifts around to find the right area of each ledge to step on, with the grace of a dancer and yet never compromises on his speed like an f1 driver. He negotiates the terms of surrender with the kitty ever so smoothly – with a goody in the basket for the more stubborn ones – and gets it into the basket in the blink of an eye. And there is a collective sigh of relief and wonder upstairs with yours truly a leading contributor.

The basket is sent up first and the cat is frantic to get out. The Vaanarsena is warned a good distance off the wall before it reaches the top and leaps off to glorious safety. The rope is sent back in and the hero of the day emerges. From the shadows, the Catman rises with a smile, after saving the day yet again.He humbly – well, with some quibbling – accepts his due and ambles off, nay, strides off.

Friends, this was my very first goal in life, the first of my ambitions – to be the Catman. To learn how to tame cats. To harness the awesome power of going down wells at will and to gain the gratitude of cats and admiration of one and all. Well, all the kids anyway. The Catman was my hero and I had dreams of me pulling seven cats out of a one-kilometer deep well , in less than 5 minutes. Of course the best part of the dream was the standing ovation I receive when I emerge into daylight. Details may have blurred, this is a rough estimate.

Since then, I’ve ran through a long list of ambitions – from a Train driver, a pilot, a policeman………………… to a doctor, an astronaut, an engineer and an MBA. It’s a very long list, I’ve left out about 10 years worth of ambitions in between. There have been sensible ones, weird ones, achievable ones, plain ridiculous ones – how about The Guy Who Gets Paid to Watch TV. But curiously enough, I’ve come full circle now. After a long gap of 14 years, my dreams involve taming the CAT. Again.

All Hail the Catman.

He has had lesser superheroes steal his name

Image credits : rtsunlimited.com

And also wildly successful, yet less awesome spinoffs

Image credit : people.ucsc.edu

But the Catman still rules. Totally.

He has had lesser superheroes steal his name

Woe’s in a name

This goes out to all the people in this world with an unusual name.

Do you dread meeting new people because you’ll have to repeat your name thrice – and slower each time?

Do you heave an exasperated sigh every time you have to go up on  stage because you’re sure the  annoying announcer is never going to pronounce your name right?

Do you feel your spine tingle whenever someone mutilates that beautiful name you go by and looks at you with confused pity as though he isn’t sure whom to blame – your parents or you?

You’re not alone, bro(/sis). You’ll never be alone in this world teeming with lazymouths who would name everyone Tom or John or Jack, if they had it their way.

I’ve been called a lot of things over the years.  I’ve had to respond (extremely reluctantly) to Roof, Rof, Rao,  Rafu, Rouse (Seriously, WTF?). And it isn’t really that bad a name , is it? R-A-O-U-F. Come on, how tough was that? A wee bit tough,yes, I know. But not tough enough to justify the alarming frequency with which I get called alarmingly terrible versions of my own name.

A common mistake people make is calling me ‘Abdul’. I dont really know why, but it irks me like anything. BTW, My name in full is Abdul Raouf KP. It’s kind of understandable why people make that mistake. Hell, you don’t even see why that is a mistake, right?

Abdul Raouf – An Arab would pronounce it Abdurraouf because it’s actually one word and ‘L’ cannot ell if it comes before ‘R’. So Abdurraouf – translates to ‘Servant of the most merciful’.

Raouf is a synonym of Allah and hence I’m not supposed to be called ‘Raouf’ since that would mean I’m godlike. Well, that’s kind of true, but still . I’ve always been called Raouf – well not always , like I said earlier – and I prefer to answer to ‘Raouf’.

So, No, I am not Abdul and Raouf’s not my father’s name. Glad we cleared that up.

The ‘aou’ is in there to nicely round that sound. Let the ‘a’ and ‘Ow’ forth and melt into each other. My name wasn’t always spelt like this. I don’t actually remember what it actually was, it was either ‘Rauf’ or ‘Rouf’. Okay, it was spelt ‘Rauf’ I think. 6-yr old me wasn’t impressed enough with the ’something-missing-in-the-name’ and inserted the missing ingredient, an ‘o’ to nicely “round” it off.

6-yr old me was quite the little genius. I always had bursts of inspiration – like burn a patch of my hair with a candle – in situ – and mark my right hand with a marker pen so I didn’t have to choose a hand at random before eating. Unlike the other stupid – and cute – things I did, the ‘o’ in my name didn’t fade away with time. It stuck and found its way into a host of official documents and with time, it felt like the ‘o’ had always been there.

Do the perpetrators of ‘Rao’ and ‘Rouse’ know what a travesty it is to dishonor a name with such a beeeyootiful backstory?

Pfft!

I know there are names treated with even less respect. I rest my case. Waiting to hear from The Brotherhood of Mutilated Names.

PS :

I didn’t even get started on being misspelt! Now that’s another long rant.