PHYS 580...beta version

Phys...phys...phis...fiss....tain-tain-fisssss.....

This was supposed to be a post about the most deceptively useless class I've sat through, but now I'm feeling drowsy, and so it'll have to wait. This post, as deceptively useless as its subject, will remind me to come back to the tale I want to tell. In the meantime, let me introduce you to the Professor who takes the class. Absurd guesses regarding his actions (antics?) in class are very welcome!

More later!

Six degrees

On the merry-go-round
Of a tired mind
On a lonely night
Of a long winter

They all come back to you
one by one, like the
dripping of water from
the leaky tap in the kitchen

All the memories that
you wanted to keep
and all those you wished
would just go away and get lost

The carousel spins slowly
slowly, ever so slowly
never letting you miss a thing
so slowly that it would take another life

to go back and see those
three-hundred-and-sixty degrees
of a life that passed by
in little more than a blink of an eye

tell me if it isn't so
oh yes, you can't say no
that some parts of the pie
were sweeter than those nearby

turning round, and round
you found yourself smiling
at the three-hundred-and-fifty-four
degrees, you wanted to see again

but between the lights of
the brightest past
between the stories of victory
of treasures vast

there lie the spaces
of darkness, dissipation
indelible, on the pages
of history, of recollection

can you face them,
your agents of persecution?
can you smother the cries
of the pain of ambition?

between the reality
and dreamed-of perfection
there's always more than just
six degrees of separation...
-------------------------------------
This was an accidentally-conceived alternative spin on the term "six degrees of separation"

Thoughts on the World Cup thus far

It's been nearly 10 days since the Cup began, but I think it was only after watching India lose to Sri Lanka and limp out of the tourney, that I felt compelled, or let's say, moved sufficiently to write something on the goings-on.

To get this out of the way, I'll say that it was a disappointing way to go out for the team, which had shown the ability to live up to promise, playing effective cricket without riding on sensational individual performances. As I watched the dismemberment of the top order, I was sad, even sympathetic, at what was happening. There have been so many occasions in the past, when I have felt anger at Indian losses, but today, the sense of helplessness that pervaded the batting effort could not evoke such strong emotions.

Going into the championship, I felt, for perhaps the first time, among the 3 WC's that I have watched with some kind of intelligent perspective, that the team had a good chance of doing well, and even the thoughts of losses were invariably linked to images of a team fighting hard, and going down to the might of a superior opponent with its pride still intact. I would like to think that I had reasonable and well-founded expectations. It was as true then, as it is now, that we were missing a bowling spearhead, but the line-up had demonstrated its capacity to overcome that disadvantage and still win games.

I had never expected the team to win, but I was looking forward to the Super 8's, when they got themselves into a tangle by coming out under-cooked mentally against Bangladesh. Perhaps I'm too lenient, but the first thought that came into my mind was that they had an off-day, and they would surely bounce back from it. Today, I realized that I was wrong, not because they could not bounce back, but because in a tournament with the format this one has, off-days are blunders, and more likely than not, fatal. I also realized that even though the team did superbly in 2003, I probably gave them less credit than they deserved. That tournament had a more forgiving format, and yet the team won 8 games in a row between defeats to Australia, against quality opposition, and with convincing margins. That side did not have off-days at crucial junctures, even though the lopsided losses to Oz were in the same bracket as the losses in this Cup.

So, were Sri Lanka the better team today? They were, in hindsight. But this game could have been so much more closer had there been calmer and more sensible minds on the field. The dismissals of 4 of the top 6, to me, were similar because they were all results of what I like to call brain fades, blind spots in judgment. The tension and pressure were so palpable that anybody would have called it quits for Indian hopes after 25 overs of their innings.

This will inevitably be clubbed together with the demise of Pakistan to make a very succulently amazing statement, but I make a distinction between the two. The Pakistanis had come into the Cup looking woebegone, and their campaign never even looked as if it had even started running, let alone taken off. But as their loss to Ireland showed, just how far they had slipped was hidden by the fact that the opposition they played before the championship was considered capable of beating them.

However, I think I've said enough, and I'm looking forward to enjoying more marquee match-ups from hereon, especially Oz vs South Africa tomorrow. On a sadder note, the death of Bob Woolmer was a great shock, and now that it has been confirmed that it was not natural (I can hardly bring myself to use the word murder, it upsets me so much), the shock has given way to dismay. There are so many things that come to mind, and I'm sure every person who has some degree of perspective on sport, and even more so, defeat in sport, would feel anguished too. Sambit Bal has written a comprehensive article on the same in Cricinfo, which I would definitely want every cricket fanatic to read and absorb. The deluge of public reaction to the article shows that there are many who share similar views, but a closer look at the feedback shows up some issues with the way we in India perceive the sport and the players.

The most common comments that I've read so far are "the lack of accountabilityof the players to the people" and "players are interested only in making money" and others expressing the same sentiment. Firstly, it's not obvious to the folks making these statements that technically there is no accountability and there can never be any accountability, NOT because there is no such thing, but because the grounds on which such accountability is being demanded are hollow. If the players were being paid by the government, and hence by the taxpayers, then such a sentiment would undoubtedly justified. But it's not so at all. Cricketers earn huge sums of money because the people elevate them to the status of Gods, and allow them to be even considered for such astronomical payments. I am sceptical about their value as brand ambassadors. I am not convinced that their would be a drastic difference in the sales and consumption of various products, and more so, competing product, if the cricketers were removed from the calculations. After all, rival companies are both employing their services, and in popularity stakes, apart from perhaps Tendulkar, all the others nullify each other's effects.

So the gist is, if you're the ones who allow them to earn that kind of money, then you're also the ones who can take it away. After all, cricketers who fade from public memory are consigned to the 'expired' bin very quickly. So what is the point? The point is, sadly, that we are a country of a billion people, and just as there are failures and successes in any society, we have our fair share too (maybe more than our fair share, I'll concede). In such a country, you do not descend into anonymity and neglect, you rise from it. It's a nation of people who were denied opportunities to achieve their goals in life, and on top of that, many of them have seen the unfair side of life at almost every juncture. In many a moment of sheer frustration I have called the Indian people a bunch of losers, who live off the the glory and success of their chosen ones, such as actors and cricketers. With little to look forward to in terms of personal advancement, the average person looks to them to provide his thrills and his ecstasy, and the ugliness of hurt dreams rears its head every time the team does badly. The media adds fuel to the fire, and the result is very, very unpleasant.

Being in the US, I'm thankful that I won't have to see the hate and fault-finding campaigns that are surely ready to come out, all guns firing. I'm so glad to be away from it all, even though there is little else to be glad about.

Blast from the past...literally!

When I was very young, I often had a hard time falling asleep at night, and I used to lie awake long after all the lights in the house had been turned out. All, except one. The coloured low-wattage bulb that seemed to do a better job of casting shadows on the walls and the floor, than to illuminate. In the summer, the sound made by the fan in my room filled the silence of the night, but in winter, there was absolutely nothing to fill the vacuum, save for the occasional barks of the dogs, or the whistle of the night-watchman, or the rumble of trains passing through the small station. Most of the long-distance trains made their stops in Roorkee during the night, and I could tell which train was passing by, if only they had managed to stay on schedule :)

And then there were the sirens of the trains, carrying over miles, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of the wheels on the rails. Sometime there were short bursts, sometimes long and drawn out. Lying there, under the covers on such a winter night, I used to think. Think about many things, talk to myself, let my imagination loose, free to find shapes in the shadows, to make wild conjectures about the odd sound that broke the stillness, hear the low squeak of the mice in the house, and guess where they were hiding, or simply wonder what I would do if one of them decided to climb on top of me!

And in the middle of those chains of thought, of fantasy, the sound of the horn of a train was always exciting, bringing with it visions of places I'd been to, and yet more fantasies about places that lay unexplored by me. It evoked the sense of excitement that a lone explorer in the woods experiences as he hikes up the hill, wondering what the view would be like from the top. I used to imagine myself sitting at the window of such a train, as it went scything through the darkness with the light on its engine. I could feel the wind on my face, as I looked out into the night, seeing practically nothing but assorted shapes of darkness and the odd light in a hut or a dhaaba on the highway running next to the tracks. I dreamed that I was going away to some destination that I had found on the railway time-table. Some place I had never been to, but the kind of place whose name sounded nice when you said it aloud. Some place away from home. Far away. And yet, it wasn't the thrill of reaching that place that used to send a chill down my spine. It was simply the excitement of the traveller, the man on a journey, in which sense, I guess I could say that the journey was a destination in its own right.

As I sit here in my room, next to my open window, I can hear the siren of a train wailing through the night, and it brings back old feelings, thoughts, recollections so vivid and yet sufficiently hazy, that I don't quite know if they're my own memories or just figments of a romantic imagination. But I guess I don't dream of going away from home any more, at least, not all the time. It is but natural, you know, because where I live is just where I am physically, and even home has become a destination now...

Looking at Me

a shape-shifter
a random number
a ticking bomb
deep in slumber

a reflection shrouded in smoke
a doubt at the back of the mind
a nagging memory, like a tape
with no rewind

just a lump of clay
with a backbone
with a few grey cells
maybe best left alone

like the views past curtains in my windows
like colours in black-n-white photos
like the secrets in a magician's shows
like the gold at the feet of the rainbows
like legends, true and imagined
as for reality, well...who knows?

On the road!

I'm an incurable romantic, as far as long road trips are concerned. In particular, I love the feeling that I've left work, home and boredom behind, and I help things along by pretending I'm never going to return to them again :)

There are so many things that change when I'm on the road, or travelling, in general:

1) I have meals at normal hours: At home, there are a thousand distractions, and then there's laziness, and there's sometimes just nothing to eat till Ankur comes home...but, when you're travelling, food rises in the priority list to near the top, because there is nothing to wait for except for the eating joint of my choice, and if it's hot under the Sun, then a brief respite is always welcome.

2) I'm not online: Yes! That is a big deal. I think I shouldn't bother to explain this one!

3) I can hum songs with no fear of being laughed at: This isn't really true, because I'm not afraid of criticism, especially about bedroom and bathroom singing, which makes no sense anyway. However, under the cover of the roar of the engine, I am virtually fearless.

4) I can call people up and tell them what they're missing: Truth be told, a good fraction of the enjoyment of travelling is its capacity to generate anecdotes, often massaged with a more than a pinch of salt. And if you are out to do better things than visit relatives, then you have a greater chance of seeing beautiful places, taking breathtaking photos and eating weird food. Your pals at home, meanwhile, are unanimous in their envy.

5) I get to read maps: I'm a map fanatic. I just love journeying through towns with quotable names; I love drawing up road maps, navigating, looking forward to the changing landscapes, checking the odometer for the miles travelled, and all that kind of (so you think) pointless stuff. No wonder the Casio Pathfinder PAW-12001V is the watch on my wrist :)

6) Some trips turn into battles of attrition: And then it's the survival of the fittest. Mostly, I come out looking better than the rest of my gang. Adverse conditions bring out the masochist in me, and it's very ugly. But, I still don't mind it. Makes for amazing tales to tell!

7) The radio stations: Some of the FM stations are simply fantastic, and normally you get a bunch of them, so if you don't like the music that you're hearing, you simply twist the knob.

I'm sure that isn't all, but I think I've covered most of the important things. Oh wait, did I mention the rather obvious fact that I get to sit in a respectable car?

;)

Untitled

so you thought
that the Freak Kingdom was
not your type of place
and your incompatible normalcy

and then you decided
to give it all up
hit the road that leads out
into the promise of amnesic bliss

ha! you so wanted to see
the looks on their faces
when they found out you had
gone away, with no goodbyes, no tears

you'd wanted to look back over
your shoulder and find them calling
oh yes, you wanted to hear it,
if only to leave them in your wake

how long will it be
i hope, less than the man before you
before you see that there is nothing
to see on the road ahead

the mirage of your freedom
the sirens and their songs
of the fabled escape
of the thirst that can kill, but can never be killed

running away is so damn easy
until it becomes so unbelievably
hard, and the sights you wanted
to see, end up behind your back

you're a runaway
but you're no fugitive
nobody wants to bring you back
nobody cares if you're gone

it was all yours to lose
it was all yours to give up
or to throw away, into the quicksand
of irreversibility, of prodigality

you're no odysseus
listen to that little voice
inside your head, and turn back
if you don't, well, i'm here to count you down

once you turn your back on them
they'll tell themselves that it was good
riddance to rubbish that was once good
can you take that and live with it?

it's going to take all the running
you can do, just to stay where you
are now, and that means either
forgetting what you ever had, and won't ever have

or planting the seeds of your own
Freak Kingdom in the desolation
of the desert sands made by the bones
of those that withered to their demise

but, i'll tell you this
what if you have what it takes to make
an oasis of your dreams
that can pull them from their sad gardens

on the other side of the desert
he who runs away, has but two ways
to end, either to rue, or to rule
remember, shattering hearts make no sound

in the swirling, blinding, deafening
winds, but if the world's too small
for you, then you've to go farther
than the man you followed out here

either they'll pull you back
or you'll reel them in, think about it
and tell me how that sounds to you
running away forever, you've nowhere to run

this is the playground of your visions
dig in the heels, plant that flag
and dare the sun to strike you down
nobody remembers the faceless names in the sand

but if it's all going to end one way or the other,
you'd rather go out in a blaze of glory, flying high, shining bright

a supernova explosion it may be,
but might be a majestic volcanic burst too,
it might be the flight of icarus,
but what if you had wings of fire...?