1) I post about a few inconveniences online
2) I use a little dramatic language as is akin to human nature
3) I say, "down with Farenheit, give me the perfectly logical Celcius scale instead"
4) I am branded a Nazi.
Perhaps Nuremberg was too harsh....
Monday, 28 December 2009
Thursday, 17 December 2009
To rid the disease...
As humans, we are only akin to responding in two ways; comply or rebel.
It has been hardwired into our systems for some reason. Perhaps it was something evolutionary, for it meant well to comply with someone you percieved was doing good for you. And in the halcyon days, if you can call them that, of our ancient ancestors, it wasn't a difficult choice. If your tribe is hungry, hunt the mammoth. Blizzard outside? Hide within the hunted mammoth's ribs. Leaders were the ones who could propose these obvious solutions. Genes that felt otherwise were destroyed.
This has led to remarkable actions that have radically changed the face of our race and the face of the planet. It was this instinct that made the Nazis comply when authoritatively ordered to do so. You don't think so? Read about the Milgram Experiments.
When in doubt, there is room for the other instinct, rebellion, to kick in without the threat of extinction. This is what happens when we are still unsure as to whether we should warm the earth or not.
This is what happens when I install software and am imposed to accept a bunch of other stuff that I scarce use. Itunes? Quick time tags along. Windows? IE is now my burden. Yahoo messenger? Here is Yahoo toolbar for good measure. If that isn't enough, it displays the temperature of Delhi in Farenheit! This transgression was enough to inspire this post. Trying to make us Indians learn to accept Farenheit as temperature reference is sacrilage!
I shall now endeavour to rid my browser of this affliction. Here's to rebellion. Here's to rid the disease...
It has been hardwired into our systems for some reason. Perhaps it was something evolutionary, for it meant well to comply with someone you percieved was doing good for you. And in the halcyon days, if you can call them that, of our ancient ancestors, it wasn't a difficult choice. If your tribe is hungry, hunt the mammoth. Blizzard outside? Hide within the hunted mammoth's ribs. Leaders were the ones who could propose these obvious solutions. Genes that felt otherwise were destroyed.
This has led to remarkable actions that have radically changed the face of our race and the face of the planet. It was this instinct that made the Nazis comply when authoritatively ordered to do so. You don't think so? Read about the Milgram Experiments.
When in doubt, there is room for the other instinct, rebellion, to kick in without the threat of extinction. This is what happens when we are still unsure as to whether we should warm the earth or not.
This is what happens when I install software and am imposed to accept a bunch of other stuff that I scarce use. Itunes? Quick time tags along. Windows? IE is now my burden. Yahoo messenger? Here is Yahoo toolbar for good measure. If that isn't enough, it displays the temperature of Delhi in Farenheit! This transgression was enough to inspire this post. Trying to make us Indians learn to accept Farenheit as temperature reference is sacrilage!
I shall now endeavour to rid my browser of this affliction. Here's to rebellion. Here's to rid the disease...
Wednesday, 16 December 2009
Driftwood
I wrote this in a pensive mood, one evening a few months back...
He walked alone through the road along the wooded reaches at the crack of dawn. Alone was good for there were no limits that his mind knew nor his walk would know, that presence of another would most certainly serve to normalize, constrain and make mundane. The hour was that of transition; from a world of uncertain chirping of the delightful six-legged creatures that have fascinated him ever since he laid his sense upon them to the more certain calls of the early birds. Thus unbound by the limits of purpose and another mind or body’s demands, he wandered on, both physically and mentally, wherever he was sent, not much unlike a dry leaf on the surface of a gentle spring.
This was that state where rationality broke down and his mind refused to comply by the guidelines of its being every other time otherwise. This was a time when nothing could have chosen what he cared for. Most things that would otherwise seem so significant to him, was detached and so far away that he transformed into an altogether different creature. Anything mattered but nought to him, neither the lofty dreams that he had, nor the little liberties that define us. Now was a time when his mind was so far removed that no force, human or otherwise, could bend its state of emotional isolation. He wasn't happy for how kind life had been, neither was he sad for its harsher realities. The beauty of his surroundings mattered to him only as much as it would have to the wayside rocks that he passed along.
Why is it that we pursue something just for the thrill of the ride? Unto what end is achievement, pain, happiness, misery, pride, anger, lust, envy or sorrow? How much does it matter whether our demeanour would placate the expectations of them who surround us? How much does it matter whether it placates our own, if by doing so, we are merely making way for the arousal of certain ephemeral, visceral emotions that are brought about by the action of naturally emitted chemicals? How much lesser still it matters, if these chemicals are pushed through by consuming more chemicals? Our emotions are but reactions between baking soda and acetic acid of differing strengths, spurting and gurgling whenever they confront each other and merely as significant. Now isn’t that a neat experiment? Make a rudimentary mountain of clumped lumps of mud and poke a hole on the top so as to fill it with baking soda and add to it the vinegar in your hand. A reddish hue might just about qualify to remind you of a volcano. Cheer its occurrence heartily while repeating it till the ingredients are spent, or you are.
Then what be the purpose of such existence? If there be no higher being, it has no meaning. If there is something of that sort, we are merely its experiments, serving to glorify our deeds and emotions, clawing the dirt around us to ground us more firmly, consuming, producing, purifying and polluting things that we deem so worthy, pumping ourselves with pleasure, both physically and mentally only to be irrevocably transformed into insignificant dust, only to source his amusement. Of course, the significance of such amusement can be questioned as well leading us to reach an irreversible loop. What are we but mere parasites of that which surround us, which in turn are the same. However, that doesn't change the nature of our discussion, nor does it make us more relevant.
He then joined the stream that ran beside his path, unshaken, unstirred yet much happier than the happiest man in spite of the absence of joy, because he knew not any sorrow. He was the master of his emotions. He did not submit to the will of another being in any way whatsoever. He did not see the need to care or concern himself with any other. He refused to depend upon anything for survival. His life refused to be imprisoned in the prison that it had just discovered around itself.
He floated on, dead, not much unlike a dry leaf on the surface of a gentle spring.
He walked alone through the road along the wooded reaches at the crack of dawn. Alone was good for there were no limits that his mind knew nor his walk would know, that presence of another would most certainly serve to normalize, constrain and make mundane. The hour was that of transition; from a world of uncertain chirping of the delightful six-legged creatures that have fascinated him ever since he laid his sense upon them to the more certain calls of the early birds. Thus unbound by the limits of purpose and another mind or body’s demands, he wandered on, both physically and mentally, wherever he was sent, not much unlike a dry leaf on the surface of a gentle spring.
This was that state where rationality broke down and his mind refused to comply by the guidelines of its being every other time otherwise. This was a time when nothing could have chosen what he cared for. Most things that would otherwise seem so significant to him, was detached and so far away that he transformed into an altogether different creature. Anything mattered but nought to him, neither the lofty dreams that he had, nor the little liberties that define us. Now was a time when his mind was so far removed that no force, human or otherwise, could bend its state of emotional isolation. He wasn't happy for how kind life had been, neither was he sad for its harsher realities. The beauty of his surroundings mattered to him only as much as it would have to the wayside rocks that he passed along.
Why is it that we pursue something just for the thrill of the ride? Unto what end is achievement, pain, happiness, misery, pride, anger, lust, envy or sorrow? How much does it matter whether our demeanour would placate the expectations of them who surround us? How much does it matter whether it placates our own, if by doing so, we are merely making way for the arousal of certain ephemeral, visceral emotions that are brought about by the action of naturally emitted chemicals? How much lesser still it matters, if these chemicals are pushed through by consuming more chemicals? Our emotions are but reactions between baking soda and acetic acid of differing strengths, spurting and gurgling whenever they confront each other and merely as significant. Now isn’t that a neat experiment? Make a rudimentary mountain of clumped lumps of mud and poke a hole on the top so as to fill it with baking soda and add to it the vinegar in your hand. A reddish hue might just about qualify to remind you of a volcano. Cheer its occurrence heartily while repeating it till the ingredients are spent, or you are.
Then what be the purpose of such existence? If there be no higher being, it has no meaning. If there is something of that sort, we are merely its experiments, serving to glorify our deeds and emotions, clawing the dirt around us to ground us more firmly, consuming, producing, purifying and polluting things that we deem so worthy, pumping ourselves with pleasure, both physically and mentally only to be irrevocably transformed into insignificant dust, only to source his amusement. Of course, the significance of such amusement can be questioned as well leading us to reach an irreversible loop. What are we but mere parasites of that which surround us, which in turn are the same. However, that doesn't change the nature of our discussion, nor does it make us more relevant.
He then joined the stream that ran beside his path, unshaken, unstirred yet much happier than the happiest man in spite of the absence of joy, because he knew not any sorrow. He was the master of his emotions. He did not submit to the will of another being in any way whatsoever. He did not see the need to care or concern himself with any other. He refused to depend upon anything for survival. His life refused to be imprisoned in the prison that it had just discovered around itself.
He floated on, dead, not much unlike a dry leaf on the surface of a gentle spring.
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
Letter to the Superintendent
I finally did something more direct with regard to my venting my anger on the despicable way in which NIT-K hostels have treated us over the last four years, the least of not is how we've to struggle posting these things with the snail pace photon modems we have. Oh yes. I missed the red underlines telling me where I had made my spelling errors, which is a pretty bad sign of things to come, especially for the next generation.
Thursday, 9 July 2009
Trek Post
Around 2 months ago, I had been on a trek to the Sharavathi valley with a few friends residing in to my Bangalore whereabouts. This is a post to capture the precious residue of what I have failed to note down all these days.
The said trip happened by bus from here. It reached a place called Sagara early in the morning (around 7 or so). Thanks to my friend Karthik who had already been to Sagara, we had no problem finding a good guide or a decent place to freshen up. This was at a public toilet which was faraway from to public eye to the extent to which it could comfortably squash its stereotype.
We then proceeded to a catchment area of a dam built in times bygone. This place was called Linganamakki. The dam was reportedly built by Vishweshwaraya during British times. However, it is no longer operational, leaving only a landscape which has been rendered so far off from its natural shape that it appears surreal.
The ominous deluge
We trekked for about an hour to reach the catchment area. It was like nothing I've seen before. It wasn't the most beautiful place I've seen; but if I had to choose unearthly too, this was it. Sadly though, it wasn't too full of life save the small fish in the water. The absence of even mollusks in the crystal clear, fresh water was conspicuous; not to mention the bird life and the insect life. We had to reach an island quite faraway (a little more than a kilometer or so) to setup camp. Our guide had arranged for tents, supplies and a cook that we were to need for the overnight stay there.
The grand jeté plus writhing tentacles!
While most of the lot decided to use coracles for the crossing, a few of us decided to swim the distance. Life jackets were necessary for both the enduring task as well as to stick by regulations. Nevertheless, it was a memorable swim for it was quite long and not the easiest thing to achieve (especially for one of us who hadn't swum an inch before!). The evening saw us all take to the watery abode that now surrounded us. Even people who couldn't swim otherwise could manage to with those hefty jackets around them.
The island was something like a plateau, which was crowned with lush green vegetation. I guess these are the parts of the valley that were spared and managed to retain their greenery. The water that surrounded us were filled with dead trees rising above the watery surface; the unexpected deluge having done them in more than a century ago. On a moon lit night, I can envision this to be the unanimous birthplace of eerie tree spirits and powerful swamp monsters; not those disgusting ones that are plantlike, but the kind that can get their job done.
Nevertheless, beautiful
The next morning saw us head out into the water yet again. Here is where I learnt a valuable lesson or two in coracle rowing and control. These were tar patched wooden frameworks. Earlier, I managed to get branded irreversibly right where I rested my butt on one of them unwittingly. On our return, we left late that morning to cross the island from a passage through the now abandoned dam. This was a trek of around 4-5 hours with a break in the middle for lunch. It was made mostly trudging through a leafy, shady thoroughfare through the jungle where we spotted a huge brown stick insect. We then proceeded to reach the dam where innumerable river terns were doing the rounds right above our heads. On realising that the dam-route was closed, we had to detour to a few more hours of trekking through forested landscape to reach a road which took us back to Sagara. Nothing noteworthy was spotted save these critters and a flock of cormorants.
This was followed by a very economically priced meal at Sagara and a return home from an unforgettable trip.
The said trip happened by bus from here. It reached a place called Sagara early in the morning (around 7 or so). Thanks to my friend Karthik who had already been to Sagara, we had no problem finding a good guide or a decent place to freshen up. This was at a public toilet which was faraway from to public eye to the extent to which it could comfortably squash its stereotype.
We then proceeded to a catchment area of a dam built in times bygone. This place was called Linganamakki. The dam was reportedly built by Vishweshwaraya during British times. However, it is no longer operational, leaving only a landscape which has been rendered so far off from its natural shape that it appears surreal.
The ominous delugeWe trekked for about an hour to reach the catchment area. It was like nothing I've seen before. It wasn't the most beautiful place I've seen; but if I had to choose unearthly too, this was it. Sadly though, it wasn't too full of life save the small fish in the water. The absence of even mollusks in the crystal clear, fresh water was conspicuous; not to mention the bird life and the insect life. We had to reach an island quite faraway (a little more than a kilometer or so) to setup camp. Our guide had arranged for tents, supplies and a cook that we were to need for the overnight stay there.
The grand jeté plus writhing tentacles!While most of the lot decided to use coracles for the crossing, a few of us decided to swim the distance. Life jackets were necessary for both the enduring task as well as to stick by regulations. Nevertheless, it was a memorable swim for it was quite long and not the easiest thing to achieve (especially for one of us who hadn't swum an inch before!). The evening saw us all take to the watery abode that now surrounded us. Even people who couldn't swim otherwise could manage to with those hefty jackets around them.
The island was something like a plateau, which was crowned with lush green vegetation. I guess these are the parts of the valley that were spared and managed to retain their greenery. The water that surrounded us were filled with dead trees rising above the watery surface; the unexpected deluge having done them in more than a century ago. On a moon lit night, I can envision this to be the unanimous birthplace of eerie tree spirits and powerful swamp monsters; not those disgusting ones that are plantlike, but the kind that can get their job done.
Nevertheless, beautifulThe next morning saw us head out into the water yet again. Here is where I learnt a valuable lesson or two in coracle rowing and control. These were tar patched wooden frameworks. Earlier, I managed to get branded irreversibly right where I rested my butt on one of them unwittingly. On our return, we left late that morning to cross the island from a passage through the now abandoned dam. This was a trek of around 4-5 hours with a break in the middle for lunch. It was made mostly trudging through a leafy, shady thoroughfare through the jungle where we spotted a huge brown stick insect. We then proceeded to reach the dam where innumerable river terns were doing the rounds right above our heads. On realising that the dam-route was closed, we had to detour to a few more hours of trekking through forested landscape to reach a road which took us back to Sagara. Nothing noteworthy was spotted save these critters and a flock of cormorants.
This was followed by a very economically priced meal at Sagara and a return home from an unforgettable trip.
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
Spelling beeswax
Everybody knows of the spelling bee.
If you ask me, the spelling bee is over the top 'humbug'( he he). I shall explain myself.
Now what good is it to me that I know the spellings of words that 99% of the people I associate with would not have heard of? To make matters worse, this has to be mastered as a kid, when one's playful tendencies at their peak. I know that some of those who go on with their over-aesthetic mindsets and "the world is bourgeois" attitude actually enjoy it. But think of those children who are forced into it when all they want to do is frolic or better still, invest all of their hard pressed childhood into something worthwhile like learning music. While I advocate good grammatical sense and spelling in any form of writing, I think the line must be drawn far before it marks those on the belly of the spelling bee. What's more? The huge cash prize and televised episodes only make matters worse.
Its other less famous counterparts are held in subjects like Geography and Math. At least children there are pressured to learn something more worthwhile.
Our country again tops the world's list of pushing children to the brink of their sanity; seven winners in the last decade, while on the other extreme, Indians are falling prey to horrible T9 spelling habits with cheap text messaging! While commending the winners on having realised a rather futile way to exploit their gifted acumen, I really pity those who have been pushed too hard into trying to.
The oh so genteel judge with the annoying mistake bell: Can you spell disquietude?
Nervous contestant with thick rimmed glasses: Could you... Could you use that in in a sentence?
Pretentious judge: I hope your parents pushing you so far as to cause you so much disquietude, does not spell your doom.
If you ask me, the spelling bee is over the top 'humbug'( he he). I shall explain myself.
Now what good is it to me that I know the spellings of words that 99% of the people I associate with would not have heard of? To make matters worse, this has to be mastered as a kid, when one's playful tendencies at their peak. I know that some of those who go on with their over-aesthetic mindsets and "the world is bourgeois" attitude actually enjoy it. But think of those children who are forced into it when all they want to do is frolic or better still, invest all of their hard pressed childhood into something worthwhile like learning music. While I advocate good grammatical sense and spelling in any form of writing, I think the line must be drawn far before it marks those on the belly of the spelling bee. What's more? The huge cash prize and televised episodes only make matters worse.
Its other less famous counterparts are held in subjects like Geography and Math. At least children there are pressured to learn something more worthwhile.
Our country again tops the world's list of pushing children to the brink of their sanity; seven winners in the last decade, while on the other extreme, Indians are falling prey to horrible T9 spelling habits with cheap text messaging! While commending the winners on having realised a rather futile way to exploit their gifted acumen, I really pity those who have been pushed too hard into trying to.
The oh so genteel judge with the annoying mistake bell: Can you spell disquietude?
Nervous contestant with thick rimmed glasses: Could you... Could you use that in in a sentence?
Pretentious judge: I hope your parents pushing you so far as to cause you so much disquietude, does not spell your doom.
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
LiTTlE consideration and related fanaticism
Well, this is a post which is inspired by Sheki's like Gullu's. This one is also along the same lines. I have used my comment on the former's blog as a skeleton for the same.
My opinion of Tamilians, while being one myself is one of a somewhat more polarised people. They wanted Tamil declared as the national language merely because it was older. They refuse to treat with dignity, guests to their state. (This is slightly different from the MNS where in Mumbai, so many outsiders have encroached that there is no space for setting a pin on a pin cushion!). All their parties have "Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam" attached to their names, which means parties working for the Dravidian race's upliftment. This itself talks of their regional outlook and lookout.They are also a state known for their regional fanaticism
Karnataka is fast picking up. However, it is because Kannada today, is facing stiff competition from its own cosmopolitan nature. The Kannada people have been so accommodating of outsiders in the first place that this is the result. I bow down to them for having been so accommodating while acknowledging the rich cultural contributions of Karnataka to the country through the ages. Sadly, there is a Vattal Nagaraj to try and undo all this glory with his charcoal smirching of Kannada faces.
Vaiko: Tamil Nadu would witness a bloodbath even if the slightest harm befell Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam leader V. Prabakaran.
Jayalalithaa: To get a separate Ealem, vote for the AIADMK.
Karunanidhi: Prabhakaran is not a terrorist, but LTTE is a terrorist organisation. (What!!!?)
All this in spite of the group having had the audacity to assassinate our prime minister.
The latest even went to the extent of an audacious breakfast to lunch “hunger strike".
We would have been much better if he’d fasted to death or been in times when these idiots were locked up for making statements like this under POTA or any other godforsaken act.
Karunanidhi's indefinite fast!
That is not all. We have Tamilians protesting as far away as England. Guess the recession has left them in the want of some work. I only hope they are put out of their misery soon.
In light of recent news and developments, it is mighty clear that the home ministry in India has secretly funded this war and finally put an end to this atrocious organisation that has been smearing shame on the faces of Tamilians everywhere.
Tuesday, 5 May 2009
At what price?
My submission to virtuvian this year went thus...
We humans posses an ingrained attachment to things natural. This explains the existence of so many forces that persuade us to work for its well being. Of course, the degree to which this attachment exists in every human is quite different as people are themselves. But I am sure any human being can relate to the subtle leap of joy that bursts across one when something untamed and natural is seen, say a hare prancing around the campus or the sight of a wild flower around. This is something that sets the college apart from the mundane surroundings of the city. Nothing however magnificent or industrious, when man-made, can bring in us the same feeling a little mammal can by the virtue of its mere existence. The vicinity of a beautiful beach, relatively unspoilt by the human forces at hand, compliments the campus’ natural charm. A lesser known spot that will fit into the category mentioned above is the seasonal lake which is a result of an underground dam at the other end of the campus. Hidden away by the acres of wooded reaches that surround it, locations like these give the campus an ambience of a rugged rainforest in brief stretches, more so when it pours like the herald of the great flood.
Here is where I let you into my tribute to the hockey field. The field happens to be one of many which have been swallowed by the Mega hostel block in its wake. In the summer months, it was a sight of much playful commotion. During the rainy season, and particularly the rainy nights was when the field did rise to moments of enigmatic glory. Its surface almost entirely swamped, it stood, a watery nursery for many things wild and nightly. The creaking of the frogs with a number of other uncategorised sounds that emanated from here made it a scene to remember forever. In spite of its size, the field transformed into an untamed sanctuary on rainy nights; like a portal into a faraway jungle spilling out contents of its destination. While coming to terms with its existence, there is a feeling of regret that the new hostel block has inevitably consumed locations like this one whose presence I hardly valued until it was wiped away completely, like most things subtly dear.
Yet another spot which the hostel block has consumed is a monsoon pond that was beside the hockey field. This pond invariably overflowed and merged with the hockey field during rainy nights but existed right through the monsoon season. The road that runs beside the eighth block bridged this pond. Small as it was, the pond was complete with fish, reptiles, birds, pondweed and a shady end which was rendered thus by a tree spreading its arms benevolently upon it. Standing on that bridge with the pond on either side was a ticket away from the frivolous worries that humanity ever serves to impose on one. Perched kingfishers mounted above, ever on the vigil were a regular sight here. The sight of a snake slithering elegantly along its surface until distance stole it away from me to the arms of the tree’s shaded recess serves as it most fitting reminder. I miss the seasonal pond.
The rainy season here brings out the best in the campus; more so because it is the first impression made on the clean slates of our minds. The hours of twilight are when mother earth dons her most fancy garments; the light bright enough to showcase her beauty, and yet dark enough to hide that of her which we have served to make less desirable. The rainy season is one of ever longer twilights. The rain washes her clean of everything that human forces have served to besmirch with their untidy ways during its absence. It's rapturous thunder, and imposing rain drumming rhythmically on the earth is a welcome break from sounds of human noises violating the serene calm of the other seasons. When nature does choose to sing, she does so more beautifully than anyone else. The summer serves as a harsh reminder of what the earth will result in without rains to serve its respite. Pitifully, we are making summers harsher and longer than ever.
While cherishing the scenes I have written about among many others experienced, I regret to see their disappearance forever, and the fact that students from years to come shall never see the college in quite the light that I have. I realise that humans have created this campus; I am no hypocrite. But I regret the price being paid for its sustenance while questioning how much of it we really are sustaining. Having witnessed many greener campuses in similar locations, I only hope for a move in the direction of creating more such scenes rather than of their destruction.
We humans posses an ingrained attachment to things natural. This explains the existence of so many forces that persuade us to work for its well being. Of course, the degree to which this attachment exists in every human is quite different as people are themselves. But I am sure any human being can relate to the subtle leap of joy that bursts across one when something untamed and natural is seen, say a hare prancing around the campus or the sight of a wild flower around. This is something that sets the college apart from the mundane surroundings of the city. Nothing however magnificent or industrious, when man-made, can bring in us the same feeling a little mammal can by the virtue of its mere existence. The vicinity of a beautiful beach, relatively unspoilt by the human forces at hand, compliments the campus’ natural charm. A lesser known spot that will fit into the category mentioned above is the seasonal lake which is a result of an underground dam at the other end of the campus. Hidden away by the acres of wooded reaches that surround it, locations like these give the campus an ambience of a rugged rainforest in brief stretches, more so when it pours like the herald of the great flood.
Here is where I let you into my tribute to the hockey field. The field happens to be one of many which have been swallowed by the Mega hostel block in its wake. In the summer months, it was a sight of much playful commotion. During the rainy season, and particularly the rainy nights was when the field did rise to moments of enigmatic glory. Its surface almost entirely swamped, it stood, a watery nursery for many things wild and nightly. The creaking of the frogs with a number of other uncategorised sounds that emanated from here made it a scene to remember forever. In spite of its size, the field transformed into an untamed sanctuary on rainy nights; like a portal into a faraway jungle spilling out contents of its destination. While coming to terms with its existence, there is a feeling of regret that the new hostel block has inevitably consumed locations like this one whose presence I hardly valued until it was wiped away completely, like most things subtly dear.
Yet another spot which the hostel block has consumed is a monsoon pond that was beside the hockey field. This pond invariably overflowed and merged with the hockey field during rainy nights but existed right through the monsoon season. The road that runs beside the eighth block bridged this pond. Small as it was, the pond was complete with fish, reptiles, birds, pondweed and a shady end which was rendered thus by a tree spreading its arms benevolently upon it. Standing on that bridge with the pond on either side was a ticket away from the frivolous worries that humanity ever serves to impose on one. Perched kingfishers mounted above, ever on the vigil were a regular sight here. The sight of a snake slithering elegantly along its surface until distance stole it away from me to the arms of the tree’s shaded recess serves as it most fitting reminder. I miss the seasonal pond.
The rainy season here brings out the best in the campus; more so because it is the first impression made on the clean slates of our minds. The hours of twilight are when mother earth dons her most fancy garments; the light bright enough to showcase her beauty, and yet dark enough to hide that of her which we have served to make less desirable. The rainy season is one of ever longer twilights. The rain washes her clean of everything that human forces have served to besmirch with their untidy ways during its absence. It's rapturous thunder, and imposing rain drumming rhythmically on the earth is a welcome break from sounds of human noises violating the serene calm of the other seasons. When nature does choose to sing, she does so more beautifully than anyone else. The summer serves as a harsh reminder of what the earth will result in without rains to serve its respite. Pitifully, we are making summers harsher and longer than ever.
While cherishing the scenes I have written about among many others experienced, I regret to see their disappearance forever, and the fact that students from years to come shall never see the college in quite the light that I have. I realise that humans have created this campus; I am no hypocrite. But I regret the price being paid for its sustenance while questioning how much of it we really are sustaining. Having witnessed many greener campuses in similar locations, I only hope for a move in the direction of creating more such scenes rather than of their destruction.
Monday, 12 January 2009
Journey most cherished
This happened to be my submission for the yearbook last year. On reading it today after a very long time, it seems to me that what is written could be rather vague if read quickly by anyone else but its author. Anyway, let me see what opinions (if any) this post rakes up.
"It was a time when we were let into our world to be, for the next four years. All of us had joined NITK Surathkal, a reputed engineering college, with mixed feelings of satisfaction and regret. The ratios of these feelings however varied in every individual, while inspiring some to give the JEE another attempt. We all shared the enthusiasm that is the traditional sign of fledglings here, before it is hampered forever by repetition and modern electronic gadgets. Thus initiated was a journey most cherished and one that will be remembered by all of us forever.
My first year in college was filled with most nostalgic moments, which I would attribute primarily to the absence of work, a computer and other vices at hand. Places like the canteens, the beach and even Mangalore seemed much closer then. The excitement that accompanied the discovery of so many things, and a whole new way of life, helped to etch memories that much more deep. The joy of getting to the inter branch football finals, the sorrow of missing a penalty against the invincible final years. The joy of returning home for a week sometimes, and ironically missing the college midweek! A year it was, filled with long walks with the bunch, long nights of plain carefree discussion and discovering how wonderful life can be when there are five hundred people who can be a part of your happiness and difficulties. Though a few infernal machines started haunting the hostels by second semester, there were still the games of 28 (a card game) a night before our end semester exams. A revelation it was, the whole year, that most memorable are those times, closer to nature and farther from technological machines. (Fancy an engineer saying this!)
A time it was, when evenings were spent at the beach monitoring the progress of a torrential rain storm that is characteristic of the monsoon months here, step by step, as it inched over the horizon. The blue water changed colours, growing fiercer, clouds painted the sea with their ominous shadows. Everything took place so slowly, that it evaded the eye, ever on the lookout for sudden changes, yet happened so fast that it approached and enveloped us, taking us all aback. All this was witnessed with the sturdy shelter of the defiant lighthouse building. Land now turned into the canvas, painted by the wind with swift stokes of water curtains, as the torrential rain drenched us. All the while, innumerable pictures were taken with mobile phone cameras, hoping innocently that these moments could somehow be captured.
And the summer months brought forth the tranquil beauty of the sunset over the western coast. The sun eluding us, refusing to sink while we watched it continuously, yet disappearing a great deal if we dared to take our eyes off , all the while paving way for the emperor of the night to arise and rule. Majestically, did he display his prowess, shrouding the land and the water with silvery white light. A spectacle so brilliant that the most miserable and unfortunate creature upon this world shall find his life justified only to have senses to experience this masterpiece, to hear the mighty ocean rumble, smell the salty air, and be lost in this unparalleled bliss."
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