Sunrise in the West

The Raven God - Part II

2011-11-27T08:52:00.001-08:00

After taking a couple of seconds to suppress my rage, I said ‘I am a human being’, unable to hide a sense of pride while saying so. The Raven continued in a mocking tone, ‘What makes you human?’ Unfazed, I shot back, ‘The fact that I strive to understand the world around me through the use of reason, and with evidence from sensory input makes me human.’ The raven stepped closer as he said ‘You are talking to a raven through your mind; that makes you a lunatic to some’. I could not think of a witty repartee to that jab. So I just lowered my gaze and tried to get my bearings.

The tram came along and screeched to a halt in front of me. I swiped my pass and got in, getting a seat near the exit doors. As the doors closed and the tram accelerated, I saw the raven fly away across the tracks into the grey yonder. Five minutes later, as I got off at my stop, I saw the raven waiting on the platform. He followed me up the stairs to my apartment and settled comfortably on his perch in the balcony. He began talking in his raspy voice again, ‘Do you really see the world? Your brain reconstructs it for you. Do you really hear the sounds around you? The din of the trams screeching along the tracks outside, my voice, the insects buzzing around, the birds chirping outside, they all combine to form a single wave that oscillate your ear drum. Who separates all these noises from each other and gives you a distinct world view? Your brain does. Have you thought about what happens when your brain gives up?’ I responded feebly, ‘Not really. I have often wondered what happens after death. But I have not found a convincing answer in the literature I have pored through’.

The raven deftly changed the topic as if he did not hear me, ‘What is your earliest memory?’. Surprised by the unusual question I tried to wind back time and think back to my earliest lingering memory. ‘I remember seeing my brother a few days after he was born. I was almost two years old then’, I finally announced. ‘Nothing before that?’, probed the raven. I tried again for a few seconds and then shrugged, unable to come up with anything else.

The raven hopped to a new position on the balcony and continued anew. ‘Your consciousness has been conditioned for decades now to see the world as it appears to you, as reality. Its original state, the state it has retained for eons, has been suppressed by worldly knowledge. You were so proud to announce your ability to analyze through reason. But your most advanced thinkers are yet to solve the puzzle of how the universe began.’

‘That is a pessimistic way of seeing things. So what if we don’t know everything? We will find out and we will always keep trying. That is what makes us human’, I said, brimming with emotion. ‘It took us thousands of years to get from seeing ourselves as the center of the universe to the cosmological principle and the intertwining of matter, space and time. We will keep exploring, no matter what.’ The raven almost smiled (I was pretty sure I was imagining it by then) and continued, unimpressed, ‘You will never find the answer. Your mind is incapable of visualizing it; if you see it, you will not be able to explain it without sounding like a madman.’

I was distracted by his challenge and proceeded to try and visualize a higher dimensional object, firing my synapses at full throttle.

(To be continued)

The Raven God - I

2011-06-22T12:49:00.000-07:00

I was on my way home after a typical day at work, reading a book as the train sped past the concrete jungle. I heard a metallic automated voice announcing the impending arrival at the next stop. I closed the book I was reading, placed it inside my backpack and positioned myself at the nearest door. Once the doors opened, I got off the train and walked down the steps, skipping one or two here and there. I had the second leg of my daily commute ahead of me, a short five minute tram ride. I walked to the tram stop where the electronic chart notified me that I had to wait at least fifteen minutes for my tram to arrive.

It was around 6.30 pm in the evening and the sun was still pretty high up in the western sky, a fact I had been accustomed to, living this far north of the equator. The tram tracks ran in a straight line on either side of me, for at least a mile. The golden yellow sunlight reflected off one of the tracks, making it seem as if the length of track was made of molten steel. I was wondering what it would be like to put on a pair of roller skates and just ride along the tram tracks at breakneck speed. I could picture myself in the distance, crouching like a skiing slalom champion, rapidly getting closer and then blasting past the tram stop, the skates screeching with the friction involved.

My reverie was broken when my peripheral vision caught a blurry movement to my left. Annoyed at being interrupted, I turned to my left and saw a raven, with jet black feathers, an unnaturally sharp beak and claws curved like switchblades, walking nonchalantly up to the tracks. He stopped walking at the edge of the platform and tilted his head from side to side. A coarse, deep voice suddenly said, 'Have you wondered what it would be like to skate on these tracks at high speed?’ I was startled, and instinctively looked behind me and around me, but there was no one within two feet of me. The other people, who were also waiting for the tram, did not seem to be looking in my direction at all. As I started to convince myself that this was some prank, I heard the same voice laughing and snickering; someone was obviously having some fun at my expense.

Out of sheer coincidence, I noticed that the raven was looking straight at me. I thought to myself that I should really be getting some food or a strong cup of coffee before I started seeing things. The raven did not shift its glance and I heard the voice continue, 'You are right! You see me as the raven next to you. You are not hallucinating, don't worry.’ This made me worry even more. My software engineering past played the devil's advocate: If someone in a hallucination says that you are not hallucinating, can it be a hallucination? Is it a recursive loop? I asked 'Who are you?’ At this point, the elderly lady standing a few feet away gave me a sharp disapproving look and shuffled away in the opposite direction. I realized that I had spoken aloud. The voice guffawed loudly and said, 'You don't have to speak out loud. Just think at me.' I was still finding it difficult to associate the raven with the coarse voice in my head. Eventually, I wordlessly communicated my earlier question to the raven. It seemed to work. The answer came after a bit of hesitation on his part, 'The answer is a bit complicated. But let us start with the basics here. Who are you?'

Now I was genuinely angry.

(To be continued)

Sunday Afternoon Dare

2010-01-10T21:32:00.000-08:00

The little boy stood all alone in the garden, trembling and sweating under the afternoon sun. He turned around and looked at the closed door, the one his friends had locked from the other side. His friends had come over to his palatial house to play. The house had a backyard and behind that was a steel door opening into a thick, beautiful garden. There was absolutely no one within a radius of a few hundred yards. A few minutes back, he had taken his friends up on a dare, to stand in the garden all alone, an hour past noon on a sunday, and utter the name of an evil spirit three times. It was a widespread rumor among children of his age, that if one utters the abominable name three times under the conditions mentioned above, a dark demon armed with a wrought iron chain will appear out of nowhere and whisk the summoner away into the netherworld, a ghastly kingdom where the undead spirits thrived. The legend was scary enough to deter his friends from trying it, but he wasn't like the rest of them.

Even though the boy knew in his heart that such rumors were rubbish, he was loath to start uttering the name. There was a steady, cool breeze coming in from the west and the boy found himself sweating in spite of it. He could not help but notice that his sweat was not warm, like it is after a few hours of playing cricket; it was cold from to the fear driving it. He had arrogantly taken up the dare when one of his friends proposed it and could not lose face to them now by quitting. After all, they were right behind the locked door a hundred yards away, weren't they?

After waiting for a few minutes, the boy uttered the name once. His heartbeat picking up, he stole furtive glances to his sides to look for any changes in the status quo. The steady breeze seemed to have turned haphazard now, and the swaying plants and trees were making him very anxious. He planned to utter the name two more times very quickly in succession and then run towards the locked door and bang on it until his friends opened it. The idea seemed to melt away some of his fear. But deep down, a part of his mind wanted to wait it out. It was not about losing face to his friends anymore. It was about his own self. He wanted to go the distance and prove his strength to himself.

With a new resolve, he uttered the name again. The breeze died down abruptly, as if someone switched it off. The trees and plants, swaying seconds ago, were still now. He stood paralysed, too shocked to react. He heard a door creaking open somewhere. He quickly turned around, but the only door leading into and out of the garden was securely locked. 'Are you guys still there?', he screamed. His friends did not answer. He wasn't even sure if they heard him. Maybe they wanted to teach him a lesson and were trying to scare him. He walked around the garden and searched behind the big trees and bushes, to see if any of his friends were hiding to give him the scare of his life. He was half-hoping for one of his friends to jump out from behind the next bush and shout 'Booooo'. But no one did. He was all alone.

The garden did not look so beautiful anymore. His throat was drying up and he was finding it increasingly difficult to persuade himself to utter the name for the third time. He started imagining what would happen to him, once the giant was summoned. With one mighty snap of his left hand, the giant would fling the wrought iron chain around the boy's neck and drag him along to the world beneath, like a predator dragging his prey. The boy's breath came in halting spasms now and he was on the verge of tears. Finally he could not take it anymore and he ran at full tilt towards the door, tears streaming down his face.

When he was a few feet from the door, the door opened suddenly and his dad stepped out. The boy heaved a sigh of relief and rushed into his arms, bawling his eyes out. The father patted him gently on his back and said, 'I knew you boys were upto no good when I saw your friends running out. They didn't even stop to answer me.'. The boy was too weak to talk and his crying had toned down to sobs now. As his father carried him on his shoulder and walked past the motor room, which doubled as a storage room for firewood, the boy could see inside as the door was ajar. Something caught his eye, even in the midst of the wave of emotions running through him. Lying harmlessly beside the firewood was a heavy wrought iron chain with rusty links, the reddish brown color resembling dried blood. The little boy was not sobbing anymore.

The Morning Sun

2008-07-15T09:00:00.001-07:00

The cry of the beetles, A lone wolf’s howl
And the cacophonic hoot of the odd owl
The night before dawn is the darkest part
It brings a touch of fear to the boldest heart

The slicing wind which cuts like a knife
Threatening to end one’s miserable life
Shadows playing games on the frightened mind
Conjuring up creatures of another kind

But the night is not here to stay
When it’s time it has to make way
For the all encompassing golden flame
The bright yellow orb with many a name

The shadows no longer harbor fear
The gentle breeze makes its intention clear
The owl goes silent, still as a doll
The wolf stops howling, the beetles crawl

What a difference the warm glow makes!
Lighting up rivers, oceans and lakes
Harbinger of joy, laughter and fun
Glory be to the morning sun!

Nested Dreams

2008-07-15T00:34:00.000-07:00

It’s not easy being a writer. The endless hours spent building and destroying castles in the air, trying to find those exact phrases which convey what a writer wants to convey, without understatement or hyperbole, can drive a man insane. As clichéd as it may sound, I was staying in a cabin in the remote wilderness of the Kodaikanal hills. The cabin was owned by a friend of mine, so I could stay there for as I long as I wanted to. Apparently he’d got it for quite a bargain.

I went into town once a week to restock supplies, and maintained a fair level of cleanliness at the cabin myself. I had been like this a lot of times in the past, the solitude helping me churn out horror stories, one after the other, many of which sold just enough to feed me at the very least. I was working on another horror novel, but this time, I wanted it to be different, eschewing the usual retching greenish ghouls that are omnipresent in horror novels these days.

To produce my best work, I would need to straddle the thin line between the zone where I am in control of my brain’s machinations, and the uncharted territory on the other side, where my brain takes over. Speaking of which brings me to the topic of dreams. Neurons firing in orchestrated synchronicity create an uber-world where everything is possible, and thus blurring the boundary between reality and the dream world. Sometimes I’d just sit in a corner, confused whether I was dreaming or awake. Given my monotonous schedule and solitude, I’ve quite often been the victim of my own imagination as well. But something happened today, which shocked me and scared me like never before.

I had wasted half of the day, unable to come up with even a single paragraph of readable material. Sometime in the afternoon, I had dozed off on the couch, my pen dropping onto the floor once sleep crept in. I was woken up by a knock on the door. Groggy from the long nap, I trundled towards the door and opened it, still in my pajamas. A girl in full hiking gear was standing outside, with a sheepish grin.

‘Sorry to have disturbed you…but I think I’m lost. I took the Bear Lake trail from the dam and followed the goat trails…but somewhere on the way I seem to have strayed away. D’ya have any idea how I can get back onto the trail to Bear Lake?’, she said.

I mumbled, ‘I’m sorry…what did you say?’. I was delirious from sleep and her staccato speech fell on deaf ears. Oblivious to my confusion, she continued speaking, ‘I took the road west to Sun River Canyon out of Augusta…’. I cut her short, ‘Wait a minute. Augusta?’. She nodded, ‘Yep..Augusta, Montana, not the one in Maine’.

Before I could reply, my thoughts were cut short by the crisp wind which was blowing much colder than it was supposed to in southern Tamilnadu. When I looked around, my heart leapt up to my mouth. My head reeled with shock as I saw snow-capped peaks and tall coniferous trees stretching away into the horizon, instead of the familiar dry ravine and the long winding path from my cabin. It was a vista straight out of the magnificent and terrifying wilderness of Montana. A numbness took over my body as the merciless cold wind bit me. I blurted ‘What the…this is not….’, as I turned towards the girl. She was not standing there anymore. She was walking down towards the ravine, obviously concluding that I wouldn’t be of any further help. I had trouble keeping my eyes open in the cold wind, as I saw her follow a bend and vanish out of sight. As I turned around to check what had happened to my small and rundown cabin, I saw that in its place stood a bigger log cabin. As I reached for the door, my legs gave away under me and I stumbled over the steps and fell hard, hitting the stone hard earth.

The very next moment, I was lying face up on the carpet by the side of the couch, in which I had dozed off. I just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to get my bearings. It had all seemed so real, the mountains, the wilderness, the gurgle of a stream running somewhere nearby, the raspy but sweet voice of the girl, the rustle of stones and leaves as she walked away, and most of all the fresh blast of freezing wind. It’s not rare for a writer of horror to have nightmares. I felt exhausted. I didn’t want to move at all, until I heard a dog bark in the distance. I hated dogs from the bottom of my heart. Since when I was a kid, I’ve had my run-ins with the species and almost every one of them was an unpleasant experience. My flashback was put on hold by the sound of the door creaking open. Too lazy to move, I rolled my eyes around to look.

In walked the most disgusting mongrel I had ever seen. It was one of those street dogs with brownish skin, with grey and black squiggles all over its body and face, as if it were sprayed with tar by a mischievous kid. It sniffed at something and then turned towards me. I tried to get up, which is when I realized that I couldn’t move any part of my body, except my eyes which I could roll around. I looked at my legs and willed them to move, but they wouldn’t. I watched my hands stay glued to the floor, not even a finger wiggling in response to the commands from my brain. I screamed for help, but the calm of the afternoon remained unperturbed, for there arose no cry from my throat. My tongue slurred and I was getting more and more agitated by the second, when the dog let out a malevolent bark. I’d heard somewhere that animals could sense fear. I was absolutely sure of it now as the dog started running at full tilt towards me. There I was, splayed on the floor, unable to move a muscle, as the dog closed in, its eyes wide, ears flapping, tongue flailing without control and leaving a trail of gooey saliva onto the carpet. My internal scream reached full volume as the dog lunged for my throat.

The dull thud rang in my ears as I fell from the couch onto the tiled floor below. I was sweating a river and my pulse was racing. My pen lay on the floor beside me. I picked it up, trying to come to terms with what happened to me over the past few minutes, or hours as it seemed to me. We people get so used to waking up from a dream into the real world, that it never occurs to us that some times, you wake up into another dream, an outer shell. It was the first time I ever had one of those; one dream nested inside another, leaving me with a queasy stomach and a feeling of sheer terror which cannot be put into words. My elbow was throbbing from the fall onto the hard tiled floor. Which gave me a start. In the second, or outer dream, there was carpet on the floor. But I had failed to notice the difference. The oddities and logical and physical improbabilities which we readily identify in the real world, become banal occurrences in dreams. In a dream, you can walk on water and still believe that you’re really walking on water. It makes dreams that much more scary. I didn’t believe in ghosts. I used to laugh at anyone who suggested that ghosts existed in this world. But in the dream world, they do exist. So in my dreams, when I encountered bizarre apparitions and monstrosities which were after my very life, my logical mind didn’t come to my rescue by ringing a loud alarm ‘Hello there…ghosts don’t exist’. Instead, I was scared right out of my skin. My frayed nerves gradually came to be, grappling to cope with the sudden changes in perception.

Anyway, as my pulse slowly returned to a nice canter, I lifted myself up on my weary legs and stretched my arms, striking a grotesque pose, not unlike a scarecrow. The sun had almost gone down; I had slept for quite a while. But all was well, because I had just got an idea for a different horror story. I decided to call it ‘Nested Dreams’. It had a nice ring to it.

After operating at peak productivity for a couple of hours, I was lying in bed, enjoying the lull before the next bout. The huge rectangular window, with the sliding glass shutters and light curtains, was right next to my bed. The wind was picking up outside and the curtains were blown about randomly. I closed the shutters, as the sudden wind gusts were followed by heavy rain. And as if on cue, the power failed. It was not uncommon around these parts, but a horror writer is susceptible to more irrational fears than the common man since his imagination is already running in overdrive. The engulfing darkness placed my mind on red alert. With visual distractions out of the way and little to no light coming in through the window, I was, to say the least, tense. The flashes of lightning from outside, illuminated the room in a way I hadn’t really imagined it before. I observed that, during each flash, the view of the room remained unaltered. It was as if the room didn’t exist until that flash, when it magically came together. I had the best view of the room, sitting as I was, leaning on the closed, curtained window and my legs strecthed out perpendicular to the long side of the bed. The constant darkness, interspersed with the flashes, which revealed the same scene over and over, reminded me of a crime scene photographer clicking pictures of a corpse. The thought gave me a shudder. Suddenly I felt a presence beside me, behind the curtain.

Have you ever had one of those moments when you were absolutely sure that someone was standing behind you, even though you saw nothing in your field of vision and heard not a sound? I’ve had several, but none in such mind numbing circumstances. My innards turned to jelly as I turned to my left to look at the curtains. During the next flash, I caught sight of the faintest bulge right before the place where the curtain and the window ended. The ensuing period of darkness seemed to be the longest of the night. The next flash showed the bulge had shifted a little. Like a ruthless predator stalking its prey in the dead of the night, something was bearing down on me. The shutters were closed and there should be no reason for the curtain to bulge out. It all seemed so wrong. I waited with bated breath for the next flash of lightning. The seconds ticked by. But it never came. I felt the curtain brush against my shoulders.

I didn’t know when I fell asleep, but when I woke up, I was lying outside. I had been wallowing in the soggy, rain soaked ground for hours. My short term memory turned up a blank, as I wondered what had transpired. It was almost dawn and I could see faintest shade of grey in the eastern sky. The air was cold and damp and I was chilled to the bone. As I scurried into my cabin, the heat and warmth gave me a rush, as if the blood coursing my veins was given a sudden boost. The rustle of leaves outside made me turn around to look outside, my sleepy eyes burning as if on fire. A majestic bull elk, the size of a full grown horse, walked in from a stand of trees. As turned towards me, it gave a low guttural grunt and then walked away into the woods, disappearing as suddenly as it had appeared. It took a few seconds for the spectacle I had just witnessed to sink in. But I was so overcome with exhaustion that my knees were going to buckle any moment. I managed to stumble into the bedroom and fall on the bed clumsily, the thousand questions that sprang up in my mind silenced by sleep.

Maybe a few minutes passed, or a few hours, I don’t remember quite well. But I felt something licking my arm. The warm, wet sensation woke me up. A flash of lightning illuminated the face of a dog for the briefest of moments and the deafening clap of thunder that followed it sent a shiver down my spine. My instinctive reaction was to pull back my hand, but I couldn’t move it. Now it all came to me from the archives of my mind, the mongrel that had walked in to my dream, the bulge in the curtains. I was absolutely sure I was dreaming again and willed myself to wake up. But nothing of that sort happened. In fact things took a turn for the worse.

The dog barked in anticipation of some unseen act of malice, while I waited, paralysed by anxiety and fear. A few seconds later, a searing pain shot through my arm as the dog tore into it with its canines. My scream started in my throat and was muffled by unseen forces at the back of my mouth, for there was no other sound in the room other than the intermittent claps of thunder. And so it was that I watched a dog eat my arm right in front of my eyes, the flashes of lightning serving as indicators of progress. My blood gushed out in a torrent as the dog’s teeth severed an unseen artery. My mind went blank and time as I knew it came to a standstill.

On August 19, 2002, the Great Falls Tribune reported my bizarre death in a remote cabin in the woods west of Augusta, Montana – famous for wolf and elk sightings. According to the article, I was well known to readers of horror fiction, though I was officially not in the big leagues. It also mentioned my habit of traveling around the world, staying in remote, hilly locations all over Asia, Europe and North America. My body was found leaning on an open windowsill, drenched in rain. The article went on to state that I had gnawed into my own forearm, eventually getting killed by severe blood loss.

The next time you think you’re just seeing things and it’s nothing but your imagination in overdrive, think again. That bulge behind the curtain might just be the wind, or a monster waiting to tear into your neck. I still do not believe that ghosts exist in the real world. But alas, in the dream world, they exist. I am one of them now. But the fact that you are able to read this can mean only one thing. You are dreaming. Or are you awake? If only I can tell!

Deliberations of a dying God

2008-03-24T19:56:00.001-07:00

The sound of chirping birds filled the woods as the waves of the western sea crashed ashore. Krishna sat leaning against a tree, one foot crossed over the other, his posture as regal as ever. The last rays of the dying sun illuminated his dark black skin, as he sat staring straight ahead with a smile on his face, playing nonchalantly with a fallen twig. A hundred and twenty five years of life on the third rock from the sun, had not diminished his aura even the tiniest bit.

He was looking back in time, when he had awed Vasudeva and Devaki in their prison cell, appearing before his earthly parents with four arms, in full paraphernalia. He remembered his favorite pet aadisesha protecting his earthly body from the ghastly downpour as Vasudeva carried him across a raging Yamuna, which had given way, not unlike the Red Sea, elsewhere in different times.

Unlike his previous incarnation, Rama, who had tried to be an epitome of benevolent human behaviour, Krishna had been anything but. His childhood antics irked many a villager and cowherd, but he had the charm to get out of any spot that he had got himself into. He was a charmer; he was a player; he liked to display just the right ounce of his supernatural powers, from time to time. Like the time when he erased Yashoda's short-term memory, after the mud-eating incident; also when he had disorientated Akrura by appearing as a kid sitting alone in the chariot, and in his godly form under the waters of the Yamuna, simultaneously.

Later on, during the battle in Kurukshetra, he had shown unusual rage, when he almost killed Bhishma, who had loosed a quiver full of arrows on Krishna, rather than Arjuna, just to provoke Him. A different form of rage had consumed him, during the fratricidal war among the Yadavas. Krishna had beaten some of his own descendants to death, consumed by the rage of the disastrous curse, brought on by the Yadavas' haughtiness. People called Rama a mere mortal, when he abandoned his pregnant wife in the woods, just to avoid sullying his reputation. But when Krishna killed his own relatives, he was pushing the envelopes of human behaviour. He wondered how people of the future would interpret his actions. He didn't care either way. He had tried to illustrate something, a common meaningful thread that ran alongside every event in his long and eventful life. But he doubted whether the citizens of the future earth, would be smart enough to understand it; chuckling at that thought like someone who had devised a puzzle no one could ever solve.

He had seen everything on earth. He thought to himself, how everytime he came down to earth, it never ceased to surprise him. Though he had charted the course of his journey through life's little alleys, some surprises did come through to make Him, laugh in resignation at the capabilities of his own creations. For example, he knew his time on earth had approached its end and he was going to die any second now. He knew that an arrow would come out of nowhere and impale his foot. But he had no idea how much it would hurt.

Everything that followed happened in a blur. Suddenly, his right foot felt like it was on fire, throbbing in unbearable pain. The fatefull arrow had lodged itself in the sole of his right foot. Krishna bit his lip and was unable to stifle the muffled cry that escaped his lips. As krishna pulled the arrow out, his blood gushed out in torrents. He felt as if the cursed piece of iron on the arrowhead, was extracting his life out through the raw wound. But within moments, he regained his composed, confident manner as his lips curved upward in a divine smile. This was the surprise his creation had thrown at him this time. Although he knew exactly what was going to happen, he had not experienced actual pain before. His wounds in the battle had irked him, but they hadn't caused him any pain at all. Now he knew what mortality felt like. He blessed the apologetic hunter, who was shocked to find out what his arrow had done. His time had come at last. Soon, he'd be resting on his serpent bed in the ocean of milk, taking a break before it was time for his final, violent incarnation.

The waves of the western sea roared in mourning, as Krishna died there beneath the tree, his creations left to themselves, his puzzle still unsolved.

Hiking down Rattlesnake Canyon in New Mexico

2008-03-08T23:09:00.001-08:00

I steered the Dodge Grand Caravan onto the gravel road, kicking up a cloud of dust, which made it impossible to see more than a few feet behind us. 'Guys...watch out for any sign that says "Rattlesnake Canyon"' - I croaked, while turning up the AC a tad. Puli came up with a brilliant question - 'Are there a lot of rattlesnakes in that place?'. The question was answered by an eerie silence. We drove on in silence trying to understand why they had named that 9.5 mile loop, a 'scenic' drive. In a few minutes, as we rounded a corner, Achan shouted, 'There it is..on your left', by which time I had driven a few yards ahead. Seeing the small wooden sign which said "Rattle Snake Canyon Trail" to my left, I backed up the minivan and parked it in the turnout. We had been looking forward to this hike for almost a week and had driven around 500 miles to enjoy the beauty of the Chihuahuan desert. Boy, were we in for some lessons that day!

We loaded our backpacks with Aquafina bottles. Puli deemed this to be an extravagant move, as he felt that we didn't need that much water for a little walk in the woods. Nevertheless, the six of us - Me, Puli, Chen, Bob, Achan and Lu, descended into Rattlesnake Canyon, armed with caps, sunglasses, waterbottles, cameras and a thirst for adventure. The directions sheet said – follow the cairns (for the uninitiated – cairns are stackes or mounds of stones which mark the trail). We hit a roadblock the moment we crossed the sign at the trailhead. We had no clue which way to go. The way ahead seemed too steep.

Suddenly, Bob – the out-of-the-box-thinking photographer said that the trail seemed to be heading straight down. And soon enough, we were on our way down the rocky slope into a ravine. We reached the dry river bed at the bottom. Our car and the trailhead was already out of sight. I tried to take a visual checkpoint, by noting the positions of some distant landmarks, hoping to remember them on our way back.

As we kept heading downwards and deeper into the canyon, the prickly plants of the desert started to draw blood from the unsuspecting hikers. The yucca, the sotol, the good ol’ prickly pear and a plant called lechuguilla – which has a very apt nickname ‘shindagger’ (you get the drift right?) all had schemingly planted their roots right next to the only navigable trail. Scratching oneself against one of these plants was downright inevitable. I remember one particular prickly pear which nabbed me, when I moved my leg just an inch out from the normal path. The tough denim on my jeans was no match for the sharp little thorn.

We were following the cairns and kept walking for what seemed like ages. By now, Puli, who chose to wear his winter jacket, in spite of the searing heat started worrying about his safe return and those of others too. The heat and exhaustion got to us soon enough. Thanks to my years of being glued to National Geographic and Discovery Channel, I made it mandatory for everyone to have a water bottle with them and keep drinking from it. I am sure that some of them thought I had gone nuts and the rest thought I was in the process of going nuts.

Soon, Achan also joined Puli’s mutiny. With no end or checkpoint in sight, Puli wanted to trek back to the car when we were alive and well. But the others, including me, felt that we had to get to the next checkpoint at least. Later we made a deal with Puli, that we’ll head back at 4.30pm exactly, whether we reach the next checkpoint or not. We took some rest stops in between, careful not to get impaled by one of the millions of spikes, while sitting on the rocks.

Our next checkpoint was a junction where the Guadalupe ridge trail crossed the Rattlesnake Canyon trail. That junction had an interesting nickname ‘Murder Junction’. Apparently some folks were stranded at this junction, heavily dehydrated. One of the guys allegedly had to kill his friend, who was in a very bad condition, as a mercy killing. As I read out details about the incident, from the direction sheet, Bob took a video of others’ reactions. The rebels’ mutiny had more ammunition now and started voicing their concerns more frequently. But due to heavy pressure from the adventure seekers, all of us trudged along, hoping to see the checkpoint, to allow some feeling of accomplishment to creep in.

It felt as if we’d walked five miles and descended around 2000 feet, but in reality, we had walked barely a mile and a half, and had descended around 700 feet. The thorny and prickly denizens of the canyon showed no mercy. People wearing shorts were mauled and those wearing light shirts were also not spared. We rounded corner upon corner, and walked across hill after hill and no end was in sight. The total trail was three miles long, and we were barely past the halfway point.

After a few more minutes of tireless effort, the trail bottomed out and became more rocky. We had reached a dry river bed. And lo and behold, we had reached Murder Junction. After an hour of trekking down treacherous terrain, braving the searing heat of the Chihuahuan desert, we had at last reached the checkpoint. The mutiny was called off and it was time to celebrate. We were all delighted. It was as if we had completed the 3 mile trail itself. Since the sun would be down in an hour, we planned to rest there for a few minutes and then turn back, towards the trailhead. Here we took the only photo in the trip with all six of us in it.

The joy of reaching the checkpoint had driven away doubt and fear. Puli was exhausted, but he was ready for the trek back to the car. We ate some Pringles crisps and then started the long trek back, armed with full waterbottles again. We had a spring in our steps, due to a fresh dose of confidence. We still had to get back before sunset, or else face the scary possibility of being stuck in the canyon throughout the night, without food, drink or shelter. Achan played some motivational songs on his mobile in full volume. The slowest ones were put in lead position so that our group stuck together. Bob had the honor of leading the team for the most amount of time. On the way back, we really took time to enjoy the scenery and drink it all in, before we reached the insane world of civilization again. Soon enough we reached the familiar ravine and then, in a matter of minutes, we reached the trailhead again, where our minivan lay wallowing in dust.

It was one of the most memorable outdoor experiences I’d ever had. Though a part of us was overjoyed on our safe completion of the journey, a part of us was sad that it was over. Now we had to drive back to town, take a hot shower, stuff ourselves up with food and then go to sleep at the hotel. The next day promised a more scenic hike and some spelunking. As Chen drove the minivan along the loop on the way out of the national park area, a whitetail buck darted across the road in a flash. That was a fitting finish for the day; it reminded us how close to nature and how far from the artificial world we had been that day.

Pic 1: Bob, Achan, Me, Lu and Chen – at the trailhead, raring to go

Pic2: After the initial descent. A short celebration in the ravine.

Pic 3: Achan points out a vicious cactus as I am busy poring over the map.

Pic 4: Look at those Yuccas adorning the path, waiting to draw blood

Pic 5: Bob, Puli, Achan, Me, Lu and Chen (sitting) at Murder Junction.

Pic 6: Tired hikers (from L to R): Lu, Puli, Me, Chen and Achan, after the grueling hike.

Closure

2007-12-19T13:04:00.000-08:00

Today, people feast on the younger forms of cricket like the ODIs and the 20-20s. For various reasons, test cricket is not the most popular form of cricket to watch. But one thing that gets overlooked is the fact that test cricket imposes the greatest challenge of them all - getting 22 batsmen out (or 11 batsmen out twice, if you will). It might not seem like a big deal to get all 10 wickets of the other team, in a limited over game. But in the longer version, it is indeed a big deal. Ask the bowler who bowled 35 overs without getting a single wicket. He'll guarantee that it's not exactly a bed of roses out there. No matter what anyone might say, I feel that test matches are won by bowlers. Even if your batsmen score a thousand runs, if your bowlers cannot get the other team out, the match is drawn. You may have the moral victory but it's still recorded as a stalemate in the books. In many a situation, I have seen teams being criticized for playing for the draw instead of going for the win. I don't agree. Drawing a test match against a superior bowling team, denies the other team an easy win. I think it's better than losing a match in the "cause" of winning.

There are two main factors affecting the outcome of a test match - Bowlers and the pitch. In the shorter versions, there arerestrictions on the maximum number of overs a bowler can bowl. So I can bat out the 10 overs of one bowler getting only 20 runs off them and then slam 270 runs from the other 40 overs. In a test match, a formidable bowler becomes even more formidable. There is nothing on earth except his own fitness that will stop him from coming at you over after over and end over end. Who can forget what Agarkar and Kumble did a few years back in Australia. If not for their wickets, all of India's storied batting efforts would have been in vain.Spinners play a very significant role in tests. They were responsible for the rise of subcontinent teams in the world of cricket. One of my friends wrote about "Kumble's metronome and Warne's dulcet". Indeed. The spinners lull you into a rhythm which makes the settled batsman on his way to a century, get a little too comfortable. And then bang comes the googly or doosra or whatever the spinner might pull out of his hat.

The pitch - it does have an effect on the shorter games too, but not very significant because through 100 overs the degradation is not considerable enough to affect gameplay. In tests, the pitch in the first over will be worlds apart from the same pitch in over number four hundred. A captain has a lot to think about in a test match. And the game allows him, gives him enough time to think. If he makes a mistake, there is enough time to recover. It is sometimes surprising to note how forgiving this unforgiving game actually is.But what distinguishes test cricket from all other versions of the game, is the concept of closure. The concept that you don't win unless you get 22 wickets is brilliant. A victory in an ODI is a win on that day. But exercising all your options to win a 5-day test match makes that victory decisive and totally unambiguous.

This very concept,closure, is what makes another game very interesting to watch - Baseball. There are 9 players in the starting roster of each team for a baseball game. There are 9 innings in total. Each inning for each team lasts until three batters are out. The home team always bats second. So top of the first inning is played by the visitor and the bottom of the first inning by the home team. After every three outs the teams switch batting/fielding. Hitting a six square foot strike zone from 60 feet away is not easy. It is the responsibility of the starting pitcher to ensure that he gives away very few runs, while trying to get every opponent out with the fewest number of pitches.

Though a baseball throw is called a pitch, the pitch (ground) does not play a significant role in affecting gameplay, because the ball travels through nothing but air from the pitcher's hand to the catcher's mitt. A good pitcher has several wepaons in his arsenal. A 95+ mph fastball, an 85+mph slider, an 70-80mph change-up, a knucklecurve or a screwball. He tunes his pitches according to the batter he's facing. The starting pitcher usually lasts around 100 pitches. If he's good enough he would last through the 7th or 8th inning, before the 100 pitch mark.Then come the relief pitchers and the "closers" (I love this terminology). The closer has only one objective, if his team has a lead (has scored more runs than the opponents till now), he should get the remaining outs without giving up the lead, thus ensuring victory for his team. Such an act is called a 'save'. Closers do not have five different types of pitches in their bag. They throw just two types, say a fastball and a cutter. But their mastery of those two pitches is what is decisive. Famed Yankee closer Mariano Rivera ('Sandman') has a devastating cutter which has broken the bats of several left-handed batters. But the match ends only when you get the 3 outs at the end of the inning.

Like test cricket, I find this aspect of baseball to be the most fascinating one. Whatever you do, you don't win until you get 27 outs. There is no restriction like an ODI. If the scores are level at the bottom of the 9th inning, the match goes on, until one of the teams has a lead at the end of their inning. I have seen matches that went down the wire, with a final score of 3-2,after 14 innings of play. That's what it's all about. Once you take all the wickets, get all the outs, you have ensured that no one is in doubt as to who won the duel. Sadly in cricket, bowlers do not get as much credit as pitchers do in baseball.

Well, that one needs to be discussed another day I guess.

The Titans of Sport

2007-10-31T12:55:00.000-07:00

People always compare one sports icon against another. I've watched in stupified wonder as sportsmen from every sport getelevated onto the pedestal of greatness. I can't say I disagree with most of them (in fact...any of them). The latest addition to the pedestal is none other than Brett Favre. For those of you going "Who farted?", he is the quarterback of the NFL Team "The Greenbay Packers". He's been leading the green-and-yellow army from behind the line of scrimmage, for the past 17 seasons.

According to the american football purists, his throwing action is not mechanically sound, but he throws bullets and bombs and they land into the receivers' hands most of the time. The packers' wide receiver Donald Driver's gnarled fingers speak volumes about Brett Favre's power. Get this - every single finger has been broken or dislocated at one time or the other, trying to catch Favre's 60+mph fireballs.

Favre passed the all-time touchdown record this season, crowning his illustrious career. The friendly commentators on ESPN lost no time in comparing him to the likes of Tiger Woods (uh..oh) and Michael Jordan (UH..OH). One of my friends went ballistic when MJ was mentioned in the same breath as the others. Since I don't follow basketball and haven't seen MJ play, I'll leave him out of this scrutinizing operation. He has wings, so comparing him to the other mortals is unfair anyway. Let me throw in a couple of other greats in there as well - Michael Schumacher, Sachin Tendulkar and Roger Federer, and proceed with my myopic, skewed report.

Each one of them has produced great performances which left the crowd in open-mouthed awe. Tiger's chip to win the masters' in Augusta. Sachin's peerless back to back gems in Sharjah. Favre's 400 yard, 4 touchdown game against the Raiders the day after his father passed away. Federer's 2006 Wimbledon series - not a set lost until the final where he decimated Nadal, sweet revenge for his French open loss. Schumi's impeccable drive from pole to win the 2000 driver's championship at Suzuka despite having lost the lead to Hakkinen, when it had boiled down to the last race between him and Mika. They are all beasts, pushing the human envelope as far as it can go.

It's interesting to see how other people, teammates or otherwise, came into the picture to cut some of their stellar performances short. For Sachin, there's Rahul Dravid or Sourav Ganguly ready to run him out. For Favre, there's the offensive lineman who couldn't hold onto his block. For Schumi, there were the Zontas, the backmarkers intent on ignoring the blue flag and crashing into him. Tiger and Roger have no one to blame for their failure. They are out there all alone. No excuses. Roger atleast has the rare umpire making a wrong call on a matchpoint. But Tiger has absolutely no human influence ready to wreck his performance on the field.

When it comes to their performances translating into major victories, Favre and Sachin have not satisfied the critics. Favre has been to the superbowl twice, won one and lost the other. Sachin was instrumental in taking the Indians to the World Cup final, but couldn't win it for them. They have been criticized widely for their lack of "results". Schumi, Tiger and Roger on the other hand have an array of championships and wins, which when stacked up would undoubtedly stretch from the earth to the moon and back.

Being at the top has its own disadvantages. All of them have had some controversies plaguing their careers at various points intime, but in no way do they cast a negative influence on what they have achieved or are capable of achieving. It's also difficult to single out the best among them. Each sport has its own difficulties. F1 has danger written all over it. In the NFL, a blinsided tackle from a linebacker could put you in a coma or leave you maimed for life. Anyone who has tried to play golf will swear to the fact that the golf ball has a mind of its own. and you only need to watch a game of tennis or cricket in person, to appreciate what these people are up against.

No matter what the critics say - that overtaking manoeuvre, that crosscourt backhand, that 262 yard drive stopping dead right next to the hole, that cover drive and that split-second 55 yard touchdown pass, make the latest plasma TV you bought, worth its weight in gold.

Pot of Gold

2006-12-18T07:22:00.000-08:00

The gold diggers in good ol' California battled the elements and each other to glean a few nuggets. You need not endure so much pain for gold, thanks to cable television. A few creative heads collaborated on how to best spend a truckload of money pumped in by sponsors, and came up with the funniest game show on television. They call it "Thanga Vettai (The Hunt for Gold)".

The only way to capture the attention of the average remote-toting tamilian is to show some skin. So they hired a pretty actress to be the anchor. What if the remote-toter was a lady? Well, they've got it covered. The anchor wears outlandish outfits (pardon the alliteration) and gold ballasts for balance. Having thus ensured the undivided attention of a whole family for 30 minutes, the creative geniuses designed the show as follows.

A single family plays the game show each week. The anchor yells her throat out until the participants become accustomed to the noise level. She then asks difficult questions that can stump veteran quizzers. Some real gems include: 'What is the language chiefly spoken in the state of Tamilnadu?'. Believe or not, there are participants who search the convoluted alleys of their brains to find the wrong answer. So they even offer four choices - Tamil, German, French, English.

The ever-so-innocent participant, misled by the naming of movies produced in Kollywood, says with a bright smile, "English". The anchor grills him with a questioning glance and are-you-sures, which only serves to make him think that she's trying to rob him of the gold he deserves. He sticks to his brilliant answer, thereby getting a paltry prize of just 187 grams of gold, as opposed to the 236 grams he could have won, had we given the correct answer.

The lady participant, chiding her soulmate with local expletives, then proceeds to leer at the insane amount of jewellery that the anchor's wearing. She reads from a prepared script 'Your saree is as beautiful as you'. No one read the obituary column the next day which mentioned a certain saree-maker hanged himself to death.
The anchor says, 'Oh..thank you', that being the cue for the camera to zoom in on the anchor's facial hair, to let us all ogle dreamily at the saree, jewellery and eighteen inches of makeup.

The irony of the situation notwithstanding, the participant is asked for feedback and he replies, ignoring his conscience if any, 'This program improves our general knowledge'. Yeah right. I realy don't know how people manage to sit through this charade, week after week, envying the winners and vicariously enjoying the prizes to be their own. These are the times when people are rewarded for stupidity. Bozoism is in to stay. In-duh-viduals rule the planet.

Don't even get me started on the accented-english speaking philanthrophists who swarm these programs, publicising their so called social entrepreneurial ventures. Hardly do they realise that their expenditure on lipstick for a month can provide food for a hundred. But that story is for another day. Let me give you a break to ruminate on what you just read.

At last...I've done the unthinkable!

2006-11-06T06:41:00.000-08:00

Before you let your thoughts run riot, I'll let you know that this is not about any activity that would cause social stigma but actually about Formula One.

The Flying Finn (atleast after Mika left F1) Kimi Raikkonen is gonna drive a Ferrari in 2007. Poof goes my 5 year loyalty towards McLaren, with all those Ferrari-hating, bad-mouthing-the-tifosi days. I've switched loyalties. At the risk of being called a quisling by the folks at Woking (too many "ing"s dontcha think?), I finally am ready to don the scarlet cape and take the solemn oath at Maranello. Trust the brits no more, my conscience says.

In my opinion, McLaren began its downslide right after Mika left. But they roped in young Kimi, favoring him over the more experienced Nick Heidfeld. He proved his mettle, coming out as a contender for the championship. Sadly though, McLaren never won a race after Adrian Newey left the team. Also Kimi was left stranded in the middle of the tarmac many a time, thanks to the wonderful Mercedes-Benz engines, which had mastered the art of coughing and dying when they are most needed. The McLaren car is definitely one of the best looking cars on the circuit, but F1 is not a sport where looks matter.

Now that "all-time-great" Schumi is resting his shoes at last,(Though there's a tinge of sarcasm and hatred in this sentence, I respect Schumi a lot for what he's achieved) Ferrari has got the perfect replacement.

The prancing horse - Ferrari's immoral icon, worshipped by tifosi(hard core Ferarri fans - for the uninitiated), is so characteristic of Kimi's driving style that they ought to have picked him right off the block. He is no Schumi, who will cruise along sedately to stand second, given a jittery car. He is like his predecessor Mika Hakkinen, ruthless in driving the car to its absolute limits. You can hear the engine crying and begging for dear life, while the traction control kicks in and rockets the car out of the corner. Not to mention the chassis rumbling as the gears tumble down, before screaming away on another doggone straight.

I can't wait for the 2007 season to start. You'll be seeing red, all over the place. Here's a toast to Ferrari and the prancing horse.

Carnatic Music and Heavy Metal

2006-08-14T08:35:00.000-07:00

I can already see the purists rushing to flame me, for comparing a divine, graceful art to something that appeals more to one's baser instincts. But despite these two forms of music being worlds apart in most of their functional aspects, I can see atleast one common link between them.
Let me start with Carnatic music first. Though people have been grumbling that it has no effect on the layman and is an esoteric art which can be enjoyed only by a trained few, I beg to differ. I have known/seen plenty of people attending a carnatic music concert for the first time and having a good time. They have a lot to look for and their interest is piqued by the lyrics and the various timbres of the instruments, though they don't comprehend the technical aspects. The sharp but calming notes of Bhoopalam which would make any morning sweeter to wake up to; the fast paced Bhilahari; the sheer beauty of Reethigowla; the austere tones of Thodi; Subhapantuvarali that can move you to tears; Bhairavi that can make you forget that you even exist; all these raagas do have their effect even if you don't know their names. If you don't believe me, you can hear Dr.Ramani playing sindhu bhairavi on the base flute and I can guarantee that your eyes will be moist when it's over.
In spite of the fact that carnatic music involves a lot of mind bending calculations and permutations, it still appeals to the uniniated viewer because it is "physical" music, that which can tug at your heartstrings.
Note the word "physical" here, because metal/hard rock is another physical form of music which affects its audience with an entirely different approach but the results being the same. Speakers that can blast you into outer space and electric guitars that can melt your face and throaty vocals thrown in for good measure...these are essential of a metal concert. You can never brace yourself enough for the drumbeat that kickstarts the concert; you'll never know what hit you. You can feel your heart thumping and a crazy desire to dance your shoes off and wail till your lungs can't take it anymore. Don't believe me? Try hearing Metallica do their "The Memory Remains" LIVE...you'll go mad when the crowd joins in on the immortal chorus "ta nanana ta nana tanana tana nana naa".
It's true that you can enjoy carnatic music more when you get to know it deeply, but even otherwise it promises an auditory and physical treat, whereas the metallic one is more physical than auditory.
Well, that's about it. Do reach out and try to taste these two kinds of music, I'm sure you'll relish both of them - Whether it's curd rice with mango pickle or spicy chicken biryani, a full stomach is guaranteed.

Throwing the Pigskin

2006-08-02T11:10:00.000-07:00

American football. I bet you would have guffawed at the mere mention of that sport. 'Come on man...they call it football and you see them holding it in their arms and running like madmen' - I've heard this comment from hundreds of people. And I was one among them, before I got to learn the rules of the game, watch it and then eventually play it (okay..a mini-version of it atleast). The real reason why it's called a football is that the ball (if you can call it that) is exactly one foot in length - from tip to tip. Makes sense..doesn't it?

The uniniated human being who watches an NFL telecast can be forgiven for thinking that he/she is witnessing mayhem of the highest degree, wrapped in a sporty, fashionable package. Three hundred pound mountains of flesh charging at each other and hitting the ball-carrier like a battering ram, doesn't leave much to one's imagination. But you'll be surprised to know that football (which means American football, for the rest of the story) requires a very high level of strategy, technical know-how, off-the-bat decision making and co-ordination. It is a punishing sport. Half a second or half an inch can lie between an escape route to glory and a broken spine.

The thrill of watching a 70 yard pass falling like a feather into the receiver's hands as he runs to the endzone, is akin that of watching Sachin's straight drive, Beckham's 25 yard curler or Senna's qualifying lap. Throwing the pigskin (yep..that's what it used to be made of..not sure about now though) is an art in itself. You will end up spending frustrating hours trying to throw it farther than ten yeards, while ending-up looking like a girl who just threw her doll away. But once you get the hang of it (I'm glad I did) you'll love it. The sickening thud of the ball landing in your receiver's hands..forty yards away, will make you crave for more.

My roommate...a sports freak not unlike me, readily took to the sport and we spent many an evening throwing the football around, running like crazy to catch the "bombs" (the really long passes), shoulders strained by fifty yard launches, fingers and palms numbed by the ball hitting hard while you catch it. And boy...was it exhilarating!

The internet has a lot of information on the rules of the game. NFL season is coming up, watch the game and you'll know the difference. I'll explain the basic rules of the game in my upcoming blogs.

Gunners go down in style

2006-05-19T01:34:00.000-07:00

Have you ever witnessed an english castle under siege from conquistadors armed to the teeth? The final of the UEFA championship league final at Paris looked quite similar to that. Reduced to ten men very early in the match, Arsenal had all of its men lurking on their own side of the field. Ten yellow jerseys galloped around in pure defense and any kick across the half-line was uncontested and retrieved back by one dutifully stationed catalunyan or the other.

There were several factors that contributed to the loss.

When you are arguably the best goalkeeper in the world, in excellent touch and have been chosen to lead your country's defence in the impending war for the world cup, you don't want to do what Jens Lehmann did. Lehmann ran forward as a fierce Samuel Eto'o was driving the ball in towards the box and the defenders were helplessly pacing along. Eto'o being the clever guy he is, flipped the ball to the right at the last moment, just out of the reach of a diving Lehmann. Having missed the ball completely, Lehmann grabbed at whatever came his way and unfortunately it was Eto'o's foot. Though the ball was driven into the goal, the referee blew the whistle and pointed to the place where Eto'o was taken down. Lehmann was shown the red card promptly, a key event in my opinion which contributed to Arsenal's downfall. The goals scored by Barca fooled the substitute goalie Almunia, but I doubt they would have got them through Lehmann.

Henry looked pretty much like Michael Owen in Euro 2004, stranded near the opponent's box, with none of his teammates to assist. Within five minutes of the start, Arsenal missed a golden opportunity. Henry's kick deflected off the body of the Barca goalie Victor Valdes. In the resulting corner, Henry chose to do the honours himself rather than a curling kick onto his teammates' heads. I wouldn't doubt his decision, as his kick was a perfect one, with juicy pace and a cunning swerve. The only mistake was that it found Victor Valdes' hands with ease, or rather the other way around. That goal would've changed things a lot. A 2-0 lead at halftime would probably have bogged down the catalunyans under pressure.

Two gunners misfired badly, performing far under their capabilities. Arsene Wenger soptted that of course. Robert Pires was taken out when Lehmann got his ceremonial send off. And the spaniard Fabregas who played admirably in the preceding matches was just not upto it today. He was also taken off later. Freddie Ljungberg played superbly, with amazing pace and almost scored a goal after stealing the ball within the box. On the Barcans' side, though Ronaldinho could not weave his usual magic, others contributed significantly in their own ways. The superb deflection by Hendrik Larsson played a primary role in Eto'os equaliser. With the scores tied at 1-1 and Arsenal looking like a confused bunch, I was praying for a 0-0 extra time score and the resulting penalty shootout. All my hopes were soon razed by the second goal from Belletti, who came good in the second half.

End result - I stayed up till 2 in the morning only to see my expression of joy fade into disappointment and flare into anger. The day was Barcelon'as lucky day. However if you ask me,I would bet that if only Arsenal had played with 11 men, the result would've been quite different. But I am an Arsenal fan. What do I know?

Best way to spend a rainy saturday morning

2006-03-19T16:10:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was one of the worst mornings I woke up to. We all had a late dinner on friday night and bantered past 2am. I was definitely not prepared to wake up before noon. But my phone rang at eight in the morning and Karthik told me that we were late for the cricket match. We were supposed to be there at eight, apparently. Maggy(Mahendra) wouldn't wake up to my judo chop. Anyhow, due to Karthik's persistent efforts, six sleepyheads managed to wake up and step outside.
We drove in two cars to Sunset park. Two guys were leaving already, "tired" from an hour of playing cricket. (Who in hell would get tired after an hour of playing cricket?) Anyway, the weather was not helping at all. It was damn cold and the wind was unforgiving. But fanatics as we were, we started playing, four players a side. The pitch and the outfield were good.
The rain stopped after a few overs and we were in full swing. My best moment came when I got the ball for the last over, looking to get the last wicket, before they scored a paltry TWO runs to victory. My slick inswinger managed to pass the gate and the greedy batsman was bowled. Hmmm...I couldn't help looking back at the days of crazy cricket in college.
After playing a couple more matches, we got onto the car for the drive back home. Now, I am not a big fan of Alla Rakha Rahman, but his music in "Fanaa" from the movie "Aidha Ezhuthu" is simply mind numbing. The car stereo output was nearing saturation as we turned up the volume and the heat. We couldn't even hear our own throaty versions of the chorus. We landed at the local Starbucks outpost for a hot cofee break and then went on home, having made short work of a saturday morning that looked, at the outset, boring.

The Mob culture

2006-02-08T23:11:00.000-08:00

Ever wondered how frail, seemingly innocuous guys, who might sometimes be mistaken for the roadside mongrel's midday snack, get transformed into ruthless, fearless villains who could give Superfriends a run for their hard-earned dollar? One moment, they are the epitome of shyness and reticence, and in the very next, they balloon into some mutated cousin of Godzilla. The reason why this happens is, neither a typical pakistani reaction on having lost a cricket match to India for the umpteenth time, nor the effect of watching a horror movie on a white cloth tied between two palm trees, but rather what shrinks affectionately call "Mob psychology".

Let me tell you a little story. There was this old guy who had nothing left in the world and decided to pack off to kingdom come. The only thing he did during his lifetime was to sire four worthless dolts. At the time of his departure, these dolts happened to wander by his bedside. That's when a thought struck him (before you jump to conclusions, no one dies when struck by a thought, unless it's written on the bumper of a water tanker). Wanting to "educate" his sons about the most valuable virtue men should posses (it's not "Choosing the right deodorant"), he went on to demonstrate the stick-breaking exercise, which we have all heard in kindergarten. But there ends the story, or so we've heard. What we haven't heard is even more stale.

This is where I decided to start my research. I consulted some top notch historians, the kind who can recall what a gentle old man in a remote village had for supper on Christmas eve, but give three answers after a five minute deliberation when asked for their date of birth. According to these experts, those four dolts in the story were the first in the history of the universe to form the Mob culture (I wonder if it can be called "culture"). Dolts they were, when apart, but they transmogrified into Lightning bolts when together. The company of fellow non-entities gave them an illusion that together, they formed an entity that commanded respect and fear.

And when they cannot create that fear in people's minds by themselves, they get help from external sources. Whenever there's a natural disaster(like an earthquake), or a man-made one (like the invasion of Iraq), the first ones to loot every place in sight, are these vandals. Keep them alone and they will die of morbid fear and utter confusion.

Most of the violence that you see on the eight o' clock news, is the handiwork of such hooligans, who would be tame as a lamb when isolated. Practically nothing can be done to avoid their onslaught. As long there are losers in this world, the mob culture will thrive. When they are nonplussed by a situation that warrants careful thought and decision, they react in the only way known to them. Strike! You should never ever doubt what you should do when you accidentally meet one of these bands. There is only one answer. Scoot!

If you are a socially conscious citizen who hates the sight (or smell) of such mob characters, all I can tell you is, "Keep it up buddy, they deserve it!". Or, on the other hand, if you are one of the sheep waiting to be transformed into monsters, all I can tell you is, "I didn't write this article".

Birds of Steel

2006-01-17T22:32:00.000-08:00

The highlight of my trip to Seattle (which is one of the rainiest cities in the US), was the visit to the Boeing factory in Everett, 30 miles north of Seattle. I rented a Pontiac from the airport and steered it northwards on Interstate 5, with the rain pouring down incessantly.

I reached the Boeing factory in about half an hour and entered the 'Future of Flight' gallery. It had some interesting exhibits - the vertical tail fin of a Boeing 747 jumbo jet, a fuselage section of the latest 787 dreamliner and a cockpit of the venerable 727 trijet. There were other people, but very few since it was a weekday. After a brief video, we boarded the tour bus, which took us across the highway to the factory.

The factory in Everett is where Boeing manufactures its widebody aircraft - the famed 747, 767 and the latest 777 jets. It has the largest building in the world by volume. Imagine 98 acres under a single roof! It was an awesome sight. One third of a mile wide and seven tenths of a mile long, this behemoth has a total volume of 472 million cubic feet. Walking through one of the longest walkways along its width, I strained my eyes to see the light at the other end.

We took elevators to two catwalks, to see the 777s being constructed. I was thrilled to see one of the latest and safest aircrafts being made from scratch. Their 200 foot wingspans seemed small, housed within the mammoth facility. The building has six huge doors, 300 feet wide, which slide open to roll out finished birds for painting and flight testing. After an hour, we were dropped back at the Future of Flight gallery. I grabbed a quick bite at the cafeteria and went back to my friend's house, with a snap-fit model of a 747, having made quick work of a bleak rainy day.

I got hooked into this whole aircraft thing a year ago, when I started playing Microsoft Flight Simulator. Now plane spotting is one of my hobbies. I am a regular at the Founder's Plaza in Dallad Fortworth international airport on weekends, to see aircraft landing and taking off. Believe me, there's nothing more awe-inspiring and more graceful than a 500 ton aircraft lifting itself up into the air and climbing away into the blue sky, leaving an open mouthed, half-deaf bystander in its wake.

When you know more about them, you'll never see airplanes the same way again. The birds of steel(actually aluminium) really rule the sky. Think about this - a Boeing aircraft takes off every 3.5 seconds, somewhere in the world. There....that's the next one.

The City that never sleeps

2005-09-08T09:56:00.000-07:00

1) The reassuring view of the ever so tall concrete giant - The Empire State Building.

2) The mornings spent walking towards my office, enjoying the views of midtown manhattan.

3) Standing in queue for a five dollar lunch at the roadside Indian food stall.

4) The lazy evening ride in the subway, spent reading many a novel and looking at beautiful fellow female travelers.

5) The chinese restaurant around the corner, where the waiter doesn't speak a single word in english.

6) The blustery evenings with my hands and feet frozen into a rock, the crisp wind striking in unforgiving gusts.

7) The weekend trips to New Jersey to satisfy my insatiable thirst to play cricket.

8) The hours spent gazing at the steel maze of downtown manhattan.

9) The joy of grouping up with friends and roaming around Brooklyn Bridge.

10) Weekend movies at Loews, thinking of very similar weekend nights at Satyam, back home.

11) The breathtaking view from the top of the Empire State Building.

12) The fireworks display on July 4th.

13) The week spent jailed in my room, down with chicken pox.

14) My roommates who helped me through it and who were brave enough to let me stay in the house and not get admitted to a hospital.

15) Fights on who would win baseball and football matches.

16) Watching the India vs Pak World cup match for the zillionth time.

17) Sleepless nights working on production problems.

18) Watching Manhattan sail by as my flight took off for Dallas.

These are but few memories of New York, which will remain etched in my mind forever.

Mean Machines

2005-07-03T21:27:00.000-07:00

Cumulonimbus clouds loomed overhead as I stepped out from the airport and hailed a cab.
'To the Raceway', I half-shouted even as I jumped in. I watched the highways and landscape of Indiana roll by the cab sailed along. 'It's pretty close, the race starts in 15 minutes', said the driver. 'Yeah I know, couldn't get an earlier flight', I grumbled.

As we rounded a corner, I could hear voices chanting in unison, and about a hundred yards ahead of me, I saw the the imposing structure of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. I paid off the cab and started running towards the gate. The chanting was in full flow now, the national anthem was being sung religiously. Just as the anthem concluded, five F-16 jets screamed across the raceway, sending a shiver down my spine as I felt my adrenaline surging already.

I got my ticket punched and asked for directions to my stand. It was already late and there were less then five minutes to go. I ran at full speed, out of breath, my backpack hanging precariously from my shoulder. Finally I reached my stand and took my place at the seat.

Having made it in to the race in record time, I waited with bated breath and camera in hand for my dream to come true.

The giant screen in front of me showed twenty of the meanest machines, aligned on the grid, waiting to spring out on their warmup lap. The speakers gave out the whines, drones and sputters of those powerful engines. A voice boomed from the loudspekers, 'The cars are out on their warmup lap'. People started getting up and holding their cameras in position, craning their necks for a better view.

A distant hum slowly amplified into a deafening whine as the red and white Toyota of Jarno Trulli and the silver McLaren of Kimi Raikkonen, made a grand entry into my field of vision. What a sight! I had waited for years for this moment. I am unable to find words to express the feeling.

The roar of their engines was unlike any other sound I had ever heard. I could feel the vibrations bashing my eardrums as the crowd rose and cheered their heroes, who held the whips of those racing thoroughbreds. I cried "Go Kimi!!" at the top of my lungs, but even I couldn't hear it. It was as if the whole area was petrified, except for the cars which were roaring past in full armour.

One of my dreams came true that day and I will never forget that moment in my life. Though the race would eventually turn out to be a farce and only six cars ran the full length of the race (I cheered for Narain Karthikeyan and booed Schumi, notwithstanding some hostile glares from some friendly tifosi), it was the experience of a lifetime. I hope F-1 comes to India. It is as much an opportunity for a group outing with a bunch of friends as a major sporting event.

Having belled the CAT

2005-04-29T13:30:00.000-07:00

Ummm where was I ? Yeah..bed of roses and stuff. Makes me almost want to shift the topic to something else. But I'll stay on the trodden path, for the heck of it.

Now, our nerdish neighbour with the slick hair and thick glasses has cleared the CAT and what's more, gets calls from all six of the IIMs. And he's floating about on cloud cuckoo land, imagining himself in a Reebok ad, bellowing, "Impossible is nothing".

He attends the Group Discussion training classes, which are a travesty of the real meaning of the word. (In fact the GD for admission is no better). And he gobbles up every business magazine hanging at the local newsstand. And when the D-day arrives, he goes to the centre, decked in full sleeved white shirts, neat pressed trousers and a tie to boot, his mind set on getting into any of the six temples.

As he sits counting the seconds moving at a snail's pace, he sees around him the banes of the interview process. The huffy, high-headed and throaty-voiced guys, who come dressed in a full-wool blazer on a midsummer afternoon. The way they lift up their gold-rimmed glasses with the tip of their forefinger and the way they rattle out OR and Management keywords, puts fear into our young hero's heart. He just sits there, flabbergasted, wondering if what he has prepared till now is enough. Amidst such apparent giants, who might even be mistaken for IIM grads, he never stood even a slim chance. Or atleast so he thinks.

And the GD, which on 99% of the cases, is a living, moving. noisy caricature of a fish market within four walls and a ceiling, only adds oil to the already burning fire of despair.

If by any chance if he goofs up the GD, he ends up regretting it through the rest of the day, including the interview process. And during the interview, when he tries to recollect what the experts at the training institutes said, he usually finds that they are of no relevance now. Now it was his moment and everything had to be dynamic and off the cuff. Not to mention the fact that, the characters who tookthe interview before him, were smiling ear to ear and laughing the whole thing away. This in spite of the fact that they had totally lost it, behind those closed doors.

With so many mind games being played, it is indeed very difficult to be composed and talk what it takes to get what one wants. That is why you find people with six calls, losing out on all of them and people with just one, capitalising on it. I know a friend who made it into IIM Bangalore, with just a call, and others who couldn't salvage one out of four.

So, in the end, what does it take to get into these great schools with high columns and wide hallways?

We'll talk about that soon.

The Fateful Feline

2005-04-13T23:13:00.000-07:00

Not long ago I gaped in open mouthed awe, at the dapper guy who was mumbling strategies to clear the highest hurdle of them all. The CAT.

For the uninitiated, that is the Common Aptitude Test - the Indian equivalent of GMAT, but a gazillion times tougher than that. And being a witness and a victim to that merciless killing machine, I mused on the various factors: hammers and anvils that shaped it so.

1) Sheer numbers - Now, if there's something that is growing faster than the Chinese economy and the death count in the Iraq war, it is the Indian population. An incredible 130,000 individuals appear for the CAT every year. And the number of seats available in the IIMs (Indian Institutes of Management) is very less. So since the playing field is bigger, scoring a goal is that much tougher, leave alone finding where the goal is.

2) Coaching Institutes - The numerous coaching institutes that have proliferated the urban life of most Indian cities and towns have a terrible part to play. On the very first day, they tell you, "The CAT is not for the faint-hearted". A few souls faint that very moment. For the money they squeeze out from the students, thye have to mouth some technical, strategical mumbo jumbo. though a few useful points also come up, they give a lot of shit too. Like trying to quantify everything. The student ends up confused, battling for his life and often, despair is the only result.

3) Time - Whoever created the framework for the examination must've been a genius. He brought in a crucial factor called time, into play. A mere two hours for a hundred and fifty questions is definitely going to spice up things. When you're taking the test, for the first time in your life, the clock always seems to be ticking faster. Within those two hours, you have to prove your "ability" in three different areas, verbal, quantitative and analytical sections. Actually it's really cool. Doesn't give an unfair advantage to people who are masters at one of the areas, but zero in the others. I've heard of people acing all practice tests and then after frying for two hours in the furnace, come out with their brains cooked to the point of no return. It is silly that something as simple as a test, would do things to you, that you've never imagined anything would do to anything else.

4) Peers - This is the factor which I hate most. I am surprised at how many people get demoralised, looking at some bloke who manages to ace every other mock test or practice test. And those who go about as if they have already graduated from the IIMs with an MBA and a PhD to boot. Everyone is getting a shot at this feline, why the heck should one worry about other hunters? But most people do and end up having a lesser image of themselves.

And countless other factors all contrive to make it as difficult as possible for the poor guy or girl next door.

And if you think life is a bed of roses if you clear the test, nobody can be further mistaken than you.

Will come to that later.. Gotta scoot now. Back to work!

Nativity

2005-04-08T12:35:00.000-07:00

December 3rd, 1981

The house was quiet as it usually is. The old lady was sitting and praying in a corner of the main hall. Everyone glanced in her direction whenever they passed by. She had predicted that her great grandson would be born on that very day. And she looked pretty confident that it would happen without fail. The others didn't share her confidence. But they were worried that the old lady would feel bad if her prediction turned out to be false. So the atmosphere was charged.

After its tiresome journey throughout the day, the sun had sunk deep into the western sky. When it was almost midnight, there was commotion in the house. The granddaughter was moved quickly to the hospital.

December 4th, 1981

Exactly 9 minutes after midnight, I was born. I was the first of my generation in our family, and surprisingly everyone looked delighted while I was crying my lungs out. I remember I stopped crying for a few seconds, puzzled by this apparent paradox, and then said to myself "Oh! for the heck of it" and continued bellowing. Well, that day must have been pretty eventful. Whichever direction I turned I saw faces, faces and more faces. I thought, "Wow, this sure is some place I've got myself into".

Needless to say my great grandma was delighted and everyone in the house was treated to delicious sweets, thanks to my timely arrival.

Well, that sums up what I remember about my initial days. At that time, whoever thought that this baby would become one of the....well, I'll come to that part when its chronological turn comes.