...are believed to finish last.
But could it be really true that they are running an entirely different race perhaps?
Friday, December 08, 2006
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Wednesday morning, 11:00 AM - II
Working from home is strange at times.
Slept at 3 in the night (nothing quite unusual about that), woke up at 10 (now that's unusual). And decided to put some freshly washed utensils to good use. Seriously, how often does one get to make omelettes on a Wednesday morning? And though there is always some confusion about the required cooking resources in this house, it's surprising how much can one achieve without knowing the location of salt and chilly within the premises.
And for a while I will even ignore the fact that the following conversation took place between my flatmate and myself before I proceeded with cooking --
Self (with a greasy bottle which has some yellow liquid in it): "Hey man, is this cooking oil?"
Flatmate: "I believe so"
Self (eyeing the bottle with suspicion): "You sure? This ain't rat poison, is it? Cuz it smells funny"
Flatmate: "But there are lots of things in this house that smell funny..."
Self (all suspicions removed, and convinced about the humor content of things in our house): "Perfect, funny or serious, cooking oil it is..."
I was making an omelette after more than two years today. And my vague memory was telling me that salt should be one of the ingredients. But that brings us back to the existential question: "Where is salt in this house?". "The kitchen" is what some would answer. Very funny. I spent the next five minutes opening every bottle which had some white powder in it (thank heavens we don't do cocaine) and actually tasting it. Couldn't come to a logical conclusion though and decided to try my luck with the eggs in their purest form - No salt, no chilly, no onions. Ever heard of unadulterated eggs? Before this morning, even I hadn't.
The ultra-pure concoction was edible. With ketch-up of course. The person who invented ketch-up definitely had similar difficulties in finding salt in his/her house. How else would one come up with such a perfect substitute?
And now, it's time to get back to work, on this uncalled "holiday" bang in the middle of the week...
Slept at 3 in the night (nothing quite unusual about that), woke up at 10 (now that's unusual). And decided to put some freshly washed utensils to good use. Seriously, how often does one get to make omelettes on a Wednesday morning? And though there is always some confusion about the required cooking resources in this house, it's surprising how much can one achieve without knowing the location of salt and chilly within the premises.
And for a while I will even ignore the fact that the following conversation took place between my flatmate and myself before I proceeded with cooking --
Self (with a greasy bottle which has some yellow liquid in it): "Hey man, is this cooking oil?"
Flatmate: "I believe so"
Self (eyeing the bottle with suspicion): "You sure? This ain't rat poison, is it? Cuz it smells funny"
Flatmate: "But there are lots of things in this house that smell funny..."
Self (all suspicions removed, and convinced about the humor content of things in our house): "Perfect, funny or serious, cooking oil it is..."
I was making an omelette after more than two years today. And my vague memory was telling me that salt should be one of the ingredients. But that brings us back to the existential question: "Where is salt in this house?". "The kitchen" is what some would answer. Very funny. I spent the next five minutes opening every bottle which had some white powder in it (thank heavens we don't do cocaine) and actually tasting it. Couldn't come to a logical conclusion though and decided to try my luck with the eggs in their purest form - No salt, no chilly, no onions. Ever heard of unadulterated eggs? Before this morning, even I hadn't.
The ultra-pure concoction was edible. With ketch-up of course. The person who invented ketch-up definitely had similar difficulties in finding salt in his/her house. How else would one come up with such a perfect substitute?
And now, it's time to get back to work, on this uncalled "holiday" bang in the middle of the week...
Wednesday morning, 11:00 AM - I
Working from home is strange at times. Specially if it is an uncalled for "holiday" bang in the middle of the week. An entire state is shut down today. Because someone who wrote a part of our constitution was born on this day. A day that should mark more frantic activity towards a better (remember "Secular, Democratic, Republic" ?) India, is the day when there is an almost red alert in the financial capital. Some residents of Dadar area decided to evacuate their houses for a day because of the crowd coming in ( we are yet to understand that "free for all" is not quite the same as "Secular, Democratic, Republic"). It's almost surprisingly disturbing how the most active city can become the most helpless in times like these.
A statue of 6th December's birthday boy was violated in Kanpur last week, and that resulted in high drama in Mumbai. Statues taking priority over statutes. People are asked not to roam around unless absolutely essential. Not to do business unless absolutely essential. Not to be caught in the line of fire unless absolutely essential ("Secular, Democratic, Republic").
Converting a city into a fuckin' sanitarium is an art in itself. And we all are pretty talented artists.
A statue of 6th December's birthday boy was violated in Kanpur last week, and that resulted in high drama in Mumbai. Statues taking priority over statutes. People are asked not to roam around unless absolutely essential. Not to do business unless absolutely essential. Not to be caught in the line of fire unless absolutely essential ("Secular, Democratic, Republic").
Converting a city into a fuckin' sanitarium is an art in itself. And we all are pretty talented artists.
Or...
The misty air,
You stare in disbelief,
The poisoned wine,
Or the yellowed leaf.
The final race,
You try to fight,
The prisoned life,
Or the unending night.
The stillness around,
You grasp your dreams,
The chilling peace,
Or the shadowy gleams.
The silent pain,
You force a smile,
The graying rainbow,
Or the last mile.
The weakening magic,
You wave the wands,
The losing battle,
Or the changing lands.
The laughing hyena,
You pull the trigger,
The missing shots,
Or the tired grave-digger.
You stare in disbelief,
The poisoned wine,
Or the yellowed leaf.
The final race,
You try to fight,
The prisoned life,
Or the unending night.
The stillness around,
You grasp your dreams,
The chilling peace,
Or the shadowy gleams.
The silent pain,
You force a smile,
The graying rainbow,
Or the last mile.
The weakening magic,
You wave the wands,
The losing battle,
Or the changing lands.
The laughing hyena,
You pull the trigger,
The missing shots,
Or the tired grave-digger.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Amsterdam - Winter...
I had always believed (or was made to believe) that Amsterdam offers a whole host of casinos, pubs, shops, and a few places of cultural interest such as museums, art houses etc. And of course the typical Europian style streets and settings.
But what I didn't know about Amsterdam was it's country side. Very dutch. Very beautiful. Very picturesque. The moment I alighted the train to Zaanse Schans I could get the feeling that this is perhaps the stuff that our desktop wallpapers are made of. And after I had seen the snaps from my camera, the most logical thing was to indeed make one of those snaps as the desktop background...
"Zaanse Schans" means Windmill Village, and the picture on the left gives some indication of what the village is like. Never thought electricity generating machines could seem to fit in such serene surroundings...And now, I will just let the pictures do all the talking..
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