Saturday, June 18, 2016

The metro

It’s hot and humid. Even though it’s a weekday afternoon, the metro station is bustling. Where is everyone going? Why are they running? I’m not sure. But everyone is in such a hurry.
The train speeds and stops dead in its tracks, before the door there are lines that remind me of airport check ins on a Monday morning. Everyone is looking for something. The fun starts inside. So many humans, so many emotions.

Irritated old man in the corner, muttering under his breath. He’s not happy. His shoes are worn, his briefcase is torn, his feet are sore.. bad day at the office? Or maybe, he didn’t like his morning tea? Who knows, people get irritated. He’s not looking for anything. He’s irritated but he’s also content where he is.  He’s found it, the train gave it to him.

The young kids standing in the centre. Oh, he likes her. She looks like she likes him back. Ah! That innocent pat on his shoulder, “You’re so funny” she says. Yes, they are definitely flirting. You’re still in college, kids – don’t get too serious there, okay? She’s got nice hair, red highlights. It falls over her right eye covering it. I’m told that’s the new style. Sigh, strange are the ways of the world. I spend 15 minutes everyday making sure no hair comes in front of my eye. They’re looking for it too, but not too concerned. Interesting.

Ah, the aunties. Man, they’re happy. Shopping bags.. hmm… They seem to have gotten some nice stuff. Combination of showing off their clothes and harmless (?) gossip. Oh, did Mrs Chattopadhyay’s daughter really say that! No! She shouldn’t have. Ah Mrs Sharma, that’s a beautiful red kurta. Oh well, they seem to have found it. They’re okay too.

Oh, that guy is tired. He’s generously using that pole as his mattress. His music is keeping him going. Looking at the ground, sweat dripping from his forehead, pen and notebook in this pocket. Keeps checking his phone. Must be in sales. His eyes keep dodging around.. definitely looking for something.

Nice shoes. That guy looks rich. He’s taking the metro cause he finds it convenient. Nice, no hangups. He got in one station after me. He’s not found it either.

The three ladies I came into the metro with, they’ve found it. They’re just happy and relaxing. How can something so small, give so much happiness. Looks like they had a tiring day. I’m happy the train gives this to them too.

I’m also looking for it by the way. Oh wait, central station – a whole bunch of people leave it and go out. Run, dodge, excuse me, wait, hello, shift, little space… phew. I found it. Never thought I would enjoy it so much. 

Looks like everyone found it. And a new bunch came in at central looking for it. And the cycle continues.


The end.

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

PG Wodehouse - The brilliance lives on, in India!


There's this amazing community on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/groups/theseniorconservatives/) on PG Wodehouse. I've been an eternal fan of the man, and this group keeps reminding me of his brilliance.
A striking feature of this group is the number of Indians/Indian origin people active on this group. 

While it has been debated quite a bit, there are many reasons Indians love PGW's work I think this article by Shashi Tharoor sums it up perfectly. 

Original article here: http://www.theguardian.com/books/2002/jul/20/classics.pgwodehouse

It was at the Hay-on-Wye Festival of Literature a few years ago that I realised with horror how low the fortunes of PG Wodehouse had sunk in his native land. I was on stage for a panel discussion on the works of the Master when the moderator, a gifted and suave young literary impresario, began the proceedings by asking innocently, "So how do you pronounce it - is it Woad-house or Wood-house?"

Woadhouse? You could have knocked me over with the proverbial feather, except that Wodehouse himself would have disdained the cliche, instead describing my expression as, perhaps, that of one who "had swallowed an east wind" (Carry On, Jeeves, 1925). The fact was that a luminary at the premier book event in the British Isles had no idea how to pronounce the name of the man I regarded as the finest English writer since Shakespeare. I spent the rest of the panel discussion looking (to echo a description of Bertie Wooster's Uncle Tom) like a pterodactyl with a secret sorrow.

My dismay had Indian roots. Like many of my compatriots, I had discovered Wodehouse young and pursued my delight across the 95 volumes of the oeuvre, savouring book after book as if the pleasure would never end. When All India Radio announced, one sunny afternoon in February 1975, that Wodehouse had died, I felt a cloud of darkness settle over me. The newly (and belatedly) knighted Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse, creator of Jeeves and of the prize pig the Empress of Blandings, was in his 94th year, but his death still came as a shock. Every English-language newspaper in India carried it on their front pages; the articles and letters that were published in the following days about his life and work would have filled volumes.

Three decades earlier, Wodehouse had reacted to the passing of his stepdaughter, Leonora, with the numbed words: "I thought she was immortal." I had thought Wodehouse was immortal too, and I felt like one who had "drained the four-ale of life and found a dead mouse at the bottom of the pewter" (Sam the Sudden, also from that vintage year of 1925).
For months before his death, I had procrastinated over a letter to Wodehouse. It was a collegian's fan letter, made special by being written on the letterhead (complete with curly-tailed pig) of the Wodehouse Society of St Stephen's College, Delhi University. Ours was then the only Wodehouse Society in the world, and I was its president, a distinction I prized over all others in an active and eclectic extra-curricular life. The Wodehouse Society ran mimicry and comic speech contests and organised the annual Lord Ickenham Memorial Practical Joke Week, the bane of all at college who took themselves too seriously. The society's underground rag, Spice, edited by a wildly original classmate who was to go on to become a counsellor to the prime minister of India, was by far the most popular newspaper on campus; even its misprints were deliberate, and deliberately funny.

I had wanted to tell the Master all this, and to gladden his famously indulgent heart with the tribute being paid to him at this incongruous outpost of Wodehouseana, thousands of miles away from any place he had ever written about. But I had never been satisfied by the prose of any of my drafts of the letter. Writing to the man Evelyn Waugh had called "the greatest living writer of the English language, the head of my profession", was like offering a souffle to Bocuse. It had to be just right. Of course, it never was, and now I would never be able to reach out and establish this small connection to the writer who had given me more joy than anything else in my life.

The loss was personal, but it was also widely shared: PG Wodehouse is by far the most popular English-language writer in India, his readership exceeding that of Agatha Christie or John Grisham. His erudite butlers, absent-minded earls and silly-ass aristocrats, out to pinch policemen's helmets on boat race night or perform convoluted acts of petty larceny at the behest of tyrannical aunts, are familiar to, and beloved by, most educated Indians. I cannot think of an Indian family I know that does not have at least one Wodehouse book on its shelves, and most have several. In a country where most people's earning capacity has not kept up with inflation and book-borrowing is part of the culture, libraries stock multiple copies of each Wodehouse title. At the British Council libraries in the major Indian cities, demand for Wodehouse reputedly outstrips that for any other author, so that each month's list of "new arrivals" includes reissues of old Wodehouse favourites.

In the 27 years since his death, much has changed in India, but Wodehouse still commands the heights. His works are sold on railway station platforms and airport bookstalls alongside the latest bestsellers. In 1988, the state-run television network Doordarshan broadcast a 10-part Hindi adaptation of his 1923 classic Leave it to Psmith, with the Shropshire castle of the Earl of Emsworth becoming the Rajasthani palace of an indolent Maharaja. (The series was a disaster: Wodehousean purists were appalled by the changes, and the TV audience discovered that English humour does not translate too well into Hindi.) Quiz contests, a popular activity in urban India, continue to feature questions about Wodehouse's books ("What is Jeeves's first name?" "Which of Bertie Wooster's fiancees persisted in calling the stars, 'God's daisy chain'?") But, alas, reports from St Stephen's College tell me that the Wodehouse Society is now defunct, having fallen into disrepute when one of its practical joke weeks went awry (it appears to have involved women's underwear flying at half-mast from the flagpole).

Many are astonished at the extent of Wodehouse's popularity in India, particularly when, elsewhere in the English-speaking world, he is no longer much read. Americans know Wodehouse from re-runs of earlier TV versions of his short stories on programmes with names such as Masterpiece Theatre, but these have a limited audience, even though some of his funniest stories were set in Hollywood and he lived the last three decades of his life in Remsenberg, Long Island. The critic Michael Dirda noted in the Washington Post some years ago that Wodehouse "seems to have lost his general audience and become mainly a cult author savoured by connoisseurs for his prose artistry".

That is increasingly true in England and the rest of the Commonwealth, but not in India. While no English-language writer can truly be said to have a "mass" following in India, where only 2% of the population reads English, Wodehouse has maintained a general rather than a cult audience among this Anglophone minority: unlike others who have enjoyed fleeting success, he has never gone out of fashion. This bewilders those who think that nothing could be further removed from Indian life, with its poverty and political intensity, than the cheerfully silly escapades of Wodehouse's decadent Edwardian Young Men in Spats. Indians enjoying Wodehouse, they suggest, makes about as much sense as the cognoscenti of Chad lapping up Jay McInerney.

At one level, India's fascination with Wodehouse is indeed one of those enduring and endearing international mysteries, like why Pakistanis are good at squash but none of their neighbours is, or why the Americans, who can afford to do anything the right way, have never managed to understand that tea is made with boiling water, not boiled water. And yet many have convinced themselves that there is more to it than that. Some have seen in Wodehouse's popularity a lingering nostalgia for the Raj, the British Empire in India. Writing in 1988, the journalist Richard West thought India's Wodehouse devotees were those who hankered after the England of 50 years before (ie the 1930s). That was the age when the English loved and treasured their own language, when schoolchildren learned Shakespeare, Wordsworth and even Rudyard Kipling... It was Malcolm Muggeridge who remarked that the Indians are now the last Englishmen. That may be why they love such a quintessentially English writer.

Those lines are, of course, somewhat more fatuous than anything Wodehouse himself ever wrote. Wodehouse is loved by Indians who loathe Kipling and detest the Raj and all its works. Indeed, despite a brief stint in a Hong Kong bank, Wodehouse had no colonial connection himself, and the Raj is largely absent from his books. (There is only one notable exception I can recall, in a 1935 short story: "Why is there unrest in India? Because its inhabitants eat only an occasional handful of rice. The day when Mahatma Gandhi sits down to a good juicy steak and follows it up with roly-poly pudding and a spot of Stilton, you will see the end of all this nonsense of Civil Disobedience."

But Indians saw that the comment was meant to elicit laughter, not agreement. If anything, Wodehouse is one British writer whom Indian nationalists could admire without fear of political incorrectness. My former mother-in-law, the daughter of a prominent Indian nationalist politician, remembers introducing Britain's last Viceroy, Lord Mountbatten, to the works of Wodehouse in 1942; it was typical that the symbol of the British Empire had not read the "quintessentially English" Wodehouse but that the Indian freedom-fighter had.
Indeed, it is precisely the lack of politics in Wodehouse's writing, or indeed of any other social or philosophic content, that made what Waugh called his "idyllic world" so free of the trappings of Englishness, quintessential or otherwise. Unlike almost any other writer, Wodehouse does not require his readers to identify with any of his characters: they are stock figures, almost theatrical archetypes whose carefully plotted exits and entrances one follows because they are amusing, not because one is actually meant to care about them. Whereas other English novelists burdened their readers with the specificities of their characters' lives and circumstances, Wodehouse's existed in a never-never land that was almost as unreal to his English readers as to his Indian ones. Indian readers were able to enjoy Wodehouse free of the anxiety of allegiance; for all its droll particularities, the world he created, from London's Drones Club to the village of Matcham Scratchings, was a world of the imagination, to which Indians required no visa.

But they did need a passport, and that was the English language. English was undoubtedly Britain's most valuable and abiding legacy to India, and educated Indians, a famously polyglot people, rapidly learned and delighted in it - both for itself, and as a means to various ends. These ends were both political (for Indians turned the language of the imperialists into the language of nationalism) and pleasureable (for the language granted access to a wider world of ideas and entertainments). It was only natural that Indians would enjoy a writer who used language as Wodehouse did - playing with its rich storehouse of classical precedents, mockingly subverting the very canons colonialism had taught Indians they were supposed to venerate.

"He groaned slightly and winced, like Prometheus watching his vulture dropping in for lunch." Or: "The butler was looking nervous, like Macbeth interviewing Lady Macbeth after one of her visits to the spare room." And best of all, in a country ruled for the better part of two centuries by the dispensable siblings of the British nobility: "Unlike the male codfish which, suddenly finding itself the parent of three million five hundred thousand little codfish, cheerfully resolves to love them all, the British aristocracy is apt to look with a somewhat jaundiced eye on its younger sons."

That sentence captures much of the Wodehouse magic - what PN Furbank called his "comic pretence of verbal precision, an exhibition of lexicology." Wodehouse's writing embodied erudition, literary allusion, jocular slang and an uncanny sense of timing that owed much to the long-extinct art of music-hall comedy: "She... [resembled] one of those engravings of the mistresses of Bourbon kings which make one feel that the mon archs who selected them must have been men of iron, impervious to fear, or else short-sighted." Furbank thought Wodehouse's "whole style [was] a joke about literacy". But it is a particularly literate joke. No authorial dedication will ever match Wodehouse's oft-plagiarised classic, for his 1925 collection of golfing stories, The Heart of a Goof: "To my daughter Leonora, without whose never-failing sympathy and encouragement this book would have been finished in half the time."

Part of Wodehouse's appeal to Indians certainly lies in the uniqueness of his style, which inveigled us into a sort of conspiracy of universalism: his humour was inclusive, for his mock-serious generalisations were, of course, as absurd to those he was ostensibly writing about as to us. "Like so many substantial citizens of America, he had married young and kept on marrying, springing from blonde to blonde like the chamois of the Alps leaping from crag to crag." The terrifying Honoria Glossop has, "a laugh like a squadron of cavalry charging over a tin bridge". Aunts, who always loom large in Wodehouse's world, bellow to each other, "like mastodons across the primeval swamp".

Jeeves, the gentleman's personal gentleman, coughs softly, like, "a very old sheep clearing its throat on a distant mountain-top". Evelyn Waugh worshipped Wodehouse's penchant for tossing off original similes: "a soul as grey as a stevedore's undervest"; "her face was shining like the seat of a bus driver's trousers"; "a slow, pleasant voice, like clotted cream made audible"; "she looked like a tomato struggling for self-expression".
My own favourites stretch the possibilities of the language in unexpected ways: "She had more curves than a scenic railway"; "I turned him down like a bedspread"; and the much-quoted "if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled".


This insidious but good-humoured subversion of the language, conducted with straight-faced aplomb, appeals most of all to a people who have acquired English, but rebel against its heritage. The colonial connection left strange patterns on the minds of the connected. Wodehouse's is a world we can share with the English on equal terms, because they are just as surprised by its enchantments. As we near the 100th anniversary of the publication of his first book, The Pothunters, in September 1902, perhaps that is as good an argument as any for a long-overdue Wodehouse revival in England.

-----


“I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.”
― P.G. Wodehouse, The Code of the Woosters


“There are moments, Jeeves, when one asks oneself, 'Do trousers matter?'"
"The mood will pass, sir.”
― P.G. Wodehouse, The Code of the Woosters




thepseude.blogspot.com


Sunday, July 28, 2013

It ain't about how hard you hit

Sunday morning :)

Working 6 days a week really puts that last day into perspective! Sunday morning is that glorious time of the week when nothing at all matters. It's time to chill :)

(I do realize I'm posting this on a Sunday night - in my defence, I wrote the first 3 lines in the morning and it was glorious!)

So what do we talk about today?

I've talked about this before, perhaps not on my blog - the concept of external locus of control.

Very often we find ourselves basing our emotions on an external source. For example, you get pissed off with bad traffic, or upset cause someone spoke rudely.. It's difficult to write this without sounding preachy, but I'll give it a shot.

In all our life, we often attribute our moods, the outcomes of our endeavours to someone outside ourselves or a situation that was seemingly out of our control. Which is fine, bad traffic is a reason to get angry. But we must realize, that the situation itself means nothing. It is how we react to that situation that matters. Very often in life, we will find things out of our control. And life's not fair, shit is going to happen.

But basing our success or failure on someone else's actions makes us weak. It makes the other person in control of our lives. We are where we are, because of the choices we have made before (said repeatedly until this point was driven home by a wise gentleman by the name of Sanjiv Sood). It's how we choose to react to a certain setback, a rude auto driver, a bad friend, an unfair teacher etc that determines what our path will be. Not what those people did in the first place.

In short, the world isn't going to change. It's not malleable and will bend to suit our needs, it's just not. Otherwise I'm pretty sure I'd be sitting on a pile of cash, smoking a cigar and having a nice glass on scotch every day of the week :P

And fyi, this isn't easy. I've been told this since I learnt how to listen and understand English by the wisest man I know (my sister reckons that we made him wise. To be truly wise you must have kids who drive you crazy), my Dad. But life still gets to me. Horrid auto drivers still piss me off, bad hospitality still makes me want to punch someone... but I think I've learnt to adjust and get back to normal far quicker over the years.

There are 7.1 billion people alive. That means that there are 7.1 billion different worlds. The world I live in, a kid in Australia lives in and Warren Buffet lives in are not the same. Once we realize this, and realize that we run our own world, life becomes a slightly happier journey :) When faced with a setback, we aren't looking to blame someone, we're instead looking for another way forward... when faced with a rude person, we don't spoil our own mood, instead we deal with it and get on with life. Because not my last failure, not my next failure and definitely not some jerk rule my life. I do.

This little passage I've typed out is something I find close to my heart, therefore the long post. It brings me to 2 new points - relationships and communication. But that, perhaps, another day :)

I honestly think that sometimes I blog so that I can come back and read what I've written in my moments of clarity and realize again what I already know.

I'll leave you with a quote of Rocky. Do read the whole thing, he manages to put what I've said in a much more aggressive and effective manner.

"...you grew up good and wonderful. It was great just watching you, every day was like a privilege. Then the time come for you to be your own man and take on the world, and you did. But somewhere along the line, you changed. You stopped being you. You let people stick a finger in your face and tell you you're no good. And when things got hard, you started looking for something to blame, like a big shadow. Let me tell you something you already know. The world ain't all sunshine and rainbows. It's a very mean and nasty place and I don't care how tough you are it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain't about how hard you're hit. It's about how hard you can get it and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done! Now if you know what you're worth then go out and get what you're worth. But ya gotta be willing to take the hits, and not pointing fingers saying you ain't where you wanna be because of him, or her, or anybody! Cowards do that and that ain't you! You're better than that!"
-- Rocky Balboa (2006)






Thursday, July 25, 2013

A Re-hash

So I was going through my blog and I came across this old post of mine that brought a huge grin to my face :) Thought I'd share the contents here again. 

It's about some funny quotes I found on the internet a long time ago. Remember, that this is from wayyyy back: August 16, 2007. 

This just goes to prove, I've been awesome for AT LEAST 6 years now. Documented. 

Anyway, before I stop digressing. Here's the post:


---------------Start Awesome Post From the Past----------------

-------------- Start awesome post from the past-----------------


Thursday, August 16, 2007


Silly Quotes

Haha.. You'll love this one.
Check out the silly quotes I've unearthed from the net.. My comments in brackets.

"If somebody has a bad heart, they can plug this jack in at night as they go to bed and it will monitor their heart throughout the night. And the next morning, when they wake up dead, there'll be a record."
--Mark S. Fowler, FCC Chairman (Sure.. thats when they need the record the most don't they?)

"I'll fight Lloyd Honeyghan for nothing if the price is right"
--Marlon Starling, Boxer (eh?)

"Okay, everyone, now inhale... and then dehale!"
--Maury Wills, Los Angeles Dodgers captain, leading his teammates through warm-up calisthenics. (teacher teacher... I know how to dehale.. but what the hell is inhale???)

"Pitching is 80% of the game. The other half is hitting and fielding."
--Mickey Rivers, baseball player (that way we win 18 times of every 10 matches boys!)

"It's got lots of installation."
--Mike Smith, Baseball pitcher, describing his new coat (I'll be right with you man, just after I finish the insulation of my new software)

"A 'No Parking' sign at a certain location means..."
--multiple choice question on NY State learner's permit test (what can I say?)

"Danny, as you know, was hospitalized last week after complaining about chest and sideburns."
--Ned Martin, Sportscaster (I know.. those sideburns are killers)

"We are not without accomplishment. We have managed to distribute poverty equally."
--Nguyen Co Thatch, Vietnamese foreign minister ( and here I thought all we needed was money)

"Solutions are not the answer."
--Richard Nixon, former U.S. President (of course problems are what we need... but I really thought America has their fair share of them? I mean with Bush being President and all)

"He's passe. Nobody cares about Mickey anymore. There are whole batches of Mickeys we just can't give away. I think we should phase him out."
--Roy Disney, Walt Disney's brother, 1937 (OMG!!! there's a twin brother of mickey mouse on my cup!!)

"I may be dumb, but I'm not stupid."
--Terry Bradshaw, Former football player/announcer (of course your not.. never believe what comes out of your mouth)

"I think there is a world market for maybe five computers."
--Thomas Watson, chairman of IBM, 1943 (good call man, after all there are only 4 computers in this house. How many more can the world need?)

Hope you guys enjoyed this... Will be back with more stuff later.

Adios Amigos.


"There are no language barriers when you are smiling."

-- Allen Klein


---------------End Awesome Post From the Past----------------



Also a special word of thanks to these people:



I've  been quite popular in India, USA and Australia for quite a while (there's talks of fan clubs and all) But those people from Netherlands, Russia, Singapore, Germany, Ukraine, Switzerland and UAE... You're awesome! Keep reading :D

And as per your usual order - ze quote and ze comic Monsieur

"We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are"
--Anais Nin

"Of course it is happening inside your head Harry, but why on earth should that mean it's not real?"
--Albus Dumbledore, Deathly Hallows

And the Calvin and Hobbes comic strip from the day I was born - April 19, 1989 :)






Sunday, July 14, 2013

The return


It looks like it's been almost a year since I last wrote something. So I don't expect too many people to be following this blog (though I see 7 views yesterday).. sniff sniff.. MY LOYAL FOLLOWERS!

I thought I was almost done with this blog, but I recently remembered that I love writing. And this blog involves writing. My amazing brain put 2+2 together and  here I am!

I've recently graduated from IIM Calcutta with a post graduate diploma in management (we Indian's call our MBAs that. Don't ask why. We have our reasons. And they are pretty lame, but that's that). Also, some pretty awesome things have happened since. I've joined Hindustan Unilever Limitied (HUL) as a management trainee. So for all those times on this blog that I've asked for that awesome job and that awesome company.. whoever read it.. Thank you! :D

I'm currently working in Chennai. Yes, I'm a Punjabi, born in Gujarat, educated in Brisbane and then Calcutta. And now I work in Chennai. I won't labour on about my work here. Well for one, I spend 10-15 hours a day doing that and I don't want to discuss it. Plus some of the stuff I do is pretty top secret you know, so I can't really go around just throwing away all that information :P

Working has been an amazingly life changing experience. For one, it's actual work. Not like school, where work was something you did when you had time. This is work and it's what the day is full off. I realize I don't make sense. But I haven't really had a long term job yet. There was always a job and then school to get back to.. you know internships and so forth. So this is quite nice. Plus, you get paid for this stuff! Yeah, if you work, you get paid! Its awesome!.... Why do I sense you guys aren't as mind boggled as I am? Did you already know this? :O well thanks for telling me -_-  (I've also recently learnt how to make more smileys.. achievement unlocked!)

Anyway, so I was thinking. YES I DO THINK.. Wipe that smirk off your face damnit.

So as I was saying, life's got an interesting way of pulling wool over your eyes. Working in a place where you don't know the language, where every single step is a difficulty.. makes you frustrated sometimes. But, I've had the pleasure of working for short periods of time in smaller places in Tamil Nadu and suddenly, life seems so much easier when I come to Chennai. You start appreciating malls more, you start appreciating roads! One good friend of mine gave some gems of wisdom to me recently, "Sirji, sales karke expectations kaafi low ho jaati hai!" (Sales makes expectations low - translated for my international audience). But what he'd hit on was the fact that our frame of reference changes. While looking at Ahmedabad and Calcutta as reference points, I found Chennai a tough place. Once I saw it with smaller villages in TN as reference, things changed. So what is it about life, if we can muster up the ability to change our reference points, won't things become much easier?
Like my Dad always says, if you can put the whole world's problems in front of you... you'd quietly take yours, walk away and be thankful. I think what we lack (when I saw we, I'm not pointing fingers at others, just pointing them at me) is the ability to put things into perspective.

While all of this is not rocket science and 99% of us are aware of this fact, it's nice to think about these things once in a while :)

As I used to earlier, I shall leave you with a nice quote and a comic :)

Cheers!

Udit.

"Perspective - Use It or Lose It. If you turned to this page, you're forgetting that what is going on around you is not reality. Think about that. Remember where you came from, where you're going, and why you created the mess you got yourself into in the first place. You're going to die a horrible death, remember. It's all good training, and you'll enjoy it more if you keep the facts in mind. Take your dying with some seriousness, however. Laughing on the way to your execution is not generally understood by less-advanced life-forms, and they'll call you crazy."
-- Richard Bach, Illusions- The adventures of a reluctant Messiah





Friday, August 31, 2012

The wandering of a vella mind

So vella = navra = useless = my current state

Exam's just got over, three full days before my next submission... The life, it is chill :D

Having come to study at IIM Calcutta has not been good to my blog. Too much has been happening offline to go online.
But to give you a recap: joined IIMC, passed first year, had a lot of fun, then had more fun, did I forget to add the fun part? then interned with TAS and I'm back to 2nd year where I just finished my 4th term :) Ta dah! Summarized!

But the point of this blog was that I could write, and I've been doing that regardless. I've been writing from time to time on jokatimes.com. You should go and check it out sometime.

Anyway, I needs to run. I shall catch you vella people later. Let's face it, if you are here reading this post, you are quite vella. Don't worry, I still love you :P

BYE! :D