Hope

a wisp of smoke;
dark walls
under a cloudy sky.
Rise.

Baby Boo's Adventure

The following is a story I wrote for my three-year old daughter. She could've very well been the protagonist of the story but for the fact that she never carries weird stuff like sandwiches and all. Nothing short of cakes and pastries work for the big lady. Sandwiches are for losers.

-----------------------------------------

Baby Boo was a good baby. She would get up early in the morning; she would brush her teeth and have her bath without making noise. She would then run to the dining table and have her breakfast. And then, she would sit quietly in the drawing room and wait for her mother to drop her to her school bus. Baby Boo was a very gentle baby, and always listened to her mother.

If there was one thing Baby Boo loved most, it was her school. She loved the beautiful toys she had to play with in school, and she loved her friends. Boys she wasn't very fond of, but she spoke to everyone gently because that is the right thing to do. She loved her teachers, and her teachers loved her. Often, of bright sunny mornings, you could catch Baby Boo running in the school garden, playing catch with her friends.

One other thing that baby Boo was very fond of was riding to school in her school bus. When Mamma would open the door of the car, Baby Boo would run out, laughing happily, clamber into the school bus and onto her favorite window seat, and wave Mamma a happy good bye. She did not know it, but that quite simply made Mamma's day. Baby Boo didn't just live happily; she spread happiness wherever she went. Life was perfect.

But trouble was only round the corner. Usually, Baby Boo went off to sleep at nine. With Papa Bear tucked close to her chest, baby Boo would drop off to a sweet sleep, and dream of all the lovely things she'd done that day. One evening, however, Baby Boo stayed up late, watching TV and playing around with her new toy train. Mamma kept telling her, "Baby Boo, go to bed. All the babies are already asleep." But Baby Boo wanted to play some more, and she begged and pleaded to be allowed to stay up. Much against her better judgement, Mamma gave in. Baby Boo slept very late that night.

The next day, when baby Boo awoke, she didn't feel bright and sunny. Instead, she felt sleepy and dull and tired. She rubbed her eyes and asked Mamma if she could sleep some more. "But the school bus is almost due, Baby Boo," Mamma said. So there was nothing to be done but to get up and get ready. Baby Boo had a hurried breakfast and almost ran to the car. "Hurry up, Baby Boo, or you will be late," Mamma said.

When the school bus arrived, Baby Boo didn't have that bright smile that made her Mamma's day. But Mamma smiled through her worries and waved her good bye. Baby Boo waved back, but her heart wasn't in it. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to rest some more.

The bus pulled off, and Baby Boo began watching the trees walk by. Slowly, the trees began flying at top speed, and they looked all hazy and blurred. Baby Boo blinked at them once, twice, thrice, and went right off to sleep. The rocking bus lulled her gently into deep dreams filled with trains and the strange lands trains visit.

Suddenly the bus stopped. "School, at last," said Baby Boo, and got off the bus. Some other children got in too. "That's funny," thought baby Boo. "Nobody gets into buses when it reaches school in the morning." And then the bus snaked ahead, and was soon lost in traffic.

Only then did Baby Boo realize that she wasn't at school. This was somewhere on the way to school. But she didn't know where. One thing she knew: She was lost. Baby Boo took off her satchel from her back and sat down in the bus stop. May be another school bus would come this way, and she would get back to school. But no bus came. After she'd waited for a very long while (it was only ten minutes, but they seemed like ages to poor Baby Boo!), she realized that no more buses were coming. "The next time the school bus will come here will only be tomorrow in the morning! What shall I ever do now," Baby Boo wondered. Suddenly, the roads went all hazy and her face felt hot as though it were in a sauna. She simply sat down on the bus stop bench and cried.

When she'd cried her fill, Baby Boo realized that there was nothing to do but to find her way to school on her own. After all, she was a big girl now! She wiped them tears and put her finger to her head and thought. "The bus came that way. So school must be further down this road. Let's see." And Baby Boo wiped her face with her handkerchief, slung her satchel over her back, tighened her shoe straps, and walked off in the direction she'd seen the bus go.

After she'd gone on for a while, who should she see but a great big dog come bounding towards her. She'd seen the dog earlier on the street too, but he appeared much smaller then. She was about to scream, but she saw that the dog was wagging his tail. "That should be fine," thought Baby Boo, because she'd read in the children's encyclopedia in her school library that dogs wag their tails when they are happy. Baby Boo was a really smart baby.

"What are you doing here?" said the dog in a gentle growl. I see you in the school bus everyday, and you wave to me when you pass. What are doing here by yourself? "I was going to school, when I got off on the wrong stop," said Baby Boo, fighting back that lump in the throat that had almost begun to make the road swim again. "Do you know the way to my school?" And she sang:

Mamma told me not to play late into the night,
But I heeded not her words and played away alright.
And now I'm sleepy and I'm lost, and crying like a fool,
Can you help me, can you tell me how to get to school?

The great big dog cocked his head. "Ummm..." he said, "I do not know where your school is, but I do know that your school bus turns into the right corner at the end of this road.

"This road's my area," he said, "Till there I'll see you through,
"But where you go once you've got there, now that I'll leave to you."

"Fair enough," said Baby Boo. "Let's go."

"But I can't take you all the way," the big doggy said,
"I'm hungry, and I'm feeling weak. By chance, you got some bread?"

"Sure thing," said Baby Boo, and opened her lunch box and gave him a sandwich. The big dog wolfed it all down almost in a single bite.

"Thanks, Baby Boo," he said, "I needed that!" And he sang:

Now sit upon my back, my child, lemme help you out today,
Or you'll never get to school, my child, before the end of day.

And Baby Boo sat on the big doggy's back, and he set off gently, taking care that Baby Boo was not rocked off his great big back. When they reached the end of the road, the big doggy said, "Now go on right. That is the way towards your school, and fare you well."

Baby Boo thanked the doggy and bade him fare well. Then she stood at the edge of the road and looked to the left, and looked to the right, and looked to the left again. When she was sure the path was clear, she crossed the road, like all good children should.

And then she set off in the direction the dog had indicated. She walked on and on, and who should she see in the garden by the road but a nice big billy goat.

"Hello Mr. Goat," said Baby Boo. "Do you know where my school is? I have lost my way, and need to get to school quickly, or I will miss my classes." But the billy goat shook his head.

"I cannot talk," he said, "My throat is parched. If only I could find some water, may be I could help you."

"Oh that's easy," said baby Boo, and jumped up and took out her water bottle. "Here, have some water from my bottle."

The nice billy goat drank some of her water and bleated in delight.

"Thank you so much, Baby Boo, you're really sweet and kind.
I shall definitely help you, tell you how your school to find.

"But what happened? You always went to school in that nice yellow bus? What are you doing here?"

"I was going to school, when I got off on the wrong stop," said Baby Boo, fighting back that lump in the throat that had almost begun to make the road swim again. "Do you know the way to my school?" And she sang:

Mamma told me not to play late into the night,
But I heeded not her words and played away alright.
And now I'm sleepy and I'm lost, and crying like a fool,
Can you help me, can you tell me how to get to school?

"Sure thing," said Billy Goat. "I'll help you all I can. I've seen the school bus come this way now for months, and I know that it goes on straight until it reaches the ice cream shop. There it turns left. But where it goes from there -- the goat's face fell -- I do not know."

"But till that place, my little girl, I surely shall you carry,
Come quick, and hop upon my back. Come com, let us not tarry!"

"That's so sweet of you," said Baby Boo. The great billy goat got down on his knees, and Baby clambered onto his hairy back. "Now grasp my neck with all your might," the billy goat said, "We're off!"

And they hurtled through the traffic, dodging pedestrians and ugly boys cycling around idly, trying to get as late to school as possible.

Soon they reached an ice cream shop, and Baby Boo recognized it instantly. Almost every day she'd look at the shop through the bus window, and think of the cold, sweet ice lollies in the big ice box. But today, she had more important things on her mind.

"Thank you Mr. Goat," said Baby Boo as she got off his back. "I shall definitely come and see you again soon." And the great billy goat bleated his fond farewell and returned to his garden. Till his dying day he kept telling his children and grand children how all human beings are wicked and murderous, but how there is one baby among them all who is an angel, and how that angel helped him slake his thirst when he was dying for want of water.

But let's talk of Baby Boo. She turned left and ran up the road, huffing and puffing, for she had been walking and crying and running now for very long. When all of a sudden what should she see but the loverliest sight she ever saw: the sweetest prettiest thing ever made: a little yellow school bus gleaming and shining in the bright sun!

She ran to the bus and, as she came close, she could see the school gate, and the bright-green and light-yellow and orange garden. And she ran through the gate into the garden, and she saw her teachers sitting in the garden playing with the children. And when they saw her, they all ran to her and hugged her.

"We've been so worried Baby Boo, wherever have you been?
You got onto the bus we know, but since, you haven't been seen!

"Oh, it has been a very adventurous day," said Baby Boo, "but now it is over." I have seen so many things, and so many things have happened, and I must tell you all about it." Her classmates all came running and crowded around her:

"Do tell, do tell Baby Boo
In detail your adventures true!

"Sure I will," said Baby Boo, and she told them all about how the whole thing came about. "And," she ended:

"A lesson I've learnt today; and in my heart I'll keep
That when your Mamma tells you so, kids should go right to sleep."

THE END.

Samson temporaris

The fairer gender glares regardless, so that has always been that as far as I am concerned. It was when unknown guys started staring at me like one would at a chimp with three horns that I realized that 'nuff was 'nuff (as if it could ever have been otherwise.) But I am getting ahead of myself ...

To recapitulate, then .... After Hrithik decided to flaunt his tresses once upon a Dhoom, so did I. Decide, of course. When it all began I thought it was all a matter of deciding and not going to the barber next street. God moves in mysterious ways.

All my youth, I wasted my days wandering around like a banished subaltern in libraries and similar dingy edifices, when I ought to have been out in the wopen, gathering in all the sunshine I could for the dark days ahead; dark dark DARK days of joining and junking jobs, of teeth grinding and hair raising in the bright afternoon suns when the hot air roasted them crisp, and slouching over computer terminals in dimly-lit labs for tuppence ... tuppaise, actually (All Hail Commas and Semi-colons, those inveterate angels that spell death to brevity, the substance of shit!.)

Still there? Okay.

So I basically wasted my youth doing all the things I ought not to have done, like reading Eliot and Shakespeare and stuff. And all that while, I kept my hair firmly in check, prefering the austere cut of a close crop to the flowing flagrant denial of self-discipline.

So one day I decided to not go to my barber and all, and see which way hair grows when you leave it to its own black (for the moment) will.

The first month had nothing substantial to offer in terms of change and such, apart from the fact that inexorably, I found fitting my head into my helmet more and more difficult. You see, while God has blessed yours truly with as negligible a quantity of grey matter as can safely be doled out without impacting his binomial nomenclature, He has ensured that no one notices by supplying a most intensely cuticulated scalp. With time and Nature's changing course untrimm'd, the combined bulk of head and hair growingly refused to fit into the helmet built for one. This led to a preference, where possible, to biking sans helmet, leading, in turn, to wildly disheveled hair and a grossly grisly beard. Yes, that one is there too!

The second month led to excruciating minutes spent before the mirror, trying to figure out which way to comb / press / fold the heady mop such that it did not look like a hoover sack after a rather comprehensive cleaning operation. And yet, some lock somewhere or the other would spring right up ... embarrassing to the extreme, I tell you! This led to more and more sessions of combing / pressing / folding per diem, something completely alien to me. Suddenly I grew more and more conscious of the stares from the public. I tried on a swagger for effect, but that made me look more like a roadside romeo hoping to get picked up by some nymphomaniac who cheats on -- or cheats under -- her milkman, among other people...

And then i tried out oil, and the effects were disastrous, and i terminated the experience, as they say, with extreme prejudice. Rivers of godaloneknowswhat drooled down ... yeugh!

Some of my more evil friends began suggesting alternative ways of keeping my hair in place. Try gel, said one; go for a nice hair band, said another ... after all, Abhishek B has one. A guy with a hairband ... like a ... ummm ... never mind. No ways.

My less evil friends, of course, took to sniggering, at times, accompanied by pointing and all. Jerks.

And then one day, the staring began. Like I said when I began, the fairer sex has always thought me weird (Don't blame them really.) But the more hirsute version of our species has been more on the tolerant side, passing me by without even a glance. Normal types. Imagine my consternation when, one morning, i found them staring at me as i passed. Once could be rotten choice; twice could be coincidence; thrice was fatal. I slunk about in the darker corners of my office till the evening that day. There was only one thing left to do.

The barber welcomed me with open arms, of course, like a mother welcoming her errant offspring to the hearth. Twenty minutes of sleep later, I emerged, trimmed and cut down to size. I had learnt my lesson.

So now I know what it takes to grow those tresses. But I still don't, really. The difference, of course, is that I no longer care. Just to ensure i did the right thing, i caught up with one of my more long-haired friends, and asked him what he did to grow the hair, and how he keeps it in shape. He took a deep breath and proceeded to deliver a lecture on hair upkeep that is too indecently long and indecently populated with adverbs and expletives of a wide variety to print. So I shall resist the temptation to share the verbal and emotional feast with you.

You can get your own flavor ... grow your own hair, and tell some one else what you think of it. Once you get there, you do not need to search for words and all, I am told. They suggest themselves; ripe, juicy, and apt! A feast for the ear and delight for the imagination!

If, by some weird quirk for fate, you happen to have long hair, and are still reading it, my barber lives close by, and offers a discount if you promise to let him take off all the stuff on your head. He will sell them to make dog brushes, he says.

Test Blog

This is a test blog.

Coffee Vending Machines

These guys have it in for me. Period. There is no other conclusion I can draw, no other explanation i can offer for their randomly customized behavior when I stand before them. Whenever i place my mug before them, something must always go wrong. Either the powder won't mix, or the coffee dries up, or the machine quite simply loses its mind and dribbles milk gently down the sides of my cup, and i have to drink tepid coffee without any sugar or milk.

There are some people who like coffee without anything else but water, but I am not one of those, and somewhere down inside its machinery, the dispensing machine knows, and watches and waits patiently until I stand before it, quaking with the fear of the latest prank it's going to play on me. I can cultivate a few tastes, so I live down the coffee-with-water experience, but the milk powder floating on a cupful of water with no coffee in it somehow doesn't work for me. And, as I said above, the vending machine knows.

It all came to a head lately. I've joined this new company that has enough people on its rolls to populate a small country. For obvious reasons, therefore, they do not offer paper cups. You need to go get your mug from the company office. I kinda like coffee, so one of the first things I did once I joined the organization was get in the coffee-mug line, waiting like a parched blade of grass for life-giving rain.

"No mugs left," quoth the lord. "Come next week." And he swiveled his swivel chair on some more pressing task, for which he clearly had supplies.

"A w-what?" I managed to get out in spluttering grief. And then, "Can't something be done?" in more sanitary tones. "You can always get your own mug, you know," the mug-lord said, and resumed puttering on his comp.

That evening I got myself a nice big mug; one that holds two gallons when half full, you know? But I forgot to take the damn thing to work. This last for about a fortnight.

And then one tremendous day I did manage to remember, and I swaggered into the cafeteria. Lemme in, lemme in ... I have a cup.

The vending machine stood smach in the middle of the room, blinking its myriad lights capably. Invitingly? OK, inVItingly. I tried placing the cup below the ummm ... err ... orifice from which it secreted its stuff, but the damn thing wouldn't fit. Compatibility hassles. The mug was too large, or the slot for the mug was too small. But i found that, if I tilted the mug a bit, I coud align it right below the ummm ... source, ok?

Capuccino -- or something like it -- Cafe Frappe, Choco-Coffee, and so on. I gazed, finger in mouth. What do I feel like? Cappu... sounded most delectable. So OK. I pressed the button.

Something clicked deep within the impermeable depths of the little monster, and all sorts of grunting and churning noises began to emanate. Stunned, I looked up at the little monster, expecting it to be heaving and thudding around, emitting balls of fire. But it stood its ground stoically amidst all that sound, like a dedicated research scholar in a library full of fourth-grade students let off because the teacher is absent. I held my mug irresolutely, unsure of whether this was expected behavior. Apprarently it was. Nobody even looked up. At times, you know, there is nothing quite like being ignored.

Some powdery substance fell into my mug, and I heaved a sigh of relief. We were getting somewhere, finally! And then there began a trickle of something brown, and it was turning rapidly white, and it was dropping forth from another aperture, one I had not noticed, falling unerringly into its cute little personal drain. I shifted the mug just in time to capture the last fifteen drops of the coffeee / milk that the machined rationed out while at work.

I withdrew the cup and looked in like a foolish boy who sniffs his slippers to find out what he has stepped into. It looked, and smelt, like coffee, and I could see a few powdery sugar crystals there. I slowly moved away from the machine, wondering what to do with the stuff. I could add some cold water and have something cold that tastes like coffee, but isn't. Or I could simply wash the stuff down in the drain and try again.

And then the machine rumbled again, and clear milk dropped smoothly from it. Fifteen seconds after the coffee? I ran to collect the nectar, and I was kinda successful. I got five full drops.

I stood there, uncertain of the machine's next move. Was it done finally? Or was there more? Milk, in the meanwhile, meandered off the sides of the machine, creating a small puddle of sorts around the table. Damn. Now people were definitely looking at me. Some were smiling; some others stared for a while, gave an imperceptible sad shake of the head, and went back to whatever they were guzzling ... may their coffee turn into soup.

I was genuinely abashed. I daren't place that mug on the table, for, if someone were to amble past and look at that semi-solid mixture in my cup, wonder what he -- or worse, she -- would think. I held that mug in my hand and ran to get some napkins to clean up. I had deposited three napkins in the mess, and the milk showed no signs of drying up. Instead, it soaked up the napkins that now lay gleaming with milk, soaked to their respective gills.

Luckily for me, a maintenance person passed by, and scurried forth with a sponge and bucket. He gave me one filthy look that questioned in a split second my credibility within the office, my gall to use the vending machine, and the weird species from which I sprang forth. I gave him a curt thank you, and sauntered off to the sink. Without thinking, I quaffed off the stuff in my cup, and almost spat it out. It tasted horrid!! I washed my face, the mug, and the sink, in that order, and stalked out of the cafeteria, daring anyone to say a word.

No one did, but as I turned round the corner, i could have sworn I heard someone titter.

Jerks. Those machines, I tell you!

The Benz Experience

Just been through the Mercedes Benz A-class-to-S-class experience, and I can only say I have seen nothing even remotely like it. Now that could be because I haven't seen much (which, incidentally is not completely untrue!) or simply because the thing really rocks. The link really deserves a separate line. So:

http://www.a-to-s.co.uk/home.php

What blows my mind is the amount of thought that has gone into the work on each letter. Every single presentation is a perfect marketing pitch. Precise content focused on what the customer needs, and how the feature concerned offers the best in its line. The animation in the fore (assuming animation is a part of the "text") / back (assuming it isn't: work it your way!)ground contextualizes and enhances the message. And the best thing of all ... no technical stuff! My only crib ... I ain't no Sheikh. Or I'd have bought myself a fleet or two.

Another thing I find interesting is the element of surprise. Each presentation behaves differently, and I was like ... what's gonna happen now. And when it did happen, it was like Wow!!

On a slightly different note, the entire experience makes a very telling statement on how the nature of communication has changed for us. Text, design, animation and sound intermingle to create an experience that is as edifying as it is entertaining. The back-end: technology. Multidisciplinarity really getting into the groove now, ladies and gentlemen, look sharp now! Mark C Taylor had this book called Imagologies published a few years ago. When I read that book, it was more like yeah, that way lies the future. But the past few years have so revolutionized communication, I have very serious doubts. We live in an age of rapid evolution, and euphoria and wonder need to give way to innovative improvisation. What are we going to do with what we got?

How about novels that tell the story with the background animated and sound effects bolstering the tale. That could do wonders for Wuthering Heights, don't you think? But how would you sell them? This opens another pandora's box of copyright issues, illegal copying, etc. If we are to offer our new Wuthering Heights as an online thing, web access, software requirements, etc. open up another plethora of issues. Writers will no longer need to go for reading sessions; writers will no longer write their novels. They will need to have an extremely well-qualified team reading the manuscript, figuring out what each nuance means, deciding which nuance they want to go with, and the writer needs to sit in with the gang and watch his book explode in size, scope, and format; while his message shrinks to a movie that can only be told one way ... or can it? One could go on ... but there.

'Wonder what they paid the team that built that Merc thing though!!!!

Excuse of a Post

I haven't posted anything here for very long now, and I had promised myself that I shall put in something at least once a week! This is simply not done. Ratting on promises made to others is what drives civilization; I am all for that. But ratting on one's promises own to oneself is something I frown on, like all civilized citizens of august mettle. Ergo, this excuse for a blog.

I hereby write in this blog that I haven't anything to write about, and have neither the wit, nor the patience to think up something new and churn out something even remotely palatable.

I wonder what people do when they want to write (or have to write), but can't for nuts think of anything worth writing about. What do you do then?

You lemme know!