Stop. Don’t go.
I am not going to conduct a seminar on Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. Fascinating as I am sure it must be, this particular theory tends to make my brain cells press the Self-Destruct button.
The Theory of Relativity I allude to concerns another equally fascinating facet of Nature: relatives.
The term ‘relative’ originates from the Greek word ‘relatia’ meaning ‘I just made up that Greek word’.
‘Relative’ is a broad term, all-encompassing. Its usage extends from blood relatives to not-so-blood relatives to chaps who are related to you just because you owe them money.
I am proud to say that my platoon of relatives is quite large. I am sure that if all my relatives were to assemble at one place on a given day, their sheer numbers would be enough to fill a medium-sized football field. (Some of them are quite rotund, which just adds to the total space occupied in the football field).
My relatives, may their tribe increase, come in all shapes, sizes and specifications. Some are young, most are ancient. Some of them possess all 32 teeth in sparkling condition, while others tend to remind you of the protagonist of the movie ‘Jaws’ when it comes to the tooth department. A few have set up residence in foreign countries, while others prefer to remain loyal to the Motherland. Some live in fast-paced cities, while many tend to hang around rural locations, where the most exciting thing to happen in decades is when Subbu runs away with his neighbour’s goat, only to have Neighbour usurp Subbu’s prized chicken.
Despite all their differences, one thing is common to all my relatives: they have the unerring knack of popping into my home at ungodly hours like 3 in the afternoon, when any young, healthy bloke my age would be engaged in his afternoon siesta. The fact that most of these visits are unannounced tends to amplify the ‘surprise’ factor a bit.
Based on my years of experience in dealing with the most motley, rag-tag bunch of relatives ever to eat thairam chaadham (curd rice, for those of the non-South Indian persuasion), I have come up with the following general categories into which most relatives can be classified:
The Loudspeaker: This category consists of relative specimens who are blessed with the superhuman ability to unleash powerful sonic blasts at any unsuspecting waif. They generally enter the house with a hearty “HA HA HA HO HO HO HO HO” and continue conversing in ever-increasing decibel levels. On their departure from home, thought is given to the approximate cost of sound-proofing the old flat. Plaster is still falling from the ceiling of my room owing to the visit of a particularly jovial uncle two months ago.
The Fossil: Relatives belonging to this category have conquered Time. They are characterized by having atleast one walking stick, two sets of false teeth, three pairs of reading glasses and an artificial hip-joint or two. These specimens will amble their way into your room and plonk themselves on the most comfortable sofa available, emitting a chilling “AYYYOOOOO”. They will then proceed to give you a blow-by-blow account of every bone in their frail body, blaming it all on the Locust Attack of 1756.
The Disease: Members of this clan possess the ability to describe every disease they have experienced, are experiencing and will most certainly experience in the near future, should this wretched cold wave continue. They seem oblivious to the fact that not many people are interested in knowing how many chicken pox they have or the status of their gall bladder. One good thing about this category of relatives is that they tend to overlook the fact that, half an hour into their lecture, most of their audience has been frozen solid due to boredom.
The Headhunter: Beware this class of relatives. Just like vultures can smell rotting carrion miles away, these relatives can smell eligible bachelors/ girls of marriageable age over great distances. They also possess incredible memory skills and are capable of recollecting that X’s niece’s brother’s son is currently working in America and would be quite the mate for G’s daughter’s niece’s sister. To them, the ‘America’ stamp is the ultimate achievement for any boy, akin to winning the Oscar or calculating the value of pi upto 4506 decimal places. Regardless of the fact that the chappie under discussion is currently scrubbing dishes at a McDonald’s dab smack in the middle of the Okeefenokee Swamp of America, the Headhunter relative will leave no stone unturned in his/her quest to find a perfect match for the ‘American’.
The Brat: This classification of relatives is restricted to those under the age of 5 and under 3 feet in height. They generally tend to arrive in swarms and are characterized by a lot of screaming, yelling, hair-pulling, nose-picking and other stuff you wouldn’t want to do in front of Her Majesty the Queen. Brat-like relatives have a strange affinity for anything made of glass and tend to spend most of their waking hours devising new and improved ways of destroying glass artifacts, statues and other delicate items.
The Weary Traveler: These relatives emerge from the woodwork every so often, on the way to a pilgrimage or a trip of sorts. They travel miles by train, car, bus, mammoth, etc and by the time they reach home, they declare that they are ‘tired’. They will immediately demand two or three pegs of the strongest blend of coffee in the house, followed by an endless chain of dosas to satisfy their famished appetites. After having consumed their meager meal, they will fall asleep on your favourite mattress and emit snoring sounds which have been known to arouse the mating instincts of blue whales.
The Family Man: This group of relatives is not obtrusive as an individual, but is accompanied by any, or possible all, of the above categories of relatives. They will materialize on your doormat one fine day, complete family and pets in tow. A characteristic feature of such relatives is their penchant for luggage: they will never leave home without atleast 66 suitcases, shoulder bags and plastic carry-bags, most of which will feature the words “Nalli Silk Sarees, Chennai” emblazoned in the most crimson letters known to man. They will also force you to sing. Its at such times that you wish the Earth would swallow you up.
The Cheek Pullers: These blokes derive immense pleasure from stretching your cheek muscles to the point of snapping. They will usually exclaim “My God! How much you have grown! Sooooo biiiiiig you have become!” whilst undertaking the cheek-pulling torture. By the time they are through greeting you, your cheek muscles tend to acquire the look and feel of Droopy Dog’s.
So the next time you meet your relatives, take a long, hard look at them. Try to classify them into the above categories. You will be amazed at how intricate the Theory of Relativity is.
Just do me a favour. Don’t tell your relatives that I proposed the Theory of Relativity.
I value my cheek muscles a lot.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Ganitham Moorthanishthitham
Recently, my good friend and roomie Mr. Bhat aced the examination commonly referred to as the GRE (short for Gradually Ruining Engineers).
Mr. Bhat scored 800/800 in the Quantitative Section of this exam For the ignorant, ‘quantitative’ is just a fancy term for ‘mathematics’.
Mathematics (also known as math, maths, ganith, That Subject) has always been a pain in my rear end. Ever since I was an innocent (hah!) waif, the Scourge of Mathematics has persecuted and tormented me and generally Made Life a Wee Bit Uncomfortable.
Let’s face it: I am Matho-phobic.
I don’t blame the noble science of Mathematics one bit. That purest of pure sciences constantly churns out theorems, corollaries and tangents, regardless of whether the intended recipient possesses the brain power of Einstein (like your good self) or an amoeba (like me).
It’s just that I AM DUMB.
My family tree does little by way of supporting my dumbness. In his heyday, my grandfather was known to belt out fraction multiplication tables in three different languages. So I cannot blame genetics for my Mathophobia.
Nor can I blame the Education System of our Fair Land. If all the Mathematics teachers I have had were laid out end-to-end (not that I suppose anyone can do that), the line would reach halfway to Brazil (some of my Math teachers were quite tall).
My school tried its level best, bless its dusty old soul, to impart some rudimentary math skills in me. Things started off quite well, actually. There I was, five years old, learning that 2 ice creams and 2 ice creams made 4 ice creams , unless you happen to eat one of the ice creams, in which case you would end up with caries, not to mention turn the whole addition thing on its head.
I was a happy chappie back then, content with the fact that Math consisted of numbers and ice cream. Though the concept of negative numbers weakened my constitution a bit, I nevertheless was able to Adapt.
Then, round about Standard VI, algebra happened.
I am a man of principles. And one of my founding principles is that English alphabets need to be restricted to the pages of English literature and not try to infiltrate into the domain of Mathematics.
So, imagine my horror when my brand-new, state-of-the-art Standard VI math textbook contained more alphabets than my equally state-of-the-art English Grammar textbook.
And it wasn’t just any set of alphabets. More often than not, ‘x’, ‘y’, ‘z’ and their kin would plonk their variable posterior onto the page of algebra. I concluded that the English language followed a system of employment, and alphabets that found little use in English eventually wound up in algebra.
Almost in parallel with this unknown variable thingie, along came another algebraic assassin: the Word Problem.
Imagine what effect the following Word Problem would have had on my young mind:
“A is twice as old as B was when C was half the combined age of D and his pet donkey. If the donkey is now 200 years old, how old would A’s son, conceived through an illegitimate affair with F, be today?”
The funny part was that the solution to most Word Problems would begin with the statement “Let ‘x’ be the current age of A”. I generalized this statement and included it in the solution of all Word Problems, regardless of whether the current age of A or his bank balance were in question.
Speaking of A, I always felt that C got a raw deal, especially when it came to feats of athleticism between A, C and the omnipresent B. Somehow, C was destined to be the slow-poke, the guy who couldn’t increase his speed at a rate suitable to keep pace with the superhuman A or the agile B.
Another type of Word Problem concerned Trains. I could never fathom why it was so damn critical to calculate the time at which a train would leave a station, when there was a perfectly simple way of determining the same – a railway time table (available at a bookstore near you). And don’t get me started on Relative Speed Theory.
Next in line was Geometry, filled with circles, secants and sleepless nights. Hardly a night would pass when I did not freely curse the Ancient Greeks for letting a chappie like Pythagoras roam free. One thing with Pythagoras though. If ever you were stuck during a Geometry paper, he would come to your rescue. Considering the fact that he had theorized a gazillion theorems, chances are that if you are at a loss to explain how you arrived at a particular solution, you can always quote Pythagoras as reference.
Example: O is the centre of a circle through which a tangent passing through the midpoint M of a secant L intersects the father-in-law of the alticentre of a triangle ABC. If angle Z measures 23 degrees, prove that quadrilateral JKLM is a rhomboid.
Solution:
Given: (underlining is mandatory while writing Given. Its like a law or something)
T.P.T: (acronym for To Prove That): Quadrilateral JKLM is a rhomboid.
Formulae:
1. E = mc2 (this works 60% of the time)
2. Appolonius Principle (who would argue with a guy with a name like that?)
3. Pythagoras’ Theorem. (As long as you write the magic P name, no one can question you)
Solution:
Assuming that the earth is a perfect sphere, it can be seen from Fig 1.1 (draw deadly-looking figure containing several alphabets, preferable in English) that JKLM is a quadrilateral.
Hence, by applying Pythagoras’ Theorem, we see that quadrilateral JKLM is a rhomboid.
Hence proved.
If Pythagoras didn’t work, the theory of reversals was sure to click. It basically involves assuming something, proving that your assumption was false, hence implying that you are a jackass and cannot possibly prove whatever is to be proved, meaning that it would be in the Greater Good of Society if the answer was just assumed to be true.
Believe you me, this works.
At this stage, I had decided that after Geometry, Things Couldn’t Possibly get Any Worse.
They Did.
In Standard X, I was introduced to a fascinating piece of drivel named Trigonometry. It didn’t help that I was taught Trigonometry (‘Trig’ , as its close friends like to call it) by a lady who refused to say “sec C”, preferring rather to say “secant of C” or even “one upon cos C”.
Junior college was full of pretty girls. It was also full of derivatives, integration and the Midpoint Theorem.
Fellow blogger Kadu and I attended private Math tuitions conducted by Prof. Ashok whose motto was Ganitham Moorthanishtiham. To this day, I have not deciphered the meaning of this cryptic statement. I think I will have it etched on my tombstone, several centuries from today.
Prof. Ashok had a lot of patience. While Kadu would ace his perplexing posse of problems, I barely managed to sign my name right. Prof. Ashok, however, did not lose hope. He merely informed me, on more than one occasion, that, in his opinion, it would be better if I opened a mutton shop in Chedda Nagar (a neighborhood near my home). His HLTUP (High Level Typical Ultimate Problems) brought chills down the spines of even seasoned veterans like Kadu. Prof. Ashok utilized the services of his father, lovingly referred to as Thatha, in supervising exams. What with Thatha reminding us, “One hour more please” and Prof Ashok’s HLTUP requesting me to calculate the sine of the derivative of the Cauchy Integral, life was interesting.
Is there any doubt left in your mind as to why I am mathophobic?
There’s hope yet! Mathophobia can be cured! After years of searching, I have found the perfect way to ease the suffering and pain experienced by mathophobians the world over (at last count, there were three of us, not including Bonzo the trained chimpanzee.)
The miracle cure for mathophobia is simple, yet elegant. It is small enough to fit into your pocket, yet powerful enough to calculate the square root of 34.
Its name is three words long: pocket calculator.
Derivatives and integrals can jolly well fend for themselves.
Mr. Bhat scored 800/800 in the Quantitative Section of this exam For the ignorant, ‘quantitative’ is just a fancy term for ‘mathematics’.
Mathematics (also known as math, maths, ganith, That Subject) has always been a pain in my rear end. Ever since I was an innocent (hah!) waif, the Scourge of Mathematics has persecuted and tormented me and generally Made Life a Wee Bit Uncomfortable.
Let’s face it: I am Matho-phobic.
I don’t blame the noble science of Mathematics one bit. That purest of pure sciences constantly churns out theorems, corollaries and tangents, regardless of whether the intended recipient possesses the brain power of Einstein (like your good self) or an amoeba (like me).
It’s just that I AM DUMB.
My family tree does little by way of supporting my dumbness. In his heyday, my grandfather was known to belt out fraction multiplication tables in three different languages. So I cannot blame genetics for my Mathophobia.
Nor can I blame the Education System of our Fair Land. If all the Mathematics teachers I have had were laid out end-to-end (not that I suppose anyone can do that), the line would reach halfway to Brazil (some of my Math teachers were quite tall).
My school tried its level best, bless its dusty old soul, to impart some rudimentary math skills in me. Things started off quite well, actually. There I was, five years old, learning that 2 ice creams and 2 ice creams made 4 ice creams , unless you happen to eat one of the ice creams, in which case you would end up with caries, not to mention turn the whole addition thing on its head.
I was a happy chappie back then, content with the fact that Math consisted of numbers and ice cream. Though the concept of negative numbers weakened my constitution a bit, I nevertheless was able to Adapt.
Then, round about Standard VI, algebra happened.
I am a man of principles. And one of my founding principles is that English alphabets need to be restricted to the pages of English literature and not try to infiltrate into the domain of Mathematics.
So, imagine my horror when my brand-new, state-of-the-art Standard VI math textbook contained more alphabets than my equally state-of-the-art English Grammar textbook.
And it wasn’t just any set of alphabets. More often than not, ‘x’, ‘y’, ‘z’ and their kin would plonk their variable posterior onto the page of algebra. I concluded that the English language followed a system of employment, and alphabets that found little use in English eventually wound up in algebra.
Almost in parallel with this unknown variable thingie, along came another algebraic assassin: the Word Problem.
Imagine what effect the following Word Problem would have had on my young mind:
“A is twice as old as B was when C was half the combined age of D and his pet donkey. If the donkey is now 200 years old, how old would A’s son, conceived through an illegitimate affair with F, be today?”
The funny part was that the solution to most Word Problems would begin with the statement “Let ‘x’ be the current age of A”. I generalized this statement and included it in the solution of all Word Problems, regardless of whether the current age of A or his bank balance were in question.
Speaking of A, I always felt that C got a raw deal, especially when it came to feats of athleticism between A, C and the omnipresent B. Somehow, C was destined to be the slow-poke, the guy who couldn’t increase his speed at a rate suitable to keep pace with the superhuman A or the agile B.
Another type of Word Problem concerned Trains. I could never fathom why it was so damn critical to calculate the time at which a train would leave a station, when there was a perfectly simple way of determining the same – a railway time table (available at a bookstore near you). And don’t get me started on Relative Speed Theory.
Next in line was Geometry, filled with circles, secants and sleepless nights. Hardly a night would pass when I did not freely curse the Ancient Greeks for letting a chappie like Pythagoras roam free. One thing with Pythagoras though. If ever you were stuck during a Geometry paper, he would come to your rescue. Considering the fact that he had theorized a gazillion theorems, chances are that if you are at a loss to explain how you arrived at a particular solution, you can always quote Pythagoras as reference.
Example: O is the centre of a circle through which a tangent passing through the midpoint M of a secant L intersects the father-in-law of the alticentre of a triangle ABC. If angle Z measures 23 degrees, prove that quadrilateral JKLM is a rhomboid.
Solution:
Given: (underlining is mandatory while writing Given. Its like a law or something)
T.P.T: (acronym for To Prove That): Quadrilateral JKLM is a rhomboid.
Formulae:
1. E = mc2 (this works 60% of the time)
2. Appolonius Principle (who would argue with a guy with a name like that?)
3. Pythagoras’ Theorem. (As long as you write the magic P name, no one can question you)
Solution:
Assuming that the earth is a perfect sphere, it can be seen from Fig 1.1 (draw deadly-looking figure containing several alphabets, preferable in English) that JKLM is a quadrilateral.
Hence, by applying Pythagoras’ Theorem, we see that quadrilateral JKLM is a rhomboid.
Hence proved.
If Pythagoras didn’t work, the theory of reversals was sure to click. It basically involves assuming something, proving that your assumption was false, hence implying that you are a jackass and cannot possibly prove whatever is to be proved, meaning that it would be in the Greater Good of Society if the answer was just assumed to be true.
Believe you me, this works.
At this stage, I had decided that after Geometry, Things Couldn’t Possibly get Any Worse.
They Did.
In Standard X, I was introduced to a fascinating piece of drivel named Trigonometry. It didn’t help that I was taught Trigonometry (‘Trig’ , as its close friends like to call it) by a lady who refused to say “sec C”, preferring rather to say “secant of C” or even “one upon cos C”.
Junior college was full of pretty girls. It was also full of derivatives, integration and the Midpoint Theorem.
Fellow blogger Kadu and I attended private Math tuitions conducted by Prof. Ashok whose motto was Ganitham Moorthanishtiham. To this day, I have not deciphered the meaning of this cryptic statement. I think I will have it etched on my tombstone, several centuries from today.
Prof. Ashok had a lot of patience. While Kadu would ace his perplexing posse of problems, I barely managed to sign my name right. Prof. Ashok, however, did not lose hope. He merely informed me, on more than one occasion, that, in his opinion, it would be better if I opened a mutton shop in Chedda Nagar (a neighborhood near my home). His HLTUP (High Level Typical Ultimate Problems) brought chills down the spines of even seasoned veterans like Kadu. Prof. Ashok utilized the services of his father, lovingly referred to as Thatha, in supervising exams. What with Thatha reminding us, “One hour more please” and Prof Ashok’s HLTUP requesting me to calculate the sine of the derivative of the Cauchy Integral, life was interesting.
Is there any doubt left in your mind as to why I am mathophobic?
There’s hope yet! Mathophobia can be cured! After years of searching, I have found the perfect way to ease the suffering and pain experienced by mathophobians the world over (at last count, there were three of us, not including Bonzo the trained chimpanzee.)
The miracle cure for mathophobia is simple, yet elegant. It is small enough to fit into your pocket, yet powerful enough to calculate the square root of 34.
Its name is three words long: pocket calculator.
Derivatives and integrals can jolly well fend for themselves.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
The Sound of Music
I have a confession to make. I have been trying to fight it for a long time, but it is too powerful. I cannot keep it within myself any longer. The world has got to know.
I cannot sing.
Stop. That's too harsh. I prefer the term 'musically challenged'.
When, you may ask, did all this start? And even if you didnt ask, you are going to know, anyway.
It was the year 1983. He Who Lives Above decided to unleash me upon an unsuspecting world. However, it seems He got the design document a litle mixed up and replaced my vocal chords with those of a member of the species Equus assinus.. the donkey.
Whenever there was any family gathering, consiting of assorted aunts, uncles and second- cousins -twice -removed, in keeping with established traditions among South Indian families, some elderly chappie would ask my parents "Ivan paathu padikarana?" (Translation: Is he studying music?")
At such times, my dad would look at the floor with great interest and my mom would immediately offer everyone filter coffee, in attempts to change the topic. These tactics werent fool-proof, however, because some uncles and aunts would persist with the topic with great interest, expecting me to stand up and belt out a Keerthana or Bhajan or some such thing.
At long last, my dad, with pity in his eyes, would recommend that I sing something.
Suffice it to say that I was not invited to many family gatherings.
Undaunted, my parents tried every trick in the book to elucidate even an atom of music from me. I must have had five different music teachers in my childhood. I fondly remember one tall individual with grey hair. He came to my home from Thane, which is Rather Far Away.
The first music session proceeded thus:
Master: Repeat after me ... SAAAAAAAAAA
Me (taking a deeeep breath): SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Master: Saa Nee Daa Paa Maa Gaa Re Saa
Me (confused): Saa Nee Paa Nee Margharita
Master (undaunted): No no, say Saa Nee Daa Paa...
Me (preparing to unleash sonic assault): SAAAAAAAA neeeeeeeeeee DDDDDDDDAAAAAAAAAAADAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
(sound of breaking glass)
After two classes, the Master left for Tamil Nadu, his interest having shifted from music to classical dance. I wonder why..
At the age of 18, my voice broke. It was then that my parents finally decided that My Artistic Talents Lay Not in the Sphere of Music.
Its not that I am not influenced at all by music. My gang of friends consists of blokes who are absolute stalwarts of music. Mr. Rama's violin generates symhony par excellance. Many are the cold nights in Mysore that we have spent absolutely enthralled by his music. And when Ms. Divya combined this violin masterpiece with her nightingale-like voice, pure magic ensued.
Nowadays, mucic 'jammin' sessions are held quite frequently at the house of my friend and fellow blogger Mr. Abinav.
Mr. Abinav and fellow blogger Mr. Shirishkumar Shivram Shetty wield their guitars like expert marksmen, while my own roomie Mr. Kauti plies his grimy little hands on the harmonium and casio like a maestro. My portly friend Mr. Ram (Bhookosaurus mulundensis as he more popularly known) keeps his vocal chords in great shape.
At such sessions, I normally sit in a corner and annoy everyone. At times, I offer my opinions, such as "This anthra does not suit that mukhda". The fact that,to my ears, the anthra kind of blends in with the mukhda doesnt help add weight to my opinion, which is usually rubbished away with a "HATTTTT" from Mr. Kauti.
Is there any hope for me and millions of other musically challenged people? Can we ever hope to rise from the shallow depths of croaky voices to reach for the stars? Do we have even the faintest chance of making it to the Big Time in the Musical Arena?
YES!
The recent success of one of our musically challenged friends fortifies our determination. He has shown that it is possible for even the lowliest of the lowly musically challenged individual to Hit it Big.
What's the secret to his success? His motto explains it all:
" USE THY NOSE"
Who needs vocal chords?
Bollywood, here I come!!
I cannot sing.
Stop. That's too harsh. I prefer the term 'musically challenged'.
When, you may ask, did all this start? And even if you didnt ask, you are going to know, anyway.
It was the year 1983. He Who Lives Above decided to unleash me upon an unsuspecting world. However, it seems He got the design document a litle mixed up and replaced my vocal chords with those of a member of the species Equus assinus.. the donkey.
Whenever there was any family gathering, consiting of assorted aunts, uncles and second- cousins -twice -removed, in keeping with established traditions among South Indian families, some elderly chappie would ask my parents "Ivan paathu padikarana?" (Translation: Is he studying music?")
At such times, my dad would look at the floor with great interest and my mom would immediately offer everyone filter coffee, in attempts to change the topic. These tactics werent fool-proof, however, because some uncles and aunts would persist with the topic with great interest, expecting me to stand up and belt out a Keerthana or Bhajan or some such thing.
At long last, my dad, with pity in his eyes, would recommend that I sing something.
Suffice it to say that I was not invited to many family gatherings.
Undaunted, my parents tried every trick in the book to elucidate even an atom of music from me. I must have had five different music teachers in my childhood. I fondly remember one tall individual with grey hair. He came to my home from Thane, which is Rather Far Away.
The first music session proceeded thus:
Master: Repeat after me ... SAAAAAAAAAA
Me (taking a deeeep breath): SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Master: Saa Nee Daa Paa Maa Gaa Re Saa
Me (confused): Saa Nee Paa Nee Margharita
Master (undaunted): No no, say Saa Nee Daa Paa...
Me (preparing to unleash sonic assault): SAAAAAAAA neeeeeeeeeee DDDDDDDDAAAAAAAAAAADAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
(sound of breaking glass)
After two classes, the Master left for Tamil Nadu, his interest having shifted from music to classical dance. I wonder why..
At the age of 18, my voice broke. It was then that my parents finally decided that My Artistic Talents Lay Not in the Sphere of Music.
Its not that I am not influenced at all by music. My gang of friends consists of blokes who are absolute stalwarts of music. Mr. Rama's violin generates symhony par excellance. Many are the cold nights in Mysore that we have spent absolutely enthralled by his music. And when Ms. Divya combined this violin masterpiece with her nightingale-like voice, pure magic ensued.
Nowadays, mucic 'jammin' sessions are held quite frequently at the house of my friend and fellow blogger Mr. Abinav.
Mr. Abinav and fellow blogger Mr. Shirishkumar Shivram Shetty wield their guitars like expert marksmen, while my own roomie Mr. Kauti plies his grimy little hands on the harmonium and casio like a maestro. My portly friend Mr. Ram (Bhookosaurus mulundensis as he more popularly known) keeps his vocal chords in great shape.
At such sessions, I normally sit in a corner and annoy everyone. At times, I offer my opinions, such as "This anthra does not suit that mukhda". The fact that,to my ears, the anthra kind of blends in with the mukhda doesnt help add weight to my opinion, which is usually rubbished away with a "HATTTTT" from Mr. Kauti.
Is there any hope for me and millions of other musically challenged people? Can we ever hope to rise from the shallow depths of croaky voices to reach for the stars? Do we have even the faintest chance of making it to the Big Time in the Musical Arena?
YES!
The recent success of one of our musically challenged friends fortifies our determination. He has shown that it is possible for even the lowliest of the lowly musically challenged individual to Hit it Big.
What's the secret to his success? His motto explains it all:
" USE THY NOSE"
Who needs vocal chords?
Bollywood, here I come!!
Greetings
Greetings, fellow mortal,
The fact that you are currently reading this blog is indicative of any one, or all of, the following :
1. You have fallen prey to my extensive advertising campaign realted to this blog.
2. You have waaay too much free time on your hands.
3. You reached this site via a Freak of Nature and dont know how to get out of here.
4. You are smitten by my drop-dead handsome looks, rugged features and macho profile and wish to join my fan club (currently consisting of me and your good self).
5. Etc.
Well, now that you are here, you might as well know what to expect from my blogs.
Here are a few things that my blog WILL NOT contain:
1. Philosophical stuff: Cursed with the IQ of an amoeba, the only philosophy that I understand is what I learn from watching Yogi Bear.
2. Sentimental stuff: I do not dabble much with emotions. However, on occassion, you might find a blog or two that tends to get you teary-eyed and make you exclaim "Ho now! The old boy does have a soul!". Tissue papers will be attached with all such blogs, for your convenience.
3. Sports stuff: My sports knowledge is limited to Scooby Doo's All-Star Laff-a-lympics.
4. Technical stuff: The last time I operated the microwave oven, I accidentally irradiated Dr. Bruce Banner with gamma radiation, leading to the creation of that jolly good chap, The Incredible Hulk.
5. Mushy poetry: "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" is my limit.
No. My blog will not be a collection of empty HTML pages. They WILL containg the following:
1. Innumerable references to my friends, to whom I dedicate this blog to, simply because THEY ARE THE BEST OF THE BEST OF THE BEST.
2. Innumerable references to comic characters and super heroes.
3. Innumerable references to Mallika Sherawat.
4. Innumerable feeble attempts at humour.
5. Innumerable numbered lists.
That's enough of an introduction. For more details, watch this space.
One last thing you might want to know: Why "GO GREEN MACHINE" and "THE GREEN LANTERN"?
That's another blog...
4.
The fact that you are currently reading this blog is indicative of any one, or all of, the following :
1. You have fallen prey to my extensive advertising campaign realted to this blog.
2. You have waaay too much free time on your hands.
3. You reached this site via a Freak of Nature and dont know how to get out of here.
4. You are smitten by my drop-dead handsome looks, rugged features and macho profile and wish to join my fan club (currently consisting of me and your good self).
5. Etc.
Well, now that you are here, you might as well know what to expect from my blogs.
Here are a few things that my blog WILL NOT contain:
1. Philosophical stuff: Cursed with the IQ of an amoeba, the only philosophy that I understand is what I learn from watching Yogi Bear.
2. Sentimental stuff: I do not dabble much with emotions. However, on occassion, you might find a blog or two that tends to get you teary-eyed and make you exclaim "Ho now! The old boy does have a soul!". Tissue papers will be attached with all such blogs, for your convenience.
3. Sports stuff: My sports knowledge is limited to Scooby Doo's All-Star Laff-a-lympics.
4. Technical stuff: The last time I operated the microwave oven, I accidentally irradiated Dr. Bruce Banner with gamma radiation, leading to the creation of that jolly good chap, The Incredible Hulk.
5. Mushy poetry: "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" is my limit.
No. My blog will not be a collection of empty HTML pages. They WILL containg the following:
1. Innumerable references to my friends, to whom I dedicate this blog to, simply because THEY ARE THE BEST OF THE BEST OF THE BEST.
2. Innumerable references to comic characters and super heroes.
3. Innumerable references to Mallika Sherawat.
4. Innumerable feeble attempts at humour.
5. Innumerable numbered lists.
That's enough of an introduction. For more details, watch this space.
One last thing you might want to know: Why "GO GREEN MACHINE" and "THE GREEN LANTERN"?
That's another blog...
4.
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