Not the first...

There's so much sense in the world that its sometimes baffling. So, in my best slipshod, broken english I have tried to convey er... stuff.

Wise old nipponese saying that I just made up,
"Life is like an orange, peel it for the juice within."

Now,  read on.

Onbus, inbus , redbus, buses with ladders, x double dot is increasing, and the dodo can not even reply to that.
To do or not to do, why is that a question?

Wouldn’t a cooked dodo be analogous to a stuffed tharki?

Good morning, to people so good, people so sad, people in people, and those in the bad.

So you’re twenty two? No, I’m twenty too. That’s what I said. Okay, we’re fine then.

Quiet reflection by us strong, silent people can lead to some rather expected conclusions. Un?

Written matter is that of zeros and ones, but bleeds and marks wait for no one, least of all some highly overdue chancellors and all their associated paraphernalia. What a way to get work done, no wonder some set standards by institutions like ours.

As it would be, devices in communicado choose a strange time (but coherent, completely so) to go defunct, sometimes mute, at other times allowing me usage of hallows of sacred communication.

Worried looking inspectors with malfunctioning pectorals bashing open doors, innuendoes fly everywhere, people heltering and skeltering. Very inspiring. The jokes are lame enough now, thank you.

The hallows were venerated and the bells tolled. ‘tisn’t a wonder heads hadn’t rolled. With so many people in the pot, the orgy was rather orgic, with big guys and their flying locks, and hallowed names turning into versions spawned by cradles of filth, god alone knows why they did not take a line out. I forgot, okay, I’m human.  Jeez.
Four strings for a lifetime. Nah, sounds better in native hindi.

Beera, beera, beera a guy’s gotta have balls to  do that kind of stuff. I admire such persistence. Limpet like, some might call it, others going so far as to brand them a leech, a desperate kind of chappie. But then, even ranjha was that kinda fella, wasn’t he? Just don’t sing in the bathroom, will you? You’ve got culture to handle, now.

Seccie is now ex, with a dopy and a joint in tow. What will classic do? The file handlers are parameters with random seed variables, but even that is ultimately a pseudorandom serie. We now have bodom, and jhat, and heaven knows a lot more, but which ones will take up the mantle. Wait, what mantle?

So if we have miniature dodos, is it all right to call him dad again?

Why me? This one says. But he’s the mos’t illustrious one, mind you. Never trust these whiny ones, I tell you. Just ask him to spout that hindi of his. Bloody bhasha ka saudagar. Just get him some java, tell him to change his scale and send him off to waves.

One small step for man, one giant leap for some others. (please don’t hit me.) A proclivity for physical comebacks only limited by the amount of torque one can muster. After all, r x F has to be small if r is…

A positive slew of birthdays this season, not much to rant about, but still. The planning among the amazonians include intricate (often) effectively planned efforts (still don’t know who ‘miss 100% attendance’ was, though.) while we neanthertals prefer a sound bash (by us), followed by a sound bash (by the unlucky feller who survived to tell another year’s tale). C’est la vie.

Speaking of which, that craphunt of ours gave us the opportunity to examine said waves in much more detail. Only wish I could be on those crests, going up and down, up and down…

Heterosexual company should be made mandatory, under grounds of illusionary sanity and what I can only call ‘groundedness’.

So you’re asleep, or comatose, isn’t it comma-toes.

Even nonsense has syntax, semantic is the rabble that defines chaos. Ordo ab chao, and all that.

There, there. too bad, so sad, better luck next time.

If you’re despairing as to why this isn’t making any sense, well my dear friend, your only problem is that you’re sane.

To talk about ‘anything, any damn thing’, has resulted in a phantasmagoria, ‘oops, stole chinker’s word, but it matters not, as this ‘ain’t a statement of purpose I’m typing. The infinite improbability of life, the universe and everything has resulted in a supply of topics that shalt not run out, in a mortal lifetime, at least. Anyone interested may contribute to the guide. For all that we talk about, well, there’s always that point when we finish, but there is no such thing as the end.

And another thing…

A coincidence?

First off, I've been too tired to finish any article recently, although I've started many, (I have many ideas, alright, jeez...) Anyway, I hope to return to where I had left off most of my normal writing soon, and I have a lot to share.For now, however, I'll just leave you with this extraordinary coincidence (or is it?)  that I happened to pick up online, that spurred me to start once again.

"
Kanye West teams up with co-author J. Sakiya Sandifer to make his literary debut with Thank You And You're Welcome, an entertaining volume of 'Kanye-isms'--the creative, humorous, and insightful philosophies and anecdotes used in creating his path to success. It captures the same wit, playful irony, and piercing insight found abundant in his lyrics.
In Thank You And You're Welcome, Kanye delivers his personal message uncensored, without any five-second delay or media distortion.
'My book is a guide to creating then celebrating your moment!' says Kanye. "

Extraordinary coincidence, and only a y extra.
-from here.

Static Sticks

Dedicated, as are all my other efforts, to 'lol, and this time, to Sahil, who reminded me that I write not for any newsletter or magazine, but because I like to do so.

Shit again - A tribute to Sandman

A tribute to all the excellently readable stuff over at instain noodles. Read on,

Can't

"The depressed person was in terrible and unceasing emotional pain, and the impossibility of sharing or articulating this pain was itself a component of the pain and a contributing factor in its essential horror."
-opening line from "The Depressed Person" by David Foster Wallace

The man slumped forward from his chair, his chin and arms spilling onto the desk in front of him. He was clad in a light overcoat, a futile attempt of resistance against the overwhelming heat, omnipotent and all-pervading. An assorted medley of stationery lay on his desk, in a semblance of chaotic order, all within arm’s reach, yet so distant as to seem unattainable, the hairsbreadth of space required to grasp any one object calling upon reserves of energy long since depleted.

With a spurt of energy that seemed disproportionately energetic, the man made to rise, a twitch of revenant activity that had long since been banished from the realms of his thought. His hand made as if for a pen and paper just across the desk, yet did not reach it. Not that he could. He assumed his posture of neglected torpor with an ease that belied the pain that used to course through his muscles. But pain gives way to numbness, and apathy becomes bliss.

A fine layer of sand covered all the contents of the room, imparting to it a feeling of timeless age. He knew this was not just his case. The only people in the desolate, deserted landscape were not much different. The want for contact, for interaction, for laughter was so great that it bit at their nerves and made them want to just reach out and start talking to any random personality, even soliloquy was a gift as great as pandora’s box. But it was not to be. The sand covered everything, filling, corroding, relentless, yet coating the entire landscape in a dust s fine that you wouldn’t even notice, it is that you breathe.

He lay on the desk, not a moment from under the dusty overcoat indicating the life concealed within. His breath came in ragged gasps, raw and deep, a desperate effort to resume activity, to escape the madness of endless torpor. With a final effort, he grasped the pen. He tried to dust the paper, but the sand just rose in the air, waiting in a manner reminiscent of a vulture, it would settle soon. The pen would not write, its inkpot contained naught but sand.

Top 10 moments to pat yourself on the back and say ‘there, there’.

10.    In retrospect, all you ever did was sleep and eat.
9.    You painstakingly type this document and forget to save it.
8.    Your parents decide to visit.
7.    You are having your monthly bath and the water goes off (very reliably).
6.    Even worse if you’re taking a shit.
5.    Your first crush tells you that you were her first crush.
4.    You finally decide to go to a class, and when you reach, it has been cancelled.
3.    Then again, there is (was) always Pearl.
2.    Your present crush decides to crush you. Find me a boyfriend, she says.
1.    There’s Aloo in the mess and nobody told you about it.

College Dayz

It truly is an age of literary outburst, with people, and gult-ures (no intentional pun) evolving with a pace most historians would be reluctant to admit. Language, essentially a by-product of current culture, would naturally be assumed to be subject to similar change, and this assumption is not wrong. Words, the likes of which humanity has never seen before are being accepted at a rate that would make even the stoutest Shakespearean theorist quail with uncertainity.

Words like bahookie (n. Scottish a person's buttocks.), blowback (n. chiefly US the unintended adverse results of a political action or situation.), mzee (n. (in East Africa) an older person; an elder.), obesogenic (adj. tending to cause obesity), plank (n. Brit. informal a stupid person.), retronym (n. a new term created from an existing word in order to distinguish the original referent of the existing word from a later one that is the product of progress or technological development (e.g. acoustic guitar for guitar).) or twonk (n. Brit. informal a stupid or foolish person.) being recently added to Oxford are but a harbinger as to what is to come.

As I see the red line highlighting the word ‘dayz’ and involuntarily flinch, the import of what I’m writing comes back to me with renewed vigour. Language, is but a product of people’s day-to-day communication. Consequently, as everyday processes grow more ruthlessly efficient, the priority on the newer generation is of being more functional rather than descriptive. As the reliance on MS Word’s spellcheck grows, English continues to change in new bewildering ways until finally, an article written in an attempt to emulate the old English is said to be ‘murdering the language’. Believe me, such a time has come.

The English that we grew up with, that which we read in Enid Blyton and our other beloved authors is no longer our English. However, this being that case of the elephant in the room we will mercifully conlude this boring rant, saying: Todayz English is a mixture of reronyms and cool wordz that perfectly capture everything hip and happening around us, and if you don’t speak this tongue, then you’re a dweeb, a geek, a wannabe with noob status that ain’t gettin’ nowheres. I m gn nw. c u l8r. gn.

-          A tribute to what used to be a beautiful language.

There, there.

< to be expanded >

The Reject

One of my brief attempts at romanticism, written in one of those rare times that I have human emotions. Here for your perusal, O' invisible audience, read on.

Them posters ain't workin'

An article written for LTGTR, that underlines the current state of the advertising industry (geeky photoshop guys), in the campus.

The Literary outburst

Another BITSian blog of note, this one by the hon. Sahil Mehta, founder and guiding spirit, behind Let The Good Times Roll, (more popular as LTGTR, or as the newsletter on the mess entrance wall), which managed to come out with 3 newsletters in 3 weeks, an incredible event of a magnitude never seen before.
Where's the fourth issue, you (nonexistent reader), may ask. The answer, (apart from ask no stupid questions and receive no lies), would be that we ran into some technical difficulties, but plan to be back on a much bigger scale soon.
Anyway, the blog can be found here at The Literary Outburst.

Introducin' instain noodles

This ain't the Ma(g)gi. It's better.
Presenting proudly, my friend's (who happens to be on Babby's side, and thus is one with the Force) instain blog, in which he shall explore the furthest reaches of the currently known intellectual universe, and other asplosive somethings,the singing sensations at instainoodles.
Read at your earliest inconvenience.

Stopwatch

The people at Google have brought to ligh a very useful method for website optimisation.

Stopwatch, a service available at: http://www.numion.com/Stopwatch/, that gives the time for individual components of a web page to load, on your machine. Thus, the slowest element can be found and the site adjusted accordingly.
This, in turn, can be used by the millions of aspiring web developers in the college, to make sites that will actually load, considering our net speed.

The Rise of a new era

The people back at Gao campus have just been reclassified as students of
"BITS-Pilani, K.K.Birla Goa Campus", which I guess, would make them BPKKBGCians, as opposed to the former, BPGC. Whether this was voluntary, done with the full consent and approval of the students, or a step by the insightful administrative class, deep in rumination of how this will also affect the victims, er.. students of the future, I can not say.
It will be nice, however, to see how they are taking it.

The Pearl trilogy

Right. This is going to be fun.


That's what they thought, and I'm now thinking, as I sit to segregate all my opinions and deliver high praise upon the 'pillars of support', that bore up BITS-Pilani, Hyderabad Campus's first ever, cultural fest.

Much as you hope for it, O' nonexistent audience, thou shalt have to persever a bit longer, as I now write this article.

There, there.

Trochee

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia,

Here's a bit of general invective, from the people whom I often tend to borrow.

A trochee or choree, choreus, is a metrical foot used in formal poetry consisting of a stressed syllable followed by an unstressed one. Trochee comes from the Greek τροχός, trokhós, wheel, and choree from χορός, khorós, dance; both convey the "rolling" rhythm of this metrical foot.

Uh. Uh. That maketh perfect sense, does it not? Now try this on for size.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's The Song of Hiawatha is written almost entirely in trochees, barring the occasional substitution (iamb, spondee, pyrrhic, etc.).

Should you ask me, whence these stories?

Whence these legends and traditions,

With the odours of the forest,

With the dew and damp of meadows,

In the second line, "and tra-" is a Pyrrhic substitution, as are "With the" in the third and fourth lines, and "of the" in the third. Even so, the dominant foot throughout the poem is the trochee.


Pyrrhic? That sounds like either a gastric condition of a chemical composite. Much WTFness, as often said by THE India Uncut writer. I'll let you figure that one out.

ze Layout is, er, out

Rather Self explanatory, I feel. Comments are welcome, so is criticism.
{ The audience hall is empty, the talk over. Goes to a corner and sulks.}

eets ze french again

One day, 'oo know, ze Fwance will rule ze world.
Why, because eet ees not about ze war. eet ees not about who has ze bomb, or who will make ze world go poof. No, my darleengs, eet ees all about ze love, and nobody nows that better zhan us. Voila.

So many days, so little posts

This is writing in a style that would best suit a philosophy or sociology site, I guess, being about the localised outsourcing of work. If you have the patience to stomach it, do read on.

The Gothic fly: part 2

The second of my series of four short stories, together known as the Gothic fly. The second installment is as follows:

The Fate of Auntiji's progeny

The Gothic fly: part 1

The first of my series of four short stories, together known as the Gothic fly. The first part is as follows:

The EDO Contemporary SILicate manufacturing processes.

PJ of the day

What did the signpost tell the traveller?

Ans: There, there.
-by me.

Love, Sex and Dhokha

Yeah, no.

The Story of the story of the dog

One of my first articles in the college, touted to be sheer nonsense by most, and completely whimsical, by the more polite ones. For me, however, it represents the vast number of books that it has references to. So, read on.

ze clarifications

zis ees not just any blog. zees is ze blog. Patronized by both ze babby and ze hon. Mr.chuck Norris, it strikes fear and desperation into ze hearts of all le cash cows left (21, to be exact).
Now, this space shalt be used to write all the stuff that shall mostly not be published anywhere else, considering that it has nearly zero viewership (0, except for that eccentric japanese guy who comes upon it after pressing the 'next blog' button about 42 times) more articles, of every subject concievable (to me, that is) stay tuned to this blog.

Finally

After loads of attempts at starting a blog, here's one that I feel will finally take off. Hope you'll have as much of agood time reading this as I'll have writing.
If not, there, there.