Memoirs of my Tryst with nature

If time machine is the only wagon that can take us to the Middle Age or the Old Stone Age in a quest to explore the various civilizations, I beg to differ. A quiet place and a calm mind can take us down the memory lane in a flash. I tend to travel back and forth, revving my SILENCEdes, letting in my past memories sedate my present.

As images unfolded in tranquility, I was sucked in by the gravity of the situation. About a year ago, near the fag end of Spring 2005, I saw her on my way to the workstation. Though I always felt an air of swagger around her, perched on top of her wooden castle, my heart would start pounding, palm bleeding with sweat, rippling tsunami in the gut. Days flew into months, me playing a waiting game for her first move.

One fine morning I decided to let go of my feelings for her and move on with life. But by quirk of fate, I was hit by her dewy tears. Sensing a glimmer of hope for my unrequited love, I stood there under her shadows just in case if she needs to lean on. After few hesitations, she opened her heart out revealing how her sibling succumbed to nature’s fury, her static life in the branched ivory tower and so on. As she was pouring out, I realized that all her flamboyance and pride were just a façade to veil her trials and tribulations.

What started out as a crush grew into a very serious relationship, she sloughing off her regular green jersey and donning a red one to impress me, minor quibbles between us and what not. All seem to go well for us until one fine day her parents revealed to me that she is counting her days and that they will be all gone before the winter sets in. She made no effort to conceal her impending grave and our eyes were locked in tears. Head down with a heavy heart, I started to walk writhing in pain.

Next day, as soon as she saw me, she broke loose from her wooden castle and descended down only to be swept away by the wind. I had to sprint like hell to retrieve her. Holding her in her final moments, with a quivering voice and a failing heart, she whispered that she would be back next spring and left me weeping. Until I see her again, may her soul rest in peace in the casket of my organic chemistry book. Amen.

Missing CPU

First thing, does it really exist? If it does, is it functioning the way it should? Is it of the right size to perform its routine? Is it shrinking? These are my ways of questioning the existence of a small lump of grey flesh tethered with thousands of neurons, with cranium as its place of abode, which the medical fraternity calls it “Brain”. My schoolteacher, college professor, my friends, even my parents used to ask me “ Do you have brains?” With all my innocence and ignorance, I used to say “ Sorry I am not willing to share it.” Never felt that they were asking me a rhetorical question.

From time to time, when I tend to knock the door of the skull mantle with knuckles, my auditory senses would pick up a hollow resounding signal just like an empty vessel, confirming that God forgot to plug in my CPU. If HE is the architect of my current handicap probably I guess a one-to-one talk could help resolve the issue. Even to put forward my case and prosecute HIM, I need some analytical thinking.

Above ramblings and suicidal blaming game are spewing out of my piled up dormant antipathy towards my academic ancestors- the likes of G.N.Lewis, J.J.Thompson, Linus Pauling, and not to forget the great Albert who rollercoasted his way to glory using only 10% of his grey matter. Adding fuel to my incapacitated mind are my fellow peers from IIT, IIM, Stanford and other Ivy league schools who strut with an air of flamboyance, not to be left behind are the underage over achievers who are hell bent on questioning my mere existence.

I think not what they think

Depleting creativity, draining reasoning, funneling analysis, recurring boredom, inability to think outside the bun, has all motivated me to the following limerick.

As my parents watch me grow up
Parents thinking: My son will be great
Me thinking: Keep thinking.

Standing behind a girl in queue
Me thinking: Hips hypnotize me
She thinking: You can’t screw me.

Standing in front of a mirror
Me thinking: Tom Cruise
gnikniht eM : Cruise Tom

My advisor thrashing me
Advisor thinking: You Stupid, Jackass indeed
Me thinking: Just following the lead.

Watching a 10 pointer go by
Me thinking: I am there for you
She thinking: I am never for you.

Praying to God
Me thinking: HE is listening
HE thinking: Go to Hell

Deep slumber in bed
Me dreaming: Natalie Portman
She dreaming: Some other men

After reading this
You thinking: Bull shit
Me thinking: So do I

" ********** "

As I mentally hitchhiked and traveled back down the memory lane, a slew of images raced like trees running past a moving train. I was able to sense the disappointment writ all over my parents, as they watched me grow from a cute little angel to an uncouth brat. Hey who can defy nature’s will of increasing entropy (disorder). I am sure we all carry huge sack of adventures only to be reenacted by the next generation with more vigor and ferocity.

Of the many sepia tainted images, the old Tamil movies of the 60’s and 70’s seem to have strong nerve connections in my hard drive. Probably the long grueling hours that I had put up with my grandma, before she could allow me to watch Giant Robot, might be the reason for those tattoos in my ROM. Though there were these torturous 16 -20 bits of musical extravaganza, some of the, out-of-the-context dialogues were enjoyable. For e.g., when the villains are exchanging smuggled goods, one guy would say “Kaka Pachai”, (the crow is green), for which the other guy would reply “Amavasaiku Pournami” (honeymoon for the guy full moon) and once code words fall in place, they exchange hands.

Slowly I did realize the fact that even today unknowingly we are all playing the code game of “Kaka Pachai” (the crow is green) as we punch in those alpha - masking star-spangled passwords for almost everything –bank accounts, secured entrance, missile launch, parental control, and email accounts. With email accounts from all possible vendors, the difficulty lies in remembering the passwords, not to forget the alphanumeric username. I guess I would have answered at least a 100 secret question to get a new password. Probably, once the speech recognition software is implemented in full force, we might end up whispering our passwords like the Hogwarts School of Harry Potter. Until then, just let’s be muggles, forgetting our password and retrieving it , logging in every 2 hours to delete the spam and letting others know that we are alive with our forwards.