2S
Techie. Writer. Photographer.
December 14, 2008 at 6:35 am · Filed under tributes
Sunrise. The big day had arrived.
He’d never proposed before, ever. In fact, the closest he came to a ‘proposal’ was back in 2007 when he pored over a whole wave of RFPs in the pre-sales team, and responded to each individually. To suggest that he was unprepared for the moment was to suggest that Satch could strum a guitar. Yet, it was something that he’d always wanted to do, all his life.
As the sun uncovered itself from under the dark, our late-riser SOA specialist was up, running and active as hell, like a Wall Street trade server on a Monday morning, YouTubing all kinds of proposal videos. Yes, you read right, YouTubing. He was the kind of guy who believed that Wikipedia was the Gospel Truth. He was known to wiki everything from Nuclear Weaponry in Pakistan to the biological internals of the male reproductory system in the event of a possible sexual arousal by the opposite gender. And here he was, browsing through a number of proposal videos. After a few dry runs in front of the mirror, he finally figured out the entire go-down-on-one-knee affair, and though it did seem silly in front of the mirror, the reaction on the face of the women in the aforementioned videos was motivation enough to persist with the idea of going down and proposing.
The reaction. Hmm. It didn’t take too long to figure that out. But of course, it was the ring.
Opening up a new tab, he googled all over again for diamond rings on the websites of Gili and Nakshatra. Not that he liked any: they all seemed to be, in words immortalized by the woman he was proposing too, gubbe, which when translated to English roughly suggests that the rings were owl-like, although owls and rings - or owls and anything else, with this woman - never have and hopefully will never be literally compared. Owls, and dogs at times, were her much sought-after context comparison operators.
The ring. As he checked into work, he momentarily drowned in a sea of use-case diagrams, MBeans and a rogue Null Pointer Exception on a bitch of a String member (he went on to suggest, in native Urdu, that the getter method in question made love to String’s female sibling). Yet, swimming through them and aided with timely log4j calls that he always abused (his log statements read: “Jack Sparrow was here” as many System Admins at the giant investment bank he worked for often wondered in amazement at the mysterious appearance of the Caribbean Pirate. Virus, those dumbfucks guessed), all he could think of now was the ring.
Furiously alt-tabbing between two putty terminals, a cricket scorecard and a Google image search for the rings, he kept staring at one he fell in love with, prompting a colleague, Pis, to walk past mouthing ‘Frodo’. He immediately alt-tabbed away and looked towards the voice that followed it up with a ‘obsessed with holes now, are you? Here, grab a polo. You’d fit through it, I think’, sending his compiler into overdrive.
The Ring. Declining a nasty meeting request that came up at the last moment (Domestic situation at home, Mr. Manager. Need to rush. Will discuss with team tomorrow) he rushed out to the Oasis Center in Koramangala, and the Carbon showroom, checking out a few rings that his best buddy, Jay, had seen the previous day. Not many that he liked, until he chanced upon one that he was attracted to so strongly that he half-looked around for a Gollum. All clear. The only Gollum that ever followed him was on Twitter. This ring, my precious, he liked. It looked like an S too. Meanwhile, the friend had arrived, and ack-ed his choice of the ring. Perfect.
But that wasn’t the end of his evening for the woman. Flowers were always on the cards, flowers his buddy had already arranged and deployed at the location where the evening was set. Yet, there was something about the whole thing missing. He racked his creative thought process and realized a common mistake every distributor makes before it sells its product: branding. Where was the personalization?
So, summoning all his documentation skills, he sat outside the mall, shooting nervous glances towards the incoming traffic at the Sony World signal, and penned a little letter that talked about the ring. A letter he was proud of, because he’d poured into it a kettleful of vision, hope and affection. Words he didn’t have to conjure up because the woman he was about to meet, and in an hour or two propose to, was so special. Yes, special as in, extraordinary, and not as in Special Olympics.
Ring safely secured in the left-corner of his jacket, he rushed to meet the girl who was waiting at the Forum mall. An embrace where for a moment he wondered if she’d find out that he had a ring, before he put that thought to rest. Naw, she was super-smart and brainy and all that, but she wasn’t Nostradamus. She couldn’t possibly have known. As they cuddled up together in the rick, going towards that same old restaurant on 100ft road where it was all planned, he was lost in thought, much to the dismay of the girl in his arms then.
Scared? No, of course not. Nervous? A little. Excited? Yes. It reminded him of those few minutes before a critical production deployment where the JBoss server was deployed and running, the production ticket had been approved, the database tables in production had been created and populated and all he had to do was deploy the EAR before tailing the logs and ensuring the system came up. Yup. That kind of feeling.
It didn’t help that it was a harsh, cold evening and the girl had wrapped herself up in a shawl in such Mujahideen-like fashion that he managed a faint smile. To distract herself, she started singing, and when she broke into the tune of ‘chulli chulli’, a (forgettable) Kannada song picturised on the legendary Dr. Rajkumar, he, for a fleeting instant, revisited the thought of marrying this girl. Yet it was these moments of random excitedness that he loved, much liked he loved the sporadic peaks on a CPU/Memory graph of his local de-centralized message monitoring dameon. And so, they made their way into Take-5, as he was quickly distracted by the cricket match in progress. Dhoni had just slammed a boundary, went back, used the full length of the crease and punched the ball through cover and extra-cover as sweeper was left with no chance, before the girl did a soft-reset and brought him back to his previous stable state where willow took a backseat.
Before he knew it, the moment had arrived. T-minus-2 minutes and his mind went blank. Jay had to almost point him to the girl he was going to propose to, otherwise he’d end up proposing to a doorknob, and doorknobs, for all the pushing and squeezing and twisting opportunities they offer, do not say ‘yes’ in confirmation when diamond rings are shown to them. T-minus-1 minute and Jay had broken into his homosexual act, suggesting that he and Jay were in love with each other. A pseudo-gay-prologue to the proposal. It was a decoy, though. His buddy had set it up perfectly for the rest of the crowd at Take-5. T-minus-20 seconds. At that moment, Jay was a placeholder that sacrificed his heterosexuality, risking his public reputation at the joint.
Finally, the moment arrived. The ring-bearer plucked it out of his shirt pocket, went down on one knee, and popped the question, mumbled it really, while in his heart he spawned two vocal threads that implemented Runnable, Loveable and even WhatTheFuckable, one that said ’say yes, please’ and the other that said ‘thank you YouTube and God bless you Google’.
Two seconds. Three. She didn’t respond, and in perfect SOA architecture, the message publisher, down on one knee, was anonymous to the consumer in this instance. Decoupled. Four seconds, five. No ack. He timed out, so he published the message again. “Will you marry me?”
Her MessageListener’s onMessage event triggered gracefully again, and mercifully, she was able to parse it and respond. A positive acknowlegement. “Yes.”
But being the rogue publisher he was, he wouldn’t stop at that. He re-published, silently cursing himself for the overall latency he now introduced. She, however, was well equipped with duplicate message handling and responded with an ack again. He took the ring out, placed it on her finger and then sat back next to her, moment over, message deleted from the queue as the crowd looked on. A drop of sweat had accumulated. Whew. That instance really hogged all the CPU for five minutes. Finally, it sunk in.
She’d said yes long ago, yet he understood the importance of this vocal confirmation, much as a sales engineer understands the difference between an okay from the CIO, and a work order. They were getting married. It was going to happen. The Capri’s pragmatism had been conquered. Her doubt-ridden security policies had been compromised. The Libran, smitten by her centralized architecture of individuality, had sneaked into the heart of her core, coupling himself with her as SOA and loose coupling died a horrific death. They were bonded, merged, now one entity, as Adobe and Macromedia are, and as Microsoft and Google will never (hopefully).
It was time for a regretful goodbye that evening. Now at the lane where she lived, he pecked her cheek and gave her one last good-night kiss, an undocumented EOD SoP. As she checked into her home, he made his way back, his life forever tagged with the version of this release. And he was missing her already. Sure, he’d meet her the next day, or the day after that. But she wasn’t around then, and he missed her like hell. Yet he could feel her presence around him as he made his way into bed amidst a flurry of SMSes, knowing well that he loved her a lot more than she knew.
In hindsight, mistakes happened. Doubt pricked, and still does at times. Yet, there is this instance running on one of his clusters dedicated for her, that she perhaps might never know about. An instance whose uptime is unearthly. An instance that, strangely, cannot be killed even with a root. An instance that has no PID, that isn’t visible on a ps -ef to the naked grep.
An instance that is madly in love with her. One that he hopes, someday, somehow, she’ll find, appreciate, and cherish for a lifetime.
December 3, 2008 at 12:13 am · Filed under terrorism
I am very disappointed to know that there will not be any military action against Pakistan.
This time around, I’m one of those many people out there who is quite content at thinking out of anger. And I am starting to think that I, in my own reaction, have been too patient towards the Pakistan government. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this is the time for some harsh action. Maybe this is the time for a knee-jerk reaction. If the rest of the world understands the evidence we have against Pakistan in protecting terrorists, then there is little that ought to stop us from launching a full-fledged war on that nation. I think we’ve been too soft, too long.
It is time to block their ports and stop them from trading. It’s time for another military build-up on the border. Pakistan cannot afford to go to war with us right now, neither economically nor diplomatically. It has absolutely no choice but to, in the words of Rice, “follow evidence wherever it leads” and lend “absolute” and “transparent” cooperation to New Delhi in the probe into the Mumbai terror strikes. Sure, we’re working to an unfair advantage but let’s do it.
Honestly, to hell with diplomacy. When the entire country is a landmine, it doesn’t matter if we go to war. New Delhi, please go ahead and make love to thy neighbour before your balls drop off.
September 25, 2008 at 4:10 am · Filed under personal
Finally, I’ve come out of my writing shell. It might rain after all, tomorrow — perhaps a hailstorm. Sorry for ruining the weather, folks, and a quick word of apology directed and hurled at the Met office too.
And what brought about the change, did you ask? Well, you didn’t, but here’s me giving it to you anyway: coffee. Yes, holy, blessed coffee.
So, um, in the last few months, shit happened, to say — or write — or blog — the least. A few health issues, with myself. Mom went through problems of her own, kidney-stone, the likes (which is, by the way, all fine now). Someone extremely important — to me, atleast — decided to leave the city. The friends I used to hang out with — the gang — decided to just turn anti-social. Was left lonely, bigtime. In a space of two days, then, I lost a very, very close friend in a freak bus-accident in Chennai: something that many of us haven’t entirely recovered from. We still scrap him on Orkut, hoping he reads it someday, knowing fully that it isn’t going to happen.
Now that *that* is out’a the way, on to the climaxial metamorphosis.
So, after aforementioned lifecrap hurled at yours truly, I had two options: take it on the chin, bravely, and move on — or retract into a shell. I, wise and uber-intelligent as I am, picked the latter. All that amazing know-how of how great it is to be by yourself. And honestly, I kind of enjoyed it too. The long drives all by myself at night (well, not exactly *all* by myself, if you consider the playlist and an overload of Evanescence, MLTR, Westlife, the works). I’d start to spend late-nights at work, and though my worse days had started, the firm’s better days arrived automatically. Project were over before deadlines, people started recognizing me as Mr. Dependable at work. Things like that happen when you have issues.
Issues. Too light a word, methinks. The right word to describe my behaviour is something else, however, I’m blessed between my legs, as a result, it just isn’t technically accurate. So let’s just say I had issues. Mood swings, would keep randomly mum, not laugh at crazy jokes, you know? Yes, exactly. Periods.
But *that* was until one fine day, when I decided to try something different. A shot in the dark, or to be precise, at sunset. Hopped along into CCD and invited someone I don’t hang out with too much. To quickly introduce her, she works in my building, stays close-by, is a Mozzy, is a Mount Carmel product and can talk. The guy at the Nandidurga CCD went, “Sir? New gang today?”
“No gang. Just one and she’ll be here soon.”
“Oh. And what will you have sir?”
“Cappucino. Extra shot of Espresso, please.” I had two vodkas, the previous day, and suddenly the idea of vodka and caffeine turned me on with espressolust.
The coffee arrived, and so did she. And like most women do, late. In no time, her rear was rested on the black CCD couch (okay, I just got racist at a couch, forgive me Mr. Barack Osama, but I was being descriptive). I asked her if she’d like some cake, while quickly glancing at aforementioned rear to figure out if it would make a difference. Unlike the coffee, the rear wasn’t all that heavenly, and I’m sure her frame could live with the crime of a slice of Chocolate Fantasy.
Fast forward to a few minutes, when the cake had arrived. She wasn’t a great looker, and I instead eyed the hard horizontal chunk of chocolate at the top of her cake, as the lips made chocosexual contact with that extra shot of coffee.
The woman, however, swallowed down the Fantasy in no time. I made a quick mental note and update to my in-memory proverb dataset: a hungry man is an angry man, and a hungry woman is a bitch.
She had to rush, apparently. So we rammed into the car (into, not *in*, we didn’t ram *in* the car, the word was *into*, so stop that thread of thought right there) and headed out. That’s when she struck a little albeit signpost-like conversation in my life.
“I was wondering … you’re different at work, you know?”
“What do you mean?”
“Formal and all professional. No curses, and here you are, a different person. Five years younger too.”
I’m glad she said ‘five’. Two years more and she would be calling me a minor. I hate being called a minor.
“Oh. Yeah. It’s like that. You should see me at night though.”
No, I didn’t mean that. A clarification beckoned, instantly, and even as I started it, the inquiring eyebrows were out.
“I mean, when I’m alone, by myself, I drive out, late at night. To … contemplate things.”
“Hmm.”
I’m a firm believer in the thought that the word “hmm” murders conversations. However, in her case, I was wondering if she knew what “contemplate” meant. I didn’t think Carmelites were too bright, but hey, forgive me: it generally looks like all babe and no brain when you drive by *that* college, you know.
“You’re not a bad guy, you know? You need to just … be yourself, I think.”
Bing! A perfect stranger and she said the words I wanted to hear. I’d started to think, and feel better. Before my fornicated piece of mobile communication decided to ring, and before my fornicated idea of requesting her to hold on to my blessed, virgin Espresso materialised, and took effect.
“Hello?”
It was aforementioned-important-person-who-was-then-leaving who wasn’t entirely pleased that I was in CCD with female company who just didn’t happen to be her. Oops. So I focused on the call. What I didn’t focus on, of course, was the evil, mother-effing pothole lying in stealth on the road ahead. Sure enough, I went over it.
Now, normally, when a vehicle goes over a pothole, you’d expect people holding coffee to take protective action. You’d “expect” it, won’t you? Well, I did. And what I got in return was an ‘oops’ followed by a nice, big stain of coffee on my lovely white t-shirt. Provogues, for the record, is a second-skin. I think I was born with it, almost. Like Karna and the Kavacha and Kundals, you know?
And, because my middle name is Muriel and my surname is mighty close to Bing, I couldn’t resist a crazy pick-up line.
“There are *better* ways of getting my shirt off, you know?”
She laughed. I thought she’d apologize, or even better, wipe my shirt for me. I mean, if I spilt coffee on her top, I’d lick it all back. For the coffee, of course.
So, with half the coffee wasted and a Provogue white shirt ruined, I dropped her at home pronto and rushed for a change. That was certainly the last time I met her. It doesn’t matter if her rear was firmer, or if she assumed the shape and form of Giselle Bundchen. I would *never* date a girl who doesn’t share my respect for coffee and Provogue.
But she made me think. And think I did. Until I realised, that hey, I perhaps just *must* be myself. So here’s a little thank-you to the carmelite who I haven’t spoken to since. ‘Thanks, girl.’
Meanwhile, I’m on a roll since. New friends. Very, very, important and much needed new gang. Old gang looks like it’ll shape up soon. New-found rhythm at work. No more ‘issues’. And while the car does have *her* periods — she heats up, refuses to budge, and now isn’t honking, just isn’t horny enough — I’m on a little roll of myself in life with the occasional day off-colour. Happens to the best of us, you know. (as I quietly suggest, unknowing to you, in a fleeting moment of self-praise and boastfulness, that the best of us is me, or unknowing it was until I just pointed it out a few words back).
Tell you what? A lot can happen over coffee after all.
May 10, 2008 at 2:05 am · Filed under personal, photoblog
1940 HRS. The 37 degrees that the pilot promised prompted me to lose the jacketlike Provogue I wore over a thin, white cotton t-shirt. A hint of perspiration as I step out, for the first time in sixteen years, to meet the sultry capital. A huge airport, with lovely conveyor belts, excellent displays, and announcements going off in Hindi and English as opposed to the Kannada I am accustomed to. The baggage arrives on time, the support staff smiles, and even before you leave the airport, the city’s already invited you.
We drive out of the airport right into the road to Gurgaon and then to the central part of town. The roads are well lit, and I’m surprised at the lane-discipline being observed. Even more surprised to note that each and every driver out there has strapped his seat-belt. The traffic crawls like it does in the city I belong to, but it’s organized. Civilized. Back home in Bangalore, a four-wheeler will manufacture space meant for a two-wheeler in the midst of the winding snake of vehicles, and even as that happens, a rickshaw quietly sneaks in that one moment of driving genius or bastardisation, depending on which vehicle you’re sitting in. None of it here.
We’re now driving to the center, or should I say, The Center. Soon, buildings that otherwise seduced me in Bollywood reruns start to appear. Rashtrapathi Bhavan. The Parliament. Buildings I can’t put a name to. And then, finally, there it stands. India Gate, lit at night, rekindling memories of a certain Rakeysh Mehra movie that changed the way I think forever. And as the national strength of the nation carved into the structure looks at me, the goose bumps arrive. But the lights go out before I can click a snap, and though the gate now lurks in the dark concealing the pride in the night, the goose bumps refuse to leave.
Where the patriot met his nation. And when she smiled back at him, flaunting her grace, her might, and her beauty. And when he fell in love with her. Again.
Delhi, tonight.
April 6, 2008 at 8:27 pm · Filed under bollywood
I’m not blind - I admit, Kareena Kapoor is one of the hotter women I’ve seen out there, but whether that new firmly-toned body of hers really merits a tattoo on Saif Ali Khan’s hand - or any other part of his body - is questionable. I, for one, would have little space left on my relatively larger frame if I were to tattoo the names of the women I’ve loved, love, and will love in the foreseeable future.
But the question that’s eating me is this: is it just me, or are others too wondering if Kareena Kapoor and Saif Ali Khan have timed this just before the release of Tashan, where they both star together? Does a movie require painful body-art - and a love story attached to it - to gain traction? Isn’t the fact that Tashan is a Yash Raj production good enough for publicity? The very same Yash Raj who gave a movie like Chak De, and a movie flickshit like Jhoom Barabar Jhoom last year?
So, before we digress too much, tattoos. I’m all for it, I mean, what better way than to inscribe her name on a limb (or a rear) and dedicate it for the love of your life. But one must question the wisdom of Saif Ali Khan here. To begin with, Kareena Kapoor has demonstrated in her past relationships that she is as loyal to men as leaves are to trees in autumn. Not that Saif has the best track-record either, so considering these factors, a tattoo might just be going too far.
And please do consider that Bollywood is so seduced by numerology these days. If people do krazzy things, like make moviees - named Karzzzz - add ‘e’ in their names, then what’s the guarantee that the name won’t change? What if she takes a leaf out of SRK’s Darr performance and calls herself Kkkkareena? If they could do that to Kkusum, they could do it to her too, right?
While on the subject, I personally think the position of the tattoo is important. A tattoo on the hands, for instance, expresses support. A tattoo on the chest might reflect where the guy keeps his girl, in his heart. It might get interesting: a tattoo on the back would mean the girl is piggybacking on him, and a tattoo on any of the rears would mean, well, never mind.
Yesterday, I went to this store to get a new arrowhead that would sit in the old piercing, and I came across this guy who had a tattoo all over his neck that sprouted onto his back, of a snake. I’m starting to believe in this, really. I think in the rare event that I build a Godlike body for myself, I might actually end up tattooing a name on it. Atleast, I’d do it for the girl, and not for a movie.
So I’ve decided. I’m getting a tattoo done the day I get a great body and a steady girlfriend, both of which currently seem remote. While on the lookout for the girl, I’ll of course try my best to look for a North Indian, or a Maharastrian. No, Raj Thackeray hasn’t brainwashed me (yet) but atleast the names of the women in that part of India are short and sweet. Anu, Ria, Pooja. Come down south and you have Jayalakshmis to Bhanupriya, Bhagyashree or Bhanuwati. Or - gulp - Priyadarshini. To make that tattoo would, um, hurt.
Well, atleast I don’t live in Colombo, if that’s some relief. Spare a thought for Chaminda Vaas’ lovelife’s name if she were to do such an absurd thing. With all due respect to her frame, I highly doubt if ‘Warnakulasuriya Patabendige Ushantha Joseph Chaminda Vaas’ would fit.
Highly, highly, doubt it.
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