Being 31 / That incident with the elephant in the night time

Monday, 08-Jun-2015

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So this is how it ends. A dark ghat road on the Kerala-Karnataka border. A speeding car. A huge elephant looms up right in front of my car's windshield. Death by a magnificent lone tusker is a spectacular way to go. 

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31. The age by which one would have everything figured out. Career. Ambition. Direction. Or so I thought when I was 21. Today at the doorstep of that number, I am not so sure and quite happy for the fact. Knowing everything would be a little bit scary. No such problems here.

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31 undeniably feels 'old'. But then 41 will feel even older. Much to my surprise, 'old' is not a bad feeling at all. It's rather fun to look at the young 'uns and all their plans with a "Tumhein kyaa pataa" smugness. This, however, does not extend into forgiveness to Yo Yo Honey Singh for what he did to "Dheere Dheere Se". On a side note - Hrithik, seriously dude, what is your problem - do you really have to d-a-n-c-e t-o e-v-e-r-y s-o-n-g?

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31 has been quite the journey, especially post the 18 years of incubation in a little town by the banks of the Narmada. A different life I do not wish for. Getting here via Bharuch, Kurukshetra, Kolkata and Taunton has given so much food for thought and so much variety of company that any more would just go unutilized.

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Books. Maps. Motorcycles. Family. Friends. Freedom. Pets. NGC/Discovery/Animal Planet/BBC/History. A generic Ph.D in Geekery. Space and time have intersected in the most fortuitous manner to make the preceding the dominant themes of my life. A lot of lives, due to various circumstances, have been driven by other people's "You should"s. I can't complain about any such compulsions.

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As it happened, the driver of my car that night in Kerala swerved, like Alladin on his magic carpet.... swerved just enough to avoid the charging elephant, half dangling the car out onto a chasm hundreds of feet deep. As surprised as us when we turned around the hairpin bend at speed, it had decided to do something about the puny little Tata Indigo that dared challenge him. We of course had no such intentions and made our escape. 

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One of the reasons that I am agnostic and not yet a committed atheist is in memory of incidents like that night's. I don't know how I am still here but I am here. Maybe, just maybe, someone is watching [in a non-creepy way].

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That thing about your life flashing before your eyes... it's for real. In the couple of seconds that it took for me to see the elephant towering over the windscreen of my rushing car (it will redefine your definition of big), realize that it was all over and then realize that it was not all over, I saw a teaser. 

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A teaser which ended with ... "You lucky bas***d"

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.in/2015/09/being-31-that-incident-with-elephant-in.html]

Kirmich Road

NIT-Kurukshetra Main Building (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Bangor. Maine. USA. A radio ad. A surprising radio ad. I let my attention drift from the speeding traffic coursing down I-95 S towards Boston. Dangerous. I grip the steering wheel tighter and look to the road again. Memories.

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"Mahindra Tractors... now in New England!" the ad said. I grew up in an industrialized small town in south Gujarat. I have no childhood memories of farms and farm machinery. That name though... has special resonance.
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Kurukshetra. Haryana. India. Land of the Mahabharata and not much else after. Scratch that. Everything. It was everything and a little bit more. For 4 years. Tucked away in a corner of a sprawling university campus, bordered by wheat fields is an engineering college. Or as it seemed to us then, a universe... our universe.
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A narrow road. Used only occasionally by tempos and Mahindra tractors. The borderline between our world and theirs. Offering easy access to two critical facilities - khokhas for rescue from the tyranny of hostel mess food and thekas for the times when the food wasn't enough of an escape.
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Kirmich Road. Home to khokhaas Akloo, Harish, Meghnath and the only so called 'restaurant', the James Bond inspired Golden Eye. Not for the culinary aesthete, it must be said, given the buffaloes tied alongside their shed like structures and the buzzing flies around them but for a certain group of young adults, the best in the world. Host also to the entrepreneur from Kerala who set up his roadside idli-dosa stall, here in rural Haryana, as far away from home as he could possibly be, brave and undeterred in his mission of serving quality South Indian fare. 
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The road of terror and darkness in the first year. Beyond which lay the naked yellow bulbs under which seniors were free to do, in their own ominous words, 'whatever they want' after they had spirited away the freshers from the stifling confines of their hostel/jail in the middle of the night. The jokes and the humour were crude but the anda chow-mein on some nights was compensation enough.
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 The road of freedom thereafter. Birthday and job treats, recuperating cultural/technical fest committees, farewells, reunion parties - all had a way spilling onto Kirmich Road, a bone chilling walk on a winter night and respite from baking hostel rooms in the summer. Akloo's half-fry Maggi and a steaming glass of patti at midnight was a treat hunter's 'mission complete'. Meghnath's parathas too with their mysterious green chutney, which gave salvation to some and jaundice to others, warmed many a soul in a Haryana winter. 
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Unlikely friendships - making a mockery of the conventional ideas of common ground and background - were formed here, unrequited love - the most common ailment of any young boy's life - was analyzed and criticized here i.e. until it struck the criticizers themselves and understanding silences - over shared cigarettes - covered those golden periods when words seemed superfluous, here in this nondescript road by the wheat fields. 
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A cancelled lecture's magnificent happy hour saw the tides of students wash over Kirmich Road's shores. Late night debates, whose origins could never be traced beyond the vast lands of a country called Boredom fed by the river called Alcohol, reached their garbled crescendo here. This narrow rectangular strip of pitch and tar was a stage... a canvas for all those emotions inseparable from the adventure called student life.
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No wonder then, that half a world away, 8 years since I had even thought about it, Kirmich Road sprung back to life in an instant. Nostalgia tends to smoothen the edges of reality and even to periods of darkness provides a noir like cool. 
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In an idealized tableau, I can always see it, my feet propped up on an empty chair and a glass of patti in my hand, accompanied by a changeable cast of friends - a noisy tractor bouncing past leaving behind a trail of the faint but unmistakable tinny notes of a Punjabi song's ektara. 
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Just another ordinary... but never quite ordinary day on Kirmich Road.
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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.in/2015/09/kirmich-road.html]

Almost

Nagarhole National Park

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Early evening in the forests of southern Karnataka sees our safari vehicle enter through the Dammannakatte gate. I am the only entry level DSLR on this jeep, with a minor 55-250 mm zoom lens that I can hand-hold. My four co-passengers are armed with massive wildlife photography focused lenses that need bean bags to rest on. Not only are they dressed in complete camouflage gear, they have camouflage covers for their camera lenses too. I feel woefully under-prepared. 

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That fear is soon put to rest. My jeep mates are very friendly with the noob on their team today. They talk of wildlife trips taken in the Brazilian Pantanal to photograph jaguars and of having seen dozens of brown bears congregate in a narrow stream in the Russian Kamchatka salmon fishing. I too have my handful of Alaska yarns to share, enough for this one time meeting. All in all, it's a happy partnership.

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Then there's the jungle. Oh, what a jungle! The monsoon has arrived in Nagarhole the day before. I don't know if there is a scientific method to measure a tree's happiness. If there is, it would get some chart topping numbers in that forest that evening. The grey of the clouds has only amped up the greenness of the green and the animals wandered about in a dazed crazed sort of happiness. It's not for nothing that nature documentaries use those uplifting melodies as background score when showing the monsoon's arrival. The whole darn place feels... uplifted.

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Chital, often ignored for their sheer numbers and the ease with which they can be sighted, are one of the beautiful deer on earth. In their spotted grace, they roam these forests by the scores, giving our noisy vehicle the startled doe eye. A pair of mongoose hurry on by, too busy to pose for pictures and the brilliant colour of a Malayan giant squirrel clambering from tree to tree is hard to miss. A rather lazy leopard (more on that in a later post), imperious crested hawk eagles, the strikingly blue Indian roller, a restless dhole pack, elephant herds bathing in the Kabini and massive muscled gaur, all feature in the star cast of this matinee show.

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Up and down the bumpy forest trails we go, the forest department guide assigned to our vehicle half suspended out of the driver's cab scanning, searching, seeking - finding an unusual pattern where we see only green or hearing a tell-tale sound when all we hear is a generic insect buzz and motioning the driver to stop. A little more effort on our part and we finally see what he is expecting to see.

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On this particular occasion, there seems to be a strange urgency to his indications. Looking back to the tourists in his vehicle, he brings his finger to his lips. We aren't talking anyway; our mouths have gone dry with anticipation. 

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Only because on the trail in front of us, dozens of very scared looking chitals are falling over themselves to crowd onto one side of the trail giving short shrill barks of warning. Up in the trees, the langurs are raising an almighty racket shaking branches and hooting at their loudest. You don't have to be a naturalist to tell the reason for all this commotion and tension. Someone wearing a golden striped suit, it seems, is coming.

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The engine of our vehicle goes dead, choked by a quick turn of the key. All banter and chat and smiles are now on hold. I feel a quick jab of the elbow to my chest. One of my co-passengers points towards the direction in which I am already looking and silently mouths the words "Be ready. 100% sighting."

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The wait lasts interminably. The focus and intensity required for 8 men to zero in one point in space & time with one common objective is mentally taxing. Even as we watch, we detect signs of the dissipation of the state of high alert. The body language of the deer still crowded together takes a turn towards the casual and the langurs go quiet. The king, for today, has decided to take an alternate route, not crossing our line of sight.

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The disappointment is apparent in our vehicle as shoulders collectively slouch. Men who have seen wildlife in all its glory in every remote location in the world multiple times over still feel a pang of regret at missing this particular chance to glimpse the magnificent animal that chose not to make an appearance. That the tiger has such a deep hold on human imagination and excites us so is reason enough for us to fight for its preservation and that of its world. 

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With a shudder, the engine comes back to life, ready to go exploring again in this natural temple of plenty. Our guard shakes his head in disappointment at this turn of events and smiles wryly. Looks around to us and says "Sir.... missed call!"

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.in/2015/09/almost.html]

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Oversmart algorithms

Sometimes I worry. Most times, being a nerd takes precedence.

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Google does know everything about me. At least, it tries to. Only old school nerdery, like book reading, the real made from dead trees deal, is somewhat safe from Google's grasp.

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Letting a company go through the contents of my entire (virtual) life, only for the sake of a free e-mail account  makes me one of the biggest sell-outs in human history. 

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Yet I am resigned to this life of computer controlled intrusion because like any addict, I crave my fix. If information is a drug, then Google is my syringe.

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It is interesting to see the detail down to which a customer is profiled. 

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Take for example, the marketing e-mails and Google ads that I get.

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Hence. new motorcycle/car launches, travelogue websites and camera lens deals hardly skip me by. Google knows and lets me know.

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That I am not married is also public domain information, no thanks to Facebook and thereby some spam master list must have me squarely in Shaadi.com's target zone. Hence the non-stop e-mails from XYZ matrimonial sites assuring me of the best match.

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A problem easily resolved, only a matter of setting my Spam filter to weed out matrimonial website e-mails. If you don't know what that is, sorry for wasting your time thus far, please stop reading now.

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This is where things get intriguing.

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In the true tradition of a trunerd, I actually check the subject lines of even my spam e-mails before deleting them. What if there was an e-mail from 'QMed Daily' that I actually wanted to read?

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The initial e-mails were all dating site 101 types with subjects like "Find your dream partner", "Find your opening partner" (a cricket World Cup special inadvertently suggesting 9 more options to come), "Find that connection" etc.

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Later, as they-who-track-all-my-online-activity noticed, the e-mails were going to my Trash folder unopened and then onto oblivion, there came a slight twist to the approach. The e-mail subject lines took the tone of "Let your dream partner find you"/"God's planned something for you" shifting the onus of the search to the other half.

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On one hand, I find it hilarious that a computer algorithm has probably tagged "lazy" against my name in some mega database, not an inaccurate tagging at all. On the other hand, a slight frown is warranted too. So far I have been able to keep up with the tricks of the teams in Palo Alto or Poland. But what happens if  they figure out something about me before I do?

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.in/2015/09/oversmart-algorithms.html]

India's Daughters

Yes. I watched BBC's "India's daughter" documentary. It came to my attention only due to the Indian government's ill conceived insistence on banning it. I probably wouldn't have known of its existence otherwise.

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As someone who has actually seen the full documentary as opposed to the "Modiji ne usko kharaab bolaa toh kharaab hi hogaa" camp, let me address the most ridiculous accusation made against it - that it is 'pro-rapist'. BULLSHIT. 

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Watch the nearly hour long documentary where the proud but devastated parents of Nirbhaya discuss the great tragedy that December 16th brought into their lives and the horrifying opinions on women held by one of the accused & his two lawyers are recorded. Watch it and tell me that you came up on the side of the rapists. Tell me that you thought the monsters had some valid points. Tell me that Nirbhaya "deserved it". I challenge you to. I dare you to. 

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The other, trickier to defend accusation against the documentary is that it is 'anti India'. Rape is not a crime restricted to India nor is subjugation of women. So why pick on India? Why not make a documentary on the rape happening in all the 'developed' countries? Why the holier-than-thou attitude towards our country?

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Unfortunately, that accusation again has its roots in the Vedic age space planes and plastic surgery BS peddled by the chaddi-wallahs. We can do no wrong. There can be nothing wrong about our country, no scope for improvement (in the perfect culture of our perfect religion), an opinion very proudly echoed by one of the lawyers in the documentary sitting in front of rows of books which I suppose he never read. If anything bad happened, it was the girl's fault.

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The facts state that the horror story of December 16th happened on the streets of our nation's capital. The incessant ads for fairness creams on primetime TV re-inforce that the value of a woman is only in her beauty, that too a certain fair-skinned version of it. Our women are expected to be home when the sun goes down, because that is the only way to ensure their 'protection'. 

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As awareness grows, gender discrimination is indeed being talked about in certain privileged circles but to claim that it is no longer an issue is laughable. Even more so is the bogus claim by the Asaram Bapus and Mohan Bhagwats that it wasn't even a problem in our society, before foreigners (read Muslims, Christians et al) brought that concept in. 

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Agreed that India is far from the worst culprit in the list of medieval attitudes towards women but Saudi Arabia really should not be a benchmark in this context. The only chance for improvement can come if the faults are accepted, not if we continue to deny their existence. 

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Yes, terribly racist cases like the German professor who refused to guide male Indian students because of India's "rape culture" will crop up from time to time inspite of all the efforts that we as a society put in, but that doesn't mean that we should not see the problem for what it is. Proud for India we must be but not to the extent of making every criticism a foreign conspiracy.

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Poverty, ignorance, economic power sharing are all societal factors which play into aggravating India's issues with women's equality. Discussing the issues and their solutions is not anti-India, it is a baby step forward into a bright and equal future. "But it happens in the US too" should not be cause enough for inaction here. India is our country and we want it to improve. What other countries do or do not do should not be of any concern to our situation.

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Watch the documentary and feel ashamed. But not too ashamed. That watching the documentary made you angry is a positive sign. Channel that anger into something productive, into changing long ingrained attitudes, into launching a revolution for India's daughters.

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.in/2015/03/indias-daughters.html]

Enough is enough

A familiar place, a familiar aggravation.

The ability to see/read a row of alphabets is the ticket to "normalcy". Is this better now?  Or was the one before the previous one better? I don't know. I don't want to care.

A strange heavy contraption rests on the nose as lens after lens is imposed on my eyes one at a time.

The mission is noble but intolerable all the same. Let me go. I am perfectly happy with my old glasses. Sort of.

The mid~action pause

Is there a word for when in the thick of important work, an old newspaper is about to be ripped up for some mundane household use and an article catches the eye? If not, there should be. I seem to spend most of my time reading that kind of stuff more intently than what is current.