The Sea in the Sky

He stood at the edge of water,

Staring out at sea, the sea at night.

Like a rippling, massive black canvas far away,

The sea came to life near the shore,

A Crashing and frothing wave, a wave so white.

The black canvas mirroring the sky,

But for the undulations that roared out sporadically,

Getting louder and larger nearer the shore,

Angrily reflecting the moonlight

They crashed on shore, delighting men and women,

Then they receded silently, a still canvas again,

But they weren’t allowed to rest,

As another came crashing forward,

Then two, then three, churning and shining so bright

All of a sudden they all ceased,

The whole sea a still black canvas,  

Just like the sky,

All the way to the horizon,

The sky was the sea, the sea the sky,

Now they all stopped, not a wave in sight,

Still as a statue,

He watched and gazed,

Out into the pitch black ocean,

That betrayed not a secret,

He felt a calm like no other,

A calm that lasted a few moments,

All calm until the next ripple began its flight

So he stared out at sea, the sea at night

A crashing and frothing wave, a wave so white,

Angrily reflecting the moonlight,

Then two, then three, churning and shining so bright,

Now they all stopped, not a wave in sight,

All calm until the next ripple began its flight

For those few moments it was all one

Like the black sea in the sky.

For His Mother

He turned his neck and spat tiredly on the grass beneath his feet. The grass was soft and comfortable but this wasn't friendly territory by any stretch of the imagination. Sweat poured down from his forehead.

The ball had gone out of play for a few moments' respite from the break-neck action. His team had trailed twice but they had kept at it with a relentlessness emblematic of all teams coached by his manager. Now the slender one goal lead garnered had to be protected. The referee signalled for the commencement of play to be delayed until the substitutions could be made.

The official held the board up. His number was on it. He was to come off in favour of a more defensively minded player. He was satisfied with the shift he had put in and was sure the manager would be too. It was he who had provided the incisive, defence-splitting pass crucial to opening up the play in the build-up to the second goal and equaliser that really turned the game in his team's favour - a pass that would count as a 'key pass' in the stats in the annals of time but he knew it was the definitive kick of the whole game. Then there was all that defensive work that he had put in too, imperative as it was for the modern attacking player to track back and mark runners.

The game flashed before his eyes as he trudged slowly and deliberately to the bench with a mind to run down the clock. The few hundred away fans rapturously sang his name and enjoyed the leisurely pace of his walk. The referee urged him to tread faster. The opposition fans jeered and booed. The opposition players protested. A couple of players squared up and the whole stadium turned into a cauldron. All standard fare that he was detached from. He walked on.

It was halfway to the bench that the subtle change in atmosphere happened. He was soaking it all in when the nature of the jeers changed. The home fans were in full voice now, singing of his past transgressions, the exact nature of the profession of the female members of his family back in his 'savage' and 'primitive' country. The elephant washer's son, they called him.

He'd heard it all before, seen it all before. Yet he found himself quickening his pace. He hardly noticed the manager's warm hug, a clear recognition of his excellent performance.

The next day, the papers and 'pundits' condemned the chants. The away club banned a handful of ticket holders for life and issued a strong statement. What did it matter though, to the little boy who'd slept that night with only his tears for company, yearning for his mother? His mother, his sweet, gentle, loving, innocent mother whom he had to fend for.

He who had played football as it was his only escape. He who had travelled across seas playing this game, working hard wherever he went. He who, after years of toil and pain, was finally spotted by a big club and given a contract. He who then worked his way into the starting line up. He who did it all chasing a dream, a dream not of fame or glory or wealth or football; but a dream to extricate his mother from their native home surrounded by the violence that killed his father when he was just a young boy in his unheard of impoverished little country, torn by war and strife. What did it matter to him?

Now he was in England, travelling the country and Europe with the squad while his mother lived in London, in the luxury he provided. He wasn't the cleanest, the kindest, the smartest or the nicest, but he did it all for her.

The new contract offer with improved wages was on his table, a testament to his rising importance to the squad at the age of just 20. All he could think of now, in this hotel room in this city was of home in London, his mother, and the next home game with 60000 men singing his name, applauding his every move, appreciating him for who he was, a footballer and a hard-worker.

The future looked bright and his mother was happy.

Loosely inspired by the story of Gabriel Paulista. Also, try this article and the video attached to it. 

Projected

It suddenly came as a realisation to be while walking up a flight of stairs that the word project has different meanings depending on the pronunciation. There's praw-ject, which is something that is undertaken over a period of time with some kind of definite end result, like a school collage on the Western Ghats or a never-ending project like the Bangalore Metro. Then there's pro-ject, which is to show something on a screen, like a projector screen. This project is also a synonym for forecasting, projected growth and the like.

Speaking of forecasting, the met department has projected good monsoon rains this time around after an unbearably hot summer that saw India record its highest temperature ever and likewise, my beloved Bengaluru city, renowned for cool, "salubrious" (I learnt that word from the wikipedia page on Bangalore) climate also recorded its highest ever temperature, touching a mind-boggling 39.2 degrees Celsius.

I know many of you (Punekars) are looking at that number and thinking - 39.2? That's hot? Well, that's simply how mellow the Bangalore summer is. There's many who say, "Oh, mumbo jumbo. It's so hot nowadays." Well, a city and its climate must pay for its awesomeness. The population explosion and all that has lead to an overall rise in temperatures recently, but where hasn't it? Which city, after all the concrete has supposedly ruined the weather, I ask, has better weather than Bangalore in the summer. Yes, Shimla, Darjeeling, Ooty, Kodaikanal, but here's two points. Those are meant to be so, they're hill stations, summer retreats. They're not burgeoning metropolises with immense potential for wealth and living. Those are weather specialists, Bangalore is so many many other things and on the side, as a bonus, excels in the weather department as well. And secondly, have you been to these places in the winter? Bangalore's winter is mellow as well. On average, I proudly maintain, and I will take a personal interest in refuting anyone who disagrees, Bangalore has India's best weather for a city proper.

So now that I'm through with going off on that tangent, let me come back to my main point - project. The reason weather is at the top of my head is because I'm currently "on a project" in Chennai, let us say a city that's not quite as famous as Bangalore for it's weather.

Look, I have nothing against the city now that Chennai Super Kings no longer exists so one doesn't have to speak to the fans of that particular franchise. It seems to be a nice place, buses and trains are cheap and timely, food is brilliant and the place I'm doing my project, my summer internship, the campus of the Indian Institute of Technology, Madras, is unbelievable. It is actually a jungle, a veritable forest, the campus having been carved out of the Guindy National Park area, or so the IIT M website claims. And who, I ask you, lies on the internet?

The vegetation is thick and green and provides an omnipresent shade that almost nearly threatens to give you the impression of good weather for a few seconds at well chosen hours just before sunrise. Then there are the deer, roaming the streets with gay abandon.

My first impression when I heard "there are deer on the IIT Madras campus" was to presume that deep in the lush greenery, among the shrubs and the grass far away from the roads and the traffic, unseen but to the sharpest eyes, one could, if one was lucky, chance upon a deer or two grazing. When I first saw a deer, casually standing next to a gate while a man was busy at work a few yards away, I thought I was one among a blessed few to spot a deer at such close range within the campus. Now, I'd put the deer to dog ratio on campus as high as 7 or 8 while I'd put the human to deer ratio at as low as 15 or 20. And I tip my hat to the revolutionary person who, at the meeting that was probably convened to decide campus matters during the founding of the institute, said to the person from the National Park who was asking what is to be done with the animals, "You take out the leopards and the tigers and these other animals. Let the deer hang around." Just like that. And here they just hang around. It's going to be disappointing to go anywhere else in the country now and not see a deer or two every few yards.

The deer were not the only creatures left behind; monkeys can be found in good numbers on the campus. And I'm not talking of those monkeys who got into the hostel by scoring well in the JEE - I'm talking about the monkeys that got into the hostel because they can climb trees. On my first day, I was just climbing up the stairs of the hostel to find my new room when one a little monkey flashed past me. More strikingly, a nondescript trip to the toilet nearest to my study-desk found me in the same room as at least 8 monkeys who clambered out of the window upon seeing me enter. I cursed as I closed all the taps they'd opened.

Ok, where was I to begin with? Weather! Spoilt as I have been by Bangalore weather throughout my life, I immediately realised that this is to be the longest, hottest summer of my life. Mid-March to the end of April in Pune in a state that was firmly in the grips of a heat-wave, (a much much cooler) May in Bangalore and now June and July in Chennai for this project. Projected to be very hot during my project.

Now about my project. I'm studying something in cosmology, the study of the universe at the very largest scales. It's interesting that my interest in this subject was piqued by an introductory course in the same subject which to date remains the worst course I've taken. It was ill-organised, the syllabus was incoherent and the exams were scarcely believable and in the midst of all the hand-wringing and scrambling a mark here or two, the content of the course left some kind of imprint on me. Now if things progress as I hope they will, I see myself working on this subject for the majority of my life - on the foundation of a terribly conducted course.

I wasn't wholly sure of the subject to begin with. On my second day, I asked my advisor, a professor in the Department of Physics at IIT Madras (obviously) a string of perhaps three to four questions in his office. He spluttered for a mili-second, looked around, smiled resignedly as he decided to take it from the beginning and said, "Sit down, let me tell you a few things about the universe." The line was kind of epochal - anything that follows from that line, however lacking in substance and meaning by itself, will be seen as deep and insightful when it follows that line. Sit down. Let me tell you something about the universe. Here's the thing about the universe - it's a potato.

And as he told me the things about the universe, things a little more subtle than it being a potato, I knew that I wasn't in the wrong place, if not the right place. And so my project goes on.

Set

Doddanna watched as the sun slowly disappeared behind the hillock, then looked up to the sky as had been his habit for the past month. The mud streets of his village were slowly filling up with people. It was finally cool enough for them to step out of their relatively cooler houses though the temperatures  still hovered around the mid and late-thirties.

What did numbers mean to them though! All they were grateful for was the shade of the hillock. Every evening, this little hillock gave the village an extra twenty or so minutes in the shade. A nearby village not so fortunately placed was even hotter, they had heard. Not that it mattered.
Now they could perform their daily activities under the erratic street-lights.

New street-lights and electric lines had been installed recently, by either some state agency sporting a hand symbol or a distant one from Delhi sporting a lotus. It made no difference – the current was not dependable and they needed water now, not light. No lotuses bloomed here. The last lake had run dry months ago and the local wells, several dug on the beds of the dried lakes, were all that provided water.

The sun sank further and Doddanna was glad. His little coffee and vada shop saw most customers this time of the day. The coffee was limited though. The decoction was made with what water he could get after the rationed water was used for his family’s drinking and washing purposes.

He knew the statistics well. Some weeks ago, some important looking people had come in cars with little red lights on top of them and done a little counting before pronouncing the obvious – the wells won’t last. 27 days with rationing was how long it would last. The folks with the TV had told them good rains were to be expected this year. But the rains were still 33 days away, give or take a couple. Usually take.

Without much formal education, Doddanna was a scholar in native literature. He’d pored over pages and pages of religious and spiritual texts over a life-time of waiting for coffee thirsty people. His gurus and sadhus had told him of how humans were above all other animals for the one reason – the ability to look at the big picture. Instant gratification was secondary to long-term gains for this great species, they said. Doddanna wondered.

What if the villagers were given a day of free usage of all the wells? The landlord and the priest did that anyway – they were for mysterious reasons exempt from the ration.

Would the natives swarm all over the wells with every bucket they could lay their hands on or would they, all these people who knew how bad the situation was and the consequences – the elders had seen at least 5 droughts – see the bigger picture and ration the water amongst themselves? Was the promise of bountiful water in the near future a bigger reward than one day of sufficient water? He thought he knew the answer and smiled inwardly.
Everyone thought they did, but they all had different answers. The well would last about a week if they were given a free run, he estimated.

The sun setting was an interesting time. It provided respite from the crippling heat, a good 12 hours of respite. The next day would be the same, the rush for the wells, the quarreling, the accusations, the haul back, the crest-fallen weeping of the one lady (always lady) who in her earnestness spills one or both of the two buckets of water she was allowed, the clamour for the landlord to be stopped as his servants filled bucket after bucket of water and simply disappeared.

The rains had failed for three years now. The first year, the TV folk had said clearly there was to be lesser rainfall. And their words proved right. It did rain a bit though, and it was enough to get by until the next year, when good rains were promised. The monsoon started off with a boom before suddenly, the rains stopped. Even the TV folk were clueless on how it happened – in other states it had rained well.

The prediction for the previous year had been unequivocal – there shall be no rain. And everyone knew what less rain meant the next summer – scorching temperatures. People had been prepared for this moment but until it happened, the gravity was underestimated. Doddanna himself had been rationing the using of his personal well for nearly three months now but it too was almost dry. When there was enough water for about three days, he decided to start using the village well and revert to his own well when that ran out too. It was not a master-plan but it was all he could do.

Now with the new bulletin promising copious rains, the men had already taken to readying their fields. Doddanna himself felt it was wiser to wait for the rains and then begin the toil rather than risk all the labour in the pulsing heat to go to waste in case the rains failed.

The spirit was something else in those men who put their hearts ahead of their heads though. They worked with their little pittance of water, for both field and themselves, and completely thrusting their lives into the hands of the merciless rain-gods.

Doddanna was a godly man, and if the scriptures had taught him anything, it was to trust yourself rather than the gods. The gods, in his books, were mere account keepers and overseers, not the meddlers that most people believed them to be. All the prayers and all the sacrifices would not convince this god to give rain to one particular village only – you took your course while god took his. If he existed. God was a bigger picture man, in the image of the dominant species of the world he watched over.

The sun had set completely. The day that the wells ran out was one day closer. And the day that the heavens opened up was also one day closer. Doddanna hoped that the latter happened before the former but right now, all everyone was thinking about was the 11 hours of respite from the heat left.

New in 2015

Welcome to 2016. I wish everyone a happy, prosperous, healthy 366 days.

New Year's day is really an arbitrary day. The calendar essentially keeps track of the seasons which are an effect of the tilting of the earth's rotational axis and its revolution around the sun. So one revolution gives us one year. The starting point and ending point could have been chosen anywhere and for historical reasons, it eventually came to celebrated on 1st January.

This exclusive insight into time-keeping which I'm sure all of you had no clue about and could never have dreamt of figuring out all on your own comes to me from the book I'm currently reading called Gallileo's Pendulum. It's a book about the history of time-keeping and makes for a very interesting read on something we take for granted everyday - reasonably accurate clocks.

Anyway, I hope this arbitrary period of 366 days is joyous. The last arbitrary period of 365 days, arbitrarily numbered 2015, was a time in which, as usual, life ebbed and flowed. Here are some of the new things I started doing or following in the past year.

BENGALURU FC

In May 2015, I went for only my second ever professional football game. It was special this time because the home team was the team based in my city, namma ooru. Bengaluru. The club is rather predictably named Bengaluru Football Club.

I'd heard a lot about the atmosphere and the passion of the supporters but to experience first hand was altogether a different, well, experience. My friend insisted for some reason that I buy the "West Block" stand ticket for 300 rupees rather than the other, cheaper tickets that were available. It puzzled me but I listened to him and bought the more expensive ticket and I can tell you, it was worth every paisa and more. As I sauntered into the stadium, I heard the synchronised tapping of chairs with the cry of "Westwood's Blue Army". From then on, it was chant after chant, song after song in support of BFC as we (I already saw we after watching them for 2 games) plundered 3 goals to win 3-0.

Simply to be there and with every little movement, little swing of the foot by a player to feel collectively the same emotion as a few thousand others is a special experience. We all screamed our joy at the first goal. We all were booed the referees decisions. We all sang the same songs in sync. And we all came out with a sore throat.

Football, or sport for that matter, has little practical value. A few thousand play, a few million watch. People run around trying to kick a ball into a certain area bounded by the frame of the goal. It's totally arbitrary and random but the players are paid millions. They're serenaded, they're vilified. It's a big deal. Because it brings people together. It creates an environment where many people want the same thing. They believe in the same things. And that is very powerful. It's like a religion.

The next game I attended was more magical. The league stood as such - should BFC beat their opponents they would win the league. Draw or lose and their opponents won it. The head-to-head league had panned out in such a way that the last encounter was like a knockout game. Couldn't have been scripted.

Upwards of 25000 people had packed into the stadium, most of them sporting blue in support of the home team. The weather forecast said thunderstorm and the Gods duly obliged. It poured throughout. Lightning flashed across the sky regularly. The thunder mingled with the roar of the crowd every time the players went anywhere near the opposition half, never mind the goal. And when the ball went into the goal, it was pandemonium. The loudest roar yet and then for the rest of the game, anxiety. If we conceded, it was all in vain.

And concede we did. After holding out for almost 85 minutes, the Bengaluru defence was breached and Mohun Bagan had scored with 5 minutes to go what was surely the deciding goal.

The stunned silence was betrayed only by the minority of away fans packed into a corner having their little party. Shirts were being flailed. People were hugging each other. Then it started.

At first, it was only a thought that turned to a whisper that soon grew into a yet louder roar. BFC, BFC, BFC. Louder than the roar for our own goal, urging the players on for a final flourish. One last salvo. BFC BFC.

I felt goosebumps rise on my skin as I joined in the chorus. We had to win the league. We couldn't let our players down. We would yell our lungs out to spur them on.

It was not to be. It was the away fans who were roaring at the final whistle while the Bengalureans were left matching the mood of the weather. Damp, sour. My saddest and my greatest football experience ever.

LUDOVICO EINAUDI

I'm not very musical person. I like music; everyone does. But I can't quite tell Elvis Presley from Bob Marley from Jimmy Hendrix. My taste has no coherence. It's a song from here, a splash of songs from there, a classical piece here, some pop music there.

The other day, I was watching a football video and the background music caught my attention. It was brilliant. I went through the comments to find out who the artist is and I found this Italian composer, Ludovico Einaudi. And not a day has been spent since where I don't plug into some piece or other of his.

Now I'm not sure what genre it is. Or what style. I just know it's solely instrumental, the guy in question play the piano and every time I listen, I question how I've endured my existence so far, pleasant though it's been overall, without having this music to go back to at all times. How did I get through school and all those competitive exams and all those issues and everything without this music ringing in my ears. I don't know. Henceforth, I can take on anything as Ludovico's got my back.

KANNADA

Something that's been written about in this blog before, I sat down and self-learnt the Kannada script. Now, I can read as well as speak my mother tongue. It was a matter of shame when, in my own home city, the boards and banners in my own language, were unintelligible to me. I'm proud to have set that right.

That's about it actually. These are the length and breadth of my new enterprises in 2015. Hopefully it will be much greater in 2016.

The good, the bald and the ugly

I came back home from college for vacation.

One uncle looked at me and laughed. New style huh? Rather insensitive and rude some would say. He knew it wasn't intentional. 

Another looked with alarm and cautioned me. Show it to the doctor. It can still be cured. 

Another looked at me intensely and exclaimed, "What happened to you?". Then he added sadly, "You're still still so young. So unfortunate". Sigh. 

Yet another noted how my father had gone through it too. 

And yet another was worried about how my future would pan out with it. Would I have a future? Who would give me a job? Who would consent to marry me? All pertinent questions clearly. 

A slightly younger man was more optimistic. I have it too, he admitted without any qualms. It'll be alright. I believed him rather easily. 

My affliction clearly inspires a lot of horror and concern in most people. I'm just 20 years into this wonderful life and this!

Well I will spell it out for all of you to know because I always have been a true believer that total and complete frankness is the best policy. It allows for unbridled communication and should there ever be a misunderstanding, you can always say you put everything on the table and could have done no more. 

So here it goes. I have a receding hairline. I'm 20 years old and it's receded quite far. Very far. I'll pause and wait for that to sink in. 

A friend of mine insisted that I name my rapidly-expanding bald spot and I decided to name it Kandahar after the province in Afghanistan, large part of which is covered by the Registan Desert. My own Kandahar is a small patch of land, rapidly expanding, where nothing grows and nothing will perhaps ever grow. 

I'm very often asked when it all began; a question to which I give indeterminate answers. Oh, it's been going on for a while. Quite some time. The honest answer is, I really don't know. For as far as I can remember, my first response to someone (so concernedly) pointing out that my hairline is receding was to reply with a hint of sarcasm and a hint of humour "Oh you noticed it NOW?"

 I would put the exact onset at somewhere around the age of 16.  It sunk in really quickly as I always had very thin hair and it was one ubiquitous detail in the excellent gene-set my father handed to me so I knew it would come some time. Many relatives had predicted it the day my mother decided to marry my father. 

Initially my reaction was surprise. Not to the balding but the reaction to the reaction of others to my balding. I was a free-spirited kid in my own world, studying hard to get somewhere, watching football and cricket, curling up with a book or hanging out somewhere with friends every time I got the chance, rarely troubling everyone or being too naughty and here suddenly people were taking an interest in my hair, of all things. They volunteered information. Go to this doctor in so-and-so-halli or so-and-so-nagar, he's really good with these cases. There's a good hair transplant place I know. You can go there later. Maybe before your marriage. Mmmmm hmmm. I'm hungry, got anything to eat? 

Mostly I was bemused. The reaction of others to my reaction to their reaction to my balding was usually an air of wisdom, a demeanour of "Oh my sweet summer child, you are so ignorant and happy in the face of this adversity that threatens to consume and override your whole life." Mmmmm hmmm sure. I didn't quite get what you had to eat again? Some chai would be lovely too. 

Then there were friends. And I can tell you, they were the best. It was a laughing matter to them and very very quickly it became a laughing matter to me. And to this day that's all it is. The seriousness and alarm associated with it still bemuses me. I've met people (you know who you are) who are shocked that I can continue living normally and happily with these "condition". Calm yourself, hair isn't so essential for survival. 

People can be rude though. There's two kinds of rudeness. The first kind is people who want to bring it up but are trying hard to veil it with courtesy and politeness. I am used to people bringing it up directly so I find it hard not to laugh at how hard they're trying to seem like they're not actively interested in the topic. You can ask me about it, you really can. You can cast doubts over which girl will ever like me and you can crack jokes about my "real age" and I'll laugh along with you. I appreciate creative humour. 

Then there's the second kind of people who are unabashed to bring it up at the instance I meet their eyes. My first conversation with a friend's brother went - Little bro, this is Lokahith. Hi nice to meet you. Hi, premature balding huh? His tone was akin to someone saying, "looks like we're in for some rain, huh?". I was thoroughly nonplussed before I saw the funny side of someone actually using those words in the first ever words they spoke to me. I had a hearty laugh with my friend (you know who you are, KS) who apologised on behalf of his brother. It was nothing. 

Another instance was a friend of mine, 3-4 years older than me, who I ran into after ages. He looked at me shell-shocked and said "Dude, what happened? You looked so good when you were young. You look like your dad now. Why have you become like this?" Sorry if I offended man, it wasn't voluntary. 

At the insistence of my father, I visited the local homeopathy doctor and asked him for a solution to my patterned hair-loss (I wouldn't have minded a colloid either :P). He, for some reason, shone a torch onto my scalp and flicked my hair about before pronouncing, "nothing can be done about it. What is gone is gone. You can delay the rest but it is inevitable." No words have put me more at peace than that. If I couldn't do anything about it, well I could not worry about it (not that I'd started) and the others could continue worrying without it bothering me. Else I'd have been left with the underlying feeling for the rest of my life, every time someone mentioned it (every day, maybe thrice an hour) that maybe I could have "cured" it. None of that. 

Is it hard to ignore? Of course it is - simply because it is mentioned so often and so incessantly. Annoying at times, mildly irritating at times, passes over my head most of the time. I am certain if man was still a hunter-gatherer species and I was in that society where my fellow Neanderthals are so busy hunting for food that they find no time to point at my forehead and chuckle, I would never have independently given much thought to my steadily broadening forehead.  Now though, it is something I live with daily and I embrace. One of my favourite silent games is to preempt a coming bald/age joke. I'm right more often than not. 

A random observation I've made is that the number of advertisements for anti-balding oils, creams, pills etc. is far higher on city billboards and internet pop-up advertisements than on television. Fairness creams, for example, are widely advertised on TV. I can't think of a reason why. 

One of my father's friends happened to work in a soap company and was part of their marketing team. He once explained to my father how they "sell hope, not soap". Let me expound. You will never hear a soap advert say, "Use our soup and you'll be clean and healthy" or "use our soap and your skin will look fresh". They add, "use our soup, you will be clean and healthy and so your son can go to school daily and get top marks and be the best in his class" or "use our soap and your skin will glow so you will look beautiful and you'll stand out among your friends and all the men-folk will notice you". These messages are either overt or are an obvious subtext, like a man's heading turning when a woman using the particular soap walks by. These advertisements are designed to work on a very primitive, basic and emotional need in our lives - a need for our children to do well or to be popular in the social group. 

The narrative is similar for fairness creams and anti-balding products. But there's a difference. The soap company isn't branding anyone as beautiful or not beautiful, clean or unclean. It merely addresses the aspirations of individuals who wish to be considered these things. 

A quintessential advert for a fairness cream is about a girl who is dark-skinned living life normally and after using the fairness cream over a short period of time, suddenly she is deemed attractive and the men flock to her. Doesn't this, very very blatantly, imply that dark-skinned women aren't attractive. That dark-skinned women need to become fairer to lead better lives. Here, the branding is on a natural characteristic of a person that cannot be helped. A person is born dark-skinned or with a genetic tendency towards balding or obesity. Such advertising is akin to racism. In fact, it should be considered racism in my opinion. If nothing, it's putting a label on people because of something they can't help. Like calling a person suffering from depression anti-social. 

The narrative of the bald man whose marriage proposal is rejected but accepted the next time post-usage of an anti-balding product or whose "confidence is low" but suddenly is a confident, star public speaker because of some hair on his head is everywhere. You see, the man's confidence is low because your first advertisement showed a bald man living an inferior life because of his baldness and his life suddenly turning ideal when the baldness is removed and most crucially, nothing else is changed about him. Just the baldness (or the skin tone). Then you feed him nonsense about how his confidence will improve if his baldness (or dark skin or obesity or numerous other things) is removed. The market, through media, creates its own demand and feeds off insecurities created by social pressures which are themselves also created by the media. 

Also, isn't in the interest of an anti-balding cream manufacturer to keep bald people bald and retain them as customers? Why then, would their products work? If there was one product above all else that worked, a chemical or something, why isn't it everywhere in the public sphere when people world over "suffer" from baldness? From my maid-servants to my relatives to friends to large corporations (Dr. Batra's, for the 986th time, I don't want to visit your clinic. And how did you know I'm balding? Or did you just send the message to everyone so they'll recommend you to me?), everyone has at one point offered or suggested to me an anti-balding product. Keeping my thoughts from the above paragraphs in my mind, I have rejected every single one of them in favour of just not giving it any thought. And no, I do not wish to say I am the hero of my own story, "the man who chose to reject all products and live through the horror of a receding hair-line." It's just not at all a big deal if you wish not to make it a big deal. It's shouldn't even be a "thing". It's laughable. 

They do say the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh in equal measure. While I can not vouch for the bit about measures, I can tell you when the Lord taketh some of your hair, he giveth a few notable perks. There's the general behaviour of people you deal with - autowallahs, shopkeepers, waiters, bank clerks etc. There's a lot more respect and you are taken very very seriously indeed. Auto fares aren't quoted very exorbitantly to me. Shopkeepers usually give me my items first before attending to people who look younger to me but are perhaps a little older than me, They don't want to keep the old man waiting and make him grumpy. People speaking with respect initially takes a little getting used to but then feels very good. 

There's the unfortunate people who aren't respected to the extent that someone speaking to them with respect surprises them. I'm speaking about waiters and cleaner-boys at small restaurants, maids, house-keeping staff etc. These are people who are usually older than me or perhaps my age. I speak to them respectfully and given the age gap, suffix sentences with anna or bhaiyya. Since I look older than these men and women, they feel that I'm being extra respectful, far more than they are used to sadly and are immensely grateful for it. 

Of course, these are my impressions but I'm pretty sure they're not too far off the mark. 

A receding hairline is also an excellent conversation starter. There's never an awkward moment when there's so much to discuss. First signs, steps taken to counter, members of family who have it, how it feels and a whole world of topics to discuss. When I meet friends after some time, "It's gone back more" is always one of the first forms of greeting. 

One of the biggest shocks is the first time that some petulant little kid dares to call you uncle. You stop dead and take stock of your life. Everything flashes before your eyes. You ask yourself if your childhood is behind you, life has gone on further ahead than you've realised in the midst of your fun and games. People are calling me uncle and what have I achieved so far! Nothing. 

The second time, you just mutter angrily. Once, after a boy said "thank you uncle" when I caught a tennis ball and returned it to him, I walked up to him and demanded of him through grit teeth - Am I uncle or anna?! Thanks anna. He was terrified. 

With time though, I got used to it. Why last summer, I had a pleasant conversation with a stranger on a bus. I was on vacation and was inquiring about local weather and culture and other things. The guy looked about 15 years of age and referred to me as uncle throughout. When he was about to alight, I asked him what he did and I learnt to my amusement he was about 3 years older than me. I was so tempted to tell him my age and watch his reaction but I decided against embarrassing him that way so I let him go on with his merry life imagining he'd enlightened a middle-aged man about his local culture. I turn around every time someone says "Uncle" now.  

If I was of a more poetic bend of mind I'd go so far as to say how losing hair is a lot like life itself. You keep on losing hair. It keeps happening irreversibly. You think you can do something about it but actually you can't; it has a mind of its own and takes its own course. Others always have more ideas about what to do about it than you yourself. You never know when it can hit you, when it can surprise you. It has its ups and downs, pros and cons. And in the end you learn a lot from it. And however your hair was, at the end of it you're left with nothing. Just like life. 

But I'm not so poetic so I won't draw such parallels. It's a thing that's happening to me. And for all the fuss, it's not a big deal. It does give me a topic to write I think my longest blog post ever. 

Cheers

Lull

So, I'm the middle of a lull now. If all the lulls of my life so far, periods of time when you have absolutely nothing to do and have a mind to do exactly that, were to be taken out and put together to create a paralull life, my current lull would probably feature as a lull in that life where trying repeatedly to throw my toothbrush into my bathing mug would feature as one of the more exciting moments.

The lull has come about because today (Thursday) is the end of the first half of my short excruciatingly long exam season, lasting all of 8 days. On Tuesday there was one, on Wednesday there was one, today there was one and assuming all goes according to plan, there will be two on the coming Monday and one on the coming Tuesday. The three intervening days form a buffer, a convenient break to plan my studies better grab all the sleep I can get.

Exactly now though, after all the high drama of these exams, I stare at a three day weekend, unsure whether to sleep, watch a couple more episodes of that TV series or simple stare at nothing before I have to pick up my books again. Somewhere in that list of priorities, about 128th or so, was writing this blog post after extinguishing other alluring alternatives with open blog having made up mind to write and don't write a close 127th.

There isn't much else going on really. If you care, Arsenal won the North London Derby. I do. A lot.

So TV series it is then.
Bye

Things and Stuff

Random stuff, things and thoughts over the last weeks.

Every time I'm outside later than 10 pm, I observe the absolutely teeming metropolis that is Bangalore (now Bengaluru) city and wonder - I can understand why so many people live here. I simple don't understand what they're doing outside after 10. I mean, I understand a night walk in the unfailingly lovely weather at that time, but to be speeding along in cars in absolute hordes, I do not understand it. A couple of oil-burners from offices here and there, and vehicle sporadically zooming past, yes. Not seemingly a whole city attempting to get somewhere. I mean, come home early. Relax. Watch a bit of news! Take a stroll. Go for a drive somewhere further. The sheer number of people can only mean people getting home from offices. I guess...

Chess! I've been playing chess over the last few weeks. Lots and lots of chess, online against strangers. It is a curious thing. Back in my 12th standard, I took to playing chess during my studies as what I thought was a smart way of giving my mind a few minutes free from books and academics while keeping it sharp and ready to gulp down more information that I needed in the short term then, information I would struggle to recollect today. Back then, my rating on chess.com, the site on which I played, hovered between 1050 and 1150, sometimes ascending upto 1250 but never dropping below a thousand.
Earlier this year, I started playing again after a gap of two years and found to my utter dismay that I had gotten relatively terrible. My rating was now around 850 and for a couple of terrible days, when I thought my very IQ has halved or quartered, had gone all the way down to around the early 700s. Those were dark times and once my vacation began in earnest, I invested some time in chess books and chess tactics to slowly watch my rating rise. It is now back around the 1100 level, to my relief and if two years in college has not improved my IQ, it has at the least not diminished - to my utter relief.
Another thing I do to keep myself entertained while I reel off game after game on this chess.com is to do a bit of mental role playing. For the slow early exchanges I picture two armies organising themselves, drawing battles lines. I think of the King as a fat, lazy old slouch, perhaps ailing or requiring walking sticks. I picture the queen as athletic, energetic and bold. No sexism here, it's just the king hobbles around the board one step at a time and the queen bounds along diagonals and straight lines as she pleases and is the most powerful piece. The King however, is decisive and holds all power, so I think of the king as an arrogant sod.
After every victory, I picture an actual war with the pattern of the battle following the pattern of the unfolding game, the army absolutely storming the castle gates and crushing all before taking the king, or the army desperately short on ammunition and numbers getting beaten to a pulp before one soldier somehow wriggles through into the kings very chamber and taking him, or mating him, as you will.
Now that I come to think of it, it's very suspicious that the game ends in a 'mate'. Who mates with whom? Haha!

My vacation has truly gone on long enough for me to start flinging stones at all the time, the lack of work and boredom that it has brought me. In a nutshell, I am itching to return to my college and resume my course and am thoroughly hostel-sick. The cold of Pune, while extremely crisp, is somewhat enjoyable and odd semesters are infinitely more fun than the even semesters that end in blazing, life-sapping summer sunshine.

The Ashes are going on and I was for a few days thinking what made these test matches so absorbing, apart from the charms of test cricket. At first, I thought it's the fast-paced, seaming wickets and swing bowlers really pitching it up and having a go, but still felt the answer was incomplete. Then I thought I hit upon it. One the great intrigues of test cricket are little personal battles, little periods of time that go against the overall run of play. For example, an excellent spell of fast bowling with swing and pace and bounce can enthrall you so much that you forget that the scoreboard reads 600 and the batsmen are dominating overall. This little passages of play give life to test cricket. And what makes The Ashes so much more watchable than any other test matches is the history between these players, given how often they play each other. These are players who openly despise each other, players the crowd openly jeer and hate. If they weren't armed with bat and ball, you get the impression they would tear at each other's throats. It is that intensity, a relentless one that in my mind really sets it apart. Sports is so much more enjoyable when the players truly dislike each other. Oh, and the commentary is so detailed and romantic unlike the parrot-mimickers who occupy the Indian commentary boxes.

Kannada! My mother tongue. Over the last half year, I really took an interest in setting right one of the most shameful facts about myself - I wasn't literate in my mother tongue. I spoke it well enough, but reading it was not in my repertoire of skills. So, over months of help from my mother, reading roadside bilingual English-Kannada signs and comparing and repeatedly visiting the Wikipedia page on 'Kannada Script', the unintelligible squiggles and "Jalebis" suddenly turned into meaningful, often beautiful words and I can finally read the language I uttered my first words in. Suddenly, a world that was closed to me is wide open. The more languages we learn, the more we expand our world-view. The Telugu and Kannada scripts being very similar, quite suddenly I can read two new languages, though only one in intelligible, It is my hope that one day, I will be able to read Tamil and Malayalam as well and be a fluent speaker of the Marathi language.

It is perhaps a reflection of my mood in these long stretched vacations that before I knew it, I've rambled on and on and now feels like as good a time as any to put an end to it. To match my mood and situation, I publish this post without a proof-read; let it look like a piece disinterestedly put together from scraps, or like one long ramble without thought,

Adios.