Sangu opines on recent movies

Right. The title should be self explanatory. Though I am sure you too see the void in information, in that I haven’t actually suggested which movies exactly I am going to pronounce judgement on. I attempt to remedy the malady by straight away confirming that I intend to talk about two very talked about movies – Slumdog Millionaire and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Notice the use of the phrase “talk about”. Yes thats right. This is not going to be a review. Though it almost is if you actually think about it.

Slumdog Millionaire is for me an overhyped and utterly bullshit film. Except for the child sequences. Which are good, but don’t necessarily make a whole movie. I thought the premise (KBC setting) was a bit innovative, but felt it didn’t really gel. I didn’t appreciate the modifications made to the showgame’s concept by making it an all-or-nothing kind of situation in the final question as it seemed a bit too contrived to suit the plot. And although Irfan Khan suggests the possibility of Mr.Hero knowing the answers was bizarrely possible, I think not. Amean, there is a limit as to the things you can write off to coincidence, and this film here, had many too many.

I didn’t really see any purpose in Mr.Hero immitating a Glasgow accent and all. What was the director trying to say here? That Mr.Hero was street smart? Then how the fuck did he still trust his brother? Random, I tell you. And what the fuck on earth made the brother kill himself?? What made him change his character just like that and give up a perfectly successful life as a gangster for the sake of his brother?

I admit the movie was a success. But I think it succeeded because there was a formula to it. Show scenes of the slum (which was very realistic I must admit) and the abject poverty people face, and then show how they fight their way out and in the end, lead a happy consumerist western lifestyle. I’m sure it would have touched a chord with the western minds. And if westerners like it, then we Indians are going to have no time lost in celebrating it as well. I call it the Dabbawalah effect.

And on Rahman winning the Golden Globe, its just utterly unbelievable that he was ignored all these years for any international awards when he was making awesome songs in tamil, and then all of a sudden gaining fame for providing such lacklustre songs, just because it sounds strange and comes in a so called good movie. In the entire album, I liked “O Saya..” and one of the instrumental pieces to some extent. I also liked “paper planes” some, but ofc, it was by MIA.

And, abruptly changing topic, I also saw Benjamin Button. And after watching, there was only one thing I could think of. I just pictured the director (lets say) Jimmy going to a bar with his friends, getting sloshed and placing a bet: “Heya bitch! I betcha I could make a movie with the most absurd plot ever conceivable and still make it a hit. I have a formula. Yes you heard right. A formula that is gonna make the audiences cry, drool and sway in their seats. You tell me the plot yourself. And I’ll show it to ya. Whats that you said? You want me to make a film about a person born as a 90 year old and growin younger and dyin as a child? Sounds rummy. But I told ya I’d do it, and I will make it a hit alright.”

That I feel is how this most absurd of stories must have been conceived. And the movie had all the things wow the audiences. Including suggestive hummingbirds placed to signal the passing of someone special and all. (Those who haven’t seen the movie, think of the cartoonish butterfly that was seen fluttering about at the end of Dasavatharam, suggesting the plot’s relation to the Butterfly Effect.) And yes, I liked it. It was an amazingly wholesome movie and I could see a lot of thought had been put into directing it in order to wow the audiences. Brad Pitt can act I tell you. If you havent watched it yet, I would advise you to download a pirated copy and watch it immediately. And don’t go to the theatres. Theatres are for dummies without laptops.

Ah Sinned!

This post describes the battle within my self-concious being. The fight for redemption. To redeem myself from the sin of having watched a indhi padam. And also for giving the post an utterly nauseatingly cheesy title. You may be the judge.

I plead guilty. I watched Ghajini. Worse, I mildly enjoyed it.

Before you pound the hammer, announce your contempt and send me on my way to the Death Rows, I would like to offer something that resembles an explanation.

Firstly, the last time I had watched a hindi movie was Main Hoon Naa. I found it quite a pleasant movie for the first half. But after watching, I started feeling wretched about the whole experience, as every damn north indian you met started going “Ennada Rascala! Mind it!” as if it was the most natural thing to say to a tamilian. Everytime I heard that phrase, my blood boiled just a bit more. Only my carefully groomed civic sense prevented me from creating a scene in the spot. Anyway, with this experience, I thought I was done with indhi movies. But alas, twasn’t to be. Ghajini prevented me from satisfying my vows.

I would like to state in the very beginning that I did see the original Ghajini. Where, you might ask. Well, I saw it in a (probably) pirated VCD played in a rickety bus somewhere in Karnataka. And yes, by the time the film reached its climax and the villain’s evil twin was brought in, my mind had wandered and I was dreaming of beautiful people and myself prancing about to a beautiful melody somewhere in the beautiful surroundings through which our bus was passing. So, in effect, I did not catch the climax and did not have much of a memory of the original anyway, apart from a feeling of faint dislike. I occasionally do get nightmares about Surya’s rich man hairstyle and clothes in the movie however! (“Ayyooo that straightened hair red pants monster is after me!!”) The only mildly redeeming factor was Asin, but the moment her head was chopped off (quite thoroughly I must say), I lost all interest in the movie.

But this is slander, you might say. You might even start to imagine that I am a closet indhi chauvinist favoring the hindi version even when the story is essentially unchanged. Please. Please give me some more time.

I too was equally sceptical about the hindi version of Ghajini. I simply could not fathom what Aamir Khan, a supposedly sane actor from all I hear, saw in Ghajini that made him want to remake it. (It is hard to imagine he would have wanted to make it even if Murugadoss had narrated the script first to Aamir himself). The only logical reason I could think of was Aamir was enamoured with Asin, which is alright, for I do think she is quite good looking apart from the fact that she wears too much makeup. Anyways, I was sceptical. I felt this would turn out the hindi equivalent of Kuselan. A complete dud.

I watched the news with trepedity as I saw a huge commotion build up over the movie. Wo me gads! It felt as if someone was constantly winding the spring to give a high enough tension so that the movie could be launched successfully into disasterdom.

And then the first rush of the movie was released in the various news channels. (You don’t expect me to watch b’wood shows now do you?). It made me sit up. The trailer certainly had an intense feel to it. It seemed very professionally done. The cinematography was absolutely great. And was that Asin in there?? Interesting.

The second trailer. It had the song Guzarish. I had a few questions on my mind. Was it a bird? Was it a plane? No. It was my little man! (Er, that was meant to be a joke. It takes sterner stuff to do it for me really.) Asin was goddamn gorgeous. Better than I had ever seen her. Albeit with excessive make up. Whatever be the case, she managed to sow the seeds of desire in my heart.

Well the movie released. By which time I gained control over myself and managed to avoid going to the theater. The movie’s reviews were bittersweet. I had the bitter experience of hearing b’wood critics call the movie dumb. I never credited them with such critiquing abilities. I thought they would lap up anything Aamir offered like dogs. But they somehow managed to call the movie dumb and I concurred. The sweet experience was the amount of praise they poured on Asin. My baby didn’t let me down.

Actually, did I mention I was made of really stern stuff? Yes indeed. Despite the hype and hoopla surrounding the movie, I managed to entirely forget about Ghajini. I had satisfied myself by watching the song ‘Aey Bachu’ a thousand times over. I really liked the chorus in the song and I more than liked Asin in it.

However, today, I was randomly browsing when I came across a high quality print of Ghajini with subtitles posted online with 10 parts in the playlist. I convinced myself to click on part 3, which I expected would be Asin’s part. She was there alright. And boy, was she hot (except for the too much makeup thing)!  I was completely entertained by that part of the movie. Asin was range. Aamir looked passable and thankfully had better dressing sense and didn’t straighten his hair like Surya. The whole romancing was entirely good. The only irritating part was the excessive focus on her helpful nature. It was irritating because it was unfair. If only I too managed to come across a disabled, downtrodden person in need of help every time I was in the field of vision of a desirable figure. Sigh, life would have been so much easier.

The rest of the movie was the attempted copy of Memento. Now don’t get me wrong. I too don’t appreciate the critics bringing in Memento and saying this movie pales in comparison. I believe, apart from the interesting non-linear narrative, Memento wasn’t particularly captivating. In short, I think those who say Memento is good simply because of its non-linear narrative are idiots (and this covers a good majority of the Indian critics). But I think this part of the movie was too clearly inspired from Memento to effect any sort of denial.

The Memento inspired part had too many plotholes (Eh, is that a word now? Or am I using it bcos it sounds like potholes?) to consider worthwhile counting. No I don’t mean issues like no one having heard seen Sanjay Singhania which was a problem according to that loon, Rajiv Masand. (Hasn’t he ever heard of elusive rich men?) I mean I had issues with the concept of pandrah minute memory whitewash effect. I wish they had said ‘approximately’ fifteen minutes as I cannot imagine the shift+delete of memory will take place on a clockwork basis. And stuff like Jiah Khan narrating the events in the diary to Aamir. Whats the fucking point? Chances are Aamir will forget by the end of the narrative. Which brings us to the point of his desire for revenge and all. If he removes his shirt in the morning everyday to see the word revenge to remind himself that revenge is what he must seek, how come he remembers throughout the rest of the day while beating up goons and all? Anyway, its riddled with a ludicrous amount of plotholes, as is only to be expected from a plot with such a premise. And I also felt Aamir overdid the animal-like-baying-with-intense-eyes effect to convey his animal desire for revenge.

But yes, Asin made all the difference. Jiah Khan looked, and sounded like some random girl next door. No presence at all. The stunts, villain etc.. were pretty run of the mill. There was an element of suspense, but I didn’t really think much of it. Cinematography was awesome.

Coming to Murugadoss, I expect his own story could make a reasonably entertaining movie. He has now started making noises about how much faith he has in Aamir and about how he wishes to have Aamir as his fulltime consultant. It does seem like an interesting hypothetical love triangle. Aamir after Asin and Murugadoss after Aamir.

Anyway, by the end of this, you would have seen how balanced a person I really am. I understand I sinned by watching a indhi movie. But you see, I was provoked by the Asin passion that has swept the entire country today. Just repeating her name, A’sin, made me want to sin. And I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to crack at sometime.

And that, my respected judges, is all I have to say in my defense. You could uphold the law as profound and sentence me to death, or you could see this as a margazhi musth (of the kind wild tuskers such as myself get) and absolve me of my crimes. I pray you do the latter.

On Sun TV serials and Vadakari Realpolitik

My grandma (mother’s side) was on a visit to my house recently while I was in Chennai. She was staying in our house for a couple of weeks. She had come to see her grandson (me) and get his (my) darshan. The best thing about her visits is the food. She cooks well, and for her visiting grandson, she cooks at any time. When she’s around, my stomach keeps protesting being pampered and patronized. But I never pay heed. Apart from being a killer cook, she is also a “serial pythium” (serial psycho and acknowledgements for the term go to Lollu Sabhu) and an avid reader.

Aayah (grandma) is a woman of regular habits. Every single day, she makes the morning tea. Then she helps my mom and maid with the cooking, makes another glass of tea, and settles down for the afternoon shows at 11 o’ clock. She watches until about 2 pm. Takes a nap. Wakes up. Makes tea. Does some random things for the only 2 hours when she doesn’t have something regular to do. Then she does the evening serial routine. Mother does the dinner. Then we all eat and she goes to bed. This happens literally everyday on an almost clockwork basis.

This time, due to a particular surgery that I had, I was restricted to watching TV with my grandma in the afternoons. Yeah. This, while potentially a horrid experience, actually turned out pretty interesting. It gave me insights into the way people think. Something which I might have hardly gotten had I not been temporarily disabled.

For instance, I learnt to not criticize the movie makers, serial producers, ad makers and other such people who make most of the visual content we get to see on Indian television. They might seem stupid to you at first glance. But by God, they are some intelligent people. Amean for an intelligent person to pretend to be stupid all the time without seeing any challenge to his or her ego, it takes some guts. I draw these conclusions from the reactions my grandma was prone to while watching these serials. You see, my grandmother is normally very sane/non emotional and behaves with reasonable propriety. But when it comes to serials, she is different. In fact, watching my grandmother watch serials is one of the very best forms of entertainment I have known. All thanks to a combination of genes on my mother’s side, that leads to an inability to not express any emotions on the face.

If there is a scene in which someone speaks on the phone and a person who is not supposed to hear it is at the rear of the person speaking on the phone, immediately my grandma reacts with a look like a haunted animal, a look of primal fear. If a couple of “anties” (said in Tholkappiyan of Kolangal style) happen to be doing some comedy, like for instance, dissing each other’s husbands while making a comparison as to whose familial position was worse off, my aayah’s face immediately lights up with a look of total pleasure and complete comprehension. And if  a villain does something villainous, such as eve tease a girl-like-thing, my grandma gives the strongest reactions and starts calling the villain porriki, poromboku and other such names. At this point, I am always tempted to ask if she had had a personal experience when she was a girl and this provoked such strong reactions, but some semblance of respect for elders still left in me always comes in my way. Anyway, I’m not complaining. I still have total paisa vasool. In fact infinite paisa vasool, since total paisa invested is only nought.

Anyway, coming back to the point, I was once of the opinion that these serial, ad and movie makers where among the dredges of society. However, my perceptions have undergone a drastic change. Amean, the way these serials capture their audiences can be compared to the capture of Saddam by the US. Both are in every sense of the word, complete. And when I started interacting with my friends, I found to my immense shock that they actually admired movies like Anniyan, Indian and Gentleman. I was ok to admit that the guy, Shankar, had a talent for giving good songs in his movies, but nothing more. I was completely stunned that educated 18 year olds could profess their liking for Shankar movies.

All of this basically changed the way I viewed the likes of Radhika Sarathkumar and Shankar. I have a strong suspicion that they completely realize how stupid their movies and serials are, but do not mind acting stupid lifelong, just so long as their products get to make money. That probably explains why, while Shankar’s movies themselves suck, we get really good movies produced by his company, S Pictures. Despite his own disability of not being able to direct good movies, he manages to find solace by allowing other budding buddies to direct good movies. Touching.

Moving on to something else I learnt, we have all heard of Maamiyar-Marumagal sandais or M-M wars haven’t we? Well, my grandma too has a Marumagal. However, there’s no real war between them. Wait, don’t be disappointed yet. There may not be wars, but there are transgressions along the existing boundary line  and diplomatic insinuations aplenty. In fact, the situation is quite similar to the current Indo-Pak relations, which IMHO is far more entertaining than any darn war can get.

One afternoon, I suddenly heard my grandma dissing her d-i-l. I am not sure if she had started the dissing much earlier, but I happened to hear it only then, when I came out of a reverie. I heard her telling me that the state of affairs in her house were less than satisfactory. Her other grandsons were completely disobedient and her daughter in law was a complete buffoon. I sat up. Being forced into bed by that darn disease, I could at last see a ray of hope. I asked my aayah what exactly she found unsatisfactory with my aunt. “Did she not treat you well? Was she not behaving like a responsible wife or mother should be? Was she in anyway a mistake?” Some deep emotions stirred in my grandma’s insides and managed to register on her face (I told you she was expressive no?), resulting in me being able to confirm to you that some deep emotions DID stir in my grandma’s deepest interiors. It was clear that she was contemplating if I would be the right kind of outlet for her emotions. She was wanting some kinda human Thanjavur bommai who would keep nodding his or her head in sympathy as she poured out her woes. She thought she had found one. She was wrong, but that comes later.

She launched into a lengthy speech. She immediately refuted that her d-i-l was actually unsatisfactory in any significant way, probably in order to establish herself as a really considerate person who gave everyone credit for their positives and did not diss anyone without justification. She then went on to say her primary problems with her d-i-l was that she was a bit lazy and also that she ignored things she had and went after things not in her reach. If the second part of the previous line sounds cryptic, don’t blame me. I have literally translated the original line from tamil. Irukarada vittutu illadada thedi alaiyara she said. I asked her to elaborate. And she gave this example.

She asked me if I like the vadakari she cooked. I said I did. The truth is I have never been able to distinguish easily between good and great South Indian food and considered, say my aunt’s or mother’s vadakari, as good as my grandma’s. But I did not tell her so. Anyway, she nodded her head in agreement. She said that was the response she had gotten from most of the people, including my uncle. (Well, she is a dangerous person to mess with I can assure you. And I suspect that might have also played a role in the people’s minds while giving their feedback). She then said how despite having an expert vadakari maker in the house, her d-i-l had actually called up one of her friends and asked her for a recipe to make the vadakari. Then my grandma insisted that though she felt slightly miffed, she bore it with an abandon spirit and ate the end product of my aunt’s experiment without any complaints. Then came the climax, when my uncle tried the final product. He tasted it, and a critical frown covered his face as he exclaimed “There is something missing in this dee”! And from then on, my grandma took to making the vadakari herself. And according to her, this incident also demonstrated how my aunt had exceeded her family kattupaadu (limits) and gone after things not in her reach while ignoring what she had.

If women readers do not understand the hilarity of the above described situation, don’t worry, I won’t blame you. I feel like the westerner who discovers the Indian habit of wiggling their heads in a circular fashion whilst in any conversation and finds it extremely funny. You gals are probably like the Indians here. Wiggling the head to express agreement/understanding is something so commonplace to most Indians, that we don’t even realize such an action doesn’t exist in other cultures.

Anyway, I christened the above mentioned incident as the “Vadakari Realpolitik” and proceeded to mention it to every visitor to my house, much to the embarrassment of my grandmother, who it must be said, saw the sublime funniness of her own comments after about the tenth narrative I gave of the incident (to a visitor).

Rebel without a cause

Ramasubramanian, or Ramsu, was born in an average middle class Chennai household. His family lived in a good house in a quiet street in the heart of the city. Their food routine was mostly sambar, paruppu, rasam, thair, dosa, idli and the occasional vadai. For conveyance, they used autos, public transport and a rickety vespa. The family maintained extensive connections with relatives and the house often had some visiting relative under its roof.

The people of Ramsu’s family were again of the average Chennai variety. Unsophisticated, loud-mouthed, respectful etc..  They enjoyed the daily thair sadam with lemon pickle, watched cricket on TV, played board games and so on. But Ramsu was different.

There may have been a time when our forefathers may have strutted about with hair on their chest (much like andhra people do today), subsisted on arrack, and fought each other for the hand of the loveliest girl (and other equally trivial, meaningless reasons). However, the time is long gone. Civilization must have happened to Chennaites’ ancestors so long ago that I would not be surprised if they had referred to the civilization in Mohenjedaro and Harappa as the “New World”.

The first battle the Chennai tamil male’s virility faced was the caste system which made most people (certainly most ancestors of Chennaites) non-fighting vestiges of society. This was followed by the onslaught of the Englishkaaran and his ideal of the gentleman who himself does not do any dirty work, but gets it done through others whom he cultivates. Great concept, but alas, a nemesis to Mr.Tamil Virility. Thus shattered, Mr.TV was reduced to crawling along on bloodied feet. The KO punch came in the form of the modern feminist movement which insisted that men and women were the same but for a single chromosome. Mr. TV had little options left but to swallow cyanide.

Thus it has come about that most Chennai Tamil manhood is subdued, docile and harmless. However, every now and then, the deeply repressed TV gene may occasionally burst out in rebellion and surface in the offspring of the most paavam looking parents. It did in Ramsu. He was born to be a hero. A leader of men. A knight in shining armor. A protector of the poor. A keeper of peace. And there isn’t any greater disability for a boy growing up in sleepy old Chennai.

Firstly, Ramsu was born in the early 1980s. An especially bad time for boys like Ramsu to embrace life. This was a time that witnessed immense social changes in Chennai. The young parents of that generation were half way globalized. Given the obsession of tamil mothers with the welfare of their children as well as their acknowledgement of everything western as superior, these young mothers purchased baby care books and nursery knowledge books by the drove and tortured their children to no little extent using these virulent apparatus.

Also, being semi globalized, these parents learnt that adopting western sexual instruments such as condoms, while completely against our culture and what not, was actually quite practical and allowed one to have a more manageable family. This however meant that there weren’t as many children within the family as well as in the neighbourhood. The large houses with their attached play grounds emptied quickly and gave way to smaller compact houses. So another precious feature of city life: hanging out and playing cricket with friends, disappeared and people like Ramsu, who would have been most happy in such company, had to go without.

As a youngster learning the tenets of cricket on cable television, he now had to play with his former-star-player father in the tiny backyard. His father generally refused to show any competitive spirit and game suffered want of interest. Ofc, living in an apartment complex or studying in a convent meant Ramsu could still enjoy playing cricket and other such pleasures. But Ramsu & family stayed with his grandparents in their large, dilapidated home and Ramsu was sent to study in one of those hugely popular brahmin schools which promised academic results from the students and little else. So this was ruled out as well.

Ramsu was the of kind who only wished to run along open grounds and streets, play games and fight with other boys. But he was denied these basic necessities by his overzealous parents (Read mother. The man in a marriage never counts) who made sure their son stayed indoors and studied everyday. Yes. He was a rebel, but there was little he could do at such a young age. Life at home became such a yawn, that he actually started yearning to go to school, where at least he could play some games (even if they were harmless games with sodha boys) like running and catching and seven stones.

By the time he was a 10 year old, academic workload began to catch up and he was forced to work long hours. The parents of other sodha boys did not allow their children out of their homes, except of course for tuitions. To combat loneliness, Ramsu took to books. He particularly enjoyed reading books about which depicted the lives of English schoolboys such as Billy Bunter and William. Reading such books however, made him even more concious of the complete lack of anything interesting in his own life and made him even more desirous of wanting to lead an outdoor life.

Unfortunately, there seemed no way to salvation. Getting to play sports was becoming increasingly difficult with studies and family kattupaadu (limits) coming in the way. Traveling and seeing the great outdoors was also an impossibility since he was born into a good tamil family and they never ventured outside the Ooty/Kodai/Tirupathi trips which itself was few and far between. Also, while he used to be an extremely healthy chap, he found he was losing his athletic, energetic self and slowly turning into another of those sodha boys. He started wishing he had been born an orphan. He should have loved to lead a carefree life with no one to answer to. But there were other fundamental needs such as food security and shelter which, he realized, would come in the way.

While he may have lost the physique he was destined to possess, he had not still lost the Neil Armstrong/Rambo/Casanova/Che inside of him yet. He might not be able to crush the evil guys to pulp anymore, but he could at least play the good guy with a good heart and impress the girls. (Needless to say, he was quite attracted to girls, and was the kind that regularly dreamt of saving his latest crush from the jaws of death in his dreams). Alas, such feelings had to be completely stomped out through his school years. Hoping to have girls from Chennai interested in you at that age was like hoping to not get rabies after being bitten by Kareena Kepoor. In the end, he had both lost his fitness and his ability to woo women. This basically rewrote the thalaezhuthu on his head, and the man who was originally meant to be a hero, to use a cliche, had now turned a zero.

By the time he reached high school, studies enveloped his life, and he had become a pucca sodha boy with a buddi and a kundi as well. The deepest trenches of his heart was boiling over with grief and what kept him going was this ray of hope that he would get to set right his life when he started working and could take his life in his own hands. That day would of course come after his graduation from engineering college like everyone else he knew. Yes. He was a rebel, but not stupid enough to imagine that rebelliousness was always rewarded. Sometimes it is better to be a sheep.

He managed to make it to a decent college and had a reasonable time there. He made friends, played cricket for the college team, met girls who were a bit less restricted and generally lived well. However, deep inside, he knew he wasn’t the wild man he wanted to be. He made it through engineering college successfully, and as was vogue in the time, he was packed off to the US to do his MS in a reputed university. Yes. He was a rebel, but he did not protest. This was simply because he was looking forward to visiting the land of plenty.

In the US, in spite of all the academic work, he was at last getting to be who he always wanted to be. He regularly worked out in the gym, and managed to regain something resembling a good physique (though getting the physique of the alpha male he was born to be was all but impossible). He travelled out regularly, sometimes alone and sometimes with friends. He drank and smoke heavily. He ate all kinds of foods. His motto was: The more unpronounceable the name of the food, the greater was the desire to have it accommodated in his stomach. He knew that this was the life he had always wanted. He knew that it would take some time on this kind of a routine for him to resemble the wild man he was always meant to be. He also had this ominous feeling that he did not have much time.

You see the problem with such temporarily liberated souls is they do not know when to stop. You see, our man Ramsu was born to be a hero. He was not however, born with foresight. He did not realize that a burglar released from jail, should take it easy first, and not get back to looting immediately. His body was tuned to a particular thair sadam kind of lifestyle. This kind of an assault on his body left many screws undone. So despite having great fun for most of the period of 2 years, he was feeling not so good by the time he graduated.

And then work. It started off reasonably ok. It gave him the regularity in life he had so needed. But it soon turned into a grind and gave him little free time. Also, having grown up in an overprotective family, he was having a difficult time managing himself. Soon enough, his parents started making noises about marriage. Yes. He was a rebel. But how do you rebel against your family, who even if a bit authoritative, loved you like no one else? Also, due to mental and physical fatigue, he decided he did need some looking after. He definitely was attracted to girls and was capable of finding himself a wife. However, he managed to realize that having such girls as wives was not something practical. Amean they were attractive, friendly and all. But they had too much individualism to make good wives. No. He definitely preferred the traditional (or at least moderately so) types. So he gave consent.

Soon marriage was fixed. So was his life. There are pros and cons to everything. Marriage provided you an opportunity to feed yourself good food and perform the duty of scattering and spreading your genes. What it takes as penalty is your life. He ceased to exist as an individual. Of course, such a situation could have been avoided had he chosen one of those modern girls. As is already stated, he had not much foresight. He did not realize that if he went for a traditional bride, he would be expected to respond in kind. With this, the only functions left for him to perform in life would be to play the role of an NRI husband, father kids, provide for them,  and die. Thus was born, and was going to die, a hero and a die hard rebel. Who never did rebel or get to do anything remotely heroic. For one simple reason. He was born a tamil man in Chennai.

(Phew, a rather long tale. Took me quite a while to write. And while there are similarities between me and Ramsu, I am not describing the sad tale of my life. That would be even more tragic and bore you to death. If you have reached this far, thanks for bearing with me and merry xmas.)

Is Back and is a Gangsta

Well. Am back after a long hibernation, even if it was done in sweltering heat for the most part. Now I am back in the cooler climes of Chennai. (Those who aren’t around, Chennai at times can be cool and my previous statement does not necessarily suggest I have been to hell and back.) And I look for something profound to blog about. Cannot think of any. So will narrate an incident from the vast annals of my life.

You see people, I am a really random guy. A maverick of sorts. I have done things which other people may not have even imagined themselves doing. The previous sentence was not included to put any scene or something, though its not like I never put scene or anything. It is only meant to suggest that I don’t necessarily belong to those group of people who when they claim to have a desire to do the unimaginable, generally mean activities like skydiving and bungee jumping. And after doing it, they act like they’ve seen all there is to see in the world. No. I ain’t one of them kinds.

Let me offer you an example. I have been an accomplice to a crime. Not surprised yet? Well will you be if I mentioned that the crime was committed in broad daylight on a busy road in the happy commune of T.Nagar? If you still aren’t, poke a pin into your ass to check if your reflexes are working fine.

Of course, having made such a sensational announcements, I expect it will be ethically incorrect and socially irresponsible on my part to not present a report on the happenings. It was like this.

I was walking along this rather ornary looking avenue in T.Nagar. I went past a small firm. Suddenly someone beckoned to me. I instantly bracketed him in the worker category. Not that there is anything wrong in belonging to the mentioned category, but I am just trying to be helpful by being a bit more descriptive.

‘Sup dude?’ said I, in tamil ofc. He said he needed some help. He looked like he needed it. I tried to excuse myself by suggesting I had been despatched by my mom to deliver a carrier containing veetu saapadu to my grandaunt who was lying sick in bed in a nearby nursing home. It was the truth and although a part of me wanted to politely ask him to fuck off, the good part of me really wanted to help.

He suggested I could hang the tiffin carrier on one of those spiked rods placed on walls to impale or in the very least, castrate any daring youth who wished to waltz over the wall into the office premises. That settled it. In those innocent days, my heart was indeed made of chokka thangam. I had been brought up imbibed with all sorts of useless good values. It would have been unbecoming to not help a man so obviously in need of help. Or at least, that is how I consoled myself.

I did the hangings and he led me up a spiral staircase to the terrace of the building. He pointed to a huge aircon and said our task was to carry it down to the road. He said it coolly. As if it was the most ordinary thing in the world. And I agreed equally coolly. You might describe my decision as rash, but please remember you speak with the advantage of hindsight. Also, if you stop to consider my own thoughts, you will see sense. For at the time, I had felt that having come all the way up, it might appear stupid to refuse the man at the top. Besides, if I suggested I could not do it, it would have been an insult to my masculinity (or perceived that way) and that had to be protected at all costs. Also, considering my father builds houses, I have been in many such situations (of helping out labourers in need) before and did not really feel significantly out of place.

The actual crime itself was pretty uninteresting. We took the aircon down the flight of stairs and onto the road. He thanked me and I took leave and went on my way to deliver the food to my grandaunt hoping she wasn’t cursing me and damaging my karma count.

After doing the duties and enjoying some edibles on the way back, I was going past the office when I was surprised to find a huge commotion outside the premises. I looked about the place with an ominous feeling and to my immense consternation, saw that the person whom I had helped was tied up to a coconut tree and was bleeding all over from beatings. Goddamn! Worse, someone recognized me as the man’s accomplice and called me there. I met the proprietor. I narrated my version of the story and told him how I had always assumed he was a mechanic looking for help, though in actual fact, I had assumed no such thing and did not really care what he was. Then, although I am completely opposed to anyone using english to establish their moral, intellectual and general superiority over others, I realised hypocrisy can be good and told him where I stayed (just around the corner) in english. The effect was immediate. A posse of automen who had gathered immediately suggested I was innocent and the crowd murmurred in approval. I went on my trying to appear as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. I got back home and told my parents about the whole bally affair. I also reminded myself how I hated my father when he got sarcastic (I was quite young then (but did not look young. Thats why the akisht assumed I was capable of helping him) and was not capable of giving back as I am now).

Adding uppu to the aapu, my father told me the next day about how an automan had given his account of the happenings of the day. Apparently, the akisht had been caught when the idiot had tried to hire an auto to transport the AC. Also seen was  an accomplice, a large dangerous looking guy (yea thats me), who had managed to escape somehow. The sarcastic smile on my father’s face would have been enough to drive any normal person mad, but as this post ought to  have shown you, I am anything but normal. So I lived through it all. Major side-effects from the whole affair include strange smiles from the automan my father spoke to whenever I pass the place and he happens to notice me. Also, this incident probably marked my initiation into manhood (Fuck ‘em hormones. I tell ye, dey ain’ got nuffn to do wif yo balls) and the majin Sangu made way for the kid Sangu.

PS: Also, I am leaving our dear, beloved Chennai again. So wish me luck as I set out to sail the seven seas. Though, you needn’t really bother. While on the road, I saw dogs enjoying a threesome. One bitch with 2 males I tell you. And they seemed a trio in peace. The Shoshone consider this a surest sign of good things to come I hear.

PPS: Also, with this post, I kiss goodbye to 3000 word long posts and hug and embrace the world of short, readable posts. My original reason for writing them 3000 word monstahs was because my first post was about that long and I kinda developed a feeling that I had to stay true to form. However, better senses have now prevailed.

Sex and the Maanagaram

Ok. A post after a really long time. I have been overwhelmed with work and this is the first day that I actually get to waste after four busy weeks. How do I choose to waste it? I decide to watch Satyam. Then I watch Following (Nolan padam). Then I watch some tamil serials (Marma Desam). Then I watch some of the last unseen episodes of certain few British comedy shows that I enjoy on YT. Then I do some lying on the bed, looking at the fan rotating and meditating. Then I do some blogging.

I shall briefly touch upon the first of my experiences. When I saw Dasavatharam, It started off with a trailer for a movie. I saw very slickly filmed, speed varying, colour treated shots where there was this tall, toned hero showing off his biceps, some cars flying around and a really gay scene where the hero shouts out at the sky. On the whole however, it made quite a good expression on me. I thought I should catch the film, not quite because of the trailer, but because Nayanthara was acting in it.

Vishal has tried to do an all-in-one here. One can see his logic. He has successfully reached the mezanine level between an actor and a superstar. In fact, when I went to Madurai, I was quite surprised to see his posters dominating the walls and billboards. On retrospection, it made perfect sense though. Isn’t he what all tamil males aspire to be? Tall, strong, toned, dancing with Nayanthara, curling meesai etc.. Also, the fact that he very vaguely resembles me (although slightly smaller and with pronounced golti features) must certainly help.

So, in this movie (can I call it that?), he made an attempt to please the classes, masses and arses with a film that had some reasonable action, rubbish comedy, rubbish songs including a gaana number, rubbish graphics, rubbish morals, reasonable cinematography, rubbish child comedians (to entertain the family audience’s children), rubbish villains speaking goltised tamil (heavy on the ears)  and a gumm heroine. Only, he has failed miserably in his attempt as the movie deservedly flopped. What can I say? Maybe we should all get him to read Krish Ashok’s latest Kaka Chronicle.

(I’m adding this bit after finishing the rest of the post. So I’m putting in brackets as it would appear really incongruous otherwise. There was this scene in the movie where this gayish english speaking baddie who had a name like Aacharya or something (who cares?) is being investigated by Vishal. Vishal comes up with this “revelation” saying the fellow’s real name is Pichamuthu. And the moment he says that name, the baddie’s sophisticated status is swept away and he becomes a low class beggar boy. Reminds me of this.)

While meditating just a few minutes ago (btw this has nothing significant to do with the Satyam review thing), I was thinking why we Indians give such an exalted position to sex.  It is always funny to see how Indians play around with the concept of sex. Westernised Indians consider it a social taboo to talk about sex when in public. It does not form a part of dinner table conversations primarily because the concept of a dinner table isn’t very prevalent, but assuming it is, it would still be considered socially off limits.

There are actually strict social codes about when its appropriate to talk about the matters. Its ok to talk about sex when you are between twenty to forty and among people of approximately of your own age group. And its especially ok to substitute complex tongue-twisters like copulation for simple words like sex as this makes you sound intelligent and funny. If you are a youngster in school, it becomes almost imperative to intersperse your conversation with a few fucks and bastards. This will help you appear as a don’t give a damn rebel and increase your coolness factor by orders of magnitude (especially if you are a girl). And if you wanna make a joke, make sure it is somehow related very indirectly to sex or sexual apparatus. Use of similes, metaphors, transferred epithets etc.. will be a big bonus. And these jokes are especially effective if you are a middling lady decked in all finery to compensate the lack of youth. (Gawd, if I got a hundred rupee note every time I heard about those “juicy juicy mangoes” from such women, I’d be rich better off.)

Breaking these codes could be disastrous and is ill advised unless a disaster is what you seek. I was once chatting with this girl who was one of those mokka putting female types. To get rid of her and have some fun, I started introducing a whole lot of swear words into the conversation. I watched her face register a whole gamut of expressions ranging from surprise to shock. It was something along the lines of the Cheque Please skits from Goodness Gracious Me (a hilarious British TV show).

Sometimes such sexual scenarios could give us all memories to treasure for a lifetime. When I was in fourth standard, a friend came up to me all excited and exclaimed “Dey! Do you know aadaa?! Someone has scribbled the most baddest word on the toilet wall” “No da! What is the word?!” “Dey its called fucker!!” I was left wondering how calling someone an ascetic (fakir) could be considered that bad (!).

At another time in sixth standard, a friend of mine had asked someone to fuck off. The teacher, on getting to know about it started fuming from her nostrils and demanded an explanation. My friend said “Miss. I looked in the dictionary. Fuck off means get lost. Its there in the dictionary itself. I was only asking him to get lost.” My teacher was left wondering how to respond. She could not of course explain the meaning to the class, considering there were a lot of dumb girls around and they would not have understood anyway. Besides, the very fact that he referred to a dictionary to see meanings might have pleased her a bit. She just gave a minor punishment to the boy and he managed to escape unscathed.

Another hilarious incident was when we started investigating bad words in Sanskrit. A sanskrit scholar in my class told us apithakuchalambal was the “baddest word” in sanskrit. It sounded so darn cool that it superseded all other known bad words in terms of shock value. Conversations went on like – “Podaa bastard!” “Podaa apithakuchalambal!!” (2nd boy laughs and 1st one scowls). Our next mission was to find out the meaning for the word. One of my friends, who was a dumbfuck, went straight to my sanskrit teacher with this question. He was luckily from the neighbouring class. He and his entire class were retained for questioning and their parents were informed of their tendencies. That did not dampen our efforts however. We then went to some of the senior students, one of whom told us it denoted a person who had not had his mother’s milk. Uber cool. The next few days were spent determining who among us were actually apeethas (yeah, the original was a bit too long and hence shortened). And we would all break into fits of laughter everytime we saw that huge billboard advertising Kuchalambal Jewellers. (I think it was somewhere near Kodambakkam bridge.)

Another experience I had may leave you in doubt as to whether I actually had it. I was walking through this slum a few years ago. While on my way, I saw a group of paatis sitting on their doorsteps and chatting. One particular lady was talking to a young boy around 8 years old. He asked her something. I only heard her response. “Poi un aayah koodhiye chakkara pottu sappu po!”. This line has stayed with me throughout my life. The feeling on hearing those words cannot be easily described.

And since this is the first post where I am actually linking a lot of other sites (yeah I like to innovate every now and then ), I also will put up my favorite award reception speeches by one of my favorite actors – Sacha Baron Cohen. Genius. Even if you don’t click on the other links, please click on this one. You are welcome.

Actually the thing that I find most curious is why exactly Hindu Indians consider sex and fuck as inappropriate. For Christians and Muslims, their religion sanctions their attitude towards the matter. I am not saying I am in agreement with their philosophical views but I can let it be. But why the fuck should Hindus consider fuck and fucking inappropriate? I mean, if all those Khajuraho inspired Western Indologists are to be believed, we were a country of people for whom fucking was a daily ritual. It was as common as taking a bath and was practised with a wide variety of living and non-living partners (going by the population, it probably still is). The very concept of modesty must have probably come to India with the Muslim invaders or Christian missionaries, but considering most of them have exited India, why do we still need to hold on to such beliefs? Amean, should we all not be proud of our rich and varied heritage? Ok, I don’t want to make this sound like a political message. I don’t expect that we go back to that golden age where everyone fucked everyone else for every other thing. But I think the least we can do is not consider fuck inappropriate simply because westerners think so. Let us all learn from our closest relatives that there is nothing really wrong about it at all.

PS: Bonobos are the closest relatives of human beings. Even closer than chimps. And they fuck for everything from conflict resolution to just timepass. Just like our forefathers.

Olympic Darshan

I was in Chennai during the Olympics. I thought I was lucky. I had forgotten the DD factor. DD is a mystery. No one knows why it is there, what its purpose is, what its logo means, why it started a sports channel for the explicit purpose of spoiling once-in-4-years olympic and occasional cricket experience for the viewers, why it actually started side-fitting channels like Podhigai, DD-1, DD-2 when the combined TRP of entire DD would not equal what one episode of Kolangal (a tamil serial that started in the most difficult phase of my life in school and has gone on to bring me joy through the rest of my life) etc… Ms. Renuga Cowdhary (its a bird found in TN that I like to eat) should promote the DD head office as a package along with the Taj Mahal, Red Fort etc… It could potentially be dubbed the International Channel of Mystery with its publicity poster having all the anchors in James Bondesque poses and flowery symbols in the background. I have a vision of Sakal Bhatt holding a gun in her hand, wearing business suittu with a seductive look plastered on her face. (I am a fan of Austin yes.)

Anyway, romba mokka poda virumbale (no put too much blade). Staitta matterukku povom. (Go straight to the matter). So, here are some life lessons I learnt thanks to DD sports.:-

1. If you studied in a Delhi based english medium school, but if you are unable to study well and get sustainable employment, then don’t suicide. The government has kind-heartedly introduced a reservation policy even for this category. You can be an anchor at (drums roll) DD Sports.

2. The programming head of DD Sports is female (or a perverted male, or even worse, an equal-rights believing male) hockey lover. Only that can explain the 4th-5th placing women’s hockey games that were broadcast for almost their entire length.

3. I feel like I have taken a summer module on the anatomy of Michael Phelps. I learnt so much about his body that i can say which of his nipples is darker.

4. I realized, really to my surprise, that north Indian guys are actually capable of winning medals.

5. I understood the meaning of patriotism when the whole of India celebrated a shooting gold.

It started with my mother bringing in the morning coffee at 1 pm. She proudly proclaimed that India had won its first gold medal (as if there were more to come). Switch on TV after coffee. DD Sports. Anchors showing their sets of 39 teeth each talking about THE medal. Darn. Change to IBN live. Slo-mo clips of the winning moments with (I think) Vande Mataram (the listenable version by Rahman) playing. Darn. Switch back to DD Sports. The man of the moment in an interview with a north Indian guy asking him a question (I know he was north Indian because of the question). “Sir, what are your plans after this?” Mr. Bindra’s reply in that most irritating Punjabi accent – “I’ve just won an olympic gold yaar, gimme a break.” And to think that school text books five years down the line may have a photo of Mr. Bindra with the medal with this above quoted quote. Aargh. In my last moments of desperation, I turned to NDTV, the more sober among the hindian news channels. I witnessed the Bindras attempting to do a bhangra for the camera. Some things in India NEVER change.

6. I saw the pain of losing and the joy of victory on the faces of subhumans. I mean of course the DD anchors. When Akhil Kumar and Jitender (surprisingly, these are now household names. How many of us remember Gurcharan Singh, who managed to accomplish the same feat as these 2 four years ago at Athens?) lost their respective bouts, the faces of the (especially female) anchors was quite a sight. Coupled with the mandatory “Medals are less important and it is registering your presence that counts.” kinda dialogs made it all the more hilarious.

7. Indians can bring in the B word into the picture anytime anywhere. When Vijender won a medal, I was fearing something would happen and it did. There were soon discussion on “primetime” news about the possibility of him becoming more than just a sportsman and morphing into a lifestyle icon. And of course, speculations about his B’wood offers and career. Bah. These northies can be an embarrassment sometimes.

8. On its programming staff, DD has managed to employ certain despot psychologists for whom Mr. Hannibal Lecter would be a kaaldhoosie (dirt on foot) undergraduate student. They have studied our minds so thoroughly that they know exactly how to avoid putting what the viewers want to see. For example, against my own wishes, I know the intricacies of the sports like fencing and synchronized swimming and this unnecessarily clogs my brain like malware, leaving little space for other things I may want to store. Like for instance memories of the very graceful Allyson Felix and other things which I shall refrain from mentioning. And worst is I actually saw women’s equestrian. Ayyooo.

Anyway my best moments in the olympics were watching Akhil beat that world champion Russian youth (I didn’t get to watch Sushil Kumar. No one expected him to win I think. Not even the ever optimistic anchor team. Or we would have got to hear about him much earlier.) and watching Usain Bolt burn rubber. I propose we do a chromosomal analysis to verify if he has the mandatory 46.

Ok. Its 5 am in the morning. I need to do my prayers before going to bed. I am gonna pray for a set top box at home.

Prof Clip and his time machine

I know the formatting sucks for this, but i can’t seem to make it look more dignified. Ok, some background first. This story is not for everyone. To appreciate this, one requires some education especially of the astrophysical kind. This was actually written for a school project. And excuse the rabid names. They are plays on the names of my professors.

The trouble with scientific writing by an amateur is you gotta write something that makes some remote sense. Especially because the person reading this was going to be an eminent professor, I could not just randomly bullshit a few scientific jargon hoping to convince him. In other words, like in tamil films, one cannot have the actor working in MS Word and make him a software systems architect. You gotta do a better job. So the beauty behind this story is not so much the time-loop (run of mill concept), but the time machine itself. There will be flaws naturally, but it was good enough to interest a prof whose pastime is kalaichifiying. Im done with the buildup. Stattt Moosik. Chee, forgot. I wrote this post a year back. Don’t remember half  the concepts. So, aaruva kolar people, please don’t do technical baitings.

Strange Signals

It was an early Monday morning. But in the stillness of the artificially lit corridors of the Turnton Fundamental Research Center, one would never know. This stillness was broken by the clatter of footsteps. A man walked hurriedly down the corridor. He then stopped as he arrived at a door, his destination. The sign on the door said ‘Relativistic Research Lab 12’. He opened the door. Inside was a small, wizened, bespectacled old man in a lab coat. He turned and his wrinkled face lit up when he saw his visitor.

This was Prof. Clip Hahn. Prof Hahn was born to Adalbert Hahn, an electrical engineer, and his wife, Dorothea, in Hamburg in Germany in the summer of 1988. His family migrated to Texas soon after his birth. He enrolled at the Spillfour County Secondary School in Austin. As he grew up, it became apparent to his parents that he was unlike other kids his age. He was very reclusive and did not enjoy playing with other kids. He instead preferred to immerse himself in books and study. Even at a young age he distinguished himself as a brilliant student. At 15, he won gold at the National Physics Olympiad gold and qualified for the international event in which he finished within the top ten. While in his tenth grade, he gained admission at the University of California at Berkeley as a recipient of the prestigious Miller Fellowship. He chose to do his major in Quantum Physics. He pursued a masters’ degree in the same field in the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. As one of the brightest minds in the country, he was invited to continue his research in theoretical physics at the Turnton Fundamental Research Center. He was only too glad to accept. He remained there for the rest of his life pursuing his own research, only occasionally traveling to the most prestigious universities to deliver lectures to the next generation of scientists.

It was through one of these lectures that the professor met Halim Nizh, his visitor. He was the professor’s research assistant. After a lecture, Halim came up to the professor and presented a paper which countered one of the claims the professor had made during the lecture. Prof Hahn was duly impressed. They then met on various other conferences and struck a good rapport with each other. Scientific minds can be somewhat unpredictable. The professor soon invited Halim to be his assistant at the Turnton facility. It was an offer Halim could not refuse.

Prof Hahn appeared rather excited, about as excited as a man of his age and bearing could get. “The machine! It seems to be producing some strange signals.” It was Halim’s turn to get excited. “What? So the machine is working? Well I’ll be..” “Yes! I tried to analyze the data and detected discontinuous pulses of high frequency gamma ray radiation! Also, the pulses are repetitive! It could well be that it is a message! I think we are on to something big here..”.

The Machine

‘The machine’ was the result of five years of intense effort put in by the professor and Halim. It was what a lay man would term a time-machine. However, it was not the kind of machine often depicted in science fiction where one just had to step into a wormhole and end up in another place at another time. There was still some time for that. The Hahn Engine only allowed for transfer of information in the form of electromagnetic waves between two different points in the four-dimensional universe.

The development of the engine was preceded the most important discovery of the decade, which made Prof Hahn an international scientific icon. The professor performed an experiment where atoms of Uranium were heated to very high temperatures and collided at high speeds in a vaccumised chamber. The chamber was made of thermolister-pf22, a silicon polymer that was similar to diamond in structure and was a very good conductor of heat and capable of withstanding very high temperatures. The collision resulted in the creation of particles much heavier than the Uranium atom and some other strange particles that simply disappeared on contact with matter, along with some of the matter itself, whenever attempts were made to isolate it. It was also found that there was no release of any form of energy in the collision. The heavier particles were found to have masses that were almost even integral multiples of the mass of the Uranium atom. They actually seemed to have the structure of nuclei thus making them the heaviest ions ever isolated. These ‘ions’ had a very short half-life of around 300 micro seconds on average. This, although small, was still significantly longer than most of the other synthetic elements isolated.

For almost 2 years, scientists were simply baffled by this strange phenomenon. It was Professor Hahn himself who came up with an explanation. He made a startling claim that the strange particles where particles of negative energy. That was why, at cooler temperature, on collision with matter, or positive energy, the two got cancelled out without any release of energy. He suggested the Uranium ions, after colliding, coalesced into a single particle of almost around twice the mass. The stability of the new particle was accounted for by the formation of the negative energy particles. The corresponding positive energy was converted into excess gluons which helped to sustain the existence of the ions formed. This explanation stunned the scientific community and made the professor the most well recognized scientist alive.

But the professor himself did not rest with the accolades he received. He realized the plasma of particles of negative energy and the heavy ions, which were subsequently named hahnions, provided a suitable condition for the creation of wormholes! He theorized, if the mass of the hahnions, and the pressure on each individual particle in the hahnions, became sufficiently large, they could be made to collapse in around the exotic particles to form temporary wormholes. The exotic particles that are forming would serve to prevent the throat of the wormhole from collapsing in on itself, allowing for temporary space-time travel! Another use of the exotic energy particles was that it prevented the formation of a blackhole. The wormhole would be formed before the particle collapses completely and the exotic particles would make this state stable by holding the throat of the wormhole open. On cooling, this state will collapse resulting in a very small nuclear explosion which would not even cause any damage to the equipment. A method to actually send information was still far off. But that was really not the professor’s aim. He only wanted to listen to universes by trying to detect radiation that may come through the wormhole. This, by itself, would prove that his machine works..

The professor embarked upon the development of this machine along with Halim. The project was a secret between the professor and Halim. They set about modifying the chamber in their previous discovery to include sensors to observe any incoming radiation. Also, the amount of Uranium gas to be placed in the chamber was precisely calculated to increase the probability of sufficient number of collisions occurring to allow for wormhole formation. All of this took the professor around two years to develop and the result was the Hahn Engine, ‘the machine’.

Significance of the Signals

Halim sat contemplating the significance of the ‘signals’. The professor and himself had succeeded in achieving what had long been a dream of mankind: space-time travel.

Only the previous week, the Hahn Engine had been giving erroneous results, when they first tested the machine. Although there was a yield of heavier hahnions, which in itself was significant, no wormholes were created leading to a great deal of disappointment among the two. Halim and the professor had spent the rest of the week trying to figure out what went wrong. Halim took the weekend off. But the professor spent the entire weekend at the labs trying to solve the problem. He knew he was on to something big. Sleep was an avoidable disturbance. And he did solve it. The calculation to determine the density of the gas was based only on the probability of effecting collisions among the heavy hahnions and had not taken into account the most effective way the energy passed to the machine would be distributed among the individual hahnions. The density of the Uranium gas was thus recalculated and the professor decided to do another test on Sunday. The result was the formation of a near vacuum situation and disappearance of observable matter from the chamber. The result could mean only one thing. A wormhole. Furthermore, on the sensors indicated a burst of gamma ray pulses. Pulses from another point in space-time. The experiment was a complete success. The professor, typically confident, simply sent a message to Halim asking him to report immediately.

‘Less Jagged’

All Halim could say was “oh!”. The professor continued, “I have a plot of the signals. I am sure it is not some random noise. The signal seems to be of a constant frequency and the pulses repeat every once in a while. The amplitudes of the pulses, however vary wildly. I am certain it is some kind of amplitude modulated code. I have quantified the pulses into digits. Here. Have a look”. Halim took the document and studied it meditatively for a few minutes. “Well this code will require all your genious to crack professor. The only thing I can conclude is the graph of the wave is a lot less jagged in the second part than in the first. “Hmmm.. Yes. You are right.” But I have run the data in the TFRC supercomputer to try to break the code. I suppose we will have to wait to see what the computer can tell us.

That night, the professor could hardly sleep. He knew he was on to something big. His position in the annals of science had already been assured. If only he could go a little bit further. The professor tried to recall his conversation with Halim. What was it that Halim had said which had drawn his mind?… ‘Less jagged’… Yes… That was it… Suddenly he could see a pattern. His mind took him back to his university days. His first year project. He had developed a theory for secure storage of data. It was literally impenetrable. Encrypted using three codes. One to code the data. One to code the previous code itself. The last one to randomly store the digits. It would take even a quantum computer, something still theory, many years to crack. Except, of course, the person who coded the data himself. He recalled the look on his professor’s face when he presented him with the paper, with a lingering sense of pride. He clambered out of bed and dashed to his study. He took out his logbook and started working feverishly. By morning, He knew the answer to the code. The codes were in fact the very ones he had used in his paper example. He also had a slightly dazed look on his face. He now knew something else…

A Blueprint?

The next day, Halim entered the lab to find the professor busy at work already. He looked at the professor. “Any luck with the codes?” The professor took his time. “Ahem.. Why yes as a matter of fact.. I managed to break the code myself.. It might sound surprising, but this particular code was something I had discovered as a student.” By now, Halim was too disoriented to be even surprised. “The pace of the recent developments had really shaken him. “The code actually is a blueprint of a machine. A machine which the message claims could be used to send messages across different points in space time. The part which you said was ‘less jagged’ actually represented a matrix which when assigned colours proved to be the blueprint. I really must thank you for your observation Halim.” “Aren’t you going to publish your findings professor? You know we have done something monumental here..” The professor looked up at Halim’s face. “You know Halim. I have come to think upon science more as a pursuit of truth. A tool to dig up the secrets of the creator. Acknowledgements from other people is almost irrelevant to me now. And I most certainly would not like to have others interfering in my quest. I shall build the machine and then inform the world in good time.” Halim enquired “haven’t you found out what the first part represents professor?” “Hmm.. Yes.. I have actually..” That was the professor’s cryptic reply. Halim did not press the issue further.

The Time Machine

The time machine in the blueprint was of intricate design. In an elementary description in the blueprint, there was a electromagnetic, specifically gamma wave modulating and broadcasting device integrated with a Hahn Engine. With this arrangement, the moment the wormhole formed, a chamber containing the broadcaster would begin to flash the signals and this would permeate through the entire reaction chamber and some of the signals would be teleported. Even the professor found it very difficult to work out the inner workings of the time machine. This task itself took him 3 months. Once this was done, he and Haliim started working on building the machine. The time machine, surprisingly, was not very costly to build. The professor could fund the project directly from the grants that Turnton gave him, removing the need for having to publish his work for the purpose of seeking funds for the project. The development of the time machine lasted an entire year. At the end of it, the professor was rather confident about the success of the machine. He seemed almost entirely oblivious to the enormity of the situation. He could not care less. He informed Halim of his decision to go and publish his work. He then decided to give a demonstration in front of a select group of scientists and the media. After all, his work would be of primary importance to entire humanity. It would be cruel to leave them out of the fun.

The Demonstration

The atmosphere at the demonstration facility in the Turnton Center was almost electric. Around a fifty of the who’s-who in the theoretical physics community had gathered to witness what could become the scientific breakthrough of the century. They had all read his paper and come only half-believing. Everyone looked visibly nervous. Everyone except the professor himself. Proceedings began with clockwork precision. The professor called the meeting to order. He declared the purpose of the demonstration was to teleport information through space-time. That put the breath out of everyone. The silence was pin-drop. The professor proceeded to demonstrate the machine explaining in a lumbering voice each step. He soon initiated the process. He then went on to display the readings of the sensors. The readings clearly showed a reduction in the intensity of the gamma ray radiation. The result was almost conclusive. The first teleportation had been achieved.

Questions Answered

The professor asked the scientists assembled if they had any questions about the experiment. Apparently no one did. Halim broke the silence. “Professor. I am quite curious to know what was the message that you teleported. I am sure you would not mind sharing it with us?” The professor took a deep breath. “No. I suppose I don’t. The message that I sent back was the blueprint of the machine.” “Eh? Now why is that? I mean…” Halim’s voice trailed off as his jaw dropped wide open. “You mean.. But how are you so certain professor? I mean the message could have been from anyone or anything..” “Erm.. You see, there was a difference between the first part and the second part of the original message we received. The first part were actually just random numbers. Generated and generatable only once. Also, and more importantly, the second part also carried a paragraph. He brought a small slip and handed it to Halim. It read “This is a message from your future self, Clip Hahn, three years later. This message is a coded blueprint of a time machine. You will build it in three years time and demonstrate to the world space-time travel. The above set of numbers is actually randomly generated at the Turnton center to show yourself that it is indeed your future self that created this message.” There was a brief period of silence when all assembled gathered their thoughts. This time Aleksandr Nemkovsky, a renowned physicist countered “But professor, this message raises more questions than answers. For one, if you did not invent the time machine yourself, then from where did the information come? And how is it that the time machine is able to transport the signals to that precise point in your past?”

“Yes indeed professor Nemkovsky. I have spent a lot of time the last three years trying to answer the very same questions. For the second one, I am working on a theory which says that teleportation can occur only between the two nearest holes in the fabric of space-time. Picture it this way. When water leaks from the tap, a hole, on to a flat rubber sheet with holes in various places, the water will most probably fall from the sheet through the hole nearest the tap. I can only imagine that this scenario is similar. Maybe the nearest blackhole in space is more than three light years away.

Now coming to your second question, it is something by which I confess I am baffled. However it is important to recognize that this situation is possible in any instance of time travel. If anyone does manage to travel back in time, then he can always pass information to people in the past about the know how to develop the technology and this would lead to a very similar situation. This can only mean he himself had gotten the technology from his own future. It forms a cycle you see. Incidentally, this experiment proves that the ‘many worlds’ postulates, which a lot of scientists consider seriously, is quite absurd. Otherwise there is no reason I should get the same random number everytime.

As to the origin of the information, I can only turn to philosophy. I think that we humans make a mistake in assuming that we are separate from the system and that it is out duty to explain everything that happens. We forget the biggest truth of all. WE TOO ARE A PART OF THE UNIVERSE! We need to look at ourselves and ask, do we know everything about who we are? Do we know what it is to live? Do we need to know at all? Maybe the answer to your questions lies in the answers to one of these questions.”

The people assembled did not quite know how to react. Only silence reigned. The professor, seeing that no other questions were forthcoming, declared the meeting closed, gathered his belongings and left. No one else stirred. Halim was left wondering if it would be wise to give up physics and turn to religion instead..

Protected: The mother of all Chennai Hate Blogs

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

Females are fatal

Hello all. This is a disclaimer:-

I still want my kozhanda bagyam (gift of child). Actually, I don’t even want that so much. I want only that the preliminaries for the mentioned k.b. be performed with certain modifications if necessary. So, I do not agree with the views expressed in the following article at all. I really don’t.

Ok guys, we may well be the last few set of living men on this planet. Really, if you consider everything that is going on in this planet, you will also come to agree that this is the only way. I shall elaborate in a chronological order.

Adam’s birthday to 1950s – The world was a safe place. Men ruled the world. Men took all the decisions of significance. Men saw to it that commerce flourished. Men ensured that items of relevance such as knives, paints, tables, chairs, cars and airplanes were made mostly. Men even had control over the household. In fact everything was going on just fine until the fag end of this period when men made two deadly mistakes.

The WW-II had resulted in such large scale destruction and problems that women started gaining the impunity to question the male hegemony over international, national, regional, social and domestic affairs. If Hitler had not been so gay (watch his videos and you will know instantly), he would have realized the outcome of his actions and would have been content with the Second Reich instead of getting over his head and demanding a third one be created.

Also, toward the end of this period, science and scientific rationality had been developed by men to a point where it effectively displaced religion from the minds of the people who mattered (especially those who made laws). So now, women, traitors that they are, dared to use this really inane idea of scientific rationality to arm-twist the lawmakers into giving them rights. Bah, whoever came up with this idea of rule of law? Kings were so much better.

1960s to 2000s – At this time, there emerged this scourge on the face of the Earth called feminists. These were creatures who basically read all novels and stories which expressed noble ideals such as bravery, justice, pride etc.. without understanding the limits of the same, mentally interchanged everything male with everything female and started demanding that this extremely implausible situation be made a reality. Fools basically. But they used this deadly instrument called rationality. And this forced the men of that age, who were basically soft men chosen explicitly so that a WW-III is avoided, to agree to their arguments and start introducing changes in the society which basically redefined women as – “creatures of human type which have an XX gene code, lack a protruding apparatus and have the ability to release humans from their stomach portions.” There were literally no other differences, social or physical, between men and women starting from this age. It was the dawn of the age of equal rights, or in the parlance of average men, the dark ages.

With a post-victory haka, the feminists went on about removing any last vestigial differences that existed in society. They started demanding the use of all public facilities making the toilet the only place where men can gather in peace. They got themselves into high end workplaces diverting the attention of original employees and thus destroying the efficacy of these places. They starting making men share the housework. They started dominating commerce to the extent that 80% of the products advertised such as cosmetics, home appliances, cooking and dummies’ guides are targeted at women. They got into religion with gusto. In fact, they have mooku-nozhachified (nose inserted) into so many things that I have little doubt the editorial team of Men’s Health has some women in it.

In fact, they so thoroughly established equality in society that they felt this was insufficient and started pressing for inequality. Indian women only have to enter a bus and there is a seat reserved for them. If they don’t like a boy’s face, all they have to do is give a complaint saying he tried to eve-tease and then watch the fun. If they want a real quick divorce, all they have to do is go to an all-women police station and complain about dowry-harassment and co-conspirators in the station will make sure the husband can never step out in public again. The divorce is just an added bonus.

2000 to 2008 – Women are indeed slow learners. But these days even they have come to realize that men are mere vestiges (which is what the story of the Amazons ought to have taught them). I don’t know if you have been observing the trend fellas, but slowly and surely lesbians are removing even our limited function in society. Amean, in the past decade, I have noticed this worrisome trend where lesbianism is looked upon with some favor among both men and women, while gayness is not so trendy. There seem to be only 2 sexual statuses among women – lesbian and bi-curious. Every female actor (they insist against actress) wants to do a role in which she kisses another hot f.a. where she faces a win-win situation of having an enjoyable experience while simultaneously increasing her market. A male actor who wants to try the same stunt, I have a feeling, will do so only if he wants to commit professional suicide. (Heath Ledger is an exception I suppose.) It started with the Britney-Madonna thing and then the entire female galaxy followed suit.

If that was not enough reason for men to be afraid, Lindsay Lohan decided to go one step ahead and change her status from curious to full-blown lesbo in the process putting sand into the dreams (a tamil expression) of the millions of her male fans. We males gotta be more intelligent than at least women and realize that this trend must be put to a stop. It can’t be allowed to continue. (The more intelligent among us will probably realize that there is not a single fucking thing we can do.)

2008 and beyond - If this trend of women hooking up with women is allowed to continue, imagine what the future will become like. I mean, we can’t have any fun with women without the consent of women, or we could risk getting ourselves in shit loads of trouble. So basically, we may all have to die sex starved.

Then, scientifically breeding sperms from stored designer sperms should be no big deal. So the women will altogether lose the need for men and simply go to sperm banks for babies. (Sperm could potentially become a form of currency. Eg. “Give me oru kattu keerai for five vials I say!“) Unwanted male children could be dealt with using practices such as male infanticide or foeticide (in more advanced civilizations). Or even more probably, science would have advanced enough to allow women to have only female children using genetic selection. And even if some women showed weakness for the old fashioned matter, mechatronics and robotics would have advanced sufficiently to provide a real-time experience to such women.

Back to the present - So, the intelligent men, please drink to the last of mankind everytime your mom/girlfriend/wife gives you permission to drink. Not-so-intelligent men, try to make a last ditch effort to change the laws so that women in the future can proclaim proudly to their girls, how bravely their ancestors won the Battle of the Sexes. And mediapersons (again, gender neutral I am), do us all a favor and please stop referring to this as the Century of China. It is actually the Century of the Chinese Women.

PS: If indeed any of you women have read through the end, I advice you to go back to the top to see the disclaimer. No, in fact, I beg that you do so.

PPS: I have not used the French version (I know its not really a version) of the title because I think French is a really effeminate sounding language and I want to enjoy my stay on Earth as one of the last living really male males.