tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89585708290721921962024-02-20T20:10:30.566+05:30Supposedly TrueStories and all those things Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-531884476241060302015-10-21T14:22:00.000+05:302015-10-24T01:30:08.264+05:30Evolution of our kind!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We have been meeting on Saptami morning every year since 2007, Sreemanta, Soumyajyoti, Manjari, Indrani, and yours truly. This is how we evolved over the last seven years. Evidently, we all have gained mass. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Unfortunately, Indrani missed 2011,2013, and 2015. And I missed the years she was there! </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://supposedlytrue.blogspot.in/2015/10/evolution-of-our-kind.html"><img alt="http://supposedlytrue.blogspot.in/2015/10/evolution-of-our-kind.html" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_nbx7fyDHiEHEinQ-glsJhhdibnbytThDGgYj6oIytGHUo2QMmieNIAhpNmO6GPfBJcgiRNFVcpcRhci0LBZR9CeZ-oPYuQb8lsWbxp9cZYqVhSmEq6p5DrceQ1zgdyCm1O93FiQIAIEK/s1600/evolution.png" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-32787754303779117222015-09-21T01:49:00.004+05:302015-09-21T01:49:38.535+05:30From behind a sunflower<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am not a fan of flowers. Yes, I do enjoy occasional encounters with name-not-yet-known flowers and spend a few hours trying to capture them from various angles, but no. I am not a fan. <br />
<br />
This one, however, is quite well-known, and goes by the name sunflower. I was trying to find out its point of view, and decided to sneak up from behind.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/427/19943471369_5630b7e641_c.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Sunflower" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/amitswebzine/19943471369/" target="_blank">View original</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-83949083267212135032013-10-21T03:00:00.000+05:302015-10-23T22:56:24.730+05:30Pujor ekhon pujor tokhon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://supposedlytrue.blogspot.in/2013/10/pujor-ekhon-pujor-tokhon.html" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkfL5fiojMAI8tQ1NjsZ-QEJMNTJiFbeNfwMhc0X4uMllHafnRJJYv2-2ufYGD6uAwEiKINGajNH6t-5tkzG7HwOJ_8zB-8i8fZmvfS_xa9dAQxYT76t1cObz7jsfMTUxksFMKJDAVaBeO/s1600/pujor+ekhon+tokhon_1.png" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://supposedlytrue.blogspot.in/2013/10/pujor-ekhon-pujor-tokhon.html" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_p1tS1pSGrEu9PeJfBGWkBpG1gAwvSkCK2BiNyWqJ9Vor1s-P-rqBUJ8m4P-KjiTkxpIWLofQXXgUH1Loy6MIO3MGCSmSNwyyTZiWEsmBuwD5AoSy56g__gkvSGNJiKbo7XAdImKKf1dO/s1600/pujor+ekhon+tokhon_2.png" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-123625559840844632013-08-28T12:48:00.002+05:302014-03-17T02:01:34.844+05:30Acknowledgements... all of it! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #999999;">Well, here is the 'thesis acknowledgements'. I mean, not just what I roughly wrote in my thesis but all of it - including the edited, deleted, and suppressed parts and also my feelings when I edited, deleted and suppressed them. Of course, the version that was actually inserted in the dissertation is a shame! </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://supposedlytrue.blogspot.in/2013/08/acknowledgements-all-of-it.html" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7416/9616417750_4083a05107.jpg" height="233" width="320" /></a></div>
<i>Firstly, I would like to express my sincere gratitude to the Supervisor of yours truly, whose invaluable advice, counsel and guidance made this thesis possible. She has always inspired me with her insight, quest for perfection and incomparable passion for science. She was patient with me when I was being stupid and ensured that I understood even the smallest subtleties. </i><strike>The freedom she gave me, both academic and non-academic, was unbelievable. Just after I joined the Institute, we used to play cricket in the afternoon. She, almost every evening, found me searching for the ball in the bushes and shrouds around the Institute ground when I was supposed to be busy finding out why the integral was diverging or something like that. And yet she did nothing. Every time I, hunched or on my knees, froze in the middle of the bushes while she, on her way out, smiled at me and said, "Searching for the ball? Very good!"</strike> (No, I must keep at least this part formal..)<i> Her constant encouragement and constructive criticism have immensely helped me to grow into the student of physics I am today.</i> <br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>I thank the Director of the Institute and the Chairman of the Department of yours truly, the Institute for providing me with the facilities required to carry out my thesis studies</i>. <strike>And there ends my positive reasons for thanking anybody related to the Institute for my thesis. I have faced a great many difficulties while dealing with the office and administration. I think I should actually thank them for their non-cooperation for it made me confident that I can deal with literally any obese and illogical office-staff with a huge inertia and unbelievable idiocy</strike> (Reading up to this, Ma looks at me with angry eyes and I delete the last few lines). <i>I also thank the administration of the Institute for their cooperation.</i><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>My deepest gratitude to all my teachers from the Department of yours truly at the undergrad college of yours truly and the Department of yours truly, the University who guided me through my early days of learning.</i> <strike>Its them who kindled and inspired my desire for pursuing a career in research through their outstanding teaching. its them whom I turned to whenever I was stuck in a problem - academic or non-academic. I shall be forever indebted to them for what they did to a shy, inconfident and stupid boy from a small town.</strike> (Crap! I don't have that much space..its already about a hundred and sixty pages. I have to keep it short and within at most two pages. I can write an entire acknowledgement for them and they deserve it. But I can't do it here.. ).<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>I have been blessed with many wonderful friends during this journey. A heartfelt thank to SG, my good friend and colleague, with whom I shared a lot of good times, great foods, fantastic movies, outings, common concerns and discussions, scientific and otherwise.</i> <strike>She was truly my comrade in arms while implementing those grand schemes for coming late and covering for each other, leaving work unfinished and the Institute early for even the most disgusting movies and more than frequent chicken tandoors at lunch when we were supposed to pay the shortest visit to the canteen and get back to bug-fixing</strike> (No. My supervisor will read this). <i>Apart from their unconditional love, special thanks to PKM and RS for the movies from PKM's unbelievable collection and for the delicious sandwiches from RS's kitchen. They made my procrastinations all the more worthwhile.</i> <strike>I should also thank RS for not killing me at least a thousand times over these years when I called her a dot. Thanks to PKM also for not murdering me when I pulled his wife's legs, although I am not sure whether dots having legs is geometrically possible</strike> (If I put this in the thesis, RS will certainly kill me this time). <i>I shall forever miss those outstanding outings with SG, RS, PKM and SM who travelled with me a lot, had fun and made my last four and a half years memorable.</i><strike> On this note, I must mention how yours truly and SG enjoyed planning how to skilfully manage a couple of days thereby allowing us an outing as well as avoiding any hard feeling regarding our procrastinations with anyone (read 'the supervisor(s)').</strike> (Can't go there either..for obvious reason). <i>I have been fortunate to have great friends like SM, SJB, MG, IC, SGo, AKD, AD and BR with whom I grew up as a student and shared many jokes, thoughts, worries and ideas. I can not thank them enough for their unending love, concern and support. Let me specially mention SM and SGo who tolerated me whenever I attacked them with countless questions regarding thesis and submission.</i> <strike>I, being ever confused, checked every tiny step with them and they entertained me all the time</strike> (Okay.. that's enough). <i>Also, thanks to SuC, DM, SS, SC, MP and all my junior and senior scholars of the Department of yours truly, the Institute with whom I shared workspace, tea-breaks,</i> <strike>rule breaking</strike> (I probably should not write this - might attract unpleasant questions), <i>scholar-room parties and a large part of myself during this period.</i><br />
<br />
<strike>The list of persons who helped me, directly or indirectly, in completing this journey is a very long one and hence very hard to include in the full. I shall try to mention them in groups. At this point, I must mention our canteen for their constant supply of disproportionately expensive and yet unhealthy food. All my senior scholars have thanked them for their cooperation, supply of food and what not. I guess I can only thank them for they made me re-realize how wonderful the cooking at my home was - a thing I almost forgot after I started my higher-studies in the city. Besides, I must thank all those food-joints outside the Institute who, however monotonous they might be, kept me alive in those days when the canteen-foods were too exotic to consume</strike> (Too long.. and immaterial.. to hell with canteen). <strike>Thanks to SB for having the sole power and authority to update/upgrade/change/repair/maintain the scholar-room computers and doing absolutely nothing. You taught me that one can never deal with an unwilling staff with the sole authority unless he/she is transferred/retired/killed in an accident. The experience did enrich me. It is you who delayed my first year's work by not attending to the computers and panicked me enough so that I sped up and finished well within time. I thank you for that.</strike><i> </i>(This is waste of space as well..)<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>Last, but not the least, I would like to thank my loving parents for being so supportive and understanding all these years, in times of failures, frustrations and a few small successes</i> (I am not writing this just because they are going to read my thesis one day or the other, mind it). <i>They have </i><strike>never</strike><i> always allowed my unwillingness to do anything non-academic and </i><strike>made me socialize on gunpoint</strike><i> took care of every tiny aspect of my being when I buried my nose in work</i> (Is this going too far..?). <i>I owe a lot to them for always being a source of encouragement, guidance and comfort</i> (Okay..this is definitely enough).<i> Besides, I would like to grab this opportunity to thank all my family members for their constant love and support</i> (Shall I mention individuals.. ? Oh..such a long list..forget it).<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>Jethu, I did it! Missing you, as always..</i></div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-29842986694000910272012-10-23T23:30:00.000+05:302015-10-23T23:32:23.797+05:30Part Street O Ami<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://supposedlytrue.blogspot.in/2012/10/part-street-o-ami.html" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFg_BIKEqmUGf13ib5HR4HumAn609BkNuAIEpA-0iWmFOs7KcapnOVro4KZdgnyi26YX1aoYSp7z_SC1HuBizO76zyMrdOnDZiCYJXJgsXjC61re2YVltIeWf-8_55VsNk8q3m1_jHBoxU/s1600/park+street_1.png" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://supposedlytrue.blogspot.in/2012/10/part-street-o-ami.html" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm3JPBWBEeDmYsfq0EGOyXK9vCcUf31U8aPXzPFhWRg1mbqbnQdV-TmFUeuclLI2iP56qyqDBF_TVtHtZJDw21zFGPHuoHCKTAxH1ivVtJW7GzjHDGEEavEI6mmlMOdQjGzpz2uedXm_Un/s1600/park+street_2.png" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-37441325058120550132012-10-23T03:07:00.000+05:302015-10-21T03:25:08.816+05:30Bharate chai<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicPeuBpB6WuZlJ75AUR0qn53JM99r-xnjICGgNz0WHTI6kdSR0cuFKMEL7wPVI4wba3HT4qwiLssfg82B54hD2SxniuZEr0BQZM5WKxL7tI2LkK3OCb4FLkmaE_y6kBGqnO58Ouso1hbER/s1600/bharate+chai.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicPeuBpB6WuZlJ75AUR0qn53JM99r-xnjICGgNz0WHTI6kdSR0cuFKMEL7wPVI4wba3HT4qwiLssfg82B54hD2SxniuZEr0BQZM5WKxL7tI2LkK3OCb4FLkmaE_y6kBGqnO58Ouso1hbER/s1600/bharate+chai.png" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/XctGHFJMm3k/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/XctGHFJMm3k?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br /></div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-59747064628801150492012-10-21T02:55:00.000+05:302015-10-21T02:56:22.947+05:30swopnopuron<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqMxbGUe9DtMlYLnMxgklXr3FOwqa6aiLeaIZXdYwxXknxOXUtJZP1QgPIajpXuGVZbtPGzqsrlrf5iFucSKVEvmIEa_GmxUXwTXiCWElw3EFEAga92JrnYTPfZpFJP_6dl0Xpl7gVC0Ty/s1600/swopnopuron.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqMxbGUe9DtMlYLnMxgklXr3FOwqa6aiLeaIZXdYwxXknxOXUtJZP1QgPIajpXuGVZbtPGzqsrlrf5iFucSKVEvmIEa_GmxUXwTXiCWElw3EFEAga92JrnYTPfZpFJP_6dl0Xpl7gVC0Ty/s1600/swopnopuron.png" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-41663680150056307912012-07-11T17:59:00.003+05:302013-05-21T18:22:20.686+05:30Almost Doomed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I was so convinced that they have wrongly predicted the 2012 <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2012_phenomenon">doomsday</a>.. Hey Chuck, you know what? You made an arithmetic error! It's 11th July, not 21st December. But alas! It rained cats and dogs for almost two hours at a stretch, and yet here I am, cuddled in my bed with my laptop and twaddling about how we missed doomsday by a whisker! <br />
<br />
The worst place to be in during a heavy rain is Howrah station, and that too in a clean pajama and punjabi. Oh, how I wish I had not worn (wrong grammar?) them today. A mud-stain on my freshly laundered pajama is all that Ma needs to ground me! <br />
<br />
Ankle-deep water in the station platform, knee-deep water in the subway, long-faced booksellers with drenched books and periodicals.. The only gainers were the food corner guys with a concrete roof above their head and a couple of hundred people trapped under it. I myself had two lassis and a sweet lime soda. <br />
<br />
It is illegal to shoot inside the station complex; don't you see those visibly invisible signboards all over the place that the modern day smart phone holders smartly ignore? Thanks to my good old Canon powershot for patiently waiting in my bag all the time. I was trying to get a better angle as well as not getting my gear wet when an elderly looking Police-uncle tapped on my shoulder, "Are you taking pictures?"<br />
Yours truly (turning green in fear): "Yes..umm.."<br />
Police-uncle (smiling): "Continue. It has been raining quite spectacularly!"</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
Spectacular..that's the word I was looking for! </div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-4861212126166609742012-04-14T16:33:00.001+05:302014-03-15T21:28:53.701+05:30"Smaller? You must be joking!"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I had a haircut. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yeah, no big deal! Every guy needs to have a haircut at some point of time or the other (well, not everybody, no! Nowadays the evidences against the phrase 'every guy' have increased by leaps and bounds). Then why the fuss? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Well, tell that to my barber(s). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Here is a short prologue: When I was a little kid, my barbers (I had two of them - they were brothers - Barber 1 and Barber 2) were in their late twenties. They had a shop and a booming business at ten minutes walk from my home. When I was in my mid-teen, they hit a wall, got divided and split up their business. B1 came nearer - a two minutes walk - and B2 stayed put at their old headquarter. I, for very obvious physiological reasons, could not divide myself into two and decided to remain faithful to neither of them but to the place and visit B1 once in a while only in emergencies (like when B2 would be out of the town or would not be able to hold the scissors due to his last night's visit to the local pub). People (my mother to be particular) said that the real reason behind my not leaving B2 was that the old shop had a subscription of Shuktara (I only had Anandamela at home), and B2 did not cancel the subscription. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">A couple of weeks ago, I went to B2 at about 08:00PM and asked for a haircut. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">B2: Sure, but this will take some time. I have a couple of heads to do before I start yours. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yours truly: No problem, I can wait. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And I waited until he did two more hairs and a beard. At about 09:00PM, he closed the shop-door, cleaned his tools and turned to me. Being one of the oldest customers has some advantages. He covered me, sprayed over my hair, picked up his favorite scissor and asked, "So how will it be?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yours truly: Smallest possible. Its April and you know the drill.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">B2 (shifting): Yes, well.. okay! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So I slept. He woke me up about half an hour later, and adjusted the mirror in front.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">B2: Okay?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yours truly: Not at all. You can do better than that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">B2 (looking gloom): Its difficult to achieve what you are looking for with a scissor, you know that. I do not own a machine. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yours truly (consoling): I know, but lets just try. Just a little smaller.. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And I slept for the second time only to wake up after ten minutes or so. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">B2: How about now? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yours truly: NO! Smaller. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">B2 (angrily): Smaller? You must be joking! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yours truly: Why, you did a perfect job when I asked you to do this for the first time. I know you remember that. Why is it difficult now? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">B2 (visibly angry): You also know that your dad came to talk to me when I had cut your hair like this for the first time. I am not doing that again. And you know, he is right. This hairstyle does not suit you. You shouldn't do this just because it feels great in summer. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yours truly: Look, its my hair, not my dad's. And I am sure he won't kill you for cutting my hair small. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">B2 (uncovering me): Whatever, I am not doing anything else to your hair tonight. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And I was dismissed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Defeated, I came home and went to have a bath. In your life, you eventually hit a junction when you realize that its time to stand up for what is rightfully yours. Its only logical that I shall decide how to cut my hair, nobody else. In the bath, I realized that it was my time to get my haircut as I wished. So I abandoned my bath midway, put on a trouser and a t-shirt and rushed to B1. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yours truly: Oh good. You are still open. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">B1: Its only 10:15PM. I still have a couple of heads to do. Whats the matter? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yours truly: You need to cut my hair. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">B1 (staring at me): But your hair is already cut. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yours truly: Yes, B2 did that a while ago. But I need it to be smaller. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">B1: Smaller? You must be joking!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yours truly: What is wrong with you guys? Its summer and I need to cut my hair small, that's it! B2 had done that earlier, but says that he won't do it this time. Some silly reasons like people don't like that hairstyle on me.. Look! I need it smaller. Can you or can you not do it?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">B1: Yes, well.. its difficult to cut hair this small with only a scissor and I..</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yours truly (interrupting): Yeah, whatever! Are you going to do it? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">B1 (hesitating): But I have others in queue.. it will take time. Can you come back? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yours truly: When? I need it today!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">B1: After 11:00PM may be? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yours truly: 11:00PM it is. Keep your shop open. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I finally got my haircut done. It feels wonderful. </span></div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com1Netaji Subhash Rd, Hooghly-Chinsurah, West Bengal, India22.8883434 88.401187322.8590864 88.3617053 22.9176004 88.44066930000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-3492678244636709702012-03-24T00:35:00.000+05:302015-10-24T00:36:58.414+05:30Can art change the world? <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKQbIhLcKhIbBnv7jDBFSKIN7gkhqpBv6J_4Yma7fd_MJXDv2tnCPi3WlBIpvzKVwSeI5fAA4U-T1pil661UoRjQDoxSG2GdCwNs9bNtrqGTcEJEZhdB40n2POldMg1POe1kD3KGX8LDgC/s1600/can+art+change+the+world_1.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKQbIhLcKhIbBnv7jDBFSKIN7gkhqpBv6J_4Yma7fd_MJXDv2tnCPi3WlBIpvzKVwSeI5fAA4U-T1pil661UoRjQDoxSG2GdCwNs9bNtrqGTcEJEZhdB40n2POldMg1POe1kD3KGX8LDgC/s1600/can+art+change+the+world_1.png" /></a></div>
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzTmof11v_xagilCBvVNSUY6srab92SE5aVyUrbKWPlP0nJZqCC7ZCwFpw_iLfMk2Yd2ebtF75oEYZ-vQvIoYuQOdwXC7OM2NZ-WBX2rW5c9dc_qOOW4JVzaHLPWuXQGPG4ZEEfy7rXswa/s1600/can+art+change+the+world_2.png" /><br />
<br />
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioL-79gFydJAVWTTuzAW0g8XP68NqAnFv7fsYg2Da2GGqF_VHWMieiTAENTXoKQUa-O2EKWWHBJkHRmxzPsmxQo8ZNZzpnFr8fRKiPItRZ3gBDxNe1S7EqANElS-a5xmnZ3FqVw-qM4bVZ/s1600/can+art+change+the+world_3.png" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigmB1haTk15KYnhVX-4lJ6wb__2-z10cRDj0qlM9RlGuBky-owwlS-G1GT7GDRrYWUoTStXcOhnxyuFFauwSiTO2SEl-0uRQ95tX95Ppr5IMDTDmQ7y6FKGhJ-bVSc2Q23hyphenhyphenxf_LkmSxZP/s1600/can+art+change+the+world_4.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> <br />
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigmB1haTk15KYnhVX-4lJ6wb__2-z10cRDj0qlM9RlGuBky-owwlS-G1GT7GDRrYWUoTStXcOhnxyuFFauwSiTO2SEl-0uRQ95tX95Ppr5IMDTDmQ7y6FKGhJ-bVSc2Q23hyphenhyphenxf_LkmSxZP/s1600/can+art+change+the+world_4.png" /></div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-75514873205479147552011-10-01T00:19:00.000+05:302013-05-21T15:13:35.881+05:30Size does matter!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Yes, it does!<br /><br />Many of my friends often have heard me saying this; but for those who haven't: there are two kinds of buses in the world - the ones in which I fit, and those in which I don't. And one may also generalise the statement for anything - chairs, beds, bathrooms in old houses, trousers, t-shirts.. ahh..well, in case some people like SJB starts extrapolating from here, the list does not include everything.<br /><br />People, its rude to stare! You came across a 6'2" species trying to fit himself standing inside a bus by bending his neck in an angle of 82.36 degree? Yes, that WAS me, and I have got cervical spondylitis for doing this drill over years. You have a problem with that?<br /><br />And its not only the length. Here is what happened a couple of weeks ago:<br /><br />I am out of jeans (almost all of them are torn apart to the extent of vandalism). So I was out in the market hunting trousers for myself. Although the chances of finding a right sized one in Chinsurah (lengthwise) is really fat, it was worth a try. But the best response I received is, "Nothing in stock right now. The best I can do is to special order one of your measures to our tailor".<br />Yours truly (hopefully): And by what time I am going to get that?<br />"Well, with the orders in hand and considering the puja rush, I think it will take at least three to four months provided our tailor agrees to make trousers with special measurements as yours".<br /><br />So much for hometown shopping. Desperate yours truly came to Kolkata to search the bazars - there are a couple of them suffixing and prefixing (at this point I can't help remembering about spot fixing .. funny how the meaning relates to what prefixes and suffixes does with a word) to Big and Kolkata respectively - and was thwarted yet again. There must be others with my dimensions.. what the hell do they do?<br /><br /> This was the point when I went to Pantaloons.<br /><br />A beautiful shop attendant (female, of course..can't leave too many loose ends now a days as people like SJB or AC are always looking for them) came forward asking, "Good afternoon sir! Are you looking for something particular?"<br />Yours truly (flustered): Err..no.. I'm just..yes, umm.. I am looking for a trouser.<br />Attendant $_{1}$: Could you be a little more precise .. jeans, formal, casual .. ?<br />Yours truly (more flustered): Jeans. Jeans. Or, cargo may be..<br />Attendant $_{1}$: Okay, you will find cargo at that corner. May be you can have a look at them first..<br />Yours truly: Okay.. <br />And she took me to the pile of cargos at the first right corner of the large floor where another attendant (this time, thankfully, a male one) took charge.<br />Attendant $_{2}$: Size, sir?<br />Yours truly (jumping to the obvious): You mean length?<br />Attendant $_{2} (smiling)$: Your waist size.<br />Yours truly: Oh, thirty four I guess!<br />Attendant $_{2}$ (handing me a cargo): This one is thirty four. Give it a try first. Then you could decide the colour. The trial room is over there..<br />I tried.<br />Yours truly: Well, I think I need the next size.<br />Attendant $_{2}$ Here.. its thirty six. Try this.<br />I tried.<br />Yours truly: Umm.. this is not your largest, is it?<br />Attendant $_{2}$: What? It didn't fit?<br />Yours truly: Well, its a bit tight here and there..<br />Attendant $_{2}$ (thinking): Please wait a minute.<br />And he left me standing at the corner, anxious.<br /><br /><br />Attendant $_{2}$ returned after five minutes with attendant $_{1}$ and a measuring tape. I stood helpless and in utter discomfort while attendant $_{1}$ started measuring my waist (hell, why could it not be attendant $_{2}$?).<br />Attendant $_{1}$: Sir, thirty eight would be okay.<br />Yours truly (very embarrassed): You have some of them?<br />Attendant $_{1}$ (smiling broadly and pointing at a very far and completely deserted corner): Yes, but not of this brand. You see the farthest corner over there..? There you will find everything you need.. next to the cargo hanger is the pile of all; the base size of their t-shirts is forty two. Those would be perfect for you. <br /><br />As they say, they believed in stimulating success, sustaining growth, empowering people, their dreams and making them real. They believed in all these until they came across me. I believe that they do not believe in sustaining growth any more.</div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-27027846184967382672011-09-24T00:03:00.000+05:302015-10-24T00:04:47.218+05:30Obosor<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKGSgrhH1-7on5FKENzItjGefZQDHrHWX4Rdd6_Y2rZhfisBDFbROMkYWK1Z08fLg9QdDKwr_jUBkK8_NdVAvicRNy5ZF0Ngepg8tfNIRMAEogRgMkD0WVj3Wm52tgWJEl7ElbOBVkc_lJ/s1600/obosor_1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKGSgrhH1-7on5FKENzItjGefZQDHrHWX4Rdd6_Y2rZhfisBDFbROMkYWK1Z08fLg9QdDKwr_jUBkK8_NdVAvicRNy5ZF0Ngepg8tfNIRMAEogRgMkD0WVj3Wm52tgWJEl7ElbOBVkc_lJ/s1600/obosor_1.png" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRam0mnqM0pCKn_lrC8p4Y4eGeYEHHZAQeOQi3kpOKvA04HB-1FZ-qmfONaOxp3oeexUwPbkAwh_JBhflIJzFfKuUFqGx84lYAiO9qJoF0tkoHZd04x8193OeKQ786oj3X4GHS_IXs9ItE/s1600/obosor_2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRam0mnqM0pCKn_lrC8p4Y4eGeYEHHZAQeOQi3kpOKvA04HB-1FZ-qmfONaOxp3oeexUwPbkAwh_JBhflIJzFfKuUFqGx84lYAiO9qJoF0tkoHZd04x8193OeKQ786oj3X4GHS_IXs9ItE/s1600/obosor_2.png" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi12jVaDpH2s4osXlRmZNWrynWwHdW6FbI905MTaOYGtCzRuHJ16-d9QRZ4N1Xhl878VB1vm_da9otiE3vxE54iM0R8aYkEBThPZvCfTO71K53I-bpMbCh8Mac779-9bQLsFfRObcmVOUK7/s1600/obosor_3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi12jVaDpH2s4osXlRmZNWrynWwHdW6FbI905MTaOYGtCzRuHJ16-d9QRZ4N1Xhl878VB1vm_da9otiE3vxE54iM0R8aYkEBThPZvCfTO71K53I-bpMbCh8Mac779-9bQLsFfRObcmVOUK7/s1600/obosor_3.png" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-11977855017518085652011-09-06T00:58:00.000+05:302013-05-21T15:18:19.282+05:30Conference and sarees<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Conferences are fun .. <br />
<br />
Dirty jeans, conference foods, late-night chats (face-to-face kinds), skipping boring presentations to wander off the venue exploring new places - I just love all these, let alone the always-and-only physics side of a conference. <br />
<br />
A couple of days ago, SB (not the usual SB, for he re-abbreviated himself to SJB, giving considerable importance on J and using the new name in printing. This SB is my junior - a nice chap) was expressing his despair for not being able to attend an upcoming conference. I consoled him with some seniorly advice alright, but yes! He IS going to miss all the fun.<br />
<br />
I planned to attend this programme since the moment I heard about it for the first time (February of this year to be particular, at Allahabad. Unlike me, I remember because the possibility of a trip to Cherrapunji along with the conference dawned at me at that very instant). I needed a team. I called up RDG from Allahabad and created excitation. I stirred up RS, PKM, SG and SGe as well. Thus I had formed my crew (Or, as Sheldon would have said, "I formed my crew thusly") - SGe could not join us at the end..pity!<br />
<br />
Oh I tried to convince SJB also and failed. He has an immense inertia, and just at this point I remember that good old line from our physics schoolbooks, "mass is a measure of inertia". <br />
<br />
So I attended this conference last month on my way back from the much awaited <a href="http://lookingglass.aminus3.com/tag/shillong/">Shillong-Cherrapunji trip</a>, a wonderful trip with luscious green landscapes (now I know why they call Shillong the Scotland of the East), roaring waterfalls and a five hundred rupees fine for photographing them (I am saving the story for another entry). They (read 'local organisers') accommodated us (read 'some of us', for they did not accommodate, recognise or certify those who only participated and did not present anything) at two beautiful places by the river, about twenty kilometre from the conference site. Yours truly and PKM adjusted in two joined beds along with a third guy (PKM did not present anything and like many others, got kicked out of the accommodation list by a mail saying 'please ignore my earlier mails' just a week before the conference when we were all about to pack our backpacks) while RDG, RS and SG had to climb five stories downstairs (unless the lift worked), climb uphill for five minutes (five was the key number - we were a team of five as well) and then again five stories up to reach their sanctum. I closed the door behind them at about 9:30PM only to open it again after fifteen minutes or so at the loud knock by a devastated-looking SG.<br />
<br />
Yours Truly (alarmed): What the hell happened to you?<br />
<br />
SG (panting frantically):k-keys .. I forgot the keys .. <br />
<br />
And the conference began thusly.<br />
<br />
The real show was staged next morning when RDG and Co. woke up in their refuge atop the hill and found themselves in isolation - no water, no electricity, no cell phone network and nobody to report to. Lift wasn't working (electrical gadgets don't work without electricity - simple) and help was temporarily and spatially separated by a climb five stories downstairs, five minutes downhill (may be less as it was downhill this time) and lastly five stories up. Classic, eh? Hence they turned up at breakfast with sweaty faces and sickened expressions only to be greeted by the innovative breakfast-menu: chowmin with channa. Sorry girls, couldn't warn you about that. We had no network as well.<br />
<br />
You gotta admit - they showed real novelty in choosing the breakfast menu. Chowmin with channa, pasta with channa .. how many people start their day with this? Thank I don't know who, they arranged bread, banana and egg as well, saving our lives. <br />
<br />
The most no-fun (or fun?) part was the trip to local market with RDG and Co. to buy things. They picked up sarees, mekhlas and things I don't know what they call them for hours, completely ignoring yours truly and PKM who hovered outside the shops, bored to hell. At one point, I could not help asking, "what is the standard algorithm for choosing sarees?"<br />
RS (since she was done shopping and the others were still in the game, burying their noses under the pile of sarees): Why, that's easy!<br />
Yours truly: Tell me!<br />
RS: You gotta consider three things. Colour, pattern and size of the discrete patterns.<br />
Yours truly: In what order?<br />
RS: No order. Only the decisions on all these three parameters must unanimously be yes on his/her part who is choosing the saree. Say I come across a saree which has beautiful patterns sewed on the foreground, has a nice colour combination but does not have the right pattern-size, that is, I am not okay with the size. Then I can discard it at choose a new one. <br />
Yours truly (like he understood every word): Hmm..<br />
<br />
Subjective choices are always tough. It would have been far better if I could just input some parameters about a saree and my code would have given me a binary decision - yes or no. <br />
<br />
I must admit, conferences are much less fun if the site has saree-shops around. </div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-56118527746631043052011-07-22T22:26:00.000+05:302013-05-21T15:20:17.761+05:30The rebellious me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Oh yes, the rebellious me!<br /><br />Coming to think of it, it is perhaps not rebel..not per se. It is a rather desperate attempt to move the wheel that has been stuck for ages.<br /><br />Or you might call this a rebel against my unbelievability.<br /><br />You see, people don't believe me. They never believe me when I say that I need to pee in the middle of an important discussion that somehow involves me, no matter how serious my condition is. They don't believe me, and that too just because I have the remote, when I say that the TV just went dark all of a sudden and I didn't do anything. I guess there is something unbelievable about me, something unearthly that does not commute with our senses. I dunno what it is, but it is there.<br /><br />The same happened again when my modem started to blink irregularly a month ago. Long since I had learned not to lose patience (mainly after I started research I became aware of the universal truth that in most of the cases, the reason of something unexpected is most likely some mistakes in my part) when something went wrong. So I calmed myself down, analysed the case logically, checked and cross-checked my deductions and then came to the conclusion that whatever wrong was there, it was in the modem. But that was the easy part; I still had to convince people, specially the Internet maintenance guys, that my modem wasn't working properly. And that, guys, wasn't easy.<br /><br />What happened is something like this : I called up the maintenance and described the problem. They promptly came to my house and asked me to demonstrate the problem. I turned on the modem and bling! The link was there, steady as rock, superfast like never before.<br /><br />See, there is a reason people don't believe me! I don't blame them, for this happens to me all the time. Whatever I say, people get thousands of opposite examples like what happened with my modem. But I had learnt to be patient. After a couple of days I went to the maintenance guys once again:<br />Me: Ahem..!<br />The maintenance personnel (looking up and positively disgusted): Yes..?<br />Me: My modem is still not working ..<br />The maintenance personnel (amused, I swear): And what is the problem this time .. ?<br />Me: Err..the modem is blinking all the time and never connecting..<br />The maintenance personnel (tapping his fingers on the table): Well, we are a little short of people right now. Why don't you bring your modem here? We may thoroughly test your gear then .. what say?<br /><br />So I came back, gathered my modem and the power cord, put them in a polythene bag and went back. The engineer who attended me was hardly older than me. He powered the modem on and connected the LAN. My I don't know what slang to use modem blinked for a minute (not to mention that I, for that entire minute, remained immensely optimist thinking that at last I could show them what my problem was) and bling! The connection was established.<br /><br />Any comments? Any suggestions? Have you ever seen somebody more unbelievable than me? Well, I havn't. But one thing you gotta admit - I have persistence. May be I was thwarted twice, but I did not give up! I waited for a few days and then started afresh. This time I dodged the maintenance department and went straight to the big boss. He listened to me carefully (clearly, the story of my unbelievable unbelievability had not reached him yet), and ordered his men to take care of it immediately. Accordingly four persons entered my room yesterday - three new guys and a fourth, smug, shrunken, middle aged engineer who had lead the team the first time. The new guys checked my wiring, flipped my modem up and down and sceptically observed the window open in my ubuntu desktop showing the progress of a running code while the fourth stood behind, smiling silently and observing others. After a long fiddling with the wires, one of them turned on the modem. I held my breath .. one .. two .. three .. and bling! I seriously considered snatching the modem out of their hand and smashing it.<br /><br />That was it. I did not have a single drop of patience left in the bottle. Those guys left giving me suggestions like be patient, rub off the moisture from the jacks of the wires, blah blah blah. After they left, I set my camera in front of the modem, focused it, started recording a HD movie and turned on the modem.<br /><br />I went back to the maintenance department this morning with my modem and my netbook. The guy I first came across was the smug middle aged engineer who smiled at me.<br />Engineer: Still having problems with the modem?<br />Me (Opening my backpack and taking my netbook out): Yes ..<br />Engineer (smiling broadly): Still blinking, is it?<br />Me (waking up the netbook from sleep): Yes ..<br />Engineer (going back to whatever he was doing): Very well, lodge a complaint in writings. We shall see what we can do ..<br />Me (hitting the play button of my video): Here is the complaint.<br /><br />I got a new modem today. Internet is working fine.</div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-50247089664415595992011-07-12T13:02:00.000+05:302013-05-21T15:24:18.215+05:30A number of wrong numbers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Some old things are bad to lose.. old friend, old mobile number, old watch that stirs up distant memories, old books that were gifts from someone dear (ahh, well..books are always bad to lose, old or new)..<br /><br />Here is one example. I never known any Shrijit. Now I know Shrijit like I know any of my good friends, and its all because of my new mobile number.<br /><br />I shall not go into those nitpicking details of how I managed to lose my old number, only the important factoids would suffice. Long story short: I had to do what I had to do due to some silly reasons for which I am absolutely not responsible (usually I am responsible for all the bad things that happen to me, but not this time). That was the easy part apart from the emotional turmoil that you have to go through when you gotta give up a number which you have been using for seven long years and shared with countless people. I changed my number, sulked over it for a while, recovered and got a new number. Getting something new instead of repairing is becoming easier and easier these days.<br /><br />And along came the bad part. Within ten minutes from when I inserted the new sim into my cell-phone for the first time, my phone beeped.<br />Me: Hello..!<br />Who the hell: Shrijit..?<br />Me (confused.. or as per LH, befuddled): Hello..?<br />Who the hell: Hello, Shrijit..?<br />Me: Wrong number.<br /><br />And again after only a couple of minutes..<br />Me: Hello...!<br />Sounds like the same *#*%&: Yes, Shrijit.. ?<br />Me (irritated): Wrong Number.<br />Yes, it's definitely the same *#*%&: Come on dude, stop pissing me off. I really need to talk to you..<br />Me (patience..patience): Please check the number, will you? This number does not belong to Shrijit..<br />That *#*%&: Shut up! You made me ring <i>whatever his name was</i> to check your number, you idiot. Now listen, tomorrow..<br />Me: WRONG NUMBER.<br /><br />Apparently, the phone companies recycle prepaid numbers once they are abandoned by their owners. My new number must have been in possession of some guy named Shrijit - my storekeeper proudly informed me. Is there a way of knowing beforehand whether a number is completely new, or has already been used and chucked away by someone? Well, my storekeeper looked away absent-mindedly, entertaining other customers.<br /><br />Clearly, giving a heads up to one of Shrijit's friends wasn't enough. It turned out that Shrijit indeed was a very important member of his friend circles (if there were Google+ at that time, I would have written G-plussian circles). Within the next couple of days, I received calls from numerous friends of his (I don't remember the names. Sorry Shrijit, whoever you are, for not being able to tell you whom amongst your apparently uncountably infinite friends had been enlightened by me and who are remaining for you to surprise them), his aunt who calls him, if I have heard correctly, Shunu (come on dude, you should have told her. She seemed a perfectly loving aunt to me), his non-Bengali partner who can barely speak anything other than distorted <i>I don't know what</i>, and the receptionist from a pathological center asking to collect his blood reports. Shrijit must have been really committed to his number; all of them were, again thanking LH's achievement to find the word, befuddled and almost disbelieved my claim of having this number in my possession. I don't blame them. I do sound unconvincing most of the time.. I am aware of that.<br /><br />The number of wrong numbers dropped gradually over the next few months. I thought that I had hit some real influential node in Shrijit's friend network; the news must have propagated and reached full penetration. I almost forgot about this little incident until very early of this morning when my cell-phone woke me up..<br />Me (sleepily): zzzzzz...Hello.!<br />Don't have a damn idea who: Hi Shrijit...<br />Me (a little less sleepy): huh..wha..?<br />Must be someone from Shrijit's circles: Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Shrijit..Happy birthday to you..<br /><br />I need a new number..</div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com1Hooghly-Chinsurah, West Bengal, India22.9035984 88.377346222.8743449 88.3378642 22.9328519 88.416828200000012tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-20680922444056509382011-03-07T17:27:00.000+05:302013-05-21T15:25:56.458+05:30Kitchen, Chemistry and Cooker<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Cooking is fun..!<br /><br />Ahh, my mother may not agree with me, spatially after those totally no-fun hours she had to endure during her valiant effort to make me interested into kitchen chemistry (FYI, I am enjoying it pretty much..at least it does not involve pointlessly mixing up weird, sometimes even foul smelling solids, liquids and gases only for obtaining various bright coloured some-oxy this-nitro that-chloride which we used to cook up in the lab in our undergrad days..no offense, my chemist friends).<br /><br />Hey, here is a question - why a person who cooks is called a cook? A person who loves is called a lover; somebody who reads is called a reader. Shouldn't a person who cooks be called a cooker? Instead, they named a funny looking cooking-bowl as the pressure-cooker, which operates using the change of boiling temperature due to pressure and eventually whistles loudly. I can whistle too, even without pressure! If I use an amplifier to increase its loudness, should I not be called a cooker? I am not claiming the prefix, as pressure has nothing to do with my cooking.<br /><br />I asked my mother about this shortly after she started training me, and received a very nasty look. Curious minds always face difficulties in this curious world.<br /><br />I am having other difficulties as well. For instance, picture me sweating all over in the kitchen with a new preparation in the making (and I am sweating not for the heat but for my huge effort to remember the step-by-step instructions my mother threw at me before going to watch the 19:00PM TV soap). At that very moment one of my seven aunts (like the seven dwarfs, I have seven aunts - my mother's seven sisters) brusquely walked into the kitchen and without much farther ado started examining my work..<br />'Did you add this and this?'<br />'Yes I did.'<br />'Did you stir it a little before adding this?'<br />'Yes, I guess..'<br />'Did you add this and this before adding that, or after?<br />'err...'<br />'See, you forgot! Well, no harm done.. add this right now.. you were supposed to add this after that anyway..'<br />'umm.. OK!'<br /><br />And the rest was history.<br /><br />I stumbled upon a line (thanks to Google, of course) which reads, 'the kitchen is a great place for people to connect and work together while achieving a common goal'. Surely a kind of kitchen chemistry that does not involve boiling and does not work for me, my mother and my aunts..</div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-91641921329093688772011-02-08T05:58:00.000+05:302013-05-21T17:24:03.483+05:30A formophobic's dayout<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Background information:</b><br /><br />Compelled by insult ("you lazy, unpersevering, sluggish git") and blackmail ("I won't buy you a laptop unless you do what I say"), yours truly filled in the passport form in 2008 (winter, as far as he can recall). But his undying spirit and resolute nature saved him the trouble of actually submitting the form. It remained safely in a file for the last two years until yesterday when he, once again compelled(details suppressed to avoid repetition), dug up the documents and felt so ashamed to turn up at the passport office with the form duly filled in but bearing a signature with an ancient date that he carefully mapped the entire form onto a new one and signed..dated, 6th of February, 2011.<br /><br /><b>An overheard conservation:</b><br /><br />AC: Hey, did you know that AKP has at the long last applied for passport? Her Alter Ego: OMG!! What made him do that?<br />AC: God only knows. (Sigh!) That fellow has formophobia..<br />AE: Formo..what?<br />AC: Well.. he is afraid of forms. I think it's not defined in the psychological<br />literature yet, so I call it formophobia.<br />AE: (slowly) So if he has this formo..whatever, then how could he fill in that<br />hell of a passport form?<br />AC: You can only guess. I asked him and he wouldn't tell me clearly. Every time I get into the subject, he delivers one of his irritable laugh..<br />AE: So what is your opinion?<br />AC: Knowing him, I have only one explanation. He must have fallen in love with some girl outside this country!<br />AE: What!<br />AC: Why, you don't believe me? I am actually relieved ..I was beginning to think that the girl of his dream must be from outside of this universe. At least he now is coming down to earth!<br /><br /><b>Dry facts-The chronological bird eye view: </b><br /><br />10:05 A.M. AKP stops dead in the middle of the street. The queue before him must be of about two-hundred people - men, women, children and infants - all present to have solutions of their problems regarding a small blue book. AKP gathers his fragments shattered and scattered over the street a few seconds ago..where is the god damned patience? Although he has a very tiny piece of it, he knows that now he is going to need it the most...where is it? Ahh..AKP breaths a sigh of relief..there it is, hidden beneath the broken van-rikshaw. He collects it and joins the queue..its going to be a very long wait.<br /><br />10:20 A.M. AKP looked up from his book..somebody was poking him at his elbow. Turning, he saw a middle edged man with light brown eyes, thick curly hair and a carefully maintained mustache. He had a bunch of what looked like filled in passport forms under his right arm. Noticing that AKP is awake from his 'in-book' sleep, he smiled, "Dada, deben naki?"<br />"Ki?"<br />"Are, formTa bhorti korte help chai? Help lagle bolben, ami ei pashei achhi. Amar rate kintu beshi noy!"<br /><br />Without another word, he approaches forward, "Ki hoyechhe, ki? Sample form lagbe? Xerox paben, paNch Taka kore..."<br /><br />10:55 A.M. AKP enters through the collapsible at the entrance of the passport office guarded by an armed guard and a plain dressed office staff (may be) who were shouting at the law-breakers - people intending to apply in tatkal without a token or people trying to talk their way into the office without queuing up with others.<br /><br />11:05 A.M. AKP joins a shorter queue of about twenty people before counter number five at the first floor of the passport office. There is an array of about twelve broken chairs in front of every counter. AKP waits patiently (clearly his patience is greater than what he thinks) for his turn to occupy a seat.<br /><br />11:35 A.M. AKP sits down at the last of the twelve chairs. On the chair next to him is a short stout man of about fifty-five years of age with a couple of filled in forms and other regular documents. He smiles at AKP and says, "Notun passport naki?"<br />"HyaN!"<br />"Original kagojpottor enechhen?"<br />"HyaN!".<br />"Era asole khub jhamela kore.. ami to ageo diyechi, jani...ei to sedin amar bhaipor jonye dilam, aaj abar amar dui chheler jonye.."<br />'Accha!', AKP looks at him with respect. Filling in forms is a piece of cake to him..a skilled filler (no, the narrator is not trying to construct words like healer as in the wizarding world of HP).<br /><br />12:05 P.M. The filler is talking impatiently to the official behind the counter who denies to accept his son's application. There is some mismatch in the date of births in the birth certificate and the matriculation certificate. AKP is shocked to watch his hero failing to rescue his own children.<br /><br />12:15 P.M. AKP leaves the passport office, triumphant. It's over, and without any help from anybody.</div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-60548308836196490522010-10-03T02:53:00.000+05:302013-05-21T17:30:25.156+05:30Shiftopus strikes again<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
No.. its not septopus. Never heard of anything about a septopus except the ever thrilling short story of Satyajit Ray which tells a tale about its hunger (well, I should exclude those totally unrelated google search outcomes as well). Yeah, you are an ignorant flathead if you haven't read the story yet (non-Bengali folks, ignore this sentence); my apology for the accidental rudeness!<br /><br />Obeying conventional storytelling guidelines for below-average writers (which is obeyed by myself and only myself) , I should introduce my very few readers (why do I even bother to keep a blog!!! Naturally, people have better ways to spend time rather than reading trash texts) with shiftopus aka yours truly. He believed himself to be a stone hard to move (physically, of course. Mentally he is very flexible..agrees with almost everything without much resistance) until he was driven by the ever powerful romanticism of physics resulting the initiation of the first shift. Hence began the shift phase..<br /><br />Shiftopus hoped that he had to shift for once..and only once. North Kolkata being his primary second most favourite place to live (no point for guessing which place qualifies to be number one), he did everything in his power (and made others do whatever possible in their power) to keep himself in between Tala and Park Street, undoubtedly his secondary second most favourite place. Thanks to his uncle and aunt - they made it possible and tolerated all his insanity and idiosyncrasies for three long years that shiftopus wasted in the name of studying physics and ultimately ending up having a huge number of books in possession without learning anything. But all good things come to an end. Even when he made sure that he would stay at Kolkata for farther studies (the dirty works he had to do are still secrets and details are suppressed for his safety from his near and dear ones), at the end of those sunlit years (and the years in which Kolkata and St. Xavier's gave him the most) he found himself at the edge of another shift that took him to a place which repelled him most - far south. It didn't go well with him, of course, for he had to leave in six months and shift again. And it was the time he started looking for visible physical changes in himself that could prove that he was changing into a separate class of dinosaur that has to migrate time to time searching availability of food! He did not find those back scales and jaw-bones growing, but it could only mean that he did not have a big enough mirror ("Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the first ever dinosaur evolved from humans?"). But this time it was small. A spatially long translation isn't much..specially when it takes you back to north.<br /><br />Shiftopus's good time came to an end a few months ago when he realised that he had to find a new place soon. And he had a bad feeling about this. His nightmare came true, a shift from north to south took place a couple of days ago. After four long and happy years, circumstances drove him again to the place he loathed. Stability in the past four years made him almost forget his dinosaur-doubt, but truth is truth! His tooth must have become sharp and shiny, his back must have become scaled and rough-skinned and his buttock must have been giving shelter to an all new and powerful tail! People can't see them because he doesn't talk much and always keeps himself covered with things known as cloth when in public.<br /><br />Sigh! Shiftopus strikes again...</div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-45595734770652123192010-08-21T03:35:00.000+05:302013-05-21T18:10:00.286+05:30Plop!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>I have a book named The Buffalo Fights the Tiger containing some folk-tales of the Tibetans, Mongolians, Huns, Chuangs and Wigus from China. I have this book in Bengali. Somebody gifted the book to me (I forgot who. Perhaps Baba, or Jethu..'cause they used to buy such small books from the roadside stalls during Durgapuja) when I was a kid. I found the book only yesterday after years. Nothing like burying your nose into stories you once knew and had forgotten. Here is one from the book..translated in my flawed English. </i><br />
<br />
<i>2</i><br />
<br />
<b>Plop!</b><br />
<br />
<i>A Tibetan Story</i><br />
<br />
Many years ago there lived six rabbits by the shore of a lake. There was a forest of large papaw trees. One day a ripe papaw fell down into the lake making a loud 'plop'! The rabbits were so scared by the sound that they at once started running breathlessly as fast as they could.<br />
<br />
A fox spotted them running and asked, "why are you running?"<br />
"The plop is coming", answered the rabbits.<br />
Hearing this, the fox immediately joined the rabbits.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
Next, a monkey saw the fox and asked, " What's the hurry?"<br />
"The plop is coming", answered the fox.<br />
So the monkey started to run with them too.<br />
<br />
The news of plop spread everywhere from mouth to mouth. Hence deers, boars, buffaloes, rhinoceros, elephants, leopards, tigers, beers and lions also started running away. They had no though except fleeing. The faster they ran, the more fright engulfed them.<br />
<br />
A long maned lion lived at the foot of the hill. When he saw the other lions running, he shouted at them, "Brothers, with your powerful claws and sharp teeth, you are the strongest of all animals. Then why are you madly running away?"<br />
One of the running lion answered, "the plop is coming!"<br />
"Who is this plop? And where is he?", asked the long maned lion again.<br />
Another lion mumbled, " well..I..I don't really know."<br />
"Then why are you being such panicked?", the lion with the long mane demanded, "you should at first try to know what it is. Who told you about this plop?"<br />
"The tiger told me", the other lion answered.<br />
The long maned lion then questioned the tiger who said that the leopard had told him. The leopard said that he had heard that from the beer. The beer then pointed to the elephant. Then all the animals were asked one by one and finally it came down to the fox who said, "the rabbits told me!"<br />
The lion with the long mane asked the rabbits and they said, "all six of us had heard this monstrous plop with our own ears. Come, O long maned lion. We shall show you the place."<br />
<br />
<br />
They led him to the papaw forest by the lake and said, "the terrible plop is there. "<br />
Just at that very moment another huge papaw fell from the tree into the water with a 'plop'.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
The lion chuckled and sneered, "Fools, all of you! Now you have all seen what this plop is - its only the sound of a papaw falling into the water from a height. What is so terrifying about it that made you all run away?"<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The animals they breathed a sigh of relief. They panicked for no reason.<br />
<br />
===================================<br />
<i><br />Translator's request : I googled for the word 'plop' and found it <a href="http://www.examples-of-onomatopoeia.com/examples/onomatopoeia.php?word=plop">here</a>. I didn't like the word much..somehow it did not go with my imagination of a sound that is made when a large fruit falls into water. I shall be grateful if anyone can help me to replace this with a better word.</i></div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-84412116315743435662010-08-18T02:43:00.000+05:302013-05-21T18:10:11.700+05:30The Chachatatutu and The Phoenix<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>I have a book named The Buffalo Fights the Tiger containing some folk-tales of the Tibetans, Mongolians, Huns, Chuangs and Wigus from China. I have this book in Bengali. Somebody gifted the book to me (I forgot who. Perhaps Baba, or Jethu..'cause they used to buy such small books from the roadside stalls during Durgapuja) when I was a kid. I found the book only yesterday after years. Nothing like burying your nose into stories you once knew and had forgotten. Here is one from the book..translated in my flawed English </i><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>1</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><br />The Chachatatutu* and The Phoenix</b><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>A Tibetan Story</i><br />
<br />
Chachatatutu is the smallest and the ugliest of all birds while the fairest and the noblest is the phoenix.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
A Chachatatutu once laid three eggs in her nest on the grass. But there lived a pika<b>**</b> in a hole next to chachatatutu's nest. Everyday while chachatatutu was out, the pika ventured into her nest to eat eggs. When two eggs were gone, poor chchatatutu became very upset and went to meet the phoenix to lay an accusation against pika.<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"O Phoenix, King of the birds", said the chachatatutu very sadly, "See how unfortunate I am! A wicked pika has eaten two of the only three eggs I laid. I have lost two of my lovely babies already. So here I am, asking for a ruling..."<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But the phoenix could not be bothered with a tiny chachatatutu no larger than a thumb. He said sternly, "Can't you see how busy I am? Why are you bothering me with such a small issue? The responsibility of looking after the babies belongs to no one but the mother bird. You, yourself would guard your family!"<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Watching the phoenix didn't care for her trouble, chachatatutu became even more anxious and said, "I have come to you because you are the king of all birds! Please don't consider my problem a mere trifle only because I am small, as you should know that even a trifle, if not taken proper care of, could cause a huge misfortune. If this should happen, do not blame me."<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But the phoenix didn't hear her any more and started humming.<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The chachatatutu thought that the phoenix had not heard her and said again, "Why are you humming? You mark my words. When a disturbance as small as this will cause a disaster, it will be no good blaming me"<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Still the phoenix kept humming impatiently without paying any attention to the chachatatutu. Failed, the chachatatutu flew away.<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Full of sadness and hatred, the chachatatutu went back to her nest and made a blade of grass into an arrow. Then with her eyes wide open for the greedy pika, she waited on the branch of a nearby tree.<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Just as she expected, after a while came the pika for the last egg. Giving the pika no time to react, the chachatatutu furiously stabbed his eyes with the arrow. The pain was excruciating, and all that the pika could do was to squeak and dash round and round.<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
A lion was taking his nap on the shore at that very moment. Having not a clue about where he was heading, the pika spun and went into the lion's nostril. The lion woke up with a start and jumped into the sea, never knowing what had got into his nose.<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
A dragon was swimming leisurely in the water. When he suddenly saw a lion jumping towards him, he took a flight up to the sky, scared if the lion grabbed and ate him. And while flying over the phoenix's nest, he stumbled upon it and the phoenix's egg was broken.<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The phoenix was furious. He spat at the dragon, "Hey! You are a dragon and I am a phoenix! You live in the water while I live on land. We never poke our noses into each others businesses. You surely know that we phoenixes only lay a single egg a year and have only one baby. Then why would you jump out of your watery dwelling and destroy my nest and egg?"<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"I am not the one you should blame, O phoenix!" said the dragon. "I was only swimming in the water when a lion jumped down into it intending to eat me. That is why I took off and, by accident, broke your nest and destroyed your egg. Its entirely the lion's fault. You should blame him, not me!"<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So the phoenix went off to see the lion.<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"O wise phoenix", said the lion, "you must not blame me. I was only sleeping by the shore when a pika dashed right into my nostril. It caused me such pain that I jumped into the water. You see, it is his fault. If you want to blame, go and blame the pika."<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So the phoenix went off to see the pika.<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"O noble phoenix", said the pika respectfully, "it is not my fault either. I was only wandering about the grass when the chachatatutu stabbed my eyes with an arrow. It cause such pain that I, confused, went into the lion's nostril mistaking it to be a hole. The fault is entirely the chachatatutu's! Go and ask for yourself if its not true."<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The phoenix had nothing to do but to go and ask chachatatutu.<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Chachatatutu solemnly said, "O phoenix, I made you aware. But you did not care because I am small, short feathered, tiny winged, weak, ugly and of no good. You did not pay any attention to my words of caution, as if my distress was only a trifle, and told me that only mothers should look after her child,and not to trouble you. How is it, then, that your sorrow also is not a mere trifle? Why are you blaming others, while you yourself would have guarded you egg properly? When my eggs are eaten by a pika, it is a trifle. But is it not a trifle when your egg is destroyed by the dragon? We chachatatutus lay eggs in grass. I laid three eggs and I had to go out for food every day while you laid you egg on a tree. Is it not much easier for you to look after your egg? Why didn't you do that? Did I not warn you before that unsettled trifles could cause disasters? Why are you blaming me now?"<br />
<br />
The phoenix was very much ashamed and flew away gloomily.<br />
<i><br /><b>*</b> Note from the book : A very small ash coloured bird that makes nest in the grass.<br /><br /><b>** </b>Note from the book : A kind of small tailless mountain rat.</i></div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-22562912985983401462010-07-09T01:47:00.000+05:302013-05-21T18:03:24.841+05:30World Cup 2010<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Another interesting yet frustrating World Cup comes to an end! One more Sunday with the golden Jabulani - an all new nation to make a new page of history - and it will be over.<br /><br />How I wish it were Argentina..:( If only I could invent a time machine to send Diego and his boys back in time to repair their errors against the mighty Germans..<br /><br />But the mighty Germans had been beaten by Spain, leading to an all European World Cup Final. Viva La Espana!<br /><br />I remember my first ever world cup - 1994 USA - that ended Diego's career. The hat trick of Batistuta and the solo goal that Diego scored against Greece were my first introduction to Argentina's football! When Diego led his nation to glory in 1986, I was only two, and probably was playing with a fiber monkey smoking a Wills flake! This is one of the reasons for which I regret not being born before '84. Damn, I missed God's ballplay!<br /><br />There was a special issue of Anandamela, containing descriptions of the teams playing at USA. My mother could not find that issue anywhere because I kept it under my pillow all the time, memorizing the names of all the players and imagining myself playing alongside them. I was familiar with most of the world's best footballers, thanks to my father! He used to take me to the field after sunset. When the other kids, tired and satisfied with the days play, went home, we stretched ourselves over the grass, and Baba recited the immortal names of Pele, Diego Maradona, Jorge Burruchaga, or Michel Platini. I could imagine them playing right there, at Chinsurah, arround us. I could hear the commentary, " Maradona...Burruchaga..still Burruchaga..AND THIS IS IT! ARGENTINA HAS SCORED..."! That was my first introduction to romanticism, and I owe to Baba for that!<br /><br />1994 left a lasting impression on me. The death of Andre Escober on his return to Columbia, the suspension of Diego for using ephedrine, the unforgettable journey of Bulgaria and Histro Stoichkov..all adding to the indescribable and enormous feelings the biggest show on earth made me feel. People celebrated Brazil winning the cup defeating Italy. I secretly cried for Argentina...and Diego. It was easy as natural..players cry when they leave the field defeated...Diego cried when he was suspended! Somehow it made me learn how painful it is to watch one's own dream being destroyed. Everybody feels it at some point of time or the other. I learnt not to ridicule the losing side..I learnt that it was against the spirit of the game. I saw the players of the winning side patting the back of the opponent after the game.. I saw Maradona doing the same to Greece . That was one of the most important lessons I gained from World Cup.<br /><br />Nature didn't spare me, and I grew up. I witnessed three more world cups going away to Brazil, France and Italy. Argentina has been defied once again in the present one, and I have to wait for another four years to see if Argentina can make it. I want to see Argentina holding the cup for the third time...and may Diego remain the Coach till then. I want to witness what I couldn't in '86 - God holding the cup.</div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-22000324949464017162010-05-01T05:29:00.000+05:302013-05-21T18:24:46.435+05:30Anurag and the window<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Anurag put the laptop aside, stretched and came out of the room to his small but treasured balcony. Sugato didn't have one to his room, and never complained about it. Journalists don't have much time to make good use of a balcony, Anurag guessed.<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But Anurag wasn't a great lover of free air either. He didn't use the balcony as an opening to nature, and only Anurag knew that. The lazy winter afternoon was almost over, leaving behind a sleepy aroma. Anurag leaned over the waist-high railing and looked at the almost complete construction of Bikas Chandra's north window. The wooden frames and the doors were set and the cementing around the frame was complete. They would probably start coloring the window the next morning. The window was not like this even only a couple of weeks ago, thought Anurag. Bikas would never know that he was not only going to change his window, but also a major part of Anurag's life which, everybody thought, a completely normal life.<br />
<br />
Everybody...except Anurag himself.<br />
<br />
Anurag woke up at nine every day; had a cup of tea over the newspaper and waited for the bathroom to be empty. At 9:45, he started getting impatient and shouted at his flat-mate to get out of the bathroom. He had to run to catch a bus and jostled his way into its overflowing crowd with his enormous laptop back-pack drawing thousands of angry comments towards himself. He was late almost everyday to find Avantika impatiently waiting for him in his cubicle. For about an hour, he answered her questions about the programs he had written, and then went to canteen to have his lunch. The other half of the day passed as dull as it could be, and Anurag hovered around his supervisor's door with an 'Away' notice on it knowing that he wouldn't be able to meet him just like the last couple of months. When the clock ticked four, he abandoned hope and returned to his cubicle to go through the problem in hand yet again as he had been doing for the last two years. After about an hour and a half, he locked his cubicle, put the key on a hook behind the almirah so that Avantika could open the door and wait for him again the next day, and left.<br />
<br />
But life was not like this even a couple of years ago. The journey through the carefree and joyful student hood was the best time in Anurag's life. Anurag had very few friends, and they were wonderful friends. Arun, Alok, Anurag and Sharmishtha - classmates called them 'the gang of four' in college. Anurag was a little reserved in opening up to others; but to his friends he could be completely himself. They continued their journey together to the Master's degree. Five long years of togetherness made Anurag think that they would go on like this...forever. Alas! He wasn't right.<br />
<br />
Even the loveliest movie comes to an end, and so did the student life of Anurag. Unfortunately, all of Anurag's friends joined other institutes in other cities all around India and Anurag got a chance in an institute in the same old city. That, Anurag knew, was something they could do nothing about, and he had to remain alone in this city . But it didn't make much of a difference, since Anurag was sure that nothing could come into the way of their friendship. And keeping contact was not a problem...everybody has internet these days. Like an ideal young researcher, Anurag started his Ph.D with great passion and enthusiasm. He had his dreams to become an eminent physicist, and started working hard from the very first day.<br />
<br />
Soon Anurag realized that devoting oneself completely to research was not that easy. One has to have his or her other priorities too..and family is one of them. Anurag's parents were happy that their son had made it to somewhere, and now they expected him to be settled. And settling in such cases, make no mistake, has only one meaning...But Anurag had no plans to be married..not now at least! So Anurag started using the same old tactics he used while playing football with his friends. He used to play striker and whenever he came across a defender bulkier than himself, he passed the ball without going into confrontation. His friends laughed at him, but could not deny the fact that he was the one with a clean game and least number of bumps and bruises..always. Every field is linked..both in Physics and in life! You can map one onto some other.<br />
<br />
But slowly, Anurag started to hate his life. As the time progressed, he was getting hinged to an abnormally ordered schedule. The high spirit, after these two long and painfully frustrating years, had worn off almost entirely. He was not making much progress through the problem he was assigned to, and started to grow impatient. His life in the city was confined within his institute and the rented flat he shared with Sugato. He had almost none to talk his heart out in the city. He was missing his friends more than ever. He could talk to them, of course, thanks to the internet and mobile services. But that was painfully insufficient to his desperate need of a friend..a friend of flesh and bone..a friend with a presence.<br />
<br />
Anurag reduced talking alarmingly. He started going home more frequently than ever. But he only spent time with his laptop writing codes while at home. Naturally, his parents were worried...but he wouldn't talk to them either. He even started avoiding long conversations with his research-group, which, in turn, affected his work. He was dying to get out of this prison..to open up to somebody...but to whom?<br />
<br />
One evening, while back from the institute, he was staring idly to the ground of the housing in front of their building. Suddenly he sensed someone staring at him, he could see him by the corner of his eye. He turned around sharply to find none except his own reflection on the glass window of a flat just opposite to theirs. Laughing at his own fear, he told his image, "that's some shock you gave me, you know that?"<br />
<br />
And it started. Every evening, back from the institute, Anurag spent a couple of hours with his new friend..himself. He would cancel all his works for that meeting. There were none to disturb them, as Sugato usually did not stay at home at that hour. Nobody knew what did the trick, but slowly he started being normal again. His performance in work improved remarkably. His parents were relieved watching him converting to the same old Anurag. Everything came back on track once again.<br />
<br />
This continued for over a year. Anurag's secret remained to himself. Nobody had a clue what was happening at the balcony of Anurag Banerjee's room for an hour or two every evening. Anurag came to know that the flat belonged to someone named Bikas Chandra - a retired bank employee, who usually stayed at his daughter's. He saw him only for a couple of times over the year, when he came and stayed at his flat for a day or two. With him in the flat, the window remained usually open. And even if it was closed, Anurag had to postpone his evening chat...what's the point of drawing attention of old Mr. Chandra!<br />
<br />
But Anurags evening venture came to a stop about two weeks ago when a kid from their housing hit a sixer and broke the glass of that very window. Anurag's world collided with the shattered window and stopped. He was alone once again..and the feeling, as before, was not comforting at all! He became edgy. He could sense the same old loneliness creeping back in himself. He tried to use some replacements - his reflection on the mirror for instance and realized that somehow he could not relate himself to them...as if there was something special to that particular window. He hoped against hope that Mr. Chandra would replace the glass and his friend would be back soon untill two days ago when Mr. Chandra called for a carpenter and ordered for a window frame. Anurag witnessed the entire conversation from the balcony. His friend was not going to come back..ever again.<br />
<br />
Anurag woke up with a start from his thoughts...his mobile was ringing in his pocket. He took the phone out . It was his mother. Anurag braced himself..he had thought about it for the past two days, and the time has come..<br />
"Hello!"<br />
"Ani.. how are you son? "<br />
"Ma.. I was thinking... I need to tell you something... "<br />
"What?"<br />
"Err.. Ma.. I think it is time I get married.. what do you think?"</div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-23543319621915622682009-11-03T20:17:00.000+05:302013-05-21T18:06:28.621+05:30QRD<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
amitsweb : Dunno what I am going to do ..<br />sayan1984 : What if they ask questions from LOTR*? Neither of us know the syllabus..There is no evidence that LOTR is not included..<br />amitsweb : Let's guess what could come..umm..what was the configuration of the ring ? <br />sayan1984 : The ring was in a very stable state; no amount of annealing by fire would change its configuration. Hence it was in the lowest possible Gibb's energy configuration.<br />amitsweb : Draw the trajectory of the ring under the influence of all the characters of the book and show how the world line of the characters behave when the ring is in their vicinity. How do you think the theory of relativity would be changed if such a ring really exists? <br />sayan1984 : Such a ring affects characters at a distance; hence in a classical form the ring's effect would violate the laws of relativity. We would have to invent a new interaction particle. I name it Ringon, or Ringons in plural. It is a massless chargeless boson travelling at the speed of light and carrying the information about the ring to the different characters. Happy?<br />amitsweb : Well..<br />sayan1984 : The resulting theory will be called Quantum Ringo Dynamics, or QRD in short, which will be consistent with both the standard model and relativity. How is that ?<br />amitsweb : How do you explain the conservation of energy when the Ringons hit the characters ?<br />sayan1984 : Ringo Electric Effect. And Ringons carry an energy $h \nu$<br />amitsweb : And a suitable form of the Ringon wave function ?<br />sayan1984 : $e^{i(k r-\omega t)}$.<br /><br />*Lord of the Ring<br /> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>Note : Today I found out this piece of conversation (took place between me and my friend Sayan at 1:44 a.m. on 15th February, 2006, a couple of days before JEST 2006) from the enormous chat history of my oldest Google account. A few minor changes (translational only) have been made for the sake of clarity. Sayan topped JEST 2006.</i></div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-13182557063493015302009-10-12T03:09:00.000+05:302013-05-21T18:29:48.200+05:30Why did Mrs. Mukherjee commit suicide<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>Mr. Manoj Mukherjee, 32, died of cardiac arrest on last Monday in his residence at Baghbazaar Street. The cause of the death was confirmed by the police officials, but the doctors were very surprised due to the expression of utmost terror on late Mr. Mukherjee's face. Two days after this mishap, Mrs. Manoneeta Mukherjee, 27, were found unconscious in the same room with a large amount of sedative in her stomach. Authority is suspecting a suicide attempt, but the probable causes apart from her husband's death are yet to be found out. The neighbours, alerted by the maid in the morning, called the police. Police shifted Mrs. Mukherjee to hospital. They are waiting to interrogate her when the doctors permit.</i><br />
===================================================<br />
Manoneeta switched off the television and glanced at the wall clock. Only fifteen minutes before, the clock announced midnight when Aragorn, the king of Gondor, was crowned by Gandalf. This was the third time Manoneeta watched the concluding venture of the Lord of the Rings, and yet again she felt the same awe that she felt the first time. The first time was the sweetest memory of Manoneeta's life..Manoj took her to the movie, and proposed her during the interval. The memory of the second half was blurry..except Manoj's eyes.<br />
<br />
Manoneeta yawned. It was half past midnight. She thought she would sleep, or she would be late to school tomorrow. Manoj was already in bed, following his health schedule - bed at 11:00 p.m. sharp and rise at 6:00 a.m. He used to be a late riser..Manoneeta remembered the countless late night movies they enjoyed together. During their undergrad days, Manoj was a movie freak. Manoneeta watched hundreds of great movies according to his advice, and never regretted. Arts graduate Manoj dreamed to be a film-maker, but ended up being a bank employee.<br />
<br />
But Manoj had this very great problem - he was Phasmophobic. He could not stand horror movies or ghost stories. If somebody mentioned the word 'ghost', Manoj was scared to death. On the contrary, Manoneeta enjoyed horror movies very much. At first, she tried to make Manoj watch scary movies, but the effects were sleepless nights and hysteric agitations on Manoj's side. Slowly Manoneeta realized that Manoj's fright was to the point of abnormality, and she convinced him to consult a psychiatrist for counselling last year. As of now, the treatment had not improved him much. 'It will take time', the psychiatrist said, 'so you must be patient with him, Mrs. Mukherjee'. <br />
<br />
Apart from his nervous disorder, he had to take medicine regularly to keep control over his high blood pressure that he inherited as an heir of the Mukherjee family. He lost his parents in his childhood, grew up at his uncle's, and was established practically all by himself. But he was very careless about himself..he only wore an ironed trouser on the day of interview for his job, and that too was due to Manoneeta's constant insistence. Manoneeta, from the day they got married, took every responsibility of Manoj. She was the perfect wife, and she loved to be one.<br />
<br />
Manoj's health became Manoneeta's obsession. She put Manoj to a very strict routine. She made him take medicine regularly, controlled his diet as their family physician prescribed and made him stop working late at night. She abandoned watching horror movies and gave away all the story books that indexed even a single ghost story. Once a relative tried to frighten Manoj by gifting him a DVD of Bram Stoker's Dracula, and Manoneeta stopped talking to their family.<br />
<br />
Manoneeta got up from the drawing-room couch, picked up a white bed-sheet from the divan and wore it. Winter was announcing her approach at the early December nights. She freshened up, turned off the drawing room light and entered their bedroom. Manoj was fast asleep, snoring slightly with his mouth wide open. Manoneeta lifted the mosquito-net and was just about to enter her side of the bed when she noticed 'The Little Prince', half opened, lying on Manoj's chest. Manoneeta reached to get the book..<br />
<br />
All of a sudden, Manoj let out a scream. Manoneeta turned to him and saw his grayish, disoriented face..his eyes, bulging out of fear, were fixed upon Manoneeta. He clutched his chest, his face frowning with pain, and gasped as if his throat was chocked. His body crumpled and rolled over to the other side of the bed, shaking madly for seconds, and then he fell from the bed..motionless.</div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8958570829072192196.post-65666721457577025292009-10-03T06:48:00.000+05:302013-05-21T18:30:00.876+05:30Aajmal's Story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>Aajmal took out a plastic envelop from the deep of his drawer. It contained a bunch of photographs - some in black and white, and some in colours - of a boy and a girl in a restaurant of south Kolkata. Aajmal stared at the photographs for a while. Jayita was looking as beautiful as ever in her aasmani salwar, smiling at Aajmal from the photograph. She bought the digital camera just the day before, and inaugurated it with Aajmal. 'My best friend would be the first to be captured by my camera', she said,' and I shall treasure the picture forever', looking straight into Aajmal's eyes... she had such beautiful, magical eyes.<br /><br />But there was a difference. Aajmal realized that he was only looking at the pictures from a distance. He was suddenly aware of the fact that the moments captured in those pictures are over. It was like waking up from a very sound sleep. Indeed, he woke up from a long-due sleep minutes ago. Aajmal smiled grimly, sat in silence for a while, and then took out his lighter from his shirt-pocket.<br /><br />He had tried to do this before - may be hundreds of times - and failed. He knew that he had copies of those photographs online..they were mailed to him by Jayita. So burning those picture did not mean losing them. But every time he lit up his lighter, he got scared. The pictures were his refuge from reality - he could not destroy them.<br /><br />But now things were different. Aajmal could feel it. He knew that the enchantment of those pictures could no longer hold him from destroying them. He was confident and more content than ever. He flamed the first one. It burned..just like any other piece of paper. Aajmal let out a sigh of relief, and flamed the rest including the envelope.<br /><br />He opened the window and a blast of wind took the ashes away.</i><br />
<br />
****</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
Aajmal saw Jayita in the chemistry class for the first time. She was a maths honours, like him. She looked frightened on the first day in college, like him. She came searching for a seat, spotted the one beside Aajmal's, sat down and smiled shyly at him, like he did. And they became friends.<br />
<br />
Like every other friends, they studied together, bantered long by telephone and tasted papdi chat, fuchka and different flavours of ice cream at roadside stalls. Aajmal knew that he could tell everything to her, and thought she would tell everything to him. They were best friends - everybody knew that - but just friends, thank you very much. Jayita had a boyfriend from high school, and Aajmal had a girlfriend in college. Yet, Aajmal sensed a necessity for Jayita..he did not know why.<br />
<br />
By the end of college, Jayita broke up with her boyfriend. She did not pour Aajmal with the necessary details, but her grim expressions were revealing the worst. Once again Aajmal became her refuge, and then they parted. Jayita went abroad for higher studies, and Aajmal took a job. His relationship also was not going smoothly enough. His girlfriend was too possessive and did not like Jayita at all. They had a row concerning Jayita, and she left Aajmal.<br />
<br />
That was Aajmal's first break up, but surprisingly it did not hurt much. Instead, he felt totally empty..no friends, especially the absence of Jayita was killing him. He felt as if his shelter from the dry reality was taken away from him..and that was the first time he realized that he loved her like he loved nobody else in his entire life. When did he crossed over the barrier - he never knew.<br />
<br />
They talked at least twice a weak, but Aajmal could never express his feelings to her. He did not know whether she loved him..and he could not ask, for he feared of losing a friend if she said no. He tried to talk to her normally, laugh heartily, and maintain the same warmth they once had between them, which he found tougher than he thought.<br />
<br />
Aajmal became obsessed with the uncertainty whether Jayita loved him, or not. He tried to interpret Jayita's words when she spoke to him, and his bias started to lead him into a world of hope. He grew immuned to sleep. He realized that he earned an extra eight hours a day which he needed to spend. He took printouts of some images that Jayita once sent to him. At night, he sat wide awake staring at the photographs, talking to them as if Jayita was sitting in front of him. Slowly this obsession extended, and he started keeping the photographs in his pocket all the time. He tried to call her up every other day, and started to become restless if, for some reason, his calls were not answered.<br />
<br />
Apart from this intense obsession, he was completely normal. He talked to everybody normally, played with his nephewes, went to movies and spent time with his friends. He himself could realize that the growing obsession for Jayita was not good for him, but he could not help being vulnerable. At those rare occasions when his good sense dominated over his paranoia, he told himself that he would better stop thinking about Jayita for his own good, but he could not. He tried to destroy the pictures a number of times, but failed. The fear of losing her was intolerable.<br />
<br />
Time passed, and it was almost a year from the day when Jayita left. One day, Aajmal was getting ready for his office when Jayita called. He picked up the phone with joy, and greeted her. But to his surprise, Jayita sounded different. She seemed uncertain about something..Aajmal could sense it. He asked and reasked if anything was wrong, and Jayita said that a guy from her class proposed her.<br />
<br />
Aajmal's heart missed a beat. He fell into silence for a second, and then asked, ' What did you say?' He already knew the answer.<br />
<br />
When he put the phone down, he was feeling sick. Something was trying to come out of him..his grief may be. But surprisingly, he was feeling lighter than ever. He went to the basin, and vomited. Then he scampered to his bed, and fell asleep.<br />
<br />
Aajmal slept as if he had never slept before. He slept for the entire day and half of the night. When he woke up, he was feeling weird. He tried to think about what had happened. He felt sorry, for Jayita loved somebody else. Yet, he was happy. He still loved Jayita..but it was different. The spell had been broken, and he was free. Jayita will not love him, but he will..after very many days, he felt certain.<br />
<br />
He turned the light on, put the key of the drawer into the keyhole, and turned the key.</div>
</div>
Amithttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11299863136508212643noreply@blogger.com3