I have support :)

I don't believe I am saying this, but I can so relate to what Bangalore Times has written today :)

Nasty on the Net
US researchers recently reported that
hateful text messages, abusive emails and cyber-gossip are giving bullies new
power over their victims. BT explores
SHILPA BANSAL

PEOPLE who have never been bullied are now becoming victims of cyberbullying. In chat rooms, via emails and even on blogs the vibes are getting nasty. So, how bad does it get? “It’s easy for anybody to post any kind of comment in response to your blog because the people posting nasty comments knows for sure that they will never see or meet you,” says Aravind Krishna, business analyst. Aravind, a regular blogger, says he’s seen crazy spats online, most ending in racial abuse. “That’s when it gets nasty and a whole chain of people get involved. The comments drift away from the actual topic of the blog,” he says.
But the comments depend on the feedback the blogger gives, believes Ravi, another blogger. “Responding to feedback is the prerogative of the blogger. If the feedback is positive and acknowledged, the person who comments feels satisfied. If not, over a period of time, the person feels slighted and tends to express himself with views opposite to that of the blogger. This then degenerates into an online mud-slinging match, with others taking up cudgels either for or against the blogger. People like to feel important online too. So when they’re ignored, the abuse begins,” he explains.
Amita, who has been blogging for the last five years, agrees, saying, “This happens, and there’s little you can do to stop people from leaving their opinions, especially if you have an open comments field,” she says. She believes that what you write about also determines the sort of reactions you get. “If you write on sensational and controversial topics, you have to be prepared for all kinds of feedback because few people know how to make their point in a polite way,” she adds.
According to copywriter Swaroop B, “If someone has posted a nasty comment, the blogger has the option of deleting it, but there are now malicious software codes designed to populate your comment box and attack it like a virus. This blog spam attacks your comment box in bulk and automatically posts random comments or promotes commercial services to blogs, wikis, guest books, and other public online discussion boards. Any web application that accepts and displays hyperlinks submitted by visitors may be a target.” Swaroop says he usually misses the constructive comments among the nasty ones. “There’s sometimes so much abuse that the meaningful contributions are lost,” he says.
Is there a way to handle malice on the Net? “Many of the popular blogging platforms offer in-built options for bloggers to block commentators or spam. Validating who you are with an email ID is one method. IP address blocking is another,” explains Ravi. But there are always loopholes. “Unfortunately, this is not foolproof as a person can easily change his name or comment from a different machine with a different IP address,” he adds.
Amita simply resorts to deleting unsavoury comments. “I delete and ban the IP address. The other way to ensure you’re not spammed is to have moderated comments, which means that the comment appears only after you have reviewed it. Some bloggers even prefer not to have comments at all. Also one can install spam filters; it’s a kind of hurdle that might put off someone who’s just trying to be nasty,” explains Amita.

Clearing out

How much junk gathers in two years' time. In the little space I have here at my desk, there are a zillion files and folders. Dusty, useless. A million old notepads, none of which even makes sense to me now.

The only interesting things I have found are the doodles and scribbles from long, seemingly unending meetings. Little scraps of conversation, tic-tac-toe, sketches, a bit of creative writing. Here is one such. The meeting in question was so boring that I remember the finer details of the chair I was sitting on that day. Pardon the bad poetry, but such was the day.

A silent scream of ennui
emerges from the pit
of my stomach.
With no place to go,
it explodes in my head.
Wild hair and errant eyes
Flailing arms and torn clothes
My spirit bangs its head
on the walls of my heart.
System error.
Hard disc failure
Ctrl Alt Del
Ctrl Alt Del
Beep
Blink

And yet another. This during a post-lunch session of in-house training. This was the only way I would stop from snoring.

"Where is the question," he asks. Where indeed is the question?
I am looking, I am looking; don't rush me.
The cupboard, an old carton, rigid chairs, an office table... Where in the world is that darned question? It couldn't have slipped out, it's too soon.
Is there a shredder in the room? Perhaps it fell into that. Uh-oh...
Hey! What's this falling off my head? It's a word...
Oh no! The question fell into my thought shredder...!

:D Who said nothing creative happens around here? Might be really bad, but it ain't dead.

Anonymous

A certain Anonymous sent me this comment. Made me think a while, this one. Should I or should I not approve the comment? Considering it had absolutely no connection with the post for which it was left, I should probably reject it. But then, is my ego that hurt that I won't publish it? Am I such a brat that I can criticise the world but can't take criticism? So anyway, I decided to reject it and put it up here instead. And write a letter to dear friend Anonymous.

Dear Anonymous

If I knew your name, I would send you a thank you note for the advice. This hiding behind anonymity is so sad... But I am thinking, if you are so concerned about my eyebrows, you need a life. Don't you think? Nevertheless, thanks for the beauty tip. Again, if I knew your name, I would approach you for such tips. tch... such a loss...

regards
me.

Itching to go back to college

Just what is it about beautiful college campuses that makes you go look up courses that you could probably do?
The idyllic setting, the open-air cafeteria, the on-campus hostels, the long flight of stairs, the pristine quiet of the library, the low murmur from classrooms, the unending monotony of corridors, the trees that have witnessed tens of generations.
The memories of campus life, the exam fever, bunking classes, sleeping through lectures, cribbing over canteen food, passing notes in class, curling up with a book by the tall windows, the sheltered and uncomplicated life with friends, friends and friends.

Disclaimer

I work to live. I do not live to work.

It was a photographic moment.

A lovely November evening when the sun is warm and it is cold in the shade. A sun-warmed bench on which sat two girls, their laughing faces turned up towards the two brothers who stood with sunshine on their shoulders. There was happiness, contentment, a bright tomorrow -- all packed into that one frame.

Full sigh-worthy material... :)
But then, it all seemed so far away.

Air Deccan is Air Deccan is Air Deccan

Really. Doesn't matter who has bought it over or how the uniform of the air hostesses has changed. Doesn't matter if the logo is different or that it is called merely Deccan now. It is the same unreliable, incorrigible airline.

Monday, 12th November
12.07 pm: SMS from Air Deccan that our 8.15 pm Kochi-Bangalore flight has been rescheduled to 10.15 pm. We slap foreheads, make frantic calls to reschedule all evening plans. Dad thinks the whole SMS thing is a prank.
5.15 pm: SMS from Deccan saying the same as above. We sigh. And dad is convinced.
5.30 pm: We call Deccan's new tele check-in number and are checked in by a very polite boy to seats 5A and 5C.
8.02 pm: We leave for airport
9.05 pm: Arrive at airport and join the long line at the check-in counter where things are moving v.e.r.y. slow
9.35 pm: We finally reach the counter, where I give the ticket and say, "We have already done a tele check-in." The boy at the counter looks at me with great amusement and says, "Tele check-in? Heheh! It doesn't work!" So we ask him what he means it doesn't work, because we did actually do it. He waves off all that like we were talking in our sleep and insists it just doesn't work. "It is all done manually here," he says, and proceeds to write (yes, write) out our boarding passes. New seats allotted to us: 10A and 10B
10.15 pm: Forget having taken off, there hasn't even been an announcement on what has happened to our flight. The Arrivals alerts still shows the Bangalore-Kochi flight as "Confirmed". Whatever is that supposed to mean? What is confirmed? That it has taken off from Bangalore? That it will land in Kochi? Aargh.
10.30 pm: Still no announcement. Still no plane. The Deccan passengers are the only ones left in the lounge.
10.35 pm: There is some commotion at the gate and we join in. Yes, this is the queue for Deccan flight Kochi-Bangalore. We don't run or scramble like one would have earlier to get a seat on Air Deccan flights. We have been allotted seats, remember?
10.40 pm: We are in the aircraft, walking towards 10A and 10B. Air hostess standing by the aisle announces: "There are no seat numbers, you can sit where you want." Duh... We can't take it anymore. We stare at her with complete blankness of mind. "So what about tele check-in?" Apparently, she hasn't heard of the concept.
I wish we hadn't either.

Just Femme

To please take a look. It cost Abhipraya many sleepless nights, but it is finally worth all the work and the wait :)


(In case the image doesn't show, that's JustFemme)

And ladies, please write for the magazine :)

Vroom!

I feel bad for these chaps with remodelled, revamped cars that are supposed to go vrooooooooomm, nice and noisy, and grab attention and all that. Makes me go tut-tut, poor chap. Because I think of how they would simply love to go vrooooooooomm. But all they can do is:
vvrroo... (brake; jaywalker crossing road)... vvvvrrrooo... (brake; horrible pothole)... vvroooo... (brake; signal)

Tut-tut...

pfft

Sunday morning, sunshine and drizzle. Aah such possibilities, such delight!

But no... the peace and quite, the joy of the rain -- all lost in half a dozen blaring loudspeakers sprinkled in a 200 metres radius around our home.

Some nitwits are celebrating Rajyotsava today. A monstrous stage has been put up right across the road to our house. The loud, oh simply unbearably loud, music began at 7 in the morning. It's a Sunday, dammit... And who EVER gave them the permission to cut off the road?
Are you a lawyer? Can I file a PIL?

I have nothing against celebrating the land and the language and whatever else this is about. But for four days in a row, with the grand finale involving drowning the weekend for an entire neighbourhood of unsuspecting hapless people?

In comparison, homeland seems to be completely uninterested in what happens to their language. And certainly, I prefer that disregard to this frenzy. I want to go home. whimper...

Wish list

~ A bag of over-ripe squishy tomatoes to throw at all those motorists who insist on going beep-beep-beeeeeep-beeeeeep at all times
~ A sound proof bubble in which I can put myself as and when I wish, for those moments when I need absolute solitude
~ A device that can send electric shocks strong enough to stun a person for at least half an hour -- to be used on all those "roadside Romeos" with raging libidos
~ A dream recorder
~ World peace
~ Unending, surplus supply of fresh water
~ A cottage in some quite corner of the world
~ Enough funds for a world tour

Tell me why

~ Why are these NRI types the way they are?
Oh things are so difficult back in India.
Haha, you must read this mail about those poor Indians.
Check out the pictures of my swanky new house in foreign country. Oh poor you, is your roof still leaking?
Man it is so hot in India. And all these insects!

Do they remember they once lived here? And no matter where they settle or how long they live there, they will always be Indians?


~ Why does a saree not come with a "fall" fixed to it?

First of all, why the hell does a saree need a "fall"? Why is it called that? For years, I thought it was a miracle product that would stop you from tripping and falling. Then came the idea that it is probably there so that the saree falls well. But whatever that is, why don't the sarees come fixed with a fall? Why does one have to go hunting for the right colour and a tailor who will fix it in an hour?


~ Why did the squirrel choose my balcony to die on?

Probably in memory of the onion stalks and methi leaves it fed on

Channapatna

Spent the day at this quaint little town, where every second house seems to be a workshop of artisans making wooden toys, beads and bowls. Where all colour seems to be reserved for the wooden knick knacks. Where the world seems to go by under a fine layer of saw dust. If zipping down the Bangalore-Mysore highway, you would hardly notice the town but for its row of stores with brightly painted wooden horses.










The carpentry is all around. From bits of wood lying around to piles of logs to the finished products at the stores that line the highway. In the artisan's hands, we watch as the shapeless piece of wood attains shape, character and eventually, colour. Bright shades, happy faces, simple technology.



They have trouble sourcing the wood, but they put immense trust in Mother Nature. There will be wood, it won't be a problem. They have to bribe forest officials, they get into trouble when they are trying to procure the wood, but they have to go on. They have found alternates in cheaper, easier to source wood. But it just isn't the same.






Rather than the domestic market, they prefer the international. Of course, the money is better. And perhaps the recognition too. They export just about anything from napkin rings to jewellery. For these foreign shores, the artisans have drawn up new designs, thought up more and more innovative things they can do with wood. For the local markets, they remain the toy makers.



It's been a year since the Channapatna toys got the Geographical Indication (GI) certificate. But no one knows. Not the craftsmen, not the government official who sits at the government establishment that offers training to young carpenters as well as employs them and sources products for the government showrooms. So obviously, questions as to whether the GI certification has made any difference, draws a blank.




The bigger workshops have their own "design studios". When an export order is placed, they sometimes get bits of fabric. Their job? To match all the products -- be it rings or salt cellars or jars -- to the pattern on the piece of fabric. With some skilled painting, they can make the wood look like terracotta or metal.





They tell us that many people have to write about them. They come, speak to them, take pictures, and then disappear. Never hear from them again. We aren't going to be any different, are we?

Experiment of the day

Pancakes served with generous helpings of maple syrup :)

100th post!

yip yip yip 100th post 100th post 100th post!!!!

:D

It's taken one year and five months, but hey, 100th post 100th post 100th post!!!
San, thanks for your... err... three and a half posts. It wouldn't have been possible without you.

Wha...?!

I'm reading reviews of Laaga Chunari Mein Daag like one possessed. Why? This is why:

"The men are hardly there in the film" says Rediff
"And the fact is the men here -- Abhishek Bachchan and Kunal Kapoor -- are nothing more than mere props" says The Hindu
"As for the male actors, well they don’t really have much to do" says The Indian Express
And CNN IBN doesn't even have a mention of the male characters

Is this happening? Isn't this what we have been reading for decades about women in cinema? Ha!

Of course, it's a completely different story that the film has been unanimously trashed :)

The Bangalore Walk

Last Sunday found us waiting in front of Trinity Church on MG Road as early as 6.45 in the morning. All ready to take Arun Pai's popular Victorian Bangalore walk. We had been promised that no matter how many times we have walked down MG Road, Mr Pai would still manage to surprise us.

And surprise he did. Unknown bungalows, private tennis courts, farms -- all on MG Road. And trivia. That the road is built along a ridge, that all the roads branching away from it slope down, that the Trinity Church was then the highest point in the town, that the road is this wide because the army parades needed wide roads. And history. The plot where Winston Churchill probably had his house on, the memorial plaques at the church, the dancing hall that later became Plaza, the suit maker who still runs a roaring business.

Talk about colonial hangover! For the two of us now, MG Road has transformed to South Parade. We see the spires of old buildings, we notice the slope of the road, before we see the swanky sign boards and glittering window displays.

And of course, sigh over what development and "Namma Metro" is eating up. The promenade and Plaza, for instance.

Starting point, Trinity Church, 7 am

The stained glass, facing the rising sun

Err... I am just pretending that is mist. It's smoke :)

Basking in early sunlight

The East Parade Church

Mayo Hall

Beauty and the beast: Mayo Hall and Utility Building

More of the same

Plaza. Soon to be Metro station

Sunflowers :)






















Not in a field though...





















But in a vase, at office





















Pretty nevertheless :)

Where is the restroom?

Bangalore's own version of the Oktober fest is on. Sponsored by -- who else -- the king of good times, beer flows. Bands play. Stalls sell everything from clothes to jewellery to shoes to food. Contests that can win you goodies. People sat around on patches of grass, at tables randomly scattered around, in the middle of the roads. Great atmosphere.

And then one went looking for the loo and there ended the happiness. All of two stalls for the women, while the men had the luxury of at least six. True, there were more men than women. But of course, men don't need loos, do they? They chose dark corners, not-so-dark corners, random walls -- in short, anywhere they pleased -- to do their business. But of course, women have no choice do they? The queue to the women's loos had at any point in time some 20-25 desperate women. Of the three hours I spent at the event, a good one hour was spent standing in the darned queue.

And the men who were with me politely waited till I returned from the excruciating wait, said "let's leave" as soon as they saw me, walked out, and promptly found a dark corner and excused themselves.

SUPW

In our school timetable, we had a period called SUPW that happened around thrice a week. It stood for Some Useful Productive Work, though some genius had more aptly named it Some Useful Periods Wasted. And through generations of students, the acronym had been pronounced as "Soopa" for some strange reason.

Through the lower classes, we were taught "craft", when we stuck sequins on paper, strung beads and did bizarre things with drinking straws. Later, the girls were told to bring cloth and needle and we were taught to embroider. The boys were told they could do what they wanted as long as they were quiet. Couple of years later, we graduated to SUPW labs. The boys had theirs, the girls had theirs.

The boys' lab, which we only got to see from the outside, looked interesting and felt forbidden. The walls had diagrams of devices, circuit diagrams and other things considered masculine. The girls' lab had samples of embroidery done by old students, it had recipes, it had sequins and drinking straw "craft".

Our teacher had already told us what we would be doing: Our regular embroidery work would continue, but the first lab class would involve making tea and coffee, the next week would be cake making, and so on. The boys prepared for their first class, saying they would learn all about circuits and maybe even carpentry. But what they didn't know was that there was a new teacher for the boys. And during the first class she told them, "For the next class, bring some cloth and needles; I will teach you to stitch."

A joyful little victory. Justice had been done at last.