tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20325102850588714282024-03-14T00:29:36.752+05:30Random ThoughtsJDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.comBlogger72125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-34913914870872516362011-03-10T01:30:00.002+05:302011-04-05T11:20:31.502+05:30Death, and all his friends<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Oh shut UP, I’m serious! Goddamnit, could you for once have an objective dialogue on death without thinking I’m suicidal?” High time, he thought to himself. He’d tried the hardest ever to keep his cool.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It was slightly overcast, with faint signs of rain. It was the kind of weather where you didn’t want it to rain, for that would simply end the beauty of expectation. A book of short stories by R.K. Narayan lay on the table, half open.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I just care about you, Dan. You scare the living crap outta me with these questions of yours, what the hell do you mean ‘right time to die’? Go catch some sleep!”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Dan had had enough of this. He had to go on talking about it. Someone would understand! “I mean come on, think about it. Attempted suicide is a crime. What justification is there to that? Once you’re an adult, why shouldn’t you be given a choice as to when you wish to terminate your life? Isn’t that messed up, on a scarily fundamental level? They talk about choice in everything else, they talk about freedom like you can buy it in dollar stores, and you don’t have the freedom to choose the point where your life ends? How does that make sense in your world?” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“And shouldn’t there be an optimum time to die? All these critical path theories of the world, they should apply to qualitative things too, right? Wasn’t there some lemma saying most things can be quantized?” He felt a lot lighter. The words were flowing now. He could feel the creases in his thought progression easing out. “Think about it this way. If you die a child, it’s still a bad thing. If you stay old for too long, you become a burden. Is there any time you can die without causing too much pain, or for that matter, without triggering a few sighs of relief around you?” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She looked at him her eyes misty with concern. “Look, Daniel. I have a very high regard for your thought process, you know that. Objective thinking is something you’re so adept at you should really read more about it and write about it too. But this is not a very happy road to go on, love. Think of happier things, will you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">He broke once more. What was this world where a simple discussion couldn’t be had without assuming emotional involvement? He whacked the book off the table in exasperation.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Daniel, thoughts don’t just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">come </i>like that. It’s one of the many things you taught me yourself, it’s a process, remember? I know what you’ve read recently and it’s not coming from there – Douglas Adams and Narayan aren’t exactly promoters of a dystopian world.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“So what you’re basically trying to tell me”, he was fuming now, “is that there cannot be had a discussion on death, or anything for that matter, without having some sort of attachment to it? Without the discussion stemming from personal feelings? Everyone who’s ever thought of death has killed themselves? Do you even hear yourself? What’s the sodding use of educating yourself so much, then?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Stop pretending. Honestly. You’re ALL the bloody same. All of you. Don’t care if you want, but don’t give me the goddamn HOPE that you do. I’m okay with living in a place where nobody cares, just don’t give me the delusions!”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">She really was confused. Agreed, Daniel was quite the over-thinker, but it usually stuck to that, didn’t it? He was fiercely objective, and it never strayed to his emotions. This anger business wasn’t him, it wasn’t him at all.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Where is all this coming from Danny? What are we even talking about? What does caring about you have anything to do with this? You really think I’m pretending to care about you? I’m sorry, but I really don’t think you understand me at all. What the fuck should I do to show that I really love you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Then it suddenly dawned upon Daniel. The sheer frivolity of having this discussion at all came and whacked him in the face.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Yes I read too much into stuff I learn about. Yes, I make unnecessary conclusions, what’s your point?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">How on earth could he put that feeling into words? That place where being treasured was a happy feeling, how could he take someone there without them actually feeling it? How could he possibly tell her this, without offending her feelings? How could he tell her that if she did want to truly love him, she should try and understand him, not just tell him how much she loves him. How could he tell her that this objective discussion was so close to his heart, and her not understanding it hurt him more than so many things?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">And all of a sudden, it all became clear. The world didn’t want to understand, it just wanted to go with the flow. The world didn’t want to truly love, it just wanted to lie and fool everyone else that it does. It doesn’t matter if you love, it just matters if you show you do. THIS was the flaw; this was the reason why he could never understand the world. The only thing that he knew, at that moment, is that he could never come to peace with others, and more importantly, with himself. This endless cycle would ensure that he could never be loved. He was alone. The only way out was giving up. The only way was helping the world in its cause to destroy him.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">“Yeah, you’re right. I really should stop overanalyzing. Why the hell did I start thinking of death anyway! I’m sorry, I won’t talk about this kinda stuff again. Come, let’s go get coffee.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-70526557151523454312011-02-21T08:47:00.002+05:302011-02-21T08:50:56.975+05:30Rainy Day, Dream Away<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Note: This was written days after the Winter 2009 edition of Waves culminated. This was the festival where my batch was in charge, the festival that was known the most intimately by us. Ironically, life caught on and I never posted it.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The rains pelt on. The blues spread their reign all over. Something that’s been more than half a year in the making just burns itself out in three days. Like one of those quick burning cigarettes my hostel-mates tell me about.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">To outsiders, it seemed like a feather in the hat of the art of organization. Yet, I find myself wondering where it all went. Waves is just a blur of damage control and crisis management. Somehow, we rescheduled and negotiated and fought our way through and made it work. And just when our worries seemed behind us, the Gods decided to have one little last laugh, and decided to make it rain. Needless to say, people went to town with jokes about Parikrama and “But it Rained”. When there’s been no sleep and substantial amounts of stress, the best bouts of humour come forth. And what better time for those scenarios than Waves! The best one I heard was an overworked coordinator saying “Parikrama’s so old, they should be called Parikra-grandma”.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">In any case, the last thing I want to do is discuss shortcomings here, so I’ll leave it at that. Waves was a grand success overall, and that's all that matters.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I spent quite a while musing about weather changes and whether what we’d learnt of the timing of the arrivals of the “rainy season” and “summer” will probably not be what we teach our kids. Hell, we might not even have the same seasons. Seasons change, they say. Not so funny now is it, you metaphoring elitists.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Nonetheless, in my little world, the rains are always welcome. They slow down your thoughts, they slow down life. Somehow, they give you a license to stand and stare, to step back and look at the big picture. To stand underneath the walkway you take every day and pause to look at the leaves soaking in every bit of the rain. To sit with friends, old and new, and sip that lovely tea that warms you up. To learn to tread carefully, lest you slip in the soggy paths.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Someday, if I write a book, it’ll feature the rain. In all its glory and magnificence, in all its ability to make humans step out of the rat race, temporarily nevertheless, and examine the world for what it is.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-65991987503843504232011-02-09T08:47:00.001+05:302011-02-09T08:49:53.642+05:30Blossoms Blooming<p class="MsoNormal">We’re already a month into the New Year. I read Sugar Magnolia’s bundle-of-sunshine post <a href="http://chronicling-college.blogspot.com/2011/02/come-february.html">here</a>, ushering in February with much joy and exuberance and it really did make my day. It’s difficult to see the bright side of things when you’re locked up in an office with practically nobody to talk to and with that messed up work culture your mommy warned you about. The big daddy of a typical core manufacturing firm. Where your card swapping in-out time holds infinitely more importance than the actual work you put in. Where you’re allowed to spend as much time “roaming around on the shopfloor” trying to “learn things”, but when you plug in a pair of earphones to drown out distractions so you can finish your work much faster, oh you are so dead with those looks you’ll get.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Every manufacturing firm has production line down-time, and every single goddamn one of them wants to reduce it. Obviously. And who best to blame for this than the maintenance guys, who’re supposed to wrap up their maintenance duties in infinitesimal amounts of time. The best part is, the boys over at maintenance couldn’t care less. They’ve gotten their minds attuned to the fact that the blokes over at production simply hate their guts and just don’t get it. The end result of this is free-floating hostility all over the place.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">With the severe lack of documentation, it’s terribly difficult to actually figure out why this is happening. Enter stage left the intern, who has no regular duty and is meant for bitch-work in general. Give him a pile of 30-odd log books with utterly illegible scribbling of what are allegedly downtime reports, and tell him to sort out the data, channel-wise. Give it a fancy name, and make him document the data in the form of a soft-copy.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What the above rant essentially means is, that I’ve been entering illegible data onto an excel sheet for the last two weeks or so. 8 hours a day. My eyes, neck and other assorted body parts hurt. Which makes it rather difficult for me to see the bright, lustrous, colour-laced season of love that is February.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But what helped, was that post. It hit me in that one split-second, that however relatively dark my world has become, there’s still an insanely beautiful world out there. And the fact that it exists is enough to get me grinning through the day.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Thank you, Sugar Magnolia!<o:p></o:p></p>JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-55990975409564695772011-01-10T00:40:00.001+05:302011-01-10T00:44:17.358+05:30Bookish Knowledge<p class="MsoNormal">Not too long ago, I decided to finally pick up Kafka. After enduring enough jibes and accusations ranging from elitist to you’re-planning-your-own-funeral, I finally finished a couple of novels of his. Needless to say, the latter of the said accusations seemed a much quicker reality in the beginning. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> The good part about how I read Kafka was, I ended up reading in spurts. A good number of days went in between me reading every 100 odd pages, which meant enough time to ruminate over what I’d read. What ensued was that every time I was neck deep in reading one of his novels or short stories, I’d realize a new facet of the man’s work, and a new reason to like it. Every few days, I could tell people how much I love Kafka’s stuff for a whole different reason. The only common factor was that I loved Kafka’s stuff.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> And finally, I realized that this is how truly good books function. If you look at it from a very macro level, this is how it generally is. Books that have been loved and adored by fans whose number goes into six or seven digits always have the external appearance of being liked only for one particular reason. . But if you think about it even a little bit and consider the enormity of the cross-section of people reading these books, this cannot possibly be true. In reality, though, they appeal to different senses and different areas of the brain of people reading it. The reason why they all seem to be appreciated for only one reason, are critics.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Critics are in no way intellectuals functioning on a higher plane, figuring out the true intention of the author behind writing the book. Hell, only the author can tell you the true intention. The only difference between book critics and us normal people is that they can express their views, which somehow leads us all to believe that they’ve understood the true essence of the book better than the common man. Not only is this very untrue, it also gives a very convenient opinion that people can flock towards and conform to. I do not claim to be an observer in this; I have been guilty many-a-times of being biased in a particular direction towards a book after reading a review. Of course, most publishers love the critics for this for boosts in sales and whatnot, but I digress.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> The bottom line is, a book is meant to lend perspective. Irrespective of the genre, it is meant to add some value to who you are. Whatever the hell you do, don’t let anybody tell you what and how much value you want a book to add to your life. Because that is direct reflection of every moment you’ve passed by. I’m sure I’ve been beaten to the punch in this realization by countless people and that it’s common knowledge. But it’s a whole different understanding when it springs out on you and shows you that the culmination of your thought process has been what many before have said. And at the risk of sounding very clichéd and asking for jokes to be made in my general direction, let yourself decide how you want to enrich your life, not someone else!</p>JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-4086310703883546812010-12-03T01:13:00.001+05:302010-12-03T01:13:49.159+05:30Mixed JazzJazz is an absolute thought-swirler. I’d written pick-up agent, but that’s not really it. It just gets your machinery going, gets the cogs moving. The best way to go is to mix your jazz a lot. Too much Coltrane and your head hurts from trying to figure out progressions. Too much Shirley Bassey and you end up being too grinny to get anything good done. And too much Dave Brubeck and you just plainly fall asleep.<br /><br />Certain revelations just make the whole day worth it.JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-80067928902881820232010-11-17T04:05:00.001+05:302010-11-17T04:07:45.080+05:30Graphics<div>Call me an amateur engineering student, but I absolutely LOVE graphic designers' work! I've seen a few blogs and portfolios over the last few months and few people come close to the levels of creativity those folk inspire. Everything is just so aesthetically correct, precisely in the space it's supposed to be in and just right.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe it's the fact that engineering's forced me to shove my creativity in a little cupboard under an irrelevant staircase in my head (The fact that there's an upcoming Harry Potter movie is clearly affecting my allusions) but I really believe these guys get to really push the limits of thinking, instead of pushing the limits of sheer brain volume. Let's not even go to those dirty tracks of talking about modifications in engineering curricula, but I'm just saying, it ain't fair.</div><div><br /></div><div>Damn all of you. And damn you too, Bing. You know precisely why.</div><div><br /></div><div>PS - I must remember to keep a notebook.</div>JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-70939689983848449312010-10-14T01:03:00.002+05:302010-10-14T01:11:56.446+05:30It startsInauguration. They had to play the Love Story/Viva La Vida mashup SOMEWHERE. Just didn't expect it to be at the end of the mime. The effect when those swooning violin notes of Viva la Vida hit, however, was just as expected. The song was made, it seems, for this occasion. When all that Waves was would boil down to this edition.<div><br /></div><div>The world isn't ending anytime soon, no, but the world as I know it, is. It had to be something fitting.</div><div><br /></div><div>And this was just the icing on the cake. The real deal was the music society guys, with Aseem, Sigtia, Anmol, Chinmay and Navjyot performing a medley to be remembered for years after.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next few days will be disillusioning, to say the least.</div>JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-83238054380246690642010-10-13T02:48:00.001+05:302010-10-13T02:48:54.508+05:30Culmination<div>It all began in the first week of college when we just heard of it. It was nothing more than a mere legend, something that'd happened in the past and was far, far away. Then Big Break 2007 happened, and that life-changing video happened. The video that decided what I'd give a major part of my college life to. Slowly things picked up, with the erstwhile Sponz club inductions, getting to know senior folk and finally deciding to take the plunge in the festival. Ever since, everything became too speedy to notice as discrete events. They're all a proverbial blur.</div><div><br /></div><div>Cut to today. Day Zero of Waves 2010 - Viva La Vida. The culmination of the efforts of students across seven batches, brought to you by people filled upto the ears with enthusiasm.</div><div><br /></div><div>The more verbose I make this, the less important it will be for me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe I'll finally be able to feel nostalgic without guilt.</div>JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-67517778945967623312010-10-03T03:20:00.000+05:302010-10-03T03:22:57.800+05:30Of bulls"Expecting life to treat you well just because you're a good person is like expecting a bull not to charge at you just because you're vegetarian."<div><br /></div><div>-Unknown</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://bluedrain.blogspot.com/">Tangled Up In Blue</a>, I owe you one for this.</div>JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-15030218721389499212010-09-17T02:10:00.003+05:302010-09-17T02:18:25.182+05:30Inclined to believeJohn Mayer on a rainy midnight with a Journalism exam on the next day with an inkling of a cold and a hope that the inkling stays as what it is now - an inkling.<div><br /></div><div>Someone wise recently said, "When you're unsettled and disturbed, it often takes a sudden burst of chaos to knock you right in place." Wise words indeed. The calm before the storm is overrated, it's the age of the calm after the storm. After the dust settles and all that.</div><div><br /></div><div>Some moments are so beautifully ordinary in their essence, one must write about them. A chance of diving into the abyss. Being caught by the scruff of your neck and saved by intangible constants of life. Average on the surface, a tad too average on closer scrutiny.</div><div><br /></div><div>Vague posts that make very less sense to all but yourself. The best part is, that they make a different kind of sense to everyone else. Realizations dawning everywhere, happier world.</div><div><br /></div><div>Am I living it right?</div><div>Am I living it right?</div><div>Am I living it right?</div><div>Why, why Georgia, why?</div>JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-84461336065044282882010-07-18T18:20:00.002+05:302010-07-18T18:41:54.861+05:30Stepping StonesThere was once a young boy, adventurous and steadfast. He had a simplistic life, with ups and downs, albeit more than the average kid of his age, but remarkably average nonetheless.<div><br /></div><div>And suddenly, there was only failure, failure all 'round. Nothing really seemed to work out, nothing fell into place. No endeavour successful, no achievement added to the roster. He couldn't see clearly, it was all haze and confusion. </div><div><br /></div><div>But he'd heard failures are stepping stones to success. He'd heard it all gets better and at the end of a long and eventful life, it only matters what your journey has been. Life was the exact opposite of a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/State_function">state function</a>, he was told. It all falls into place, it all becomes okay, as long as you've garnered happiness along the way! That was how things work, he'd heard!</div><div><br /></div><div>Sadly, it wasn't.</div>JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-80133808424999410562010-04-29T19:23:00.003+05:302010-04-29T20:03:27.430+05:30The finer things<i>(Note: This was written in the library while around a 100 people were studying around me. It's more of a spillage of thoughts, not a carefully crafted article)</i><div><br /></div><div>I recently happened to read a rather intriguing article in the editorial page of the Economic Times. Does the name <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joshua_Bell">Joshua Bell</a> ring a bell? (heh) He's a grammy-winning violinist who once decided to conduct a social experiment on being prodded by a Washington Post columnist. He donned a t-shirt, a baseball cap, a pair of rugged jeans and played his best compositions outside a Washington metro station, as one of those buskers by on the pavement. Out of over a thousand people who passed by, apparently, only <i>seven </i>stopped to listen, and, amazingly, <i>one</i> recognized him. There's stats on how much cash he collected from the people who stopped to listen (apparently the guy who recognized him payed him $20, i don't know how that's a sign of respect and all) but let's not go there.<div><br /></div><div>Of course, the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gene_Weingarten">columnist</a> who came up with this idea and later <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/04/04/AR2007040401721.html">wrote about it</a> got quite a few accolades for it, including the 2008 Pulitzer prize. (Oh, he won another Pulitzer in 2010. For an article on something along the lines parents killing their children by leaving them in cars. Don't ask) The point of this entire charade was to prove that people have "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leisure_(poem)">no time to stand and stare</a>". That they pay substantial amounts, $100 for a half-decent seat, to listen to the same guy at his shows, but they really wouldn't stop for him at the metro station.</div><div><br /></div><div>The idea stands. Strong and steady. We've all got quite a busy schedule. People don't have time today, there is always something or the other on their minds keeping them tensed and taut. What the columnist wanted to convey was that human relations aren't the key anymore, it's all about alienating yourself from human contact, being alone and calling it competition. </div><div><br /></div><div>But you've gotta admit there's a better way of proving it. This experiment proves nothing except the author's talent of making 45 minutes sound like an epic.</div><div><br /></div><div>I discussed this issue with a friend over tea. I honestly didn't see the big deal. Agreed, it's a racy life, nobody has the time to appreciate beauty even when it's staring you in the face. And as for recognizing the guy at the metro station - Thin about it, if Ustad Amjad Ali Khan or some other Indian virtuoso were to be standing in a below-average attire at CST station at 10 AM, how many people would recognize him? </div><div><br /></div><div>What did come out of it, though, was a realization that there's people who're working on it. Working on trying to show the world how out-of-hands the pace of the world in general has gone. I know I'll get questioning looks and advice that it's a dog-eat-dog world, and survival of the fittest and all that, but I still firmly believe that the finer things of life are seldom appreciated.</div><div><br /></div><div>But what change do I expect? What are these social experiments going to achieve? There is no way the amount of competition, the insanely workaholic habits of people in general are going to change. I guess all that matters is if one realizes what happiness is for oneself.</div><div><br /></div><div>Whatever be the case, one thing's for sure. Joshua Bell in a metro station is not the way you prove this.</div></div>JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-60231156169517630692010-02-21T01:03:00.003+05:302010-02-21T01:51:07.110+05:30Full MontyGiving in to a whim I had, I recently decided to watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail again. The last time was more than two years ago, as a fresher in college, kicked about the LAN and what not. You could describe my reaction to the movie as "amused" or even "mostly grinning punctuated by occasional laughter." <div><br /></div><div>This time around, though, such blasphemy I did not commit. At the end of an hour and a half of trying not to fall off the chair, not only did my sides ache, I think there's some permanent damage on the sidelines. No episode of any show, no movie has ever got me in splits such as the Pythons did and it would be the lease I could do to just plainly dedicate a post to those geniuses of humour.</div><div><br /></div><div>And on the walk back to hostel from the night canteen, I discussed this exact issue with <a href="http://longsentences.blogspot.com">Prashant</a>. Our senses of humour have transformed over the last few years, and HOW! From being almost contrasting, to forming this one fuzzy mesh of jokes and one-liners that are completely predictable and more often than not, funny only to us. The bad part is, I can never get around to writing about this. I've tried to put fingers to keyboard and recreate scenarios, but somehow, never happens.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah, that's about it. I don't think I have a point. Thought in transition. Admittedly, all of the above could've been put much better. That for another day. </div>JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-83623677386764156762010-01-12T02:34:00.006+05:302010-01-12T03:05:58.889+05:30Shut the hell up, Johnny. Play some other time.There's something overtly satisfying about switching off the music in the room, turning the lights off and listening to the pattering of the rain outside. On days when you've predicted the rain seeing the weather in the morning, the sound of drops falling onto the hostel lawn is one of the best sounds you could hear on days like these! And it's rain with the entire works, lightning, thunder, gale and all. <div><br /></div><div>One of the first thought that strikes me whenever it unexpectedly pours, is that the rains are one of the strongest catalysts to nostalgia and brewing up long-lost memories. Our very own Muggle-world pensieve. (Yes, I make Harry Potter references. Literature elitists, die!) </div><div><br /></div><div>Somehow, right now I wish I had <a href="http://lifewiththeclub.blogspot.com/">Bing's</a> knack for writing fantasy literature. It's the ideal thing to write when there's no particular thoughts that you have, and plus there's just so much more potential to write when the weather's so perfect.</div><div><br /></div><div>And tonight, I absolutely have no sense of anxiety about tomorrow''s early morning tutorial. Like it's all over, like there's no semester with it's inherent impending doom, like I can spend the rest of my time reading and writing and figuring out the intricacies of music in life. </div><div><br /></div><div>Just one last thing. I guess Sinatra wrote "Singing in the rain" because he had loads of space to dry his clothes.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm getting really rusty.</div>JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-22035284986267385122009-12-28T01:26:00.003+05:302009-12-28T01:34:05.324+05:30Ode to a Sunny DayWarren Mendonsa decides to name his newest album, rather succinctly, The New Album. And without going into a detailed album review, and before the all-encompassing high of the song goes away, let me just say that "Ode to a Sunny Day" is happiness. No deep thoughts behind this one, no thinking about how the song is making me feel the way it is. Just happiness, in its most raw form. Pure exuberance at something this uplifting, something this perfectly woven. Fiery admiration for the guitarist who converted an idea into something this meaningful.<div><br />This post arose out of an overflow of unmoderated energy. If I start baptizing every one of these emotions, hundreds will pop up. But I refrain, for I want the musical high to last longer.</div><div><br /></div><div>No more words. Just hearing. Click <a href="http://music.blackstratblues.com/track/ode-to-a-sunny-day">here</a> to hear :)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-23424156919112102332009-11-28T07:15:00.001+05:302009-11-30T00:08:50.800+05:30The moment<div>One of the most crowning moments in the intricately drawn (drawn as in wire, not a sketch) history of Jethro Tull is, expectedly, in their self-proclaimed epic. Ian Anderson's answer to critics reading too much into their most famous album, "Aqualung" and calling it a concept album. He supposedly got slightly pissed and decided to give them the biggest and the most single-tracked (heh) concept album, Thick as a Brick.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thick as a brick is approximately forty four minutes long. It segues into so many musical styles and moods, it's hard to believe the song to be even a minute shorter. In fact, fitting so much into hardly a three quarters of an hour is an achievement in itself.</div><div><br /></div><div>This moment I speak of comes somewhere at 17 minutes, a minute or two after the song's famous intro has reprised. A sudden glimpse of a melancholy theme, a minor scale later, they break into that tune. That moment. The tune which radiates hope, which is the breaking of light from lament, could not have been better. Perfect execution, just the right character, just the right tone. Barrie Barlow is an arrant wizard at the drums, and the moment seems way too wonderful to just be born out of a long song. It deserves a pedestal of its own.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe it is not the technical genius that lends it the beauty. Maybe it's just the hope. Maybe that's what we look for, and maybe that's what lends most things their beauty.</div>JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-70905077486101781432009-11-21T06:08:00.000+05:302009-11-21T06:19:48.001+05:30The lady<div>He couldn't stop thinking about her.</div><div><br /></div><div>He was a man of creation. A man who had so many ideas, so many thoughts which he knew would one day revolutionize the way of life. Every moment, he was thinking of how to make things easier and automatically applying his mind. It just came naturally to him. He knew he was a prodigy, but he didn't want the fame. In the moments where he didn't devote his time to his creativity, he often wondered why the rest of the folk didn't see the world the way he did. It was all so beautiful and it seemed everyone blatantly denied it! One thing, he knew for sure - it is the fear of failure that makes people unhappy. This fear manifests itself in quite a few forms, but it is the same fear nonetheless!</div><div><br /></div><div>After all, being criticized and ostracized was nothing new to him. Every radical idea, he told everyone who would listen, is tossed around and cursed like a murderer left to his fate with an angry mob. And it was not just for his ideas that he was ostracized. In his country, his kind were not treated with kindness. He knew, as he knew many things others didn't, that they would be accepted someday.</div><div><br /></div><div>As time went by, he because obsessed over his creativity. If he didn't conceptualize something far-reaching for a long time, he would get very restless. His inspiration, uniquely, came from people. He liked walking around the plaza, looking at people and figuring out how their lives could be made better.</div><div><br /></div><div>It had just been a fleeting moment in one of these walks. He spotted her through the crowd, and actually walked back a few steps - something he never did. She was not your average beauty, but there was this ethereal quality about her. She wasn't your average pretty girl you wanted to get in bed with. You would want to talk to her about life and the universe! A few glances at her and one knew she had it all figured out, like she was almost mocking you!</div><div><br /></div><div>He asked around in the crowd, as discreetly as he could, about who she was. When he heard the name, he startled in recognition - that last name was impossible to not know! From such a family, how could he not have heard of such a beautiful lady so profound in her thoughts? His mind started going far, far away, trying to comprehend what that look meant. Did she know something the world didn't? That subtle look, that amused glint in her eyes - oh those attentive eyes, how they soaked in every detail of their surroundings!</div><div><br /></div><div>Leonardo shook his head, and made up his mind to get that mysterious smile out of his head. Whoever had the time to ponder over and paint Lisa Sforza, daughter of the Duke of Milan, when there were machines that flew to be made and holy blood to be protected!</div>JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-53137660499613344802009-11-14T22:41:00.005+05:302009-11-14T23:34:07.031+05:30Top songs - 1This, hopefully, will build up into another series. Songs currently spinning around my head, refusing to leave, and leaving that permanent mark. Songs whose lyrics keep popping up while I'm sitting at Nescafe, or whose solo I would hum inappropriatly loudly even while in the library, and very subconsciously.<div><br /></div><div>TS, I shall name it. I've got this affection to short-formed-series now.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, here goes.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Mr. Big - Green Tinted Sixties Mind</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div>No, I didn't make it for the Big concert. I did hear another incredibly talented band, <a href="http://www.slainandbeyond.com">Slain</a> from Bangalore, perform it in college recently. The first time I heard the song was them performing it a year ago, at the BITS rock night. It is still a mystery to me why I hadn't explored Mr. Big till that late. The signature happy-jumpy intro and the perfectly fitting soloing by Gilbert, Eric Martin's intense emotion-filled vocals make this song an instant mood-lifter!</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Zero - Christmas in July</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div>Another song which became so much better after hearing it live. Yes, I did witness the God of tone, Warren, at I-Rock, and good GOD did he own the concert! Among all the other names that performed that night, Warren stood out like a saviour of good music. It poured that day like there was no tomorrow, and we still stood in the killing rain and heard every note played by the man! Something about this song that makes it in the switch-off-lights-throw-head-back-and-drown category! One of the best guitar instrumentals I've heard by anyone ever, let alone an Indian artist!</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">The Jimi Hendrix Experience - Rainy Day, Dream Away/Still Raining, Still Dreaming</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div>"Rainy Day, Dream Away</div><div>Oh let the sun take a holiday!"</div><div>Along with his pioneering guitar sounds, Hendrix has never stopped amazing me with his lyrics. The recent showers in Goa drew me to these two songs. The experience of listening to the songs one after the other, over and over again, while the rain pelted down on my window was one of the most memorable ones I've had! Every time it starts raining after that, I can't stop myself from humming those lines now.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">The Allman Brothers Band - Whipping Post</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div>Be it that sexy little melody after "Sometimes I feel..." in the song, or the solo, or the haunting bassline running through the song - this one's one of those everlasting ones. One of those that never get old, or you never get bored of. It's the pinnacle of progressive electric blues, what with the 11/8 verse and the 12/8 chorus! And the crowning moment of this song is that 22-minute live epic in the Filmore East tapes. Everything about those 22 minutes exalts pure Blues power!</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Grateful Dead - Box of Rain</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div><div>I had to really think before I typed out the name of this song, mostly because the entire American Beauty album has been one of my favourites ever since the semester began. But what with the weather being at its most beautiful yet (obviously in the middle of tests, when rather than breathing it into my system, I need to sit in the library studying and watch it through glass windows), I thought Box of Rain would be fitting. Not anywhere else have I seen vocal melodies pulled off so perfectly. The lyrics just seem to flow and in the tandem of seemingly disconnected music from three guitars rises a melody so uplifting, so joyful and so comforting! I don't think there's ever gonna be a time when Box of Rain won't get my mood up!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Writing this was way more fun than I thought it would! Hopefully, many more of these!</div>JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-87564823855748758712009-10-28T02:14:00.002+05:302009-10-28T02:24:31.323+05:30Take me to a better place.It's messed up how much the lack of sleep can trouble your mind. Everything turns out annoying. The noise, the sheer volume of everything around you, the frivoulty of most things, the constant bickering, the utter indifference of the world. And on expression of the aforementioned, a blame of being elitist, people telling you to get over it and stop blaming others, accusations of hypocrisy and many such things. <div><br /></div><div>I just want to drown into <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">There there </span>and let everything go. It's just not worth it. All the efforts, the constant bearing on the mind, the life of an engineering college, the charges of seeking attention, all such things make it not worth it whatever be the rewards. Is THIS the college life they speak of, or is the matter with me? If I could play the guitar today, I'd be strumming Radiohead tunes all night long. To hell with classes, to hell with assignments. To hell with the people.</div>JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-61142405424492215182009-10-22T18:42:00.002+05:302009-10-22T18:53:41.240+05:30Like the do-dah man!I've had quite a few things to say since the last time I posted. Loads has happened, and the happiness levels have shot up by miles. The music keeps influencing, and the music keeps toying with my mood.<br /><br />Grateful Dead were a recent discovery. Having heard of them for years and labeling their music as slightly above average, I recently managed to listen to the recording of a live show. All of a sudden, the respect was out of the roof and I saw why they were revered to the extent they were.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Grateful Dead - Truckin'</span></span><br /><br />Truckin', got my chips cashed in. keep truckin, like the do-dah man<br />Together, more or less in line, just keep truckin on.<br /><br />Arrows of neon and flashing marquees out on main street.<br />Chicago, new york, detroit and its all on the same street.<br />Your typical city involved in a typical daydream<br />Hang it up and see what tomorrow brings.<br /><br />Dallas, got a soft machine; Houston, too close to New Orleans;<br />New York's got the ways and means; but just wont let you be, oh no.<br /><br />Most of the cast that you meet on the streets speak of true love,<br />Most of the time theyre sittin and cryin at home.<br />One of these days they know they better get goin<br />Out of the door and down on the streets all alone.<br /><br />Truckin, like the do-dah man. once told me youve got to play your hand<br />Sometimes your cards aint worth a dime, if you dont layem down,<br /><br />Sometimes the lights all shinin on me;<br />Other times I can barely see.<br />Lately it occurs to me what a long, strange trip its been.<br /><br />What in the world ever became of sweet jane?<br />She lost her sparkle, you know she isnt the same<br />Livin on reds, vitamin c, and cocaine,<br />All a friend can say is aint it a shame?<br /><br />Truckin, up to Buffalo. been thinkin, you got to mellow slow<br />Takes time, you pick a place to go, and just keep truckin' on.<br /><br />Sittin and starin out of the hotel window.<br />Got a tip theyre gonna kick the door in again<br />Id like to get some sleep before I travel,<br />But if you got a warrant, I guess youre gonna come in.<br /><br />Busted, down on Bourbon Street, set up, like a bowlin pin.<br />Knocked down, it gets to wearin thin. they just wont let you be, oh no.<br /><br />You're sick of hangin around and youd like to travel;<br />Get tired of travelin and you want to settle down.<br />I guess they cant revoke your soul for tryin,<br />Get out of the door and light out and look all around.<br /><br />Sometimes the lights all shinin on me;<br />Other times I can barely see.<br />Lately it occurs to me what a long, strange trip its been.<br /><br />Truckin, Im a goin home. whoa whoa baby, back where I belong,<br />Back home, sit down and patch my bones, and get back truckin on.<br />Hey now get back truckin home.JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-61705358943559609602009-10-01T22:15:00.004+05:302009-10-01T23:05:08.101+05:30Ambition makes you look pretty uglyIdeally, I should blog everyday when I'm at home. What with the obscene amount of free time. In all the mindless banter of a vacation, however, I can barely string two sentences together. What with free broadband (like free speech, not free beer), add mindless surfing to that. What's the remedy? I wish I knew.<br /><br />To make things so much better, I have no music with me. Barring all the classic music CDs Naren Mama's managed to bring, and a two-disk album of the "Millennium collection". Funny story about that too. I remember being gifted those CDs in 2002 by my uncle from the UK, all kicked that his nephew will now listen to the <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span> music. Needless to say, I didn't touch those CDs, because I found the music too "weird".<br /><br />Seven years later, I happened to run into those CDs in my room in college. Turns out I love <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span> the songs on those two disks. Apparently, I heard Paranoid Android and Under Pressure and Glory Box back then and didn't like it.<br /><br />Life's funny that way, isn't it? Stuff they teach you in school seems so relevant today. In school, if you even managed to mention how awesomely fitting something a teacher said was, it meant being instantly ostracized. I'm not saying it's a bad thing. I'm not even saying it shouldn't happen. It's part of growing up, and all that jazz. Just that it seems delightful looking back and figuring this out!JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-6643717179476722412009-09-28T15:14:00.004+05:302009-09-29T01:32:22.796+05:30ExodusThe last semester (or well, what we saw of it before we were unceremoniously thrown out of college) has been rather enlightening. Tonnes of quick trivia about what to and what not to do. Peoples' reactions to stimulus in a non-ideal world. Lessons in paranoia, derogation and hasty judgment.<br /><br />Anyway a vacation it is, albeit unexpected, and most of it I shall try to make. Like always, 'course.<br /><br />For non-campus readers, there were a few blokes here and there (47 in five days, actually, so they're all very justified and stuff) who happened to get jaundice, and the authorities lost their conker, and decided it would be a good idea to send everyone home.<br /><br />I intend to blog more. For sure.JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-36477004026974435522009-08-24T01:10:00.002+05:302009-08-24T02:06:07.413+05:30BorsalinoEveryone who's read <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shantaram_%28novel%29">Shantaram</a> would probably find this redundant, but the Borsalino is this wide-brimmed hat made from very particular furs. Now this piece of art apparently digs quite the hole in your pocket, and there's bound to be fakes. In comes the Borsalino hat test. You roll the hat up into a tube thingy, and make it pass through a wedding ring (for SOME reason). After emerging from the other side, if the hat is not all crumpled and messed up and preferably not broken, bingo, you've gotten yourself a deal. If there's creases, you'd better run back and look for the genius who made some quick bucks outta you.<br /><br />Now some people happened to realize that this makes for quite a handy metaphor. So "putting someone through a Borsalino test" has come to mean putting someone through quite a bit of mental (and possibly physical) stress and see whether he/she (for all you sexists, I said he/she, inspite of HATING it) "emerges" from it without a sign of being "crumpled" or affected by the stress. Us engineers would like a stress-deformation metaphor, but that would involve talking about "hardness" of the person, and it's best to leave that realm of unending innuendos aside.<br /><br />So anyway, back to Shantaram. GDR describes himself been put through a Borsalino test by a recent acquaintance, to put it very bluntly. Why all this? I suddenly noticed the constant Borsalino tests we keep pushing each other through, in places more than you'd notice if you give it a little thought.<br /><br />Of course, the "emerging without being affected" now covers a much wider purview. It all begins with the initial one - to put in a more vernacular fashion - the first impression. It goes on throughout the period of knowing a person, and extends to every human relationship that exists. Barring a few relationships with a teeny amount of people, everyone Borsalinos everyone else. I wish that'd become a valid verb.<br /><br />I'm not even going to begin about whether it's necessary. I probably would have if halfway through writing that, I wouldn't have lost track of the patterns of the present thought vortex. Just that, right now, I think everyone would be much happier if these tests were slashed a bit.<br /><br />And, I haven't begun thinking about this in detail. Thankfully, I'm somehow able to control these erstwhile unmanaged thought trains. I'll hold on to this thought for later.<br /><br />Most will argue that these are a part of life. I just wish they weren't.JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-3917255830460452922009-08-20T03:14:00.003+05:302009-08-20T03:17:43.273+05:30Oh look, ticks!Right now, it's just a rant. When I'm thinking a little clearer, I most certainly WILL elaborate, but for now - Politics, is not for me. Not even a little skirmish.JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2032510285058871428.post-90296357902553875042009-08-18T02:27:00.000+05:302009-08-18T02:31:53.491+05:30Wherever I may roam<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CJD%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CJD%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CJD%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> 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mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language:EN-US; mso-fareast-language:EN-US;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language:EN-US; mso-fareast-language:EN-US;} .MsoPapDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; margin-bottom:10.0pt; line-height:115%;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 72.0pt 72.0pt 72.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0cm; mso-para-margin-right:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0cm; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><span lang="EN-US">"Jahaan main jaati hoon wahi chale aate ho</span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Chori chori mere dil mein samaate ho</span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Ye toh batao ki tum</span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Mere kaun ho"</span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US">Ever had that feeling when a song reminds you of something else but you have no idea of the specifics? The reminiscence is incredibly strong, fully with goosebumps et al.<span style=""> </span>And things like the sound of rain outside at half past midnight somehow manage to attenuate all of that. The feeling was so strong, the pull was so compelling, I just had to put it down. No amount of thinking is going to get me any closer to knowing what the context is. Maybe it’ll hit me some day when I’m walking about Panjim on a lazy Sunday afternoon, or when I’m riding to the SP college ground early morning for football. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p>The best part is, it’s a happy feeling. And vague happy feelings out of the proverbial blue are always welcome. Which is probably why I’m not thinking.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p>Yeah. That’s about it.</span></p> JDhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17875510621651608799noreply@blogger.com4