1. The rear spoiler on cars: I'm not a car person so I guess I won't get the point. But seriously, does aerodynamic benefit really matter in the crowded city? And 'spoiler' is just the right word, in terms of looks.
2. The stock market: At some point I'm going to have to convince myself that ignorance is neither bliss nor an excuse.
3. How the transistor works: Now here's a notable academic (anti) achievement. After finding modern physics interesting in class 12, six years of engineering have done enough for me to un-learn the baby steps.
4. The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand: I must have attempted to read this book at least ten times, and have never got beyond page 50. Objectivism be damned!
5. Why every contemporary Bollywood song has a seemingly mandatory Hinglish chorus: Samples: "My dil goes hmmmm", or "I looked at you, you looked at me
aur ho gayi mushkil ...." OK, so using English in film songs isn't a new thing, and is probably a reflection of how adaptable modern Hindi is. But isn't the fad starting to feel overabused and jaded?
6. The toothpaste tube etiquette suggestion. Squeeze tube from bottom and flatten as you go up: Here's a rule I've been following blindly from day one. Will be happy if someone can provide me the scientific or logical explanation.
7. "What is the matrix?": Eight years after, I still don't know the answer, and I still couldn't care less. If you finally figured it out at the cost of many a tedious moment, I hope your grey cells took a well deserved vacation.
8. Organised religion: The emphasis is on organised. Maybe this is what comes with a liberal Hindu upbringing, but I believe religion is a personal thing and should be left to the individual. And I'm neither an atheist nor an agnostic.
9. Death metal type vocalists: How does the genre (and all its related styles) get so popular when the lead singers seem to have drawn their primary inspiration from Cookie Monster?
10. Women calling each other "babe": Interesting one. A case of mars and venus, I guess.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Pronounced "Su-haas"
Americans sure appreciate brevity and clarity. Especially when it comes to names, and that goes double for foreign names. Exotic names simply disturb the precious equilibrium here. Unless you are French or Spanish (with a suitably seductive accent), foreign names are a turn off. The effect this has on us outsiders-looking-in is quite noticeable on campus; some laugh it off, others acquire convenient nicknames, and a few are even tempted to change their name. The far-eastern students, obviously aggrieved by the manner in which their names are murdered by the average American who takes it upon himself to pronounce them, have hit upon a callcenter-like solution; they adopt convenient 'American' aliases (Trang becomes Alex, Xingzhou becomes Robin). The yanks are spared the tongue twisters, their eardrums are spared the damage, and everyone's happy.
Indians, however, are not so compromising (unless they dream of ending up in a callcenter themselves). Long names are like prized possessions to be flaunted, an attribute that adds to individual uniqueness. While Americans prefer our names any day to the Chinese, for every Shah or Singh with which they may get away lightly, there is always a Sabharwala or a Ramalingaswamy waiting to confound them. Occasionally half-measures prevail; Padmanabhan introduces himself as Paddy, and Manimozhian provides a reassuring 'You can call me Mani'. Far from being upset about the inability of his name to be universally accepted, the average Desi gets a kick out of it. Despite the high standing that goes with all this, I'm pretty happy that my short five-letter name has posed no problem whatsoever for American tongues. Surprisingly, they find it easy to pronounce my surname too. The only ambiguity I can recall is when a Teaching Assistant spelled my name as 'Suhaas' and wondered if I was German. Well, anyway I can be happy with the fact that no awkward moments have resulted in calling out my name.
This is in complete contrast to the scene back home. In India, it's as if the simpler the name is the more difficult it becomes to pronounce; hardly anyone gets my name right the first time, and fewer still prefer to leave it as it is. 'Suhas' is apparently the perfect candidate for a mumbled corruption. Some landmark abuses of my name over the years include:
1. "Sugas": This is the Tamil pronounciation. In much the same way as 'Mahesh' becomes 'Magesh'.
2. "Subhash": As if the Tam version wasn't bad enough, this is the regular Northie version. At one point, I was called Subhash Ghai in school and that was as close as I got to being likened to anyone in the film industry. And I won't even mention the Bong version.
3. "Suhasini": A common way of mocking a young boy is to girl-ify his name. I think it has its origins in the fact that Suhasini Manirathnam used to live very close to my Grandmother's old Madras home. Another film industry connection.
4. "Seuss": Inspired by Dr.Seuss?
5. "Sauce": Apparently a lot of people feel the need to condense two syllables to one.
Well, at least one thing's changed for the better after coming here.
Indians, however, are not so compromising (unless they dream of ending up in a callcenter themselves). Long names are like prized possessions to be flaunted, an attribute that adds to individual uniqueness. While Americans prefer our names any day to the Chinese, for every Shah or Singh with which they may get away lightly, there is always a Sabharwala or a Ramalingaswamy waiting to confound them. Occasionally half-measures prevail; Padmanabhan introduces himself as Paddy, and Manimozhian provides a reassuring 'You can call me Mani'. Far from being upset about the inability of his name to be universally accepted, the average Desi gets a kick out of it. Despite the high standing that goes with all this, I'm pretty happy that my short five-letter name has posed no problem whatsoever for American tongues. Surprisingly, they find it easy to pronounce my surname too. The only ambiguity I can recall is when a Teaching Assistant spelled my name as 'Suhaas' and wondered if I was German. Well, anyway I can be happy with the fact that no awkward moments have resulted in calling out my name.
This is in complete contrast to the scene back home. In India, it's as if the simpler the name is the more difficult it becomes to pronounce; hardly anyone gets my name right the first time, and fewer still prefer to leave it as it is. 'Suhas' is apparently the perfect candidate for a mumbled corruption. Some landmark abuses of my name over the years include:
1. "Sugas": This is the Tamil pronounciation. In much the same way as 'Mahesh' becomes 'Magesh'.
2. "Subhash": As if the Tam version wasn't bad enough, this is the regular Northie version. At one point, I was called Subhash Ghai in school and that was as close as I got to being likened to anyone in the film industry. And I won't even mention the Bong version.
3. "Suhasini": A common way of mocking a young boy is to girl-ify his name. I think it has its origins in the fact that Suhasini Manirathnam used to live very close to my Grandmother's old Madras home. Another film industry connection.
4. "Seuss": Inspired by Dr.Seuss?
5. "Sauce": Apparently a lot of people feel the need to condense two syllables to one.
Well, at least one thing's changed for the better after coming here.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
No more fear and loathing in Austin, Texas
A couple of readers, presumably the only ones who visit this blog, have complained that my posts have degenerated into cynical nothingness. The apparent overload of dreary dark drivel seems to have raised questions about my state of mental health. In my defence, I maintain I have been totally jobless of late and the dross I keyed in was just for kicks, without any pretensions of wanting to prove anything to anyone. However, in a bid to retain my core audience (whoever they may be), I have resolved to give the blog a more optimistic outlook.
The last newyear resolution I made must have been back in 1990 when I promised to be a good boy or not to fight with my sister or some such crap. Eighteen years on, the time seems right for a new one. I promise to curb my pessimism and facade of bitterness, even if 2008 is already nineteen days old. Maybe I have unwittingly been enjoying it and have been in denial about the comfortable student existence I now lead. Out here, I have finally come to the realisation that I'm leading the good life in its twilight, and I should savour it while it lasts. I am now free to make my own entertainment, without any pressures apart from academic ones, and that rocks.
The first day of the new semester was a case in point. It could've been any day of the last year-and-a-half, which is a very reassuring feeling. I had a class at nine in the morning and had duly set three alarms. As if by clockwork (excuse the pun), I was woken only to turn off the noise and blissfully get back to sleep each time. I somehow leaped out at five to nine and arrived in class at my usual standard time. Once on campus, I could focus my faculties on the most important item on my daily agenda: lunch. The day spun madly but predictably on, and I was all the happier for it. Work will soon pile up, but the timepass will remain a constant. Might as well celebrate it, while it lingers on. For now, i can look forward to another sem's worth of the following:
1. Hours of guilt free sleep constrained only by regular homework. One of the reasons I would rather not work in this country is the scary thought of having to wake up at six in the morning most of the time. No such worries at the moment, though.
2. The daily indulgence of getting to answer mankind's most important question: "Where shall we have lunch?". The undisputed highpoint of my day, and I've been pretty pleased with my discoveries here, including a Brazillian restaurant.
3. Continued improvisation on my own cooking. While the results are not always as palatable as they should be, it gives me scope to enjoy the previously stated activity even more.
4. Access to a library with pretty much all the books in the world. As a result, I've become pretty promiscuous in my reading habits and I'm currently shuttling between four books at the moment. Whatever faithful lit snobs may say, variety rocks.
5. Access to a swimming pool. Great for cooling off once in a while, or relaxing in the sun on a deck chair with cooler in hand and dark glasses on to render the roving of eyes in the direction of heavenly bodies less obvious.
6. Trips around town in the local buses with (visibly) colourful characters. This is a place full of hippies, you see.
7. Putting my tapes to good use. I've recently come into possession of an old cassette player, so I don't have to rely solely on my walkman to keep my tapes in circulation.
8. Oh yeah. And coursework of course.
So, life's good. The year has got off to a fine start, following the resolution. I'm not repenting on that one.
The last newyear resolution I made must have been back in 1990 when I promised to be a good boy or not to fight with my sister or some such crap. Eighteen years on, the time seems right for a new one. I promise to curb my pessimism and facade of bitterness, even if 2008 is already nineteen days old. Maybe I have unwittingly been enjoying it and have been in denial about the comfortable student existence I now lead. Out here, I have finally come to the realisation that I'm leading the good life in its twilight, and I should savour it while it lasts. I am now free to make my own entertainment, without any pressures apart from academic ones, and that rocks.
The first day of the new semester was a case in point. It could've been any day of the last year-and-a-half, which is a very reassuring feeling. I had a class at nine in the morning and had duly set three alarms. As if by clockwork (excuse the pun), I was woken only to turn off the noise and blissfully get back to sleep each time. I somehow leaped out at five to nine and arrived in class at my usual standard time. Once on campus, I could focus my faculties on the most important item on my daily agenda: lunch. The day spun madly but predictably on, and I was all the happier for it. Work will soon pile up, but the timepass will remain a constant. Might as well celebrate it, while it lingers on. For now, i can look forward to another sem's worth of the following:
1. Hours of guilt free sleep constrained only by regular homework. One of the reasons I would rather not work in this country is the scary thought of having to wake up at six in the morning most of the time. No such worries at the moment, though.
2. The daily indulgence of getting to answer mankind's most important question: "Where shall we have lunch?". The undisputed highpoint of my day, and I've been pretty pleased with my discoveries here, including a Brazillian restaurant.
3. Continued improvisation on my own cooking. While the results are not always as palatable as they should be, it gives me scope to enjoy the previously stated activity even more.
4. Access to a library with pretty much all the books in the world. As a result, I've become pretty promiscuous in my reading habits and I'm currently shuttling between four books at the moment. Whatever faithful lit snobs may say, variety rocks.
5. Access to a swimming pool. Great for cooling off once in a while, or relaxing in the sun on a deck chair with cooler in hand and dark glasses on to render the roving of eyes in the direction of heavenly bodies less obvious.
6. Trips around town in the local buses with (visibly) colourful characters. This is a place full of hippies, you see.
7. Putting my tapes to good use. I've recently come into possession of an old cassette player, so I don't have to rely solely on my walkman to keep my tapes in circulation.
8. Oh yeah. And coursework of course.
So, life's good. The year has got off to a fine start, following the resolution. I'm not repenting on that one.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Lost in a dream, nothing's what it seems
Yup, readers will squirm at me reading too much into a cricketing incident and wondering if it mirrors the real world. I accept cricket is not a metaphor for life, but sometimes it comes pretty close.
If you're in India right now you must be sick of Bollyline or Puntergate or whatever the media has chosen to label the Sydney test happenings. I was disturbed. Not merely on a cricketing level. That 'pact' about taking the fielders word, proposed by Ricky Ponting and accepted by Anil Kumble before the game, strangely continues to resonate. It allowed the Aussies to justify the Ganguly dismissal on day 5, and I'm certain they couldn't believe how well it served their purpose. It sure came back to haunt Kumble, didn't it? What was he thinking? It seemed to serve as a reminder that 'trust' is something better left to storybooks, fables and moral science classes. Or maybe it just reiterated a new age truth that anything you 'trust' in may be used against you.
I can see where Kumble was coming from. As a keen student of the game and a great admirer of his opponents, he was all for entering into what seemed like a move towards the right spirit (whatever that means, you might say). Maybe he saw it as a chance to play the game the Aussie way - as a fellow blogger put it? Perhaps he was just being a hopeless romantic, imagining world peace was still a solution. Given the chance I too would like to believe that people around me, friends, competitors or otherwise, are well intentioned and things like 'honesty' and 'integrity' do not exist merely in the corporate sense. But ever so often we are forced to re-evaluate and lower our expectations of individuals because, well, a Puntergate happens. I guess there's only so much any of us are willing to live up to.
We live in an era where how you say it is sometimes more important than what you say, or what you do. Ricky Ponting's success, particularly in the way he dictated that umpiring verdict and the way he was able to sway the match referee's decision to punish Harbhajan Singh, bears this out. The guy (before this game, anyway) was an expert at talking to the media and saying all the right things, being the perfect ambassador and all that. It took a Puntergate to know the real Punter behind the smiling skipper. And I am pretty unhappy about this because I believed, or wanted to believe in his nice-guy image.
Am I being naive, or just too much of a cricket tragic?
If you're in India right now you must be sick of Bollyline or Puntergate or whatever the media has chosen to label the Sydney test happenings. I was disturbed. Not merely on a cricketing level. That 'pact' about taking the fielders word, proposed by Ricky Ponting and accepted by Anil Kumble before the game, strangely continues to resonate. It allowed the Aussies to justify the Ganguly dismissal on day 5, and I'm certain they couldn't believe how well it served their purpose. It sure came back to haunt Kumble, didn't it? What was he thinking? It seemed to serve as a reminder that 'trust' is something better left to storybooks, fables and moral science classes. Or maybe it just reiterated a new age truth that anything you 'trust' in may be used against you.
I can see where Kumble was coming from. As a keen student of the game and a great admirer of his opponents, he was all for entering into what seemed like a move towards the right spirit (whatever that means, you might say). Maybe he saw it as a chance to play the game the Aussie way - as a fellow blogger put it? Perhaps he was just being a hopeless romantic, imagining world peace was still a solution. Given the chance I too would like to believe that people around me, friends, competitors or otherwise, are well intentioned and things like 'honesty' and 'integrity' do not exist merely in the corporate sense. But ever so often we are forced to re-evaluate and lower our expectations of individuals because, well, a Puntergate happens. I guess there's only so much any of us are willing to live up to.
We live in an era where how you say it is sometimes more important than what you say, or what you do. Ricky Ponting's success, particularly in the way he dictated that umpiring verdict and the way he was able to sway the match referee's decision to punish Harbhajan Singh, bears this out. The guy (before this game, anyway) was an expert at talking to the media and saying all the right things, being the perfect ambassador and all that. It took a Puntergate to know the real Punter behind the smiling skipper. And I am pretty unhappy about this because I believed, or wanted to believe in his nice-guy image.
Am I being naive, or just too much of a cricket tragic?
Saturday, November 10, 2007
A decade of two Martina Hingises
Martina Hingis, according to the image transfixed in my mind from her heady days in the late 90s, is the brazen, cocksure schoolgirl whom you love to loathe but just can't ignore. Someone with the supreme confidence and arrogance to say what she wants about herself and everyone else, the attitude to carry it off, AND be good enough to get away with it.
Four years after I muttered "good riddance" to myself as she was forced into a state of semi-retirement after a series of injuries, it appears that her solid comeback has been stopped in its tracks following the cocaine accusations. She claims she does not have the heart or drive to fight them off, and has permanently retired. Which leaves me a bit devastated because much as I hate the old Hingis, a part of me wanted her comeback to be a shot in the arm for the old school, and even out an era dominated by a power game. Not only to inject some feminine grace back into the sport, but also have a survivor and a distinct personality from the 90s (a decade that appeals more to me) still holding fort.
Tennis, being a one-on-one sport, provides more room for predjudice and mindless anti-fandom than cricket or football. Back in the day, when Pete Sampras cried for his coach and then proceeded to beat Jim Courier in an epic five setter, I was at best grudging in my praise for him. This Courier fan was convinced his man was robbed of victory by fate, and all this additional on-court drama only turned the tide of sympathy in favour of nice-guy-Pete even more. I found it revolting, at the time. (No offence Pete, you're the best). Though Pete and Martina are poles apart as personalities, in a similar way I was turned against the Swiss miss during her meteoric rise to number 1 in 1997. With Steffi Graf on the wane, I was hoping one of Mary Pierce, Concita Martinez, Jana Novotna and Sanchez-Vicario would attain the top spot they had been denied during Graf's reign (I would add the Goddess herself, Gabriela Sabatini to that list had she not prematurely retired). Instead we had the bratty 16 year old, complete with the suffocating presence of her mom-coach Melanie "Monitor" taking the world by storm and having a big mouth to boot. Unbearable, it was. In hindsight, and to be fair to her, early success was drilled into her by a tennis loving family who had the audacity to name her after a champion from yesteryear.
Our mutual dislike, as I like to call it, developed further over the next two years. Martina continually mocked me by winning a string of titles and spending about 200 plus weeks at the top, while I celebrated her occasional defeats as the next best thing to a New Zealand victory. She took it one step too far by dismissing Steffi Graf's comeback, and I had the last laugh when Graf outplayed her at Roland Garros in '99. That was when it all started to go downhill for her. She had ironically said of Graf's comeback "it's a faster, more athletic game now than when she played. She is old now. Her time has passed." Little did we know that the same "faster, athletic game" she spoke of would be taken to new degrees by the Williams sisters, and Martina just couldn't compete. I somehow just couldn't enjoy the rise of the Williamses (complete with the suffocating presence of dad-coach Richard), great athletes but all power and little subtlety. It seemed to have an indelible impact on the game until the advent of Justine Henin. My stand on Hingis had softened considerably by this stage. A while after she called it quits the first time in 2003, in a typical case of not knowing what you have till it's gone, I suddenly longed for her game; deft placements, changes of pace and overall variety, the antithesis of the 21st century game, it needed to return to supremacy. Not to mention her undeniable charisma and visual appeal.
Post 25, you're a senior citizen in women's tennis terms. So it was a little hard to reconcile with the image of the new Hingis when she returned from her two year absence in 2005. Gone was the brash teenager and a solid and mature twentysomething had taken her place. Her comeback was creditable for most part without setting the world on fire (though she did reach as high as number 6 in the WTA rankings). In a perverse sort of way, I wished she could be the obnoxious kid of yesteryear, but she was already on the wrong side of her 20s. As I type this, it serves as another reminder of how time flies. (Martina Hingis is 27? Getting old, aren't we all)
Surprisingly for a person who loved and devoured his weekly Sportstar, I've never been big on posters. However I will concede that in any dream poster collection of mine, Martina Hingis will occupy pride of place alongside Sabatini, Graf, Henin and Sharapova in the women's tennis category. That is my grudging tribute.
Four years after I muttered "good riddance" to myself as she was forced into a state of semi-retirement after a series of injuries, it appears that her solid comeback has been stopped in its tracks following the cocaine accusations. She claims she does not have the heart or drive to fight them off, and has permanently retired. Which leaves me a bit devastated because much as I hate the old Hingis, a part of me wanted her comeback to be a shot in the arm for the old school, and even out an era dominated by a power game. Not only to inject some feminine grace back into the sport, but also have a survivor and a distinct personality from the 90s (a decade that appeals more to me) still holding fort.
Tennis, being a one-on-one sport, provides more room for predjudice and mindless anti-fandom than cricket or football. Back in the day, when Pete Sampras cried for his coach and then proceeded to beat Jim Courier in an epic five setter, I was at best grudging in my praise for him. This Courier fan was convinced his man was robbed of victory by fate, and all this additional on-court drama only turned the tide of sympathy in favour of nice-guy-Pete even more. I found it revolting, at the time. (No offence Pete, you're the best). Though Pete and Martina are poles apart as personalities, in a similar way I was turned against the Swiss miss during her meteoric rise to number 1 in 1997. With Steffi Graf on the wane, I was hoping one of Mary Pierce, Concita Martinez, Jana Novotna and Sanchez-Vicario would attain the top spot they had been denied during Graf's reign (I would add the Goddess herself, Gabriela Sabatini to that list had she not prematurely retired). Instead we had the bratty 16 year old, complete with the suffocating presence of her mom-coach Melanie "Monitor" taking the world by storm and having a big mouth to boot. Unbearable, it was. In hindsight, and to be fair to her, early success was drilled into her by a tennis loving family who had the audacity to name her after a champion from yesteryear.
Our mutual dislike, as I like to call it, developed further over the next two years. Martina continually mocked me by winning a string of titles and spending about 200 plus weeks at the top, while I celebrated her occasional defeats as the next best thing to a New Zealand victory. She took it one step too far by dismissing Steffi Graf's comeback, and I had the last laugh when Graf outplayed her at Roland Garros in '99. That was when it all started to go downhill for her. She had ironically said of Graf's comeback "it's a faster, more athletic game now than when she played. She is old now. Her time has passed." Little did we know that the same "faster, athletic game" she spoke of would be taken to new degrees by the Williams sisters, and Martina just couldn't compete. I somehow just couldn't enjoy the rise of the Williamses (complete with the suffocating presence of dad-coach Richard), great athletes but all power and little subtlety. It seemed to have an indelible impact on the game until the advent of Justine Henin. My stand on Hingis had softened considerably by this stage. A while after she called it quits the first time in 2003, in a typical case of not knowing what you have till it's gone, I suddenly longed for her game; deft placements, changes of pace and overall variety, the antithesis of the 21st century game, it needed to return to supremacy. Not to mention her undeniable charisma and visual appeal.
Post 25, you're a senior citizen in women's tennis terms. So it was a little hard to reconcile with the image of the new Hingis when she returned from her two year absence in 2005. Gone was the brash teenager and a solid and mature twentysomething had taken her place. Her comeback was creditable for most part without setting the world on fire (though she did reach as high as number 6 in the WTA rankings). In a perverse sort of way, I wished she could be the obnoxious kid of yesteryear, but she was already on the wrong side of her 20s. As I type this, it serves as another reminder of how time flies. (Martina Hingis is 27? Getting old, aren't we all)
Surprisingly for a person who loved and devoured his weekly Sportstar, I've never been big on posters. However I will concede that in any dream poster collection of mine, Martina Hingis will occupy pride of place alongside Sabatini, Graf, Henin and Sharapova in the women's tennis category. That is my grudging tribute.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
May the Force leave you be
During a conversation with a friend of mine, the kind who smashes quizzes all over the countryside in his sleep and accumulates a fortune in cash/bikes/accolades/whatever, I casually asked him if he ever considered making it (quizzing) a career. You know, conduct quizzes and quiz based events for a living, a la Avinash Mudaliar or Derek O'Brien. The Indian Corporate and academic world being what it is, you would never be out of business and there's good money in it too. "No", he replied, "The moment it stops being a hobby and becomes work, there's no fun in it."
This sentiment seems to agree with one of my (hardly original) pet theories that as soon as you are under compulsion to do something, or if you have someone pressing you to do a piece of work (and enjoy it), it becomes a chore and out goes the enjoyment. When it involves something that should be a leisurely activity, things get especially bewildering. Fine, if you're a helpless creature like me who's incapable of surviving alone in the jungle, you do need to seek advice and instructions quite often. However, a hobby is what it is because you don't have people telling you what to do. For example, I renewed my interest in books halfway through college primarily because I discovered a lot of good stuff on my own or by accident. Hitherto I was being told by everyone to cultivate a 'reading habit'(what a disgusting term!), and it was a bit of a turn off from printed matter which I'm happy to say is well behind me.
Rules, however are a part of life so you have to live with them right from the start. Call me a cynic, but I still think loving your school, studies or work is overrated. In one Calvin and Hobbes strip, Calvin is shown dreaming about blowing up his school on the way to it, then he snaps out of it with a sigh when he reaches there. Bill Watterson adds a footnote saying he got a lot of flack for that cartoon, and those readers (who apparently took him very seriously) had obviously never been to school before! If you're like Suzie Derkins, oh so excited about the first day of school and looking at it as a chance to meet new people and teachers and learn new stuff, all I can say is you better watch out for that snowball heading your way. I think a lot of us got along better with Faculty in college than in school, probably because our opinions and expectations of each other were much more transparent. Once they accepted that we turned up for class just for the attendance and our aspirations leaned more towards clearing exams than enriching our knowledge with the finer points they had to offer, whatever tension there was in the air gradually vanished and both parties could slip into a comfort zone. We, in turn, understood their point of view and difficulties with the system and were on largely good terms with them. School with its blind protocol was a different story, and I still find the notion that school should be fun quite amusing. On the subject of studies, everyone loves talking about their 'academic interests'. Who are they kidding? The term is an oxymoron.
'Job satisfaction' is another overrated term. Liking your job and office is one thing, but can you really be crazy about whatever it is you're doing? This is work after all. Like studies, it's not something that's meant to be enjoyed. It's all very well to proudly declare that your dream job may be that of a reviewer of DVDs or a cricket commentator, but would you be able to live your passion on your own terms?
Since I don't use 'labels' on this blog, or categorise my posts, I should probably insert the word RANT (using oversized capitals) in the title. I have three assignments thrust upon me, so go figure. Maybe it's time I outgrew these pet theories and turn to one of my hobbies on the side for immediate relief. I've gotten hooked to Scott Adams' Dilbert books of late. The next book in the series I plan to purchase is called The Joy of Work.
This sentiment seems to agree with one of my (hardly original) pet theories that as soon as you are under compulsion to do something, or if you have someone pressing you to do a piece of work (and enjoy it), it becomes a chore and out goes the enjoyment. When it involves something that should be a leisurely activity, things get especially bewildering. Fine, if you're a helpless creature like me who's incapable of surviving alone in the jungle, you do need to seek advice and instructions quite often. However, a hobby is what it is because you don't have people telling you what to do. For example, I renewed my interest in books halfway through college primarily because I discovered a lot of good stuff on my own or by accident. Hitherto I was being told by everyone to cultivate a 'reading habit'(what a disgusting term!), and it was a bit of a turn off from printed matter which I'm happy to say is well behind me.
Rules, however are a part of life so you have to live with them right from the start. Call me a cynic, but I still think loving your school, studies or work is overrated. In one Calvin and Hobbes strip, Calvin is shown dreaming about blowing up his school on the way to it, then he snaps out of it with a sigh when he reaches there. Bill Watterson adds a footnote saying he got a lot of flack for that cartoon, and those readers (who apparently took him very seriously) had obviously never been to school before! If you're like Suzie Derkins, oh so excited about the first day of school and looking at it as a chance to meet new people and teachers and learn new stuff, all I can say is you better watch out for that snowball heading your way. I think a lot of us got along better with Faculty in college than in school, probably because our opinions and expectations of each other were much more transparent. Once they accepted that we turned up for class just for the attendance and our aspirations leaned more towards clearing exams than enriching our knowledge with the finer points they had to offer, whatever tension there was in the air gradually vanished and both parties could slip into a comfort zone. We, in turn, understood their point of view and difficulties with the system and were on largely good terms with them. School with its blind protocol was a different story, and I still find the notion that school should be fun quite amusing. On the subject of studies, everyone loves talking about their 'academic interests'. Who are they kidding? The term is an oxymoron.
'Job satisfaction' is another overrated term. Liking your job and office is one thing, but can you really be crazy about whatever it is you're doing? This is work after all. Like studies, it's not something that's meant to be enjoyed. It's all very well to proudly declare that your dream job may be that of a reviewer of DVDs or a cricket commentator, but would you be able to live your passion on your own terms?
Since I don't use 'labels' on this blog, or categorise my posts, I should probably insert the word RANT (using oversized capitals) in the title. I have three assignments thrust upon me, so go figure. Maybe it's time I outgrew these pet theories and turn to one of my hobbies on the side for immediate relief. I've gotten hooked to Scott Adams' Dilbert books of late. The next book in the series I plan to purchase is called The Joy of Work.
Friday, July 20, 2007
An ice cream man's guide to a happy life
It must be a decade since I've read an Archie comic book (or 'digest', as they call it) in its entirety. Along with Disney Today, Amar Chitra Katha and Tinkle, the Archie digest was a source of generous timepass laced with mostly juvenile humour back in the day. One particular strip remains stuck in my head because it pretty much sums up the uncomplicated nature of the characters, in this case Jughead Jones.
The story begins thus: Jughead's mom has cut off his allowance, and he whines to Archie and Reggie about it, "Now how do I pay for all the food I want to eat?". He tries his hand at a variety of odd jobs to raise the money, right from lawn-mowing to dog-walking, but he screws up things and gets the boot each time around. He is in a desperate position.
Next, Archie and Reggie see Jughead driving an ice cream van, complete with the ding-a-ling bell, and slurping on a cone. "So Jughead's an ice cream man now!" comments Archie. "Yeah, and it looks like he's his own best customer!" observes Reggie. "I love this job!" says Jughead, "All the ice cream I can eat! And other guys are willing to trade all kinds of stuff with me! How about that!". The immediate scene shows him exchanging his cones for a popsicle and a sundae with another vendor.
"But doesn't it get boring eating ice cream all the time?" questions Reggie. "That's why I trade off some ice cream for other stuff when I wan't something else" comes Jughead's reply, and he's shown giving off a cone in exchange for a pizza pie. "Thanks man!" says the pizza boy, wiping the sweat from his brow, "Phew! It's hot." "See?" says Jughead, "It'a long summer. Everyone's only too happy to give me all kinds of food in return for my ice cream."
"But don't you have to pay for all that ice cream you eat?", asks Archie. "Yeah, that's why I'm willing to sell off some of the ice cream - but just enough to break even" says Jughead. "Yeah wise guy, but it means you don't make any money, right?" counters Reggie. To which Jughead answers, "So who needs money? All I wanted was enough food to satisfy my hunger pangs!"
Reggie thinks out loud "I really wonder who's crazy....Jughead or the world". Archie replies "I have a hunch it isn't Jughead".
PS: It's often said that beer is the solution to all the world's problems. I reckon ice cream isn't far behind.
The story begins thus: Jughead's mom has cut off his allowance, and he whines to Archie and Reggie about it, "Now how do I pay for all the food I want to eat?". He tries his hand at a variety of odd jobs to raise the money, right from lawn-mowing to dog-walking, but he screws up things and gets the boot each time around. He is in a desperate position.
Next, Archie and Reggie see Jughead driving an ice cream van, complete with the ding-a-ling bell, and slurping on a cone. "So Jughead's an ice cream man now!" comments Archie. "Yeah, and it looks like he's his own best customer!" observes Reggie. "I love this job!" says Jughead, "All the ice cream I can eat! And other guys are willing to trade all kinds of stuff with me! How about that!". The immediate scene shows him exchanging his cones for a popsicle and a sundae with another vendor.
"But doesn't it get boring eating ice cream all the time?" questions Reggie. "That's why I trade off some ice cream for other stuff when I wan't something else" comes Jughead's reply, and he's shown giving off a cone in exchange for a pizza pie. "Thanks man!" says the pizza boy, wiping the sweat from his brow, "Phew! It's hot." "See?" says Jughead, "It'a long summer. Everyone's only too happy to give me all kinds of food in return for my ice cream."
"But don't you have to pay for all that ice cream you eat?", asks Archie. "Yeah, that's why I'm willing to sell off some of the ice cream - but just enough to break even" says Jughead. "Yeah wise guy, but it means you don't make any money, right?" counters Reggie. To which Jughead answers, "So who needs money? All I wanted was enough food to satisfy my hunger pangs!"
Reggie thinks out loud "I really wonder who's crazy....Jughead or the world". Archie replies "I have a hunch it isn't Jughead".
PS: It's often said that beer is the solution to all the world's problems. I reckon ice cream isn't far behind.
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