Which Planet ?

"He came, He ran, He conquered"

The whole world gaped when this thing ran 100m and 200m in record time of 9.58 and 19.19 seconds respectively in the World Championships in Atheletics, Berlin 2009. The "It" started off in its usual sanguine attitude and once started it never gave thought to anything else except a World Record.

The finish in Berlin was unlike any other. This thing, clad in yellow finished at least a prominent 5m ahead of the second. The time taken by the thing to finish the race belittled the second guy's time even though the latter had an amazing one(in Berlin, it ran a whooping 9.58s while the second guy had an amazing 9.71s but as you can see - "No comparison") . Considering all this, the photofinish machine got no job as usual for whenever the it runs there is no need for the machine.

After the race is over, the it ran for another 200m in quite the same speed. This led its coach to think of letting the thing loose in 400m too. And if this series of making the it run in all the races, the thing will break all the records in the track events. Not stopping with that, it will better its own record at a regular period of twelve months.

Such astonishing inhuman talent coupled with such great will power and determination, brings just one doubt about the thing in people's minds. It's trademark of pointing to the distant something outside the earth gives this doubt a certainty, and the doubt shall alway remain -

" Which planet ??? "

....but how much ??

Here is my schedule for the next three weeks or so.

(Today is August 8)

1) Sankara School Culturals - A Skit and a radio show - August 10, 11

2) Youth Parliament - August 14 - No practice as of now

3) Social Science Exhibition Debate - August 17 - No preparation till now

4) Landmark Quiz - August 15

5) NDTV Hindu "I spy with my digital eye" - August 9, 10 and 11.

6) TCS IT Wiz Quiz - August 21

7) Physics and Chemistry Record submission - August 10 to 12

That quite sums it up. Rest are all minor things which needn't be considered.

.....all I want to say is that, they don't really care about me.

Life does not hang by a thread to suicide bombers; it is tightly strapped onto their waists. More comical is the fact that it is only after they die that they get recognition in several parts.

It is also saddening that they get to enjoy their job just once and then they are fired or blasted to be more precise.

The suicide bomber of the group “AL” chosen to get at least 70 in his score sheet including the Minister presently campaigning in some district was the not so intelligent bloke Jamal Amir ( Any sounding similarity to the name of

persons living, dead or in any jail in Mumbai is purely coincidental. ) He left his base bidding his last goodbye and headed directly to the huge crowd assembled at the grounds for the political campaign. Soon he was one among the crowds rather “The One” among it.

The ground had a special path made for the minister through which he could walk and meet all the people. This was supposedly a devious plan to muster support. Being close would make the people feel close to him even though there was the danger of people hurling out what is there beneath their feet. Our suicide bomber took this path to his advantage, got to the front of it and decided that he would press the button as soon as the Minister arrives near him.

People became restless as the minister was late yet again. Amir asked the fellow next to him (whom we shall call as X for the sake of simplicity),” When is the minister expected to arrive?”

X : Don’t know. Must arrive anytime now.

Amir : Oh. It’s getting late.

X : Are you an ardent fan of his?

Amir : Oh no. Nothing like that. I just have to kill him.

X : Kill him?

Amir : Yes. It is my job.

X : Duty conscious huh??

Happy that he had pulled of a successful joke X laughed in a peculiar way which sounded like continuous grunts from a pig trying to sing in the amplifier. It was apparent this guy was even dumber than our bomber as one, he should have shown some shocking reaction and fell to the ground for standing near death or two, he should have immediately informed the police.

The minister soon came near the suicide bomber waving his hands in the thought of his imminent victory. Our suicide bomber with a cool head pressed the button inside his shirt. Nothing happened. He pressed it several times only to feel a soft press and no consequence. This tense action of not seeing the Minister, deeply affected the Minister. He slowly approached the suicide bomber.

Minister : What is the matter boy?

Amir : It wouldn’t trigger.

Minister : What wouldn’t?

Amir : This Bomb. Do I have to explain it to everyone? I am a suicide bomber and I have to kill you but this bomb hidden under my shirt wouldn’t blast. I pressed the button several times but to no effect.

Minister : A SUICIDE BOMBER? I don’t care who you are but my aim is to please people. I shall clear your problem too soon.

Saying so he tore open our bomber’s shirt. There he saw that the bomber was not pressing the big red button which makes the bomb blast but instead a big black mole on his stomach. Only too happy to help, the minister himself took his index finger with the gold ring and pressed the red button.

(We leave the sounds of the blast, people screaming, ambulance sirens and the usual rumpus after any other bomb blast and go to the next day)

Newspaper reports say that there were 328 killed in the suicide blasts including the minister… But if we had counted the number of brains they would have surely been less than 325. Only we know why.

An apple's day out

It had been the tradition of great kings to go around their country in disguise and essentially and bluntly know what the lay man thinks of him. It soon faded away when absolute monarchy was replaced by popular democracy and intelligent minds with imbecile ones. Musing on this strange tradition left Mr. Roderick Blimp, the Assistant Director of the Ministry of Public Conflicts and Useful Gossip, from his office. He stuck a little green leaf on his head and painted himself red, thereby thinking to have disguised himself cleverly as an apple which was certainly out of shape. As a matter of fact, he never did look like an apple for apples have something inside them. He headed straight for the markets for he somehow came to know that the markets are usually crowded.

 

The whole market saw him for a second and returned to its own rhythm for it knew the Assistant Director of the Ministry of Public Conflicts and Useful Gossip when it saw one. Entering the market, he saw a bunch of old guys laughing. Presuming that it is due to old age he continued his quest – the quest to know his inner self by asking others. Nearing a big shop, he saw some small boys giggling at him. Saying to himself that childhood is a time to be happy, he went on for some decent looking man. After sometime, he saw some people japing at him. He looked behind only to find a big Mango. But why would they tease a Mango? He quietly went to the bunch and asked, “What do you think of the man who is the assistant to head of Ministry of Public Conflicts and Unusual Gossip the” Silence fell over the group. Suddenly a young man quipped, “How much of his character do you want us to expose?” “Anything and everything is fine.” “Ok then. Here it goes. He is not an Assistant, he is an Ass. He is a nitwit, dumb, pudding head, poor fish, thicko, the only human with 4 brain cells, even the civilizations of Mesopotamia would have known much more that what he knows? But still people say that he is as lovely as an apple” saying this they burst into laughter of certainly high mirth.

 

(Ting) Enlightenment! Now, completely aware of his image in public and also sensing the impending danger, Blimp dashed out of the market only to bump into the Mango which he had already seen. “Can’t you give way for an apple which has just been insulted a bit too much by the public?” Completing the question, he starts staring at Mango’s face. “Pleased to meet you, sir. What brings the Director of the Ministry of Public Conflicts  and Useful Gossip to the market sir?” Mango, with the usual majestic look replied, “The same reason for which you have come here.” “Business is not quite the same sir. I wouldn’t be surprised if the locals rise in mutiny in a few hours.” With a scary look the other replied, “ I fear the same, assistant. Look around you and you will hear sounds of joy everywhere. That is not because of our reign but because of our outfits. Presently, we are as they call, the Laughing Stock of this Market. Let us quit this market and start writing our resignation letters.”

 

“Sir, you are supposed to be yellow. But your face is red sir.”

“It happens when one is insulted too much, Blimp. They have demolished us. We are with level to the road. Red is the least I expected.”

“Hehe. If at all I turned red, it wouldn’t be seen, sir”

“Very funny.”

A Guide to writing Bad Poetry

Danger: The following article was written under controlled environment. Writer won't be responsible for any kind of organ failure.

There was this human called Ishan – Tall, well-built, silly walk and had a brain like the four headed, man-eating haddock fish beast of Aberdeen (It didn’t exist). There was also a sister of his who once completed her 100m in the relay race just by doing Pink Panther hops. Eventually, they finished fourth in the race. Seems like an achievement? You may be wrong for only four had participated. 

This Ishan always used to think that he could write poems and lots of them, a problem too common these days. Breaking all definitions given my Wordsworth, he would sit and think of topics for his poems. The main objective of his poem would be to rhyme the second line with the first one and not the very essence of the poem if at all something like that existed in his poems. The second line would at any cost rhyme with the first line, even though no meaning was conveyed. 

Here is a short guide to writing Ishanian Poems:- 

1. Write the first line that comes to your mind. This will form the first line of your poem. Make it as poetic as possible.

                                                “As the lion met the fox” 

2. Make a sentence that rhymes with fox. Keep in mind that it should be the first line striking your mind.

                                                “I was wearing a pair of socks” 

3. Continue in the same way….

                                                “I suddenly remember Goldilocks

                                                 And my friend got Chicken-Pox” 

4. If you have completed your first four lines, CONGRATULATIONS. Write four more stanzas in a similar manner, and you have completed your first Ishan Poem.

 

Ishanian poetry is also highly characterized by the excessive use of words ending with –tion

                          Eg->                 “To build a beautiful nation,

                                                  The boy had a queer notion

                                                  1 + 1 is of course addition

                                                  9 – 9 is subtraction.”

 

Somehow, after a hard fight, the Ed. Board members forced the Chief Editor of Praire to somehow publish one of Ishan’s poems. We published it the next issue and he received a innumerable mails the next day, some of which we explain here. 

1. First one was from X(name made a variable) who said his brain had a collision with his gall bladder after reading Ishan’s poem and he demanded 5 Lakh (INR) compensation . CE replied saying that he would mail him Ishan’s best poem. We received no more mail from him. 

2. Another was from Y(name made another variable so that it doesn’t match with the first) who said that his heart started moving and it was in his larynx when he reached the last few stanzas of Ishan’s poem. He had to gobble his computer speakers to push it down to its original position. 

Apart from such cases he didn’t receive anything. At last, after some threatening mails from the good old readers, the CE had to ban the publishing of Ishanian poems. He explained his decision as one for “PUBLIC WELFARE” and “HUMAN GOOD”. 

To end with, here is a safe Ishanian poem…

                              “Once my friend had a foe

                                Our teacher said,”Ah, you go

                                The European river is called Po

                                Ha Ha he he hey hey Ho!”      

Ishan highly infuriated by this act, published all her poems on a blog like website called think.com saying, “Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot, Take thou what course thou wilt.” 

BEWARE  !!!           

 

The Train of Fortunate Events

The same old voice of the never tiring woman blared across the Chennai Egmore station announcing the arrival of the train in which I was to board. I wondered what my spoken-English teacher would have said if she had heard the woman break up the sentence into numerable pieces, pausing at all instances where she shouldn’t have. The trilingual announcer did the same mistake in all the three languages that she spoke in. Why Indian Railways employ people with speech defects is still a controversial question.

This question lingering in my mind I along with my mother boarded the train at noon, to be followed by a spectacular family which was to be our nearest fellow passengers for the next 8 hours. The family comprised o

f “The Father”, “The Mother”, “The Sister” and “The Younger Brother”. The last one had some intimate bond with a toy gun which when triggered would let off long plastic bullet with a sticky end. Needless to say, like any other gun, it could be shot at anyone you wish to - No Discrimination. Once in the hands of the shooter, you would be completely in the mercy of the shooter.

But, this one piece of a younger brother, (looked like some Attila the Hunsque Mona Lisa – short and giving everyone a knowing smile)had some considerable amount of grudge against me. Aiming at my caput became his favourite pastime in a matter of seconds. After some two to three hours of serious aiming( in the course of which he had gulped in some carbon based compounds to please his gastric juices), he finally must have remember Arjuna or who’s-that-guy, the one who cut his little finger while chopping onions.. and closed one of his eyes. The shoot was imminent and duly after aiming my forehead he shot me. He missed his aim closely and the bullet hit my stomach, a rather deflated one. Believe it or not, it wasn’t paining. I sat there thinking what I should do next. Whether to act as if my pancreas had burst and cry out loud in pain so as to entertain the kid or to just see here and there inside the train and say,”Hey, is there a tree inside the compartment ?? A leaf just fell over my stomach…!!”. My thought process was curtailed by “The Mother” who started to imitate a ferocious and savage dog, barking out in Tamil at his son. Later on, I found out that she was a teacher and it was quite natural for her to do so.

 The best way to escape such a thing is to go to sleep and the future Abhinav Bindra perfectly executed the act. All this while, “The Sister” and “The Father” were getting their extra three hours and woke up when our hero went to sleep. The Sister as you will see had the body of a weak girl but the mind of a criminal genius. The Father, The Mother and The Son went to sleep with the Daughter hatching a plot. (Click!!!). The Sister quietly and gently tapped the Brother with the means of a clenched fist. The Brother sat erect like some zombie getting up from its grave. He returned the force and felt happy about it. And what proceeded was what one would call “A fierce exchange of blows” . It continued for quite some time with the Parents still happy with their closed eyes and endless dreams.  At about 4’o Clock in the evening, “a voice so thrilling was ne’er heard in the spring time from the cuckoo bird” as Wordsworth would have liked to call it. People turned their heads to the small boy who was still unaware of the fact that he is now the centre of attraction and that he has to "use his wits and follow fashion" as the frog said. Fellows sleeping came alive and went back to their previous action, thinking – “(yawn) Yet another Brute”

The Brother badly wanted his gun which he sacrificed to his father after this issue and went and sat on his mother’s lap. The Sister (who wanted the toy gun too) on the other hand was sent to the Father’s lap after getting a slap from her mother. A week before, our English teacher had completed the Drama - Julius Caesar and I still held the beautiful remarks and dialogues in my mind. I thought to myself the conversation within the family –

Father : Why did you hit your brother ?

Daughter : Why sister hit his brother ? here is my answer .Not that I loved him less, but that I loved the toy gun more!

Mother : Why did you scratch your sister ?                                                             

 Son : Thrice did I refuse the old Toy Gun for a newer one and yet Sister says I was ambitious

 But still she is an honourable girl, so are they all, all honourable girls.                                                                                                                                                          

The woman after blithely hitting the daughter saw my mother and smiled. Phew !! what a smile it was.. all her teeth was facing my  mother, mind it all 67 of them. The father refused his son the gun saying, “You will kill someone with your bullet and then that guy would come running to me to complain about you”. I was reminded of the joke wherein the father says to his Son, “Son, don’t go near that lawn mower. You will lose both your legs and then come running to me for help.”

Apart from all these silly things, they were a happy lot – “The so-called head of the family Father”, “The shark –jawed ever-shouting teacher Mother”, “The upcoming Irene Adler (The woman criminal genius whom you would often come across in Sherlock Holmes ) Sister” and “The ignorant and aiming for the 2016 or 2020 Olympics Double Trap Gold medal Brother”.

As always, after this happy account of things, I felt as I always have that -

“A Long Journey in the Train is worth two in the bus”

 

The Untitled Story

*This article was written under controlled environment. Any resemblance to those popular or in the grave is completely a blunder of the plagiarizer.*

It is very important that one ends one’s story properly. It should end in such a way that the reader should feel that it was really a good ending to a good story. The reader should be unable to guess how the story is going to finish, it must be a complete twist.  One of the most common (personally one of the worst) ways to end a story is “blah blah blah blah…Blah blah blah and then I woke up from my sleep. It was all a blah blah blah”

Here is another story which ends in the same note. It is narrated by a very eccentric and well-settled thief who later became a lawyer though.

“ It was a dark and stormy night. I was, if my memory doesn’t fail me, heavily drunk. I usually drink, but that night I crossed my usual limits. This I had to do to get mental toughness and physical endurance owing to the fact that I had to burgle my neighbour’s house that very night. The reason behind this illegal act was that 35 years ago, the very same day, he had stolen my new 7cm long rubber-fitted-in-the-back-pencil. It would seem something absurd but pencils were too costly those days and my father couldn’t afford to buy each of my brothers a 7cm long rubber-fitted-in-the-back-pencil. And so, I had promised him that I would have my revenge. Now was the time…..

                I stood beside the huge wall with a fork and a spoon tightly placed between my jaws. I climbed the wall with quite some amount of dexterity and sat on it, watching the dark house, working out all the possibilities of my entrance into it. I thought I would knock at the main door and introduce myself as a salesman, but I ruled that out for I felt it is a sin to wake up people from their sleep. After 2 hours of diligent work by my brain, I decided that I would go through the backdoor. My watch showed 2A.M. and I jumped down from the wall. I had a great fall as nursery kids would describe, fortunately only on grass.

                I got up on my feet and looked around. The path leading to the backdoor on my right was blocked, I had to go past the main door, take a right turn, go straight and reach the backdoor. I started tiptoeing. I felt as if I was walking sideways. And Lo!!! I really was. I would walk horizontally right  and the next moment horizontally left. When I reached the main door which was just some feet from my starting position, it had already struck 3. I tripped over an uncared for brick and fell down sideways.

………      …………   ……….. I woke up from my sleep. A house stood in front of me. It was an exact replica of my own house. There came an ugly woman from inside. To my surprise, she too was an exact replica of my own wife. For the matter of fact she was my wife, that was my house and I was lying down in front of my own main door. I could sense danger coming my way. She was pretty angry and asked me what I was doing all the night. I took the fork in my right hand, the spoon in my left and said “I was just waiting for noodles to be served.””

Walter Walter everywhere, only one Walter to write on.

I assume that everyone knows who Walter Hudson was. Well for those of you who don't , you could quite make it out with his model on the left. Describing him, his waist measured 119 inches (3.02m) in 1987 when he was at his peak weight of 1,197 lbs. Hudson lived on an average daily diet of two boxes of sausages, a pound of bacon, 12 eggs, a loaf of bread, four hamburgers and four cheeseburgers, eight portions of fries, three ham steaks, two chickens, four baked potatoes, four sweet potatoes, and four heads of broccoli. He also drank an average of 12 pints of soda with every meal.

My article is related to him. Well, this was an exercise for us in class. It was to write a day's diary entry for Walter. Here is my version

May 13th, 1978
10:00 P.M.

I opened my eyes at 10:00 A.M. But sat on my bed only at 10:30 A.M. The bright star was the first one to greet me morning reminding me of my childhood days when I kept badgering my mother for that big orange of which I was deprived of. Well the first thought after brushing my teeth was of course food. But, I decided to go on another diet, for my family was on the verge of bankruptcy after buying food for me in this growing inflation. It came as a shock to the vegetable vendor when my Mom refused to buy anything from him. He just stood there for sometime unable to comprehend what he had just heard, probably. His mouth opened and closed continuously like some goldfish remembering its food three seconds ago. After sometime, I decided to take a stroll to the hall. I lifted my right leg and after quite a struggle kept it forward. Well, it was a small step for a man, but a giant leap for Walter. After completing three successful steps I decided to cancel my hike, for, the Free to All Training Sessions would soon be broadcast on T.V. Being one of my favourite shows, I don't usually miss them. They show quite undeveloped Walters there. I switched on my T.V. only to be greeted by a special show on the atrocities and problems caused by the politicians. We both had something in common - They also lie and I too lie. I looked at my tummy, it was quiet, rather the stillness of the graveyard. It had gone off to sleep after the decision of my diet. It was dark outside. I took out my Bible and prayed to God that I shouldn't be a subject to mock at in any of the blogs in future.

Sorry for the inconvenience

This blog was temporarily out of order due to the undeniable fact that there was an acute shortage of time. The writer had to undergo serious sufferings. Notable among those are – studying everyday(something which was unknown to the writer),writing exams (the writer had to do that seriously) and little time spent in front of the computer (freedom of surfing was self restricted). The writer will rise again for the sake of his huge audience (which currently comprises of just two) and shall try and continue writing what one would call, arguably the worst articles in town !

How to tackle the whatsoever-price-you-tell-they-will-increase auto drivers’ petrol argument?

Well they have always been a part of the monotonous city life – sly old auto drivers with their traditional khakis on but autos off, who would rather sleep in their autos instead of settling for quite a good amount. Here is a solution to the lame petrol argument they put before you.

Auto Driver : “Petrol vela koodi poiruchu pa…”(I shall translate for the convenience of my readers)
Auto Driver : “Petrol price has increased…”(strike that pa out)

Passenger : “You two legged human with a three wheeled auto that’s the worst excuse I ever get to hear from your species. Your auto can travel 35 km with a single litre of petrol. My destination is just ____ km away from here. You are asking me such a huge sum for such a small distance, I see no connection, nor should you. Logically speaking, you should have asked me only ‘Rs(travel distance x petrol price per litre)/35 . I shall give you your profit based on the skills of driving you possess. On the whole your estimated price is just absurd.“

Two reactions are possible – one, the auto driver should have opened his mouth, flabbergasted, and should have invited you into his auto for the rate you have decided or second, the man must have left during the single sided conversation. Don’t get disheartened if the latter is the reply. He just doesn’t understand your genius. Try the next auto.

The Ultimate Rain

Have you ever seen a young lad exactly 15 years old, suffering from fever and cold, wearing gray pants and a full-arm which looks like some appendage coming out of a proper t-shirt, running and hopping like the Pink Panther, on the newly laid tar road in Besant Nagar with a violin box tightly gripped in his hands refusing an offer of an auto ride to his house a kilometer away even though completely aware of the fact that it is raining heavily but he does not have an umbrella which would make him wet and would further increase his illness? Well, as a matter of fact, that young boy is me. I had just got down from the bus that it started raining kittens and puppies. What is the use shielding against nature’s H₂O? Having this in mind, I decided to face it. If you could imagine the bullet-time effect of Usain Bolt’s record time run, it would be too fast. The speed of that girl writing with an ink pen in the Vodafone Chhota Recharge would fit perfectly. I reached home only to be greeted with loads and loads of criticism. It all ended with the sound waves of an angry father passing through the ears of his 15 year old son.

The Journey Begins

Refreshed, energized, perked up and reinvigorated, the boy starts his journey. How many roads must the boy walk down to be called a boy, how many times should he come to a point where the road diverges into two, how many days of his life will be dark and dreary, no one knows. He should blindly follow what his minds says. His not to reason why but his only to do and die. It maybe that the gulfs may wash him down, it maybe that he shall reach the happy isles. Whatever happens, he shall be strong in his will. He shall strive, seek, find but never yield. Here goes the only opportunity he has got... You better lose yourself in this blog....