Getting Fresh - II

(For Part-I of this post, visit http://hamstersqueaks.blogspot.in/2012/07/getting-fresh.html)


The lackadaisical lifestyle that dominated my first half at Munger very quickly gave way to frenetic- there's no other word for it- work.

I used the white board more times in three days than I ever did back in my hostel room in four years

I worked for 14 hours a day. I worked on Sundays and I worked from 11 to 6 in the night (or the morning, whatever) and just when it seemed to me that I was going to go the way of the dinosaurs, a convocation happened.

For a couple of days, I found myself back in the infernal institute which had bad food, erratic and mostly poor internet and with a penchant for cutting out the power on the eve of an examination. It was then that I had the most predictable epiphany.

You don't need great luxury if you can slouch all day with a bunch of basters.

Add the fact that I barely had a chance to bid farewell to everyone on my own terms (courtesy a broken fibula) and you'd know that I clicked a lot of photos.

Thank God for convocations; I'm waiting for my official batch reunion now

(which should come on some date in 2037).

*************

On the journey back to Munger, I was struck by the sight of a monstrously long queue awaiting the same train I was supposed to board. Easily running down a hundred metres or so, it was whipped into place by a few policemen who looked bored with the mundane task of handling scores of disgruntled passengers all clamouring for a way to slip ahead in the line, a lathi or two be damned. My attempts to take a snap were aborted when I noticed the anti-elitist stink eye I received from a fair few fellow travelers and I could only afford to lock away the image of that human snake winding its way down the platform in Howrah. The poor souls only wanted a square feet of area (or less) - enough space for a trip back home.

**************

I end this note with what I hope would be an enduring symbol of my experiences in the strange cut-off town that is Munger.

HWR - 4

Strictly or even loosely speaking, the following post is hardly a weekly roundup. I've been on the move for a month now with little or no internet access. I did manage to finish a couple of books. John le Carre's The Spy Who Came in from the Cold  was a well written espionage novel. It was the only copy left in the Carre section at a stall in the World Book Fair (I beat some good friends to that last book). The book is about an agent of the British secret service who's out on a mission, his final one, to discredit and ultimately eliminate his counterpart on the Red End. It's less of James Bond in terms of action and rather heavy with the tribulations of the battered and weary protagonist.

The highlight of 2012 will also most definitely consist of Roger Federer's 17th Grand Slam title, allowing the Swiss maestro to reclaim the rank 1 spot and further emboldening his place in the pantheon of sporting greats. I had written a post on him not so far back as a fan and it's a great privilege to see him play for some more glorious years.

Here, then, is a list of links and articles I found interesting:

1. Allow me to begin with a must read article on the state of Federer's mind before Wimbledon. Positive and slightly cautious in its outlook, it's worth a few minutes of your time.
2. This one's a really #longread. A mammoth 12000 word essay on Gandhiji.
3. I intended to write a long piece on the state of morality in the corporate world but then there are several articles on the Libor case already, including this one from HBR.
4. The demise of Rajesh Khanna closes another memorable chapter of Bollywood's history. Open magazine published an excellent story on the rise and fall of RK a month ago. Do read it.

That's it.

H

Getting Fresh

The blog that you are reading has never had a moment’s rest. It was born out of the desperation of a crippled student stranded on his bed for more than 45 days. Weeks that the student under question could have spent rafting, trekking, bungee jumping, spelunking, hang gliding… or at least clicking a few photos of the small town that is Roorkee.

The canvas has changed dramatically. A fresh post ultimately comes after being inducted into the corporate world. The first two weeks at Kolkata were spent at an awesome luxury hotel. Years spent in a hostel with the very worst in lavatory facilities; it was slightly overwhelming to see a bathroom of such calibre. The corporate induction programme wasn’t bad either.

Heaven hath no joy as this.

A glass of cold milk with ice please

Add another two days of “experiential learning” at a resort that was part fun part farce. Then a week in a jolly old guesthouse that was warm and kind and slightly mouldy. The circle of life was completed rather quickly- I was back to daal sabzi. It was also the week when I began my work life, in a factory with the heavy smell of tobacco and the constant whirring of machines, which meant that a few sensory organs had to be put under suspended animation.

Bangla United

Work life began but not with the smooth pick up of a Ferrari. It coughed and spluttered, gathered pace only to lose direction and finally ground itself to an abrupt halt by Saturday. Restaurants and book stores were visited but with a sort of tired franticness that I had never experienced before. Gangs of Wasseypur also made it to the menu, making June the only month in my entire life when I could see two movies at the cinema.

I am learning again but not from books. A bunch of people with very different views and expectations from the world is a welcome relief from the pseudo protection I received from like- minded peers. I have to fight for my convictions; I have to concede the weaker ones among them.

****************

Munger is a philosopher’s dream. Even after a murderous day of work you can return and spend an hour or so staring at the high ceiling, constantly going through a path of depressing self-discovery. There is a certain sense of desperation in this land of goats and desi kattas; a feeling of distaste lingers at the back of your mind. You are moulting again and it’s no less painful. Bursts of excitement in witnessing the state of the art management practices are interspersed with the wariness that can only come to a body that has never run for more than two hours at a stretch.

My very first week at Bihar also included a trip to adjoining villages. We returned with torrential rain on our heels, the lush green countryside a sight to behold. A trip to an old fort where Mir Qasim allegedly spent his last years in exile was also squeezed into the itinerary. On top of the hill, staring away into the distance with the vast expanse of villages, hills infested with Naxals and rivers and streams slithering away to the sea you couldn’t help but think of all the people out there, playing out their insignificant parts, never to be recorded or remembered. 

The hill will still remain.

 Mentha oil extraction requires this crude but highly effective distillation column

Arvi

****************

The leg swells up occasionally. My forays into the employee township generally end at the community club where I’ve started playing snooker (I’m at level abysmal currently). For days when I came out, generally accompanied with the harsh and now slightly familiar sting of rookie-destruction, I barely noticed the tennis courts and the curious mix of kids and thirty somethings whacking their way to a sweat. After 8^th July, after Federer’s majestic and awe inspiring victory at Wimbledon, I stop there for more than a few minutes. One thought beseeches my mind.

The court is tiny. I mean it. When you watch the game on TV you often forget that the battleground of the likes of Laver, Borg and Emerson never changed. And I forget that the seemingly huge surface isn’t all that big. To think of all the angles, the insane drop shots and blistering groundstrokes that the Federer racquet conjures up take place in a court of exactly the same dimensions is simply belittling. There I stood staring at the opposite end and wondering how I had let slip this obvious fact. The difference between the top twenty and the rest of the field was never more apparent. It just isn’t enough to know how to play the game. Can you squeeze as much juice per inch of playing surface?

BTW, Federer is the GOAT.

****************

Another Sunday has come and we’ve all been advised to be careful and wary of snakes. I am waiting for my turn as the local barber (naayee) snips and cuts away with the pitter-patter of raindrops in the background.

The place looks a lot like my alma mater

(to be continued)

A Belated Eulogy

“Steve Jobs, pioneer of the computer as a jail made cool, designed to sever fools from their freedom, has died.”

                                  -  Richard Stallman

On October 5, 2011 it seemed the world at large was in grief over the untimely death of a great entrepreneur. Hashtags abounded (#iSad?), cut-copy-paste was channelled effectively in sharing eulogies and there was turmoil of despair in the minds of millions of wannabes.

The dust has largely settled. It’s much safer to wade against that time’s tide and it gives me a chance to say a few things that have been brewing in my mind ever since the departure of a great visionary. I thought of many ways to begin a measured tirade but I have a somewhat easier approach to bring home my case with an appropriate analogy. The Oatmeal, an instrument of satire and slapstick had recently called Thomas Alva Edison as the biggest douchebag in the history of geekdom. The accusations levelled against Edison can be briefly listed as follows:

1. That he did not invent the light bulb himself but only improved it in a way that made it accessible to everyone. “Edison simply figured out how to sell the light bulb.”
2. “Edison was not a geek; he was a CEO.”
3. “Edison was known for rushing to the patent office as soon as one of his employees had something.”
4. He was utterly ruthless with his employees (even with Tesla when he worked under Edison) and would get down to ridiculous levels of savagery to disparage his rivals' works.

The Oatmeal guy then concludes his robust and highly impartial analysis of the achievements of Edison with the following apt conclusion:

In short, the only thing Edison truly pioneered was douchebaggery.

See anything familiar?

Exactly.

HWR - 3

It was an emotionally turbo-charged week. I am out of IIT Roorkee...

(I'll write a post on it some time)

This week's round-up has variety and I hope you like the links. As usual, please comment and disagree:

1. Neil Gaiman gave a commencement speech at The University of the Arts. Really inspirational stuff.
2. A highly readable short piece on how minor and generally insignificant research is excitedly taken up by the media and grotesquely misrepresented.
3. Facebook has been lambasted too many times in the past 10 days and I thought I'd post this article on how it threatens to take down most of the net based companies as well.
4. I've shown this link to several friends but for those of you who have missed it, take a look at Darth L. Jackson.

That's all for this edition of HWR. 

P.S. My companions at my Alma Mater are sorely missed.

H

Update: The Neil Gaiman Vimeo link has been causing problems for a lot of people. You can watch it on Youtube.

The Battle for Grammar

There was a time not very long ago when I used to feel very proud of my control over grammar. You know, your ears prickle when you hear an incorrect sentence, you have the ability to catch hold of the best way to express a thought and you’re able to correctly apply some of the more rigid rules (those that are less conducive to being explained through simple logic) of the Queen’s. I lived in a happy bubble. Even after turning incredibly lazy and occasionally spewing out a dirtier combination of easy-to-use phrases, I still turn red whenever I make a blatant error. I wasn't the only person to harbour a feeling of supremacy and quiet contentment. The number of grammar conscious people constantly increased in my circle and all was well.

Or so it seemed. Peers play a crucial role in moulding your tastes. I had no qualms about using SMS slang in chats and texts. I had no problem not using the proper sentence case while typing. Not until I experienced deep disapproval from my seniors that I changed my preferences and started looking down upon the lowly classes. “That guy writes ‘hawt’!” or “I can’t understand why they spell ‘kool’ when the original’s in four letters too”.  I was part of the elite, the Right, a protector of the sacrosanct ways of English. I could only generate sympathy for the other side in a good mood, and scorn otherwise.

Things started changing soon. For one thing, your friends are a mirror of your own self and I could see how I looked to the outside world- patronizing, insensitive and deluded. Besides, there was a limit to my desire of emulating my peers. As the years went by, I thought I had narrowed my view of the world. The argument that resulted from my mental meanderings was this: as long as you can convey your thoughts to the intended recipient does it actually matter if you use proper grammar? And who sets the rules anyway? If we had not digressed from the standards set by the pre-eminent linguists of the era we’d still be using old English. Shakespeare would have been convicted for gross sacrilege and hanged as he invented words on the go to suit his need and distorted verbs and tenses that go far beyond anything else done by a writer in the name of poetic license. Language is a living body; it reflects the pace and needs of our times. We might just end up with Newspeak. But the difference is that people aren’t being forced onto a newer language, we’re adapting it to our lifestyles. On the other hand, a Hagrid sort of a guy generally wouldn’t get a chance to speak at an international conference of leaders. His language may be a natural consequence of his environment but it’s like the FPS system. It’s good enough for the entire course of a person’s life but wouldn’t fetch him/her an entry into a science seminar where the de facto standard is the SI.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to search very far to receive a context to my tribulations. There is a raging debate going on in the academic world, the battle between the Prescriptivists and the Descriptivists.

A brief description is warranted. Precriptivists are the conservatives. They demand the need to define and regulate the form of language. There are rules and these must be followed to maintain the beauty of language and to keep out all forms of ambiguity or dilution of standards. A case in point is the difference between the use of “who” for the subject and “whom” for the object in a sentence. They say that rules are important to avoid chaos and to keep everyone in line (at the expense of losing those who couldn’t be inducted in the right way). Descriptivists are those who believe that rules are nothing but the current predominant state of usage. It’s enough for a child who learns a language from his environment and then uses it to communicate effectively with others. An emphasis on rules necessitates bias against certain dialects and forms. Language is a living system of internally consistent logic. Many of the rules, they say, have no basis in them. They are, to use Steven Pinker’s words, “old wives' tales”.

I mention Pinker’s name to stress that this is not a debate between the academics and the masses. It’s a battle that’s raging between the top psychologists and linguists of the world. A recent essay by Joan Acocella sparked off a skirmish between the two sections. On first glance and to an uninitiated mind the review is a lengthy discussion of the merits and fallacies of a recently published book. A more informed read tells you that the reviewer has launched a scathing attack on the decriptivists. It would have been all well too, except that Acocella makes several mistakes in her analysis. Consequently, her review has been lambasted  and ridiculed. You can’t launch an attack without knowing your terrain.

To my mind, the greatest difference between the two sides is the emphasis which they put on the role of rules in defining a language. It would be easy to state that a middle path is desired, one that allows language to evolve continuously but with the rules there in place to avoid confusion. It sounds simple. It isn’t. The hardest thing for an intelligent mind which has spent years on a problem is for it to concede or compromise. I don’t think rules are so important. I don’t find anything wrong with slang. Historically, truth and convention are defined by the majority. The day enough people regularly write hawt instead of hot will be the day it’s inducted into the dictionary.

Take it away, Bob:

For he that gets hurt
Will be he who has stalled
There's a battle outside
And it is ragin'
It'll soon shake your windows
And rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changin'.

HWR-2

A big yawn to you all. I'm not really in a mood to be articulate today. Let's just get on with the round up:

1. Theoretically, all electromagnetic waves can be refracted. The amount of refraction naturally depends on the wavelength and it's been very hard to see any such effect on gamma rays. Not anymore. Researchers have managed to bend gamma radiation, with many possible applications in technology.
2. This one's for movie buffs. Here's a rare picture of the impressive gamut of stars MGM was once proud to possess. (1943)
3. A link for the increasing number of committed friends around me. A list of 42 ways to break up. (Warning: The list is huge. I haven't gone through the entire thing myself)
4. On to football now. I'm not sure how many people know about it because I haven't seen any talk or discussion. John Terry's photo was used by the Indian Health Ministry in its quit smoking graphic on all cigarette packs produced in India. Let the jokes roll.

That's about it. The week has been consumed by my BTP and all that lack of sleep has turned me into a wreck. I hope I can post something apart from an HWR next time. 

H