Let me call it so ... 'the art of referencing' !
I can recall moments from as back in time as primary school when an idea would strike me, and as it happens even today, I would become very restless, eager to share the 'idea'.
At times, on quick retrospection, the idea would sound more brilliant to me than in the first instant, the instant it was born; at times it would begin to sound atrocious, but almost always more remarkable !
What happens with remarkable ideas or remarkable people or things or food ... anything ... is that the focus often gets restricted to the sheer remarkability quotient of the subject (some thing the recent revolution of 'sensationalism' in TV news channels has brilliantly cashed ... they draw your attention not to the subject but to its being remarkable ... so it makes your eyes pop out ... it gets talked about and they make money or whatever else they are after).
To me this is saddening. Imagine a thoughtful gift wrapped in a very-very-bright paper and frills pinned to it, maybe a wordy cardling taped to it as well. It's very likely that what catches attention and hence absorbs attention is the wrap, not the gift. Sad!
When I take an idea to a person who I think might appreciate or critique it (both are sought as dearly), I often fear any frills taking the gleam away from the idea. One thing that I've experienced very commonly spoiling the party is the spontaneous need to acknowledge and say 'Wow what an idea!' Over years I have grown to rather dislike people who are instantaneous in their appreciation. It frightens me. I am not sure if the 'idea' even sank in. As opposed to something having been found, something being conceived is a 'bigger deal' where in lies the perfect setup for its demise. If I write 2 stanzas of rhyme and take it to someone to be read, it is less likely it will incite as original a response as would a stanza I say I found on the internet perhaps; coz in the latter case the remarkability of it having been created does not eat into half the reader's soul.
Now, in a bid to shrug off the baton of ownership of the idea, I often attempt to create a story of how I 'discovered' the idea. I would randomly name a philosopher (he said this), blurt out a fancy name of a fictitious book (where I read it), talk about a random person, live or imagined (I heard it form him). To prevent the spurious 'awwww' or 'wowwww'.
Why this whole spill?
Because of late, meeting new people, talking to people with varying histories and geographies, browsing through videos and blogs on the internet (yes I am jobless and have all the time in the world for nonsense pursuits), I have had multiple deja-vu's. Bizarre things I imagined, nebulous ideas I conjured, I realize aren't completely unrealistic after all. They exist; in varying shapes and modes around the world. And I'm discovering terminologies for my whims!
Back in 2nd or 3rd year of college, I had built an imaginary school of research only to slate my fancy for the possibility of phonetic sounds carrying meaning. I find out via a TED talk 'phonesthesia' (http://www.ted.com/talks/golan_levin_on_software_as_art.html). I was possessed with the idea that sounds and images do inevitably have a relation. They have coined terms like 'the sounding image'. I had a hazy notion of what I later found was called associative memory. And now I see an Arthur Benjamin demystifying mathemagic and a Bobby Mcferrin making a point in audio adaptivity! It's all making a complete circle.
But this is digressing from the subject. Back to the 'art' of referencing, I say is one's veil from beneath which one can trick the smart-ass Heisenberg and record observations of the inside of a nucleus and not wake up the sleeping neutrons! It might be a classic case of name-dropping for some but it may well be thought of as inverse plagiarism!
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Database and Networking
A chain of incidents over the last one month brought back memories of the time we bade farewell to our last set of seniors at BITS (I distinctly remember how vulnerable and fragile I felt at the thought of being the eldest). I was reminded of some stark words that the-man-that-is Rohit Koul said :
"To grow/develop/prosper, a man, just like a computer system, needs two elements- database and networking"
It was much later that I made sense of the profound words!
Database = one's knowledge/skills/information-bank -> of course vital !
Network = the people one lives-with/is-connected-to/looks-at and listens-to !
I don't intend to bore you with details of the story. But I wish to share a lesson I learnt:
"One's database and network nourish each other"
The smarter one's network, the better his database grows.
The better one's database, the finer one's network grows.
Thank you Rohit Koul!
"To grow/develop/prosper, a man, just like a computer system, needs two elements- database and networking"
It was much later that I made sense of the profound words!
Database = one's knowledge/skills/information-bank -> of course vital !
Network = the people one lives-with/is-connected-to/looks-at and listens-to !
I don't intend to bore you with details of the story. But I wish to share a lesson I learnt:
"One's database and network nourish each other"
The smarter one's network, the better his database grows.
The better one's database, the finer one's network grows.
Thank you Rohit Koul!
Friday, September 3, 2010
Love Krishna in n ways
Yesterday, traveling to Jalandhar, I read an article in TOI on different expressions of love towards Krishna. A bulleted summary:
1. Vatsalya bhav: love like a parent (read Yashodha); cuddle him, caress him, pamper him and feel ( even inexplicably highly) proud of him
2. Madhur bhav: love like a partner (read Radha); be fond of him and visualize in him all glory and pleasure.
3. Sakhya bhav: love like a friend (read Arjuna!); see the ultimate companion (and perhaps guide, I think) in him.
Minutes to go before the mid night bell marked Krishna's birth, I was recollecting how last year me, Somu and Sheeri wore white Kurta Pyjamas, went to ISKCON temples in Noida, Delhi and even did the Maala Jap.
With the melody of hare krishna hare rama flowing from the TV next room, the mood sank in again.
I was just typing a new status mssg "Happy Birthday flute genius" on g-talk and fb, and my grandfather comes chanting hare krishna, walks to the Pooja room, lights up an agrabatti , swings Krishna's cradle (which chachi decorated earlier today) and my grandmother follows suit.
It struck me: another classification of ways to love Krishna- the Pooja room chant and the update on social web; both virtual, both as meaningful (or meaningless) !!
1. Vatsalya bhav: love like a parent (read Yashodha); cuddle him, caress him, pamper him and feel ( even inexplicably highly) proud of him
2. Madhur bhav: love like a partner (read Radha); be fond of him and visualize in him all glory and pleasure.
3. Sakhya bhav: love like a friend (read Arjuna!); see the ultimate companion (and perhaps guide, I think) in him.
Minutes to go before the mid night bell marked Krishna's birth, I was recollecting how last year me, Somu and Sheeri wore white Kurta Pyjamas, went to ISKCON temples in Noida, Delhi and even did the Maala Jap.
With the melody of hare krishna hare rama flowing from the TV next room, the mood sank in again.
I was just typing a new status mssg "Happy Birthday flute genius" on g-talk and fb, and my grandfather comes chanting hare krishna, walks to the Pooja room, lights up an agrabatti , swings Krishna's cradle (which chachi decorated earlier today) and my grandmother follows suit.
It struck me: another classification of ways to love Krishna- the Pooja room chant and the update on social web; both virtual, both as meaningful (or meaningless) !!
Monday, August 16, 2010
Where is our patriotism?
Back in the days when our British mates were around to drill us from behind, it was easy to define patriotism. One had to either stand up in processions, stage hunger strikes or plan bombings in state assemblies. If one dared to stand up with a firm voice and steady head, one sure had the germs. If he/she felt those germs kicking from within, and could find an apt vent for the same, patriotism was identified. Men and women thriving on the vast motherland of India had been gradually encaged in an ever shrinking virtual jail. The suffocating ambience bred those germs and the germs clearly knew what the motto of their being was- to eat away the confining walls. Of course some wombs nurtured these germs better than others, and they went on to be known as the Gandhis and Shastris and Bhagat-Singhs And Chandrashekhars.
The challenge facing the generation of the sons-of-soil was massive, the oppression sickening and hence turbulence was a given; the gravel of vengeance churned the tummies and men and women hurled. The epic of attempting to digest tough weed gave way to histrionic tales of shoving fingers down the throats and smiting the enemy with what was a poisonous gluten of their disregard and our discontent.
Times were tough. Times were impregnating.
Six decades have passed since we earned our political autonomy.
There are no visible daunting walls. If at all there are cages, they are silver coated.
Our generation has too much to think about; nothing to worry about. There are careers to plan, movies to go to, sports events to follow on TV, globalization to debate, tourism to venture,economic showers to bathe in; and on the other hand, corruption to loathe, terrorism to detest, growing materialism to mock with pseudo spirituality, global warning to warn each other about. But nothing really is seizing us by the neck. If we gaze at the horizons, there are dark clouds looming. But far and scattered. We are't yet scared enough to jump out of our seats.
With smirk or smile, one witty soul aptly pointed put:
"We humans are like rockets. We don't work unless our asses are on fire."
So perhaps the need is for some fire to set, some clouds to burst. We don't lack patriotism. It's lying dormant.
I am an average Joe. I am not out on streets cleaning the clutter but I don't like clutter and I talk about it. On my part, I try not to contribute to the clutter. I get goosebumps as most Indians do, I believe, on hearing the national anthem being played out by military bands. I like to watch 'Border', 'Bhagat Singh', 'Lagaan' once in a while. I am not one to suit up with the rising sun every 15th August and 26th January. But I take pride in standing upright in reverent silence when Tagore's poem of salutation is recited. I am not one with markedly boiling blood, but I like to meet people with boiling blood. I hold such people in awe.
Today, after many years, I suited up in blue jeans and a long white kurta at 6 am sharp to attend the Independence-Day parade. With only 3 hours of sleep, my body was not at its agile best. But the excitement kept me up. I was not to march before the waving tri-color but what stopped me from walking with long strides! So, I walked with long strides. When the meticulous squads of state police and CRPF jawans walked past us on the beat, with the rousing melody of military band flowing, I was awed by the display of discipline and by the tales of vitality of various battalions narrated by the Hindi and Urdu commentators in turn. I was smiling. When the school students marched by in their squads with added fervor, my smile grew. When the students' pipe bands played and marched past us, my smile grew to where it could not grow further and it held on. Right after the parade, a 500-odd strong student group drilled in vibrant colors to the tune of ever enchanting A.R Rahman's 'Vande Mataram' and my whole self was filled with joy.
Am I patriotic?
Did my love for the country fill me up with joy and pride or was it the same high one receives from an Arnold Schwarzenegger film?
This thought infested me as I drove back home after the ceremony. I thought 'may be it's a mix of both-some truth in my patriotism and some in my love for highs'.
Now I have this insatiable desire to share with people my joy whenever and wherever I find it; people whom I love, people I revere, people who inspire me, people who soothe me. If I've watched a brilliant movie, I have to talk about it with friends who have fine taste in movies. If I've discovered a new soul crunching track, I have to share it with friends I spent nights with, raising toasts to the Kobains and Scott-Stapps. When I feel a stream of patriotic blood gushing inside me, I have to talk to my friend Rahul Azad, who without any marked heroics taught me a few lessons in patriotism.
When I read his post (http://www.facebook.com/notes/rahul-azad/im-sorry/106321289424434), my excitement deflated; although what he wrote was not surprising. My post is dedicated to this friend and attempts to deliver a pragmatic answer to the questions he has indignantly asked in his post. Incidentally, our dear friend Deepak Sharma too had a question to ask a couple of days back, which is very pertinent in this context. I am hoping for a few more posts from him, from Rahul Azad and from more 'average-Joes' who might have felt excited, exhilarated, indignant or even ashamed at various instants when the son-of-soil in them felt summoned, mocked or challenged.
The challenge facing the generation of the sons-of-soil was massive, the oppression sickening and hence turbulence was a given; the gravel of vengeance churned the tummies and men and women hurled. The epic of attempting to digest tough weed gave way to histrionic tales of shoving fingers down the throats and smiting the enemy with what was a poisonous gluten of their disregard and our discontent.
Times were tough. Times were impregnating.
Six decades have passed since we earned our political autonomy.
There are no visible daunting walls. If at all there are cages, they are silver coated.
Our generation has too much to think about; nothing to worry about. There are careers to plan, movies to go to, sports events to follow on TV, globalization to debate, tourism to venture,economic showers to bathe in; and on the other hand, corruption to loathe, terrorism to detest, growing materialism to mock with pseudo spirituality, global warning to warn each other about. But nothing really is seizing us by the neck. If we gaze at the horizons, there are dark clouds looming. But far and scattered. We are't yet scared enough to jump out of our seats.
With smirk or smile, one witty soul aptly pointed put:
"We humans are like rockets. We don't work unless our asses are on fire."
So perhaps the need is for some fire to set, some clouds to burst. We don't lack patriotism. It's lying dormant.
I am an average Joe. I am not out on streets cleaning the clutter but I don't like clutter and I talk about it. On my part, I try not to contribute to the clutter. I get goosebumps as most Indians do, I believe, on hearing the national anthem being played out by military bands. I like to watch 'Border', 'Bhagat Singh', 'Lagaan' once in a while. I am not one to suit up with the rising sun every 15th August and 26th January. But I take pride in standing upright in reverent silence when Tagore's poem of salutation is recited. I am not one with markedly boiling blood, but I like to meet people with boiling blood. I hold such people in awe.
Today, after many years, I suited up in blue jeans and a long white kurta at 6 am sharp to attend the Independence-Day parade. With only 3 hours of sleep, my body was not at its agile best. But the excitement kept me up. I was not to march before the waving tri-color but what stopped me from walking with long strides! So, I walked with long strides. When the meticulous squads of state police and CRPF jawans walked past us on the beat, with the rousing melody of military band flowing, I was awed by the display of discipline and by the tales of vitality of various battalions narrated by the Hindi and Urdu commentators in turn. I was smiling. When the school students marched by in their squads with added fervor, my smile grew. When the students' pipe bands played and marched past us, my smile grew to where it could not grow further and it held on. Right after the parade, a 500-odd strong student group drilled in vibrant colors to the tune of ever enchanting A.R Rahman's 'Vande Mataram' and my whole self was filled with joy.
Am I patriotic?
Did my love for the country fill me up with joy and pride or was it the same high one receives from an Arnold Schwarzenegger film?
This thought infested me as I drove back home after the ceremony. I thought 'may be it's a mix of both-some truth in my patriotism and some in my love for highs'.
Now I have this insatiable desire to share with people my joy whenever and wherever I find it; people whom I love, people I revere, people who inspire me, people who soothe me. If I've watched a brilliant movie, I have to talk about it with friends who have fine taste in movies. If I've discovered a new soul crunching track, I have to share it with friends I spent nights with, raising toasts to the Kobains and Scott-Stapps. When I feel a stream of patriotic blood gushing inside me, I have to talk to my friend Rahul Azad, who without any marked heroics taught me a few lessons in patriotism.
When I read his post (http://www.facebook.com/notes/rahul-azad/im-sorry/106321289424434), my excitement deflated; although what he wrote was not surprising. My post is dedicated to this friend and attempts to deliver a pragmatic answer to the questions he has indignantly asked in his post. Incidentally, our dear friend Deepak Sharma too had a question to ask a couple of days back, which is very pertinent in this context. I am hoping for a few more posts from him, from Rahul Azad and from more 'average-Joes' who might have felt excited, exhilarated, indignant or even ashamed at various instants when the son-of-soil in them felt summoned, mocked or challenged.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Skipping meditation
When I first held her, I fumbled. She didn't come to me for I was not deft. I looked around to see if anyone was laughing. Assured, I returned to my endeavor.
I find myself nearly voodooed by her. My days are spent yearning for the evenings. All day, I long to get a grip of the witch. She sings to me, waves to me and smiles to me every time she passes my eye. It's as if she tempts me, and teases by disappearing for a split second. I crave not to let her off my sight, so I roll my eyes with her. But once she's behind my back, I'm restless. So I turn my wrists with fiercer animation and my legs have to oblige. I hop, I land, I hop, I land. My legs like it when they can feel the ground. But I can see her only when I'm off it. My heart is anxious. I don't want to lose sight of her and this fuels me to go faster. The firmness in her voice grows as she begins to whiz past me. The music now flows. If I close my eyes and listen to it, it's as if I'm being served lashes. But the pain is sweet.
And once the sweat begins to trickle down my forehead and wets my eyelashes, she grows resplendent. The feeble light of a setting sun, filtered by the sweat pearl impregnates the space between her and my eyes with colors as brilliant as a rainbow's. And the tale of striving turns into a saga of gratification. Now I can't feel the pain in my legs. I can't see the faces or hear the voices around me. My world has spiraled inwards. She emerges in her glory and I smile and lick bliss off my lips. She has kissed me. I have touched the zenith and I'm quenched. I halt. I'm panting. I lay her on the ground and sit by her side. Her passive self is serene and I touch her gently. Then drawing a deep breath in, I twitch my brow and rise up.
When I joined the neighborhood gym last month, for the nth time in last 5 years, once again with a 'firm' resolve to round my shoulders and flatten my lower abdomen, the trainer handed me a skipping rope. "3 sets of 100 and then come to me". I fumbled withe the first few. I looked around to see if anyone was laughing. Assured, I returned to my endeavor.
In three weeks' time, I have grown so fond of the rope and enchanted by what she does to me that I long to hit the gym like never before. The few minutes of insane skipping prepares not only my muscles but my mind to hit the machines. The routine is tiring and energizing at the same time. In my earlier attempts to learn meditation, I had come to associate stillness with the art. But this recent experience with the rope has taught me what I now call 'skipping meditation'.
I find myself nearly voodooed by her. My days are spent yearning for the evenings. All day, I long to get a grip of the witch. She sings to me, waves to me and smiles to me every time she passes my eye. It's as if she tempts me, and teases by disappearing for a split second. I crave not to let her off my sight, so I roll my eyes with her. But once she's behind my back, I'm restless. So I turn my wrists with fiercer animation and my legs have to oblige. I hop, I land, I hop, I land. My legs like it when they can feel the ground. But I can see her only when I'm off it. My heart is anxious. I don't want to lose sight of her and this fuels me to go faster. The firmness in her voice grows as she begins to whiz past me. The music now flows. If I close my eyes and listen to it, it's as if I'm being served lashes. But the pain is sweet.
And once the sweat begins to trickle down my forehead and wets my eyelashes, she grows resplendent. The feeble light of a setting sun, filtered by the sweat pearl impregnates the space between her and my eyes with colors as brilliant as a rainbow's. And the tale of striving turns into a saga of gratification. Now I can't feel the pain in my legs. I can't see the faces or hear the voices around me. My world has spiraled inwards. She emerges in her glory and I smile and lick bliss off my lips. She has kissed me. I have touched the zenith and I'm quenched. I halt. I'm panting. I lay her on the ground and sit by her side. Her passive self is serene and I touch her gently. Then drawing a deep breath in, I twitch my brow and rise up.
When I joined the neighborhood gym last month, for the nth time in last 5 years, once again with a 'firm' resolve to round my shoulders and flatten my lower abdomen, the trainer handed me a skipping rope. "3 sets of 100 and then come to me". I fumbled withe the first few. I looked around to see if anyone was laughing. Assured, I returned to my endeavor.
In three weeks' time, I have grown so fond of the rope and enchanted by what she does to me that I long to hit the gym like never before. The few minutes of insane skipping prepares not only my muscles but my mind to hit the machines. The routine is tiring and energizing at the same time. In my earlier attempts to learn meditation, I had come to associate stillness with the art. But this recent experience with the rope has taught me what I now call 'skipping meditation'.
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