tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-326855342024-03-07T14:34:18.723+05:30Perorations of my endless thoughtsDiptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-90508437307978450922016-10-12T20:02:00.002+05:302016-10-12T20:08:31.427+05:30How to avoid getting sexually assaulted in hospitals<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">
I went to the hospital today, on one of the customary trips
I make every time weather changes in thepristine SOx/NOx/COx-storehouse that we like to call Delhi.
Without getting into details of what was transpiring in my ENT canals, let me
share what transpired inside the hospital.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Even in hospitals (in fact especially there), we Indians
lack any sense of private space. But that’s probably because very little of
that is usually available at our disposal.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">1)</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;">
</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I was standing in front of the doc's room. Suddenly,
three random chaps wanted to cut the queue. I really don't know why they wanted
to do that since the doc was not in yet.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Anywho. They started breathing down each other's
neck. And everyone was sick! Obviously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">It was like an orgy of people with VD. So,
I moved away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">2)</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;">
</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I move to a spot that was close to the billing
counter. This guy with a thick Bihari accent squeezed himself in the space
between me and the counter. Which was fine. (The Bihari accent is immaterial to
the line of events. But his loud conversations on the phone ensured that his
accent got etched in my memory of this encounter).</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">By then he started bending. With his butt
dangerously close to my crotch. He was bending to place his documents in his
bag. Of course, he could not do it anywhere else. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Anywho. My tryst with close sexual encounters in the
hospital did not end just yet.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">3)</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;">
</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I moved away from the billing counter and stood
in front of another doc's room. The room was empty. There was no queue. So I
thought no one would trouble me. I was excruciatingly mistaken.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A young MR from a random pharmacy company wanted
to leave a memento on the doc's table. He looked like a young sterile virgin. He,
too, bent. But this time with his face precariously close to my crotch.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-25240325798684197642015-09-21T02:31:00.000+05:302015-09-21T21:55:38.930+05:30Divine Creepy Apples<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
As he drove along the long and weary road, chequered by the
street light lit patches, he thought about her. Tree after tree passed him by. So did formless shrubs, encased in earthen pots and lying on the median. Ensnared by the
never-ending streak of white paint on the road, he wondered where would she be at
that hour of the night. What exactly would she be doing? Probably she was sound
asleep, with her face still possessed by that all-knowing look on the face. The
look would be the strongest remnant of her awake self. He wondered if she’s
tucked in a cozy quilt, oblivious of the kittens biding time outside. Biding
time till they wake her up early morning with their incessant cry for attention.
He wondered if he was traveling closer to her with every tree he passed on the road. Maybe the trees were pillars of space and time, being vanquished along the
journey to hills. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
As the car drove up a flyover, he envisioned the flyover
magically transporting him through a sheet of mist to the lush green hills. A diabolical acquaintance appears! Reality, the self-righteous watchdog, dispels the mist with no trace of any remorse.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
As he dreamily stood in an unkempt elevator, watching the
red diodes change pattern in the lift display, his thoughts drifted to the
staircase that led to her apartment. He imagined her trudging along the
staircase, breathless from the excursion. She stops and turns around, searching
for a leopard to kick.</div>
</div>
Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-1774619435730489672014-07-09T00:15:00.003+05:302014-07-09T00:15:28.845+05:30Pot of Gold<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>"The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn</i><br />
<i>No Traveler returns, Puzzles the will,</i><br />
<i>And makes us rather bear those ills we have,</i><br />
<i>Than fly to others that we know not of."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>- WS</i></div>
Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-51889504366368407902014-05-14T08:43:00.000+05:302014-05-14T10:24:08.358+05:30Marco Guptaji<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.294118); font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;"></span><br /></span>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.294118); font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;">She believed that even the slightest twitch in his body was a result of intricate motion of countless gears and wheels. His fabrication was perfectly aligned with and governed by facts and undeniable logic. The robot could not feel. He could not emote. He could not express. He fed off his lack of emotions. It was the source of his strength and the root of his downfall.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.294118); font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.294118); font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;">
</span>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.294118); font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;">After meticulous analysis he concluded that the butterfly gathered all her might to stay unfettered every day of her life. Flapping her radiant glistening wings, she would take the course set by the winds, no matter where, no matter how unpredictable. Maybe that's why even her creators couldn't identify a sequence or pattern for the course of her flight. If she had her way, she would cover all flora that existed. Sadly, she could not see that her zeal often converted into impetuosity.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.294118); font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 24px;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.294118); line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.294118); line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The two spent an inordinate amount of time wondering if they were alike. Both thought one's basic structure antithetical to the other's. One not restrained by any boundary, the other devoid of all emotions.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.294118); line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
</div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.294118); line-height: 24px;">
</span>
<br />
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.294118); line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On that fateful day, the robot helplessly saw the butterfly fly away in the subway along an atypically methodical path, as a teardrop rolled by his cheek. Years later, as if in a long-forgotten dream, they would realise that the two were more alike than they ever imagined.</span></span></div>
</div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.294118); line-height: 24px;">
</span></div>
Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-3792859410585818082013-08-24T16:45:00.001+05:302013-08-24T16:45:25.736+05:30She Thinks Not<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Quite often in my life have I, like most emotional beings,
felt the euphoria arising from discovery of one’s true soulmate. Subsequently,
and almost as often, have I also been utterly crestfallen and forlorn, for
reasons that are not difficult to fathom. I think I’ve finally found her. She
thinks I’ve not.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This turmoil of emotions is not easy on the good ol’
blood-pumper. The good ol’ basket-of-grey-matter decides to take matters into
its own hands (unintended pun alert). The good ol’ basket-of-grey-matter fails
to apprehend the onslaught of depressant hormones and a general lack of blood
supply from the good ol’ blood pumper. I give up on both of the good ol’ mates
and decide to indulge myself with some imaginary violence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A typical bout of imaginary violence has the same effect as
this sequence of events:</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: -18pt;">
</div>
<ol>
<li><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">Break a few ceramic plates and glass …. well,
glasses.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">Scream aloud and do some hair pulling</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">Decide that I don’t give a four-letter f-word</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">Suddenly realize that I am still left with a few
four-letter f-words to give</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">Repeat steps 1 to 4</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">Decide to jump off from the fifth floor of a
building. Realize that my twisted ankle (or sore joint …. you get the gist)
would hurt severely moments before my ultimate demise. Decide to not jump off.
Repeat steps 1 to 5</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">Try to convince myself that true happiness lies
within. Search for true happiness lurking in some deep corner within. Get
acquainted with what truly lies within : forlornness. Exchange pleasantries and
all. Leave the rendezvous after many awkward silent moments later. Feel more
depressed. Repeat steps 1 to 5</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -18pt;">Try my hand at poetry. Stop trying my hand at
poetry. Try my hand at prose.</span></li>
</ol>
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Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-50522559240034032892012-02-22T18:48:00.003+05:302012-02-22T18:53:03.581+05:302011<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0cm; mso-para-margin-right:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0cm; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; "><span>On a warm February afternoon in Bangalore, as I retrospect on the year that just went by, a realization surges within me. I realize that I do have the aptitude to perform a more constructive and demanding task than just dawdle. At the same time, I remind myself that dawdling is so very convenient. It’s not very difficult to fathom which of the preceding propositions wins (by a landslide margin, by the way). So, in the true spirit of dawdling and after invoking the true gods of dawdling (*ahem* HR people *ahem*), I dawdle.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; "><o:p><span> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span>2011 Keywords:</span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; "><span>Promotion</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; "><span>Anwar’s knot</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; "><span>Ligament Tear (cast on the right leg)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; "><span>25</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; "><span>Seefay</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; "><span>Deviated septum surgery</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; "><span>Zeroeth Keys</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; "><span>DL6CC2690 (green)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><span>Kaju big-bro’s knot</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; "><span>Jai & Juliet (Bangalore) / Desires Unlimited</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; "><span>Kiran Chaturvedi / KC / Felix</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; "><span>Iris – Butt – Honey</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; "><span>Are-you-sure’s knot</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; "><span>Club club</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; "><span>Tennis elbow</span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-35547295671735750012012-01-24T07:42:00.002+05:302012-01-24T07:46:03.573+05:30Peace out, man.After a long hiatus, finally a nightmare-free sleep.Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-23690764858119432052011-08-02T19:34:00.010+05:302011-08-02T21:21:48.544+05:30The MOST Intelligent Person on (at least) Earth<p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; " >Over the last three years of my stay in <!--?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /--><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bangalore</st1:place></st1:city>, I have come to realize that I am a highly intelligent and potent sample of the species Homo sapiens. This is the only logical explanation to what has been bugging me all this time; <strong>Phlegm</strong>.</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; " >My nose has been exuding huge dollops of phlegm continuously for the last seven days. This has been a recurrent event throughout my life, sometimes occurring randomly and mostly when I’m trying to impress a girl.</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; " >It obscures the clarity and coherence of my thoughts, just the thing a rival country or species from another planet would have wanted. Otherwise, owing to my intelligence and potency, I would have solved all of the problems of humanity. So, phlegm was planted in my body to prevent me from using my intelligence to its fullest – a perfectly reasonable and mostly logical conclusion.</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><!--?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /--><o:p><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; " ></span></o:p></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; " ><b>Given below are my phlegm’s properties:</b></span></p><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; " ><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">• It’s huge. It grows and occurs in huge dollops.</p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">•<span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>It’s not tasteless. It tastes awful.</p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">•<span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>It is not odourless. It smells awful.</p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">•<span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>It’s not colourless. It’s coloured awful. If there can ever be a general consensus on an awful colour, the awful colour would be the colour of my phlegm.</p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">•<span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>It’s thick.</p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">•<span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> I</span>t’s very thick.</p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">•<span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>It’s mind-bogglingly very thick.</p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">•<span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>It’s stubborn.</p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">•<span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>It’s very stubborn.</p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">•<span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>It’s not mind-bogglingly very stubborn, though. It could, however, pass as mind-bogglingly stubborn.</p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">•<span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>It has no evaporating point. It does not evaporate. It stays. Forever.</p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">•<span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>It’s highly viscous. It could stay put and party in my nose and breathing tract forever sans my body’s efforts to dispel it. Maybe it plays cards all this while in my breathing tract, or does something else to while away all the time (like composing songs for the Indian Coke Studio or drafting <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">US</st1:place></st1:country-region> economic policy).</p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">•<span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>It self-replicates/reproduces vigorously in my body. Research is underway to replace guinea pigs with my phlegm.</p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">•<span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>It was rumoured that <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Iraq</st1:place></st1:country-region> was studying my phlegm to create biological weapons.</p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">•<span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>It’s a lot like love. It make one breathless. It makes one stammer. It seems to attempt to fill every void/pore/empty-tract of my body. One can get it from another.</p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">•<span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>It’s very irritating. If irritation could be condensed into tangible matter, phlegm would be the result.</p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">•<span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>It’s absolutely useless. For example, it can not produce electricity. Otherwise, I could have used myself to charge my laptop. In the process, I would have saved a tree or two, much to Rajendra Pachauri’s delight.</p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">•<span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>It’s an obnoxious little twit, much like the HR folks.</p><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal">•<span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>Finally, and oh-so-frustratingly, it’s inescapable. Again, much like the HR folks.<o:p></o:p></p><div><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><br /></span></div><br /><p style="margin-top: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 0in; " class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><span><strong><span class="Apple-style-span">Eff You Phlegm</span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span">.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"> May you rot in Splitsvilla, or a Paris Hilton's leaked video. Forever.</span></span></p></span>Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-46056639222726652452010-12-12T23:21:00.000+05:302010-12-12T23:22:05.325+05:30Awesome Ringtone!<div><br /></div>http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HZNc2CMkaD0Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-65199814452777775132010-10-29T20:38:00.002+05:302010-10-29T20:42:01.129+05:30The Transmuting Phantom and its Ephemeral Existence – Part IThis post is about a chain of thoughts that almost made me let myself run over by a car.<br /><br />I believe that one must brood upon and create ideas that one may not be otherwise required to. Being the (ostensibly) only living species that possesses the wherewithal to rationalize and philosophize, man is not only privileged but is also obligated to do so. Otherwise, one might as well be replaced by an animal or a robot (which will, by the way, pretty soon develop such faculties).<br /><br />Coming back to “the” thought chain, it was a progeny of a conversation with one of my close friends. For the sake of this post, that friend shall be referred to as BMP2. The seminal conversation occurred largely in the most unexceptional fashion. However, it led to a major shift in my perception of BMP2. Later on, a retrospect on the outcome of the conversation led to “the” thought chain.<br /><br />Before elaborating on the thought chain, a short discourse on my hypothesis of life. What is life? It is not, and I don’t expect too many dissents on this, just a corporeal operational system – the living body - inhabiting and serving a customary purpose in a co-operative societal setup. Consciousness. This is a word that is too often used (and even abused) for describing the core essence of life. What, then, is consciousness? It is the reply to this question that I will take a (rather juvenile and jejune) shot at giving.<br /><br />Consciousness is plainly the cumulation of memories of different experiences. Here and during the remaining of this deliberation, I use the word experience interchangeably with perception of the experience. A new experience might react with, instantaneously or over a longer duration, other experiences in ways that alter one or more memories incurably. For example, an event “a” might be experienced by an individual “X” in a way a-X. Therefore, X’s consciousness is the set {a-X}. With the termination of X, the unique sub rosa set {a-X}, completely owned by and defining only X, ceases to exist. Hence {a-X} perishes with the death of X. This could explain why people write autobiographies. An autobiography could be X’s attempt to share and materialize {a-X} in a perdurable fashion. Such a venture, if successful, would result in sustained existence of {a-X} which is the definition and form of the person X. This points to X’s voyage in man’s eternal quest for immortality.<br /><br />For a person Y such a set would be {a-Y}. The possibilities and permutations abound. The sets {a-X} and {a-Y} might have common elements. An element of one set might, directly or indirectly, influence an element of the other set. A new element of a set, apart from being added to the set, might alter the already existing elements of the set. In this aspect, such sets are dynamic and inter- & intra- dependant. Now, a lot of challenges and brickbats might be thrust upon this theory. Children, animals, artificial intelligence, nature, supreme consciousness, dreams are just some of the many entities from our immediate milieu, the justification and resolution of which demand a vigorous scrutiny of this theory. However, in the interest of the current context, I reserve such scrutiny for future time. In the meanwhile, I will have to be humoured by the prima facie acceptance of this theory.<br /><br />Now, “the” thought chain. The conversation contained a particular soliloquy from BMP2 that changed markedly my perception of BMP2. So, my memory of the experience “BMP2” was altered irrevocably in one go. Though this was a drastic and glaring change in my consciousness, it pointed towards changes that often go unnoticed. These numerous, and very often unheeded, subtle metamorphoses occur in my, and for that matter in everyone’s, consciousness every second of our supraliminal existence. This implies a ceaseless modification in one’s consciousness during the course of one’s existence. Such modifications might have a somnolent tinge or might, in other cases, be accentuated.<br /><br />What does the recognition of such a continuous change connote? Well, a lot. The first idea that germinated in my sciolistic mind was the futility of judging people. My perception of people, of whom I have a perception, mutates every passing moment. I might or might not be consciously aware of such mutations. Also, there is a possibility that after several modifications, I might come back a full circle – arriving at a particular perception of a person that had already existed in the past. In light of the ever-transmuting nature of this phantom, passing judgment on a person based on the prevailing perception is futile, if not wrong. Whether such estimates, an apt alternative to the word ‘judgment’, are required under certain circumstances or not is a different question.<br /><br />Resorting to the set representation, my consciousness at some time “t” would be {a-Me-t}. Each element of this set is modified, to varying degrees, with each passing moment. At time t’ my consciousness would change into {a-Me-t'}. At time t, I might have utilized element ‘P-Me-t’ to form an opinion on a person P. At time t’, when P-Me-t would have developed into P-Me-t', I would realize that the earlier formed opinion has changed. So, the act of forming the opinion was an exercise in futility.<br /><br />This thought is replete with logical inconsistencies and gaps. However, if the thought is accepted for a brief instant, an experiment that I carry out on myself with a lot of other thoughts, a liberating feeling surges. Many a knots, intricately wound together by grudges held against others, unravel.<br /><br />The set representation of consciousness acted as a precedent to another thought, even more liberating. The proceeding thought was far-sweeping in the elements of life directly conflicted by it. This was the thought that almost made me let myself run over by a car. More on that later.Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-27851239684311428972010-08-17T14:36:00.004+05:302010-08-17T14:44:00.408+05:30Will you respond to the question I've just asked?Recently, I was training a few distributors on product application. At the end of the presentation, I was asked the most devious qestion ever drafted, "Are you taking questions?"<br /><br />I was not taking any questions after the presentation. That's when I realized why the question was so devious. How was I supposed to respond to the question? Was ignoring the person an option?<br /><br />P.S. Origin of facebook: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LoO3C5Ir2mADiptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-83841663969327898362010-07-22T23:22:00.002+05:302010-07-22T23:34:09.339+05:30Too Cool for FacebookIn the words of an enlightened rock band, “It doesn’t even matter how hard I try”…..because I can’t make myself like Facebook. I don’t think I’ll be able to have as much veneration as some of my friends have for Facebook.<br /><br />One of my “friends” expressed disgust about people posting their travel plan on facebook in his status (Why the f do people put their travel plans on facebook? As if anyone cares). There were two “likes” and zero comments on the status. I moved the moise pointer to the white portion (that usually says ‘Write a comment…’ in a faded font) below his status. I typed the following, “Why the f do people philosophize about facebook statuses? As if anyone cares”<br /><br />After musing over the course of my actions in the last few seconds for a few seconds, I removed my comment. I realize that I’m too cool to comment on facebook.<br /><br />P.S. The total time spent was 2*(a few seconds). Also, had I commented, it would have led to recursive comments of the following form:<br />func Comment (char x[])<br />{<br /> return ("Why the f do people philosophize about " & Comment (var x) & "? As if anyone cares");<br />)<br /><br />P.S.P.S. The origin of Facebook is a very well-kept secret. Though what the rumour mills might generate, the concept of Facebook came from India (yes, our very own I-love-my-India). Mark Zuckerberg is an avid Bollywood fan and is said to secretly adore Shilpa Shetty. Watch 1:09-1:12 of this video:<br />http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LoO3C5Ir2mADiptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-60259458659256505102010-04-25T21:00:00.000+05:302010-04-25T21:01:15.673+05:30The Saga of Put-tea and The ToasterWhat thou shall be told is a tale that does not wag and a story that does not make a building. There was once a destitute who ailed from a disease so rare but so potent that even the mightiest of kings prostrate before the might (the one in “dude, it might vitiate us). The name was Put-tea. Not of the disease but of the destitute. The disease was, of course, Negativus Sense-o-humourus.<br /><br />Hopeless, Popeless and dopeless, the non-catholic boy had no money even to buy weed. This did not make sense since grass was available for free. All the cows in his time were always high after consuming grass as it grew only on hilltops. The boy was mocked by friends and foes alike. While others children dreamed of becoming gallant warriors and shrewd rulers, Put-tea never had any money for dreaming. This did not make sense since people were never charged for dreams. Only batteries had to be charged for dreams.<br /><br />However, the boy had one aspiration. This is the story of how Put-tea went about fulfilling his aspiration. Even now, Pu-tea’s attaining the unattainable provides hope and faith to kazillions of losers like us on this planet. Put-tea always wanted a toaster and desired to flaunt it with the greatest of pride. But, alas! The poor boy did not have money to buy one. This makes sense, one might say. Incorrect they are. Only Bengalis make Sens.<br /><br />As a wise man once said; “He giveth thee more than what he taketh.” God not only took Put-tea’s sense of humour away, but reduced it to such negative levels that he became a sucking vortex of humour. He would even, inadvertently though, sap all the humour surrounding him. “What sap?”, one might say. “I’m kewl. What sap with you?”, would be my reply. However, God gave Put-tea an uncanny sense of music. He could convert any object lying around him into a musical instrument. He could conjure the most soothing music from the hardest of stones and from the most delicate of flowers.<br /><br />On that fateful day, a messenger came from the faraway lands of Flaunton. The messenger sang of Flaunton’s requirement of the best musicians in the world. This was music to Put-tea’s ears, even literally. At Once did Put-tea decide to embark on the quest that eventually led to his aspiration. He was, at the time, experimenting with his prodigious talent in an alley named Once.<br /><br />Put-tea reached Flaunton with no possessions except his lack of any trace of any sort of sense of humour. Impecunious, Put-tea had to create an ingenious musical instrument. This makes sense, one might say. Ever so, incorrect they are. Only perfumers make scents. Put-tea named the instrument bagpiper. Noticing his talent, Royal Band of Scotland inducted him in their legion.<br /><br />Put-tea had to quickly adapt to the new life at RBS for its members did not have Faaltu Time. Adept as he was at music and its nuances, Put-tea quickly rose amongst the ranks in RBS. Soon, he acquired fame and money and with it, the finer art of flaunting. After months of dedicated hard work, Pu-tea decided that the time had arrived.<br />He threw a grand party and invited rulers of all lands. Investing all his hard-earned wealth in the party, Pu-tea left no scope for any improvement. Flawless were the decorations and unmatched the comforts. Choicest of chefs were hired and funniest of stand-up comedians invited. This did not make even an iota of difference as Put-tea sucked all the humour. “What iota?”, one might ask. “The same that makes Corolla.”, would be my reply.<br /><br />Soon, everyone had arrived. The stage was set and the time was ripe. Put-tea went to the stage and paid everyone cash for their attention. This did not make sense since attention was free. People always had a tension in their lives. Everyone looked up to Put-tea. That moment depicted the triumph of a poor boy against all odds and is a testimony to grit and perseverance of humans. Amidst the wave of expectant and probing gazes, Put-tea said, “I would like to raise a toast.”<br /><br />Out of a contraption held by Put-tea, out popped two loaves of bread.<br /><br />P.S. Put-tea is also known as HKP, Plaster and Critique Gupta.Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-52959937797489551512010-03-07T00:16:00.002+05:302010-03-07T00:22:18.342+05:30Lethargy of TimeFailure at achieving aspirations. Not so successful in a peanut-paying job. No girlfriends, not even one. The launderette gets closed as soon as I reach there. For the sake of statistics, that too after carrying 2.25 kgs of clothes for almost 1.2 kms. Of course, the clothes had to be lugged back home. So 1.2 should theoretically be doubled. And yes, even though I’m utterly indifferent to, no comments/likes on facebook status. To top it all, three of the only four jeans possessed get stolen from the terrace. This last one is hitting below the belt.<br /><br />I can make a blockbuster laugh-riot on this life. Always knew this is a practical joke being carried out on a large scale. Notwithstanding the fact that the joke is on me, I’ll laugh along. Though this axiom doesn’t need a mention, Andaz Apna Apna would (still) be the best comedy movie ever.<br /><br /><em>P.S. The following video re-affirms my awe of Pakistani music talent.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zz78R2rCOvE</em>Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-33426159075066051382009-07-27T22:34:00.002+05:302009-07-27T22:41:30.701+05:30Good Morning!<em>Perpetual state of bad luck - (noun)<br /> a state in which, no matter what, each and every thing that can / can not go wrong goes wrong. In such a state, the victim usually begins to blame everything on luck, starts to feel like a loser and tends to magnify even the slightest of setbacks to the biggest of failures.<br /></em><br />There are pros and cons of being in a perpetual state of bad luck. Pros include (and are not limited to) the freedom to ascribe all of one’s perennial inadequacies to bad luck so that one is acquitted from them. Also, one is in constant anticipation of contretemps of all forms to occur. Such prognostic deportment makes one well-equipped and better prepared to endure (and not solve) the before-mentioned contretemps.<br /><br />But if one takes a closer look, all the above pros are cons unto themselves. Perpetual state of bad luck makes one diffident and pessimistic. Every small hitch seems to be a big roadblock. Each of these “roadblocks” seem to be contrived by fate to make one realize what a big loser one is.<br />The worst part is the mornings. One wakes up to complete gloom and with no zest for life. To expound on the waking-up theory, I have given below two comprehensive cases.<br />1) Waking up after a Bad Dream/Nightmare: While sleeping previous night, one hopes for a more promising tomorrow, forgetting everything bad that has happened recently. The nightmares, however, just thwart all those hopes. Instead of obliterating all the memories, they bring them to the fore, accentuating the abysmal feeling.<br />2) Waking up after a Good Dream: Scarcely the case in dismal times, good dreams end up reminding one of a state one is not in or, of something one does not have. The false sense of achievement reminds one of how close one has been, yet not there. So close, one can only stare at and keep desiring to be in that portrait. Imagining being there, all the while knowing one can’t get there, makes one despondent.<br />Imagine a long slide, swerving here and spiraling there. There are only three objects that can be seen : the slide , the destination and yourself. Pitch black darkness pervades all other space. You are sliding along the slide’s steep surface, doggedly holding on, no matter how precarious the situation becomes. All along, you can see the destination. Even though you are afraid of falling down, you cling on and strive hard to do so. You’ve almost reached there. You begin to reflect on all the struggle endured and it seems to be paying off. You’re so close that the destination seems tangible.<br />Suddenly, a rift appears in the slide, sucking you into it. Your heart skips a beat. You can’t breathe for a few moments and keep falling into the darkness. The worst part is the tenacity of the agonizing image of the destination. It refuses to fade away.<br /><br /> One scene from “Taarey Zameen Par” that has and will always stay vividly in my memory is that of the dyslexic child waking up with a smile. Waking up with sadness smeared all over one’s being is the worst possible way to start a day.<br />One has two choices: either let the stream of events take their due course and take one along with it or; make efforts to change the situation (which won’t work because of the basic definition of PSBL). Both can be justified in their own respect. But all said and done, I guess it’s denial that aggravates the problem. More on this may come soon.<br /><br /> P.S. Go nuts with the following data:<br />Median age of India -25.1 years Median age of US - 35.9<br />Average age of Lok Sabha – 53.03 years Average age of US Senate - 62<br /><em>(Figures might vary a little)</em>Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-49560138057966374762009-05-19T21:35:00.004+05:302009-05-19T21:58:26.136+05:3023<span style="font-size:130%;">"He not busy being born is busy dying."</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">- Bob Dylan</span><br /><br />I turned 23 on the 17th of this month. “No problemo, nothing changes in one day.”, the enlightened Joe would say. I am not referring here, of course, to the Supremely Enlightened One from F.R.I.E.N.D.S. Every one remembers how he wailed, and pretty loudly at that, when he turned 30 in “The One Where They All Turn Thirty.”<br /><br />I am forced to write this post because of a peculiar feeling I experienced on that day. 23 sounds big. A day back, I was still 22 and it sounded really young. Turning 23 sounds like crossing a bridge to the other side, or the next phase. I can picture a responsible Homo sapiens who is no longer carefree. Furrowed eyebrows giving a serious, which could be mistaken for a menacing, look. Upright posture and an overall thoughtful, motivated and inspired look.<br /><br />Now before someone starts suspecting the occurrence of any sort of revelation in my life, let me clarify a few things. Yes, I do not feel like 22 anymore. As a matter of fact, I never did. I still feel like a 16 year old. Lets make that 17, lest one begins to call me a “delicate bud” in Hindi. I still try to shout as loud as a child running by (Well, a lot of children happen to run by me on a consistent basis). I still get excited upon getting chocolates and toffees (or, was that when I was 13?). It is 13. Anyway, I still feel like the carefree me of 17. However, by the looks of some events that have transpired recently, I might reach the bridge earlier than I ever thought. Scary.<br /><br />Now, down to the details. Had a quite uneventful birthday this time around. Though, that happens every year because of the education system’s conspiracy. My flatmates and friends nearby did not remember. One of them actually went to his cousin’s place a few hours before the clock struck 12. So, there was no cake or any putrefied fruits in liquid state. I missed my cake. Not in a “Oh my God (sniff)! How can you forget (slap)!!” sort of way. But a more ”Oh God! Where’s the delicious creamy all-chocolate cake I would like to eat by myself?” sort of way. They would not even have given me b’day bumps had Now-nerve (who remembered) not come to my place to wish. Got the thrashing of my life from 100-god Jerk. I shouted my lungs out, cried wolf. But he was so bent on wiping clean the seats of my jeans with his slippers, that he convinced them to take me out of the society premises lest some family complained. To ensure that this post passes censors’ knife, I’ll refrain from any further, thoroughly violent details. Enjoyed the rest of night smoking Hukka and playing guitar (the first string snapped) with Poo-le-jaa as the fourth entente.<br /><br />Got a call from everyone who matters. Woke up late next day. Knee-tee and Sheep-raw gave me b’day presents, which was the highlight of the day for me. Felt really excited about and elated over the presents. The gifts are actually very useful and certainly one of my best : a toy car, Times Food Guide, P.G. Wodehouse omnibus and Pictionary. Had delicious boneless chicken Biryani in Meghna (a restaurant, in case anyone begins to reflect) with Now-nerve. Planned for a treat in TGIF. Mother Nature had other plans though. It rained cats and dogs and all animals alive/extinct. The plan got cancelled. Had dinner at home, watched an episode of F.R.I.E.N.D.S. and slept. By the way, I kept receiving b’day wishes till 11 in the night.<br /><br />P.S. In case I ever “fall in love” with someone, I would never post a video with her pics and a mushy romantic song on youtube. Eeek. Just a reminder in case I read this post then.<br />P.S.P.S. At the end of the day, b’day ( more commonly, and in an irritating way, known as budday) is just another day. The date (except for the year part) just happens to coincide with the date of the day one is born. In spite of the futility of any sort of excitement over the date, I’d like to mention the following for their efforts to make a call or being there : Man-nee, Now-nerve, Tan-new, Puk-gaya, Knee-tee, Sheep-raw, Home, More Homes, Hen-jo, Pee-po, Half-tickit, Fish, Raw-hulk We-ass, Chaman, Troo, Put-tea, Hand-awe, Cena, Even More Homes, Gym Sheep-raw, Scew B, Delhip, 100-god Jerk, Poo-le-jaa, Quiet Ni. In case one wants to get one’s name included in the list above, transfer 1000 bucks to my a/c.Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-67922205682310481572008-12-23T11:59:00.002+05:302008-12-23T12:04:17.805+05:30XXXX XXXX XXX - IIRating: Insane Advisory. Must be read under the supervision of a lunatic. Extreme discretion advised. Disclaimer: The following text is highly contextual and any resemblance to any person or any incident, no matter how far-fetched, might turn out to be true. I am not responsible for anyone’s psychic powers deciphering the import of the statements that follow<br /><br /> The knight had once desired to njoy during the tutelage he received in Daily-Dally from Hope A. Mar. However, some arcane archives suggest that fate took his bliss to other arcades. Dejected, he went to far-off cold lands of Mighty Mittens. There and thence he was anointed as the generalissimo of the gentlemanly gentry. It is there that he chanced to meet the generous damsel. Smitten by the gentleness of the noble woman, the knight could not fore-see the arrival of the dragon. The dragon, though devoid of any mal-intent, had a prior covenant bequeathing him with the lady’s affection. The woman had to choose one between the two. To the knight’s delight, the woman played true to his hopes.<br /> What transpired there onwards is not for everyone to know. However, the knight did shower many a people with this fable. People such as me, pie’-popper…some needy, some small, and some who entered a shell.<br /><br />P.S. The disclaimers are not applicable to any of my sort-ofs….and for the umpteenth number of time, the post is not about me. In case any one desires to know the controversial title, a special request needs to be sent to me.Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-16456071836898551202008-10-29T01:52:00.002+05:302008-10-29T14:14:59.725+05:30XXXX XXXX XXX (Title censored after protests by Bad-rang Bull)Rating: Insane Advisory. Must be read under the supervision of a lunatic.<br /><br />Disclaimer: The following text is highly contextual and any resemblance to any person or any incident, no matter how far-fetched, might turn out to be true. I am not responsible for anyone’s psychic powers deciphering the import of the statements that follow.<br /><br />There was once a knight in shining armour who saved the damsel in distress. Since then , they started having long walks and protracted conversations lingering for hours at a stretch. But now, I and the pie’-popper know that the knight, with a crown on his head and wired to the hype-o-ed, has got a chink in his armour.<br /><br />P.S. The disclaimers are not applicable to any of my sort-ofs….and for the first and last time, the post was not about me. In case any one desires to know the controversial title, a special request needs to be sent to me.Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-91992483031513871732008-10-16T23:45:00.002+05:302008-10-16T23:51:48.096+05:30A Few Breaths LesserAm I not asking enough questions?<br />(A sharp metallic hum. Strong dark silence)<br />Have I lost track in the quest they call life? What is this feeling? Is this an overflow or a void? Why am I getting this feeling, whatever it is? Ah, questions. Why should I ask questions?<br />(Silence.)<br />Why did I just do that? Is it my responsibility to do so? Why do we have responsibilities? Why does someone have to do it? Why does it have to be done? Oh, it’s the same feeling again. It’s getting stronger. Sad. Why is it making me feel sad? Why do I feel sad? What is sadness? Ambition. Aspiration. Why do I imagine myself in a better situation? What is better? Why can’t this moment be the best? Does this moment have to be “the best” at all? Can’t I do without being in “the best” moment? Why do I desire? These questions have begun to scare me. I don’t want to ask anymore. I wish I could sleep this moment right here, without an ounce of care in the world.<br />(“Why is he so quiet today?”<br />“I don’t know. Diptanshu, what happened?”)<br />A Question. (Silence.)<br />(“Oh, nothing.”)<br />Have I become less articulate? What is this feeling that I get upon her success? Why do I feel angry, bitter and sad for someone else being better? Is this a feeling I should not have? Fear. Why am I so afraid of this feeling? Weak. Why does it make me feel so weak, drained of all the self-exalting confidence I flaunt so often? Why am I afraid of feeling weak? Fear. Hey, I just tried to run away. Wait, do I run away from frightening thoughts every time? Am I a coward deep within? Am I so weak? Ashamed…of myself, of my weakness, of this resentment within me for others’ might. No more questions. Hunger. I must feed myself.<br />(Silence)<br />(Footsteps)<br />Choler. Ire. Why did I let him go? Why did I not hit back? Why did I not give that arrogant piece of dirt a piece of my mind? Is my anger too transient to last a retaliation? Why should I have retaliated? Why do I care? Does it matter anymore? Did it matter to me back then? Should any of it matter at all? Should I care? Why am I here? What do I want? Is there any interminable gain to be obtained from this meaningless existence? If everything is so ephemeral, what am I striving for? Does crying over anything help or, will laughing it off do the job? Is any of these emotions relevant to anything? Void, overflowing.<br />(Footsteps.)<br />Hey, I don’t know that person well. We’re only acquainted. Yet, he showed concern. Why did I reciprocate now? What happened to the angry me earlier? Why was I transfixed then? Was I afraid of the consequences? Why did I show concern for this guy? Was it forced or was it impulsive? Is this stimulus in-born? Or, has it been fabricated in me by the society in a senseless act of dictation? Why should I show concern if I don’t feel it? Why does everyone put on such pretenses every insignificant day they live? Why do I do it? Have I not ever questioned such a meaningless consuetude as this before? What use am I to this society if I too stop questioning it? Of what use is this society to me? Why am I so dependant on it? Why do I need the assurance of having atleast one person to look forward to, if everyone else turns his back at me? Fatigue.<br />(Blackout)<br />(Silence)<br />(Blackout)<br />(“Oh come on, say something. He’s freaking me out.”)<br /><br />Am I worrying too much about something trivial, missing on something vital? Have I squandered too much and collected little? Hold on…..am I asking too much?<br />(Silence, Blackout)<br />(Light, Warmth)<br />(Air, Smile)Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-12911965180536550112007-07-24T12:04:00.000+05:302007-07-24T12:26:09.357+05:30Seeking Solace<div align="justify">I am not afraid of failure. What appalls me is not giving my best.<br />When I do my best, even the most humiliating of defeats seems to be but a lesson. When I don't, I know that even the most exalting victory is nothing more than a fluke.<br /><br />As some wise man must have once said;<br /><br /></div><blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>" It's not the destiny that matters after all. What persists is the road traversed. "<br /></em></span></blockquote>Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-79080930652594746582007-06-20T17:03:00.000+05:302007-06-21T09:33:32.631+05:30Staad Wads I --- Fall of the Supedhedos<p class="MsoNormal">(*The following is an excerpt from digary ---digital diary--- of Fluke Skywalker. The digary was, apparently, inadvertently dropped in a time-travelling contraption and was detected and then captured, even more inadvertently, by my secret time-travelling-contraption intercepting contraption. One of the incidents seems to be dated to 1.3 Janworry, 0 AD. It’s written after the supposed death of Darth Hey-dhar in the lap of his own son whom I’ve been able to identify, after reading lots of the digary, as the straight Fluke himself. Interestingly, AD appears to be After the Death of Darth, which, as I find logical, should have been called ADD. Anyway, AD is also reported to be 23.5 Exceptember, 4172 AD ----Anno Domini. It’s also mentioned that just before his demise, Hey-dhar muttered something which seemed to be a query about kun-taynts of some random course called something like “I’m a Bengali rockstaad, <i>tay-day ko kya padoblem hai</i>?” Though this something doesn’t have any particular relevance as such, but demanded a mention due to its idiosyncratic mention again and again. Also, the writer seems to have a feverish predilection for a seemingly sacrosanct phrase, “May the force, chores and whores be with you.” Must have been a powerful, obedient, pervert kid, I must say.*)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">A long time ago, in a galaxy not far away, there existed a planet called Earth inhabited by an unevolved, weird, diminutive species called Homo sapiens. The problem with these creatures was that they kept quarrelling amongst themselves for miniscule gains and sometimes, not even for that. Appallingly, the pitiful Homo sapiens failed to accept the futility of the constant bickering during their short life-spans. It’s said that they seemed to possess dark forces like ego, jealousy and the likes, which led them into bitter feuds. In their fanatical one-upmanship, Homo sapiens began to misuse the natural resources present on the beautiful Earth. This led to wide-scale pollution and rapid depletion of the resources.</p><p class="MsoNormal">On the planet Earth, there existed an even more beautiful territory (called country) by the name of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 /><st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>. This territory was abundant in natural resources and was, at one point of time, blessed with intellectuals of caliber far exceeding the others and comparable to creatures of today. It’s said, however, that incessant invasion of the territory by people from other territories enfeebled its core cultural and intellectual identity. The invasions were so powerful that even after liberation, people did not relent from stooping lower still. This resulted in a lot of corruption and again, pollution. These two factors, as is the legend, led to the fall of superheroes of yore and ultimately, rise of the diabolical ass-kit-ball player Darth Hey-dhar.</p><p class="MsoNormal">In the year -2165 AD, a massive congregation of superheroes was planned in <st1:city st="on">Delhi</st1:city>, the capital city of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>. The gathering was called Pee-8 and was convened to discuss means to tackle global problems like pollution, child labour, poverty, IIT female Homo sapiens, remixes, hip-hop, She-may Fray-shammiya, Mooli-kha Sharafat etc. The superheroes belonging to the conclave were called developed superheroes. Also present at the time were other “developing” and “under-developed” superheroes. The legend has it that all the superheroes died in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Delhi</st1:place></st1:city>. Here’s how;</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">1) Superman: The invincible, herculean superhero possessed extra-ordinary abilities like flight, laser eyes and the most envied ability; to see through objects, most notable amongst which were clothes. On that fateful day, while flying over the outskirts of <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Delhi</st1:city></st1:place>, Superman happened to pass over Najafgarh drain.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in">Apparently, the local organization which was responsible for drainage, also called Municipality Corporation of Delhi (MCD), thought of it as an ingenious plan to make their young ones exposed to and thence, immune to environmental adversities. Sadly, though, it led to large-scale genetic mutation and gave rise to evil species like Rash-us driver-us, Pervert-o rapist-us, 764 conductorus, Slum-y dweller-us and the most dreaded of them all, Iit girl-phus. The drain was replete with all sorts of junk possible. It gave away obnoxious fumes having an acrid smell, a heady concoction of poisonous chemicals.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in">Unknown to and unforeseen by Superman, the fumes also contained his only weakness; Kryptonite. He was forced to inhale lethal amounts of Kryptonite, which led to his death. The inhabitants of Najafgarh mistook him for the monkey-man and called the police and the paramedics. As was the custom at that time, which I find to be very peculiar, the police and the paramedics reached a good hour and a half later. What ensued was complete furore. Indian rulers blamed its neighbouring territory, <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Pakistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>, for the tragedy. Employees of various local organizations, particularly MCD, were relieved of their jobs. An inquest was swiftly ordered and the investigating authority, Delhi Coolies, hastily came up, perplexing as it may sound, with a list of suspects. Autopsy reports reported strangulation of the deceased and then backtracked on its statement, citing suicide as the reason, only to revert back to murder. Rumour has it that records relating to the inquest; compiled in one of the most durable, long-lasting, clever contraption ever made and called Indian government files; are there to be discovered floating in space. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">2) Batman: One of his kind, a superhero without any superpower, Batman used his intelligence to beguile even the disguised. But alas!! Even his intelligence could not shield him against official apathy and the murky world of Indian politics. Due to airport staff strikes in <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place>, a concept highly practiced and prevalent during those times,<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Batman was forced to shun Batplane in favour of<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Batmobile to travel. Driving over the bumpy roads of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>, a tough ordeal in itself, Batman found his Batmobile engulfed in the infamous Gujjar strikes. The Gujjars, as is believed, were followers of Batman’s arch-nemesis Jokers and used to play practical jokes & political gimmicks.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:0;"></span>Being the Good Samaritan that he was, he chose to evade the mob rather than kicking their posteriors. Hooking his grappling hook to one of the skyscrapers in a place called Gurgaon, Batman landed on a busy traffic intersection. Left all to himself, fighting paan-stains (which, even his special batsuit couldn’t exuviate), sweltering heat, Batman got <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Delhi</st1:city></st1:place> belly, an ailment, and died soon thereafter.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">3) Spiderman: A hybrid between spider, another species belonging to that era, and Homo Sapiens; Spiderman was known far and wide for his crying antics, adolescent mood swings & rebellious behaviour and, at times, for his agile body & spider sense. On his way to the Pee-8 summit, Spiderman’s websling got entangled in a horde of people. Fate always has the luxury of circumstances as its conniving partner and so it did at that moment. Spiderman got carried away with the mob to their destination, Baybay Kaam-de’s camp. After laying witness to the various pliant stances of Baybay, Spiderman got intimidated and felt that his girlfriend, <i>Meri</i> Pain, is cheating on him with Baybay. A challenge was raised and a duel followed. After 5 excruciating days of body-wrenching stances, Spidey’s body started whining and gave way. “<i>Meri</i> back, <i>Meri</i> Pain. Hasta Lavista Baybay.”, cried Spidey just before his quietus.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The fate of five others, I shall demystify later. But before that, let me expound upon the rise of the nefarious Hay-dhar, the Dark Fourses and the saviours of our times, the aa-ay ha-ay chee students, the group of farcical Homo sapiens. Even the bare mention of<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>the likes of gunnyraj, troo the flu, Sexy Sam, a hoop, yell jo, half pant, chee po and of course, dipped 'n shooed were enough to give enemies agonizing moments of stomach pain from laughter, to set them rolling into convulsive fits of laughter.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">(*The above text was translated from Sanskrit. The rest will be deciphered, as soon as I learn how to get to the next page in the digary.*)</p>Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-67535531670765698792007-05-24T14:07:00.000+05:302007-05-24T16:26:07.030+05:3021<span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:180%;">“ Except ye become as little children, except you can wake on your fiftieth birthday with the same forward-looking excitement and interest in life that you enjoyed when you were five, ye cannot enter the kingdom of God. One must not only die daily, but every day we must be born again. “<br />-- Sayers, Dorothy L.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Unlike many other Homo sapiens, I don’t fret when confronted with the number called age. I treat it the way it should be, like a plain number. A silly fact that’s used in filling forms and helps doctors to judge the metabolic stage of Homo sapiens. Once one forces one’s hesitant psyche to go beyond the numerical nitty-gritty, all’s left to one’s prerogative. In short, one’s as old as one believes to be.<br />A lot of Homo sapiens, which pretty much includes everyone who knows me, think that I am childish. Well, I admit to have always been in awe of children. The infectious enthusiasm, the relentless curiosity, the ability to switch from sorrow to joy in an instant, the ability to be happy rather than just wanting to be, the gift of sleeping without a worry in the world. There are a lot of weaknesses as well. Agreed. But then, why look for qualities one does not want to imbibe? So much for positive thinking.<br />But then, yes, it’s time I grew up.<br /><br />Anyway, there’s a list of things that I desire to possess but have not acquired yet. It omits a lot of things I now consider frivolous but wanted some time back. I present it to assist those who intend to give me gifts on my 22nd birthday. Also, I’m not being a whiner. I know it’s better to count one’s blessings than otherwise but desire is what keeps us alive.<br />No matter what the circumstances be, whether it’s befitting or not, I’ll get the following for myself someday (said with the grit, confidence and awe-inspiring tone of Cinderella man or whatever).<br /><br />The tip of an iceberg (no preference order):<br />-> a pair of good formal-shoes<br />-> an ipod<br />-> Playstation (3)<br />-> a violin<br />-> a PC/laptop with the best configuration<br />-> a watch<br />-> a cricket bat with two sets of wickets<br />-> a football<br />-> a tennis racket<br />-> two badminton racquets<br />-> a car with all state-of-the-art techno-gadgets<br />-> Happyness<br />-> my own cricket ground/ stadium/ whatever’s more viable<br />-> tuna spread<br />-> a cruise tour with Brittany Murphy<br /><br />What I can no longer become (but wanted to, in chronological order):<br />-> Mathematician (first love: maths)<br />-> Magician<br />-> Cricketer (fast bowler)<br />-> Classical singer<br />-> Theater actor<br />-> NBA player<br />-> Tall...on second thoughts, lets make that taller (still some scope, the eternal optimist that I am)<br /><br />P.S. I never wanted to become a super-hero, as most of young tween want to.</span></span>Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-56214986470841856132007-05-17T17:05:00.000+05:302007-05-17T17:10:22.557+05:30Peeeee Pee-pip<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">This one, like all other events, starts with the Big-Bang, or whichever way the Universe was created. (Why do people care anyway?) However, setting aside all the details I deem unnecessary, allow me to come straight to the point. Also, let me try and keep it short this time (no pun, no intention, not funny).<br />Homo sapiens of my college are required to waste 50 priceless summer vacation days to undergo summer training. Sahee, Lullee (not a sheep, not even a female Homo sapiens) and I (a resounding applause, accompanied by generous doses of catcalling and appreciative whistling by the front-row audience) got selected by SRF. After much contestation, Lullee was selected to be butchered in Bhiwadi. Sahee and I were placed in Gurgaon. So, it started on 14th of May, when I heard that sound for the first time.<br />On the first day, all we expected us to be forced to do was to get acquainted with the L’ affaires of the office and that is what we almost ended up doing. We got introduced to the technical staff, which has more than half a dozen alumni Homo sapiens from my college, and to some from the administration. Here’s my first impression; hard working Homo sapiens, nice and accommodating; HR Homo sapiens appear to have abnormally fast internal metabolisms; lunch’s good; though usually impassive, people start whistling and singing in the company bus. Towards the end of the first day, both of us were summoned by our training supervisor. So, we’ve to prepare design documents for distillation and heat transfer, which, would take loads of theoretical studying and sifting.<br />On the second day, our tables are assigned and this is where my ordeal begins. I get a table right in front of the floor entrance and all I get to hear all day long is “Peeeee Pee-pip”. Apparently, some SRF techno-freak decided to install access machines at every floor entrance….and nobody protested.<br />So, every time the machine’s used, which, gallingly, happens quite a lot, “Peeeee Pee-pip” rams its way through my ears and down the auditory canals to the tympanic membranes. Well, I know so much because I tried to find a solution to the problem by studying the whole hearing system. Anyway, I get to hear the sound when I’m about to sleep while studying, when I wake up, while I’m concentrating on the gargantuan work at hand, while having lunch and while all other nominal activities in between, which includes studying. What unnerves me even more is the fact that it can possibly attack my subconscious when I’m half-asleep, studying. I don’t want to become a pee-holic/peep-aholic/whatever. The only gratifying fact is that I’ll get an access card soon and can then, make the sound come out of the @#$ing machine anytime I want. In a way, I’ll conquer the sound, rule over it. It’ll play to my tunes…and, I’ve already started losing it.<br />While writing this post, I got two more reasons to crib about. First, a Punjabi ringtone. The guy, brazenly, never puts his cell on silent mode. Second, another guy talking on his phone as loudly as pot-bellied neighbourhood Sharmaji laughing at his jokes and as brazenly as the previous guy. Another observation, the guy seems to be under a strange illusion that a well-formed English sentence must comprise of at least four “like”s and have to be pronounced as likeuhh. Annoying, brain-jamming, to say the least.<br /><br />P.S. Thank god Sahee’s here. The F in SRF is fibres and not fertilizers. There’s one cute girl in the office. Whippiee.<br /><em></em></span><em></em>Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-3103701677445210112007-03-27T17:12:00.000+05:302007-03-27T17:14:22.043+05:30MeMaybe. Maybe not. But it's close.<br /><br /><embed allowScriptAccess="never" allowNetworking="internal" enableJavaScript="false" src="http://dna.imagini.net/friends/swf/widget.swf" quality="best" bgcolor="#4A024C" width="340" height="240" name="widget" align="middle" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" flashvars="bgcolor=#4A024C&i1=http://dna.imagini.net/i/RESIZE_-37B19502.jpeg&c1=Beauty&i2=http://dna.imagini.net/i/RESIZE_45782961.jpeg&c2=Up close and live&i3=http://dna.imagini.net/i/RESIZE_-7858FD0F.jpeg&c3=Sophistication&i4=http://dna.imagini.net/i/RESIZE_57EDBD35.jpeg&c4=Clarity&i5=http://dna.imagini.net/i/RESIZE_-7C115110.jpeg&c5=Will commit suicide before turning into this&i6=http://dna.imagini.net/i/RESIZE_60BD8C5F.jpeg&c6=Closed Eyes&i7=http://dna.imagini.net/i/RESIZE_62BEF7F2.jpeg&c7=&i8=http://dna.imagini.net/i/RESIZE_-6EAA4FA9.jpeg&c8=Sharp&i9=http://dna.imagini.net/i/RESIZE_1F095154.jpeg&c9=Sports&i10=http://dna.imagini.net/i/RESIZE_3124B621.jpeg&c10=Adrenaline&i11=http://dna.imagini.net/i/RESIZE_2A59BF66.jpeg&c11=Nothing-ness. Would cry my heart out in a place like this.&i12=http://dna.imagini.net/i/RESIZE_17D8F487.jpeg&c12=Non-alcoholic and fruits&i13=http://dna.imagini.net/i/RESIZE_5C1B12D6.jpeg&c13=Warm Winter afternoon. &moodlabel=DREAMER&lovelabel=LOVE BUG&funlabel=THRILLER&habitslabel=HIGH TIME ROLLER&uid=166043-9ba7&srv=iwebcl6" ></embed> <div style="text-align:center; width:340px;height:25px;margin-top:0px; border-top:1px solid rgb(150,150,150);background-color:rgb(0,0,0);padding:5px 0 0 0; font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size:11px;"><a href="http://networking.imagini.blueorange.co.uk/vdna.php?uid=166043-9ba7&srv=iwebcl6" style="color:rgb(255,255,255)">Read my VisualDNA</a><span style="font-size:10px;color:#cccccc">™</span> <a href="http://dna.imagini.net/friends/" style="color:rgb(255,255,255) ">Get your own VisualDNA™</a></div>Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32685534.post-456874888728852692007-03-08T23:00:00.000+05:302007-03-09T06:42:03.323+05:30<strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#660000;">Verbum sat sapienti.<br /></span>--“A word is enough to the wise.”<br /><em></em></strong><br /><em>There have been so many of them, yet I remain clueless.<br /></em><br /><em><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">“<span style="color:#660000;">Thy white is as pristine as snow, yet darkness is all I see.</span>”</span></strong></em>Diptanshuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07470589748835242237noreply@blogger.com2