Life, Football and Fantasy

Shifting

2006-06-10T22:20:00.000-07:00

This blog has moved.

http://piper-of-dawn.livejournal.com/

Back to square one

2006-06-06T22:15:00.000-07:00

Right, so just when I begin to think a few more minor touches to "Galaxia" will make it ready for possible publication, Erin has pointed out major flaws in the structure, leading up to a major overhaul. In point, a chronic overdose of deus ex machina- rather surprising that nobody pointed it out to me so far.

Not too bad, I suppose, when you consider it was merely the first draft. Although now massive revision is required. What with NLS and all coming up, time-schedule for completion must now be extended to March-end of next year rather than originally hoped December. Heck.

Desolation

2006-06-05T14:35:00.000-07:00

It is 3 AM. For the last two hours I have been online, searching through the internet for Poetry magazines, sifting through reams and reams of web addresses, trying to separate the trash from the genuine, trying to decide where to send my work.

And now, after discovering the Foyle's Young Poet Contest I am overcome by a deep sense of futility. Four years, sixty "young poets", winners of an international contest- exactly one out of sixty has bothered to try and rhyme, and not a single one has a sense of meter.

Damn everything, is free verse all you have? Just pen down anything which comes to mind, and think you're writing like T.S Eliot? What a crying shame... hundred years ago said "poems" would have been laughed out of existence. The great romantics would be turning in their graves now if they could read the sort of trash being served up in the name of poetry. Oh where art thou fallen from heaven, Lucifer, son of the morning...?

I was on the websites of "Poetry", "The Poetry Society", "The Boston Review" and "The Paris Review"- free verse everywhere. No sense of metre, and as for rhyming... don't even mention the word. So this, then, is contemporary poetry. Part of so-called "modern art." A meaningless jamboree of words put together to sound philospophical, but all sound and fury, signifying nothing. Deeply, deeply frustrating... I did enter a Part One of "Crusader's Song" as well as "Minstrel" for Foyle's, but I'm seriously contemplating quitting writing poetry and sticking to prose from now on... there doesn't seem to be a point to it.

Stunned

2006-05-31T12:07:00.000-07:00

Time spent for ivy applications: 150 hours
Time spent slogging for the boards: 8 months.
Spending five hours on NLS prep. and getting Rank 8? Absolutely friggin priceless!

I feel like doing an Henry, dancing around in a circle, singing "Are you watching, are you watching, are you watching, Princeton?"

Blest be this day!

2006-05-22T05:59:00.000-07:00

William Morris- the man who invented the genre of magic realism, or fantasy, socialist, philopsopher, political reformer, writer and poet. Four years have I searched for books by this genius, scouring bookshops in New Delhi, Frankfurt, Manchester, London and Lisbon only to be baffled each time. And now by sheer chance I've got my hands on the entire collection, and that too free of cost.

Project Gutenberg, hereafter you have my unquestioned and unconditional love. ;-) But for you I would have had to spend at least three more years ignorant of the works of the man I consider above everyone else to be my idol, my God. Now I have The Well at World's End saved on my computer, and will get the rest shortly. Quite obviously I am in no position to promise I would name my first-born child Gutenberg, but it is a distinct possibility. ;-)

I begin "The Well at World's End" tonight. Hopefully I will get through the entire works by the end of the hols, side by side with finishing Shakespeare and "Lives," and completing the editing and expanding of "Galaxia". Interesting days lie ahead.

Been a long time...

2006-05-21T05:33:00.000-07:00

Almost three weeks, I think, but somehow these days I don't seems to be able to summon up the inclination to write my blog. A notable regrettable state of affairs. So for lack of time I must devote a para or so to each of the momentous events that have happened over the past twenty or so days intead of en entire post.

Arsenal vs Wigan- the last game at Highbury. 4-2, but not without moments of drama, not before we were down 2-1 and looking to end up 5th... in the end a virtuoso Henry hat-trick coupled with a memorable gesture when he kneeled to kiss the Highbury turf. What a send-off for the grand old stadium. Goodbye Highbury, 1913-2006, gone but never forgotten.

Champions' League Final- A great performance, a stirring performance full of grit, passion and determination- down to 10 men after just twenty minutes due to another eccentric moment from Mad Jens and Bobby being taken off in possibly his last Arsenal game was truly heartbreaking. Still, a magnificent rearguard action made us all dare to dream for a while before ol' Henric Larsson shattered everything. Next season I am backing Valencia in the La Liga. Still, well done lads, here's to the first of many finals.

Henry's new contract- I was almost dancing when I heard the news. Four more years to terrorize the EPL defenses and make him the greatest Arsenal player ever, period. The perfect antidote after the gloom of 17th May. We love you Thierry, we do!

Oh yeah, sometime in the middle of this all Theo Walcott has been picked for the England squad, I've begun reading Plutarch's "Lives" and the board exam results are day after tomorrow.

Random musings

2006-05-05T23:00:00.000-07:00

Next time I work on a code I'm going to hire Subiet to create a computer program which will let me do all my substitutions in one go! ;-) Transferring each letter to a numeral was among the most tedious things I have ever done and took half the night... coincidentially K.A called up that same evening to ask about- of all things- cryptography! Sometimes I feel I am in touch with people who are telepathic! :-D

Recently I have been getting addicted to one song after the other (all accompanied by LOTR videos). First it was "Memories" by Within Temptation, then "My Immortal" by Evanescence, then "Into the West" by Annie Lennox. All these songs seem to be just right for an LOTR video, and makes watching/listening the perfect experience.

Yesterday while looking for Metallica symphonies I happened to chance upon the Trans-Siberian Orchestra... for a stunning fusion of classical and rock, they are just what the doctor ordered... absolutely brilliant! The next time I go to Saket I'll be looking out for their "Beethoven's Last Night."

So my Spain jersey arrived a few days ago. Now nothing can stop Raul from lifting the Cup! ;-)

Finally... joined lotrplaza.com yesterday. A true home away from home for the LOTR fanatic... although it's seems confusingly huge at first, it takes only about an hour to nevigate your way through and get familiar with it. Also joined the RPG game there- as a rule I don't do RPGs, but where LOTR is concerned, a lot of rules have to be broken. Talking of which, it is time to learn Elvish, but I can't decide whether to start with Quenya or Sindarin...

Another barrier breached...

2006-05-02T05:12:00.000-07:00

Yes, a little after one month of beginning Galaxia, the 100,000 mark has been crossed. I'm feeling considerably bucked, as old Bertie Wooster would say.

At the moment it stands at about 104,000. Considering the situation of the story, I think the first draft should finish at approximately 180,000. Unfortunately that would mean something like 490 pages of A4 size paper (with paragraphs breaks though)... some massive editing will have to be done in June if, as I hope, I finish by the end of May.

For the first time in my life I have a really good feeling about a novel. All the ideas are original, I'm managing to develop my own style and the characters seem to be coming alive rathe ther than their usual cardboard selves. Even if nothing comes of this in the end, I'll consider "Galaxia" a massive stepping stone in my literary journey... possibly this could be the last of the "trial novels"... or the first of the "real novels"... anyway, we shall see.

Call me Hamlet!

2006-05-02T04:52:00.000-07:00

One of the first things I remember my father saying when I asked about the Bard was a remark about how difficult it was to begin reading him, but once you "got into it" it was absolutely wonderful. Well, Pericles and Cymbeline gave me a hard time, but fortunately they aren't among the best, and it served as a proper initiation. Since then I have finished all the tragedies I hadn't read last year- (except for Coriolanus) and read a few comedies as well. As it would take an insanely long time to record opinions and memorable passages of individual plays, I'll just write a brief account of my Shakespearean journey over the last one week or so.

First was Antony and Cleopatera. A brilliant, moving portrayal of human follies and Antony's description, though historically incorrect, holds true to the Shakespearean tragic heroes' "fatal flaw" - here, I suppose, it is the ardour of his love for Cleopatera which makes him blind to everything else. Cleopatera herself is one of the few Shakesepearean tragic heroines who has some substance to her. In the end, I felt sorry for Antony's death but not for Cleopatera's. I can recall one brilliant line: "Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety."

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark- my definite favourite so far. I absolutely loved the character of Hamlet, drawing infinite parallels with myself, loved how the play unfolded and especially the end. One passage I've read so many times I think I know some of it by heart...

"To be or not to be, that is the question
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The arrows and slings of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them; to sleep, to die
Thus to make an end
Of the thousand shocks and- ah, something...
That flesh is heir to;
To sleep, perchance to dream; ay, there's the rub
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come?

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. The onyl disappointment was Ophelia being surprsingly cardboard.

Timon of Athens- Another classic tragedy. This time the hero's flaw is over-generosity to false friends- and the way they turn around and betray him in his hour of need is almost heart-rending. The transformation of Timon from a kind-hearted, generous lord to a confirmed hater of the human species is blunt, sharp, almost jarring... and his death is both tragic and moving.

Titus Andronicus- This play left me absolutely shaken. Such graphic violence, such... viciousness was shocking. As a play it is structurally brilliant, of course, and the language, as always, is comparable to Beethoven's Fifth in music. But let's see... Titus' daughter is raped, her hands cut off, her tongue torn off at the root, her husband murdered... Titus accidentally kills one of his own sons, and two other of his sons are executed on false charges... he himself loses a hand... consistently through the play innumerable people are stabbed... the villain of the piece is buried alive and left to starve to death... I really can't say I enjoyed it.

Well, that took a far longer time than expected... so I guess I'll postpone "A Midsummer Night's Dream", "Much Ado About Nothing", "As You Like It" and "King John" to tonight.

Awe and Inspiration

2006-04-28T05:04:00.000-07:00

Anyone who doesn't write doesn't know how wonderful it is. I used to bemoan the fact that I couldn't draw at all, but now I am more than happy that I can at least write. And if I haven't any talent for writing books or newspaper articles, well, then I can always write for myself.

I want to go on living even after my death! And therefore I am grateful to God for giving me this gift, this possibility of developing myself, and of writing, of expressing all that is in me.

I can shake of everything if I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn. But, and that is the great question, will I ever be able to write anything great, will I ever become a journalist or a writer? I hope so, I hope so very much, for I can recapture everything when I write, my thougths, my ideals and my fantasies.

-Anne Frank

I think the world lost a rare and precious jewel in March 1945 when Ann Frank died at Bergen-Belsen. Reading this, among other things, I feel sure that she would have gone on to become, apart from an excellent human being, a top-notch writer, even a great one and produced works of lasting and enduring quality. This is just one excerpt... two hundred and twenty one pages, and I was left feeling awed and humbled.

Reading the above lines was a real eye-opener. I half-felt I had written them myself. They certainly echo my thoughts and feelings to the letter. And then a shiver comes over me as I recall that old phrase, "There, but for the grace of God, go I." (Or rather, would have gone.)

It's sixty-one years too late, but goodbye Anne Frank. The world was paupered when you died.

I hate sieges!

2006-04-28T03:09:00.000-07:00

Darned difficult to write and horribly annoying. I can't imagine how Walter Scott did so well with his, for it seems to me I'm making a complete mess of mine.

2006-04-25T21:45:00.000-07:00

"When I was in high school I read and loved two wonderful novels by Megan McCafferty "Sloppy Firsts" and "Second Helpings", which spoke to me in a way which few other books did. Recently I was very surprised and upset to learn that there are similarities between some passages in my novel, "How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life," and passages in these books. While the central stories of my book and hers are completely different, I wasn't aware of how much I may have internalised McCafferty's words. I am a huge fan of her work and can honestly say that any phrasing similarities between her works and mine were completely unintentional and unconscious."

Absolutely pathetic, Ms Vishwanathan, absolutely pathetic. If you're not going to admit to blatant plagiarism then at least keep shut instead of insulting everyone's intelligence spouting such drivel. Wasn't it just a day ago that you said "No comment. I don't know what you're talking about."? Seems like you must have had a few words with your solicitor.

30 "influenced" passages. It's a crying shame. Seems as if we have Chris Paolini's long-lost sister over here.

Lord, what HAS happened to intellectual honesty?

Plagiarism and the man

2006-04-24T21:31:00.000-07:00

"How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life" - doesn't the name itself give you a vague sense of nausea? Two lengthy reviews later I am determined never to touch that book with a ten-foot pole. And now come the accusations of plagiarism.

Before I write anything else, let me say that the poverty of language ensures that there is no way to describe the sheer wretchedness of The Times of India. Quoting from the article- "... Indian-American teen literary prodigy Kaavya Vishwanathan..."

Tragic. That's the only word I can think of. Absolutely tragic. I wonder if it is the typical TOI suycophancy whenever an NRI is involved, or their normal habit of applauding mediocrities and raising them to the level of geniuses. Remember, this is the paper which compared JK Rowling to Milton, Tolkien, Homer and Shelley and published eight different reviews the day after "Half-Blood Prince" was published. They'd probably be thinking Ms Vishwanathan is the next Wodehouse... "teen literary prodigy"...I mean, COME ON!

So on to the book itself. "How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life" is about this Indian-American girl who's parents make a plan (HOWGIH- How Opal Will Get Into Harvard) to get her into Harvard when she is seven, and so for the next ten years she's working towards that. Then when the Harvard interviewer asks her what she does for fun, she is flummoxed and sent away to do research on the topic. So her father makes a plan HOWGAL (How Opal Will Get a Life) and so begins all that American stuff- you know, I don't need to mention it. It is the worst kind of populist writing written for the sole reason of selling and making money with no pretensions whatsoever to any literary merit. And so the accusations of plagiarism don't really come as a surprise- and I only wish somebody had the sense to put Paolini in the dock as well.

Edited

2006-04-16T05:39:00.000-07:00

Alright, so after a talk with the person concerned I realize I probably overreacted to the situation. It has still been a very massive shock for me, and in future, caution will be my watchword.

Cyembeline

2006-04-11T12:29:00.000-07:00

This again is cannot be classified as a "tragedy" for exactly the same reason as "Pericles" - but I care not. I quite enjoyed this play... it was grand in scope, the language was symphonical of course, and the characters very well-drawn. In the beginning of the play, Cyembeline the character for some reason reminded me of Lear the character, though of course they are completely different people. I can also see some similarities with "Othello" in how slander is successful in destroying love and breeding envy. Thankfully, the ending was not quite so heart-rending as Othello.

Memorable lines aplenty here. The best ones, according to me, were:

"And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send
Though ink be made of gall."

"She shines not upon fools, lest the reflection should hurt her."

"The flame o' th' taper
Bows toward her and would under-peep her lids
To see th' enclosed lights, now canopied
Under these windows white and azure, lac'd
With blue of heaven's own tinct."

"I'll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor
The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,
Out-sweet'ned not thy breath."

I also loved the series of poems sung by the ghosts around the sleeping Leonatus. And Cloten, for some strange reason, reminds me of Christopher Paolini- all sound and fury, signifying nothing!

Antony and Cleopatera tomorrow.

Pericles

2006-04-10T09:59:00.000-07:00

So is reborn my Shakespearean journey with the perusal of "Pericles, Prince of Tyre." It is the final tragedy in my Shakespeare anthology, but the first thought I had on completing the play was that it isn't a tragedy in the true sense of the word. The protagonists undergo trials, tribulations, even suffering but there is a "happy ending" without the deaths which characterise Julius Caesar, Macbeth and the other great tragedies.

In all honesty, I cannot claim to have enjoyed "Pericles" overmuch. In my opinion the plot was weak and the characters distinctly unimpressive. I did note some memorable lines, however, which reaffirm that one is in the presence of a genius:

"Here's a fish hangs in the net like a poor man's right in the law."

"Falseness cannot come from thee; for thou lookest
Modest as Justice and thou seem'st a palace
For the crown'd Truth to dwell in. I will believe thee."

"Yet thou dost look
Like Patience gazing on kings' graves and smiling."

Overall I do feel a bit disappointed. Gower's final verse sounds too much like putting the tale within a moral skeleton. From what vague memories I do have of my previous forays into the Bards' works, "Pericles" pales in comparison with some of them.

I hope better from "Cymbeline" tomorrow.

Champions' League

2006-04-04T23:15:00.000-07:00

Well, what is it with Italian teams and last minute goals? I personally thought Lyon did enough to go through over a hundred and eighty minutes, only to be denied by Inzaghi at the death... and that too after Shevchenko's shot had been turned on to one post by Coupet, rolled across the goalline and come back off the other post. Personally, I don't like AC Milan's style of play- they sit back for ten minutes, defend deep, launch a sudden counterattack and then go back to defending. Hopefully Barcelona will school them in the semis.

Talking of Barca, they must be kicking themselves right now for letting Riquelme go to Villareal. Imagine a midfield four comprising of Deko, Ronaldinho, Riquelme, Messi... and supported up front by Eto'o... it would be a dream team. Riquelme was simply immense against Inter, that incredible shot from a non-existent angle really putting the seal on a magnificent performance. Inter continue their underachievement in Europe, Villareal's fairy tale run continues...

Today, Arsenal vs Juventus and Barca vs Benfica. I do feel we're going to go through, but you can never tell with the Italians. Also, Barca should qualify after a tense, tight game... 1-0 or 2-1.

An idea...

2006-04-03T14:12:00.000-07:00

I just thought of something. Here in Delhi for the next three years, I can at least watch every Arsenal game on weekends- every single one- as opposed to zilch in the US. How about that!

That's it then. Screw you, Princeton. Get stuffed, Dartmouth. Hang yourself, Yale. To hell with you, Stanford. No more moping, no more sitting around staring blankly into space. It's time to move on.

And continuing...

2006-04-03T10:48:00.000-07:00

Fourth day...

God, when will this ordeal end? I almost feel suicidal at times. How could so much effort, how could all that blood, sweat toil and tears just go down the drain with nothing to show for it? How can my world come crashing down around me in the space of three days? I don't suppose either that I'll ever meet Erin or that we'll ever write Amber Throne together like we had once discussed. It was a dream- a wonderful dream while it lasted, but now its gone.

At the moment I don't want to hear the word "Ivies" ever again in my life. Ever.

Continuing despair...

2006-04-02T10:24:00.000-07:00

I feel as if my life is falling to pieces around me.

The last three days have been without doubt the worst of my life. Unable to write, unable to study... just sitting at my desk staring blankly at nothing, wondering how it ever came to this.

I desperately need to talk to someone. Parents keep saying, "Get over it." Erin's been wonderful, but well, she's got into P'Ton and Yale, I haven't.

I keep getting reminded of Chekhov's Grief which we did this year in school... the irony would be almost laughable if I wasn't sunk in the depths of despair every moment.

One day they're going to regret it. That's a promise.

Ivy rejections

2006-04-01T02:48:00.000-08:00

One after the other, each a more crippling blow than the last. Fighting back tears for more than half an hour.

Unable to study, unable to write. Sitting at my desk staring at nothing. I don't feel anything anymore. Just an aching regret for all the time spent studying for the SATs, tearing around school all day getting reccomendations, writing essays, filling forms... all for nothing. Wasted hours, wasted days

"You tell me we can find something to wash the tears away
You tell me we can start the rain
You tell me that we all can change
You tell me we can find something to wash the tears...

And I know of the pain that you feel the same as me
And I dream of the rain as it falls upon the leaves
And the cracks in the ground like the cracks are in our lives
They are sealed and now far away...."

Good old Steve Harris...

Progress

2006-03-29T03:09:00.000-08:00

13000 words. Four chapters. At work on the fifth. Work is going astonishingly fast... but I expect pace to be slowed down now as much more plotting needs to be done once "Part 1" is over- at approximately 20000.

7500 barrier...

2006-03-24T22:34:00.000-08:00

...was breached yesterday. Was writing until 3:30 in the morning. Current progress reads- Characterisation of the three protagonists is done, and Prologue, Chapt 1, Chapt 2 edited and on the LJ account.

Beginnings

2006-03-24T03:12:00.000-08:00

I wish I could say that a dozen failed attempts at writing a novel have made me a wiser person, only I'm not sure about the truth of that. In any case, every time I begin something it is with the intention of writing a magnum opus- yet this time something feels different. Not only has the idea been in my head for the last two years- the longest time yet compared to my other infatuations- I'm actually able to do characterisations and planning without having to give in to the temptation of actually writing the story.

So it is to be hoped that Galactica/Galaxia will be different from City of Stone, Bridge to Eternity, The Golden Horn and all of those misdeeds of my youth. ;-) No more spontaneity, and to misquote Herge, no more today how I'm going to extricate my heroes from the scrapes I had left them in so unfairly yesterday.

Talking of Herge, the parallelism is quite uncanny. He had his early period, a period of glorious uncertainties, of rough-and-ready writing where quality often suffered at the expense of pace and action. I have had mine, and I hope like him I am entering my "middle period" where the quill has matured enough to produce a work of real quality.

A prologue and chapter 1 done since the exams got over + characterisation of the three protagonists translates into swift progress. Alea Jacta Est as always.

The evening before...

2006-02-28T05:24:00.000-08:00

Eventide, and a faint scent of rain pervades the dim twilit sky. Outside the window, I see the Sun has just set and the sky is changing colour from pink to black. It is very quiet, and there is a strange sense of anticlimax to having the Boards begin with English... for a few hours, I seem to be stuck in a time warp with no sense of past, present or future.

Studying is all done, so now I just wait until 10 PM to go to sleep. When I wake up, it will be March 1 and 21 days to go.

Laissez Allere, Alea Jacta Est, Good Luck, whatever...

Erin, Dartmouth and College

2006-02-17T07:28:00.000-08:00

I learnt today morning that Erin had been accepted to Dartmouth.

Of a complex mass of feelings that rose up within me, the one which came to the fore was not that of great joy or that of empathy, rather it was that of unquestionable envy. It shocked me to the core and pushed my self-esteem down to nadir.

I cannot understand this. What is left when one begins getting jealous of one's closest friend? What is friendship if not to share in triumphs and defeats? Alright, so I desperately want to get admitted as well, but that is absolutely no excuse. I should have been feeling delighted, thrilled at the very least, joyous, but this...

When am I going to grow up? When will I banish the green-eyed monster from my soul? When will this self-obsession stop?

I hope it will come some day. At the moment I am completely ashamed of myself.

Moving on... Dartmouth is the only college in the Ivies having a Tolkien Society. 'Tis great for Erin- providing of course Princeton and Yale show up negative- which I doubt. For me, I think my best shot is at Yale- I already think I've screwed up Dartmouth by sending the Financial aid application one and a half months late- Yale has an Elizabethan society, the next best thing to a Tolkien society I suppose. Princeton has already deferred me, so they can sit and stew... if Prof Davis' recco didn't work for Early Decision, I don't think its going to work for regular either. And Harvard just mailed me saying my Sec. Report is missing... it's all coming undone at the hinges. Looks like its going to be Deshbandhu College after all...

Ah, I forgot Stanford. Strangely enough, I have given Stanford least thought, but now that I come to think of it, I have a nearly perfect application there. Financial Aid sent on time, thank the Lord... Three essays unlike one for the Common App, and I may flatter myself but I wrote raStanford- No idea;

Not very positive odds, these. Deshbandhu it is then...ther well... I somehow have a feeling at the back of my mind Stanford might just go right...

To sum up,

Chances at Dartmouth- 5-6 %
Chances at Yale- 15-16%
Chances at Harvard- Nil to 2 %
Chances at P'ton- 9-10%
Chances at Stanford- No clue

Not too great odds these... Deshbandhu it is then.

Thank you for the memories...

2006-02-01T02:54:00.000-08:00

Seven years at school, most of which were spent in intense loneliness, in thinking and speaking on a parallel intellectual plane from most people, it has been very hard. Yet there have been some of my batchmates who have helped to make the journey less arduous, even helped to make me enjoy looking forward to school on the occasion. So many thanks folks, it's been great knowing you...

Gautam Khazanchi- Friends from seventh, and as far as I can remember we have never quarreled. One of the few school-teamers who has never jeered at me on the football field, take a bow Khazzu. And thanks, thanks a billion for you- know-what.

Akshay Aggarwal (Aggu)- We used to dream about being geneticists back in class IX, and working together in the same lab. That will probably never come true, but anyway we had some great discussions on the back seat in the classes of Annapoorni, RD and the rest.

Sumeet Singh (Sumo)- Only got to know Sumo in class IX, but for four years he's always been a true friend, and one of the best people I know. Cheers.

And last, but far from being the least-

Sahil a.k.a Waajil Chaacha a.k.a Darjee: If I were to choose one person from my time at the school who could be called a best friend, it's Sahil. We've had some great times... bunking morning assembly in Seventh... those Harry Potter "antaksharis" (shudder!) we used to play with Bharat, Ghosh, Arjun... our obsession with Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon and Star Wars in class 8... those brilliant conversations on the phone... the way we struggled and fought together to get into the Quiz team... the ecstacy and the agony of Columban Open, the excruciating pain of missing out in Young World, the rapid-fire round of Helpage... we shared all of that and they were such wonderful experiences... and of course, all those football games in the Sunlit Park. It was great while it lasted.

Some others then. The Brotherhood- Rust, Kroddy, M.D, Daani, Bhatt, Bagri, Deba.... what times we had! Awadhesh... we were never close, but you still remain one of the most dignified and restrained persons I know... Purva... at least there was one person who, from the outside at least, didn't seem to think I was some strange eccentric from Mars. Thank you everyone.

Bridge to Eternity- Notes on Prologue and Chapt. 1

2006-01-20T14:15:00.000-08:00

Prologue-
1. Expand description of Palace gardens.
2. Info dump somewhere in the middle- try editing the "Lagon was a passion bit" if it works.
3. Description of the weather?

Chapter 1-
1. Expand, expand, expand description of Skybury. The Arena will play such a major role in the future, so get the feeling in right now. A four line verse should do the trick.
2. Description of Lord Baldwin is so hurried that its almost pathetic- you sound like you were rushing to catch a flight while writing it. Expand.

In eruption.

2006-01-18T05:06:00.000-08:00

Warning: Rant follows. If you're a Potter fan, or an Eragon fan... STAY AWAY!

There comes a time when the pent-up emotions seething within need to be released, either through kicking chairs and tables or through writing. I've generally found the first option to bring nothing more than temporary pain... and neither does it solve the problem. So onto Option 2 then.

First, Potter. I used to be a fan, I admit it. Right up until class VIII I used to adore Potter. Even now, I think the first and the third books are decent, good quality writing. First of all I began to lose faith when it became clear that Rowling was stalling on publishing the fifth book just to make sales increase; I saw all the merchendise, and got even more disillusioned. Fantasy isn't something you market. It isn't something that's "cool." It's a genre of expression which encompasses the spectrum of all human feeling, the gamut of human emotion. You can lose yourself in Fantasy, give a free rein to your imagination and in every way transcend your own moribund existence. And last but not least, Fantasy boasts of such shining beacons as Morris, Spenser, Scott, Tolkien, Le Guien... writing Fantasy is a responsibility, a responsibility to at least abstain from defaming, if not striving to emulate standards set by these great masters. Merchandising Fantasy is like killing its soul; and that is something Rowling has unabashedly done: films, trading cards, shirts, drawing boards... you name it.

The fifth book was the killer for me. Badly written, clearly aimed to sell maximum copies, it was in the true sense of the word, a "Commmercial" book. Moreover, everywhere I went, Potter, Potter filled the air, enveloped it, surrounded it... in the bus, in school, in writing forums on the net... "Poor fool, they make me laugh," I said at first... then came a stage when I couldn't open a newspaper without coming across some idiot journalist praising Potter to the skies. It began to grow sickening. Meanwhile, JK Rowling had become just about the most inflated and egotistical person on the Planet with her ridiculous statements which reminded one of a self-satisfied cat preening itself on the wall. And that's when a tolerable dislike turned to hate.

I haven't read the sixth book. I vow that I never shall. A whole year before the world was in a frenzy wondering who was going to die. Who, who? The question was everywhere, with Rowling stoking the flames. When the book came out, The Stinking Times of India had no less than eight bloody articles on Potter... comparing Rowling to the likes of- horrors of horrors- Homer, Milton and Tolkien. I remember reading that sentence and tearing up the newspaper in absolute rage.

Then Harry Potter films have made a number of talentless people world-famous, prominent among them Daniel Radcliffe and Emma Watson. I won't say anything against Rupert Grint, as I feel he has genuine acting talent, but Radcliffe and Watson cannot act to save their mothers' lives, and to top it all they make such statements- Watson in particular- which set the blood boiling. What business Watson has to talk rubbish about Alex Linz, who is ten times the actor she can ever hope to be is absolutely incomprehensible. And yet these people are feted and adulated for being remarkable poor actors and having accomplished nothing in their miserable lives. Pathetic.

On to my old pal, Beowulf of Paolini, or "Wormpen" as Erin calls him. Christopher Paolini is a disgrace. A disgrace to intellectual honesty and a disgrace to the genre in which he attempts to express himself. Eragon is Tolkien for retards. It's a laughable and pathetic attempt at high fantasy. The language is bad and the plot is one Odyssey of shameless lifting of other authors' works. The absolute cheek of the man to use Elves who are tall, noble and fair, and Dwarves who live under mountains is absolutely amazing. The sheer gall of the man to talk about everything "having a true name in the old language" makes one feel absolutely murderous. The marvellously original names of "Ardwen", "The Spine of the World" etc. really leave one at a loss for laughing or crying. And on top of everything the man is shamelessly, disgracefully arrogant. Erin once sent me a couple of his newsletters, and they made for *painful* reading... from his- to quote Erin- "unnecessarily verbose description of mountains, clearly meant to show off" to his accounts of the "really cool people" he meets. And this man's books are at the top of the fiction lists, and everyone around me praising them to the skies. The Stinking Times of India compared Paolini to Keats in that they were bothd prodigies! Sacrilege... Fire! Murder!

Paolini's characters are cardboard. I don't know what unfulfilled fantasies he was trying to complete with his elf Arya. For everyone who has a decent knowledge of Fantasy, Eragon is a torture just because it is so, so, so, so absurdly cliched... and that's just the least of it.

Paolini's ruining Fantasy- absolutely ruining it and destroying it. Someday, if I become a known author in my own right, I'd really love to have a literary debate with him. For now I am content to imagine punching him in the face on some unknown occasion in the future.

Hail Paolini and Rowling- destroyers of Fantasy.

An English Summer

2006-01-14T01:07:00.000-08:00

Clearing bookshelves is an arduous task; I do it rarely, and that too at the insistence of my parents. And it was with a feeling of déjà vu that I came upon, in my latest spring-cleaning operation, a shelf of books I had not touched for four years- books by Enid Blyton.

Flipping through the faintly yellowed pages seemed like treading the halls of memory. I remembered vividly how the halcyon days of my childhood were spent journeying to English boarding schools, or exotic and unknown locales, or even fairyland. My pre-adolescent reading journey is a confusing haze of varied images, but it can all be condensed into an English summer with Blyton. And now, it was with a sense of wistfulness more than anything else that I revisited the scenes of my boyhood wanderings.

Life with Blyton was simple. It was warm summer days, generally accompanied by bottles of ginger-beer and potted meat sandwiches; there was laughter- much of it; there was mischief, and a school life that seemed ideal in every sense; there was mystery and adventure, but human life was always preserved; there were explorations through moors, hills and woods; and Blyton's protagonists embodied within them all that was best and brightest, and most virile and wonderful about the childhood spirit. There were pixies, and gnomes; elves, fairies- and even Golliwogs. The flights of fancy to Fairyland and Toyland seemed like journeys to Eden.

So much seems to have changed since then.

After I "graduated" from Blyton, my reading tastes grew eclectic; yet nowhere was the change so sudden, and so jarring than in "magical realism", or "fantasy"- a genre in which Blyton specialized herself. Whether the story was set upon Earth or in some imaginary realm, things suddenly grew complex. Life was treated with rank disrespect, as people died en masse, and that too in a variety of gruesome ways. Stomach-churning violence occurred with alarming frequency; the protagonists suddenly turned into killing machines, generally with swords; and all chastity in interaction between the sexes was lost. So as a wide variety of authors, ranging from Jordan to Martin, and from Crichton to Brown sent rushes of adrenaline through my blood and chills down my spine, the innocence of Blyton lay forgotten deep in some corner of my heart.

And so it was that when I turned the pages of those "Secret Sevens" and "Famous Fives", it was with a feeling of deep nostalgia, and a wish, nay, a desire that those golden years would return. I longed to read again some fantasy in which death did not rear its ugly head; a story unsoiled by repeated sexual innuendoes, and in which a boy and a girl could, for once, just be friends; a story in which no forces of evil sought to bring about Armageddon; essentially a story celebrating goodness without any strings attached. I wanted a return to the basics, when life was a caravan journey across the countryside, a jaunt through the woods, or a raft-ride upon the river.

"Good Luck with that!" I now tell myself with a mirthless smile. Eve has bitten into the apple, and there is no Eden any more. "Death, where is thy sting?" is now the villain's favorite call, there has to be a fair maiden for every gallant knight, and Blyton's legacy is slowly fading to dust. Pullman resisted the temptation for a long time, but fell in the end, and all the others generally set their tone in the prologue itself. Of all modern authors writing in "Blytonesque" genres, only some of JK Rowling's characters can be dubbed "Blytonesque"- and that is only until the onset of puberty. It would be well nigh impossible to imagine Blyton writing about a Yule Ball… who would she pair up, we wonder. Jack and Dinah…? Philip and Mary-Ann…? The soul is revolted at the very thought.

It is only now that I realize that the most sterling qualities that comes across in Blyton's writing is an unshakable belief in the inherent purity of human spirit, and a high regard for human life- qualities conspicuously absent elsewhere. Perhaps, though, that is not what the general public wants. Perhaps the villain dying gruesomely in the end "sells" better than him merely being arrested; perhaps lust between the protagonists gets the author a better contract than mere friendship; in that case we cannot, of course, blame the Martins, Brooks and Paolinis of today- it is, after all, a commercial world. But I do feel that they would do well to take a few leaves out of Blyton's book and remember that they were children once; and as for me, I have been bombarded with enough fictional devastation- it is time to return home to my English summer again.

Losing it...

2006-01-09T09:34:00.000-08:00

Eleven hours to go for the Chem exam... Lord, I'm losing the plot big time... hopelessly underprepared and looking at something in the range of 40-45/70. Help!

Labyrinth of my mind...

2006-01-04T06:54:00.000-08:00

In the labyrinth of my mind, I imagine myself to be a general, putting the finishing touches to his battle-plan. As I stare at my Economics notes, my nervy fingers sketching a graph, I imagine the silent, deserted plain which will be filled tomorrow with the trumpeting of horns, the crying of bucinas and the neighing of steeds. My notes turn into complex maps of strategic mountain passes, ambush sites, undulating valleys and rising hillocks. My masterly strategic intellect plans the final downfall of my enemies. Commanders of various battalions stand behind, awaiting orders...

Which would all be very well had I bothered to study properly during the holidays...

Alea Jacta Est.

Scum and Lowlife

2005-12-26T23:45:00.000-08:00

To (mis)quote Gandalf, "there are creatures other than Christopher Paolini who inhabit the deep places of this earth." This post then, seeks to classify into categories the various forms of highest-water first-order unfit-for-human-consumption scum who are burden upon this green earth.

Top four in ascending order of scumworthiness, then...

4. The Post RA Chelsea fan- Also known as the greater common glory-hunter, this strange creature supports Chelsea not for the football they play or for their (non-existent) tradition but because of the wealth bestowed upon them by patron Roman Abramovitch. The worst part is that even football the great leveller cannot humble him, because the moment Chelsea's fortunes take a downslide, he will desert like a rat upon a sinking ship and switch his loyalites.

3. The hoarse-voiced singer: Somebody who uses temptations of the flesh to good advantage while pretending to pursue the noble profession of music. Such a creature, almost always female, draws attention so much attention to attire, (or lack of it), that a bad, often pathetic voice is often overlooked.

2. The "Page Three" leech: A blot and a blight upon society. Someone who lives to eat, drink, sleep, dance and see his/her name upon the third page of newspaper supplements. It makes one quite froth at the mouth to see the attention given to the leech, when at the moment this country is suffering from severe problems which need to be highlighted by the media, but aren't because this "sells" better.

1. The common Eragon fan:
Q- What do you call one Eragon fan on the moon?
A- A problem

Q- What do you call a hundred Eragon fans on the moon?
A- A problem

Q- What do you call all the Eragon fans on the moon
A- Problem solved.

You see, to achieve universal peace, brotherhood and harmony on this earth, we just need to take the following course of action: round up all the Eragon fans, pile them up into a rocket and eject them into outer space.

There is one, however, who does not fit into this classification system because he belongs to such a high level that a different order of taxonomy is required. Yes, I am talking about that "Beowulf" of our times, that sinister high-priest of commercial writing, that arrogant delusional sonofagun, the grand high Christopher Paolini himself! *Applause!* Others abide questions, thou art free! Death by a combination of being hung, drowned, shot, probed, dismembered and decapitated is too good for CP.

Fall of Fantasy: Canto I and II interpretation

2005-12-24T02:32:00.000-08:00

What kind of strange beast ends up interpreting his own poem? The answer is, of course, the same strange beast who tries to be too clever by half and writes so obscurely that on returning to it after six months, he finds his own work confusing him. Very soon, I fear, I shall forget completely what I had in mind while writing this poem; and so before that happens, I need to put clear my mind regarding the meaning.

I remember writing to Erin something along the lines... "today in the newspaper I came across an article comparing JK Rowling to JRR Tolkien... that is the last straw for me, and I intend to write a long poem lamenting the fall of Fantasy." That was how FoF came to be begun. It took about twelve days to finish, in the midst of preparing for the July school exams. The end result is more of a journeyman-like job than anything else. I have experimented with all sorts of rhyme-schemes, changed moods and meters at will, and generally exercised "poetic license" to the hilt.

So without much ado, the first Canto:
Pretty much straightforward stuff, musings about Homer. Quite literal, no hidden meanings as far as I can tell. The rhyme-scheme is at first the Spenserian "nonet" and then simplifies to an elementart "abab" and "aabb." Nothing really stands out in this canto- it is decent, rhyming poetry much along the lines of "Storyteller's Prayer" and "Voyage of Icarus"- nothing spectacular. I do think, however, that this particular stanza rises above the rest:

Yet then the Horse entered the Gates
And the city fell to fire and blade
Lost was the game with the cruel Fates
As turned to ash the beauteous glade
And to cacophony the serenade
Then upon a silent, waveless sea
A weary Hero homeward made
Embarking upon perilous journey
Ulysses wrote his Odyssey…

Canto II:
Moving onto Canto II which deals exclusively with Arthurian legend. Fortunately, at the top I have written a brief note without with I would have been utterly lost:

"Note: The failed romance of Launcelot and Guinevere is purely symbolic as neither did it take place in Avalon nor was it a single, isolated occurrence.
Launcelot’s dream and the subject of Guinevere’s song both symbolize the degradation of the art of writing High Fantasy."

Otherwise, I think it has a bit more flow than the first canto- especially in the middle where it is primitice "abab." My favourite lines here belong to a stanza where I have imitated one of my favourite poems, "The Song of Eorl the Young." It goes:

Where now the splendour of the Kings of old?
Where is the chalice and the Horn?
Where is the shine of the goblet of gold?
Where is the jewelled corselet once worn?
Time’s scythe now is all they adorn…
Where lost the notes of the gold harpstring?
Where is the horse and the rider of morn?
Where is the meadow, and the bird on the wing?
Where is the sea, and the mountains tow’ring?

And this:

In Camelot, in Caerleone
Upon Albion’s golden sands
Excalibur, Sword in the Stone
Unconquered, glorious, defiant stands

And then finally, this:

So now the Quest we undertook
Perceval, Galahad, Bohort- and I
Camelot, our homeland, we forsook
And to Caerleone we said goodbye
To the Eastern lands we swift did hie
And vowed pleasure to ever spurn
Till the Sangreal lay ‘neath Albion’s sky
Till Albion possessed the holy urn
We vowed till then never to return…

Here I have shamelessly plagiarised Byron's rhyme-scheme for the Isles of Greece.

In the end, the"we will walk alone" bit corresponds to infighting within the round table, which led to the its ultimate dissolution.

Will complete cantos III, IV and V later.

A Challenge II: Explanations

2005-12-23T13:40:00.000-08:00

Due to the rather complex nature of the previous post, I have decided to write out a full explanation here- as much for my own benefit as anything else, because of late it has begun to confuse me too.

The seven words appear in Caps:

Kinsmen apART, HURrying over the lands
While the dreamer’s sonG RAILs at the fates
Riding fire and oPEN DRAGONs’ hands
Riding, yet the dreaMER LINgers and dawning awaits
O’er the sea they CAME, LO, To the brimming plains
Up, flaming brand and iron LANCE
LO Thus ended eternity’s kingdom’s reign
Fleets nAVALON ON the sands were crimson stains
Ruined and fading dust, save a dreamer’s song and a dance

The words, again, are: Arthur, Grail, Pendragon, Merlin, Camelot, Lancelot, Avalon. The theme is, of course, very loosely based on Arthurian legend. The Iron Lance suggets christianity related quests, and "kinsmen hurrying..." and all themes of war refer to the Dover episode in Mallory's Morte d'Arthur. "Eternity's Kingdom" is of course Camelot/Caerleon.

Now for the message... I'm rather proud of this one, since it was darned difficult to accomplish without the poem descending into meaningless gibberish. The trick is to take the first letter of each line, and then increase by two each line, that is third letter of second line, fifth of third line and so on until the seventeenth letter of the ninth line. On reaching the bottom line, reverse direction. Now its seventeenth from the last, then travel up- fifteenth from the end, thirteenth and so on until you return to the first line where it is the last letter.

The message runnig through is:
K-I-N-G-A-R-T-H-U-R-S-K-N-I-G-H-T-S

A Challenge: II

2005-12-22T11:49:00.000-08:00

Much in the line of the previous challenge, here is another riddle in the form of a poem:

Kinsmen apart, hurrying over the lands
While the dreamer’s song rails at the fates
Riding fire and open dragons’ hands
Riding, yet the dreamer lingers and dawning awaits
O’er the sea they came, lo, to the brimming plains
Up, flaming brand and iron lance
Lo thus ended eternity’s kingdom’s reign
Fleets naval on the sands were crimson stains
Ruined and fading dust, save a dreamer’s song and a dance

Three questions here:
a) Identify the theme
b) Pick out seven words pertaining to the theme (Hint- you might want to do this first)
c) Find, like before, a running message.

The first two shouldn't be a problem for anyone with a decent knowledge of history/ mythological lore. The last one is tough- extremely tough- and I don't expect anyone to get it.

Dreams of Narnia

2005-12-21T21:39:00.000-08:00

So the second book of CS Lewis' fantasy septet, The Chronicles of Narnia, will soon be coming to India. It seems fitting to me, since the book in question, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe was my first Narnia book, and indeed my introduction to the world of Fantasy.

From shadowed portals of memory I can recall finding a tattered, hardbound copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe in some obscure shelf of the junior school library. For the life of me, I cannot remember how old I was. It was certainly well before fourth grade, because that was when I read Prince Caspian. Let us estimate, then, that it was second grade- I was six or seven at the time.

I began reading it with my mother, but soon I grew too impatient for our bedtime sessions, and finished it on my own. Needless to say, the adventures of Peter, Susan, Edward and Lucy left me bewitched, enthralled and enchanted, and with an everlasting love of fantasy. I did not know what a faun was; I did not know who Bacchus and Silenus were; and of course, I did not sense the proselytising nature of the book. Here was sword and sorcery in its simplest form; here was good and evil clearly defined; and here was a style of writing that was humorous, witty, tragicomic, wistful (and somewhat didactic, but let that pass!) all at once. Unlike Susan and Lucy, I did not cry when Aslan was "killed"- but I felt completely cut up inside, and was quite unable to speak until he was resurrected in the next chapter. I loved the journeys, the battles, the crowning and the final return.

The next summer, my mother issued a number of books from the school library for Holiday reading. Among them was a certain "The Magician's Nephew." Imagine my pleasure and delight to learn that Narnia was more than just one book. The Magician's Nephew I read from cover to cover with my mother who was just as hooked.

The first two books both had a sense of the ethereal, the mystical, and left me with such a yearning thirst that I was almost brought to tears whenever I would think about them. I began to imagine myself in Narnia; I wrote fictional accounts of Earth vs Narnia cricket matches held at Cair Paravel and at Eden Gardens. And yes, once I did hide myself in a cupboard, desperate to find snow beneath my feet.

A few months on, I came across a number of the Narnia books in my favourite haunt, the Midland Bookshop. Peter, Susan, Lucy and Edmund were still my favourites- especially Peter- so when I saw their names on the blurb of Prince Caspian, I bought it without hesitation, and read it through the same night. Until quite recently, Prince Caspian was my favourite Narnia book. The "battle" storyline running through the book appealed to me immensely. And oh, the duel between Peter and Miraz! I bookmarked the page where it begins, and read it so many times that those dog-eared pages still inspire remark in those who see them.

After Prince Caspian came The Horse and His Boy, and the return of Susan, Edmund and Lucy but not, unfortunately, of Peter. The Horse and His Boy is now my least favourite of the Narnia books- for reasons that I shall explain later- but at that time it too possessed that "yearning" quality which had been somewhat missing from Prince Caspian- and also brought with it a sense of the exotic in the Tarkans of Tashbaan.

By that time I was aware that I should read the last three books sequentially. But try as I might, I could not lay my hands on The Voyage of the Dawn Treader- so the Silver Chair had to do. The Silver Chair is the most "peaceful" of the Narnia books, and for that it holds a special place in my heart- and also because of the indefatigable Marsh-Wiggle Puddleglum. Jill is certainly my favourite female character in the Narnia universe.

Following which came the Last Battle, the most unusual of the Narnia books in its "doom" threadline, the actual fall of Narnia before, of course, the portrayal of the Kingdom of Heaven. I was saved from descending into grief while reading it because I was dead sure throughout that Tirian would retake the throne- and by the time it became obvious that he wouldn't, Aslan was already in charge. It was also in the Last Battle that I was first introduced to a concept which since then has had a deep influence on me- Old Father Time with his scythe and his horn.

Finally, one day, I found The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, which is now firmly established as my favourite Narnia story. It is from there I have acquired an undying love for islands and archipelagoes, which I wrote into the plot of both The Golden Horn and City of Stone. (Incidentally, Earthsea also had a great effect regarding that). Apart from that, I was enthralled by the idea of a sea quest upon the emerald waters of an unending Ocean. Finally, in the Voyage of the Dawn Treader, the mysticism is at its brilliant best.

I was probably through with Narnia before entering my tenth year. And as I read more, I began to understand the Lewis' racist undertones- especially in The Horse and His Boy and The Last Battle- as well as his evangelical beliefs- which were brought to the hilt in The Magician's Nephew, and again, the Last Battle. For a while, it put me off him terribly, since that was the time I was getting introduced to concepts of equality, universal brotherhood et al through a plethora of writers. That phase passed however when I understood that Lewis was to be enjoyed merely as a writer- and not as a missionary- and I loved Narnia again.

I owe a great debt to Narnia. Narnia paved the way for my understanding and enjoying such books as The Lord of the Rings, Earthsea and His Dark Materials. I cannot be sure, but I think I acquired my great passion for writing from Narnia. And in the years to come, I am sure I will read diverse and varied literature- but one dream will always remain- the dream of a small boy huddled under the bedsheets reading by torchlight and with bated breath the adventures of Diggory and Polly, of Peter, Susan, Edward and Lucy, of Caspian, Eustace, Jill, Tirian, Jewel... the dream of Narnia.

The Fountainhead: Impressions

2005-12-21T01:22:00.000-08:00

There are two parts into which I'd like to divide this post. Firstly, my opinion of Fountainhead purely as a work of literary merit, and secondly, the philosophy expounded by Ayn Rand.

1. A sentence has often been used to describe another book, and it is that which I now employ here. "... a story told with every kind of colour, movement and greatness." Fountainhead is magnificently written, brilliantly crafted and superbly paced. The complexity in structure is immense, and it exudes technical perfection. The characaters are of course paragons and extremes, but in no sense does that take away from the quality of the book. In the true sense of the words, it is a great and inspiring novel.

2. Philosophy: Unfortunately, I find myself almost completely at odds with "objectivism". When I asked my parents about Fountainhead, they independently described it in the same words: extreme philosophy for the right wing. It is, of course, far more than that, but in essence it does boil down to a sort of "capitalist manifesto." As I see it, Objectivism is based on the foundation of intellectual privacy, and that is where its two greatest weaknesses lie.
More on that later, however. First the part I do agree with: creators stand alone, stand against the current, work against public opinion. I know that to be true, both first hand and from myriad examples in history.
Where Objectivism, in my opinion, fails is that it does not recognize two important postulates:
- a large part of the six billion inhabitants of this planet simply are not capable of intellectual creativity
- a large part of the six billion inhabitants of this planet have been born and live in such circumstances that it is simply not possible for them to possess and use intellectual creativity.

Both these points, to me are self evident, and that is why Rand's elite "intellectuals" and "creators" cannot be laws unto themselves. They are too small a minority in the world, and unless homo sapiens are classified into "intellectual" and "non intellectual" species, they are as "important" and have as much voice as do the likes of Howard Roark, Steven Mallory et al. Rand demolishes the inherent idea of service and socialism, but does not realize that a huge number of people need service and socialism, and need it to survive. It is the duty of the human species to provide them those.

Secondly, the idea that the creator lives, breathes and work only for himself is something I disagree with. What is a composer without his captive audience? What is a writer without his readers? What is a playwright without his theatre? I believe that those few people actually blessed with the gift of intellectual creativity have a duty to use it in service of the countless millions who aren;t; and the same countless millions, in turn, have a right to expect it from them. Just like the composer has a right to eat the food grown in a farm, wear the clothes provided by a tailor and wear the shoes manufactured by a cobbler, the farmer, tailor and cobbler in turn have the right to hear his melody. To use the old cliche, "man is a social animal" - and that extends to both the physical and the mental realms. This is what Rand's "selfishness theory" fails to explain.

The antithesis to Objectivism is, in my opinion, the Gaian concept, and I have to say it attracts me far more. I have learnt about Gaia through Isaac Asimov's brilliant "Foundation's Edge", discussions with my father and the Macmillan Encyclopedia. The concept of a living, breathing, "collective" society- where the collectiveness extends to the rocks and stones, and even blades of grass is something which can be considered just as extreme, and just as logical a hypothesis as Objectivism.

I don't think I have made any sense whatsoever; I don't expect to, since I am no philosopher or critic. After my Pre-Boards I will read Atlas Shrugged; and in March Nietzche (sp?) who Rand says she strongly disagrees with. These are just random, spontaneous thoughts. I hope to have a clearer picture five years down the line.

Musings of a failed Quizzer

2005-12-19T03:02:00.000-08:00

If there has been one thing in my life which has at times contended with writing for taking precedence as the activity I get most pleasure and joy from, it has been Quiz. My passion for, and association with Quiz began in a rather humble fashion back in First Grade in Modern School; Representing Arjun House in the Inter House Quiz as part of a team of four, we finished third out of four. Our class teacher was severely disappointed, but it was hardly are fault. All four of us were the "intellectuals" of the class, and the Quiz in large part consisted of TV serial related questions.

I stayed away next year, but came back in Third Grade when we came first. At the risk of sounding arrogant, I was the main performer that year. My best ever moment in Quiz, the moment I will cherish for all the years to come came in the same competition next year. The team consisted of two fourth graders and two fifth graders. Locked in a tie-break with Bharat hourse, we both answered the two questions, and went into sudden death. I even remember the question which came next, remember it as clearly as the cold light of day: "Who was India's first field marshall?" You might scoff, but remember we were fourth and fifth graders. I answered it, and the ecstacy and euphoria that followed were, again, memories that will stay with me for a long, long time. I still remember going back to class for recess, and then touchingly, movingly, fifth graders I had never seen before in my life came in to shake hands and tell me "We won because of you..." I was in tears then.

The first of the massive disappointments which were to dog me for the next seven years came the very next year when I wasn't picked for the house team. We finished last, and by some margin, and I took a brooding joy out of our discomfiture. Came Fr. Agnel's and my first taste of Inter-school, where we finished fifth. Then began the wilderness years.

I joined MIS in seventh grade, and was thrilled to find out that there was a Quiz Club. Without hesitation, I joined up. It was to be a monumental error of judgment, one that would bring me pain, grief, tears, frustration and desolation for the rest of my school life.

For I had joined one year too late. Nobody knew about me, nobody knew how much I was passionate about Quiz, and also of my reasonable proficiency. Back in Grade 5 I would watch BQC on Sundays and hug my knees and dream and dream of taking part in it one day. It remained a mere dream. Unknown, unnoticed, I wallowed in mediocrity for two years, wasted away, squandered the talent I had, and in ninth grade, left the Quiz Club in highly acrimonious circumstances with H.Bhalla. In between I had also managed to get on the wrong side of future Quiz team captain Aranyaka, a sadist par excellence and the most despicable human being I have ever met.

My good friend Sumeet rescued me from Quizzing oblivion in tenth grade when he, Sahil, Awadhesh and I went for the Columban Open Quiz, and reached the quarter-finals. Sahil's enthusiasm for Quiz matched my own; and being close friends, we tried to force our way into the high Quizzing echelons. We finally got our first real break with the Helpage Quiz later that year, when we won the city and state level, and came second at the national level. In truth the Quiz was a joke; but most importantly it impressed H. Bhalla, and that was what mattered. We were not nobodies anymore.

In the meantime, we were "initiated" into Morning Assemble quiz practice. It was there that Aranyaka, aided ably by Shivam Singh and Arjun Sinha, and spurred on by the appreciative silence of Shreyas and Nabankur, made my life a living hell. I was hounded, persecuted, victimised, laughed at, mocked, put down, teased, taunted and in other ways treated like a piece of trash, and made to understand that I was allowed into this exalted company merely because I served as an excellent butt of jokes.

Yet I still loved Quiz, still adored it, and was still passionate about it. I stuck it all out, hoping that a new day would dawn, counting the days until Aranyaka and his minions would pass out of school and I would be free. Joint number seven in the pecking order, I was sent for no Quizzes in eleventh grade except Columban Open- where again we fell at the Quarter Finals. A moment, however, was too come which would almost make the whole ordeal worthwhile: the evening before the Inter House Quiz, SKR told me on the phone how Aranyaka and co. were desperate that I should not win; the morning of the Quiz Aranyaka indulged in one of his regular doses of flaimbaiting. Fired up like never before for anything in my life, when I went into the Quiz with my head ringing and having difficulty speaking. When the dust had cleared, Sincerity had won, and I had answered three of the four questions. What a moment that was!

When my last year came, I thought that here at last was a chance for me to show my worth. But it would all go to waste, as the bludgeoning visciousness of Aranyaka was replaced by the subtle guile of SKR- and hell, I don't care if he reads this. SKR, under the pretence of not really caring if he went for any Quiz or not, nevertheless, made sure he went for all. Sahil and I were left with carrion, searching like vultures for pickings after the lion had eaten. We went for Columban- where we managed the semi-finals... we went for Carmel, where again we managed the semi-finals... and we went for Fr. Agnel's, which we screwed up completely. Six years of blood, sweat, toil and tears working and craving to get into the Quiz team, and this was all I was rewarded with.

And now, perhaps it has come full circle. The Limca Quiz, in which two teams were originally meant to go, was cut down to one team, and obviously, naturally, Sahil and I were guillotined. I don't suppose it ever occured to SKR that considering the number of Quizzes he had gone for in his school career, he could stand aside and let us try to make some of our effort worthwhile.

If I was Howard Roark, I would laugh. The Limca episode just sums up what Quiz has been for me in my school life. A cruel mistress to which I have been inextricably bound, for which I have suffered all manners of things, but which has at the end of the day has remained, with a tinkling, silvery laugh I can hear vividly, as far-away and unattainable as threads of gossamer which vanish at dawn.

I find myself remembering Salieri's words in "Amadeus." "I promise you... my chastity... my industry... my very deepest humanity." I did all that and, like Salieri, was repayed with grief.

The Limca episode was the final straw. I have crossed the line, I now find myself hating Quiz just as much as I loved it not too long ago. In a strange, twisted way, it is liberating. Wherever I go to college, I know for sure that I will never take up Quiz again. The bond is severed, the thread broken.

That was seven years of bitterness and frustration unleashed in one go. I feel relieved now, as if a great load has been lifted off my shoulders. Quiz is one thing which is never going to torture me again. In the words of Shakespeare, "Farewell... thou art too dear for me to possess."

A Challenge

2005-12-18T10:53:00.000-08:00

Identify the subject of this poem and state your reason(s). I take my hat off to all those who do this in under five minutes.

Journeys far, and journeys wide
Of myth and magic, power and pride
Have thy wanderings ever ceased?
Nomad, is your soul released?
Roving, roaming, ever far
Over old hills, beneath the stars
Nameless, magical, mystical lands
And buried now 'neath time's sands
Legends into oblivion faded
Death its welcome song serenaded
Roam you still at eventide?
Explorer bold, do you yet abide
Under starry sky borne of your mind?
Lost universe for us to find
To your soul then, immortality I consecrate
On I sing, and deplore the fate
Leastways which halted your journey
King of a golden Kingdom yet you be
In death, in our minds you ever live on
Ethereal gossamer, I see you in the dawn
Never forgotten, farewell 'til we meet anon...

Well...?

Favourite Poetry Lines

2005-12-17T22:01:00.000-08:00

1. "Why so large a cost, when so short a lease,
Dost thou on thy fading mansion spend...?"
-Sonnet 146, Shakespeare

2. "From Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree
Where Alph the sacred river ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea..." - Kubla Khan, by S.T. Coleridge

3. "Oh East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet..."
- The Ballad of East and West, by Kipling

4. "Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes
He star'd at the Pacific, and all his men
Gazed at each other with wild surmise
Silent upon a peak, in Darien..."
-On First Looking into Chapman's Homer, by John Keats

5. "The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece
Where grew the arts of war and peace..."
-The Isles of Greece, by Lord Byron

6. "Where now the horse and the rider, where is the Horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing...?"
The Song of Eorl the Young, by JRR Tolkien

7. "She walks in beauty, and the night..."
-She walks in Beauty, by Lord Byron

8. "I wandered lonely as a clod..."
-Daffodils, by...?

9. "If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds worth of distance run
Yours is the earth and everything in it
And what is more, you'll be a man, my son..."
-If, by Kipling

10. "In the room, the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo..."
- The Love Song of J. Puffrock, by TS Elliot

Interpretations to follow...

Bring on the blue scum!

2005-12-17T11:10:00.000-08:00

Carefree wherever we want to be
Chelski's got no history
Lampard's fat, the rest are queer
You've only won once in fifty years...

We are the Gunners, flying high
We are the Gunners, flying high
We are the Arsenal and we never die...
We never die
We never die
We are the Arsenal, and we never die...

BRING ON THE BLUE SCUM!!!!!!

My Thoughts on Writing

2005-12-15T09:54:00.000-08:00

There is nothing which gives me greater joy than working with words and fitting random threads of ideas into coherent patterns. Writing gives me a thrill and exuberance which no other activity has been able to provide. It is also an adventure as much as anything else to experiment with the great diversity of possible styles, to try one's hand at a wide variety of genres. This is especially true of poetry, where the somewhat loose term "poetic" license has allowed me to not only work within prescribed frameworks, but to also wander off into unchartered and thoroughly enjoyable territory by inventing my own meter and rhyme-scheme. While it is true that writing is on occasion painful and is accompanied by teeth-gnashing and hair-tearing, this only adds to the ultimate pleasure. I often think of writing as painting a beautiful picture, or composing a stirring piece. Beginning with merely a thought, one moves through the prelimnary sketch and brush-strokes, or the first chords of the piano; then slowly the outline becomes clearer, and the musicians tuned ears can make out the first sign of the flowering melody. Gradually the pattern grows more intricate, more complex until at last the finished product lies before us... and then, the sheer joy one gets from viewing one's own creation in its final form simply cannot be comprehended till experienced. In short, at the moment, writing is my life.

My Obsession: The degradation of High Fantasy...

2005-12-15T04:59:00.000-08:00

Yes, well, that is something I am obsessed with. Morris, Spenser, Tolkien... where are they now? I think all my feelings are summed up through the means of this poem... five cantos dealing with different ages in the development of Fantasy right from Homer to Tolkien.

http://www.fictionpress.com/read.php?storyid=1962799

5000 words... now that's obsessive...

2005-12-14T04:20:00.000-08:00

Can't take the tension anymore, waiting, waiting, so just repolished "A Farewell to Highbury."

---------------- A Farewell To Highbury-----------------------

Now when dusk upon North London fell
A lonely star did flicker in the sky
The end of an era seeming to tell
Watching below, fair destiny die
So I walked upon old Avnell Road
'Neath the light of that single star
And looked upon the past abode
Of a legacy rich, storied and far
For beside Highbury's walls that shone
I could never be alone...
-------------------------------------------------------------------

Will you now come back with me?
To the hallowed turf of Highbury?
Walk back once more the sands of time
And hear again the Clock End chime...

-------------------------------------------------------------------

For this was the turf of a thousand games
This was the soil 'neath Lambert's feet
This was the ground of Alex James
Upon this turf was Chapman's seat
This was the pitch of Hulme and Bastin
This was where Whittaker stood
Through shattering loss and glorious win
Through the years both bad and good
Upon this grass McLintock wept
His tears of joy in '71
Between those posts Bob Wilson kept
When the glorious double was won
This was the ground of Bertie Mee
And the field of "Stroller" Graham
This was where they came to see
Goals galore Charlie George slam
Upon this pitch were the Cup-Kings born
Who in the summer of '79
Went to Wembley one glorious morn
And filled the FA Cup with wine
This was the home of "loyal" O'Leary
Faithful and true until the end
This was the home of Liam Brady
When God did his gift to football send
This was the home of the Anfield heroes
Thomas, and Smith, and many more
This was the place where striking foes
Were vanquished by the Iron Back Four
Upon this ground did Wrighty's bootsTread,
and leave a golden halo
Upon this ground did the silver flutes
Tell of the coming of a Dutch maestro
So upon this pitch did Bergkamp play
With skills sublime the world amaze
And upon Highbury one fateful day
Did Arsene Wenger cast his gaze
So Adams, Vieira and the rest
Restored the glory days again
The double was won, but then the best
Was that season's unbeaten reign
And the final years Highbury to grace
Was one who came across the sea
Of astounding skill, breathtaking pace
Henry, Henry, Thierry Henry!

-------------------------------------------------

Will you now come back with me?
To the hallowed turf of Highbury?
Walk back once more the sands of time
And hear again the Clock End chime...

-----------------------------------------------
Farewell, sweet Avnell road
Our footsteps will always sound here
A hundred years you've born the load
And served that which we hold most dear
Farewell, those hallowed walls
And a greener turf there never was
Farewell, those marble halls
Highbury, Adieu, Farewell
Farewell to fields of gold
And a greener turf there never was
Thus ends the greatest story told
Thus onward the black night draws...

-------------------------------------------

Will you now come back with me?
To the hallowed turf of Highbury?
Walk back once more the sands of time
And hear again the Clock End chime...

----------------------------------------------------
HIGHBURY- 1913-2006
Gone but never forgotten... always in our hearts.

14th Midnight onwards... a very long wait for nothing at all

2005-12-13T10:25:00.000-08:00

Midnight, 14th. Any time in the next 30 hours, I shall know whether I have been accepted, deferred or rejected from Princeton University. No sleep tonight, no sleep tomorrow except maybe a couple of hours in the evening. It's at moments like these that your life starts to pass before your eyes, and you recall all that you've worked for so hard in the past three years and wonder if it is going to be enough. The rational part in me tells me to prepare for deferral as the most likely outcome and after that rejection, but of course another part refuses to accept that. I've been through this at least fifty times, but here's evaluating my stats one last time...

SAT I: 2300. Top 30% of those who are accepted.
SAT II: 2310. See above.
Essays: Verified as extraordinarily good by an independent jury of six people all of whose judgment I respect immensely.
Teacher Reccomendations: Two excellent ones.
Extra-curriculars: Normal for acceptances, I guess. Two prizes at the national level, one at the state level, a couple of tennis tournaments...
Academic Achievements: Top 30% again, I presume. JSTS, NTSE, RMO...
School report: Ouch! The rank shouldn't hurt me too bad, but made two huge, damaging and potentially fatal mistakes. Got Sharmila B. to write the counsellor report which in retrospect turned out to be rather bad, and sent in my school report cards instead of transcripts. In the ninth report card, I find myself staring at a C in Physical Education and a C in Music just because there was no tennis and no harmonium... but how are the Princeton adcoms going to know that?

Overall assessment: I want to believe I have as good a chance as anyone.

Thirty hours are going to pass oh so slowly...

1:45 AM

What if everything you hoped for...
prayed for...
dreamed for...
was gone?

3:15 AM

Mental preparation for deferral:
-Sending them writing material, especially "Crusader's Song" could still do the trick
-If Kersi could get into Yale, so can I
-There's always Dartmouth... isn't there...?
-DU can't be that bad, can it...?
-Since I'm going to write an epic poem in five years time anyway, how does it matter now which college I go to? ;-)
-Worst comes to worst, I'll get a job in a bookshop and write in my free time and at night

3:20 PM

Had a long discussion over the lunch table with my father over how deferral/rejection isn't the end of the world, and heard various encouraging anecdotes. :-)

5:35 PM
An atheist's prayer for redemption: ;-)

Dear God in Heaven, if You exist, then being all-merciful, please forgive my ever having doubted Your existence, and being all powerful, please make sure I get accepted into Princeton.

8:45 PM

Deferred...
Screw Princeton. Screw their bloody adcoms. Screw life. Screw everyone on this entire, stinking planet.

9th December, 11:15 PM- Song lines and Sumo jokes

2005-12-09T09:43:00.000-08:00

I have compiled a list of favourite lines from various songs.
Key: (a): Lines which have a specific meaning/ pertain to various things/ pertain to my personal characteristics.
(b): Lines which appeal to my personal nature

1. (b) "Rover, wanderer, nomad, vagabond, call me what you will..." (Wherever I may Roam, Metallica).
2. (b) "There's a feeling I get, when I look to the West..." (Stairway to Heaven, Led Zep).
3. (a) "What I've felt/ What I've known/Never shined through in what I've shone..." (Unforgiven, Metallica)
4. (a) "Never cared for what they say/ Never cared for games they play/ Never cared for what they do/ Never cared for what they know..." (Nothing Else Matters, Metallica)
5. (a) In your life you may choose desolation/ And the shadows you build with your hands/ If you turn to the light/ That is burning in the night/ Then your Journeyman's day has begun..." (The Journeyman, Iron Maiden)
6. (b) Desert Rose- in its entirety
7. (a) I'm your truth, telling lies/ I'm your reasoned alibis/ I'm inside, open your eye/ I'm you... (Sad But True, Metallica)
8. (a) "Pain..." (In that long drawn out mystical Cobain voice... You Know You Are Right, Nirvana)
9. (b) From the coast of gold/ Across the seven seas/ I'm traveling on/ And now it seems/ I'm just a stranger to myself/ All those things I sometimes do/ It isn't me but someone else..." (Wasted Years, Iron Maiden)
10. (b) And it seems to me/ You lived your life/ Like a candle in the wind/ Never knowing who to cling to/ When the rain set in... (Candle in the Wind).

The complete set of Sumeet Singh jokes:
1. If Sumo was Chinese, what would he be called?
2. If Sumo was dark lord Sauron, what would be be called?
3. What is Sumo called on Diwali?
4. What would Sumo be called if he became a Sikh?
5. If Sumo became a singer, what would he be called?

Answers:
1. Sumeet Ming
2. Sumeet Ring
3. Sudeep Singh
4. Gurmeet Singh
5. Surmeet Sing

More to follow...

8th December, 3 AM

2005-12-07T13:20:00.000-08:00

Hold on Benfica...

7th-8th December, Midnight

2005-12-07T10:35:00.000-08:00

Life- School was pathetic rubbish, as always. Learnt from SKR that Sahil, Krittika and I are going for the Limca Quiz- apart from that, the usual.

Fantasy- Crusader's Song is into its third canto. I am still undecided on the name- I can't use "Lament" because the fourth canto is going to be "Templar's Lament".

Football- Arsenal play Ajax, but ESPNSTAR aren't showing the game because it's inconsequential and features two weakened teams. On the other hand, I am relishing the prospect of ManUre going, going, going gone... out of Europe.

5th December, 2 AM

2005-12-04T12:34:00.000-08:00

Back.

First of all, Arsenal were absolutely pathetic yesterday, a complete disgrace. It isn't the defeat which hurts so much, but the manner in which it was inflicted. Freddie was anonymous, Bobby typically the doddering octagenarian, Van Persie out of his depth, Gilberto disgraceful and Cygoon, as always, pure crap. No creativity in the midfield, both the goals due to schoolboy errors. Somebody ought to make Gilberto write 10,000 times- "I will not try my stupid tricks at the byline." The only bright points were Cesc's typically mature performance and Titi hitting the post twice with two sublime efforts. But at the back of my mind is a rising terror of what Joe Cole, Damien Duff, Shaun Wright-Phillips and Arjen Robben are going to do to Pascal Cygan manning that critical left flank on December the 18th.

On to more pleasing things. Hleb is coming back on Tuesday and I'm sure he'll provide the creativity we so desperately lack. Please Wenger, just shunt Bobby out now and give Hleb the start he deserves. And let Gilberto know he isn't indispensable- bench him, and start with Song partnering Cesc.

Two hours spent today on the Stanford Application. I managed to fit two of the Princeton essays in, but two I had to write myself- and all those troublesome personal details took a long, long time. Why can't Stanford use the Common App. same as the rest of them?

That's football and that's life. Now for Fantasy. Christopher Paolini is an {expletive deleted}, a {expletive deleted} and a son of a {expletive deleted} {expletive deleted}.

1st October, 5:45 AM

2005-09-30T17:17:00.000-07:00

We all knew our country had gone to the dogs a long, long time ago, but if any proof is required, here it is. India ditched long-time ally Iran in the Nuclear vote, siding instead with the US. So while the editors rave about self-interest and the new world order, we are severing our ties with allies with whom we not only share many more common platforms, but also allies who have come to our aid in the past. The Government rushes to bow and scrape to Dubya and co.- they try to twist our arm, and we break it ourselves for them. They try to walk over us, and we lie down on a carpet with an invitation board on our faces.

Moving on, yesterday was a seriously tiring day- I am yet to go to bed! Five hours of studying and three hours of pracs- and nothing much of anything else really. The Princeton applications were mailed today (rather yesterday)- school is in about two hours, and somehow I can't get my eyes closed!

*Sigh* the "Game of Thrones" in Examania will have to wait for another day- I seriously need to get to bed otherwise I am liable to fall asleep in class.

30th September, 7:00 AM

2005-09-29T18:32:00.000-07:00

Another uneventful day at school yesterday. I did some running around for the Princeton form, and it should be all over today. Apart from that, nothing eventful.

Liverpool 0 0 Chelsea. Typically mundane and moribund Chelsea performance which makes you want to go to sleep- but at least Liverpool were entertaining. Also, two clear handballs not given- this type of luck Chelsea gets seriously makes you want to smash your head against the wall. It seems as if the Gods are conspiring to keep that unbeaten run of theirs going- in every game, either they score in stoppage time, or score offside goals, or an opposing player is wrongly sent off.

Now the exams start in thirteen days. Being that type of medeival romantic, I am treating them like a Fantasy Battle Royale. Say it is the fabled land of Examania, where a number of factions are battling for the right to be undispuited Lord and Emperor. Three crucial battles remain- The Battle at Second Termania, The War under PreBoarda and The Final Boarda. More updates on the Kings tomorrow.

28th September, 2:30 PM

2005-09-28T02:05:00.000-07:00

Amsterdam ArenA
Ajax 1 2 Arsenal FC

Dare I talk about Arsenal and "defencive masterclass" in the same breath? Yet that is what it undoubtedly was. Campbell and Toure were brilliant, Lauren a model in efficiency, Cole ever the tireless long-distance runner. Fantastic Freddie got us off to a dream start finishing a move involving Cesc and Reyes with a sublime chip in the second minute. After that it was the classic away strategy- defend deep and play on the break. Bobby got the second, his only meaningful contribution to the game, through a controversial penalty, and though they scored immediately afterwards, we held on for the three points. Joy was somewhat marred however because the Mancs got completely overrun by Benfica, but because of old Van Nisteldiver, stole the three points. Liverpool play Chelsea today... here's to a crushing defeat for the Moron-ho.

Apart from that school yesterday was good- though nothing of note happened. Studied about five and a half hours. Skipped it today- studied three hours and fifteen.

Another thought for Paolini: The astonishingly cardboard character of Arya the Elf seems to indicate that you created her to complete your own unfulfilled fantasies more than anything else!" Is that going too far...? Not nearly far enough!

27th September, 6:50 am

2005-09-26T18:18:00.000-07:00

So the chemistry test went somewhat better than expected. Apart from that school was another day of random mess, except that we had a total of two period study and five period practicals. With the exams in exactly seventeen days, everyone is beginning to feel the heat now! Coming back hom it was an average day as far as studies were concerned- I got in about four and a half hours of differentiation. Football was a massive disaster- we lost 4-10- and I had a goal disallowed, wrongly I might specify right now, by Akshay the King of Cheats. I also happened to see an extremely inane movie called "Visitors" on HBO which I couldn't make head or tail out of. All I got was that there is this girl on this boat, why, how or where I have no idea, and a bunch of stupid idiots who keep droppin in onto the boat from nowhere, scaring the living daylights out of her. *shakes head* Watching at zero volume didn't help either.

Spurs beat Fulham to go to fourth place, ahead of us. By rights I should be cursing, frothing at the mouth and contemplating suicide, but strangely as an Arsenal fan I have never felt that type of bitter animosity to Spurs that my lot are supposed to. Two reasons I guess... I live more than a thousand miles away from North London, so my class at school isn't divided into a Gooner camp and a Spurs camp (though there are plenty of parochial glory-hunting Mancs). Secondly, this is my fifth year supporting Arsenal, and Spurs just haven't been able to give us a fight for the title- so sorry hardcore Gooners, but just can't get excited over the men from "White Fart Lane" holding a lead over us. Talking of which, Ajax vs Arsenal is today. We are seriously injury-ravaged, but Ajax fortunately is not the team it once was under Rinus Michels- or even the glorious team of the 90s. All they have is Wesley Sneidjer- so I am expecting us to pull through... somehow...

Henceforth, schoolmates are going to be mentioned in a special code of my creation. After due deliberation, I have decided upon using names from A Song of Ice and Fire- once, long ago, I used Jennings, but I haven't read that for years. LOTR has too few characters, as has Tintin. So when I say that Tyrion Lannister is a sanctimonious sunofagun, it probably means Shreyas K Reddy is a sanctimonious sunofagun... or Sumeet Singh is a sanctimonious blahblahblah.

I would also like to use this blog as a place where I think of what I am going to say to that self-effacing, arrogant and delusional plagiarist Christopher Paolini- assuming of course that one day I become a prominent author in my own right. Suppose I come up with one good quote a week... if my first novel gets publihed five years later, I'll be armed with an arsenal of two hundred and sixty or so biting barbs. So here's the first... "Look, I know you couldn't resist copying from Tolkien, Jordan and Le Guien... but seriously, did you have to copy from Ann MacCaffrey too...?"

Morning

2005-09-25T18:21:00.000-07:00

Starting a blog on the second day of my eighteenth year... surely no omen there. Approximately two and a half hours for a chemistry test- hope no omen there either!

Yesterday was one of those typical Class XII days which are going to get more frequent as time wears on- long, rather uneventful, with plenty of studying. I stayed away from the IIT Rock Fest- not because of the time factor, but because I consider these local Delhi bands rather a pale imitation of the real thing- especially when they play songs like Unforgiven II and the like. The pals didn't get the point though- most of 'em thought I was staying at home to study.

I will be getting A Storm of Swords, book three of George Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series- sometime this week, and using it as the main tension-dissipator for the exams, which are exactly seventeen days away. Martin's good- better at least than that son of a {expletive deleted} Paolini and that {expletive deleted} {expletive deleted} Rowling. Not to mention all those blokes like Goodking, Gemmel et al. If only he would moderate his language- and cut out some of those graphic sex and violence scenes. I mean, ASOIAF reads more like a Historical account of the middle ages, minus the dragons... no doubt that's the effect Martin wants to give, but I rather think Fantasy should deal with such issues on a morally higher ground.

Moving on to football, Arsenal once again misfiring on Saturday. I missed the second half because of the Birthday dinner with my father, but 0-0... lot of teeth-gnashing after that, but the mood improved vastly when the news of ManUre's home defeat to B'Burn came trickling through... the likes of Fudda are going to get it in the neck today, in school.

I promised Sumo he would be included in the first entry of my blog... couldn't really think of how to do it, so I'll make him the first in my series of character studies for my writing.

Sumeet Singh- Short, dark, brown-eyes. stockily built. Voice hasn't broken yet. Shares most of the typical teenage interests, but differs slightly from the median in that he has a little intellectual interest as well. As a friend- has been loyal until now- which is more than which can be said for most.

*Sigh* That sucked big time! Sumo isn't really that type of guy you can lampoon either... no doubt I'll get better at this as time goes on.