I was walking through just another college corridor when I eyed a particular piece of paper pasted on the wall. The information on the paper was interesting and I thought to myself - "Hey! Why don't I give this a shot?!"
And I did. I did give it a shot.
As I rushed towards the door of the classroom, I almost dropped my pen, twice and lost balance, once.
I got to the classroom and as I peeped inside after having arrived at the entrance, I was overwhelmed to see so many others, almost just like me, some nervous, some clueless, some busy in establishing acquaintance with the nearest female(or male). I walked up to an empty spot and found myself a place to sit. I looked around the classroom anxiously, waiting eagerly for it to begin and also for it to get over.
Then walked in a couple of people, and I bet I had seen them before, not anywhere particular, but definitely somewhere around in college; and these people were usually seen a lot, almost everywhere, but that's again besides the point. They handed out printed sheets of paper to everyone and the directions to begin were given. I had decided to give it a shot and that's exactly what I did. I looked at the paper once, twice and thought to myself, "Sahi hai! This is going to be easy - Lets do it!"
After having scribbled the last sentence into the sheets and after verifying my name, branch and Roll number on the first page I turned the paper in.
I waited for about three days to look at a list that didn't have my name on it. I had checked twice :)
---------------
I gave my first SAASC test in first year, didn't make it and gave it again the next year. I feel blessed to have been here.
Yesterday, I made, what possibly will be my last poster for SAASC and while I was doing so all the SAASC posters I've yet made flashed before my eyes (Really?)
Anyways, Thank You SAASC :)
Its been fun being around.
See you at the Quiz tomorrow.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
In search of....
It was dark, very dark. The cold wind blowing chilled me to the nerve. I was in a terrible predicament, for, it was freezing out there and I had nothing to cover myself up. I had started turning blue, partially because of the appalling surroundings but mostly because of cold. Though despondent, I was running, running in the sheer darkness in search of some shelter, something which could save me from the cold. I didn’t know where I was heading, for I could see nothing…..all I could do was feel…. running through the crooked path and into utter darkness, I felt something…it seemed warm. At once, I plunged in there. It was a bit cozy inside, but was not big enough to fit in the whole of me. Crouched, I stayed in there...Until I started to stifle. I had to get out of it…. I tried hard, pulled myself, twisted and turned...And finally, I was out. I had a palpable sense of relief, which for once, made me forget about the frost….I was more than content on being liberated….but I couldn’t stay there for long. It was growing colder. Searching for shelter I rammed into several things…it did hurt, but I had to take my lumps. By then I had become antipathetic to that place. A long toil left me bushed… I could run no more…not even take a stride but still, slowly, stealthily and furtively, I kept on treading…..and suddenly, I felt something…it was big..big enough to wrap the whole of me….I started looking for a place to get in…it was cumbersome and tedious, but I managed to get in there. Inside it was even more murky, but not precarious. I felt safe and secure. It was just the right place for me…. Alas! I had found my redeemer…. Alas! I had found the glove!!!
Monday, April 27, 2009
The Boy and his something special
Yeah, hey this is gagan....(stares at v-man! get it right this time :P )
This is the story of a boy and his something special.
The Boy made binoculars out of his hands and looked out of the window. The small window which had been chewed off at ends by the termites and was creaking along the hinges ready to fall off any second. His gentle young hands clasped into unruly circles trying to look far outside the house. He couldn’t see much but it hardly mattered. At his age, every bit of the world was fascinating. Every object brought zeal of exploration. For his parents, the boy was a nuisance since he poked his nose in everything they did and made their lives a living hell. They were obviously living the clichéd life of a married couple who had kids to deal with. And this was their boy. The curious kid whose curiosity was too much to be handled by outgrown adults.
He wanted to know why does the rainbow have so many colors and how does his shoes have laces and why cannot he watch television after nine in the night and why can’t he sleep in the soft pointy blades of green grass. So when he got kicked out of the house because he asked too many questions, he pouted and ran out into the lush green garden. The garden decorated with gladioli, sunflowers and aesthetic creepers provided with the shade of an adult mango tree. The enriched environment of the garden was able to turn the mood of many. For the cruelty of sunshine to the devastating effects of the tempests could not be felt in such beauty. Lying flat on the garden bed he looked up. He wondered where the stars go in the morning and how can they just run back to their positions in the night? He felt annoyed with himself and started to doubt his own conscience. Why does he want to know all the answers? Why can’t he live with all the things that are taught to him? Why does he keep asking those pestering questions? He felt the confidence of his own will being questioned.
He flipped onto one side and saw an outgrowth out of the concrete. The garden overflowed with the flora, the scent of the rarest of flowers, the wooden swing which pushed the wind across his face when the innocent boy ran up and down the grass to give himself a push and giggled instantaneously, as sensitively like a touch-me-not plant. Now everything was pushed to the backside. How could a flower come out of concrete? There were four slabs of concrete intermixing into each other and out of intersection sprang out a young outgrowth just like the boy, such a dare move just like his daunting questions.
He had never fed his thirsty flowers in the garden but he ran inside into the kitchen. Jumped as high he could, grabbed a rusty glass and poured in the rushing fresh water out of the tap. Then scampered back and sat close to the outgrowth. Slowly poured water onto the sides and grinned. He had no idea what it would do but he had seen his mom do that to the rest of the garden so he figured he might help this poor creature out of the concrete.
He watered the outgrowth every day. Not one day passed would he forget to pour the elixir. Outgrowth slowly rose higher and higher. And every time he saw it rise, it would give him more happiness in his life than anything else did. He seemed to fulfill the purpose. What was the purpose, nobody knows but there was a sense of satisfaction in his heart.
The boy had frustrated everybody in his purview. Even his friends thought of him as a fool, stupid enough to be talking about a shoot growing out on the other side of his garden.
As he was slowly straddling back to his home after stepping down from his yellow school bus, he saw something spectacular. He dropped his bag and ran towards it. Slid across it and smiled wide. Slowly moved around it and rubbed his cheek onto its smooth surface smelling the intoxicating aroma. It was gorgeous. It was completely red, not a speck of imperfection. It was a rose. Such a spectacle!
He had nurtured it. It was His rose. He didn’t want to trade it with anything in this world. It made him ecstatic and everyday he would play with it, tickling its slender stem and getting a rub back from its gentle green leaf. He could never imagine himself without the rose. His life felt accomplished. It felt like he was right somewhere. His honest innocence found a witness in its form.
And then one day, he came back home from school and ran to meet his flower. The exquisite rose. He bowed down close to the rose and then screamed out loud, “Aaaoow!!” He had streak of blood oozing out of his cheek. It hurted a lot and it made him cry. How could the rose do that to him? He could have never imagined a thorn coming out something so utterly splendid. It had cut into his cheek and scratched it out.
Like all his other questions, he could never know why was there a thorn in a rose?
This is the story of a boy and his something special.
The Boy made binoculars out of his hands and looked out of the window. The small window which had been chewed off at ends by the termites and was creaking along the hinges ready to fall off any second. His gentle young hands clasped into unruly circles trying to look far outside the house. He couldn’t see much but it hardly mattered. At his age, every bit of the world was fascinating. Every object brought zeal of exploration. For his parents, the boy was a nuisance since he poked his nose in everything they did and made their lives a living hell. They were obviously living the clichéd life of a married couple who had kids to deal with. And this was their boy. The curious kid whose curiosity was too much to be handled by outgrown adults.
He wanted to know why does the rainbow have so many colors and how does his shoes have laces and why cannot he watch television after nine in the night and why can’t he sleep in the soft pointy blades of green grass. So when he got kicked out of the house because he asked too many questions, he pouted and ran out into the lush green garden. The garden decorated with gladioli, sunflowers and aesthetic creepers provided with the shade of an adult mango tree. The enriched environment of the garden was able to turn the mood of many. For the cruelty of sunshine to the devastating effects of the tempests could not be felt in such beauty. Lying flat on the garden bed he looked up. He wondered where the stars go in the morning and how can they just run back to their positions in the night? He felt annoyed with himself and started to doubt his own conscience. Why does he want to know all the answers? Why can’t he live with all the things that are taught to him? Why does he keep asking those pestering questions? He felt the confidence of his own will being questioned.
He flipped onto one side and saw an outgrowth out of the concrete. The garden overflowed with the flora, the scent of the rarest of flowers, the wooden swing which pushed the wind across his face when the innocent boy ran up and down the grass to give himself a push and giggled instantaneously, as sensitively like a touch-me-not plant. Now everything was pushed to the backside. How could a flower come out of concrete? There were four slabs of concrete intermixing into each other and out of intersection sprang out a young outgrowth just like the boy, such a dare move just like his daunting questions.
He had never fed his thirsty flowers in the garden but he ran inside into the kitchen. Jumped as high he could, grabbed a rusty glass and poured in the rushing fresh water out of the tap. Then scampered back and sat close to the outgrowth. Slowly poured water onto the sides and grinned. He had no idea what it would do but he had seen his mom do that to the rest of the garden so he figured he might help this poor creature out of the concrete.
He watered the outgrowth every day. Not one day passed would he forget to pour the elixir. Outgrowth slowly rose higher and higher. And every time he saw it rise, it would give him more happiness in his life than anything else did. He seemed to fulfill the purpose. What was the purpose, nobody knows but there was a sense of satisfaction in his heart.
The boy had frustrated everybody in his purview. Even his friends thought of him as a fool, stupid enough to be talking about a shoot growing out on the other side of his garden.
As he was slowly straddling back to his home after stepping down from his yellow school bus, he saw something spectacular. He dropped his bag and ran towards it. Slid across it and smiled wide. Slowly moved around it and rubbed his cheek onto its smooth surface smelling the intoxicating aroma. It was gorgeous. It was completely red, not a speck of imperfection. It was a rose. Such a spectacle!
He had nurtured it. It was His rose. He didn’t want to trade it with anything in this world. It made him ecstatic and everyday he would play with it, tickling its slender stem and getting a rub back from its gentle green leaf. He could never imagine himself without the rose. His life felt accomplished. It felt like he was right somewhere. His honest innocence found a witness in its form.
And then one day, he came back home from school and ran to meet his flower. The exquisite rose. He bowed down close to the rose and then screamed out loud, “Aaaoow!!” He had streak of blood oozing out of his cheek. It hurted a lot and it made him cry. How could the rose do that to him? He could have never imagined a thorn coming out something so utterly splendid. It had cut into his cheek and scratched it out.
Like all his other questions, he could never know why was there a thorn in a rose?
Friday, April 24, 2009
There and Back
She looked left and right .Twice she looked away from the moth-eaten doors. Finally, she shook her head and turned that foot-long brass key into the lock. The rusted innards of the keyhole clanged mournfully, called to service after years of disuse .But the key turned, the lock clicked and churned and the crumbling red doors fell open. She shut them quickly behind her, lest the urge to step back pulled her away. They closed with a sickening thud and left her standing in an inky, black darkness. She ran her fingers along the cold, rugged wall that rubbed against her back. Twice she was pricked by sharp pieces of stone jutting out; thrice she disentangled her palm from the mangle of cobwebs. At last, her bruised and scratched hand found the pull down switch. She wondered why it had taken so long for her to find it. But then it had been a long time since…
A flickering, now-flashing-now-gone light shone from the dust covered hundred watt bulb. But what she saw in the dying light was enough to make her swoon .She shielded her eyes even against the dim glow. But she could see the room and its occupants, just as they had always been. Barring the curtain of cobwebs and the envelope of dust that seemed to lay siege over the entire room, it was just like it had always been. Just the way he’d kept it.
In the left stood the rickety, four-legged table, its deep mahogany now a dull sandy-brown. She ran a finger down the front leg and found the spot where she had once tried carving flowers into the hard wood. He had bought her a present every single day that week for her 'brilliance' and had even called on people from work ,especially to show them her piece of ‘art’.
To the right lay the four-poster bed,the only piece of sophistication that ever stood in this cell. It was still as majestic and regal as ever, even though it now lay bare, sans his favorite floral printed bed sheet, the only one they ever had. It had been a blank piece of cloth until she turned it into her canvas and lo and behold! Another masterpiece was created. Or at least, he had said it was.
She sat gingerly on one corner of the bed. She could swear she could hear him close by, saying in his typical raspy, panting but nonetheless excited tone “And this one’s my favorite, this blue one you painted….”. Towards the final days, he must have been confined to this very perch , for she could still see the where the contours of his frail body had pressed against the wispy mattress, the only one they ever had. The one he used to lay for her to lie against and dream on, while he graced his stony corner on the floor below.
The silence, the soullessness closed around. She tore herself from the bed and glided to the very back of the ten by ten feet vaulted room. It had to be here , it was all she had come back for, it was the only thing in this room that had any meaning left for her. And she found it: she knew it before she saw it , for even as the laughter in his eyes spilled out of the photograph, hot, choking tears gushed out from hers. She stood quietly in front of it. The roughly hewn frame, adorned with the intricate designs of a little hand ,was just the same. The little kid with one eye closed against the flashbulb ,was the looking just the same .And, the graying man with the frail countenance laughed on, looking over her. The same as it had always been.
Then she realized what was missing; why her ‘home ‘ was unknown to her at that moment. The objects that defined her one-time abode were still there, but the life had gone out of them. He had gone away.
….
Big P, her life, her benefactor, her mentor and her God. Or so he had been , until she stepped out. Until she travelled with her masterpieces to places far and wide. Until she grew increasingly ashamed of turning up at this ten by ten feet ‘den’ ,when swanky galleries beckoned her . Until she left the place for good(or worse now that she thought of it). The place where he had given her all he could. But she had not looked back, too eager to escape the stifling reality of her origins to more colorful haunts. But the place called her back, he called her back. Why she had come back today, she did not know. She only wished she had had heard the call sooner.
...
She wiped her face with her scratched palms, and looked up again with a quiet determination. In one fluid move, she took off the photograph from the hinge on the wall . She hugged it for dear life and pivoted away. She gave the room a fleeting glance, not stopping over anything for long enough for memories to flood back again. She left the light turned on and ran back to the moth-ridden doorway. As she ran down the crumbling steps, the wind blew over the house. It sounded like the contented moan of an old man.
A flickering, now-flashing-now-gone light shone from the dust covered hundred watt bulb. But what she saw in the dying light was enough to make her swoon .She shielded her eyes even against the dim glow. But she could see the room and its occupants, just as they had always been. Barring the curtain of cobwebs and the envelope of dust that seemed to lay siege over the entire room, it was just like it had always been. Just the way he’d kept it.
In the left stood the rickety, four-legged table, its deep mahogany now a dull sandy-brown. She ran a finger down the front leg and found the spot where she had once tried carving flowers into the hard wood. He had bought her a present every single day that week for her 'brilliance' and had even called on people from work ,especially to show them her piece of ‘art’.
To the right lay the four-poster bed,the only piece of sophistication that ever stood in this cell. It was still as majestic and regal as ever, even though it now lay bare, sans his favorite floral printed bed sheet, the only one they ever had. It had been a blank piece of cloth until she turned it into her canvas and lo and behold! Another masterpiece was created. Or at least, he had said it was.
She sat gingerly on one corner of the bed. She could swear she could hear him close by, saying in his typical raspy, panting but nonetheless excited tone “And this one’s my favorite, this blue one you painted….”. Towards the final days, he must have been confined to this very perch , for she could still see the where the contours of his frail body had pressed against the wispy mattress, the only one they ever had. The one he used to lay for her to lie against and dream on, while he graced his stony corner on the floor below.
The silence, the soullessness closed around. She tore herself from the bed and glided to the very back of the ten by ten feet vaulted room. It had to be here , it was all she had come back for, it was the only thing in this room that had any meaning left for her. And she found it: she knew it before she saw it , for even as the laughter in his eyes spilled out of the photograph, hot, choking tears gushed out from hers. She stood quietly in front of it. The roughly hewn frame, adorned with the intricate designs of a little hand ,was just the same. The little kid with one eye closed against the flashbulb ,was the looking just the same .And, the graying man with the frail countenance laughed on, looking over her. The same as it had always been.
Then she realized what was missing; why her ‘home ‘ was unknown to her at that moment. The objects that defined her one-time abode were still there, but the life had gone out of them. He had gone away.
….
Big P, her life, her benefactor, her mentor and her God. Or so he had been , until she stepped out. Until she travelled with her masterpieces to places far and wide. Until she grew increasingly ashamed of turning up at this ten by ten feet ‘den’ ,when swanky galleries beckoned her . Until she left the place for good(or worse now that she thought of it). The place where he had given her all he could. But she had not looked back, too eager to escape the stifling reality of her origins to more colorful haunts. But the place called her back, he called her back. Why she had come back today, she did not know. She only wished she had had heard the call sooner.
...
She wiped her face with her scratched palms, and looked up again with a quiet determination. In one fluid move, she took off the photograph from the hinge on the wall . She hugged it for dear life and pivoted away. She gave the room a fleeting glance, not stopping over anything for long enough for memories to flood back again. She left the light turned on and ran back to the moth-ridden doorway. As she ran down the crumbling steps, the wind blew over the house. It sounded like the contented moan of an old man.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Alone
Embers of a dying fire smouldered at the head of the cavern. The hot flashes of brilliant orange and fiery red provided for the bleak illumination. The cavern walls were pocked with fissures, and an adder lay coiled in a crevice. Had it been present somewhere else, the distinctive markings and the menacing forked tongue would have evoked a wild spasm of fear, but here it blended perfectly into the rest of the cave. Outside, the aspens rustled in the wind that carried with it the chill that comes naturally after caressing snow-capped peaks. The creatures of the night skittered around, making their nightly rounds, and the momentary glint of their lithe movements tore through the grim darkness. The silence was stifling which could make one gulp hard and the only feeling that arose in the benumbed mind was to hide oneself and be as inconspicuous as possible. It wasn't the fear of the beasts or the darkness but of the unknown. A behemoth spirit encompassing in itself all its devices and rising above its victims; commanding complete submission. Suddenly, a violent shriek punctured the silence and obliterated it, which had a moment ago been so oppressive and overpowering. The source, a human figure... her head thrown back in defiance and lips curled derisively and this went in sharp contrast with her exquisite beauty and her emaciated, frail and bruised structure which could hardly support itself and was trembling all over; evidently exhausted by the effort. She was crouching in a corner and did not stay in the same position for long. She brought her chin close to her knees and pressed it hard against them. Her gimlet-eyed stare was fixed on something, but whether she was looking at it, past it, or right through it, it was difficult to tell. She wore a school uniform and her dress was frayed at the edges. It was very likely that she had come wandering off to the place and had lost her group. She moved her fingers over her forehead in an attempt to set her hair aside, they had been blocking her view. Her hair, disheveled and hung loose.She suddenly pulled herself together with a jolt and sat bolt upright. Something had caught her eye, and she strained to peer in that direction. Her eyes narrowed to slits, she looked hard and saw it again. A flash -- a beast dashing off in that direction. It was like a trigger and all the energy in her came back, concentrated. Grabbing a stone, she set forth in the direction, in pursuit of the beast. She summoned all her courage and willpower to fight off the nightmarish delusions and the mind-numbing atmosphere of the place, and sets forth on her quest. A strange new instinct told her that since it had dashed away from her, it probably meant her no harm and could instead lead her to an escape from the hellish cavern she found herself trapped in....
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
The Grasslands War
The lethal predators watch hungrily from their lay-by as their prey arrive, unaware of the impending danger. One foolhardy young soul from the herd notices the movement in the grasses and sets out to investigate. He draws closer...and closer...but then he suddenly realizes what he's walking into and bolts, raising the alarm. The predators have no choice but to show themselves in pursuit of their quarry. Their lithe bodies move swiftly and silently as they inexorably bear down with unerring precision on their fleeing target -- a young buffalo calf that has not been able to escape quick enough to safety. With one agile leap, the lioness takes the calf down with it into the water-hole and clamps down on its neck in the kiss of death, while the others skid in to join the feast. The calf thrashes around and fights back for all it is worth, but the overwhelming attack from all sides subdues it quickly. All it can do now is wait to die, bug-eyed, while the lioness does her deadly task.
Or so it seems. Because, suddenly, the predators have another problem on their paws. A huge mouth filled with jagged, serrated teeth lurches out of the water and grabs the calf's hindquarters and tries to drag it -- and the lions holding fast on to it -- into the murky depths. All of a sudden, we have a twisted tug of war where a pride of hungry lions does battle against two hungrier crocodiles...with a very much alive and kicking buffalo as the prize, while the rest of the herd watches in agitated helplessness as their newest member faces what seems to be certain death. After a protracted battle with much grunting and growling, the lions manage to win this one and yank the calf out of the water.
And then, another twist in the tale. Almost as if responding to some telepathic clarion call, the whole herd suddenly moves together as one huge juggernaut to free their youngest member. The hunters have become the hopelessly outnumbered hunted. The defiant lions have no choice but to leave their prey relatively unharmed and back off as the enraged buffalos storm the pride and threaten to crush them underfoot. Then again, defiance is not an option, as one unfortunate lion finds out -- he's still lingering near the calf when a huge male buffalo charges at full speed and very nearly skewers him on its horn and tosses him -- splash! -- into the water. Meanwhile, the object of this ordeal -- the little calf -- manages to find its feet and shakily rushes off into the safety of its herd. The two lions that remain are surrounded by angry half-ton beasts with lethal horns, but they still stand their ground, growling fiercely...until a cheeky fellow charges and scares them both into the water as well. The once majestic lions are reduced to a trio of disappointed, bedraggled, wet, not to mention hungry...cats, while the buffalos move off with the same leisurely pace that they arrived. Three brave warriors, however, stay back to chase the ex-predators off and eliminate any possibility of a second attempt at an attack.
Miracles do happen. As they say, the meek shall inherit the Earth. All hail the King Buffalo....
Sunday, April 19, 2009
A Tale of Victory
The 'night queen' has embraced the earth. Her veils of darkness are gradually placing themselves all around. The moon is up in the black sky with a few twinkling stars. The animals & plants- both young and old are becoming slaves of sleep. The leaves of the trees-yellow and green are withering as if wanting to slumber. There is silence all around, except for the noise of the breeze. All is still, except the acive movement going on under a seeming hump...made from wire mesh and leaves- a place of hiding. And then suddenly a "Boom!"..."Boom!"..."Boom!"...leading to a noisy chaos. In this chaos , from that place of hiding , six men in clothes with leafy print , wearing sturdy long black boots ; come out running with heavy pieces of old rusted guns...seemingly of the old british times. There starts a round of firing from these fully loaded canons. Silence persists.Then a "Boom!"..."Bang!"..."Boom!" and a round of firing ; again "Boom!"..."Boom!"..."Boom!" and five of the men are hit by a cluster or two of metallic shells...with blood flowing out of their open wounds , dripping down into the roots of the large trees as if paying their holy tributes. There stands up a person- a man in true sense with majestic 6 ft. body , his brown eyes filled with power of revenge..focussed and determined. His curlu hair scattered all over his forehead. The tears on his face are turning into expressions of anger. The badge on his chest reads Arjun Singh Rathode. His hands still lun with blood are forcefully holding the 2 ft fully loaded rusted canon. His feet moving forward to execute the maneuver. Then starts a round of firing from the lone canon and a "Boom!" and then firing...The entire troop of enemies fall dead on the other side.Silence persits again...The majestic 6 ft. body falls on the ground facing the still sky..his eyes twinkling..expressing his gratification on fulfillment of his duty...a smile on his lips , narrating the story of his victory.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
Cracking Fingers
Staying at home makes you wonder how lives are shaped out to be for us all in some way or the other. One wonders if they will stick themselves to the television, watching emotional soaps and more emotional news channels. Or will I wake up at 4 in the morning to check if the water has risen to the tank or not. Everyday is a worry and is a bliss at the same time. Fruit vendors and local servants are the guests of honour while we deal with bugs and hunger pains as our enemies. Loud music and market food are hated beyond the geriatric disorders. Keeping away from the intellect and waiting for the water to heat up.
Sometimes, they say you are nothing compared to what you are now when you see the world outside. But you live in the world inside and you see yourself as an entity occupying a certain amount of volume. If that volume were made empty, i.e. ceasing to exist. How much would a difference would it make ? Would memories matter, would thoughts matter ?
The way the hair looked or the stubble grew. The way the pimples bursted or the feet smelled. They are all but strings being pulled from a single ball of wool. Throw the ball out of the window and the rest shall trail.
A lot of nerves are tested in life and its hurdles.
Where do they go when you're at home ?
Sometimes, they say you are nothing compared to what you are now when you see the world outside. But you live in the world inside and you see yourself as an entity occupying a certain amount of volume. If that volume were made empty, i.e. ceasing to exist. How much would a difference would it make ? Would memories matter, would thoughts matter ?
The way the hair looked or the stubble grew. The way the pimples bursted or the feet smelled. They are all but strings being pulled from a single ball of wool. Throw the ball out of the window and the rest shall trail.
A lot of nerves are tested in life and its hurdles.
Where do they go when you're at home ?
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
good bye.....
the thought of writing this struck me after a recent get together
good bye
i wouldnt like to say good bye
but i shall have to leave,i dont know why
i shall have to go to a new place
and start afresh at a new pace.
the days thai i have spent with you
are not far and few
there are even memories of the times
when you taught me nursery rhymes
there were times when i forgot my homework
and you saw me standing outside your brickwork
and you saw me play a trick or two
and the lessons the teacher made us do
i remember those monday morning blues
when i hadnt even polished my shoes
you saw me shocked when i heard of a test
there are so many moments to recall
but now i can look forward to more at all
for with your thoughts in hand
i m going to an unknown land
i shall remember how i used to be in school
i shall remeber you,my school.....
good bye
i wouldnt like to say good bye
but i shall have to leave,i dont know why
i shall have to go to a new place
and start afresh at a new pace.
the days thai i have spent with you
are not far and few
there are even memories of the times
when you taught me nursery rhymes
there were times when i forgot my homework
and you saw me standing outside your brickwork
and you saw me play a trick or two
and the lessons the teacher made us do
i remember those monday morning blues
when i hadnt even polished my shoes
you saw me shocked when i heard of a test
there are so many moments to recall
but now i can look forward to more at all
for with your thoughts in hand
i m going to an unknown land
i shall remember how i used to be in school
i shall remeber you,my school.....
Sunday, April 12, 2009
The Debate : A Renegade Perspective
(begin serious tone)
(edit : Mayank's posted another review, and mayhaps this one contains the same points or even conflicting ones. I'm calling a spade a spade in mine - read and make what you have to out of it.)
I think that the club Secy Mr. Raina, Mayank has been more than diplomatic with his review/report.
I shall belabor the reader with a few things he didn't mention, though he promises to come out with a DOs and DON'Ts section, I'd rather say all of these things in my caustic tongue, because he just loves to love you all so much, and all that he says is sugary sweet.) which are these:
1. Beating Around the Bush Syndrome.
In Debate 1, there were 8 people in the fray. Only one of them (that's right, just one) came even remotely close to the true meaning of the topic. Thus the debate never occurred. It's a stark observation, but only 50% of the debate happened because none but one came close the topic.
2. Paper Reading Syndrome
It is humanly possible to prepare for a debate which has to happen in a few hours and not paper read. The teams in the debate had days, and paper reading was rampant. I could count the speakers who did not paper read (correction: read the paper 3-4 times only during the debate - look at the benchmark!) on four fingers of my right hand.
3. Vomit Factor
Empty Rhetoric = crappy debate.
A lot of teams fell prey to rhetoric either during the debate or during the questions. KP was out of control during the rebuttle. Kaura went berserk trying to steamroller the other team's arguments during his debate, losing perspective in empty rhetoric.
4. Redundancy
Most teams kept on elaborating upon the same points in their debates. They also kept asking the same questions over and over again in the rebuttle. Redundant answers were given.
5. Copy Pasting
Many people had copy-pasted their entire speeches from the net. Right from the ideas to the punctuation. This is plain wrong. The net is for research only.
6. Presentation
or rather, the lack of it. I shall not elaborate further - only that the participants were lackadaisical enough to not even bother to read each others' debates. This ruined the flow of the debate, and most of all made the rebuttle rounds pathetic and intolerable.
(edit : Mayank's posted another review, and mayhaps this one contains the same points or even conflicting ones. I'm calling a spade a spade in mine - read and make what you have to out of it.)
I think that the club Secy Mr. Raina, Mayank has been more than diplomatic with his review/report.
I shall belabor the reader with a few things he didn't mention, though he promises to come out with a DOs and DON'Ts section, I'd rather say all of these things in my caustic tongue, because he just loves to love you all so much, and all that he says is sugary sweet.) which are these:
1. Beating Around the Bush Syndrome.
In Debate 1, there were 8 people in the fray. Only one of them (that's right, just one) came even remotely close to the true meaning of the topic. Thus the debate never occurred. It's a stark observation, but only 50% of the debate happened because none but one came close the topic.
2. Paper Reading Syndrome
It is humanly possible to prepare for a debate which has to happen in a few hours and not paper read. The teams in the debate had days, and paper reading was rampant. I could count the speakers who did not paper read (correction: read the paper 3-4 times only during the debate - look at the benchmark!) on four fingers of my right hand.
3. Vomit Factor
Empty Rhetoric = crappy debate.
A lot of teams fell prey to rhetoric either during the debate or during the questions. KP was out of control during the rebuttle. Kaura went berserk trying to steamroller the other team's arguments during his debate, losing perspective in empty rhetoric.
4. Redundancy
Most teams kept on elaborating upon the same points in their debates. They also kept asking the same questions over and over again in the rebuttle. Redundant answers were given.
5. Copy Pasting
Many people had copy-pasted their entire speeches from the net. Right from the ideas to the punctuation. This is plain wrong. The net is for research only.
6. Presentation
or rather, the lack of it. I shall not elaborate further - only that the participants were lackadaisical enough to not even bother to read each others' debates. This ruined the flow of the debate, and most of all made the rebuttle rounds pathetic and intolerable.
DOs and DO NOTs....Very General Lessons from the Saturday Debate...Review Part 2
I will not take names in this Article at all, unless absolutely necessary. I have been into public speaking for a long time now. If not practicing it directly for particular phase, at least related to it indirectly. For this reason more than anything else, I respect it and take great pride in it. There are few things that need to be understood about the art of debating. It is probably the most difficult and in more ways than one, the most coveted public speaking prize that we have at the level of college competition. People must understand, and this refers to the Saturday Debate, that decorum is an essential part of the proceedings. By this I do not mean that there shouldn't be argument. A debate would be a needless activity if didn't actually debate in the true sense of the word. But doing it, without respect for the opponent attempt speaks volumes of a person's immaturity.
lesson number 1 : Do Not cross Question unnecessarily. You will lose the confidence of the moderator as well as the audience
lesson number 2 : Do not be stupid with rebuttle, you will make a fool of yourself, and get your opponent in a very strong position.
lesson number 3 (very prejudiced opinion) : SHOW RESPECT FOR FEMALE OPPONENTS, BEING RUDE IS UNCOOL. Being caustic is still acceptable. Most judges will destroy you for this without even realizing it themselves
We didn't have a lot of time to prepare and there were a lot of bloopers with the team formation, given the logistics of getting 4 member teams together in the first place, so the judges allowed paper reading in this case
Lesson number 4 : Do not read from the paper. That's the job of a newsreader. Even if you keep a paper with you, know your place on the page so that you can look at the audience most of the time, and still refer to your sheet in case of blooper...BE WILLING TO IMPROVISE
Lesson Number 5 : Please be creative with content. CREATIVE is the keyword. One point repeated again and again in different rhetorical styles in not going to win you favours. If you can't convince them, confuse them will not work with a judge who is even half listening to what you're trying to put across
Lesson Number 6 : We let people off, but in a professional debate, while taking ideas from the internet is obviously allowed, picking up rhetorics straight off the net from someone else's speech is classified as PLAGIARISM.
Lesson Number 7 : As long as you follow all the above, treat it like a debate, draw blood, be passionate. That is the only way to be honest to this art
lesson number 1 : Do Not cross Question unnecessarily. You will lose the confidence of the moderator as well as the audience
lesson number 2 : Do not be stupid with rebuttle, you will make a fool of yourself, and get your opponent in a very strong position.
lesson number 3 (very prejudiced opinion) : SHOW RESPECT FOR FEMALE OPPONENTS, BEING RUDE IS UNCOOL. Being caustic is still acceptable. Most judges will destroy you for this without even realizing it themselves
We didn't have a lot of time to prepare and there were a lot of bloopers with the team formation, given the logistics of getting 4 member teams together in the first place, so the judges allowed paper reading in this case
Lesson number 4 : Do not read from the paper. That's the job of a newsreader. Even if you keep a paper with you, know your place on the page so that you can look at the audience most of the time, and still refer to your sheet in case of blooper...BE WILLING TO IMPROVISE
Lesson Number 5 : Please be creative with content. CREATIVE is the keyword. One point repeated again and again in different rhetorical styles in not going to win you favours. If you can't convince them, confuse them will not work with a judge who is even half listening to what you're trying to put across
Lesson Number 6 : We let people off, but in a professional debate, while taking ideas from the internet is obviously allowed, picking up rhetorics straight off the net from someone else's speech is classified as PLAGIARISM.
Lesson Number 7 : As long as you follow all the above, treat it like a debate, draw blood, be passionate. That is the only way to be honest to this art
SAASC Debate
Dear Dead Bloggers
Saturday was debate day, and on a sultry afternoon, we turned on the heat with some extremely intense debating. In fact, such passion(mostly unneeded) was a first that I've seen in a long time. Those who missed it out of compulsion have sufficient reason to feel morose. The ones who missed it out of choice, have sufficient reason to feel stupid.
We tried a different debate format this time, with four member teams actually trying to work as well co-ordinated units. Each time had a person to introduce, a person to conclude and two people to form the content of the debate. The total Speak Time was 9 minutes followed by 6 minutes of rebuttle. I'll give my reviews topic wise
Debate 1
Indian Education System : 60 years of stifling real thought ?
For : Vinay, Gagan, Avantika and Vaibhav
Against : Amrinder, Varun, Gagandeep Bali, Vinayak
Winners : Against the motion
Surprisingly, other than Vinayak's vociferous Conclusion and Gagan's rhetoric, the debate generated the least amount of passion play and chair hurling amongst the three. The plus point was the good structure of both debates, especially Against the motion. Both conclusions were terse. Vinayak's group actually ended up with the highest overall score amongst all debates. For the motion were just a few points away.
Kudos to Bali for good content. And well done Amrinder, Varun and Vinay who i was seeing speaking live for the first time. Avantika was jittery with the speech but made up for it well in the Rebuttle.
Debate 2
Economic Recession is good for the Environment
For : Abhishek, Kapileshwar, Dipinka, Kshitij
Against : Himanshu, Ritesh, Ripudaman, Mukul
Winner : No one really
for the record
for the motion
I have had bizzare debate experiences before but this one was a little over my limited comprehension. A few enthused characters made sure that debate number 2 had a sadistic element of surprise. Kapileshwar, quite obviously, had had a little too much to drink, as was apparent through his before, during and after debate antics. Ritesh took cross questioning to a completely different level of illegal, and the rest were desperately trying to loop around an exremely indirect topic. But the most interesting occurance was Mukul Kaura's raw rhetoric that lasted 3 full minutes. Unfortunately, it did not resemble any speech that can be termed conventional, and most content was an inverse reaction to what had been said by the opposition. But for the fact that he was able to sustain humour for that duration of time is proof of an obvious talent that we have amongst us.
Debate 3
Slumdog Debate : Poverty Porn or Honest Art
Povery Porn : Prateek, Tanya, Shreniraj, Anuj
Honest Art : Rohit, Neha, Divyajot
Winners : Honest Art
The debate was an example of the importance of Content. The winning team was the most well prepared in terms of research done on the topic. All three speakers had content that had relevance and creativity, which in a way made up for the rather lacklustre presentation. The team that did not win had some strong speeches, but they more or less revolved around the same points. A bigger turn off perhaps was the use of copied rhetoric. While they scored high on diction on presentation, the let down(very slightly), was the content and the lack of team flow. A small margin win again, and the supposed underdogs took the trophy home
Saturday was debate day, and on a sultry afternoon, we turned on the heat with some extremely intense debating. In fact, such passion(mostly unneeded) was a first that I've seen in a long time. Those who missed it out of compulsion have sufficient reason to feel morose. The ones who missed it out of choice, have sufficient reason to feel stupid.
We tried a different debate format this time, with four member teams actually trying to work as well co-ordinated units. Each time had a person to introduce, a person to conclude and two people to form the content of the debate. The total Speak Time was 9 minutes followed by 6 minutes of rebuttle. I'll give my reviews topic wise
Debate 1
Indian Education System : 60 years of stifling real thought ?
For : Vinay, Gagan, Avantika and Vaibhav
Against : Amrinder, Varun, Gagandeep Bali, Vinayak
Winners : Against the motion
Surprisingly, other than Vinayak's vociferous Conclusion and Gagan's rhetoric, the debate generated the least amount of passion play and chair hurling amongst the three. The plus point was the good structure of both debates, especially Against the motion. Both conclusions were terse. Vinayak's group actually ended up with the highest overall score amongst all debates. For the motion were just a few points away.
Kudos to Bali for good content. And well done Amrinder, Varun and Vinay who i was seeing speaking live for the first time. Avantika was jittery with the speech but made up for it well in the Rebuttle.
Debate 2
Economic Recession is good for the Environment
For : Abhishek, Kapileshwar, Dipinka, Kshitij
Against : Himanshu, Ritesh, Ripudaman, Mukul
Winner : No one really
for the record
for the motion
I have had bizzare debate experiences before but this one was a little over my limited comprehension. A few enthused characters made sure that debate number 2 had a sadistic element of surprise. Kapileshwar, quite obviously, had had a little too much to drink, as was apparent through his before, during and after debate antics. Ritesh took cross questioning to a completely different level of illegal, and the rest were desperately trying to loop around an exremely indirect topic. But the most interesting occurance was Mukul Kaura's raw rhetoric that lasted 3 full minutes. Unfortunately, it did not resemble any speech that can be termed conventional, and most content was an inverse reaction to what had been said by the opposition. But for the fact that he was able to sustain humour for that duration of time is proof of an obvious talent that we have amongst us.
Debate 3
Slumdog Debate : Poverty Porn or Honest Art
Povery Porn : Prateek, Tanya, Shreniraj, Anuj
Honest Art : Rohit, Neha, Divyajot
Winners : Honest Art
The debate was an example of the importance of Content. The winning team was the most well prepared in terms of research done on the topic. All three speakers had content that had relevance and creativity, which in a way made up for the rather lacklustre presentation. The team that did not win had some strong speeches, but they more or less revolved around the same points. A bigger turn off perhaps was the use of copied rhetoric. While they scored high on diction on presentation, the let down(very slightly), was the content and the lack of team flow. A small margin win again, and the supposed underdogs took the trophy home