Kaiku - I

Which is a Hyderabadi version of haiku

Date: 23 August 2007
Time: 8:30 p.m.
Place: On board a 49M, somewhere between Prakash Nagar and Shyamlal Building

Variation on a theme by T.S. Eliot.


WHAT THE PLUMBER SAID
Saab, main aatoon tho aatoon
Nahin Nai tho nahin nai aatoon

P.S. Yes, it's called "Kaiku - I" because there will be more of them.

Nature and Civilization - A Juxtaposition

Nature (birdie) and Civilization (plastic tank) - A Juxtaposition

Date: 23 August 2007
Time: 10:00 a.m. IST
Location: Balcony, chez Ludwig, Begumpet, Hyderabad, India
Camera: Canon Powershot S45





And you thought Hyderabad was only good for biryanis...

There Be PJs Here

In which the insanity resumes with a PJ

Captain John Foster of Her Majesty's 21st Engineering Regiment was a troubled man. Newly arrived in the tropics, all manners of ailments beset him. The moment he had stepped off the decks of the P&O steamer in Bombay, this vile country with its heat, sweat, crowds and insects seemed to have begun executing a personal vendetta.

When the regiment was posted to Bangalore, the old timers heaved a sigh of relief. There would be polo, and pig-sticking, and chances of being transferred to fight the Jezails or the Dogras were remote. Besides, the weather would be blessedly English.

Unfortunately for Capt. Foster, his woes did not end. Directly he had arrived in the cantonment, and some enterprising colonel had discovered his special talent for earthworks. Foster was assigned a team of coolies and told to get busy and start building the embankment for the new railway station.

Now they were almost done. Most of the embankment was complete and there remained one last bit where the surface needed leveling. They had to be done by sunset, and the evening shadows were beginning to gather around them. Those strange tropical birds were creating pandemonium in the fig trees, and Foster was beginning to feel the need of a bath and a sundowner at the club.

The problem was that the labourer in charge of this last bit was insanely slow. He would shuffle off to pit from where they were digging, root around listlessly for a bit, and come back with a pitiful basket of earth. No amount of staring or fulminating seemed to make a difference. Perhaps he didn't understand the urgency.

Perhaps he didn't understand English. Shortly after this thought occurred, Foster began to cast about for ways to make his point. Foster was rather taken with his own linguistic abilities. In Bombay, he'd managed to pick up a smidgen of Marathi and Hindi, and he could confidently venture into the fleshpots.

But this was a completely new language, and he hadn't (yet) found an opportunity to test his skills. The time had come. What was that fellow's name again? Ah... He wandered over to the pit. The coolie appeared to be poking at the ground with a shovel, apparently he was trying to tickle Mother Earth.

"Hey! Krishna! Nee begane burrow!!", said Capt. Foster.

Curiously enough, an eminent Haridasa was taking his evening constitutional close at hand.

---

Ah. That is so much better than senti claptrap. A few other points. This last Saturday, in Hussain Sagar, we saw coots, purple swamphens, black-winged stilts (or so we think), and pheasant-tailed jacanas. Do the rains have anything to do with this? Lots of baby birds as well, blundering around the reed bed.

[Aside: There must be a song to the tune of mere pyaar ka ras zaraa chakhna from Bade Miyan Chhote Miyan, which we can create with "jacana", no?

apne poonch ko thoda oopar rakhna
oh jacana! oh jacana!!
mere paas waali machhli ko chakhna
oh jacana! oh jacana!!

Scope are there, we feel.]

Ah well. Vijay Cavale's excellent IndiaBirds as usual has much better pictures of said coots, swamphens, stilts, and makhnas.

Another point to be noted is that as of this morning, we are utterly thrilled to report the return of the Jedi.

---

What do you call a medium-sized, colourful, passerine bird with a bladder control problem?

PJ

Har har de har.

The Empty House

In which Ludwig watches Meryl Streep leave home in Out of Africa (again), becomes mawkish, and is reminded of his own house shutting day, aeons ago

Emptying a home and locking it up is the real estate equivalent of systematically shutting down a life support system. As it shuts down, it dies. An empty house is quiet in a way that is different from an inhabited one.

A "living" house, even when it is locked up during a weekend or a vacation, is merely asleep. An empty house on the other hand silent in a more final and irreversible way, a horrible, mute tragedy in of itself. This curious fact lodged itself somewhere in the recesses of my mind one May afternoon in 2004, as I prepared to lock up 32 Clarendon Ave, Cambridge MA for the last time.

The last few days had passed in a blur - of giving away furniture, packing, the movers, hasty goodbyes in oft frequented haunts (Grendel's Den!), a final Red Sox game (we lost!). And the million mundane things that are attendant when you shut shop and uproot yourself from a place that at some unspecifiable point had slid across that ineffable line which divides "house" and "home".

In the middle of the hubbub, I hadn't had occasion to stop and think about what it would mean to perform the last rites of a home.

It was inevitable really, and I should have seen it coming. The signs were all there. When D moved to Philadelphia in that corpse-like winter of no warmth or feeling, that was surely the beginning of the end. P and I ended up trying to search for a roommate but our hearts weren't in it. I think subconsciously we were happier splitting the exorbitant rent between the two of us and going through the motions, rather than actually doing something sensible about our financial situation.

D took some of the spark out of the house. Without her critical eye roaming over the premises, there was no way P and I were going to bother about such quaint practices as vacuuming, mopping and cooking. Exeunt Marcus Aurelius, enter Goths.

When the Berkeley thing came through, another nail was duly driven in. After seven years of mucking around in Massachusetts, the time had come for a drastic change of longitude. It must've made P's job hunting that much less of a chore and perhaps even given it a nudge in a more fruitful direction.

So that was that, we were leaving. What I didn't realize was that during the last couple of years, something inside me had leaked into the house. As we cleaned up, we kept finding the flotsam and jetsam of life. A Wachusett mountain ski lift ticket in a dusty corner, a hat that had been the star attraction at Halloween last year, utility bills even. All were consigned to garbage bags.

And in some ways the house had seeped into us. The memory of a creaky step near the landing, the delicious crispness of the winter air as you slid open the door to the back porch, the goofy ducks on the wallpaper, the couch that was in a "just so" position, the tuneless piano too heavy for the landlady to have taken with her. Homes have memories, clinging to unlikely nooks and corners like lint. When you turn off a home, the memories die. This is what I learned.

P's movers had crated all our stuff into a truck and driven away. The next day, P himself took the morning flight to San Francisco. "It's an odd feeling...farewell. There's some envy in it." It was only when I stepped back into the shell that it all hit me.

The only trace left that we'd ever existed was a lovely, filthy sleeping bag from my Amherst days that I was going to shortly abandon, and a rickety two-in-one to keep me company that night, also slated for abandonment. My backpacks lay near the door, eager to head out, not even looking like they belonged any more.

Memory seems to have been merciful and completely erased that last evening and night, but the next day is still there, all luminous and limpid and asking to be remembered.

The landlady was supposed to show up in the morning and collect the keys. So I waited in the empty house. Sat on the couch and watched the slivers of light bleeding in through the blinds as they made their way across the carpeting. I waited. There were still chores to be done. The kitchen faucet, having discovered that the rest of the place was like a tomb, took this opportunity to drip loudly into the sink. This needed to be screwed shut. And I waited. Somewhere upstairs, blinds clattered and rustled as a summer breeze blew in through an open window. This needed to be closed. And I waited. The stupid radio went on and on unbearably about the weather and Fleetwood Mac and Bob's Fucking Discount Furniture Store, "Come On Down!!!" This needed turning off. And I waited.

It was horrible. There was only one set of keys dangling from the key hanger, a pair of worn shoes nobody needed any longer in the closet. The whole tableau screamed sadness and endings.

It was late afternoon before the landlady called and said she wouldn't be able to make it that day and that I should simply leave the keys on the kitchen counter and let the door lock. One last obsessive compulsive stagger around the three floors, the "one last check to make sure everything is OK". Nothing really registered; it was merely the death rattle of an era.

I lugged the smug looking rucksack and backpack out and pulled the door shut. The click of the bolt sliding had "...all the qualities of the perfect observation. It was brief, unambiguous, and annihilating." And just like that, we didn't live in 32 Clarendon Ave any more.

I hefted my bags, stepped onto the street and started towards Mass Ave, terrified to turn back. The sun-dappled leaves on the trees on the sidewalk twitched farewell. The neighbor’s kids were throwing a ball around in their backyard. Their cries and the thwack of ball against glove filtered in between the houses. It was a beautiful New England evening.

ACE 2007

In which Ludwig bats for a local organization and a local event that is very close to his Teutonic heart

What: The ACE 2007 Corporate Quiz
When: Saturday, 16 June 2007, 1:30 p.m. onwards
Where: Khemka Auditorium, Indian School of Business, Hyderabad



It is that time of the year again. ACE 2007 is upon us. ACE 2006 was reasonably good, although we didn't do too well in terms of sponsorship. Alas, this edition is destined to go the same way, unless something saves us at the last minute. The participation and the questions will be of a superior quality.

Please publicize this far and wide. We need all the sponsorship and participation help we can get!

The gory story of ACE 2006 is here (mit piktures).

1000 Desires Such As These

A thousand desires such as these...

hazaaro.n Khvaahishe.n aisii ki har Khvaaish pe dam nikale
bahut nikale mere armaa.N lekin phir bhii kam nikale

Dare kyuu.N meraa qaatil kyaa rahegaa usakii gardan par
vo Khuu.N jo chashm-e-tar se umr bhar yuu.N dam-ba-dam nikale

[chashm=eye; tar=wet; dam_ba_dam=continously]

nikalanaa Khuld se aadam kaa sunate aaye hai.n lekin
bahut be-aabaruu hokar tere kuuche se ham nikale

[Khuld=Paradise; be-aabaruu=disgrace; kuuchaa=street]

bharam khul jaaye zaalim tere qaamat kii daraazii kaa
agar is turraa-e-purapech-o-Kham kaa pech-o-Kham nikale

[qaamat=stature; daraazii=length/delay; turra=ornamental tassel worn in the turban]
[pech-o-Kham=curls in the hair]

magar likhavaaye koii usako Khat to hamase likhavaaye
huii subah aur ghar se kaan par rakkhar qalam nikale

huii is daur me.n ma.nsuub mujhase baadaa-ashaamii
phir aayaa vo zamaanaa jo jahaa.N se jaam-e-jam nikale

[ma.nsuub=association, baada_aashaamee=havign to do with drinks]

huii jinase tavaqqo Khastagii kii daad paane kii
vo hamase bhii ziyaadaa Khastaa-e-teG-e-sitam nikale

[tavaqqo=expectation; Khastagii=injury, daad=justice]
[Khasta=broken/sick/injured, teG=sword, sitam=cruelity ]

muhabbat me.n nahii.n hai farq jiine aur marane kaa
usii ko dekh kar jiite hai.n jis kaafir pe dam nikale

zara kar jor siine par ki tiir-e-pursitam nikale
jo vo nikle to dil nikale jo dil nikale to dam nikale

Khudaa ke vaaste pardaa na kaabe se uThaa zaalim
Kahii.n aisaa na ho yaa.N bhii vahii kaafir sanam nikale

Kahaa.N maiKhaane ka daravaazaa 'Ghalib' aur kahaa.N vaaiz
par itanaa jaanate hai.n kal vo jaataa thaa ke ham nikale

[vaaiz=preacher]

Carnatic Conundrum

In which Ludwig starts giving voice to unspeakable Friday morning thoughts

If 'Mandolin' Srinivas played the mandolin, 'Flute' Mali the flute, 'Ghatam' Suresh the ghatam, 'Chitraveena' Ravikiran the chitraveeNa, 'Guitar' Prasanna the guitar, and 'Fiddle' Subbaiyer the fiddle (heh!), what, pray, did 'Tiger' Varadachari play?

Bole Re Wagtailuva

In which Ludwig takes pictures and rambles on again about the rain in Begumpet

Summer has been beating down upon us with her usual diligence and fervour. However, the last three days have been unusual. The mornings have been pregnant with expectancy, the afternoons hot and muggy, the evenings windy and leaden-skied. Yes, against all odds, it has been raining (drizzling, anyway) in Begumpet. Wednesday and Thursday weren't very great productions, a lot of wind reeling drunkenly hither and thither, fatal hoardings, but very little by way of precipitation.

But today, finally, the weather decided that it had had enough of the thillana variety stunts and tried to settle down for a proper katcheri. A hush descended over all the land, there was no wind to speak of, the setting sun turned syrupy golden.


And then, quietly, it started to rain. As showers go, it wasn't much to speak of. Garden sprinkler variety output. But it did leave everything wet, and green, and squelchy, which is always good.


We whipped out the trusty Powershot S45 and started clicking like there's no tomorrow. The lights went out, and mercifully put an end to all the lingering air conditioners. Quite appropriately, the laptop launched into bole re papiihara (YouTube, you can find the full audio and lyrics here). Who are we to argue with Fate? We lined up a bunch of "rain" songs and let fly (1).

The kids from the building were playing galli cricket downstairs, and their easy Hyderabadi admonitions floated upstairs, "What re, vy your dooing li' that li' that?", "Notredee-notredee-notredeeeee! Rrrredeeee!!!" . Presently, it stopped drizzling, so we hauled ourself onto the roof to see what was to be seen.


Per usual, the cupolas of our local Kremlin, the Hyderabad Public School, gleamed creamily in the distance. The grotesque new foot overbridge butted its way into our picture, and someone seems to have spilt a palette of watercolours on the sky. After some time, this fellow came fluttering by and with what seemed like visible relief, perched on a handy construction rod.


It was quite tired, wet, and frazzled. It sat morosely there for a bit, incessantly wagging its tail and shaking out the droplets from its fuzzy breast. Eventually, it decided that enough was enough, and let out a few experimental trills. Having discovered to its apparent astonishment that all was in working order, it flitted off towards Hussain to catch the passing 1021 Dn Konark Express, itself all wet and gleaming liveried. It seems like it was this, but alack, we were too busy trying to photograph to notice whether the supercilium was supercilious enough and so on...


And then, the lighting of the lamps...

---

1. There are so many of them...

• bole re papiihara perennial favourite in miyaan ki malhaar
• kahaan se aaye badraa from Chashm-e-baddoor, which we don't listen to as often as we should
• ghir ghir aaye badariyaa kaari, from Sardari Begum, a relatively orthodox rain song
• rim jhim gire saawan (YouTube) from Manzil, of course, even if it isn't (is it?) a rain raagam. Visually, we like the one which Lata Mangeshkar sings, with Amitabh Bachhan and Moushimi Chatterjee wandering through the rain in a stunningly pretty Bombay. For a number with no "skin show", it is stunningly erotic, blows your mind away.
• ek bas tuu hi nahin, a Farhat Shehzaad poem set to miyaan ki malhaar and sung by Mehdi Hasan. Not a raing song, per se, but love this one, because it taught us to (sort of) identify miyaan ki m..

Sadly, we've skipped (PARENTAL DISCRETION ADVISED) this classic and this one, which were...umm...influential...in our formative years.

Beginner's Guide To Winning The Nobel In Physics

So we're sitting around, going from page to page, in that desultory late night fashion, wondering whether one ought to spend a couple of hours in coming up with a theory capable of expressing elementary arithmetic that is both consistent and complete. Yes, yes, we're aware that those two blokes thought they'd cracked it, but actually hadn't . Hardly the sort of thing that would dissuade us, eh?

In any case, in the midst of these travels, we discovered Wolfgang Beirl, who had a link to The Statistical Mechanic, who in turn points to whole bunch of interesting physics blogs. Further, TSM leads us unto Gerard 't Hooft, Nobel Prize winning dude who has some very very useful suggestions on how one goes about becoming a physicist.

It so often happens that I receive mail - well-intended but totally useless - by amateur physicists who believe to have solved the world. They believe this, only because they understand totally nothing about the real way problems are solved in Modern Physics. If you really want to contribute to our theoretical understanding of physical laws - and it is an exciting experience if you succeed! - there are many things you need to know. First of all, be serious about it. All necessary science courses are taught at Universities, so, naturally, the first thing you should do is have yourself admitted at a University and absorb everything you can. But what if you are still young, at School, and before being admitted at a University, you have to endure the childish anecdotes that they call science there? What if you are older, and you are not at all looking forward to join those noisy crowds of young students?

The good professor goes on to list the different things you need to master to be good at physics. Languages, for example.

English is a prerequisite. If you haven't mastered it yet, learn it. You must be able to read, write, speak and understand English, but you don't have to be perfect here. The lousy English used in this text is mine. That's enough. All publications are in English. Note the importance of being able to write in English. Sooner or later you will wish to publish your results. People must be able to read and understand your stuff.

The man is very funny, we're thinking. He goes on to list other subjects: primary mathematics, classical mathematics, optics, statistical mechanics, electronics, quantum mechanics and so on. Read it all yourself. And remember, if you ever get that telegram from Stockholm, your journey started at the choultry.

Plugs for Local Events

Which are more plugs for local events

QuizHyd

Evam

> hi!
> evam is in Hyderabad on the 14th of April 2007
>
> Details are as follows:
>
> orange house
> presents..
>
> HAMLET by evam
> -the original spoof!-
> on saturday,14th April, 7 15 pm
> at Shilpakalavedika, Madhapur,Hyderabad
>
> for details call :9885054191, 9885052368
> so tell ur friends the Evam Team performing their very famous show. :-)

Moving Images

Apparently, they're showing "An Inconvenient Truth" again this Sunday (8th April 2007) evening at the Prasad preview theatre place (near L.V.Prasad Eye Hospital, Banjara Hills). Timings are a mystery. Anyone else know anything about it?

UPDATE: No screening of "An Inconvenient Truth" this Sunday. Watch this space.

Die Beschwerdechor von Lakdikapul

In which Ludwig tries to get a cribbing jam session going...

We have to thank Veena for this, who in turn has to thank the always interesting Abi. Thanks to these worthies, we are now aware of the existence of complaints choirs. This is a simply brilliant concept that originated in Helsinki.

It all got started during a winter day walk of Tellervo Kalleinen and Oliver Kochta-Kalleinen in Helsinki. Perhaps it was due to the coldness of the day that they ended up discussing the possibility of transforming the huge energy people put into complaining into something else. Perhaps not directly into heat – but into something powerful anyway.

In the Finnish vocabulary there is an expression "Valituskuoro". It means "Complaints Choir" and it is used to describe situations where a lot of people are complaining simultaneously. Kalleinen and Kochta-Kalleinen thought: "Wouldn´t it be fantastic to take this expression literally and organise a real Complaints Choir!"

The result was the Helsinki Complaints Choir. The idea is simplicity itself. The algorithm appears to be as follows:

1. Constitute a small core team, including someone who can compose music. This doesn't have to be a latter day Mozart or Ilayaraja.
2. Publicize, publicize, publicize. At the same time, get together the beginnings of a choir. 30 seems to be a goodish number.
3. Collect all the complaints, cribs, gripes, frustrations that ordinary folk in your city have.
4. Do some whittling and pruning of the complaints list, maybe rhymify it, set it to music etc.
5. Practise, practise, practise.
6. Record it. Film the recording. At the same time, film the choir singing in various parts of your city/town.
7. Do a little bit of syncing of song with video, some careful editing, and you're done.

The videos of several choirs are here and on YouTube (search for "complaints choir"). They're stunningly fascinating. The "Complaints Choir" site has a forum where you can learn about other cities that are attempting choirs, advice if you're attempting one of your own, and so on.

We heard the Helsinki, Hamburg, and the St. Petersburg versions and all have their charm. The Helsinkians were the path breakers, but they seem to be relatively benign. Nevertheless, it is interesting to note that even in Scandinavia, they have very standard cribs (not getting rich by working, length of vaccum cleaner cords, "bullshitters get on too well in life", "tramline 3 smells of pee" etc.) The cribs about the sauna lend a touch of local colour to the proceedings.

The Hamburgers are kind of a whole lot more sombre and dirge-like at the start. (The Hamburgers are also kind of a very delicious meat patty and bun based sandwich). Then they oscillate between this foottapping rhythm and the Gregorian chantish incantations. Their cribs also, very evocative (mascara always gets smudged, tax declarations are too complicated, "my roommate sleeps with my ex-girlfriend" etc.)

The St. Petersburgers are, astonishingly, not a kind of foodstuff. Not even a sauce. Their choir is probably the soundest musically. Very rich baritone, melodic and all that sort of thing. It actually sounds beautiful, like one of those Russian patriotic/folk songs one hears in movies involving Russian nuclear submarines.

A common thread running through all these north European cities is the anguish about the shortness of the days, the coldness of weather, and in general the annoying behaviour of the cosmos.

Finally, how about getting together a Hyderabad version, eh? Takers? Of course, we'll have to tailor it to local conditions. Maybe do a Tollywood dance thing with the choir and so on. It might be fun. If enthusiasm exists, let us know at choultry AT gmail DOT com, or at our other email addresses.

---

Need help in finding an MP3. We recently came across a ghazal by Faiz, by way of the Worldspace Farishta channel. The ghazal has been set to music and sung by various people. There is a Nusrat version at MusicIndiaOnline, a kind of a repulsive "disco" version (MP3) by Talat Mahmood, and possibly other versions also. However, the one they played on the radio is from the 1986 movie Anjuman. Sung by Khaiyyam and his wife Jagjit Kaur, it is wholly more melodious and satisfying. We are now desperately looking for MP3/online version. Please to assist.

हिर् पुत्थ्र्

In which Ludwig pens the beginning of a faux screenplay


हिर् पुत्थ्र् और् जान्लेवा हेलो
(Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows)
by
Ludwig Wittgenstein

FADE IN:

MONTAGE - DUSK

EXT. BUNGALOW, DELHI SUBURB

-- LAWN. GARDEN -- The sound of crickets -- A big car
swishes down the street -- A dog barks in the distance
-- A gentle breeze blows a newspaper down the street
Expectancy.

NIGHT

INT. BUNGALOW

-- Large LIVING ROOM. Nouveau riche furniture.
-- Dining table in the distance. Dim incandescent
lights. One from a lamp on a side table next
to a sofa -- A Nimbus 2000 broomstick leans against
a wall -- A pink phone on the side table --
Unnaturally loud clock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Tic...

The phone rings. "Om Jai Jagadeesha Hare" ringtone.

MAN enters from a doorway in shadow. We don't see
his face, it is also in shadow. Silk kurta-pajama.
Banian and naada visible. Gold chain(s), ring.
Paunch. Also, wizard's hat. Wand. Walks to phone,
and after a moment's hesitation, picks it up.

            VOICE ON PHONE
        (female, extremely strong Punjabi aunty accent)
    Haylo. Haylo?

            MAN
    Urk.
        (clutches his chest, emits
croaking noises, and slowly collapses onto the carpet)

            MAN'S BODY
    Thud.

            VOICE ON PHONE
    हेलोजी?

            AMRISH PURI
        (offscreen)
    Muhahahahahahaha...

FADE OUT:

OPENING CREDITS:
...

---

1. Thanks once again to The Indian Script Converter.

2. Post 100.

...with you...for you...always

In which Ludwig confesses...

Clearly, the same fellow (there can't be more than one such person, can there?) who comes up with those saccharine "messages" in your average Hallmark/Archies/whathaveyou greeting cards, has also been employed by the AP State Police to jazz up their website. This cousin of Madeleine Bassett is possibly to be found in the musty, file-smelling depths of the police commissionerate, occasionally referring to castor oil stained copies of the Gettysburg Address type documents, thoughtfully chewing on a pen and dribbling ink, while he comes up with such gems as "...with you...for you...always". He is kept in residence through the elegant and time tested ball and chain mechanism. His incarceration makes him crabby and irritable ever so often, and therefore has to be fed through a system of underarm bowling[1].

This post is not about Mr. Hallmark. Aeons ago, on our way back from Why Naad, an incident happened in that den of vice, Bangalore bus station. We lost cash, credit cards, license(s), PAN card etc. Mostly our fault, for leaving the wallet on the enquiry counter, like dangling a juicy full toss...

Preliminary enquiries indicated that to replace license and PAN, we would need that dreaded piece of literature that emanates from the bowels of police stations, the FIR. Being Newtonian (refer to Law I (of motion)), we let things be. After decades of living without any ID proof apart from passport, and having entered a new phase of joblessness, we got our act together and decided to start the process for replacing license and PAN card.

The whole PAN card replacement process, it turns out, is a total breeze. In the year or so that we sat on our butts, they made the whole thing automated, web-ified and so on, and all one has to do (if one has a photocopy of the original PAN card/PAN issue letter) is go online, fill in a fairly simple form, pay by credit card, take a printout, attach mugshot, mail it, and wait. Observe carefully that there is no mention of police or FIR.

The license replacement procedure, on the other hand is a pain in the posterior. One apparently needs an FIR. According to the AP Motor Vehicles Rules (1989), Chapter - II (Licensing of Drivers of Motor Vehicles), Rule 15 (Intimation when license lost or destroyed and application for duplicate) (yes, we are like this vonly), all one has to do is fill in Form LLD, pay the fee, and hey presto. No mention of FIR. However, that High Priest of RTA Shrines, the "RTA agent", tells various family members that an FIR is a necessary precondition for getting a duplicate license. So we girded our loins (disgusting as that sounds), and found out that the following steps needed to be executed:

1. Pay a fee of Rs. 100 to the Police Department at your friendly neighbourhood eSeva centre.
2. Take receipt (from Step 1 above), copy of lost license, and a letter addressed to the Inspector of Police in charge of the police station (PS) with the necessary details, and propagate rectilinearly to the PS.
3. Submit forms, get signatures vagera ityaadi, and you should be able to pick up the thingy.

What follows is a tale of what actually happened. We girded our loins (yes, it's disgusting), and

1. Went to eSeva and paid Rs. 100. Duly pocketed receipt.
2. Next day, showed up at the Begumpet PS, bright eyed and bushy tailed, with the necessary (or so we thought) paperwork.
3. Inspector gaaru informs us that they need a no objection certificate (NOC) from the Police Control Room to issue the papers.
4. *sigh* Set off for the control room. Asked at the building downstairs (where people were lined up paying challans) as to who one needs to approach to get the NOC. Directed to multi-storey building.
5. Asked the "helpful", "enquiry" chap in the lobby where one needs to go. Directed to 2nd floor.
6. Asked vacant eyed individual, directed to the "Computer Section".
7. Asked Bakaasura, and he says, "Your lucky day, dude. I'm da man. However, you needst go downstairs and get Ms. Phoolandevi to sign on your application."
8. Went downstairs and after several enquiries found oneself at the end of the line, back at the challan counter.
9. Paperwork is swallowed by one set of hands, does the rounds, and is spit out of another window by another set of hands.
10. Hurried to Bakaasura. He starts filling out the NOC, and subtly (not) angling for pocket money.
    
    "You see, yours is a Vizag license, and we can't actually issue this NOC here."
    
    "But my friend from Bihar got his license renewed in Hyderabad."
    
    "Ah, that's different, we're allowed to do that."
    ...
    "What do you do?"
    
    "Unemployed, saar."
    
    "What did you study?"
    
    "BE civil engineering, saar, Madras, saar."
    
    [We'd taken care to wear our most unobtrusive check-shirt, khaki pant, for the harmless citizen look.]
    
    Before one could say "Ix", he'd pocketed Rs. 20 and given us the certificate. We were mortified. Ears got all warm and shiny from shame and anger, at having copped out, at not having the gumption to face up to this ogre and get our schtuff done without under the counter transactions.
    
    With burning heart and a conscience that was totally sitting on left shoulder (mit halo) and frowning down, we headed back to PS.
11. We resolved to not bow to such sliminess any more (at this juncture, we must mention that we were in no inconsiderable part influenced by our readings at Fanaa, and handed all the little, sweaty (by now), pieces of paper to the Inspector, who quickly scribbled something in Elvish, and signed.
12. Handed papers over to Grima looking clerical type (out of uniform) in the Computer Section.
13. Grima says, "Oh, you need to photocopy all these. Go to Prakash Nagar and get it done and come back quickly."
14. Off we went, in the mid-afternoon blaze. Duly photocopied, trudged back to PS.
15. Grima takes papers, points to seat in reception area and says, "Wait". So we did.
16. For an age. Went back into the "Computer Section", whereupon he said, "Oh, it won't get done tonight, come back tomorrow morning." (the code words had started). Confirmed that he would be done on the morrow, and went home at 5:00 ish.
17. Girded tiggas (yes), and came back next morning, 11:00 ish.
18. Grima showed up after a bit, and said, "Wait in the reception." and disappeared.
19. Waited for close to 2 hours. SMSed the bejesus out of Kenny, who seemed to be engaged in cutting edge research (i.e. equally jobless). Kenny had lots of good advice ("You should've taken a book.", "You should've at least taken a notepad and a pen, and scribbled Thoughts.", "You should start muttering RTI audibly, so that they know who they're dealing with (i.e. citizen)." etc.)
20. At 1:00ish, went back in and found Grima. Who strikes forehead with palm and says, "Tchah! Come back in the evening, you'll definitely get it then." In the manner of Alistair Maclean characters, a medium sized blood vessel on the edge of our temple (Om...) had started to pulsate. We says to ourselves, "OK machii, this is it. Sisupaala got 100 chances, you'll get one more in the evening." and went home.
21. Meanwhile, perusals of the AP State Police Department's copious RIA page had revealed that the Assistant PIO is the Inspector of Police himself, and that the PIO is the Assistant Commissioner of Police (Begumpet Division). We duly noted this.
22. Went back in the evening. Waited in reception.
23. After an hour so of gazing at the vacuous faced guy in the reception, barged into "Computer Section". Grima, was missing.
24. Another out-of-uniform, clerical type character (looking very harassed), says (to himself), "Why did this moron (Grima) ask people to come back the very next day?" and (to us), "Come back day after tomorrow."
25. That was it. We lost it, my precious. Barged into Inspector's office. Waved papers. Expressed outrage. The dreaded (hopefully) "RTI" phrase was about to be emitted, when, to our utter and pleasant surprise, the gentleman (Insp.) calls a third Computer Section guy and tells him to deal with "this" immediately.
26. We went back to waiting in reception. Half an hour elapsed, and the suitably contrite Computer Section person comes out, hands us the certificate we need, and out we waltzed, into the sunset.

What to say? Mixed results, no? Hope, despair. Defeat, victory. Loins, tiggas. Are things getting better? Maybe... If one hadn't showed attitude (and jeans), would all this have played out in this manner? Perhaps not. What happens to people without attitude (and jeans)? Are jeans a metaphor? (Perhaps. Do ours need to be washed? Definitely.)

P.S.: We couldn't find the helpful Inspector after this whole ordeal. We wanted to wring his hands in thanks. In any case, we did the next best thing. Wrote a letter describing the role of his staff in the ordeal, and his in the salvation, and posted it off to him, his boss (ACP) and his boss (DCP).

Finis.

---

1. Thanks, Larry.

Word Verification

In which Ludwig, inspired by a passing comment from Space Bar, invents a new viral game

Everyone has come across these word verification things, right? On Blogger, Orkut, and so on. We have been pondering for years on what to make of those random pieces of string (which is typed by 7 monkeys on barbiturates sitting at the back end), when we realized what is to be done with them words.

Hear ye, hear ye. From now on, it is decreed that when you post a comment, in addition to whatever blah you have to offer, you must provide an on the spot, off the cuff, encyclopaedia entry for the word verification word.

To show what we mean, we have invented the first one (over at that famous New York reprobate's blob). Reproduced here:

definition: Kpzicie (pronounciation: zzitchy), town, pop. 6,000, Slovakia. Kpzicie is a small industrial town on the Slovakia-Hungary border, roughly 25 k.m. SSW of Kosice. Currently chiefly known for its dominance in the world lugged sprockets market, Kpzcie briefly rose to prominence in the 13th century when the voivode of Trans-Carpathia briefly toyed with establishing his capital on the outskirts, on a mound of Ottoman Turkish skulls, harvested during a punitive raid against Bayezid II (Ilderim).

Also famous for pickled gherkins.

Admittedly not very inspired, but you should've seen what Hilary and Norgay looked like when they got to the top. We trust that our discerning readers (including, and especially the marine mammal variety), will totally run with this.

So let it be written, so let it be done.

eiθ = cos θ + i sin θ? Ha ha ha...

In which Ludwig tries to find jokes rooted in serious mathematics

It's been a while since we did a post on mathematics. A young hedonist in New York posted a delightful piece about mathematical encounters on Broadway and 102^nd, and this has inspired us to dust off a few items.

Serious things first. Most Indians have heard of G. H. Hardy of course, as Srinivasa Ramanujan's correspondent, mentor, teacher, student, and friend. Robert Kanigel's biography of Ramanujan necessarily contains pages and pages of engrossing information about Hardy. The great man was an atheist, his politics was left of centre and he was a sort of maniacal cricket buff. One year his New Year resolutions were

1. Prove the Riemann hypothesis
2. Make 211 not out in the fourth innings of the last test match at the Oval [which was something like hitting a grand slam home run while behind by three runs in the ninth inning of the World Series' final game]
3. Find an argument for the nonexistence of God that will convince the general public
4. Be the first man at the top of Mt. Everest
5. Be proclaimed the first president of the U.S.S.R, of Great Britain, and Germany.
6. Murder Mussolini

Kanigel's book has another anecdote which is equally entertaining.

Another story neatly combined his love of cricket, his pleasure in the sun, his warfare with God, and his madcap bent. One of his collaborators, Marcel Reisz, was staying at the place Hardy shared with his sister in London. Hardy ordered him to step outside, open umbrella clearly in view, and yell up to God, "I am Hardy, and I am going to the British Museum." This, of course, would draw a lovely day from God, who had nothing better to do than thwart Hardy. Hardy would then scurry off for an afternoon's cricket, fine weather presumably assured.

What can you say about a man whose cricket teams include "God(F), God(S), God(HG)" (F = Father, S = Son, HG = Holy Ghost!)? His mantelpiece sported photographs of Einstein, Jack Hobbs and Lenin. Later in life, when he found his mathematical powers on the decline, he wrote A Mathematician's Apology. This "book of haunting sadness" [C. P. Snow] is actually a long essay about the uses of mathematics, the motivations of mathematicians (and indeed anyone engaged in creative work), the aesthetics of mathematics, and a reflection of his own decades long engagement with the field.

(i)

A mathematician, like a painter or a poet, is a maker of patterns. If his patterns are more permanent than theirs, it is because they are made with ideas. ... The mathematician's patterns, like the painter's or the poet's, must be beautiful; the ideas, like the colours or the words, must fit together in a harmonious way. Beauty is the first test: there is no permanent place in the world for ugly mathematics.

(ii)

The best mathematics is serious as well as beautiful--'important' if you like, but the word is very ambiguous, and 'serious' expresses what I mean much better.

(iii)

I still say to myself when I am depressed, and find myself forced to listen to pompus and tiresome people, "Well, I have done one thing you could never have done, and that is to have collaborated with both Littlewood and Ramanujan on something like equal terms."

The entire essay is available here for free download. Makes for a very thought provoking afternoon's reading.

Anyway, this was supposed to be a post about jokes rooted in serious mathematics. Here's one that we posted once already, but doesn't lose anything in a retelling. It is paraphrased from Simon Singh's Fermat's Last Enigma.

Grafitti on New York City subway wall:

xⁿ + yⁿ = zⁿ

There is no value of n>2 for which the above is true. I have found a truly remarkable proof of this, but my train is coming and I have to go...

Zeno of Elea came up with variations of his paradox, and these have given rise to possibly multiple funnies. We present a couple.

The dichotomy paradox leads to the following mathematical joke. A mathematician, a physicist and an engineer were asked to answer the following question. A group of boys are lined up on one wall of a dance hall, and an equal number of girls are lined up on the opposite wall. Both groups are then instructed to advance toward each other by one quarter the distance separating them every ten seconds (i.e., if they are distance d apart at time 0, they are d/2 at t = 10, d/4 at t = 20, d/8 at t = 30, and so on.) When do they meet at the center of the dance hall? The mathematician said they would never actually meet because the series is infinite. The physicist said they would meet when time equals infinity. The engineer said that within one minute they would be close enough for all practical purposes.

Another one is actually a cartoon, which we've been unable to unearth. So we'll just tell the joke.

[Scene: City street, ancient Greece. Two philosophers (bearded), run into each other.]
Phil I: Hey, it seems Zeno didn't come to work today...
Phil II [chuckles]: Yeah, wait till you hear his excuse!

That one is truly brilliant, we thought.

Any others?

Plugs for Local Events

Which are public interest announcements

Cell Phone

The Quest hath come to an End. The Ringtone Bearer hath been found. All sorts of Mephistophilean compromises have been made, but we are now proud owners of a Nokia E50 thingumabob.

QuizHyd

Hi,

This is to inform all you of a team quiz that is being organised on the 11th of March,2007. The details are as follows:

A General Quiz open to all members of the public.

Quizmasters: Priyambad and Raghuram

Venue: St. Francis College, Begumpet (this is located in the lane next to LifeStyle Building)

Date and Time: 11th March 2007, 10:00 am

Format: The quiz is open to all members of the general public who are interested. This quiz will follow a format in which participants will be randomly teamed up into teams of 3 at the time of the quiz itself. This is to provide all participants an equal opportunity at participating in a team quiz even if they do not have other team members in Hyderabad or even if they are new to quizzing itself. Some of the seasoned quizzers will recognise that this is the same format that has been followed very successfully at the quizzes organised by QFI, Chennai.

Prizes: Cash prizes for the top 3 teams plus gift vouchers from Odyssey Bookstore.

Entry Fee: Rs 25 per person.

In case of any clarifications please contact Nitish at 9885679460 or Priyambad at 9948453388. Please also drop a mail to quizhyd@gmail.com in case you intend on coming for the quiz. And also please forward the mail to all those who you think might be interested.

Hope to see you all there.

-Nitish

An Inconvenient Truth

THE INSTITUTION
OF ENGINEERS (INDIA)

Andhra Pradesh State
Centre

Cordially invites you to the

SCREENING OF A FILM

ON

CLIMATE CHANGE AND GLOBAL WARMING

(AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH)

(The Film Maker is
MR. AL GORE

Former Vice-President of USA

Who is an authority on Environment)

on Sunday the 11^th March, 2007 at 1030 hrs

at Visvesvaraya Bhavan, Khairatabad, Hyderabad – 500 004

A brief commentary on the Film will be made

by

Ms. JENNIE RATCLIFFE

Environmental Scientist, USA

DR V K BAWA

Founder Vice Chairman,

Hyderabad Urban Development Authority

Will introduce the Speaker

Er. D HANUMANTHA CHARY, FIE

Chairman,

Institution of Engineers (India)

A P State Centre

Will preside

                    G Chandra Mohan Reddy

                    Hony.Secretary

Celebrating Women's Day Through Poems

Event: Celebrating Women's Day through reading poems
Date & Time: Friday 9th March evening by 5:30 pm (will start on time).
Venue:
Akshara Book Shop, Block G-4.
Creative Kamal Complex,
Opposite Radhika Colony,
West Maredpally, Hyderabad. and the phone number of the venue is: 27804626.

This programme is organised for German Cultural Centre in collaboration with Akshara.

---

PS: Yes, you noticed, eh? There really isn't a public interest component in the first announcement, is there? Sue us. Sue us!

Na Jaane Kahaan Dill Kho Gayaa

In which Ludwig speaks of matters of heart

After many moons, today we made our first batch of tzatziki. Now there is a school of thought which unequivocally holds that you can't make a tzatziki without dill. Dill, as far as we can tell, is not be found in India. We have searched high and low, in river and vale and so on. Well...we looked in several Food Worlds scattered across Hyderabad, Q-Mart in Banjara Hills and Amma Naana in Raja Annamalaipuram in Madras.

Parsley, you will find, in pestilential quantities. Sage, definitely. Rosemary, most assuredly. The thyme has come for at least one of these places to stock dill. dill, dill, dill, main tere pyaar mein khoyaa..., and so on. We will be very grateful if someone can tell us where dill is to be found in peninsular India. The Orthodox School of tzatziki also holds that you need red wine vinegar. Whence, pray, are we who live in Begumpet to produce red wine vinegar from? We settled for a dash of regular vinegar.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. With this maxim in mind, and a recipe at hand, we started. The Ludwig Heresy in the art of tzatziki making is like so:

1. Make curds. That is, boil milk, allow it to cool to body temperature, skim off the cream, add previous generation curd, let it set overnight.
2. Take a piece of fine cloth. Cheesecloth is recommended, we settled for a section of superannuated veshti. Tie the curd in it, and hang contraption over sink or a bowl, and let all the water out. This will also take a night or so. At the end, you'll be left with a very pasty kind of 'dry' curd.
3. Now more or less follow the steps in the recipe.
4. At the last moment, instead of dill, add mint. Or somesuch.

Done.

We just sampled the first batch. Must say it came out rather well, given all the dill type constraints. Maybe a little bit too much of garlic. All the better to keep Lucy Westenra at bay. If one desires to keep Lucy Westenra at bay, that is.

Anyway, we ramble. So that's that. tzatziki - check. In celeberation of matters of dill, we give you a pome.

To Manijeh
                        -Vikram Seth

O Scorpio-cat
When you have gone
My eyes will turn
To lumps of stone.

I'll look at ice
And think of how
You called it 'bairf'.
I'll eat pilao

And taste your touch
Where it won't be.
How will I bear
To read Rumi?

Raga Darbari,
The taste of dill
And all clean mirrors
Will make me ill.

Windex will lie
Where it was laid,
The record player
Sit unplayed,

And dill may grow
Ten feet in height
But will no longer
Yield delight.

At reference to
Shirazi Turks
My stricken heart
Will beat in jerks -

But worst, some random
Woman's clear laugh
Will neatly cut
My liver in half.

Nice, no? We likes.

UPDATE: Inspired by Indu and co. (see comments), we have embarked on a virtual search for dill in India. The following nuggets exist:

• Sabakshi Soppu Curry - Apparently the damn 'erb has been around for dogs years, posing as Sabakshi or Kamakshi or somesuch
• This page is disturbingly titled "Dill(Soya)". It goes on to say that there are two kinds of dill, Indian and European. It has the chemical composition of dill! And to really prove how crazy they are, they tell us that

  On steam distillation, Indian Dill yields 1.5 to 4.0 % volatile oil, while European Dill grown under Indian conditions yields 2.5 to 4.0 %.

  Steam distillation, it seems. "On steam distillation, a kitten yields 200% 20,000 decibel yowls..." Ouch.
• All India Spice Exporters Forum - Their dill page is probably the most authoritative in all the land...
• answers.com doesn't add a whole lot of new information, but check this out:

  India is the primary producer of dill seed for culinary use.

  No kidding!
• Gernot Katzer's spice pages also have a page on the elusive dill. The etymology section is fascinating.

The search continues. Dill dhoondta hai...

Odissi Odyssey

In which Ludwig descries aquatic loblollies gamboling in the distance, and reflects upon entering dotage

Sankranthi in the Circars is the time when Ludwig's family hosts and dutifully accompanies migratory friends and relatives on a tour of the Kalinga country. Hitherto, this perambulation was restricted to the fleshpots of Bhubaneswar, Puri and Konark. In 2007, however, we did things differently. Follow closely. Ooh and aah at the photographs in a suitably coy manner.

Per usual, the party found itself cautiously detraining from East Coast Express at Bhubaneswar station, early in the morning. Quite precipitately, we allowed ourselves to be conned into being driven around town by the very first cabbie we found. Not sure what the deal with Oriya cuisine is, but when we asked to be taken to a good local place for breakfast, we were led to a somewhat seedy 'Udipi' joint. Regardless, dosais were polished off, coffees were gulped down, etceteras were etceteraed (i.e. the unspeakables) and off we went. First whistle stop, the caves of Udayagiri and Khandagiri.

Udayagiri from Khandagiri

We leapt like gazelles (not) from rock to rock, and frolicked amongst the age old ruins for a while, before heading out to the temple district. First up, the amazingly stupendous Lingaraj temple. It is quite a piece of work, no one in this day and age could pull off something like this. We wandered around the courtyard, and gawked at the gopurams, while successfully fighting off a horde of pandas who pluck at your elbow in that annoying manner (ref: Jerry Seinfeld's uncle). Alas, they don't allow cameras on the premises, ergo we did the next best (possibly even better thing). Scooted over to the Brahmeswar temple, which is a smaller scale Lingaraj type thingy. Only, much cleaner quieter, and altogether more hangoutable.

Brahmeswar Temple

Next stop, Dhauli. This is apparently where "the Kalingas were completely massacred by Ashoka" (If you can, trying saying this as "Unit Vector" would've done in his class. If you have no idea what we're referring to, move on.) There's a Japanese built stupa on the hill, and at the bottom, some vandal named Ashoka had scratched some stuff onto a rock. The Archeological Survey of India (ASI) has helpfully not provided any translations. Soon, it was too hot, and we were almost in a stupor on the stupa. Geddit? In a stupor, on a stupa? [Passersby pull him off the dead horse he has been flogging...]

Even atop Dhauli, we nautical types could smell the sea. The blue yonder was in the distance, and calling. Off we sped. Heigh ho for Konark. Checked into Yatri Nivas with gardens etc., right outside the temple. Evening walk to Chandrabhaga Beach was followed by a visit to the Sun Temple. If Lingaraj was impressive, this one is simply mind-blowing. More so when it is twilight, and the tide of day trippers from Puri and Bhubaneswar is ebbing its way out to the rows of buses parked outside. As the light fades, the massive, massive, massive, (did we say massive?) massive structure stands there and changes moods. Some of which we tried to capture using our very ancient Canon Powershot S45. One thing is for sure, one definitely, definitely, and absolutely needs to spend the night at Konark. Long series of pictures follows.

Just before sunset...
Black and White
Sepia
Apres sunset...
We really, really, like this one...
...and this one

There's a dance hall type thing right in front of the main entrance. Many pillars, three corridors through which the rays of the sun fall on the deity in the sanctum sanctorum, depending on the position of the sun in the sky.

Dance Hall
Naach Amrapali, naach...or whatever
The Guardians

And this is what it looks like during the day. We got this ASI guide to do the walking tour around the temple and the grounds. Lots of gyaan imbibed, lots of "piligrims" dissuaded from pouring panchamritham on the pilasters etc.

Our time had run out. Hopped on bus to Puri. Hopped off at the bus stand. Took one look around. Screamed in unison. Rented car. Set off rectilinearly for Chilika. This brackish water lagoon is serene, beautiful, and many other good adjectives. Decanted into the Yatri Nivas at Satapada. What is it about rooms with views of water bodies? Huh? We loves.

Yatri Nivas, Satapada

Wash, lunch, prawn fry (mmm...) and then we rented a little phattphatti boat for a trip around the lagoon. You don't need to do much to be happy in Chilika. Rent a boat, head out, switch off the engine, and wait for the sun to set.

Sunset, Chilika

The icing on the cake though, is that Chilika is the home of the only lagoonal population of the Irrawady dolphin (oracella brevirostris) anywhere in the world. There are about a 100 or so of these johnnies in the lagoon, but they seem to be relatively easy to spot. Maybe they're tied to a large concrete block at the bottom. Maybe not. More likely, they apparently like to leave the lagoon every evening and head out to sea, and the only way they can do that is through this narrow channel between Satapada and a sandbar (Rajhansa). So all you have to do is park yourself somewhere in the channel in the evening, and you can see dolphins on the move. Look closely at the next photograph, which is a juxtaposition. Sun. Boat. Dolphin. Bottom left.

Sun, Boat, Irrawaddy Dolphin - A Juxtaposition

At one point, we even saw a dolphin and an osprey in the same instant. Double paisa vasool.

Update: space bar gently jogged our memory about something we'd meant to mention. The reason why we're going on and on about the oracellas is that we are big fans of Amitav Ghosh's The Hungry Tide. The Irrawaddy dolphins are a very big part of the novel, in which Ghosh somehow manages to convey at least 4 different perspectives on the environment, human rights, conservation, and development. Rather nicely we thought. Somewhat tangentially, Princess Mononoke manages to do the same, we thought. Be that as it may, "The Hungry Tide" is up there in the Ghosh list along with "In an Antique Land" and "The Calcutta Chromosome", and perhaps "Shadowlines".

Night in Satapada after the day trippers have scooted is very peaceful and soothing. There was rain, and birds, and the morning was windy and gray, and beautiful. We got parathas packed at the hotel, and rented another boat the next day, for a cross-lagoon dash to Balugan, whence we had to catch the train back home.

Lonely Tree
Lonely Sailboat
Lonely Sailboat, Net, Egret - A Juxtaposition

On the way back, we stopped off at the Nalabana Bird Sanctuary in the middle of the lake. We waded our way through the muck and walked up to the watchtower, from where Caspian tern (baby turn...), bar headed geese, pintails, shovelers, thicknees and other mysteries were seen.

Wading to Nalabana

On the way back, some genius (i.e. Ludwig) dropped his precious Powershot S45 into the murky waters of the lake. It was fished out promptly, and pictures were recovered. But since then we've been terrified of turning it on. Ergo, no more pictures...

Ended up in the metropolis of Balugan, Orissa a full 7 hours before the train. Spent this time constructively playing cards. And next morning, we were home.

Reflection upon entering dotage: The Big Three-Oh happened today. Bah.

An Introduction to Ancient Indian Naval Architecture, With Some Observations on Contemporary Popular Historiography

In which Ludwig examines some things nautical

Recent posts here have been about such frivolous claptrap that Ludwig cannot countenance any more, pieces on such drivel as reservations, love failure, emerging mobile technologies, entrepreneurship and the death penalty. Pleasurable though it was to conjure up those tidbits, we realize that our vast audience has too long been denied what they were accustomed to in the good old days. Namely, a succinct, comprehensive, well thought out, skilfully constructed, well informed, thoroughly researched, topical article on some burning issue of contemporary relevance. A blob is not just a mere pulpit on the internet from which Thomas, Richard and Sivasubramaniam Chandrasegarampillai can rail at unsuspecting passers-by about whatever catches their fancy. A blog has a greater duty, a higher purpose, a nobler ideal to live up to. It carries forward the great traditions of dissent and critical scrutiny of Zola, Rev. Dr. King Jr., The Onion, &c. It is a public space that oughtn't to be defiled by the washing of dirty linen and the cooking of kaakarakaai pulusu.

To make amends for the last few wasted months, and seeing as it is the zeroeth death anniversary of Saddam Hussein, we have decided to post a little something on history and historiography, two subjects that we have an abiding interest in. Specifically, in this thesis, we will be addressing topics in ancient Indian myth/history, and how 20th century creative sensibilities throw new light on said topics.

To a certain class of people (this author included) with a putative superior engineering education, navel architecture is an engrossing subject, even if we have been landlubbers all our life, and never even caught sight of the blue yonder. For aeons, we have sought perfection in these matters, and have not tasted success in the real world. This essay is not about our failed quest in the real world.

In the halcyon days of our boyhood, we imbibed Indian culture and values through the pores, mainly by the stratagem of gobbling up Amar Chitra Katha comics by the dozen. The long summer afternoons passed as if in a dream, interrupted only by the mysterious appearance of mangoes, gooseberries and so on at Poisson intervals. Those informative volumes introduced us to the wondrous world of Indian history and mythology mostly via memorable illustrations.

The ages passed. Some things that should not have been forgotten were lost. History became legend, legend became myth, and for two score years the comics fell off of all Ludwig's radar screens. Until one day when, in a small hole in Begumpet, Ludwig happened to find himself thumbing through some of those very tomes that had occupied his undivided attentions through those summer months, many years ago.

Things, however, had changed. Having become something of a truth seeker, he was now entranced, in a strictly academic way, by the umm...ah...illustrations of the hemm...haww...midriffs of the err...apsaras and kinnaras and so on. One realized that the Amar Chitra Kathas had had a much more formative effect on one's psyche than one had hitherto suspected.

Being public spirited, one wishes to serve one's people, and keep them informed about all such important matters. So we whipped out our Canon Powershot S45 and proceeded to photograph said volumes, and made notes about the illustrators, which follow.

A quick glance through the entire corpus reveals various levels of clarity and confidence in the depictions of the above mentioned midriffs. Is there something we can learn about the illustrator, from the manner in which he chooses (or does not, as the case may be) to wield his brush when he has to show Anasuya and Priyamvada frolicking amongst the creepers? Can we then, discern an order of merit, in which we can rank these talented artists? And having done so, can we use this order of merit as a guide in future perusals and purchases of the literature?

We will simply present the evidence here, and leave our astute readers to draw their own inferences about the work and the illustrator. And through this creative process which sublimates these external stimuli, into coherent thoughts and locus standi on this seminal issue, we hope (indeed we flatter ourselves), that our faithful readers will learn something of the construction and configuration of their own internal neural pathways and, perhaps, arrive at that pinnacle of Self Understanding, from whence it is very hard to climb down without oxygen cylinders and broken in shoes.

Be that as it may, we move on to the exhibits themselves.

P.B.Kavadi The work on hand is Kalidasa's "Shakuntala". P.B. Kavadi's illustrations are marked by very clean lines; soulful, fish-like, eyes and almost sculptural body types. When we turn to the first page of the "Shakuntala", we are struck by the courage the illustrator displays in depicting the apsara Menaka's considerable charms.

We note the vividity with which the midriff is depicted, and it gives us hope for the future. Alas, it is not to be. Perhaps the artist's courage fails him, after the first flush of valour, and we find subsequently that the midriffs are marked by a marked reluctance to firmly make a statement.





In an effort to determine whether Kavadi's reluctance is a temporary aberration manifested only in the "Shakuntala", we drew samples from "Malavikagnimitra" as well.



And we are disappointed yet again. The artist's style is consistent, it was only the first panel from "Shakuntala" that was the aberration. We move on...

Pratap Mullick Once again, we have a Kalidasa play to base our observations on. "Vikramorvasiyam" is illustrated by Pratap Mullick.



Immediately, we see that indeed, each illustrator has his own style. If Kavadi's is marked by the cleanliness of the lines, Mullick's distinguishing attribute is the classicism he brings to the drawings. The drapiness of robes, the waspiness of waists, the wideness of hips - all well attested to in classical Indian poetic tradition. Once again, we note how the first panel offers hope, in our particular area of interest. Urvashi, we find is exquisite, and we pray that the theme will continue in the inside pages.



Hatha vidhi!! While Kavadi's pictures inside the book at least had a smidgen of ink where a navel should've been, Mullick's Aushinari is devoid of even a blemish. She looks like Damien Thorn's twin sister, very weird.

Ram Waerkar We now move from the realm of pure fiction, to someone who straddles the world of myth and history. We have two samples of Ram Waerkar's illustrations to consider. The first is from "Surya", the story of the sun god.



Waerkar's style seems to be via media between Kavadi's and Mullick's. The clean lines are there, the classicism is conspicuous, and glory of glories, in an internal panel, Waerkar has courageously put an unmistakable dot, where it should be. So much for myth.



Waerkar's style when he draws the story of "Rani Durgavati", is almost wholly different. Gone are the curves and the exaggerations. The pictures have a gritty, almost newsreel feel, the stomping of boots and the clash of musketry is almost palpable. We see that once again Waerkar has not shirked in his duty to art and reality, and wielded his pen or brush with conscientiousness. In summary, it may be said that Waerkar is, while not profligate in his depictions of the midriff, true to anatomy and his oeuvre when he does engage with the subject.

Yusuf Bangalorewalla We conclude with a series of 4 panels from Yusuf Bangalorewalla's "Mirabai". Another historical figure, another recalcitrant artist. The images are breathtaking (we found), and on the spectrum of courageousness, Bangalorewalla lies somewhere between Kavadi and Waerkar.










In conclusion, we find the order of merit to be as follows:

1. Waerkar: For his versatility and courage
2. Bangalorwalla: For the aesthetic, and the nascent ability (that needs to find expression) to be true
3. Kavadi and Mullick. Take a stand, gentlemen. Take a stand, gentlemen, take a stand!

And with these "points to ponder", we at the Choultry wish you all a Happy New Year & c. See you on the other side...

Erratum: The title of this post should read "An Introduction to Ancient Indian Navel Architecture, With Some Observations on Contemporary Popular Historiography". The error is regretted.