Priya - What more can be said? - Of his coming to Champaign, IL

An old post of mine, from Bat Blog.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Priya - What more can be said? - Of his coming to Champaign, IL

A lot more can be said actually. For all that know and love this slothful beast, we know of his exceeding intelligence, wit and charm. If you have answered unequivocal yeses to the second and third qualities, then we're talking about different people. 'Tis unfortunate, because the rest of this essay will make little sense to you. But for those who answered correctly to the above, read on - you might find this slightly entertaining.

The last we heard of Priya, he was on a flight bound for parts unknown - unknown not only to those that bade him farewell at the airport, but also to the man himself. By his own admission, "I don't know where my plane lands". Seriously, believe you me. Also, maybe a half-hour after boarding, he was having trouble with basic integration and refused to believe me when I explained it to him. (The author, being god-awful at Calculus himself, should not talk, but he will anyway)

To this day, I do not know what happened in those 5 weeks of his Fast-Track Calculus program. For he is far stranger now than he ever had been earlier. And we KNOW how strange he used to be. Several incidents and reports from eye (and ear) witnesses have conclusively proved his weirdness (for want of a better word).

One fine night ('twas a Thursday), I was at a friend's room at about 7. Upon returning to my room, I heard the startling news that Priya was to arrive at U of I imminently, from my roommate. Knowing full well that he was not more than 100 miles away, I anticipated his arrival to be in within the next hour or so. However, at about 10, I began to wonder where he hell he was. The fact that it had beem 3 hours before I realised this, I attribute to apathy and the fact that I refused to believe that he would come. Little did I know how wrong I was to be!

On phoning our man, I discovered that he and comrades had lost the keys to the car in the trunk. I just grimaced, and continued with my life. Finally, at about 1 am, I received word that they had (eventually) reached Champaign - this was after boastful claims that he would find me easily.

I asked him to wait by the WalGreens Mart near my dorm, giving him explicit directions on how to get there. Of course, he manages to find a different WalGreens and also, a KFC, the latter, a commodity unavailable in the fair town of Champaign, Illinois. Finally, after much confusion, Priya and co. (2 friends) arrived at the Student Union, where he was greeted by an annoyed (yet happy) author and some random friends (of mine).

After wandering around aimlessly for a period of close to a half-hour, his friends decided that they wanted a quiet place in which they could smoke weed uninterrupted. The two of us walked towards my dorm while my friends and his piled into their car and were about to leave, when they were accosted by a cop.

What transpired between them is hilarious, for the cop, experienced with inebriated college drivers, asked Priya's friend to recite the alphabet from E through R. The friend, having driven several hours that night, was tired and asked the cop if he could start with A. This simple request was treated with much derision by the man in blue, as it should have. Snorting, he asked Anton (the friend) to count backward from 67 to 47. Starting well, his only error was to forget the numbers between 60 and 48. Finally exasperated at his own failure to perform tasks
that five-year olds usually excelled at, Anton gave up and asked the cop to perform the breath-alyser test on him. Here, I must ask you to simply be amused and not pass judgement on this poor individual. I have mentioned that he was exhausted after several hours of driving from Terre Haute, Indiana to Champaign. Their journey is an aspect of this entire episode that I have not dwelt much upon. I will do so now.

As I have mentioned earlier, the idiots locked the keys in the boot of the car. This incident happened at a 'gas station' (damn Americans - this is what they call a petrol bunk), probably much to the mirth of the station attendants. Having done so, they proceeded to search high and low for the keys everywhere. Finally giving up, they paid someone (I know not who) 200$ to return to their university and picked up a spare set of keys, and returned once more to the gas station. They then proceeded to Champaign.

This is the story of how Priya came to Champaign. There are other episodes that I intend to share with you, but at a later date.

Cheers!

Fuck off

31st over: WICKET - Silva b Clarke 21, SL 190-6
The end is now near - Silva charges Clarke, misses and is clean-bowled. Clarke stands in the middle of the wicket with arms outstretched, and shouts a phrase that rhymes with "Luck off!" at Silva as he passes.

I looked behind, and in the gloom, I could make out that the bails had fallen off. The stumps seemed a tad askew, and the realisation finally arrived from synapses in the far corners of the brain that I was out. Disappointment struck harder than the insult hurled at the other end of the pitch. So caught up was I in my own misery that I almost missed the tall blonde bastard screaming "Fuck off" with a jubilant air.

Now, I'm not an unreasonable man. I really am not. I prefer to be civil. I dislike conflict. But the sheer white arrogance of this man was not something I would let pass. No. Never. This piece-of-trash deserved the worst sort of treatment. I paused, staring at him for a few seconds, allowing all my rage to simmer within me. It was good fortune that none of his team had noticed the occurrence, the dim light in the stadium being barely sufficient to see one's hand. I walked up to the lad and, removing my helmet, asked, in a dangerously quiet voice what he'd said. He grinned, an insolent vile grin, and repeated it, this time slower, as if I was an uneducated savage.

Ah, *ping*. Like tea in a kettle, I'd reached boiling point. I smiled. The innocuousness of it stunned him and he let his guard down. Now, I'm perhaps the worst bat I've seen, but I can swing one to match the best of them. Swoosh.

It came swinging down with mighty force, that 4 lb. Kookabarra did. It caught him in the side of the head, smacking into his left ear. Shocked by the blow, our man swept of his feet and landed squarely on his back.

Perfect. He had no escape now. Feeling a savage thrill pulse through me, I raised the bat over my head and brought it down, flat-side first ('plains' was the term we used while playing house cricket, I suddenly remembered), straight onto his nose. It shattered with sufficient ceremony, accompanied by a scream, the sound of bone snapping and flesh and blood sprayed everywhich way. I smiled at him, and in the darkness, I think he could make out just my teeth. Lifting the bat once more, I shattered his sternum. He writhed in pain and screamed, knowing that there was no escape.

"Fuck off, huh? Is that what you said?"

No answer.

"Answer me, you white piece of shit, ANSWER ME. Do you want me to break each fucking bone in your body? Nothing to say? I'll take that to be consent."

I hit him in the knee with the handle, and destroyed any hope of future progeny with a vicious swipe of the other end.

"YOU BASTARDS THINK YOU'RE THE SHIT, DON'T YOU, YOU SON OF A CONVICT?"

Stomach next. No bones there, though. I imagine there are massive injuries to his intestines and that he hemorrhages, should he survive this onslaught. I continued to work on his core. The parallel to exercise amused me, and even with his pathetic screaming in my ear, I laughed manically.

His screams brought the rest of his team to the pitch, and as I was about to deliver the coup de grace to his forehead, I was yanked off to the sound of an ambulance blaring its siren as it made its way to the middle.
Exhausted mentally, physically and emotionally, I slumped in the arms of my captors, his saviours.

--

The Hindu, April 29th 2007 headline: "Brutal violence mars World Cup final". I smiled at the gaoler as I read the paper in my cell.

Modi's going home tonight, lucky bastard.
My turn shall come, 8 months hence.
Still, ARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH.
It's eating me away, being away from home.
Vipassanna, I shall keep in mind: This too shall pass.

Robert Jordan, Death, Amyloidosis and the Future

Something, I don't know exactly what, rekindled my interest in Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time (WoT) this afternoon. I've read all 11 books so far in this epic series and eagerly await the 12th and perhaps, final, book. It might also be Jordan's last EVER book because the man has been diagnosed with Amyloidosis, something that causes an abnormal protein buildup in various organs that can permanently damage them. Sadly, the disease has no known cure.

At this point, I wonder, what is more important - Jordan's potential demise, which could happen at some imminent point in the future or the completion of the series? Call me heartless for even engaging in such a debate, but it is something discussed all over the Internet in WoT forums. I think it's a valid question. After all, he's made the fans a part of his life ever since the series became popular and it is his responsibility to finish it up. At the same time, it's not like he wanted to be affected by amyloidosis. Like I said, it's a tough question.

For me, I can't really say. When Dreamer Gray first told me of this, I was shocked. At the fact that the series might not end, and that I would never know the fate of the world post-Tarmon Gai'don. Then, I began to feel sorry for Jordan, who made fantasy reading so much more enjoyable.

Well, I do hope he makes it through at least the next few years. To quote an article about him in Forbes magazine, "Jordan plans to live another 30 years--long enough, he says to finish all the books that are in his head right now".

We can but hope that a man of his genius survives to complete all the books in his head.

It will be a dark day for all us Jordan maniacs should he pass soon, darker still, should he not complete A Memory of Light. Let this book, should no successor to it emerge, be a testimony to Jordan's immense imagination, talent and dedication to his fans (he still writes for 2 hours a day now, despite his weakened condition).

Repeat

I long for the future to break me out of the cycle of the present.

As I shaved what passed for a beard off my face, I tried to think back to the last time I'd had to cleanse my face of this annoying stubble. To my consternation, I could not put my finger on when my last shave had been. Two weeks? Three? A month? No, not that long, surely. But I just couldn't remember.

It was as though the days, weeks and months this semester had all melded into one indistinguishable entity. Each day had the same gray feel to it, so perfect in its disguise that it became the same as the day before, and a replica of the day after. At this moment, I get that feeling (you can only say what it is in French), that some time ago, I had been writing these very words - the haze in my mind felt the same; the past, present and future all presented the same tortuous possibilities. Time seems to have come to a stop, moving forward only in those moments that I experience strong emotion, each other instant feeling the same, with no possibility of escape from this eternal circle.

I think I'm slowly dying.

Game On!

Llanelli Scarlets vs. Leicester Tigers @ Walkers Stadium, Leicester.
Semi-final of the Heineken Cup.

Go Scarlets!

NRNM for President?

President APJ Abdul Kalam visited the Infosys campus in Mysore recently and has stated that Infosys's Chief Mentor, NR Narayana Murthy is his first choice for the next Presidential candidate.

This shocked me, because I cannot imagine how someone as apolitical as Narayana Murthy will make an effective First Citizen. Besides, I attended a talk by him at college and he was dead boring.

Combination

As a college student in the US, one does not have much praise for the food available here. It is either Too Greasy, Too Bland, Too Non-veg (yaena naan veg, huhhuhhuh) or Too Disgusting (a blanket term). Also, being raised on a caffeine addiction fuelled by kind parents, grandparents and great grandparents since the age of 3, I find it hard to survive a day with a cup of filter coffee. In this regard, I have a filter and about a kilo of Vimala's Coffee (this is in RA Puram), though my stock of coffee has dwindled to a measly 100 grams or so.

There are ideas that are good, and then there is this one - a cup of black coffee, and a Snickers bar. One of the king-size ones, of course. Take a bite out of the bar, and while chewing it, take a sip of the coffee. I tell you it's pure heaven. Throw some hookah into the mix and I might never have to leave the room.

Save to buy more Snickers.