The Daily Slimes: The Neverending Song

We at The Daily Slimes are constantly looking out for the budding poet, the unnoticed lyricist, and, most of all, the celebrity nudist. In an effort to tap into the song-writing talent of our wide readership (all three of them), we present a song that never ends, so that any one of you can keep adding onto it, as long as you keep the beat (so to speak).

I Am A Little Pie*

I am a little pie,
That got flung into your face,
I am dripping along your nose,
It feels a little gross.

I am a little plum,
That got wasted by your bum,
While you sit there and blog,
I'll get up there and clog.
...

We will keep adding as and when we think up some more, or some of you out there is brilliant enough to catch our fancy. So, keep those stanzas pouring in folks.

*To be sung to the beat of 'I am a little fly' by Marvin Pontiac.

Journalese 2: On the (black) board walk*

The newspaper reports that...

"... from next year, the board is introducing compulsory sex education from class VI onwards in all affiliated schools. The decision to introduce ‘‘adolescent education’’ has been prompted by a need to help students cope with growing up pains and puberty trauma. A substantial chunk of the curriculum will centre around sexual concerns like physical changes at puberty, attraction towards the opposite sex, sexually-transmitted diseases as well as myths and realities of diseases like AIDS."

Reminds me of my tenure in the eighth standard. We were introduced to the human reproductive system for the first time. Both the male and the female systems were described in detail in the textbook, along with clear (explicit?) and in-depth (ha ha) diagrams. We were taught how the ovaries produce the ova, it is collected by the fallopian tubes, it floats down several canal like structures (pardon me, my biology is a bit rusty now) etc.. The books then, however, cut straight to the male reproductive system. How the sperm is produced and where it goes and so on. Being the perceptive child that I was, I could not for the life of me figure out that if a child was only produced when ova met sperm, how the heck did they meet. You see, the text-book writing scientists, in order not to corrupt young minds, had forgotten to mention procreation. Our teacher, being the strict follower of the syllabus that she was, decided to leave things as they were. But, I just couldn't understand how Mr. Sperm met Ms. Ova. The only clue I had was courtsey the well-drawn pictures of the individual reproductive systems. There shapes seemed oddly compatible. Accommodating. Receptive. "Singularity", as Holmes mentions. "is almost invariably a clue".

"But, does this mean that exhibit M went into exhibit F? Nah, that is just plain yucky!"

I just refused to believe it, but Holmes did also say that "when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth". In my case, it seemed that whatever remained no matter how unsavory (at least to that innocent mind), must be the truth.

As you may see, I have always been very logical.

The newspaper further says that...

"... the CBSE board has said that there will be no examination or grading on the subject of sex education. ‘‘We realise the need to equip kids today with the fundamental knowledge about issues related to puberty and growing up. But we also feel we should not overburden them by subjecting them to write exams on it,’’ CBSE’s director (academics) G Balasubramaniam told TOI."

I don't know about you, but this is plain funny. I bet that this is one exam which, at least half the school-going children, wouldn't mind taking. You know which half's response I am confident about. Also, they would probably have clamoured for a practical examination to aid learning.

*The classic song 'Under the boardwalk' seems appropriate here.

Peace summits

Hamas calls for giant summit with all Israelis to find a final solution for everlasting peace.

Another killer Onion headline!

The Bridge of The Big 'O'

In an earlier post, I had remarked that a certain photograph was taken from 'The Bridge of Orgasms'. Well, here is the bridge:


I agree, not particularly erotic.

The cockeyed looking building in the background is the Jerwood Library, also known as the Tit Hall Library, being, you know, the library, you know, that belongs to Tit Hall, which, you know, is a college at Cambridge.

So why the risque name for the bridge?

The bridge is so named, originally by folks who apparently were not studying that hard in the Jerwood Library, because of Cambridge cyclists (of which you can espy two specimen in the photograph). These worthy stress and strain their sinews to get up that bridge and sigh in triumph at the end, leading to a cadence, not dissimilar I am told, from the trumpeting of ape-men in the pursuit of lesser goals.

Note how the lady in the foreground in the above photograph, knowing that discretion is the better part of passion, has decided in favour of walking up the bridge. The person the background is probably giddy, or sad - it is all downhill now.

Meanwhile, why so high a bridge? To let the punts (Gondolas Cambridge-style) through:


Finally, it is a strange coincidence that from afar it seems that once you have scaled the peak of the Bridge of Orgasms, you sight an offshoot of Tit Hall.

Strange are the ways of The Great Puppeteer in the sky.

Strutting about parlours

She was sitting right there, just about an inch from my newly washed jeans (Yeah, I sometimes wash them). Anyway, there she was, sitting complacently. Probably leering at me from unseen eyes, confident in the knowledge that terrified of Misty's revenge I shall not strike with the uplifted slipper.

God, spider's give me the heebie-jeebies. And, confident ones even more so.

I was at a loss with what to do to her. Usually, the blow would fall remorselessly. Inexoribaly. But, not today.

"What it Misty found about it? What if she came across the tell-tale carcass while taking a short-cut through my flat?"

"Her wrath would be terrible; tarantulian to behold."

Quandry.

But you can't keep a good man down. Even half a so-so man, for that matter.

The blow fell swiftly. The tissue was employed skillfully, and the body deposited down the corridor in front of my neighbour's door. Don't much care for this couple. Always copulating at odd hours, and at high decibel levels to boot. Not fair to unattached bachelors struggling with granular beds, and impacts thereupon. Hopefully, Misty will take it upon herself to engage in some ménage à trois.

Bwahahahaha.

Clippings: Railway station

The Indian Express reports that the denizens of Balwantpura in the state of Rajasthan having decided that ten years was enough time for the Indian Railways to construct a station at their town, turned up their sleeves, spat on their palms, and built it (the station) themselves. The station features has all the basic amenities, and is manned by a retired railway employee from one of the neighbouring villages. Four trains stop there now.

As they say, India progresses in spite of the Government and the beurocaracy that the British left us with.

Journalese* 1

Is it just me, or is the following take (in bold) by the Times of India absolutely hilarious?

"European Hindus have joined their American counterparts to fight the whisky wars against an American manufacturer’s controversial attempt to advertise its tipple through images of Goddess Durga astride a tiger, cradling numerous bottles of whisky in her many hands. (TOI has deliberately refrained from publishing any picture so as not to hurt religious sentiments.)"

To appreciate the humour, you must be plugged into the current affairs in the world of caricature; Danish, European and Islamic.

Of course, the issue itself is sad, but after my stay in the states, and now in the UK, seems par for the course for corporations.
----
*jour·nal·ese n. The style of writing often held to be characteristic of newspapers and magazines, distinguished by clichés, sensationalism, and triteness of thought.

Golden quadrilateral

Here is a photograph of the proposed quadrilateral of roads.



The thing I like about this photograph is that there is a stretch of road connecting Kanpur to Delhi, which is great because in all probability within the year I will be working at the former place, while my family will be at the latter. Now if I only had my Miata, life would be purrfect. Sigh, no way I am gonna be able to afford that car with the pittance that IIT Kanpur will pay.

What I need is a super-rich wife to give me a divorce and a fat alimony.

I suppose I could own a Miata if I stayed out West, but then I can't really drive it from Kanpur to Delhi, can I? As they say, there are no free lunches.

Also of interest is that the map shows Allahabad, the place of my birth and the city of my psyche.

Sonia Maino - Italian waitress.

Because I am on a roll, pilfering articles over the net, here is one more, though probably only of interest to people with an eye on the Indian political scene. Heartbreaking! To be ruled by the mafiosi a mere 50 years after the plundering shopkeepers left us...

by Sudheendra Kulkarni from the Indian Express:

All IFS of history are flights of imagination. Yet, despite their implausibility, their use is permissible when a reasonable argument is sought to be made. So here are two ifs about the history of the Congress party, and both involve Feroze Gandhi, Indira Gandhi’s estranged husband, between 1942 and 1960 (when he died of a heart attack at age 48).

What if Feroze, a Parsi patriot who went to jail for India’s freedom, had a surname other than Gandhi? What if his name were, let’s say, Feroze Batliwala? Surely, it would have deprived Indira and her progeny of a profitable surname that evoked, and continues to evoke, a subliminal association in the Indian psyche between Mahatma Gandhi and the Nehru Parivar. For Sonia Gandhi, it would have meant a double handicap since her metamorphosis from Sonia Maino to Sonia Batliwala would have made her far less familiar to the ordinary Indian than she still is.

Hence, she must be grateful to Feroze Gandhi for giving her family a trophy surname.

There is, however, another legacy of his that Sonia Gandhi would be distinctly uncomfortable with. What if her father-in-law were to confront her in Parliament in the same way that Feroze Gandhi challenged his father-in-law on the issue of corruption and cover-up in the late 1950s? The Congress party probably has several reasons to downgrade his name in the annals of the dynasty, but chief among them is that he was ‘‘gutsy and self-respecting’’ (this tribute comes from Gopalkrishna Gandhi, the Mahatma’s grandson and currently the Governor of West Bengal) enough to expose the biggest corruption scandal in Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru’s tenure. The Mundhra scandal involved then finance minister T T Krishnamachari, who pressured the government-owned Life Insurance Corporation of India into bailing out Haridas Mundhra, a Calcutta-based industrialist, by buying shares worth Rs 1.24 crore in six companies owned by him. LIC did so dutifully, bypassing its own investment committee. Mundhra was swindling the companies and, simultaneously, rigging up their stock prices to camouflage his fraud. TTK, as the FM was popularly known, least expected that this shady deal would be exposed by the PM’s own son-in-law.

Although Feroze Gandhi belonged to the ruling party, he did not hesitate to speak out against the government because he argued that corruption in high places was a betrayal of the ideals of the newly independent nation. To be fair to Pandit Nehru, he quickly appointed a one-man commission headed by Justice Mahommedali Currim Chagla, one of the most respected legal luminaries of the time.

The speedy and transparent manner in which Chagla conducted the inquiry—it was all over, and the guilty were punished, in less than two years—ought to have been a model for all such probes. All its hearings were public and the proceedings were aired on loudspeakers. Mundhra was sentenced to 22 years in prison, and TTK lost his job. Chagla wrote later: ‘‘The inquiry has been an education for the public. It should also act as a corrective to administrators all over the country because in future they will act with the consciousness that their actions may be subjected to public scrutiny.’’ The Mundhra scandal is now history, but of immense contemporary relevance are the principles that Justice Chagla enunciated as the outcome of his inquiry: (a) The government should not interfere with the working of autonomous corporations and agencies and if it does, it should not shirk responsibility for directions given; (b) The minister concerned must take full responsibility for the actions of his subordinates. Sonia Gandhi would not like to know how Chagla praised, in his autobiography Roses in December, her father-in-law’s role in busting the Mundhra scam. ‘‘He fought the battle for probity in public administration,’’ writes Chagla, ‘‘with all the zest and persistence of which he was capable.’’ If Feroze Gandhi were alive today, would he have been a silent spectator to the official cover-up and sabotage of the Bofors probe? His poser to his daughter-in-law would probably run like this:

1. ‘‘You told some Left MPs who met you on January 18 that the government had no knowledge about the defreezing of Quattrocchi’s bank accounts. How do you explain the fact that your government dispatched its senior law officer, B Dutta, to London to tell the Crown Prosecution Service to defreeze Q’s account? That too without the concerned investigating officers of the CBI accompanying him? And, moreover, when the CBI had all along been opposed to defreezing of Q’s account?

2. Since Q proudly claims to be your family friend, why have you done nothing so far to assist the Indian authorities to bring him to India for trial? Why have you encouraged the public perception that you are defending a fugitive, especially one who has said that he has no faith in Indian justice?

3. Since the CBI’s chargesheet against Q mentions the close ties that he had with you and my late son Rajiv, why haven’t you offered to be questioned by the CBI to clear our family’s name?
4. I was both pained and astounded by the answer, in response to a question on Q, given by your nominated Prime Minister, Dr Manmohan Singh, during his press conference on February 1. He not only reiterated what you had said, but also added that the CBI acted on its own as per ‘the right legal advice’ it received. Isn’t it outrageous that the Prime Minister of India should be calling Additional Solicitor General K P Pathak’s dubious opinion on the Hinduja matter (in which he gave the unsolicited advice that Q should be discharged from the Bofors case) ‘right legal advice’?

5. Lastly, when almost every single newspaper in the country called for the resignation of Law Minister H R Bhardwaj in the wake of the defreezing scandal (I consider it to be a scandal within a larger scandal), why didn’t you ask the PM to drop him in the recent cabinet reshuffle?

In view of all this, I am afraid you have not proved to be my worthy daughter-in-law. Judged by the standards that my father-in-law and I set in our time, you are much less worthy of being the de facto ruler of India. How I wish I could ask you some tough questions in Parliament.’’

Secularism

I have a very strong suspicion of "secular" people. I employ the quotes to emphasize that I am suspicious of them because I don't believe they are really secular. Most times they find it easier to beat upon certain relegions more than other ones. But, it has always been hard for me to be able to define my position, and I think the following excerpt from an editorial by Vir Sanghvi hits large parts of the nail's head. I would add more, but that I believe that is because I have a very strong sense of history. However, that is for another day with a longer evening closed out by a well-lit fireplace. Meanwhile, on to the excerpt (you can read the full piece at www.epaper.hindustantimes.com) :

All of us who espouse the secular cause follow — to some degree — a double standard when it comes to comparing Muslim anger to Hindu outrage. I first noticed this during The Satanic Verses controversy when perfect liberals — men who railed against Hindu fundamentalism day after day — suddenly abandoned their liberal values and began supporting a ban on the book on the grounds that minority sentiments were at stake.

We see this now on a regular basis. All of us are outraged when the VHP or the Shiv Sena objects to Husain’s portrayals of Hindu goddesses and argue that, as an artist, he has perfect right to paint what he likes. But would we take the same position if his paintings offended Muslims?

The sad truth is that we are much more mindful of offending the sentiments of Muslims than we are of Hindus, Sikhs or Christians.

We claim we do this because we know that Muslims are a minority. But the real reason is because we know that Muslims tend to protest more loudly than Hindus; because these protests can be unreason able; and because so few liberal Muslims stand up to the extremists in their community. When the VHP goes on the rampage, it is liberal Hindus who issue the loudest condemnation. When the lunatic fringe of the Muslim community gets agitated about the length of Sania Mirza’s skirt or about a cartoon in a European paper, few moderate Muslim voices are heard.

In the process, it has become easy for Hindu zealots to caricature the entire Muslim community as comprising fanatics, fundamentalists and lunatics. As the joke goes: Islamic is a peaceful religion and if you don’t accept that, they start sending you death threats.

I have waited many years for liberal Muslims to break this conspiracy of silence. And while I do hear some voices, these are people on the fringes of their community. Muslim liberals are still as shamefully silent as they were when students at Jamia assaulted the gentle and scholarly Mushirul Hassan for saying that while he found The Satanic Verses deeply offensive, he did not believe in the principle of banning books.

The time has now come, I think, for us to stop waiting for moderate Muslims to speak up. Liberal Hindus must end the double standard of the secular mindset and speak out as loudly against Muslim fundamentalism as they do against Hindu extremism.

If we do not do that, we discredit the whole concept of secularism. More important, we admit that our liberalism is not an absolute value but a convenient stick to beat Hindu extremists with while making shameful and unnecessary compromises with minority intolerance.

Boxed thinking

There was a knock on Prof. William P. Thurston's Princeton office. A student from his undergraduate Maths course had come to ask him questions during office hours. A disembodied voice told him to step inside. The student entered gingerly. It was a stark office. Just a table, and a chair, and great big cardboard box on the table. However, no sign of the brilliant Professor.

"Er... Prof. Thurston..."

Immediately a panel on the cardboard box flew open, and there was Prof. Thurston! The boy stood gaping, like an old Haddock.

"You have heard of thinking outside the box? Well, I was thinking inside the box. It is nice and quiet in there, with no distractions" explained the great man.
----

This is a story I heard about Bill Thurston, a Field medallist, and one of the best reseach mathematician going in the World. Now at Cornell.

By the way, talking about thinking inside the box, here is Calvin thinking outside the box... er... thermos:

Burg ... erm ... ers?

Ultra-reactions

Suicide Bomber Reacts Poorly To Surprise Birthday Party!

Ha ha, The Onion is too funny sometimes.

Underdone sunsets

A friend sent me this poem by P. G. Wodehouse

Caliban at Sunset

I stood with a man
Watching the sun go down.
The air was full of murmurous summer scents
And a brave breeze sang like a bugle
From a sky that smouldered in the west,
A sky of crimson, amethyst, gold and sepia
And blue as blue were the eyes of Helen
When she sat
Gazing from some high tower in Ilium
Upon the Grecian tents darkling below.
And he,
This man who stood beside me,
Gaped like some dull, half-witted animal
And said,
"I say,
Doesn't that sunset remind you
Of a slice
Of underdone roast beef?"

---
From this we find that Osama too is an avid reader of Wodehouse. For proof consider the following poem due to him in his critically acclaimed collection "Bombings and other miniatures".

Taliban at Sunset

Came back my second-in-command
To a cave,
For I could not be seen over land,
Described he to me how the Sun had drowned.
The air had been full of dissenting ferments
From Zionists as we torched a few Jewish hutments
And a breeze recalled screams of past,
As when we tortured Kurds till they could last.
A sky smouldered in the West,
Similar to New York buildings we put to the test.
A sky of crimson, amethyst, gold and sepia
(For this we blasted the Tube, Hallelujah)
And blue as blue as the eyes of Virgins
As they sit
Atop Atta's thigh, gazing,
On the hated Kafirs persisting below.

Then he,
This man, though taught by me,
Broke my reverie like an idolatrous pig,
He Sighed,
“By the grace of Allah,
Doesn’t this sunset remind you,
Of the city of Lanka,
Undone by the Monkey God’s mischief?”

Photoloose in Cambridge

I have this Sunday tradition. While people wend Churchways, I head off to Caffe Nero (for gringos that would mean Starbucks, EU-style) to while away a morning on hot chocolate and attempted scientific writing. Nowadays, I take my camera along to snap up a bit of Cambridge before I depart.
Here are some random views:



This is the block of flat I live in, the one recently terrorised by Misty. That is the apology of a bicycle I ride. It has half a functioning brake, and that too only functions because the front wheel is slightly misaligned, leading to periodic brushes of the brakepads with the wheel's rim. By the way, for the keen-eyed amongst you, my flat is the only one with its window open. If you find it, let me know. You will get a gold star.



This is the famous Cambridge University Library. The central tower reminds me a lot of the tower in the flawed cinematic version of "The name of the Rose" by Umberto Eco. Unfortunately, one is not allowed up. It is obvious to see that early Oxbridgians considered learning to be a male dominion, or perhaps, in Shrek's words, the architect was trying to make up for something.



Finally, Ducks on the Trinity College lawns taken from the Tit Hall bridge (a.k.a The Bridge of Orgasms - but that is another story for another day). Impersonating Ducks is the best way to best the keen-eyed groundsmen when attempting to walk on grass in Cambridge Colleges.

Misty is missing!

Yesiree, Misty the neighbourhood Tarantula has escaped. Apparently some schmuck in my block of flats thinks a Tarantula is an appropriate pet to have. Hey, I don't care if you keep King Kong as a pet, but when dealing with such... er... fascinating pets, it is quintessential that you keep a keen eye on them, not just let them slip away for the weekend.

Now I don't mind spiders per se, at least as long as they are amenable to biting the dust when I fling a shoe at them. But, when the darn thing is as big as your palm and a missile would just raise his/her aggravation, I have to draw the line.

"Misty doesn't like cold and wet surroundings, so please be careful when stepping around in warm dry places, e.g., shoes or beds."

I guess the only way I will now have peace of mind is to open my windows and hose the place down.

"Misty can probably run faster than you, so please don't give chase after her."

That is all I need to hear. Not only is she big, she is fast. Why is it that amongst animals the bigger they get, the faster they become? I just get slower when I inflate. Also why would anyone want to give chase after a Tarantula? Does this person think we are out of our minds? "Oh look a Tarantula, lets catch it and stroke it." I think he/she is just trying to tell me gently that when Misty gives chase (after me), I should'nt bother to run. Just throw up my arms and pray to the Mystical One.

NREGS

That is the National Rural Employment Guarantee Scheme, under which the Government of India promises 100 days of work in a year over and above to any other source of livelihood to any individual, was launched yesterday. You can read more about it here.

The guy on the right is the first person to avail of this scheme.

Besides the point that it is a grand scheme that may just do wonders, the reason I showcase it here is because the person who is almost single-handedly responsible for getting it up and running is my mother.

Yep, proud son.

Deconstructing Indian fashion, MCD* style.

DELHI'S MOST glamorous designer hub -- MG 1 -- has been erased off the address book.

On Wednesday morning, bulldozers razed its facade, marking the end of a mall that did business to the tune of over Rs 15 crore a month.

The shocked bunch of designers rushed to the mall to clear out the merchandise from their stores. Expensive clothes, neatly hung, were shoved into huge cartons and even sacks. Truckers made a kill by charging a fortune.

... and hardly broke a sweat, considering the fact that the boxes labelled summer tops weighed less than two small handkerchieves.

Rohit Gandhi, who was on a business trip to Paris, had to rush back to Delhi. "It is just unbelievable," he said from Paris

He, however, suffered a nasty fall as he tried to rush in his extra long pantaloons made of pure suede held together with spider spun silk.

Vandini Sawhney, who ran an interior outlet, said: "The showroom has been targeted because it's a Page 3-type place -- the media never gets tired of talking about our glamorous lifestyle."

After which she expressed relief that she had already done her summer wardrobe shopping from Rina Dhaka's showroom the previous week, allowing her to look "simply stunning" while she protested against MCD's draconian deconstructionism.

Leena Singh of Ashima & Leena: "They ran the bulldozers not on the building, but on the creative people of India!"

However, despite gigantic pressures developed by the bulldozers, only a test-tube's worth of creativity was unearthed from MG1 mall, that too in the form of graffiti in the restroom on the third floor. Photographers did, nevertheless, manage to catch a glimpse of Leena Singh looking crushed underneath her creativity:

Designer Vijay Bhalla said the industry has been ill-treated. "The fashion industry has given a name to the country and is this what we get in return?"

Historians rejoiced in having finally found the man behind "Bharat**". "We always knew the problem of finding the person who gave birth to our country's name was a tough nut to crack, but we never thought it would take a bulldozer" was how noted historian Arjun Dev put it.

A desperate Suneet Varma says "MCD is targeting us because we are soft targets. There are so many other commercial buildings on the MG road... It's like an act of terrorism. I feel terrorised."

On hearing this O. B. Laden gratefully reduced the number of people on his "To terrorise" list. "Gosh, that list was becoming a tad long, what with the World's burgeoning population in spite of me and my chaps' best efforts" said a visibly relieved Laden.

DESIGNERS AT 2, MG Road performed a havan on Thursday for a divine reprieve after the Delhi high court refused their plea for a stay on the MCD demolitions at MG Road.

However, when last contacted the Trinity were unimpressed. "Distinctly pedestrian pants, and did you see that floral print? Hardly any creativity" smirked Brahma the Creator. "Preserve me from such plunging necklines" put in Vishnu in a neat turn of phrase, while Shiva, ever a man of few words, simply swore distruction on designers who just didn't "get" the whole leather thing.

MCD minions plans to raze the MG2 mall to the ground in accordance with orders from higher up. Watch this space.

*MCD: Municipal Corporation of Delhi.
**Bharat: India's ancient, original name.

Working for the man*

The lopsided fate of most marriages:

Sad.

*From the title of a great song by Roy Orbison.

Hairy scary

This reminds me of my hair, or, at least, what it used to be before the Desert Hawks* struck. Though even now I can do a good impression.



*Desert Hawks: A helicopter squadron of the India Air Force. The squadron leader was kind enough to give me his cap with the squadron's insignia on it. Good man. I wore it proudly. He forgot to mention that he had lost all his hair to some debilitating scalp disorder. Damn the hairbrained fella.

From Penicillin to Penis 'ealin.

"A disgruntled New Zealand doctor has turned from pills to prostitutes, winning a licence to convert his former medical practice into a brothel. He decided to open the brothel following a tiff with health officials over after-hours care."

At least he has remained honest to himself about sticking to after-hours care. One wonder though what his tiff about "after-hours care" with health officials was all about.

"No, I know he is hot, but I think we will stick to Paracetamol for fever as of now Doc. You can tell Cindy to dress up and go home."