"Trisha illana Divya"

In case you are not Tamil or are Tamil and do not recognise the title (in which case you are around three-fourths of a sore loser) - there's more to this than just the title.


If there should exist a statement, short as you would please, embodying in itself the very spirit of sportsmanship, posing as the epitome of perseverance, delivering in full, yet in all subtlety, as true as the truest of words, yet not losing, in its quest to educate, its sharp sense of humour, its message of hope and consolation to the failed, defeated and downtrodden of this sad and dreary globe, then there can not, for all that I know, be a more suited example of one such than this particular timeless piece of mirth delivered by perhaps one of the most famous and renowned, not to mention comic, philosopher in the history of Tamil: "Trisha illana Divya".

Trisha illana Divya: (Tamil); "If not Trisha, then Divya."

In the realistic manner of Epictetus, the speaker instructs us to not fret too long about what is out of hand and what goals have failed to be achieved, but to move on to other aspirations, perhaps humbler and less glamorous, and to nonetheless lay on its pursuit the very same passion and dedication that arose in one in toiling towards the former. All this in three words delivered in the same breath as many other lines that have today become wayward remarks of lore (atleast my lore), a notable couple of which are a number of his renditions of a particular classic by Gene Kelly from one of his critically acclaimed hollywood musicals and his remarkable portrayal of a village don here, containing the much appreciated Tamil version of Arnold Schwarzenegger's "Hasta la vista, baby" from Terminator 2: Judgement Day.


Sadly, though not a bit unexpectedly, there do not appear to be too many who appreciate the depth of philosophical clarity displayed in this and various other seemingly offhand remarks encountered in various circumstances, often as their delivery and the situation in which they appear seem to exclude the possibility of them having any serious knowledge to get across. But of course, this particular case is perhaps but an exhibition on my part of those skills possessed by seemingly few other than your English teacher which allow one to accredit to the long-gone poet's simple piece of poetry interpretations and hidden nuances that he himself never in his wildest dreams meant for it to possess.


Notwithstanding, it seems to be true that most issues in many of our lives are a result, direct or indirect, of either some form of miscommunication or dissonance. Either we read too much into a statement, or too less, both of which are as disastrous as the other given the opportunity.


Getting back to the old not-so-serious-and-philosophical spirit, as the knight in shining armour of the laughter-ridden and the saving grace of the dreadfully bored would advise you to, the next time you come to face a "vada poche" situation, feel like moaning out "avana nee", or end up in the gutter muttering "ammae ammae", pick yourselves up with all your might, and, feet firmly planted on the ground, eyes looking up to the heavens above, remind yourself that hope is eternal, and tell yourself with all the confidence you find yourself capable of mustering, "Trisha illana Divya".


And just move on.

To sir, with love..

Perhaps the most effective utilisation of time spent in a CS110 class in all history gave rise to the following:

Of all the cows in barley farms,
Of all the rum and beer,
Of all the bees that fly in swarms,
Of wombats far and near,

Of Chesire cats and Jerry mice,
Of dogs and big bad wolves,
Of superheroes bad and nice,
Of giants, dwarves and elves,

Of wild streams that flow smooth and swift,
Of towering redwood trees,
Of leaves that in the west wind drift,
Of mountains, raging seas,

Of the pits of doom, of the hounds of hell,
Of the darkest desires of men,
Of treachery, arson, vile despots,
Of neverending tales of woe,
Of demons that roam the lands of nether,
Of evil dragon lords,

Of all the 'of's from my pen,
Of Deans, all honourable men,
Why, oh why, I ask again,
Why CS110?!
(to be read "CS one-ten" for sake of rhyme and meter, speaking of which, if they seem to be absent at a few spots, thats due to lack of sufficient consciousness.)
     
               -by the ubiquitous roommate and myself, bored to the deepest chasms of the wettest oceans.

And if my topics seem too repetitive, trust me, its only because frequency in this case happens to be a linear indicator of severity.

To cut a long one short..

    I like long sentences.

    To be more precise, I like sentences which, unlike those that you find yourself uttering all your life in most acoustic forms of communication, are generously worded, as lavishly punctuated as can be, precariously worked upon (can be compromised with skill) and polished to verbal perfection, posed to leave the casual reader lost for an interpretation, offering to him their true arguments and implications only upon atleast a second reading, holding him back and drawing his attention as less complicated wayward statements of thought seldom can, stimulating those mental faculties that, in a sizable portion of the populace, lay dormant until presented with a stimulus that to them seems vivid enough to be worthy of their consideration, the parsing of which calls for marked patience and a realisation of the oft ignored importance of every single comma and colon, and which, while not all the time resorting to pentasyllabic words or far-fetched metaphors, manage to leave the casual reader stumped for a few seconds by the sheer complexity in their structure and formulation, and at the same time are not vague rantings of an incongruous mind, but at the end of all the effort, convey to the patient (or skilled, perhaps) interpreter the precise ideas and bits of information that the writer meant them to.

    So yes, I like long sentences.

    From what I've heard, the supposedly phenomenal Ulysses, by James Joyce, has, in its last chapter, a sentence consisting of over 12,000 words. (I've heard lots about that book. Should read someday.) In contrast, my personal best happens to be a page long on a scribbling pad on the futilities of the Indian educational system (an all-time favourite topic; definitely a post on that soon).

Now, I have two theories as to why I like using long sentences:

1)  I try to cover up my inadequacies in writing in terms of lack of involving content and inability to present in a humourous or forceful manner my thoughts.

2)  The "intellectual stimulation" they provide appeals to my rarely exercised . 

   It is not for me to comment on the first point, but as for the second, I always preferred House M.D. to sitcoms, and Memento or The Usual Suspects to American Pie. Humour, of course, is a different aspect and commands importance on its own merits.

    The brain, I have often heard, is much like any other muscle in the body- it can be exercised to further its potential greatly, but the exercise is not to cease if one wishes to keep one's bean toned and up for action. Disuse begets slackening. In accord, it is essential to occasionally engage in activities that strain one's mental capabilities, reasoning, lingual or otherwise, and which are at the same time fun. Framing or even parsing "long sentences" (see definition above), for example, is one such activity. (Avoidance of anything related to the study of Chemistry is a significant other)

     These and a couple of other as wondrous and perhaps as individualistic activities such as my harmonica and some sociology fill up whatever free time I get. Trust me, its fun to be busy. :)

The Adventures of Random Walker, Episode 1: Of Individuality and Insomnia, Futility and Fumigation.

(Statutory Warning: Serious stuff coming up in a couple of lines. If found funny, pathetic reader is welcome to the club.)

Stuff happens.

The world's a big place. You meet a hundred people a day. 

You go to the market. You meet a hundred people. 

You go to the theater. You meet a hundred people.

You go to Chemistry class. You meet thirty six people. Fifty four signatures in the attendance register. 

Stuff happens.

A hundred people, a hundred minds. A hundred minds, a billion thoughts. 

None the same as the other, none much different from the rest. 

All of the very same objects, yet each as unique as can be.

All of a hundred people, all of a hundred noses.

A hundred right legs, a hundred spleens.

All the same, yet each distinct. 

All of the same, yet each truly individual.

Each to his petty obsessions, each to his pretty goals.

Each to his own corny jokes, each to his fantasies.

Each to his own Chemistry prof.; no wait, you aren't generally awake long enough to know who that is.

Each to his own Easter Bunny, each to his own Santa Claus.

Each by his own principles and morals, each by his own rules and laws.

Each with his own strengths and standings, each with his own wrongs and flaws.

Each to his own, each to his best, does anything else rhyme with "laws"?

A hundred ants scramble all around, three hundred untiring pairs of legs, scramble all around, gathering every morsel they reach, dragging every single bit back to the hill, the hill where a thousand more ants exist, all gathering, all scrambling and all surviving, only to feed their queen and perhaps feed themselves.

A hundred dogs roam the streets, barking here and barking there; barking at the post-box, at the ringing bell, barking at what you never can tell; they roam the streets, eating what they get, minding their business, and those of others. What do they do in life, where are they needed? Married men have a wife, and their word is seldom heeded.

A hundred men roam the world, and hundred thousands more. A hundred read comic books, a hundred Calvin and Hobbes. Hundreds walk the very same Earth, hundreds toil all their life. Hundreds go sleepless, hundreds love; hundreds dream dreams and thirty six literally so. Hundreds strive to be better, strive to learn more, strive to get better, strive to be fine. Hundreds work hard, hundreds work in vain, hundreds die, and thousands are born again. Hundreds learn lessons only to forget them, hundreds are sent to computer labs- these hundreds curse that unholy sem.

Hundreds live long, hundreds die hard. Hundreds exist, and I wonder why.

Told you it would be serious.

No, dear Watson, Cadbury's Dairy Milk is just not a good enough reason for the existence of humanity.

Justification for 'Fumigation' being in the title: Mosquitoes have finally discovered my room. The public health guys gas them away with this addictive-smelling white kind of gas that gases mosquitoes away.

This is NOT a sitcom. If it was, it would've been called "The Adventures of Random Walker, SEASON 1, Episode 1: Of Individuality and Insomnia, Futility and Fumigation."