These Pretzels Are Making Me Thirsty

As March slowly draws to its eventual and inevitable end, I cannot help but look back at the last quarter-year that has been, and though I strongly believe in the fact that I am a straightforward and simple being, the set of emotions that slowly take possession of me are by no means uncomplicated.

The last three months have gone by in a whirlwind of activity; a fact that I now become acutely aware of, on looking back at the period in question, completely occupied as I have been throughout its duration, and therefore unable to notice just how frenzied life has been of late.
There have been classes, those indescribable, insufferable occurrences that I had almost forgotten existed over the six month period I spent away from IIT. There have been projects, presentations, tutorials, submissions, and consequently, deadlines, a word I now remember exactly how much I dreaded before, and have come to dread even more, if possible. There have been outings with friends, outings with family members, get-togethers, parties, treats, weddings that I just can't seem to have wheedled my way out of, relatives visiting, closer relatives leaving, seemingly countless trashy movies, followed by a couple of good ones, minor tests, debates, mostly bad, both in India as well as across the border, both as a speaker and as an adjudicator, the fact that the ones I adjudicated were consistently worse than the ones I participated in making the entire situation even more grueling to endure, cultural festivals, technical festivals, seminars, more minor tests, arguments with parents, arguments with friends, unnecessary complications, irate professors, quizzing events, marketing meetings, filling up of forms and other variations of needless paperwork, and people who, for some strange reason I am yet to understand, can't seem to get enough of talking to me.

What makes the entire experience even more unbelievable and surreal is how starkly it contrasts with the six months I had spent immediately preceding it, lazing around, traveling, soaking up the sun, and spending much of my time reading.

However, I am not the one to complain. This year has been, if anything else, exhilarating. There has been, at any given point of time, loads to do, and somehow that always seems to spur me on.
The only possible reason I could have for complaint is that, somehow, time and time again, the social and academic aspects of my life seem to, ostensibly without fail, get in the way when the clock reads half past seven every weekday evening and I am compelled to forego, for the sake of fulfilling prior commitments, yet another installment of Seinfeld.

Any sane man, I firmly believe, must be allowed at least a few minutes of pure, unadulterated pleasure every day, and I have this niggling suspicion that whoever is in control is keeping me from experiencing my share of the joy.
Make no mistake, I am pretty darn pissed about it.

Things, however, are not as bleak as they seem to be on the Seinfeld front. Changes are most definitely afoot. The week that has just passed saw me managing to catch four out of a possible maximum of five episodes, due mainly to completely unexpected holidays on Monday and Tuesday, and a rather fortuitous timetable that ensures that I am free, for the most part, on Thursday and Friday afternoons.
Four out of five. Not bad, eh? Almost reaffirms my faith in myself.

I am, yet, the Lord of the Manor. The King of the Castle. The Master of my Domain.

I'm Mr. Brightside

Well. It's official. India has, without a doubt this time around, crashed out of the World Cup. And Greg Chappell will very probably be dead by the time you read this.

But being the eternal optimist that I am, I choose to see things in a more positive light. At least he hasn't been murdered as yet. Furthermore, as if that wasn't good news enough, I am not one of those thousands of crazed cricket followers who have made travel arrangements and ticket reservations worth crores of rupees to travel halfway around the world to be able to catch the by now sold-out Super Eight (How I hate that phrase. Never liked Super Six either, but at least that had the entire alliterative jig going for it.) match to be held on Sunday, the 15th of April, rubbing their hands together with glee and drooling copious amounts of, well, drool, keenly anticipating a succulent India-Pakistan encounter in Barbados in the offing.
They shall now all be fortunate enough to witness Ireland play Bangladesh, in probably the most evenly matched of the Super Eights; just the kind of encouragement the minnows (Never liked that word either. Reminds me of fish, a section of the Animal Kingdom I most singularly abhor.) need.

After all, isn't that what the Cricket World Cup is all about.

I, Robot

Eerily apt, if you ask me. Especially the Nullification bit. Suits me well.

300

There are movies, and let it be known that the ones I talk about are precious few in number, that aren't merely movies, but existence altering visual spectacles that reaffirm your belief in your own ability to be influenced beyond your wildest dreams.
300 is one such movie.

It is almost impossible, I strongly believe, to watch a movie like 300 and not praise it publicly. Which is probably what prompts me to sit down in front of a computer at three in the morning, merely a few hours before my first minor test, with an aim to making it apparent, to all who would care to listen, exactly how brilliant the movie is.

The film reeks of virility. It's a two hour long testosterone driven slaughter-fest, with supercopious doses of overstated masculinity. It's like the film takes you by the testicles and yanks you into this world of sex and violence where men are real men, women are real women, and honour, duty and freedom are dicta people live, and die, by.
300 allows you to vent the frustration that is very much an integral part of being a male in contemporary society. For two hours, 300 allows you to feel like a real man. Within these couple of hours, you long for combat, you guiltlessly lust after women, you hunger for blood, and you crave for battle. Within these couple of hours, you can give yourself up to your baser instincts, to feelings of rigidity, of absolute and irrefutable power, of stubborn devotion to duty and intransigent truths, of intolerance, of honour unto the very end, and of intrinsic superiority. Which is probably why you walk out of the cinema hall so fulfilled and satisfied, for once having been able to let out that part of your self which society deems unfit for public portrayal.

The screenplay is beautifully done, as I am sure anyone who has read the graphic novel would agree. Each frame is a work of art. The slow-motions are cringe-inducing, coupled with one of the most haunting soundtracks I have been fortunate enough to come across in recent times. When the arrows fall, you are nearly compelled to duck for cover, and as bodies get de-limbed and heads get severed, you almost cower in your seats, eyes half-closed, expecting the warm spatter of freshly spilt blood that abounds on screen, ominously threatening, to drench you and run slowly down your skin.
And when I say blood, I do not mean the sickly pale-red, syrupy variety that we seem to come across so often in most movies these days. What I am talking about is thick, dark and rich, globular liquid, viscous enough to give my fluid dynamics professor pause.

The narration is impeccable, with Dilios (David Wenham, of Faramir fame) taking over the reins from the narrator in the Frank Miller version. The dialogue is brilliantly written, but this, once again, I would mostly, although not wholly, attribute to the graphic novel. What the movie has intended to do, and undeniably succeeded in doing, is to start with the graphic novel as a basic stepping stone, and then build upon it to achieve a level of spectacle seldom seen before. The movie, and I do expect and eagerly anticipate quite a bit of opposition to this belief, more than lives up to the graphic novel, and achieves so much more.

For then there is Lena Headey, who as Queen Gorgo, is simply awe-inspiring. She brings into the character the intensity and toughness it needs, without once compromising on her feminity. Her strong face, set defiantly through much of the movie, only serves to reinforce her womanliness, and her very feminine concerns about her husband and her son. She becomes the cornerstone of the entire movie in that brief moment when she faintly nods in tacit approval when Leonidas asks her to decide the fate of the Persian emissary who comes asking for 'Land and Water'. In that one brief moment, I am quite sure I fell in love with her about a million times.
And how she works magic with a single, coarse, unadorned piece of simple white cloth is something that can only be experienced by watching the movie, and for that magic alone, if nothing else, the movie is worth watching.

Hair and Now

For the first time in a period of a little over two years, my hair is exactly like it appears on the right. Not any longer. Not any shorter. And not worn any other way.

All of you, therefore, who happen to possess the good fortune of seeing me over the course of the next couple of days, will find me looking quite like I look in the picture, except for the fact that I probably won't be in the middle of voicing my displeasure in the form of a particularly violent expletive, as I can be seen doing in the picture.
But then again, given the strange set of circumstances I seem to find myself in these days, I might well be.
I apologize for the inconvenience. I mean, in most cases, no, and in some, very minimal, offense.