Turtleneck, you're still my superhero.

Turtleneck does all the heroic deeds, all day long. As she silently sneaks back home in the dead of the night, snaps the cape from the neck, she is reminded of the tight grip it had on her. She hangs her costume in the wardrobe and drops into a chair right besides the fireplace, that rocks back slowly. It's still noisy outside, but she seeps deeper and deeper into her thoughts. She glances across a bruise on her hand. Occupational hazard, she chuckles. This is what happens when she goes around saving everyone. The fire crackles, as if acknowledging her thoughts. Slowly, she drifts into sleep, dreaming of all nice things.

It's been 5 years and Turtleneck's been through quite a roller coaster ride. While she had to save people just as before, she has been tested over and over again. But which superhero hasn't been, right? I think it's an accepted and an unwritten rule that superheroes will have to face difficult choices. A fine print in the job description - Save others. Occasionally, save yourself.

But this one superhero, she's not alone. She's got her olde and faithful friends who are always with her, if not in person, definitely in thought. They pray for her, share her happiness and sorrows. They love seeing her happy and don't care what others think about her. Sometimes, they protect her too. Like right now.

Superheroes maybe dime a dozen. But I still prefer my Turtleneck to anyone else.

Untitled and Unfinished

"Quite smooth" exclaimed Ramlal, enjoying his large glass of lassi. Sipping a little more from the glass with reluctance and fear of emptying it, he repeated himself.
Dharam Singh was too busy with paranthas to retort back. In the middle of the night amidst windy and cold paths leading up North, the only thing on Dharam Singh's mind was food, with no offense meant towards lassi of course, which he would finally drink up to drown all the food.
The warm glow of a traditional lantern lit up the dhaba in a clumsy and economical way. Far inside the earthen walls, a hissing fire burned, rising from dead wood, charring an old piece of metal, relegated to being a cutlery. Wheat pancakes were prepared at a surprising pace by a man, seemingly in his early forties, unshaven, sporting a month old beard with white hair dispersed in ample, a long cloth circled awkwardly on his head.
Even with all the immense hunger for food, Dharam Singh could notice the guy work with mechanical accuracy, with a few askance glances.
"Sirji, why don't you try the lassi, it's wonderful" Dharam Singh heard Ramlal interrupt.
Being a man of reserved calm and even more reserved speech, Dharam Singh lifted his large glass of lassi and gulped some down. A cold went down his throat, churning his insides in a satisfying way. Cold weather made everything feel cold. Even the fire, Dharam Singh thought to himself.
The owner of the dhaba walked across the barren path, marked by dying bushes on both sides, towards the cot where Dharam Singh silently sat and ate with a majestic stance.
"Anything else, Sirji?" he asked.
"Nothing", "One more thing" came two contrasting replies.
Dharam Singh looked at Ramlal with surprise.
"Just one more lassi", Ramlal said with a sheepish smile.
The owner of the dhaba slowly made his way back into the cottage with oil stained empty plates gripped loosely in his hand.
The smoke from the fire inside began to drift outside, bringing with it a smell of sorts. The neutral air around Dharam Singh was soon replaced by a smokey aroma - burning wood, heated metal, fresh pancakes.

Return to Serenity

If Alex Skolnick were to be god, his ambrosia would have included a perfect assortment of notes, perfect ones, bends, hammeron's, pull-off's, tremolo's, grungy power chords, melodious jazz overtones and everything that he just comes up with in his amazing solos.
The solo in Return to Serenity is just the one I need to prove my point.
Nuff said. Let the notes do the talking.

-FIN-

The Shifting Seas

The society breathes in and out slowly. Much energy has been spent panting and gasping for breath over the years. In spite of the respiratory issues, the society has sung acapella, praising the glory of humans.

" Oh! greatest of the species,
My creator supreme,
You gave me much importance,
You've helped me to dream,

You built me with care,
Empowered me to dare,
Held me close to your heart,
Even in times of despair,

......"
The acapella continues, flattering humans - generations of them, for clutching society's fingers and walking it home safe.
But after every performance of this practiced ritual, when Society dragged itself along, scuffing the floors, and wearily heaving itself in the glum dingy corner, mulling over itself in silence, wondering why at all, in the first place, was it subject to such agony that it needed to be rescued time and time again, caught in the quicksand of indebtedness, sinking deeper and deeper.
Then the answer rings loud and clear, it's the humans themselves.
Bloody species. An abominable that squirms and wallows in it's own creations.
Political philosophies, contrasts of color, schism of sects believing in the omnipotent, omniscient and omnipresent, inequality of social structures - the mere tip of the iceberg.
Guns, swords, jackboot heels and blood. The driving force of humans. The opium of the masses.
Heaven for some. Hell for some. Death for society.
This social revolution plays around like waves. Sometimes dancing gracefully to the charm of the moon and the astral features. Sometimes, churning from the underbelly of the ocean and turning tsunami.
We the creators and we the victims.
The acapella always ends with ringing of the death knell for Society. Sigh.

Haunting.

For years, the desk lay at the same place. It's owners were taking good care of it, no doubt, but it was never moved from the place it stood. Time passed by it like a perennial subway train and the desk felt like it was stuck in a station from which boarding the train was impossible.
But it did make some new friends over the years. The lamp, who refused to respond to any name, the ink bottle named Parker ( That was a nice name, the desk had thought ), a paper weight, which was silent as a stone most of the times, and many more who had stayed for a short, but what the desk would note in the future as happy periods.
But the desk always wished he would see the world, travel from the aristocratic homes in London to the bohemian style cottages in Tokyo. Face the icy cold blasts in Himalayas and also the putrid smells of rotten corpses deep in deserts of Nevada.
The unchanging patterns of Nevada deserts. Unchanging over years and years. Unchanging. Like the very place the desk rests. "How ironic", it said to itself.

It lamented, until the day it was thrown out, unceremoniously on the very road the window next to it overlooked. It then saw the harsh realities of life, panic stricken people on the road running for cover. It also felt miserable for it had this horrible feeling that it might have caught some borers and termites in this entire ordeal.


The soldier was running forward, forever sure of his death, in this world that he saw to be nothing more than a big charnel house. He was clutching in his hand a Mills bomb and there across the road, he saw a desk lying in the middle of the road. He had learned his lessons well in a short time, the lessons that usually dawn upon you when you fight in the war.
He threw the bomb, in a practiced over-arm motion, which would have probably been graceful to suit an orchestra conductor, but only in a situation totally antithesis of what he currently was in.


The desk saw a new object land near it and roll around. While it was busy in sublime thoughts of making a new friend, it saw a bright light and before it could realize, it was disintegrated into splinters of wood.


The soldier had followed his learning well. If the bomb could do damage to a small area, but the shrapnels, oh my god, the shrapnels made a hell of a weapon. Piercing through bodies like spade in moist soil, it injured more than anything a bomb could ever do on it's own.

--FIN--

The pills that work outside the body.

The colorless lights danced around in horrid shapes, the detritus surprisingly rejoining to form myriad images once again. Before one could establish their color, they would disfigure. A curiosity, the one that usually is mentioned to have killed the unfortunate feline, does take time to arise in the mind - about the colors. It's a relaxed curiosity that wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone commit a gruesome murder.
But when the entire image turned red in an instant, the mind screamed of horrors.
"Blood!!" it cried instantly. The meow's turned into shrieks.
The vexation could bear no more and burst out. This was when Sibylle slowly opened her eyes.
The brilliant white was piercing. The fair complexion of her fingers bore the looks of a pitch black silhouette, trying unsuccessfully to block the relentless source.
The blankets were far but a final attempt to grab them left her with displeasing memories of chafe in her arms.
Very true to science, the sounds were heard only now. Initially - subdued, mild and humming.
A little while later - hardly enjoyable, irritating and loud.
The eyes, now adjusted to the brightness around, could see the outline of an adult, female mostly, vascillating the lips uncontrollably. The sounds, delayed, were starting to annoy Sibylle.
"It's 9", "responsibility", "about schedule", "the hell", "aaargh!".
Sibylee had enough. She was already getting signs of headache.
She slapped around the desk looking frantically for something. She very soon did find something but it was her watch. Not exactly matching her search criteria.
The blabbering one seemed to continue although she did take notice of the search. But things changed once she realised the motives of Sibylle. A body that looked haggared and tired, flexed it's muscles, quickly preparing for a jump across the bed. There was not a moment to think. She lurched forward kicking herself quite up in the air, but calculating the trajectory to land on the bed with the outstreached arms long enough to catch hold of the shining piece in Sibylle hand.
It wasn't until she was in mid air that she realised that there was a mistake in the calculation.
She had not anticipated solids in the vial.
Sibylle had finally found what she was frantically hunting for. It was a small glass vial under the severely damaged library book that was long overdue. She popped the lid and threw the contents inside in a single ungraceful motion into her mouth.
If time were to slow down marginally, the ornate scene would be of the pills travelling slowly towards Sibylle's lips - slowly opening, while from another angle, the lady quite high up in air, with hands streaching steadily, reaching out for the vial.
The pills burnt Sibylle's lips with an acrid taste surging through her body.
The female, in mid air till now, landed with a thump on the bed, dislocating Sibylle spatially. But she did manage to hit the glass vial before she began raining abuses.
The pills began to take effect. The lady gradually vanished into thin air. Her weight vanished from the bed slowly, being felt by Sibylle. The legs began to fade. The lady could not believe this was happening. But there was no resisting. The torso vanished and then it was the long neckline. The final image that remained was of her open lips, which once was screaming.
Sibylle was exhausted. With a sigh of relief, she pulled her blanket on herself, and went back to the dancing lights.
The glass vial lay below the bed, engaging in optical gameplay, rolling around horizontally, seemingly morping Sibylle's outline through the blanket as it rolled.
The thin piece of tarnished paper on it read "Anti-Irritant Stuff"
Aside it, in bright red letters set in an elaborate typography and within a bubble box with spikes all around it, it claimed "For the first time as pills. Makes the very reason of your irritation to vanish!!"
-FIN-

ThoughtWorks Master Class Series '07

Attention spans are short. I'm no exception to this universal rule. My visit to ThoughtWorks Master Class Series '07, held in the largely unnoticed hotel - Royal Orchid, was not preconceived. At least, it wasn't until late Thursday that the plan was made. TGIF was the day I received the confirmation of my registration.
Three seminars.

• Refactoring Databases
• Evolutionary Testing
• Domain Specific Knowledges

What was the outcome? Why don't you see it for yourself!

Page 1. Broadly representing the knowledge gain during the Refactoring Databases session and a few chosen words of choice by the presenter.

Page 2. Weakly representing what I perceive to be knowledge gain of the Baroque Art in the inner right chamber of Royal Orchid and yet again the pet words of the presenter.



Page 3. The grand finale with nascent thoughts of McVeggie, my fame and fortune, and a few strands of DSP.



Do not get me wrong here. It wasn't that the sessions were boring. They were really interesting and I was glad I went for it.
The pages are just - me.

-- FIN --

Chapter I - The Gathering

With complete disregard to his superiors status, Peter Tobrowsky shouted - "YOU IDIOT".
Although, it's tough to come to a general consensus if the expressions on his peers were of pure laughter or of sheer grief, much can be said about the pale face of his boss.
It would have been hasty to say that the man was in a state of shock. Well, it's no doubt that shock did feature on his face for what seemed like a minute or two but that was merely the beginning of what a certain biologist, whose presence did nothing more than bore the group, mention to be analogous to mutative reactions of the Sperm Whale during the proactive summer season.

It would do injustice to Peter, to mention the fate of the biologist at this juncture but lest it be forgotten, it can be concluded that two broken teeth and swollen tongue sadly robbed him of the ability to pronounce Sperm of the Sperm Whale.

The man, who was to become popular for quite a long term in the office as "Idiot", no doubt went through a turbulent mixture of feelings in his mind and his aching heart, resulting in the precipitation so deeply red that his face, which was pale, had drained all the blood to his clenched fists.
Had it been pin drop silent around the place, many had reasoned that they could have clearly heard the man's teeth grind against themselves for a while, but alas, with the moaning and groaning of the same certain biologist, it was hard to hear such subtle noises.
The egoistic mathematicians who had, quickly, not only gathered around the scene, but also had counted the number of minutes for which the "Idiot" stood motionlessly, the number of women who had actually gathered, the diagonal distance amongst the shortest of them and the heaviest of them, and many more of such divine facts, were quick to note that - resting all within the boundaries of mathematics, as a solid structure has a certain volume, the clenched fists could hold no more blood in them and it all gushed back into the face.
The chemists, who until then had tried hard to figure out a way to churn a poison out of the clothing of one of their less fortunate colleagues, mentioned that it was time the reaction turned violent.
While the "Idiot" shot forward and landed a thick punch into Peter's face, the chemists abandoned their hope of extracting poison and had driven the clothing deep into the throat of the same certain biologist hoping it would do the job.
The scene had turned violent and was just the way Peter had imagined it to turn out.

A turtle who happened to sneeze.

Once upon a time, a sea turtle lived deep in the abyss of a vast oceanic expanse.

The very fact that it lived so deep without much light, made the weather down there very very cold.

As expected, the sea turtle caught the infamous cold. It could barely come to terms with the cold, and it sneezed.

Complete darkness. It took a few seconds for it to realize that it was inside it's shell. The sneeze had pushed it's head in. Well..

It pushed itself out at once. It sneezed. But this time it managed to anticipate the back force.

The warm currents from the east passed by. The turtle fought the cold. And won.

Note that the turtle fought the cold and not the sneeze.

300

480 B.C

Xerxes I prepared this for years. He amassed army so staggering that every single day, the sheer force in its numbers was remembered by some King in his slumber. Nightmare was merely the beginning. Xerxes I, inspite having older brothers, had so powerful an influence that he ascended the throne. So determined was he to avenge the Greek, he prepared for 4 long years. He was to fight many battles before he could fulfill his dreams of burning Athens in his fire.

Spartans. The warriors who were trained from birth with a singular goal in mind - to defeat the enemy. Be it man or animal or God himself.

The finest soldiers from Sparta were called to defend their nation and were instructed to engage with the Persian Army at the Vale of Tempe. The Persian army, cleverly made a detour around the gorge.
The Greek's when informed of the advancements, concluded with a strategy to intercept Xerxes I army at Thermopylae ( Thermopylai ).
As the Spartans prepared with their excercises of fitness and grace in a ritualistic fashion, Xerxes sent scouts to gauge his enemy. The scout returned back and reported to Xerxes, the observations of the athletic excercises and the ritual of combing hair by the Greek and thier extremely miniscule number. This was confirmed once again by Xerxes who could not believe it.
He expected the Greeks to get back in no time. He waited for their retreat. He waited for 4 long days for the Spartans retreat from the narrow pass of Thermopylae. When they did not, he was furious and considered it to be impudent and obstinate. He ordered his army to proceed to the pass. Thus began the Battle of Thermopylai.
This battle, lasting 3 days is one of the most valiant battles ever fought.
300 Spartans. 300 Spartans along with Thebans and Thespians fought against a massive army far much greater in number, about a MILLION and held them up for 3 days. The battle proved that human beings were many, but the men were few. Led by the Spartan King Leonidas, the Greek's fought with courage never heard before. The dark and brooding future of the Spartans ending with inevitable death did not deter them from doing everything they could to stop the Barbarians. It is said that even when the Greek's lost their spears and shields, they fought barehands and drove the Persians away.

Dienekes, the Spartan who was praised to be the best, when told by one of the men from Trachis - the enemy are so great in number that when they shower their arrows, the multitude of arrows blot out the sun, he replied in a laconic way, - this is good news for then we will fight in the shade.

The dispropotionate losses on the Persian side was unbearable by Xerxes I. This loss of his only continued to be more, and finally ended with his retreat.

Nobody but Frank Miller could have narrated the history in the dark and gripping way it is supposed to be. And to bring Miller's imagination into celluloid is a tough task. And with what the trailers promise, I say it's done as it should be.