This post is courtesy a really passionate argument with my friends over taking chances in life.
Life is all about taking chances. Whether you play late at nights or you adopt a dog or you invest in the share markets, you are risking something or the other. What if some goons were to waylay you on your way home after playing cricket in the evening? What if the dog you adopt were to bite you for whatever reason? What if you were to lose all money after investing in the share markets?
Life shall not be as we know it, if we were to not take chances. Some live at one extreme end of caution, while some live at the other extreme end of recklessness. Some succeed, while some lose. Some are satisfied, while some are dissatisfied. But never shall one live without chance.
Chance is as pertinent as death itself. It is omnipresent. What binds all human beings and all creatures is chance. So now the question arises - to what extent?
That can be best answered by the individual and not as a collective whole. Will you take a chance and ask that girl out? Some shall, some shall not. Will you risk your life in a trekking trip to the Himalayas? Some shall, some shall not. And to be trivially mundane, will you chance tripping down to your death and still climb the stairs? Again most shall, but a minute few shall not.
Chance defines the individual. The difference between you and me might well be defined by our abilities to risk chances in life.
And so, I shall never rub down chance as something to be afraid of. Because the day I do that, I shall not be myself.
Showing posts with label My Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My Life. Show all posts
Friday, March 20, 2009
Friday, October 17, 2008
Some break!
I am off blogging for a while. Will come back in mid-November. As if it really matters! :)
Monday, September 22, 2008
Den'tales'
Some of the most excruciating moments of my life were spent recently in my dentist's clinic.
The last time I had been to my dentist was almost two years back. I guess that would be a reason for his charging me a fortune this month! (Dentists should be recovery agents. Wonder why nobody ever thought of that!!!)
Anyway, earlier this month, I decided to pay a long-due visit to the dentist. (My teeth were wanting to turn into shades of brown. Or maybe, they wanted those gold-plated shells to cover them!) He had one look at my teeth and decided that my teeth had to be scaled and polished. Scaled? Why measure my teeth, I asked him. He laughed and explained that scaling is I-still-have-no-idea!!! Polishing? He said it had become necessary for my teeth were a bit on the colorful side of life! He mentioned that there were to be two sittings and that I should shell out a fortune!!! (psst, secret! I don't wanna be called a goat!)
I had absolutely no inkling of what was in store for me. Scaling, bah! I had a root canal done. What could be worse than that, I thought. Unfortunately, my thoughts remained just that. Thoughts.
And so, I waited for my turn in the dentist's clinic - going through newspapers and leafing through Kannada magazines. Bored, I tried to gauge the reactions on the out-going patients' faces. One face looked like Santa Claus's after his tryst with the dentist. Another looked like it had the life sucked out of it! Silly people, I thought. One sitting, and they are all down in the dumps.
Unfortunately, vanities in life never last. I realized that quite effectively, when my turn came.
I was called in. My dentist had a mask over his face. (I thought that was unnecessary. I knew him. Why hide?;) ) His attendants sterilized the equipment and started applying a coating to a thin, sharp needle. (For a fleeting moment, I turned pale!) And then, it started.
'Torture: anguish of body or mind', lists the Mariam Webster Dictionary.
'Torture: scaling of the teeth', is my definition.
What was he doing? The needle drilled into my teeth and gums, like they were a wall and the needle were a nail. Grimace, flinch, clench, grit, whatever conveys the message, I did. My dentist knew it, but worked indifferent. The sadist. It was so tortuous. If karma does dictate life as people claim, then it is a given that I would be the dentist in my next incarnation and he, my patient. A small problem there, though. I will have to wait a whole life! (i.e., if my teeth don't drag me to the dentist again!)
Anyway, after an hour of unbearable torment, my dentist asked me to rinse my mouth. As asked, I rinsed my mouth with water. When I spat back the water, miracle! It had turned into wine. For an instant, I was God. The next, I realized it was blood. My blood, mixed with water. I thought of suing Mr. Dentist for dental abuse. I dropped the idea, realizing that I had to come back to him.
And so it ended. My teeth still were yellow. I was poorer by a thousand bucks. I had to stay up a whole night because of the pain. Last but not least, I had to go back for a second sitting!!!
I took some really hard decisions. I am going to approach a painter the next time I find my teeth yellow. I will ask the local jeweller to cap my teeth if it came to a root canal. If a tooth has to be extracted, I will ask my good friend to punch me at the right spot. (He will be glad to!)
And yes - I will brush twice...nah, thrice a day!!!
The last time I had been to my dentist was almost two years back. I guess that would be a reason for his charging me a fortune this month! (Dentists should be recovery agents. Wonder why nobody ever thought of that!!!)
Anyway, earlier this month, I decided to pay a long-due visit to the dentist. (My teeth were wanting to turn into shades of brown. Or maybe, they wanted those gold-plated shells to cover them!) He had one look at my teeth and decided that my teeth had to be scaled and polished. Scaled? Why measure my teeth, I asked him. He laughed and explained that scaling is I-still-have-no-idea!!! Polishing? He said it had become necessary for my teeth were a bit on the colorful side of life! He mentioned that there were to be two sittings and that I should shell out a fortune!!! (psst, secret! I don't wanna be called a goat!)
I had absolutely no inkling of what was in store for me. Scaling, bah! I had a root canal done. What could be worse than that, I thought. Unfortunately, my thoughts remained just that. Thoughts.
And so, I waited for my turn in the dentist's clinic - going through newspapers and leafing through Kannada magazines. Bored, I tried to gauge the reactions on the out-going patients' faces. One face looked like Santa Claus's after his tryst with the dentist. Another looked like it had the life sucked out of it! Silly people, I thought. One sitting, and they are all down in the dumps.
Unfortunately, vanities in life never last. I realized that quite effectively, when my turn came.
I was called in. My dentist had a mask over his face. (I thought that was unnecessary. I knew him. Why hide?;) ) His attendants sterilized the equipment and started applying a coating to a thin, sharp needle. (For a fleeting moment, I turned pale!) And then, it started.
'Torture: anguish of body or mind', lists the Mariam Webster Dictionary.
'Torture: scaling of the teeth', is my definition.
What was he doing? The needle drilled into my teeth and gums, like they were a wall and the needle were a nail. Grimace, flinch, clench, grit, whatever conveys the message, I did. My dentist knew it, but worked indifferent. The sadist. It was so tortuous. If karma does dictate life as people claim, then it is a given that I would be the dentist in my next incarnation and he, my patient. A small problem there, though. I will have to wait a whole life! (i.e., if my teeth don't drag me to the dentist again!)
Anyway, after an hour of unbearable torment, my dentist asked me to rinse my mouth. As asked, I rinsed my mouth with water. When I spat back the water, miracle! It had turned into wine. For an instant, I was God. The next, I realized it was blood. My blood, mixed with water. I thought of suing Mr. Dentist for dental abuse. I dropped the idea, realizing that I had to come back to him.
And so it ended. My teeth still were yellow. I was poorer by a thousand bucks. I had to stay up a whole night because of the pain. Last but not least, I had to go back for a second sitting!!!
I took some really hard decisions. I am going to approach a painter the next time I find my teeth yellow. I will ask the local jeweller to cap my teeth if it came to a root canal. If a tooth has to be extracted, I will ask my good friend to punch me at the right spot. (He will be glad to!)
And yes - I will brush twice...nah, thrice a day!!!
Monday, July 14, 2008
Mummy...Bhootam!!!
I was wondering what to publish my next post about, when my friend interrupted my thought and asked if I saw the snap of the ghost of a dead Patriot soldier captured by a group of students. I said not, and he then, proceeded to give me a lengthy discourse about ghosts and their deeds. At that point of time, I figured out what my next post would be about.
As a child, I had a daily routine of tasks to do. One of those tasks was to water the plants. And, thanks to some article my mom read about the respiration of plants, I had to do it only in the night. So, there I was, with bucket and mug, in my then petite hands, and ready to get wet. Initially, I was raring to go, for I loved getting wet. They say, time teaches best and so it did.
The potted plants were on the rear portion of the second floor and to make matters worse, it wasn't lighted amply enough. On the first few days, I did not give a thought to ghosts.
I only worried about my mom giving me an earful for needlessly getting wet when only the plants were supposed to. I only worried about if neighbors would complain to my mom about the water I splashed on their walls every night. I only worried about the beating I could get from my grand father for raining water from all the way up, on his partly-bald pate. But I did not worry about ghosts.
Then, it happened. I know not till today, just who that wise person was - the one who brought the Evil Dead tape over. Like a dork, a rather stupid one at that, I watched it, jaws and eyes - alike, wide open. And suddenly, I was worried about ghosts. In fact, my neighbors and grand father seemed like angels now.
Ghosts were everywhere. They rested under my bed (I got to know later that they never rest!). They fielded the ball when I played a shot (What else could explain the ball not making it to the boundary?!). They made some noise or the other in my closet (Nah, not cockroaches!!). Scribbles used to appear out of nowhere in my note books (They forged my teacher's signature too!). They gave me crank calls (My friends denied giving me any!). I did not reveal to anybody, though, about my fright for ghosts (and anything white and mobile!). After all, I was a kid then, and rather 'brave'!
I loved watering plants no longer. I dreaded night-fall. As the day went by, my face would start paling into a then similar shade of white! I confided in no one. But the cat had to overgrow the bag and spring out some time! (And when it did, it had metamorphosed into a tiger!)
On one such dreary night, I was watering the plants, when I heard some noises. What could have obviously happened next? I ran for my dear life! Two steps away from the door I tripped over an empty bottle (I still say it is a ghost!) and thinking it to be Mr. You-Know-Who, I screamed my lungs out - "Mummy...Bhootam!" (Mom says I repeated the same phrase for almost two minutes!!!). And the rest, as they say at my place, is history.
My fear was out in the open. Every body had a good (nah, raucous would be the word!) laugh over it. Mom gave me a big hug and agreed to accompany me while I watered the plants. Even today, she beams her my-son-was-so-daft smile whenever a horror movie screens on air!!!
As for me, I think I have gotten over my fear of ghosts. They no longer torment me as they used to. Though, for the record, I would have loved becoming somebody like Cole in The Sixth Sense!
So, all is well. I haven't given the ghost up over ghosts! Just not yet.
PS - 'Bhootam' is Telugu for ghost. :)
As a child, I had a daily routine of tasks to do. One of those tasks was to water the plants. And, thanks to some article my mom read about the respiration of plants, I had to do it only in the night. So, there I was, with bucket and mug, in my then petite hands, and ready to get wet. Initially, I was raring to go, for I loved getting wet. They say, time teaches best and so it did.
The potted plants were on the rear portion of the second floor and to make matters worse, it wasn't lighted amply enough. On the first few days, I did not give a thought to ghosts.
I only worried about my mom giving me an earful for needlessly getting wet when only the plants were supposed to. I only worried about if neighbors would complain to my mom about the water I splashed on their walls every night. I only worried about the beating I could get from my grand father for raining water from all the way up, on his partly-bald pate. But I did not worry about ghosts.
Then, it happened. I know not till today, just who that wise person was - the one who brought the Evil Dead tape over. Like a dork, a rather stupid one at that, I watched it, jaws and eyes - alike, wide open. And suddenly, I was worried about ghosts. In fact, my neighbors and grand father seemed like angels now.
Ghosts were everywhere. They rested under my bed (I got to know later that they never rest!). They fielded the ball when I played a shot (What else could explain the ball not making it to the boundary?!). They made some noise or the other in my closet (Nah, not cockroaches!!). Scribbles used to appear out of nowhere in my note books (They forged my teacher's signature too!). They gave me crank calls (My friends denied giving me any!). I did not reveal to anybody, though, about my fright for ghosts (and anything white and mobile!). After all, I was a kid then, and rather 'brave'!
I loved watering plants no longer. I dreaded night-fall. As the day went by, my face would start paling into a then similar shade of white! I confided in no one. But the cat had to overgrow the bag and spring out some time! (And when it did, it had metamorphosed into a tiger!)
On one such dreary night, I was watering the plants, when I heard some noises. What could have obviously happened next? I ran for my dear life! Two steps away from the door I tripped over an empty bottle (I still say it is a ghost!) and thinking it to be Mr. You-Know-Who, I screamed my lungs out - "Mummy...Bhootam!" (Mom says I repeated the same phrase for almost two minutes!!!). And the rest, as they say at my place, is history.
My fear was out in the open. Every body had a good (nah, raucous would be the word!) laugh over it. Mom gave me a big hug and agreed to accompany me while I watered the plants. Even today, she beams her my-son-was-so-daft smile whenever a horror movie screens on air!!!
As for me, I think I have gotten over my fear of ghosts. They no longer torment me as they used to. Though, for the record, I would have loved becoming somebody like Cole in The Sixth Sense!
So, all is well. I haven't given the ghost up over ghosts! Just not yet.
PS - 'Bhootam' is Telugu for ghost. :)
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Mon chien, ma amie
A year back, if you had asked me what love was, I would have sheepishly admitted my ignorance. And I had good reason then, because I was not sure if there were anything such as true love. The closest to true love I had ever gotten was my mother's love. But a mother's love is bound by the bond of oneness. The offspring is but, a part of his mother. So, I used to wonder, what is true love? I found the answer eventually. I always thought that love should be uncompromising, unconditional and blind to the nuances of the world. And somehow, the answer conformed to this belief.
Last year, we adopted a dog - a wheatish-brown labrador. He was 12 days old when we brought him over to our place. For the first few days, he cried for his mother's warmth and love, parted as he was from her. We were absolutely distraught at his plight. So, we let him be with his mother, a two year old named Preeti, for the night. During the day, he crawled frantically and blind, desperate as he was to be with his mother. This continued for about two weeks. After that, we stopped taking him to Preeti, in line with the veterinarian's advice.
In the meantime, we christened him 'Simba', after the lead character in 'The Lion King'. Simba had opened his eyes fully now, and had started walking too. He looked a cute little fellow then, with eyes so dreamy and glassy, you wished them to be your own. His bark was hollow and mild, the kind you would associate with a pup, quite obviously! He was scared of other dogs then, intimidating as they were, fully-grown and experts at snarling. But he was naughty in every sense of the word. He used to tear up papers and broom-sticks, snap at our feet and scoot wanting us to chase him, try climbing up the bed with his tiny little feet only to fall down with a thud and engage in other like-adorable activities. And interestingly, I began to understand love a lot better.
As Simba grew, our responsibilities too grew manifold. We had to walk him six times a day. We had to coax him to eat his food, three times a day! We had to quarrel with our neighbors, irate as they were over his barking and finding his excreta right in front of their gates. We had to make sure that our gate was closed at all times, to prevent him from running into the big, bad world. Sometimes, we faltered. We were worried to death's end for about ten minutes when Simba had run out through the open gate and we could not find him. Well, we did find him, after those torrid ten minutes, playing with his mother and siblings (his mother stayed in a house on our street). We were horrified when he had those chickenpox-like infections. Fortunately, they never persisted for more than a day or two. We were scared every time we sighted a cat in our house. Luckily, Simba never developed the courage enough, as a small dog, to chase a cat. However, as he grew, our worries started to subside. Our love for him, though, only bloated up. Maybe, true love is never about responsibilities because it out-weighs them anyway.
His love for us has never subsided. He springs on us (when we return home) with the same gusto and zeal as he used to, when he was a pup. He sulks the same way he used to, when he was a pup. He wags his tail enthusiastically, whenever someone calls on us. We are worried that he might walk away with a burglar, wagging his tail. My father, who initially was apathetic towards dogs, is today an admirer (And trust me, my father is a difficult man to change!). One of my good friends is a scared lot when any other dog approaches him. He is not afraid of Simba, though, and for good reason. Simba is not just a dog. He is a bundle of endless love. Maybe, that is the power of true love - to stay undiminished over time and to banish indifference and fear.
Today, everybody in our street know Simba. They call Simba the friendly neighbourhood dog. And they dote upon Simba like never before, petting him affectionately and enquiring about him, as I walk him down our street. True love does that, I guess. It wins over everybody, sooner or later.
As for me, I will always be grateful to Simba. He answered my question.
My dog, my friend.
Last year, we adopted a dog - a wheatish-brown labrador. He was 12 days old when we brought him over to our place. For the first few days, he cried for his mother's warmth and love, parted as he was from her. We were absolutely distraught at his plight. So, we let him be with his mother, a two year old named Preeti, for the night. During the day, he crawled frantically and blind, desperate as he was to be with his mother. This continued for about two weeks. After that, we stopped taking him to Preeti, in line with the veterinarian's advice.
In the meantime, we christened him 'Simba', after the lead character in 'The Lion King'. Simba had opened his eyes fully now, and had started walking too. He looked a cute little fellow then, with eyes so dreamy and glassy, you wished them to be your own. His bark was hollow and mild, the kind you would associate with a pup, quite obviously! He was scared of other dogs then, intimidating as they were, fully-grown and experts at snarling. But he was naughty in every sense of the word. He used to tear up papers and broom-sticks, snap at our feet and scoot wanting us to chase him, try climbing up the bed with his tiny little feet only to fall down with a thud and engage in other like-adorable activities. And interestingly, I began to understand love a lot better.
As Simba grew, our responsibilities too grew manifold. We had to walk him six times a day. We had to coax him to eat his food, three times a day! We had to quarrel with our neighbors, irate as they were over his barking and finding his excreta right in front of their gates. We had to make sure that our gate was closed at all times, to prevent him from running into the big, bad world. Sometimes, we faltered. We were worried to death's end for about ten minutes when Simba had run out through the open gate and we could not find him. Well, we did find him, after those torrid ten minutes, playing with his mother and siblings (his mother stayed in a house on our street). We were horrified when he had those chickenpox-like infections. Fortunately, they never persisted for more than a day or two. We were scared every time we sighted a cat in our house. Luckily, Simba never developed the courage enough, as a small dog, to chase a cat. However, as he grew, our worries started to subside. Our love for him, though, only bloated up. Maybe, true love is never about responsibilities because it out-weighs them anyway.
His love for us has never subsided. He springs on us (when we return home) with the same gusto and zeal as he used to, when he was a pup. He sulks the same way he used to, when he was a pup. He wags his tail enthusiastically, whenever someone calls on us. We are worried that he might walk away with a burglar, wagging his tail. My father, who initially was apathetic towards dogs, is today an admirer (And trust me, my father is a difficult man to change!). One of my good friends is a scared lot when any other dog approaches him. He is not afraid of Simba, though, and for good reason. Simba is not just a dog. He is a bundle of endless love. Maybe, that is the power of true love - to stay undiminished over time and to banish indifference and fear.
Today, everybody in our street know Simba. They call Simba the friendly neighbourhood dog. And they dote upon Simba like never before, petting him affectionately and enquiring about him, as I walk him down our street. True love does that, I guess. It wins over everybody, sooner or later.
As for me, I will always be grateful to Simba. He answered my question.
My dog, my friend.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
and i 'm off the mark!!!
hello world!!!
bah, as if the world has no better job than looking at my blog! well, that would be the typical me, picking at everyone, yours truly included!!! i am psychic, true. :)
anyway, let me introduce myself or rather try to, because i am not sure if i know myself!!!
i was named vinay sainath, cuppala varadarajulu. dad is an ardent devotee of shirdi sai baba and hence, sainath. mom wanted to name me vinay and voila, vinay sainath, the name, was created! cuppala is my family name and varadarajulu is my dad. i guess the above info is as far as i can get to, without any kind of uncertainty. as i told you, i do not know myself!!!
i did my schooling in a quaint, little school in basaveswaranagar, bangalore. it had a real conservative name, S Cadambi Vidya Kendra. bother not if you haven't heard of it, cos' it will be famous soon. i mean i studied there and so, it has to be famous this time or the other!!! i loved my school, man. it was not the perfect school that people dream of, but it was a school with characters straight out of a Shakespearean play!!! so, that kind of made up for the utter lack of facilities!!! let me not get into details (psst...i wish to post my blogs in the public domain, so!!).
i passed out of school on time. phew, thank God for that!
pre university was a cakewalk. but that was until my final exams. cos' they were pathetic, an all-time disaster.
i came out unscathed, anyway and joined BMSCE. now, this is what i am talking about or rather, want to talk about.
getting into bms was like a dream coming true for me. i wasn't so interested in becoming an engineer, as i was about getting into bms!!! talk about fancies!!!:) anyway, i was the last person to get a mechanical engineering seat in bms. now, try beating that!
my years in bms were extraordinary, truly. but then, the college is not ordinary, either. :) anyway, was part of a really humongous friend circle. and hell, it was disparate in every sense of the word. wherever i was in campus, i used to bump into one friend or the other. and yes, i had fun. and how?! you know, i just decided to post new blogs on some of the colorful characters in college (watch this space!!). but hell, you know what they say...good things never last!!! four years passed by like a drag. i never realized it. and i hate myself for that.
if i type anything beyond this, it will start to bore. so, i am gonna end here (don't thank God for that, thank me!! i am just being merciful ;) ).
and hell, i 'm off the mark!!!
bah, as if the world has no better job than looking at my blog! well, that would be the typical me, picking at everyone, yours truly included!!! i am psychic, true. :)
anyway, let me introduce myself or rather try to, because i am not sure if i know myself!!!
i was named vinay sainath, cuppala varadarajulu. dad is an ardent devotee of shirdi sai baba and hence, sainath. mom wanted to name me vinay and voila, vinay sainath, the name, was created! cuppala is my family name and varadarajulu is my dad. i guess the above info is as far as i can get to, without any kind of uncertainty. as i told you, i do not know myself!!!
i did my schooling in a quaint, little school in basaveswaranagar, bangalore. it had a real conservative name, S Cadambi Vidya Kendra. bother not if you haven't heard of it, cos' it will be famous soon. i mean i studied there and so, it has to be famous this time or the other!!! i loved my school, man. it was not the perfect school that people dream of, but it was a school with characters straight out of a Shakespearean play!!! so, that kind of made up for the utter lack of facilities!!! let me not get into details (psst...i wish to post my blogs in the public domain, so!!).
i passed out of school on time. phew, thank God for that!
pre university was a cakewalk. but that was until my final exams. cos' they were pathetic, an all-time disaster.
i came out unscathed, anyway and joined BMSCE. now, this is what i am talking about or rather, want to talk about.
getting into bms was like a dream coming true for me. i wasn't so interested in becoming an engineer, as i was about getting into bms!!! talk about fancies!!!:) anyway, i was the last person to get a mechanical engineering seat in bms. now, try beating that!
my years in bms were extraordinary, truly. but then, the college is not ordinary, either. :) anyway, was part of a really humongous friend circle. and hell, it was disparate in every sense of the word. wherever i was in campus, i used to bump into one friend or the other. and yes, i had fun. and how?! you know, i just decided to post new blogs on some of the colorful characters in college (watch this space!!). but hell, you know what they say...good things never last!!! four years passed by like a drag. i never realized it. and i hate myself for that.
if i type anything beyond this, it will start to bore. so, i am gonna end here (don't thank God for that, thank me!! i am just being merciful ;) ).
and hell, i 'm off the mark!!!
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