Also I don't have 500 $million

Received this in a fwded mail from an old pal "Tiger Woods: A Cautionary Tale For All American Men" written by Tom Leykis, an American radio talk-show host.

I never listened to Tom Leykis's show when I was in Boston. I did listen to radio, and quite a bit to the talk shows on NPR, and I would have listened to Tom had I known about his show. Like my identity, internet is able to wipe my location with lavendar-fresh finish; so now that I know, maybe I will.

I will not leave a link here ... if you are interested, you can easily find his blog and the above mentioned article. Couple of excerpts to excite you.

...snip...

Just a guess from observing his demeanor and hearing his very controlled interviews (not to mention his painfully unrevealing “apology” press conference): Tiger is someone who probably had very little time for a social life growing up. Guy friends, girlfriends, and all that goes with that were likely shoved aside for early mornings hitting ball after ball after ball with his dad. Did he develop like a normal American teenager? Did he make out in the backseat of his car with girls with whom he went to school? Did he go to his prom? Did he ever just hook up? I tend to doubt it.

...snip...

The real truth about marriage is something that men who look like beaten dogs whisper to each other at Hooters, at strip clubs, at sports bars, at bowling alleys, and even over the cubicle walls at offices across America: marriage is for men who cannot afford to live parallel lives with hot women in expensive hotel rooms. It is for men who need someone to share the rent or the mortgage payment. It is for farmers who need more farmhands when they become too old to till the soil. It is for men who grew up too lazy to clean their places, and so, as a result, are willing to take on a 180-pound mommy stand-in who will clean it. Marriage is not for buff, famous, educated men who have 500 million dollars and the freedom to do almost anything they want.

...snip...

Tiger Woods had no business getting married or having any children at all so early in his life. And, if you are a successful young man in America who has worked so hard to get where you are, neither do you.

There are lots of comments ... mostly supportive, on this article in his blog site. Right now I don't have time to turn toss and ponder over his assertions. But scary as they sound, I made a quick run down. After all, I am lazy to clean my place and don't stay with my mom any more.

* male - CHECK (last checked - right now!)
* young - CHECK (30 ... well ... sorta)
* successful - CHECK (kinda ... I am not homeless and can afford butter for my bread)
* worked hard - CHECK (I'm single so I have no other option)
* American - FALSE (Yay!)

/me feels so relieved!

a PhD student

Ahoy! Here is a gem of a picture which my venerable colleague BK dug out from her knapsack of past photos. She calls it a "blast from the past". Quoting her (without prior permission which I am sure she would have granted):

We probably clicked this before Bera left the country. Thought you guys would like a copy of a typical goofiing-around-in-psy-221 pic :)

I think this picture should be preserved in some kind of PhD showcase. It shows all the primary signs of the workplace of a (tenured) PhD student - 2 computers (one displaying Google to whom all PhD students owe their allegiance), a wall with lots of random postings, open books and papers, a busy shelf with useful cutlery and most important, hostile peers who keep you alert!

PS: That is Ilir in the picture trying to "frame" me. He is a sucker for free stuff! Beware.

Mists of Morn

When all eyes are shut, mine are wide open. Then when the million pairs flutter wide, my weary self feels watched and dozes off.

"Sleeping off" one's fear is a wonderful trick I had learnt many months ago and have been using it since then. It works. So much has happened over the past couple of years, that taking stock of those, repeatedly every night, tires my brain cells past a good physical exhaustion. New place, new faces, new air, new goal. Natural seclusion. Self-rebuilding is a defence tactic that I never chose as Elective. Some people are exceptionally good at adjusting to the container they are placed in and some, like me, try to climb out and find their old earthern barrel dumped in some corner or smashed out of earth. Unless someone puts a post-it on their eyelid "The world is still as gay as yore".

Thus, woken up just now at 10 in the morning, I feel a hangover. This is probably the worse part, because I need to sleep little more ... till its noon and I get busy in mundane work to not think anymore. Thinking is sinking. My medication: Movement 2, BWV 1056, in piano.

In the book I am currently reading, rather in the last chapter that I read, Pip is moving out of his home to become a bespoke gentleman, as wished upon by an unknown beneficiary. His worst night is bestowed just before his best to come days. The final journey out of his village is long. He thinks he can always go back at the next halt but never does.

It was a hurried breakfast with no taste in it. I got up from the meal, saying with a sort of briskness, as if it had only just occurred to me, "Well! I suppose I must be off!" and then I kissed my sister who was laughing and nodding and shaking in her usual chair, and kissed Biddy, and threw my arms around Joe's neck. Then I took up my little portmanteau and walked out. The last I saw of them was, when I presently heard a scuffle behind me, and looking back, saw Joe throwing an old shoe after me and Biddy throwing another old shoe. I stopped then, to wave my hat, and dear old Joe waved his strong right arm above his head, crying huskily "Hooroar!" and Biddy put her apron to her face.

I walked away at a good pace, thinking it was easier to go than I had supposed it would be, and reflecting that it would never have done to have had an old shoe thrown after the coach, in sight of all the High Street. I whistled and made nothing of going. But the village was very peaceful and quiet, and the light mists were solemnly rising, as if to show me the world, and I had been so innocent and little there, and all beyond was so unknown and great, that in a moment with a strong heave and sob I broke into tears. It was by the finger-post at the end of the village, and I laid my hand upon it, and said, "Good by, O my dear, dear friend!"

Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried than before,—more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle. If I had cried before, I should have had Joe with me then.

So subdued I was by those tears, and by their breaking out again in the course of the quiet walk, that when I was on the coach, and it was clear of the town, I deliberated with an aching heart whether I would not get down when we changed horses and walk back, and have another evening at home, and a better parting. We changed, and I had not made up my mind, and still reflected for my comfort that it would be quite practicable to get down and walk back, when we changed again. And while I was occupied with these deliberations, I would fancy an exact resemblance to Joe in some man coming along the road towards us, and my heart would beat high.—As if he could possibly be there!

We changed again, and yet again, and it was now too late and too far to go back, and I went on. And the mists had all solemnly risen now, and the world lay spread before me.

Pip has to move forward. His past will be always there, and ingratitude towards it will only make him suffer more. But he can build upon them and soar higher clouds. I am yet to see what happens to him next, but I wish he becomes a better person now that holy waters washed his clumsy cheeks.

Picture above:
Taken at about 10am (!) in India (winter). Lone stranger amidst mist.