This is my final year. 8th semester and I’m supposed to be happy as I got campus placement in Nirma Chemicals when I was in 7th semester. Read on!
To me, engineering was something more related to “exciting-cum-thrilling”. It was my ecstasy and elation.
I had read, Engineering means:
1. The branch of science and technology concerned with the design, building and use of engines, machines and structures
2. The practical application of scientific ideas and principles
3. A field of study or activity concerned with modification or development in a particular area.
After a jinx, I finally landed up into Engineering. No, Electrical Engineering, to be specific. After 90% completion of Engineering, I came to know what it actually is.
It is,
The immoral branch of science and technology concerned with almost nothing but fucked-up assignments, non working of machines and broken structures. And adding to it spine-chilling viva voce and semester exams where no egalitarian economy was maintained. Gulp !!!
Engineering ain’t engineering.
So much has happened after the entrance of engineering into my life, and how do I sum up the whole in a few words ? Starting with the jubilation of my birth and passing 12th standard with jinx, life has veered off a lot. And to add NaCl to the gash the cliché of classes and labs fails to cease. Huh!!! We want to say something, we want to do something, but always lulled. Amid the mêlée, let me jot down this iota:
Scene 1: Inside the Classroom
Ma’am with zest, came to the class,
We had the same shouting mass.
Micro-Processor is her subject,
But our mind gonna be midget.
She started and we embarked,
She on subject and we on cult.
ADD and SUBB, are all same,
No matter what are the names?
8-bit or 16-bit,
Horny cap is what we hit.
To store, we have REGISTER & MEMORY,
What we like is a girl in a capry.
DATA POINTER or STACK POINTER
For us, they are only the sister.
Mama Mia, she’s on shout,
Letcha tell you, we are on hoot.
She teaches us something new,
For us, it’s all phew.
She says:
Shake the mind and get the groove,
Ponder on the program on the move.
We say:
Programming is all the bluff,
What we like is the puff.
She have zeal, we have that too.
She have guts, we have that too.
She have knowledge,
Oops, we don’t have.
Though Micro is the subject,
We had never loosed the wicket.
P.S.
Lecture going on on Micro Processor,
Ma’am seems like a predator,
Always kills the approacher,
But we are niche creatures.
Prof: Hello! Hello! (Strikes the duster) will u let me take the class???
To be continued...
28 January, 2011
Hi, I’m bhargav ≥ life.
I am a triskaidekaphobic. I am monosodium glutamate. I am discadaleinophobic. I am a molotov cocktail. I am a putative. I am a supposed. I am hotchpotch. I am a nincompoop, at times. I am a highest degree of insane, bizarre, wacky and weird and uncanny. I am wired. I am hyperactive. I am indelible. I dream big and cherish and rejoice them a lot. And I’m madcap zany. And oh yes, I am a globetrotter.
I am not a necromancer. I am not subservient. I am not acquiescent. I am not an illusionist.
Piece de résistance:
I am highly flexible.
C’est la vie
A Hot Blood Mammal
Hiatus of 4 months, bloody 120 days of shit. Getting really restless, nothing to do. Getting degraded on my mind. Thinking of this, wrote these lines, an iota of my thinking. Hope you all will enjoy it.
Dedicating it to 9 other people of ISB&M Puna who got into LG this year.
Enjoy. Read On...
I, a hot blood mammal,
being soporific, being an oddball
a sieve in my heart -
and I seem leaked to death.
the lull is over,
there goes a cuss and the peccadilloes’ --
cold smarting beyond,
beyond the yonder.
sun ascends,
at two in the afternoon,
and the day starts,
with agony tantamount, harder to go by.
peace genuflected,
a new litmus test everyday,
mundane has become the humdrum,
undergoing an ordeal.
lurking in my room,
over the staircase,
and the boulevard that leads to nowhere,
at dusk and beyond.
bête noir’s own raison d’être
marred to cease
the bouncy orb of light,
skulking to death like.
almost nothing to do,
suffusing the feebleness over the body,
plugs my dwelling with in
and the ordeal continues.
pulp and paper,
grass and smoke,
with ginger & lemon tea entr’acte -
hiatus has become the sacrament.
graffiti fresco over my head,
gawking it till my eyes get gory,
chortle and snigger -
are all long and forlorn.
college and classes,
veered off from the rota.
food taste tarter,
and minds’ devoid of sacrosanct ideas.
monolithic four months,
and a monolithic sabbatical
idiosyncrasies colossal,
four months on the roll,
and no paper roll to open.
Caged in a Valhalla,
I, a hot blood mammal,
being soporific, being an oddball
a sieve in my heart,
and I seem leaked to death.
Dedicating it to 9 other people of ISB&M Puna who got into LG this year.
Enjoy. Read On...
I, a hot blood mammal,
being soporific, being an oddball
a sieve in my heart -
and I seem leaked to death.
the lull is over,
there goes a cuss and the peccadilloes’ --
cold smarting beyond,
beyond the yonder.
sun ascends,
at two in the afternoon,
and the day starts,
with agony tantamount, harder to go by.
peace genuflected,
a new litmus test everyday,
mundane has become the humdrum,
undergoing an ordeal.
lurking in my room,
over the staircase,
and the boulevard that leads to nowhere,
at dusk and beyond.
bête noir’s own raison d’être
marred to cease
the bouncy orb of light,
skulking to death like.
almost nothing to do,
suffusing the feebleness over the body,
plugs my dwelling with in
and the ordeal continues.
pulp and paper,
grass and smoke,
with ginger & lemon tea entr’acte -
hiatus has become the sacrament.
graffiti fresco over my head,
gawking it till my eyes get gory,
chortle and snigger -
are all long and forlorn.
college and classes,
veered off from the rota.
food taste tarter,
and minds’ devoid of sacrosanct ideas.
monolithic four months,
and a monolithic sabbatical
idiosyncrasies colossal,
four months on the roll,
and no paper roll to open.
Caged in a Valhalla,
I, a hot blood mammal,
being soporific, being an oddball
a sieve in my heart,
and I seem leaked to death.
25 January, 2011
Fleurs de rocailles
(Flowers from a Brook)
une fleur, and it’s scent,
and whiff in the mystic air,
wispy elfin flutter around her nostrils,
the tranquil spirit, and
the sound of that scent.
A Lass, A Shaman,
Out in the pampas,
Slides to the rivulet,
With crooning glory, feeling
the masculine mystique.
Au mois de janvier,
What is this, une fleur ?
a long plume of exhale,
But, de quelle colour est ?
May be red, may be red, may be red !
Introduction
This is a poem narrating a story about lass, a girl‐ young adult in search of her beloved
superman. She, in her inexplicable rummage goes around the world, to find the mister perfect
aficionado, a connoisseur. At solitary moment in time, she gets wooly by the scent of a fleur (a
flower in French) and finally lands up in the balmy masculinity of her hero.
Para 1
Line 1: It describes the flower and it’s scent.
Line 2: how it affects the near‐by surrounding.
Line 3, 4, 5: and how it affects the human being, by being a catalyst over thinking.
Para 2
Line1: Lass means young unmarried women.
Shaman is a person regarded as having access to, and influence in, the world of good and evil
spirits. That means, the lass has the ability to find the truth out of the situation. She can judge
the situation very well and hover around truth out of the misty flummox cloud of perplexity.
Line 2: This girl is out in the prairie, plain grassland, to find her beloved.
Line 3, 4, 5: Gradually she moves through and finds a retreat in a brook; where from, she was
absorbing the aroma of that mystical masculine scent.
Para 3
Line 1, 2: After reaching the brook, she finds something unusual. She goes to the brook thinking
of a sweet colourful flower. But instead, she finds an another Shaman.
So, she asks this question, In the month of January, is this a flower?
Line 2: She breaths out a long breath!
Line 3: She gets confused about the where‐bouts, and asks again. About, what is the colour of
this flower, is it red?
But, it is not a flower.
It is a human being.
He is an admirer. An admirer of charm of humanity; a perfect protagonist!
une fleur, and it’s scent,
and whiff in the mystic air,
wispy elfin flutter around her nostrils,
the tranquil spirit, and
the sound of that scent.
A Lass, A Shaman,
Out in the pampas,
Slides to the rivulet,
With crooning glory, feeling
the masculine mystique.
Au mois de janvier,
What is this, une fleur ?
a long plume of exhale,
But, de quelle colour est ?
May be red, may be red, may be red !
Introduction
This is a poem narrating a story about lass, a girl‐ young adult in search of her beloved
superman. She, in her inexplicable rummage goes around the world, to find the mister perfect
aficionado, a connoisseur. At solitary moment in time, she gets wooly by the scent of a fleur (a
flower in French) and finally lands up in the balmy masculinity of her hero.
Para 1
Line 1: It describes the flower and it’s scent.
Line 2: how it affects the near‐by surrounding.
Line 3, 4, 5: and how it affects the human being, by being a catalyst over thinking.
Para 2
Line1: Lass means young unmarried women.
Shaman is a person regarded as having access to, and influence in, the world of good and evil
spirits. That means, the lass has the ability to find the truth out of the situation. She can judge
the situation very well and hover around truth out of the misty flummox cloud of perplexity.
Line 2: This girl is out in the prairie, plain grassland, to find her beloved.
Line 3, 4, 5: Gradually she moves through and finds a retreat in a brook; where from, she was
absorbing the aroma of that mystical masculine scent.
Para 3
Line 1, 2: After reaching the brook, she finds something unusual. She goes to the brook thinking
of a sweet colourful flower. But instead, she finds an another Shaman.
So, she asks this question, In the month of January, is this a flower?
Line 2: She breaths out a long breath!
Line 3: She gets confused about the where‐bouts, and asks again. About, what is the colour of
this flower, is it red?
But, it is not a flower.
It is a human being.
He is an admirer. An admirer of charm of humanity; a perfect protagonist!
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