THE SLEEPING BEAUTY & OTHER REMINISCENCES

(This piece was penned to commemorate the Silver Jubilee celebrations of passing out from school (SSSSX))

For a change, I ignored my wife’s advice (Before you jump to the (obvious!) conclusion and arraign me for being a plump, middle-aged, paunchy, bald, grotesque-looking henpecked specimen of a husband, let me hasten to explain; I am not – any of the above that is!). I am all ears, all the time, to my good lady, since she is nonpareil when it comes to indulging me, whether it is that ‘sex on the beach’ (the vodka based drink, you randied, perverted souls!) at the social do, or the more than occasional stag parties with the boys, that seeps well into the wee hours of the following morn. Why, she even overlooks (with a fashionable brush of her Chanel nail-polished fingers) the stockpiling of memorabilia - a la Pakistan on nuclear arms - a passion of mine (not to forget Pakistan’s) that borders on the irrational (psychotic?). But this time round, she would have none of the nonsense. There was a school reunion of hers (at Mumbai) around the time that we were planning ours. And, she wanted me to accompany her - no doubt, to show off her ‘prized catch’ to her peers - and hobnob with a dozen (or two) odd guys-n-gals, whom I knew as much as Mother Teresa would Julian Assange! Ergo, I had to put my foot down (a trifle too harshly, I admit – so, if you see me limping at the reunion, you know the reason!) and decide, once and for all, who wears the vest in the house (since we both wear trousers, I didn’t have the luxury of using that garment as a metaphor for discrimination). So, here I am folks, off to the grand reunion of the Class of 82 at Bhilai, while my better half proceeds to hers in ‘aamchi Mumbai”. Will I hit pay dirt, or will she have the last laugh. Well only time, I guess, will tell.

On to more serious issues now. Let me begin with an enigmatic poser – what is it with reunions, that throws up such a groundswell of kaleidoscopic emotions? Is it a vicarious desire to turn the clock back by a couple of decades and push back the straining seams of our trousers at the waist (as I had alluded to earlier, since the apparel is worn by members of either sex, I am acknowledging both male and female classmates here), “de-thin” and “de-grey” our hairs, and hark back to an age of simplicity? Or is it a nostalgic wish-list of traveling in a time capsule to revisit us, as we were, during the times that we lived in? Going by the “goings-on” on the twin group-sites that we have, that would seem the obvious answer. However, the obvious, as they, say hides facts that are not so apparent.

Aroon Purie, that living legend at Living Media (the India Today Group), had famously remarked that the best advice that he ever got was this: “If God wanted you to look back, he would have given you eyes at the back of the head”. I would beg to disagree. One does need to look back once in a while (pardon me, my Good Lord!). For, it allows one to mark the passage of time, that inexorable entity, that has a habit of running out of our grasp. The ‘look-back’ helps us to contrive our memories and build a monument with the otherwise fickle running sands of time.

A reunion is nostalgia time, big time! No reasons to hide those sepia tinted, often, mushy memories. All those nicknames and sobriquets with unbelievable histories - Gulati (Anupam), Kerli (Prabhakar), Malli (CK James), Barganda (the venerable and decidedly dangerous Chemistry teacher, Shri MC Verma), London (the math teacher Shri Mishra) - come tumbling out of nooks and crannies where they remained embedded and sealed, like a Glenfiddich 15, to be opened and savoured at such an occasion. And, what of the school-boy crushes that bordered on neurotic fantasy, the jokes that were never funny, or the legends about people that never die - who, for instance, hadn’t heard of the boxing prowess of the redoubtable Shri Rizvi (the Princi), or the power (and pain!) that Shri Paul (History teacher?) packs in his whack, or, for that matter, the meticulous mind of the very erudite, yet humble, Shri Chandwani? It’s time, ladies and gentlemen, to re-reveal all of these and more, all over again!

I guess, I can steal this opportunity to offer an ode to our respected (and respectable) teachers. More than our schools (which are but dispassionate edifices), it was our schooling, shorn off rocket science and “how to …” advices, that have put all of us on the track to where we have reached. From the sublime to the practical to the preposterous, we have had pedagogues who have shaped every moment of our lives. On a philosophical note, the compass bearings, and the exalted value standards set by many a mentor, have allowed us to resolve moral conflicts and retain our sanity in an otherwise maddening medley called life. I doff my hat to all of you, Sirs and Madams (Misses!), for having steadied our boats as they rocked to-and-fro during our formative years

A trip down memory lane does wonders to your ego, besides being a cathartic experience. A reunion satisfies a “Maslow Level Three” human need, one of belongingness to a group. As we excavate our past, it instills a sense of oneness with guys with whom we spent some of the most memorable times of our lives. It brings forth a warm sense of communion, and I, for one, would love to wade, and be engulfed in the lambent luminosity of the grand reunion of the Class of 82. Look forward to the event, to let my hair down, behave as I did 28 years ago, listen to old numbers, re-tell the same jokes, and pretend that we were back in time and space, to the corridors and rooms that we infested in a bygone era, living the lives that we have led before. See you at the reunion!

PS. One would wonder (and rightly so), what the title of the passage has to do with the narrative. Well, good things are made better (best?!) with a modicum of wait – just like Dom Perignon Vintage 1961, or the famed Indian pickle! So hold on to your collective breaths till the next reunion, where I promise to unleash the best kept secret of the last 28 years. That, is a soldier’s word.

PPS. This piece has been the effort of a stringent timeline set by the curt telephonic message from Dinesh. His order was loud and clear - deliver in a day, or perish! Given the potential for deterioration in the state of my dental health, and the complimentary services that I hope to wheedle from the gent in question, I was left with no options.

PPSS. The author, a proud alumni of SSSS-X (of the Class of 82), is a second-generation Bhilaiian, who has migrated to a different pasture in response to the calling of his profession. But, heart-of-hearts, he is an out-and-out Bhilaiian. He currently lives at Delhi with his wife and two sons. A music aficionado and a wannabe violinist, he is a gourmet of fine wines, and enjoys his plain-vanilla ice-cream with a tinge of chocolate and a dash of Single Malt Scotch whisky.

Wonder-struck by the wonderful wonder of the wondrous number 7 (and wondering why)!

The number 7 has always had a strange, magnetic charm on me. For some wild reason, time and again, I come up against it, in its myriad, mysterious ways in my day-to-day affairs. Wonder whether you share my experience. Let me explain.

As a growing child, while memorising the names of the 7 seas (Mediterranean, Adriatic, Arabian, Black, Red, Caspian, Persian) or the 7 SI base units (metre, kilogram, kelvin, second, mole, ampere, candela) was not what one relished, it was fascinating to dig into the escapades of the Secret 7. Exposure to the delights of the Magnificent 7, in 7(0) mm. was even more electrifying!

One had also been told that the "surs" (Sa, re ga ma, pa, dha, ni) are 7 in number. Ditto for the colours of the rainbow (no self-respecting parent would have failed to grill/drill that famous acronym - VIBGYOR - down the nut of her/his hapless kid, so that the kid can in turn, in good time, perpetuate the fraud further down the generations, till it prevails ad infinitum!). On a comparative note, the scales followed by the western stream of music too would amount to 7 (whether it be the A, B, C, D, E, F, G - preferred by the supercilious classical musician or the more down-to-earth Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, si - practised by her not so polished cousin).

But, have you ever asked, as to why for godsake, the wonders of the world have to be 7? Or for that matter why Snowwhite had to be saddled with 7 dwarfs? If that defies imagination, why does the habits of effective people have to be, of all numbers, 7?

Even the Gods in heaven are not spared. We therefore have, arranged rather systematically, the wisdom of the 7 rishis (sapta rishis), or the divine pleasure of wallowing in the fantasies of 7 damsels (sapta sundaries), so picturesquely portrayed by the pen of the mythological bard.

Then of course, Hindus have the 7 rounds around the holy fire, as the husband and wife solemnly tie each other into an everlasting bond. This is inevitably followed by them experiencing the 7th heaven, 7 days a week, during their honeymoon (possibly!) to the 7 sisters of North-east India. A little while later however (to be more precise, at the end of 7 years), they accost the itch, which, it has empirically been proved, befalls all couples sooner rather than later! This may of course be precipitated by regular infliction of the 7 cup (sweetmeat) by the good lady on the hubby. In between, the couple may (or may not, depending on their combined profligacy quotient!) fall for the 7 deadly sins. To overcome the ill-effects of the sins, and to cleanse oneself, one (or both of them) may decide to practise meditation that would involve a convoluted methodology of 7 chakras.


If the mundane and the mythological are held hostage to the tyranny of 7 can medicine or mystics be spared? We are told that there are 7 layers to our existence comprising the body, breath, mind, intellect, memory, ego and self. As for medicine, it evolves around 7 key steps of healing viz. patient, doctor, caregiver, drugs, environment, sleep and spirituality.

Technology, as always, the last refuge of the rationalist, is also sucked in by the mysterious beauty of the number 7. The network (as in the hardware of computers - and not as in social networks) has a 7 layer stack (for the curious, the layers are respectively the application, presentation, session, transport, network, datalink, and physical), and is the reason why this blog travelled all the way to your home, and you are able to read on your computer, the drivel that I wrote on mine.

With so much to go for the number 7, is it any wonder that the most dashing and romantic of all heroes (with the most memorable name to boot - the name is Bond ....!) has been pushing his luck with the number (00)7? And, no marks for guessing why that 7 was so elusive on the throw of dice in that charming game of "Lucky 7"?

The jury is still out on this one!

Western Classical Music (WCM) or Indian Classical Music (ICM); which is the superior genre? An urge to discern the delicate discrimination between the two divine forms of music has beguiled my ignorant mind, ever since I assumed pretensions of being a WCM connoisseur, through my myriad associations with maestros in the domain. Must confess though, my own vainglorious efforts at learning the violin has contributed, not insignificantly, to the affair.

Not that my appreciation of ICM is any more illustrious! Thanks, largely to attendance at carnatic music concerts during the formative ears, and a short stab at learning vocal carnatic music (contemporaneously), I perceive (could be incorrectly though!) to have developed an eye (or ear, in this case) for the divine stuff belted out by Indian classical musicians.

Comparisons, they say, are odious. Specially, when it involves exalted styles of music. And, it becomes doubly so, when engaged in by frivolous minds (like that of yours truly), with no formal underpinnings on either of the art forms. Whatever be the allegations (the cognoscenti contend that the extent of my knowledge (or the lack of it) on the subtler nuances of both forms of music can be equated to that of an ignoramus), no one can blame me for not being a rasika alike of Chopin or Chowdaiah. Period.

So on to the great debate! My beliefs have been built based on discussions with two towering personalities in WCM and ICM, both of whom I hold in very high esteem. I refer to Biju Lawrence - currently my younger son's violin guru (and formerly mine), and the Late Sadanam Murukajyoti - my elder son's maddalom guru. Both the maestros have had the benefit of formal education in learning to play the instruments that they wield with gay abandon, much to the pleasure of their devoted listeners. The first difference crops up here. While Biju has had the privilege of formal training in an academic setup (the Associate Board of Royal School of Music of London, going on to earn a Diploma from the institute), Murukajyoti was steeped in the traditional gurukulam style of didactic learning at the famous Kathakali centre at Sadanam, Kerala. Both qualified (with distinction, one has no doubt) from the respective hallowed portals, and went on to play (and create) music that is divine. So, the inevitable Q! What sets apart one form from the other, and as a corollary, which form is better? Any answers there?

The next major difference relates to the way music is played. WCM is structured and institutionalized through documentary artefacts like musical notes and sheet music. For instance, a musical composition can be played exactly as it was intended to, by the composer. Thus you get to hear a Bach or Beethoven piece (composed at the turn of the 18th/19th century) in all its pristine glory - accents, tones, dynamics, key signatures and all. No scope for any adulterations there! This undeniably, lends it a quaint historical edge. However, it is moot, if such rigorous adherence to originals, robs WCM of creativity and ingenuity, since the instrument player is restricted to "greatness" only on the basis of her/his virtuoso performance, and not on how she/ he can improvise on the original composition.

ICM, on the other hand, is not held hostage to such severity. Owing to the fact that it is usually taught by 'word of mouth', ICM lends itself to improvisations that at times, result in the generation of sublime creations. For instance, would the vistaaram of "pranava swaroopa vakratundam" from "vaatapi ganapatim" have been as melodious and entrancing had not Yesudas and TN Krishnan lend their own delightful variations to the original? As any self-respecting guru is quick to acknowledge, "prodigy shishyas", in emulating their gurus, often have a way of surpassing them in performance. Doesn't ICM have an edge in moulding geniuses then? Moot question that!

The last word on the subject however, has to be privileged to the venerable Nobel laureate, Rabindranath Tagore, who chose to take the wind out of the sails of such superfluous arguments by putting it rather succinctly "Music is the universal language. Here, one soul speaks to another."

Touche, is all one can offer to that!

Desi ingenuity defeats state-of-the-art authentication mechanism

Authentication in the digital domain is a tough nut to crack. Beginning with permitting authorised personnel to their workplace (that is a vertical in itself, and goes by the name of access control), through allowing users secure access to their compute infrastructure/ workstations, to accounting for electronic signatures, it covers the gamut of operations that makes ones (and the security administrator's) life secure in the digital domain.

There are myriad technologies that come to the rescue of the harried systems administrator, who is usually the one saddled with this unenviable task - that of ensuring fool-proof authentication mechanisms for the organisation's burgeoning information assets and to its premises per se. Most (if not all) solutions use either one, or a combination of what is classically quoted by the security engineer as "what you know", "what you have", and "what you are" (By now you would have guessed that like other professionals, the IT guy too, revels in propagating her/his lingo, if not for anything else, to observe the discomfiture of mere mortals squirming in discomfort at their abysmal ignorance).

Be that as it may, some illumination, on the (dense) pronouncements made in the previous paragraph is considered inescapable. The pecking order begins with "What you know" (WYK), that (in plain-speak) refers to "user id" and "password" ('cause that's what only you (at least theoretically!)"know!). Most rudimentary systems easily survive with this basic level of authentication instruments. At the next level are the "What you have" (WYH) contraptions. These are essentially chip based cards (of the size of a credit card, that you carry, and therefore you "have") that contain some unique information about the entity to be authenticated (that's geek-speak for the guy authorised to hold the card!). These could be "contact" or "contact-less", meaning, one either needs to slip the token (that's the card's other name!) into a slot on a card-reader (just like one inserts an ATM card to draw out money, although with an ATM, the results are far more encouraging!), or hold it close enough for the card reader to recognise its presence. The proximity at which the card reader recognises the card (that reminds me - this kind of a token is also called a proximity card - and you know where it derives this name from) has a lot to do with the way it communicates to the card (radio frequency being just one such medium). Finally, at the highest echelon, sits the snobbish "What you are" (WYA) devices. These require additional hardware (wonder why I didn't use that terminology before) in the form of biometric readers, iris scan devices, voice-recognition systems, retina scan devices (just listening to that jargon drives the IT security types to the Big O!) etc. to authenticate (perfectly normal) human beings by using their unique biological assets (these incidentally have nothing in common to the "assets" that drive the Big O, but make you, what you "are").

As one may have guessed by now, the security of the authentication system is built layer by layer, with the bottom-most rung comprising systems with WYK devices. As we move up the value-chain, systems begin to deploy a combination of two concepts (WYH and WYK), till we come to the really pricey ones (in more ways than one), that employ all three concepts (WYK + WYH + WYA).

All systems are known to suffer from false negatives (yet another geek-speak, that refers to the system failing to recognise an authorised entity) or false positives (that's when a crook is allowed access), some more so than the others. For instance, a sore throat may render the voice-recognition system unable to recognise a valid user. Ditto for an infection in the eye with the iris scan. As regards, biometrics, it is touted as the closest to a fool-proof authentication system. And that's when the infamous Indian ingenuity checks in.

Employees of the Municipal Corporation of Delhi (MCD), who were issued with biometric cards to punch in their entry to workplaces for marking attendance have come up with the ludicrous claim that diabetes has prevented the biometric readers from recognising them. As one can imagine, there is more to it than meets the eye. The real reason apparently is that over 20,000 employees were being paid without fingering in their hours. Roughly a third of these, reportedly afflicted with the condition, have blamed diabetes for causing their fingers to wrinkle or crack and, subsequently, the biometric system failing to recognize them. The skeptics however, have called their bluff claiming that those who blame their affliction are trying to skip work without being noticed. Local doctors have also found the reasoning of the diabetics questionable as they have never seen such results in diabetic patients in the past (refer Hindustan Times of 15 Jan 2010).

As they say man proposes, and technology dispossesses.

How I got hooked to Western classical music

Till I finished my undergrad education, I was an Indian Classical music aficionado. This state of affairs stemmed due to non-exposure to the divine form of Western Classical Music (WCM), having been brought up and educated in the laid back little town of Bhilai and the not-so-sleepy-but-definitely-non-urban milieu of Raipur. My induction to the Navy changed that forever. The naval band, brass, percussion and all, playing their mellifluous tunes, was the only saving grace during an otherwise rigourous training phase at NAVAC (the Academy), that tested ones physical (not to mention, psychological) endurance to its limits.

For the uninitiated, a short treatise, on the canvas of action viz. the revered parade ground, is in order. The landscape was terrorising to say the least! Here, many a sorry soul, had bitten the dust literally, forced as they were, to run around the perimeter - often 5 to 20 times - carrying the (~6.10 kg) rifle up in the air. This, for misdemeanours that would, in the civilised world, have at most, earned a questionable look! Then there were the much dreaded Drill Masters, wizened (through an overdose of imbibing, and "not-so-diplomatic" visits to foreign ports, if one were to hazard a guess!), with their stentorian boom and a homicidal demeanour. Hushed whispers in the corridors of NAVAC had it that under the penetrating gaze of these hoary gentlemen (?!), doughty devils had been known to soggy their derriere; as for the state of lesser mortals, the less said the better!

Despite their imperfections, the bi-weekly parade, with the naval band in full regalia, was an event that I used to enjoy, much to the chagrin of my beloved course-mates. I think, I had this thing for music. With the band in full flow, the drudgery of the dreary parade used to be transformed into a voyage of nirvana. To the extent that, I used to look forward in anticipation to the fortnightly affair, with the zeal and expectation, much as would a beggar, famished and starving for days, await a full meal. Don't think masochism has any limits!

Enough of digressions. Let me get back to the story of my tryst with WCM, that had all the elements of a classic love affair. It began with a crush, meandered through courtship and love, and culminated in a life-long relationship of loyalty and worship. Once, during the parade practice, the band played a haunting but unknown melody. Promptly, I stole some time from the busy (and tightly monitored) schedule, to meet up with the Band Master, with a view to investigate the matter. Mind you, there were life-threatening situations galore in this exercise! for instance, the place where the band used to practice, was out of bound for us (as were most other places in the Academy). This meant that one had to sneak stealthily during this enterprise, lest one be accosted by one of the dreaded Divisional Officers (Divos) or his henchmen, for punishments for infringements could be brutal and gruesome, bordering on the grave. But, fortune favours the brave! So, without any untoward incident, I kept my date with the Band Master, and, the rest, as they say, is history.

The venerable Master Chief (Musician) Petty Officer Class II, SM Lawrence (if I remember the name correctly), opened up an enchanting vista for me that had hitherto been unexplored. There was no looking back thereafter. I was besotted to the creations of Bach and Beethoven. And, as if that were not enough, you had the pieces from Haydn, Brahms, Mozart, Strauss, Bizet, and a host of other equally consummate composers to contend with. Later, once the infatuation ebbed (to be replaced with a more maturer phase of love) I had occasions to debate the superiority/ inferiority of WCM vis-a-vis classical Indian music with some veterans and maestros in the respective fields, without any clear answers forthcoming. But, that's another story. In any case, why bother, as long as both forms of music contribute to unalloyed listening pleasure!