Rock on...

Yes. I crossed out yet another item on my ‘Things-to-do-before-i-die” list – Go to a rock concert.

Rock music thrives on the irrefutable and proven theory that anything that damages your eardrums will sound good eventually. After all with damaged eardrums , even CNN IBN reporters would sound like nightingales.

So what is the criteria for being considered a rock band?

• Should have a name that anybody remotely human cannot pronounce correctly for the first time, without sounding like a drunk. The band that I listened to was called splat or scrat or sprat, I can’t be sure even now.
• Should have a drummer who has long hair and a constant ‘I will kill you if you come nearer’ look. The more uncombed the hair is, the better.
• The lead guitarist should be a guy who should have the ability to disillusion the listeners into thinking that he can really sing. He can do so, by coming very close to the mike and shouting at full throttle. This will lead to interference and the mike starts singing by itself.

So, how can you get in?

• If you are a girl, empty two jars of perfume, three sticks of kajal, and one litre of hair gel on the concerned body parts. Also wear clothes that make war refugees look like Vijay Mallya.
• If you are a guy, wear trousers that might come off if you sneeze. Never even think of a comb for a month.
• General observation: Anything that will make the dogs on the street violent is acceptable.

How to be a Roman in Rome?

• Practice the forward and backward movement of the neck and head. It might make you look mentally unstable by the daylight, but here it is normal.
• Say ‘Wooo’ and clap in a frenzy after a song finishes. It makes you look very rock-knowledgeable.

Let me not even get into the lyrics part. One song just had, “Say it once again’ in several variations that almost made me get and ask them not to say it once again. The song format is this simple: Whisper into the mike...Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay (Decent enough)...Whisper...Sayyyyyyyy it vaaaaaaaance again.... (Insides churn)...Loud drums accompanied by whispers...Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay (creepy at several levels).

But, yes, the hypocrite in me says, 'I liked it after all' :)

Awesomeness...

A recent SCIAM article that my uncle sent me talked about how noise helped entanglement of electrons and related scientific jingbang. But only these lines stuck to my head:

"In the most distinctive such effect, called entanglement, two electrons establish a kind of telepathic link that transcends space and time. And not just electrons: you, too, retain a quantum bond with your loved ones that endures no matter how far apart you may be. If that sounds hopelessly romantic, the flip side is that particles are incurably promiscuous, hooking up with every other particle they meet. So you also retain a quantum bond with every loser who ever bumped into you on the street and every air molecule that ever brushed your skin."

Imagine your skin still retains one tiny electron of that long lost love, the mad guy at the rock concert, the last goodbye handshake... :) Awesomeness...

In sickness and health...

After a month of raging fever, headaches, and painful blood tests, I sat in the doc’s office, looking expectantly at the man scratching his head and chewing the tip of his pen.

Tapping the report with the side of the pen he just relished (Ewww!!!) he uttered the three words I did not want to hear, “You have typhoid”. My world crashed. After innumerable blood tests and x-rays and other tests that I have left out for the sole virtue of their being extremely complex to spell, this is what the doc had to say. I stupidly repeated, “I have typhoid?”

He nodded gravely and scribbled the names of all medicines that he could remember. “Complete bed rest, no physical or mental strain”, he droned. Dad sniggered at the mention of mental and pointed to his head and signed ‘empty’ with his hands. I rolled my eyes. It was his old joke about how I did not have any brains and therefore the question of mental strain did not arise.

The evil doc did not stop with this. He gave me a graphic description of how my intestines were being eaten by the typhi viruses every minute. I immediately started counting the number of wreaths that would arrive at my house if I died.

For three weeks after that I could only eat food that even the scruffy neighborhood cat rejected. Meanwhile mom devised this intricate diet routine that involved feeding me with fruit juice and tender coconut water at times that did not hinder her daily dose of afternoon soaps. Banished to my room for a month, with only the ceiling fan for company, I watched the blades in fascination as they fused into nothingness when the fan gathered speed. (And I had always thought babies were really stupid to gurgle at a thing as mundane as a ceiling fan.)

On some days I would sleep on for hours together, only waking up to take medicines every six hours. On better days, I would curl up on the living room sofa watching soaps with mom. Sometimes I would throw up dinner as soon as I finished washing the dinner plate. Lunch would follow in a matter of minutes. Dad would retort, “Don’t come out yet. Breakfast is on the way. By the way, don’t throw up the tablet. It is three bucks”, and chuckle at his own joke.

Honestly, though I felt miserable at times and loneliness depressed me to no end, the flurry of ‘get well soon’ messages and calls really made my day. Close friends came home and my boss gave me a month off without thinking twice. Also, the neighborhood cat curled up next to me everyday and we became so close that it started following me around the house. Of course, I also enjoyed all the attention and basked in glory when I finally returned to work.

I mean, how much more lucky can a person get :)