Law of the Land

The Blue Billion is thankfully back to square one with it's prodigal eleven sequestered in undisclosed safe houses with black cats and other creatures of voodoo significance prowling the nights around them.
Bob Woolmer was killed by either the mafia, the bookies or a particularly irate fan. Or so the speculations go. Greg Chappell is still alive so it rules out the irate fan. And we have enough of them. The demand for donkeys has sky rocketed in Bihar and it's hard to imagine that they'll ever run out of donkeys. And the coach's existence also brings about the lack of bookie or mafia involvement. Which means what we all have suspected for quite a while is true - that sachin, sehwag and the rest of the nitwits no longer have it in them to play cricket.
Now that we've established that why are their ads still running on TV and in print. Especially that disgusting one where Sachin lends his voice to Reliance to read out the score. Now of all the things about the man, the last thing I want to be exposed to is his voice. And if I were him I wouldn't want my voice to be heard reading out Bangladeshi scores as they plant their flag deep in the arena of international cricket.
Cricket fever is finally gone and the Supreme Court has squashed Arjun Singh's grand plans. Amidst riotous revelry is an irate idiot of a HRD minister and the Left front claiming the SC's questioning of the 1938 demographic statistics was irrelevant.
Our dear Health Minister has been shown a moonie by the courts too. And if there's one thing the Times of India has done right it's that the only thing missing from their file photo of Anbu to complete the picture are a couple of horns and a forked tail. About time. Not that AIIMS is running wonderfully well but the last thing it needs some some cretin like Anbu rushing in with a spanner to throw into the works.
Forseen circumstances are forcing me to stop now and give up control of the laptop. Adios.

Summer is here by the way.

Break....

I detest these long breaks from being able to write. I can often blame them on either the lack of a computer to write on, or wrist pain from trying to sms a post or the unreliable sify connection. Mostly it's because I haven't a thing to write about. Strange, ye all say. Not at all. Considering I'm all through with complaining about both Delhi, AIIMS and the Chom assortment that plagues my life as of now. Now I go back to being amused often loudly and in-their-face.

Night duties have been filled with either Sardars affronted when someone innocently asks if it's finally past 12 o clock in order that a break may be taken, 30 odd students of the KSO (read some newspaper for more information) ordered by court to be treated at AIIMS since they were apparently not given the required attention at RML (another local hospital). And considering they were under police custody after trying to enter the parliament protesting the arrest of their brethren back in Manipur. It was all good till we needed to admit a couple of them (which we actually may not have if there was no court order). Now we needed to keep them nil orally and they wanted to eat pork. From Koopchand at CP which is apparently certified free from tapeworms. Mental note to check the place out. In the end of course the KSO stalwart had to settle for a glucose drip and six policemen to ensure that he didn't take the next bus to pork land.
Speaking of tapeworms I've decided to make it known that I shall avoid Pepsi since the blue billion debacle. In any case, the pesticides in Coke are far superior in ridding the gut of the occasional infestations.
Fort Minor plays in the background and despite many accusations of not growing up and listening to angsty nu metal I still like that music. I can list cutting edge production, incredible recording, nice use of mixers and turntables as reasons but I'm going to stick to simply the fact that the man/men have a neat sense of putting words in rhyme and rhythm and generally getting me in a good mood.
Continuing in my flight of ideas and musical genre, the grandparents left happy due to a cartload of cds that we bought a few days ago and the play list now has Rashid Khan - Brindavani Sarang, Kishore Amonkar - Todi and Ahir Bhairav, Hariprasad Chaurasia - Pilu and Lalit and Brindavani Sarang and finally Gangubai Hanagal - Behag. And the winner is Gangubai. I've never heard her before, live or recordings, and she is simply divine.
As usual posts on classical music come with the disclaimer that prevents (theoretically) commenters from taking my trip about what I think.
Finally in a show of either surprising secularism or insight we find this on a bottle of Jim Beam, Kentucky Bourbon. Now either we acknowledge that Urdu is a secular language and one of the greatest tragedies is associating it with any religion or we acknowledge that alcoholism is a problem that all irrespective of caste, creed, religion and tribe face.

300.

I remember the day Mr D posted, drooling over the fact that they were to make another Frank Miller graphic novel into a movie. And after what they did with/to Sin City it was a just a matter of watchful waiting or waitful watching as the case may have been. Decided at the spur of the moment to make my otherwise pointless life a tad interesting by taking off to the local PVR after a good session at TGIF.
300 is stunning. It's a treat visually. Apparently filmed almost entirely on blue screen with the backdrops being added from the book itself, it also has a sort of sepia filter on all the colours. Blood (oodles of it) is dark red to black and unlike Apocalypto doesn't trigger the wave of nausea that often accompanies such hemorrhage on screen. The fights are beautifully choreographed and the soundtrack kicks in perfectly.
The film has been dogged with controversy with the Iranians screaming murder at the depiction of their erstwhile civilization as barbaric. There is also an undertone of the Greeks fighting for democracy and logic against a vastly barbaric Asian invasion. And then there are others who aren't quite sure whether Xerxes represents George Bush or Terrorism.
The day people stop drawing oblique analogies to real life while trying not to enjoy an otherwise landmark in film making will be a day of joy and feasting for us all. Of course one did have to deal with a hundred odd choms whistling every time a decapitation occurred or a bare breast appeared and some even when the obviously androgynous Xerxes came along.
The only disappointment was that Lena Heady who plays the Queen of Sparta was seen with a spear and shield and copious blood in some picture I got of the net, but didn't actually do any fighting. Like I often say, there is something about women with weapons as long as a) they're on screen b) they aren't Jennifer Garner or Halle Berry and c) they aren't after me. Before some smart alec decides to brandish ol' Mrs Bobbit to my... face.
In other interesting bits and pieces, Bacardi has this dark dark rum called Bacardi Black and the TGIF here in Delhi kindly stocks it. A large of that drink on the rocks is heaven. Makes one wonder why the old casks, monks, smugglers etc even exist.

Rant.

Aborted a post. Then wrote one. On paper with a pen. Tossed around with the idea of transcribing it and ditched that too. Read about Stephen Fry on wikipedia off my phone. Which I must say continues to surprise me. Mostly by vibrating in my pocket when I least expect it but occasionally by allowing me to check where some errant courier is (en route apparently) and also reading bash.org every morning on the pot. Though I know and feel deep down that there are many whose lives would go on just as before and maybe even a tad better if they didn't know that detail it is still cool. I recently found that this blog had replaced a newspaper as someone's crap-read so to speak. Now again I know and feel that there maybe some who think a crap read is one that would have been better if not read at all and that I too should feel chagrin that my opus-es are relegated to lavatories. But nay, I think I shall stay happy that what I write eases someone's morning. Again I was going to say passage but then that's way to graphic for even me.

Maybe I'll GPRS his blog in the midst of my sojourns.

Applications for the next set of exams are out. The good part is that seems to be my only ticket out of this place. The bad part is that this time around there are only 5 seats on the bus. And one's in CMC which may just decide to go ahead and give it to a believer. No qualms about that considering they mention it very boldly in their bulletin. They also allow one to apply online, which due to some inadvertent press of an enter key I've botched up so now I eagerly wait their reply to tell me how I may redeem myself from eternal purgatory. Nimhans is up as is PGI within a couple of days of each other hinting at travel at the speed of anxiety. AIIMS has no seats which makes me occasionaly feel like a jackass but then my paycheck comes and I shut up and sink into my prostitution without complaint.

This post has gotten too ranty for my liking but nothing funny's been happening. My apologies.

Swank.

Not Hillary of the Boys don't Cry but I can make 'em by knocking their teeth out in the second round 'cos I'm worth a Million Dollars Baby, fame. Just the root of the word 'swanky'. It's 2 pm and I'm reeling from the effects of a reasonably bad night at work and way too much caffeine but this is the one chance I have to get at the laptop, so here I am.
Why the one chance? The owner's not back yet but others more needy than I need the keys to surf the waves of information albeit in bits and pieces. But I'm ranting. The flight of ideas is primarily due to the fact that I'm incapable at the moment of sticking to an idea for longer than 30 seconds. That apart I'm ok.
The powers that be took pity on me and some thirty others and offered us rooms at the new Trauma Centre, about a mile away from AIIMS. The mile is a small issue when compared to the flashy, swanky as of now pleasantly cool rooms that exist there. It's a nice large single room with an attached bath and a little balcony. Furnished with a computer table, a revolving chair (to make my attempts at pursuing academic excellence a little roundabout, so to speak), a book shelf, a bed (with a mattress, this is a new one) and Godrej look alike. Just what do you call those things? Steel cupboards? Almairahs? So I'm finally bereft of the pigeon brood, which incidentally is now a brood and not just potential omelets. And in good time too for as of now the little things are quiet but they are rumored to have the highest decibel to size ratio at the age of ten days. I'm also potentially looking at a death-trap in summer due to a rather poor ventilation and little provision for installing electricity consuming, ozone depleting rented air conditioners. But that might be offset by some eco-friendly architecture.
So this is the time for all good men to come to the aid of getting through to something substantial in the coming months and not getting comfortable in the luxury of a room, butter chicken and a substantial paycheck.
Next up if nonsense doesn't come my way, Kareem's in Old Delhi and a meat extravaganza like no other.

Holi ko unholi kar de...

Yeah I know I'm losing it. When the title's in hindi, the cry goes around, as Psmith would say, that Quietly Amused's finally been found cackling in a strait-jacket in a Padded cell. Again something Wonko would wax eloquently about for hours on end. But yeah somehow the spirit of the festival that permeated this part of the world has stayed off me as have the riot of colours.
It started at one am last night and thankfully there's only so much the average human body can endure before lapsing into a tired sleep. So more than 24 hours hence the campus is finally quiet. And no body's trying to waylay me and paint me in that particularly stubborn gold spray that they seem to have invented this time around. The heavy metal content of the various shades that are used is disturbing to an extent but unfortunately a single exposure once a year is not sufficient to cause any lasting damage. In any case I think the jokers here are so used to pollution that their bodies would take more abuse without batting the proverbial eyelid.
The current obsession though is Superstition by Stevie Wonder who in my mind is finally out of the I just called to say I love you mould. Amazing how the worst songs become the most popular. And the Nokia Nseries theme. Not the Moby one, the one with all the drums. Does anyone know what track that is? Can you mail it to me? I will be eternally grateful.
In other news my hostel allotment is held up due to the unfortunate emptying of the printer cartridge. Which means depending on the speed of a Government Procurement Agency, I'm either going to be in a swanky room with an attached bath and rumored central air conditioning, or have screeching hatchlings courtesy the pigeons.
I'm also officially a whore now. I'm doing a job that I don't quite like, with no apparent future, with the risk of HIV with every client, for a pay that's reasonably good. The accounts department here works the best apparently.
So last night, the period between the first half of this post and a couple of sentences ago was a nightmare. People drunk on alcohol, bhaang, both or assorted psychedelic substances came to the Emergency in droves along with the people that they'd beaten up and run over and it was only the collective state of inebriation that stopped them from continuing whatever fights they had outside, in the hospital. There's something seriously flawed in a society that wants to douse the average passerby in colour and when met with opposition proceeds to douse him anyway and then beat his head in with a brick. It's times like this I wish I could buy a month's supply of water, store it and then drown a few monkeys in the water supply. Or wish that small amounts of exposure to the colours used here had lasting damaging effects. The ward was a sea of trolleys with patients of every hue, thus also making it impossible at times to identify who was who and occasionally what was what. This hopefully is only an annual occurrence but one can never really be sure.
The highlight of the day though was lunch at the AP Bhavan, which is like the Andhra Pradesh Embassy in Delhi. Full meals. With Gongura. Heaven.
I need sleep now and maybe a hot bath in any order so Ta.

Fry and I

More benevolence and a slack schedule finds me here yet again. The friend in question's gotten himself a 12" Toshiba. Not a Vaio... Well that means I get to use this for a few days more and post away. Wonko, or Wanker depending on time and inclination has more posts in the last couple of weeks than I do. And this is not a consummation to be wish'd as Hamlet muttered after that eternal quandary about things being and not being.
I've been reading Paperweight by Stephen Fry and it's been a joyride to date. Does come with a Statutory warning that reading more than two essays at a stretch is inadvisable but those two essays usually leave me rolling on the floor laughing. ROTFL, get it? Anyway he says that Shakespeare never said anything. It was all his characters and while quoting one should ideally reference the character and give due credit to Lady Macbeth for example when washing hands. He also mentions sentences that end with 7 prepositions and palindromes with oscillate and generally has a ball... or two.
There is also a transcript of a Sherlock Holmes story hitherto unpublished and also not quite proven to be the result of Watson's hand (notice the credit giving habit extends beyond William). An interesting tale with a rather fun twist at the end. Lay your hands on it people. It is worth it.
In another reference to Wonko, you'll notice that his new posts are all about photoblogging from his fancy new phone that's effectively a camera that you can make calls and send sms's from. It is then that I realized that I hadn't gloated about my phone in a while. Not that anything new has been discovered on it but what I did do was ride in the metro with the earphones in listening Bela Fleck and Dave Matthews Band, making like the advertisement - I (sony) my long commute. The sad part is the Metro will take another few years to link South Delhi by which time I will either be out of here or dead due to over exposure to bhangra.
In other great ironies that plague my life, Petrol is apparently cheaper now and my car is too below the tropic of cancer for it to make any difference to my life.

Trauma and the like

Damn it's good to be on a keyboard again. And a nice Toshiba laptop at that. Now I'll let you all imagine that I struck gold for a bit. ... . I didn't it's a friend's who's kindly left for a two week trip to to Seattle to settle scores with certain gates that didn't let him through to whatever he wanted to do. And he plans to buy himself some slim, trim Vaio or some such. So here I am Toshiba-ing away. I can feel the beginnings of a bad Toshiba joke bubbling away but I'll spare my small but significant sane side the agony.
It's almost a month since I landed up in Chomland and my take on it sadly is unchanged. My Jane Goodall feeling persists as does my intense displeasure at the vagaries of the weather and the people. Had someone asking me a week ago if I'd learnt hindi from watching movies considering "in the south" they don't take too kindly to hindi. If only they knew what chom meant... So I had to politely in my stingiest voice point out that much as we might not like it we are taught the national language in school. I then proceeded to daydream about punching their shocked faces in.
C'est, they say, la vie.
But on the upside, summer's starting soon.
That's not the real upside, my pigeons, which according to Wikipedia incubate their eggs for 18 days are coming to the end of that period.
Which again reminds me of this nondescript shop at Kadrenhalli Cross in good old Bengalooru that had some emaciated, marinated birds boldly advertised as teetar tandoori. Now I'm not quite sure if that's a parrot or a pigeon and almost anyone I ask has a tendency to avoid answering the question by breaking in to song. You must have heard it, "teetar ke aage do teetar..." It's only the thought of June back home that's keeping my from going on to some homicidal rampage. For those of you who play chess and unreal tournament, the next time you play the board game, capture 6 or seven of your opponents pieces continuously and then in the deepest voice you have say, "killing spree". Thank you bash.org for that.
Ok to point of it all is that I've suddenly realised a few things. One, that trauma is a good place to be as long as you're on the other side if you get what I'm saying. Oh on a small aside, when I told someone that I was going to be working in trauma they asked me why I would encroach on a psychologist's territory. It took me a while to figure that a traumatized person needn't have been in an accident.
Back to the points in question. Trauma/ER shifts are excellent for many reasons. The whole I'm a surgeon, I save lives line that I borrowed from Grey's Anatomy and use to evoke alternating awe and disgust from the world at large, is largely true in the ER. The golden hour, though a fine theory, is rarely followed in the real world. Patients land up usually at 55+ minutes which as one can imagine gives us five or so minutes to do what we can. Which at least here is quite a bit.
The adrenaline rush apart, once the shift is done, there's absolutely no concept of a follow up. Which I love. Every shift has new patients, no wards where there's a chance of seeing patients for days or weeks on end, no discharges or case notes to constantly update and thus no boredom.
Yeah I'm insensitive.... Sue me.