Of Scraps, Resolutions,Shanti and Cows

Another year goes by (Well, it wasn't just another year by any stretch of the imagination) and yet another one dawns on us. So what, this much-hyped event is an annual activity, isn't it? Anyway, for the benefit of all those wretched souls who partaked of the onerous task of mass-scrapping their ever-so-heart-felt new year wishes to all their orkut friends, I wish all the readers of this darned document a zany and zealously zestful (zzzz...) new year (Sorry, I am just too lazy to open my orkut scrapbook and dig out better epithets). We are truly in the midst of a phenomenon and thanks to such delightful (every possible pun intended) scraps, as Dubey very shrewdly conceptualized after his day-long jam-filled hunger-stressed journey, we will soon start ignoring scraps like forwarded mails. A humble request to the credulous mass-scrappers - Please take me off your friend lists prior to every holiday/celebration and spare me the excitement of getting a new scrap fizzled out by the unseemly sight of a glittering greeting followed by HTML gibberish in smaller font.

So much so for orkut and its ever-deluding pyrotechnics. 2007 was a shocking year, to say the least, for me. Anyway, the start of a new year comes with its customary resolution-making spree. It is this time of the year that all obese daddies and mummies pledge to cut down on those evil fats, all nocturnal homo sapiens (IITians happen to be a subcategory of this hallowed class) decide to become early birds and go jogging, all men plan to join gyms, all women vow to diet and all corporate workaholics conclude that it is high time they start spending more time with their neglected families (You can shamelessly grin if you belong to any of these categories). Well, even yours truly has made up some resolutions for this year, which are either too stupid to mention in public or too arcane for the world to understand (Ahem!). However, I am going to let one cat out of the bag. 2007 came with only 13 of my blog-posts (thats just about a post a month - a very poor strike rate indeed (No, Mr. Rahul Dravid, I have still not stooped to depths touched by you). Barring February (when I had a bout of blogosis and exhibited symptoms of why-cant-you-shut-your-mouth-enza) and June, the number of blogs in every month could be counted using digits of the binary number system. To remedy this malaise, I hereby proclaim (much to the chagrin of my innocuous readers, who must be wondering what on earth they did to warrant such a torture), that I shall blog more often than not. With flashy Google-Ads adorning this page (not yet, but soon) and the Current-Read and Last-Read columns showing some regular updations (Did I say that I plan to read more?), I hope the visitor counter will run more like The Prince of Kolkata's scorecard than The Wall's.

Offlate, I've been a subject of much criticism and "cut-your-crap"-isms on account of my affinity towards a certain Miss Padukone and a certain movie which has garnered Rs. 94 crore as box-office collections. Well, I would not use my blog to argue my case. On second thoughts, I rather will. All those ridiculing me for my vociferous wallpaper downloads can consider themselves kicked out unceremoniously from my will (through which someone lucky may bequeath a rich collection of Shanti's wallpapers) and all those who did not like OSO are requested to consult an orthopaedist at the earliest and get their funny-bone diagnosed. Talking of films, TZP is one ripper of a classic from Aamir Khan. Hats off, Director Aamir and Actor Darsheel Zafary.

The actual definition of "Wall-Paper" - Location: Yours truly's room

To round off this rather indiscriminate blog (TOI readers may pardon any resemblance to Jug Suraiya's editorial columns), I would narrate a small story my grandfather told me a few days back. Though the story is rather small, it carries a wealth of meaning. There was once a seventeen year old boy who had a cow in his house. When the cow gave birth to a calf, the boy started on a daily exercise regimen of carrying the calf on his shoulders and running a mile. Carrying a ten kilogram calf is no big deal for a seventeen year old. But a calf gains weight at a much more rapid pace as compared to most species. Within an year, the calf had turned into a 40-kg dumb-bell with four legs. And the eighteen year old boy could run a mile carrying the forty kilogram payload. The slow insinuation of toughness in the boy's habits made the increase in capacity a cakewalk. It would've been virtually impossible for him to directly run a mile with forty kilograms weighing down on his shoulders. A slow insinuation of virtue can ultimately turn it into a habit. (Are the sundry resolution-takers paying any attention?). Darn, why didn't I own a cow when I was seventeen?