The Grand Slam

The year 2006 AD shall be remebered for quite a few bizarre and memorable happenings ; George Bush being awarded the Nobel Prize for Peace, Osama Bin Laden, the erstwhile brand ambassador of terrorism, announcing his conversion to Buddhism and of course Trinidad & Tobago's stunning victory at the World Cup.

But there was one major happening which was quite forgotten in the hype surrounding the remaining events. Only a handful of people really know how close mankind had come to total world domination by a fearsome and power-hungry force (not counting Microsoft of course), for this was the year that the Earth was attacked by the Bugs, a race of ugly, stinky,ill-tempered,fowl mouthed (they possessed the unenviable talent of being able to speak with whole live chicken stuffed in their mouths) and not to mention hexapodal (half the population of the race was wiped out in a battle over the debate of whether to classifytheir second pair of limbs as hands or legs. This was after a rampant rebel group ran amok and committed a pesticide which decimated the population of the race ) alien creatures. Worst of all, they lacked any sort of table manners.

Well coming back to the point, the Earth was on the verge of a veritable conquest by a powerful alien force. The aliens, identifying the UN as the central power on the earth (boy, were they mistaken!) contacted a certain Kofi Annan, informing him of their wish to take over the Earth and subject its people to slavery. The UN was in a fix. They tried bargaining with the Bugs. An offer of 10 Billion Afgahns was made, which the Bugs flatly refused. They were not that ignorant when it came to currencies and exchange rates. After much haggling the two parties finally came to an agreement. The fate of the earth was to be decided over a game of tennis. (Tennis was indeed a popular game amongst the bugs)

Well...if the future of the Earth lay in the outcome of a game of tennis there was one man that humanity could bet its life on, Roger Federer. On a bright, cloudless morning when Roger was milking his prize cow he received a phone call from Mr Annan informing him of the situation. Roger, never shy to prove his mettle accepted the request without any complaints. The Bugs on heir part chose their own tennis hero, Magus Bugdatis, ten time winner of the Grab Slam.

The stage was set for the great battle. It was to played at the Mecca of human tennis, Wimbledon. This was after a suggestion by one of the world leaders of the possibilty of using bug-spray on the grass. Anyway, one concession that the humans had to allow was to play the match bug-style, where the players could use upto four rackets at a time. Federer on his part politely declined the offer, prefferring a lone Wilson racket. This proved to be disastrous as Bugdatis raced away to a 6-2 win in the first set. Federer fought back to tie the game through a tie-breaker in the second. (Largely because the bug couldn't help gloating after the first set). But much to the horror of all the poeple watching, Bugdatis came back with a bang (a great fart actually which left Federer shaken, actually more than shaken. He was blown off into the third row of the stands.) to win the second set 6-0. Federer couldn't even muster (remember him?) a single breakpoint. The humans in the audience were stunned. This was the end of the world. The bugs were taking over!

But Federer had other things on his mind. From the few points that he had won in the previous sets he had learnt that the bug had a very weak back-hand which was what he had to rely on. The trouble was getting the bug to use his back-hand when he had four hands (or should we say two hands and two legs) at his disposal. The idea was clear as crystal. What he had to do was to aim his shots at the bug's gigantic body, with its bulging abdomen and thorax. His plan seemed to be perfect for Federer won the fourth set 6-2. But the bug soon realised what Federer was aiming at and improved his game drastically in the final set. In the deciding fifth, neither player was able to win the all-important break of serve and the game was moving towards a tense finish. After five hours of a hard-fought battle the score stood at 10-10 in the fifth. The bug was beginning to enjoy this for Federer was obviously being worn out. If it came to a war off attrition it was pretty evident who was going to win the battle. Federer realised this only too clearly. He had to get the all-important break. It was the bug's chance to serve. 'This was it!' Federer thought. It was going to be now or never. Summoning all his strength Federer managed to achieve what neither player had managed in the last 20 games, a BREAKPOINT! What could possibly be better? Of course converting that point, which is exactly what he did. Now the task was pretty straightforward. He just had to hold his serve in the next game. Finally, after 5 hours and 22 mins, Federer was serving for the match with the score at 40-15. Mankind waited with baited breath. Well, you can always count on good old Roger to finish off the event in style, for he finished the game with a thumping ace which left the bug totally stunned and the humans still in control of their lives and destinies (actually maybe not) . The whole stadium filled with a deafening roar. "Roger, You're the Hero. The Saviour of the World!"

Roger Federer woke up woke up from his reverie with a jerk and stared at the computer in front of him. He shook his head and slammed his fist on the desk. (Boy! wasn't that a grand slam or what?) He got up and walked out of the room. Computer programming, and in particular debugging wasn't exactly his cup of tea.

The Laughing Mohammedan and The Art of Gardening

On a far off land, not so far away, there lived a man, surviving the cold rule of his masters. He was sent from the deserts of the middle east to this land, on deputation for 4 years, where the people were ruled by ten nitted dominions. A strange form of governance to which he was new. His mission- to learn the abnormal sciences which this land protected.

Time flew at the pace of a snail. The shadows of hope went dimmer and dimmer. Every year opened new lessons in the textbooks of ordeal. The primary year saw him enduring the persecution of the elders, who were soon to be his mentors. The physical pain was too much to bear and he believed all of them were mental. Nevertheless, ho thought, the years to come will give him something to smile about....

The secondary annum was not very different. The elders had grown close to him. He understood the true meaning of the trials through which he was put through. But oppression was one thing that would never leave him. This time it was his masters who were bent on breaking his back and the bone. To add to all this, the outbreak of the plague weakened him and killed his morals.

The tertiary term was no renaissance. Suppression continued and things just got worse. There seemed to be no hope in this desert of despair. He wandered in search of peace, serenity and most importantly, sanity. He saw only frustration around him. Thirsty for a smile, hungry for joy and craving for satisfaction, he continues his journey, into the ultimate year. And that opened the doors for change... A new beginning... A new height

The dawn of the new year was marked by a large bonfire in front of the abodes of topaz. Men danced around the ritual pyre in a frenzy. Merry was in the air, truly intoxicating, sending a certain pleasure through the nerves. The very thought of the year being the ultimate one was so very special that there was a sudden craving for new interests, to break all traditions and conventions. The Mohammedan was not just smiling, he was laughing out loud. A strange laugh...

"O ye pious Mohammedan! What has become of ye? Why in the name of the master of high above do ye indulge in this insane laughter? Which spirit of the underworld has possessed thy faculties?" asked a concerned voice.

"Nay! Fear not o ye pious soul! Or may I rephrase, for ye art not pious. Piety is a virtue for a soul as pure as milk, as sweet as honey, as gorgeous as a dolphin. But ye art not pious, for ye indulge yerself in wine and whine for pleasure of the flesh. Me art not pious either for I'm stained with the blood of submission, scar of pain and fire for rebellion. And now I have stepped into a new garden which fills me with desires unlimited."

"O ye Laughing Mohammedan! By the masters of ruthlessness! By the might of relative credentials! By the gods of frustration! In the name of all those hapless souls martyred in the path of righteousness, where do I find this garden of immense leisure?"

"Sire, follow me to the garden, where the light of red gives you powerful images of the unseen, where ye harvest from the herbs sowed in pots, where weed is as fruitful as the crop. Mate, follow me to the lamp of red power, where ye art the gardener, sowing potted plants. As ye sow, so ye reap!"

To Err... is Human...

Err… The baton has been passed. The colors of space have faded into the sunset.

From the depths of Core Dumps the Error has risen… The slanting beam of highlight from the sole Breakpoint that was hanging beside a loop cast an eerie shadow on his face beneath the veil of darkness. The face that stared at him held fear, desperation and dejection. Soon the news will spread far and wide. He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named has risen, at last, out of the infinite loop.

The Error laughed out with a loud beep. The Muggle gave a start. He desperately reached out for his weapons … F6, F7 and F8. But the loop went on. And with each loop the Error became all the more formidable.

A shadow lurked behind the pole on which the Breakpoint hung. The Error turned around swirling his black hood behind him. Wizards, he grinned ! He slowly raised his wand with his gloved left hand. “Avada-Kedavra”. A jet of green light shot out from the end of his wand and the Watchpoints lurking behind the shadows were wiped out permanently from the face of the compiler.

The Muggle was now crouching in fear. Begging for his sanity. It’s been two nights now without sleep, without food terribly in pain under the Cruciatus curse. He summoned his strengths and looked up to the Error… His trembling hand reached for the Debugger…

The Error’s face contorted with rage. His whole world went pixellated in front of his eyes. His eyelids drooped.

He desperately fought to keep out this feeling of being overwhelmed from his brain. His eyes focused on the Muggle form lying near him.

The Muggle’s hand went up to his forehead. The lightning shaped scar on his forehead was aching again. He looked up and saw fear in the eyes of the Error.

Ctrl+Esc.

A jet of green light shot out of the end of the wand the muggle held.

Light faded from the eyes of the Error… He smiled… The prophecy echoed in his head “...and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."

The colors of space...

As the upset and drowning individual whose name is unfortunately an anagram of what nobody likes to do said, the space is yet to unleash its true colors. I did not bother much with those words the first time I read them, but once I got a little inebriated, I wondered what he meant. Which space was he talking about? The blog space that has been created by mistake? If that is the case, then the color of that space is, of course, white (this is the color of the template chosen, again by mistake). Or was there some deeper meaning? Could it be Worldspace? Then the color would be… hmmm… blue, I guess, because I can’t think of any genre of music which is a color (unless you equate psychedelic rock purely with Pink Floyd). What other spaces are there? There is of course the Open Space that comes with every Sunday edition of the Times of India (though most people ignore it in favor of the cartoons at the bottom). What color is that? Black and white is what it used to be, but now the picture there is in color (actually just a combination of cyan, magenta, yellow and black). Going deeper, or rather higher through the atmosphere, we reach space. What is this space? What does it enclose? More importantly, what is its color? One could call it black. But is it? It might be the superficial color that is visible to mortals on a revolving rock who believe they are the culmination of the evolutionary process, but if the spectrum of vision is broadened, one can see a myriad of colors. From small dots of red sent as energy signatures from the distant stars (meaning they are moving away from us) to the pale blue circlets that are believed to be the boundaries of those massive galactic vacuum cleaners, space is like a wall that has been attacked by a cohort of kids armed with paint brushes. So if you want to experience the space unleashing its true colors go to an observatory and peer through some powerful telescope. Or check out some astronomy sites. Or just dip your peacock feather in some ink and clutter the white paper. Or just relax, recline and let the pigment made of the essence of one half of the Gods of psychedelia seep its way into cyberspace. Now what color is that, I wonder?