The MotoEmpire Strikes Back

I have a Moto story to share.

Dear reader, please ignore the obvious Star Wars  reference in the title. For now, let us travel not too far away,and to the not-too distant past, when "smart" and "phone" were two distinctly separate words, if memory serves me correctly. However, our ever evolving vocabulary had (and has) no choice but to keep pace with the rapid strides in science and technology, which was responsible for the combination of the two words into one, and spawning a massive multibillion dollar industry.

But wait; before we launch into yet another smartphone spec-fest, let me personalise it slightly, from the view point of the common man. To be very frank, I am relatively challenged when it comes to technology; through most of last year, I was quite satisfied with my QWERTY keypad-enabled 2009 model of a (hitherto) prominent Finnish mobile manufacturing giant. I had never felt the overarching need to carry around a mini-computer in my pocket, and was doing pretty well until life caught up with me.

You see, college had ended and I'd started working; thus began my affair with the life-blood of any professional organisation, the e-mail. And yes, critically important mails cannot wait until you can reach a computer terminal; staying connected at all (okay,most) times had just crossed the indistinct boundary from "luxury" to "need". I had no option but to surrender to the exponentially growing clan of smartphone users. I had one grouse, though; I did not want to drown in an ocean of irrelevant features and incessant notifications. I wanted technology to make my life easier, and not make it revolve around a bunch of pointless power-guzzling app-updates. Sadly, none of the phones at that point could cater to my whim.

This is when Motorola decided to launch its first generation Moto-E, the very competitively priced set that took the burgeoning smartphone market by storm. It had everything that I could wish to begin my voyage into the world of smartphones; it used the stock version of Android KitKat (No bloatware, yay!), had a brilliant display and a decent processor, fit snugly in one hand unlike most  sets that looked more like serving trays, excellent sound quality and yes, the feature that appealed to me the most, which was the spartan design; no obnoxious buttons cluttering the bottom portion; it was a shining example of pure, understated elegance.

However, did I buy it?
No.

There was one tiny thing that Motorola had missed out; a few of my friends were studying abroad, and to Skype with them, I needed a front camera on board the phone, which was absent. So I was left quite frustrated and was beginning to think of settling for a lesser, gaudier device, when finally The MotoEmpire Strikes Back, with the fabulous second generation Moto E; same price, slightly bigger (and still a comfortable fit in the hand and the pocket), the latest version of Android (Lollipop, and still no bloatware, yay!), an even more powerful processor and battery (points and laughs at the charger), customisable multicoloured bands and grip shells (should you wish to change the look of the device) and *drumroll* the front camera! Could it be any better? 

Yes it can; there is a 4G-enabled version to be launched soon in India. Still drooling? You don't have to wait for long, simply zip off to http://www.startwithmotoe.com/ and get the fun started right away.

Congratulations Motorola, in the never-ending quest for the perfect device, I believe you've hit the sweetest spot in the house. And this is why I'd like to begin my smartphone journey with the all new Moto E. 

  
                            Image courtesy:IndiBlogger/Motorola

Prisoner

I banged on the door. 

I screamed.

I cried.

I begged.

Someone. 

Anyone.

Please let me out.

Nobody heard me. 

Nobody came to help me.

Then again, it wasn't anyone's fault.

After all, my coffin was buried six feet under the ground.

Chain

                                                         

1. T H E  R U L E S

Hello.

I love games. You do, too?

Yay.

Anyway, the question was purely rhetorical, because I’m not interested whether you do or do not; this is my story and my choice rules the roost. And I want to tell you about my favourite game called Chain.

No, I didn’t make it up, and stop being so grumpy; it’s fun and by the time you finish reading, I’m sure you would want to join in.The game of Chain is exceedingly simple. All you need is a group of people who shy away from competitive tendencies, and have ample time and inclination to play this seemingly silly sport. 

She

                                                                             

A sunny day in London is as rare as a snowstorm in the Sahara. The normally turbid waters of the Thames join in the celebration; the sunlight skives off the surface and decorates the brightly painted hulls of the ferries in millions of ever-shifting patterns.

I take my usual table, slightly away from the Sunday crowds. This pretty little bistro affords a wonderful view of the river and the immortal bridge spanning it. It is owned by a Punjabi gentleman, a friendly fellow who made for wonderful conversation, while he sipped glass after glass of his favourite raw black tea. However, today being a holiday, he is busy tending to the needs of bratty obese children and their overindulgent mothers.

Traveller's Tales - II

Continued from here.


"And you see no one. You wet your pants and run screaming bloody murder, so that one day, you could relay it to unwilling strangers at airports," I finish it off.

He peers  at me with interest. "No,no,no....Heh....There was someone,  and he was quite alive."

I did not expect that. "Oh... who?"

Traveller's Tales - I

 It is past midnight. 

The only busy places at this time are highways and the trek route to Vaishno Devi.
However, I find myself on top of the night- traffic-volume pyramid, the international terminal of the Delhi airport. 

There are lots of other business travellers like myself. You can spot them easily enough, boarding passes peeking out of their breast pockets, and demeanours ranging from confident to weary, to the ones who are downright sick of globetrotting. 

My flight leaves at three thirty, and I have finished with my visa formalities and a not-so savoury sandwich from the food court; I park myself at my favourite spot, on one of the recliners bordering the spotless glass facade that overlooks the aircraft parking bays. This part is relatively less crowded; the glass is not enough to block out the collective roar of the jet engines outside.

Awards and Rewards

So I log onto this happy site one day and find Srishti at My Take has awarded me with the "Creative Blogger Award", although I must confess that I am more suited for the tag of an incorrigibly irregular blogger.


So Srishti, here is a big thank you, and a heartfelt apology for being so unfashionably late in acting on the necessary instructions, starting with thanking the blogger, complete with a link back to the blog. Fancy fancy.

Black and White

M a y,   1 9 7 8

The muddy water lapped quietly at my feet. Here was the grey,dank place, one of the numerous ghats bordering the Hooghly, where people disposed off the ashes of their dead kin. Here was the colourful, vibrant place that, come October, would morph into a hubbub of activity; scores of people would descend onto these very steps for the visarjan of Durga. In a very odd fashion, this place stood at a curious juxtaposition of life and death, and embraced both with open arms. One of the many quirks that made up the wonderfully congested bitter-sweet cocktail that is Kolkata. 

When Melbourne Met Magic, Literally!

"Anakie? That's the name?"

"Uh huh."

"You do realise that you've turned the story on its head?? I'm Cinderella! I go to the ball, dance with the prince, and hopefully get hitched to that hunk. And I need you to do all that magic jazz. Pumpkin carriages...glass slippers, the full package...How could you be so careless?? Honestly, what kind of a fairy godmother are you, if you've lost your wand??" 

"I didn't lose it, the Anakie imps stole my wand...Look, the more you argue, the more time we lose. The come-back-before-midnight law still holds good. I believe some of our kind live there, in Anakie.... in the fictional world of humans. The imps there are especially mischievous," The fairy godmother's patience was wearing thin,"You have to go, Cinderella, and fast. Remember, all the 'magic jazz' you ask of me depends on this."

A Christmas Quarrel

 For those who care,I have been MIA for quite some time, thanks to a very hectic schedule which has completely drained my creative juices. I do have plenty of unfinished stories waiting to be be posted, will be finishing them very soon.
This is a story which took probably an hour to write. Hope you like it. :)

The silence of the winter night was broken by the sound of my periodic scribbling as I tried to memorise yet another formula by jotting it down. For some inexplicable reason, and contrary to what is generally recommended, I avoid sleep the night before an exam, and instead spend those ungodly hours on some unnecessary revising, interspersed with ten minute power naps. Though there are no tangible benefits from such a practice, it provides me with the excuse that I couldn’t have prepared more, after I went through with the inevitable disaster in the upcoming exam. Of course, all this could be remedied if I studied sincerely the entire semester. Had I done that, I would have fared a lot better academically, plus I would not have had the singularly odd experience about which I write here.

The fact that it was Christmas Eve had entirely slipped my mind. Not that it mattered; I am not a very Christmassy person. I had a thermodynamics exam the following day; my vile university is as Un-Christmassy as I am, if not more. I had to write a three hour paper on the day the rest of the world stuffed themselves with plum cakes and wine and bawled carols.

Would I have eaten cakes and drunken wine if I did not have my exams?

Wings Of Fire

Dear Ruth,


               I know I should have written to you earlier, but its been really crowded here, with the sudden influx of arrivals. I think it is the single largest human migration in history after Moses and his epic march from Egypt, although the 'migration' in this case isn't exactly voluntary, as you know.


Ruth,look...please,please don't cry.... I want you to know that my death was virtually painless, honest. Granted, the element of surprise was there, but to be frank, I really don't know what I died from.... I'll hazard a guess that it was incineration. That my body was recovered and identified from the rubble was a miracle in itself, you see. It was like.... I was staring out the office window in fascination-turned-disbelief-turned-horror, and then bam! The screech of metal on metal, the shrieks...then everything goes black, and then I find myself here..... For a fleeting second I hoped it was a terrible dream, but nah.. as far as I remember, the worst of my nightmares involved me drowning in a glass of pineapple juice. Sometimes orange, for variety's sake.


But never this, Ruth....never this. And it sucks you know, being snuffed out just like that....  I certainly wasn't one of those people with a hundred dreams and umpteen ambitions...hell, the only things I had in mind were the weekend Knicks game, and our fancy Italian dinner date I'd planned...ah yes.... the place you told me about.... West 44th....Carmine's, isn't it? That's what I had in mind, it would have been such a splendid surprise for you.

The Quantum Conundrum

Firstly, this is not a post about science, but an attempt to narrate yet another quirky experience of mine in this wonderful city called Delhi.


Ready? 
Great!

Time to roll back the clock,children.

Second semester, and we'd just made the happy discovery that our syllabus included a course on quantum mechanics. However, nobody could have been more chuffed about it than my friend and batch mate Aman; he was positively brimming with glee at the prospect of digesting another bunch of arcane mathematical equations which every subject seems to reduce to. Bless him.

Mirage Of A Murder

Before I begin, I would like to make it very clear that whichever qualities I may possess, imagination is certainly not one of them. Rationalism and practical thinking pervade my life, leaving no space in mind for airy-fairy thoughts, pleasant or otherwise. One of my acquaintances is of the opinion that I could easily fall asleep in a horror movie, though I will not offer my views regarding that particular topic. To my insular outlook, any incident which cannot be explained and/or justified by the general laws of science did not occur at all. Such episodes are merely attention-garnering antics for those poor souls desperate for their five minutes of fame on some equally news starved media channel.

Nonetheless, one particular occurrence considerably rattled me, and forced me to question myself on my adopted stand on what people term as ‘paranormal’ or ‘supernatural’. Once again, I will state before you the bare facts of this singularly outlandish affair, without expressing any of my personal views, since I have none. You are free to judge, form your own theories, even doubt my sanity, and come to the conclusion of your choice. And if there is any feasible interpretation on your part other than branding me a hallucinating lunatic, please do feel free to let me know.

For the time being, plod on. Bizarre it may be, but by no means is it banal.

The Sound Of Music

Left was devastated.


Right was as good as dead. He could have never survived that fall; he was delicate, he was old but at least he had been with Left, standing staunchly with her. He was all she had cared for in their pitch black world...her husband, her support, her soulmate and her only friend. Right's voice had mesmerised her the first time they'd sung the Lionel Richie-Diana Ross duet for their obnoxious master.

Although both of them were blind, she had known that she had been married to the right mate; he sang beautifully, and they made a fantastic couple; a couple oblivious to the delightful sights that the world had to offer, but more than compensating for it with their all-encompassing love for each other, which brightened their days and warmed their hearts, so that they had never even stopped to wonder how it feels to be able to see.

Delhi Underbelly

The thirty minute auto ride from Nehru Place to Tughlaqabad Institutional Area was something that over the previous couple of weeks, I had learned to approach with caution, if not apprehension. In that relatively short period of time, I had rubbed shoulders with prostitutes, eunuchs and hordes of drug addicts drooling on my shoulder, all within the confines of the rickety three wheeled contraption.

The eunuch affair was particularly disturbing or downright hilarious, depending on your school of thought. They had trooped in, six of them, had grinned at me and had started bawling merrily, accompanied by cymbals and an occasional gesture in my direction, asking me to join the party. Maybe they were singing about their castration, but I did not ask. Somehow it didn't seem prudent.