The Auto-podal Tow and Other Phenomena on Indian Roads

Updated 7 Dec 2008: Ashutosh Mehra, my friend from back in college, also blogged about autorickshaw antics in India, and you can see an actual picture of the autopodal tow in action.

After a week on Indian roads, I wonder:

1. That people are actually able to get anywhere at all, and
2. That I actually drove on these roads when I lived here.
   

Many Indian cities now have three lane roads — the right lane meant for use by two-wheelers like motorbikes, the middle lane for cars, and the left lane for trucks. Such traffic rules, of course, are blissfully ignored. In fact, two-wheelers occupy all three lanes of the road, drive on the sidewalks when possible, and squeeze in between larger vehicles at every opportunity. Cars and trucks, on the other hand, tend to straddle the line dividing two lanes.

Two-wheelers always make their way to the front of the traffic light at every intersection, like the vanguard of some randomly assembled army. Somehow, they always know when the light is going to turn green. Ironically, though, two seconds before the light turns green, these modern day cavaliers dash through the intersection, thereby making it a fatal strategy to try and rush through a yellow light in India.

Auto rickshaws, which are, as far as I know, a uniquely Indian mode of transportation, commit so many transgressions on Indian roads that the subject deserves its own library of work. But among the more entertaining of these is what I call the auto-podal tow, wherein the driver of one auto-rickshaw gets behind the rickshaw that needs a tow. He then sticks out his foot and pushes the other rickshaw forward, while driving his own. Significant distances are thus covered. This feat of supreme agility is performed with much nonchalance, while taking up as much width of the road as possible. Often, the drivers of the two auto rickshaws can be found engaged in conversation, oblivious to the honking of the other riders stuck behind their coupled vehicles.

In Chennai, the auto-rickshaws are equipped with fare meters, but not a one of the meters is actually used. Fares are agreed upon by the driver and the passengers beforehand. I read somewhere that auto-rickshaws have less power than a high-end lawnmower. That, by itself, may not seem significant, until you also know that a single auto-rickshaw is regularly used to transport up to five grown men, or a dozen schoolchildren, or the entire livestock of a small village.

Mt Adams, WA: Trip Report

Date:	14 July - 15 July, 2007
Attendees:	Shashank, Manjunath and Sunder
Trail:	South Climb (starting at Cold Springs campground)
Elevation reached:	11,500 ft. out of 12,276 ft.

First, the pictures:


Next, the report:

We first stopped at the Mt Adams Ranger Station at about 2pm. There, we bought Cascades Volcano Passes, which also served as our Wilderness Permit to go above 7,000 ft. on Mt. Adams. We next drove to the Cold Springs campground (5,000 ft.) at 3:15pm on Friday. The campsite is in the Mt. Adams recreation area, just off Hwy 141 in Trout Lake, Washington. We parked right next to the South Climb trailhead. It took us about 1.5 hours to get our packs set up, after which we set off (5pm).

Sunder took off ahead on the trail, like a mountain goat. Carrying heavier packs, Manjunath and I were slower. I was practically walking on all fours, stooped by the pack-mule sized load on my back. I felt thankful I had my hiking poles. The trail is well-marked up to an elevation of about 7,000 ft. after which the mountain slope gets mostly rocky. We climbed for about 2.5 hours, and gained an elevation of about 2,500 ft. At this point, I called a stop, since there wasn't much daylight left, and I know its not a pleasant experience setting up camp at night. I was a bit worried, since we were mostly above the tree line, and it was real windy. We set up our tent anyway, next to a clump of rocks and brush.

We decided to cook dinner inside our tent: a potentially dangerous thing to do, when dinner involves burning propane inside a tent made of inflammable material. But, we were exhausted and starved. And, as I mentioned earlier, it was too windy outside to light a fire, let alone keep it going. Dinner was a rather sorry affair, involving some chicken noodle soup, and spring vegetable mix. Note to self: next time, spend more than two minutes at the grocery store to pick up food for the hike.

We tried to get some sleep after dinner, but the wind kept up all night, rocking our tent. It made me wonder if it might have been a better idea to camp at a lower elevation, below the tree line. On our way up, we met people who did so. But, as we found out later, we probably camped at the best possible altitude.

We set an alarm for 4am the next morning. We woke up on time, made breakfast (oatmeal and hot cocoa) and broke camp. We left our tent standing after placing rocks inside. We packed light daypacks, and left the rest of our stuff in the tent. We headed out at about 6am (late!). Within an hour, we reached the snow line. We put on our crampons and trudged up the snow. We hit Lunch Counter at about 9am. Lunch counter is a flat expanse of land at about 9,000 ft. I was surprised by the number of people who had camped here -- it was way windier up here.

At this point, Pike's Peak, the false summit of Mt Adams was becoming prominently visible at the top of a huge, steep glacier. Our task now was to trudge up this face of the mountain for an elevation gain of 2,500 ft. Climbing up a steep incline of snow and ice at a high altitude is a very exhausting, yet unique, experience. At an elevation of 10,000 ft., there really aren't too many obstacles in your line of sight. Every time I stopped to take a breath, I could see the green valleys of the Pacific Northwest stretch out as far as the eye could see, punctuated by Mounts Hood and St. Helens in the distance. Shafts of sunlight pierced the clouds, selectively lighting the valley floor below.

I was afraid we might have problems with the high altitude. But even at 10,000 ft., the worst I experienced was being a bit out of breath, which could simply be exhaustion. And exhausted we were. I focused on settling into a rhythm with my breathing, and climbing. I decided to take 50 steps and then pause for a breath for about 10 seconds. This strategy really helped, and soon, I was feeling energetic. I was also helped by the fact that I was literally walking in the footsteps of others. The hardened ice made stepping easier.

By about 11am, I reached Pike's Peak, the false summit of Mt Adams, at 11,500 ft. Sunder had made it to the top about 10 minutes earlier. But he was completely exhausted, since he went off course, and used up a lot of energy to get back on trail. Moral: Follow the crowds up the glacier. I was raring to go on. The real summit was in plain sight from where I stood, just another steep incline about 800 ft. tall. Manjunath too reached the false summit. But just then, out of nowhere, clouds moved in, reducing visibility substantially. There was also the possibility that they could be storm clouds. At this time, we decided to turn back. We did see others who continued on to the summit.

Going down Mt Adams is a tricky affair. There were those who hiked up with their skis and snowboards. They just skied or snowboarded down gracefully. The rest of us had to either walk down the steep icy face of the mountain, or slide down it ('glissading'). We chose to do the latter, since that would be faster. But boy, was that a bad idea. I did not realize how much speed you can gain sliding down the snow, even using the ice-ax to break my slide. At one point, I was sliding too close to the rocks on one side of the glacier, and I ended rushing straight into them. I was lucky I ended up hurting only my elbow and not my head. After that, I decided I would walk down the whole slope, no matter how long it took.

Going down Mt Adams is tricky also because there are many snowy slopes down and they all look the same. I took the right path all the way back to our camp. But Manjunath and Sunder were not so lucky. They arrived at our tent almost a hour after me, after making a few wrong turns. Tip: as you go up the mountain, keep looking back occasionally, so you know which way you came. We broke up our tent and headed down the mountain by about 3pm. We reached the trailhead by about 5pm, completely sore and exhausted.

In summary, it was a really good first high-altitude mountaineering experience. We went at pretty much the best time. The weather was agreeable mostly. There was a crowd on the mountain, and that was actually a good thing, since I learned from watching others.

Silicon Valley: First Impressions

About two weeks ago, I moved to Mountain View, California from Boston, MA. I am starting a new job at a startup here. I live in an apartment complex in Mountain View with James, my new roommate. When I mentioned to a friend in Boston that James was Asian, the first thing he said was that James and I'd be like Harold and Kumar. James has a pet hamster, Dottie. Dottie, being nocturnal, spends hours at night going round and round the hamster wheel in his cage. It cracks me up every time he puts his head out of the wheel to see if he's actually gotten somewhere. I can almost see the disappointment when he realizes he's just where he started. He keeps doing it anyway.

I had barely reached California before I had my first run in with the law. James drove me to a bike shop on historic El Camino Real, where I bought a new road bike. With great enthusiasm, I started biking back to my apartment less than a mile away. I had hardly gone half-way, before I was stopped by a cop for running a red light. Fortunately, the man let me go without a ticket, but not before first verifying that the shiny new bike was indeed mine, and not stolen.

Everything is pretty much the same out here on the West Coast, but with little differences. You have the same stores, fast food chains, etc. I walked into a Target store that was so similar to the one in Somerville - down to the arrangement of the aisles - that I could walk around the store blind-folded. But instead of Stop & Shop on the East Coast, you have Safeway here. Thankfully, Trader Joe's is here too.

The one big bonus of moving to the Bay Area was an immediate and drastic positive change in the weather. I am still getting used to the fact that every day can be nice. I wake up to cloudless, blue skies every day. I am also getting used to zipping up and down US Highway 101, the backbone of Silicon Valley. Speaking of Silicon valley, I had a mini culture shock upon my arrival. Driving on Segways, playing volleyball at lunch, lava lamps on everyone's desk, free snacks and soda at the workplace -- all seem to be the norm here.

There are also many more immigrants of all stripes here. Driving a rental car on Sunday, I noticed groups of (illegal?) immigrants waiting around for work on El Camino Real. Oakland seems to have a noticeable black population (as opposed to Silicon valley, where I have seen none). But mostly, I was struck by the profusion of Indians here. Specialty Indian restaurants, Indian TV channels, dyed in the wool Punjabi cab drivers, middle-aged Indian men and women strolling down the streets in saris and dhotis, the sound of Indian-accented English, apartment complexes completely rented by Indians, etc. made me realize how much fewer Indians there are in Boston.

Pink Floyd & I: The End of A Relationship

"Leave ... but don't leave me."

Breathe, Dark Side of The Moon (1973)

This is a re-post of an article on my earlier homepage from sometime in 2004.

It was with great sadness that I recently ended my one and only meaningful relationship. For the same reason many relationships end: I outgrew my love for The Band That Barrett Built (and left).

Goodbye, Pink Floyd. Its time to take down the great gig In the sky. There will always be a special place in my heart for you. But I think its best that I move on. There was a time in my life when I spent days thinking only about you, and the beautiful music you made. I would keep talking about you, to anyone who cared to listen. In hindsight, I was blinded by love, and I failed then to see your shortcomings. I remember once reading someone call your lyrics trite. Oh, the blasphemy! At the time, I was furious, lost for words even. But now I see there was some truth in that criticism.

Our relationship has served its purpose, and now I must move on. There won't be another like you, but all good things must come to an end. I hope there is someone out there who loves you more than I ever did, though I doubt it.

OK, what do I really mean? Well, for a start, I have left behind the time when I listened to the entire Division Bell album (or Wish You Were Here, sometimes) every day. Occasionally, multiple times in a day. Secondly, I started to critically listen to Pink Floyd's music, instead of simply worshiping every song they ever produced. I can now admit that Pow R. Toc H. is an awful song, even though its an early. So were most songs on The Final Cut. However, I will punch you in the face if you talk nasty about Dark Side of The Moon.

Sleepless in Somerville

Its 1.30am. I get into bed. Every bone in my body screams out in relief. I am surprised. I didn't know I was tired. But now I feel weary as all get out. Must get sleep.

Its around 2.15am. I know because my notebook's screensaver came on sometime ago. Its set to start after a half hour of inactivity. It makes dull, pink patterns on the walls, and on the ceiling. I am still trying to sleep. But my mind is still too active. Its that new gaming rig I want to buy. I spent all evening researching it, and I am stoked.

2.30am. I had almost crossed over into sleep, but I am roused back up. A car alarm just went off. That is just great. Exactly what I need for sound sleep.

2.35am. The car alarm is still going off. It seems to be coming from a side street a couple of apartments down the street from mine. Its monotonous wail has not only snatched away what sleep I was slipping into, but now I am irritated. Irritation is not good for sleep.

Suddenly, I hear what sounds like a gunshot, accompanied by a flash of light. My heart starts pounding. Irritation has been replaced by fear. Someone shouts, "Get in the house!". A female voice responds, indistinct to me. "Get in the fucking house", the first voice screams again. I want to lean out the window and see what's happening, but I am afraid I will catch a stray bullet to the head. Sleep is a distant memory now. Second gunshot rings out. "Holy shit!", I am thinking. I hear my roommate stir in the other room.

A cop car, and some fire trucks are approaching the scene, as is evident from the flashing red and blue lights, and the distinctive sirens. Now, I am a bit emboldened. I lean out the window, and I can see smoke rising from that side street. I see a fireman standing nearby. From my partially obstructed view, I can also make out shadows of men moving about on the street. More activity.

I hear my roommate going out to investigate. He comes back, and I find out that a car parked on that street caught on fire. Each "gunshot" was apparently the sound of a tire popping from the heat. And the neighbor wanted his son to stay in the house, while he tried to make sense of what the hell was going on. That accounted for the shouting. But why the fuck did the car catch fire? I don't know. Arson, maybe? Faulty electricals?

Whatever the fuck it was, it made sure I am not getting any more sleep for a few more hours. At least I have a reason to get up late tomorrow. And yeah, its 3am now. Wish me good night.

Berkshire Camping Trip

I haven't posted in a while. I have been out most weekends, and last weekend was a particularly sweet one. I was out camping in the Berkshires in Western Massachusetts, and I went tubing for the first time. Tubing is pretty fucking sweet. I also saw the Boston Symphony Orchestra (BSO) in concert in Tanglewood (Lenox, MA). Check out pictures from the camping trip here:

Berkshire Camping Trip

Aug 8, 2006 - 17 Photos

Adventures with Brian Dean

Brian and I visited his parents' in upstate New York over the weekend. Upstate New York knows - Saratoga Springs in particular - knows how to party, let me tell you. Not many pictures from that time, sorry, since I was pretty hammered myself. But it was also a nice holiday, with a backyard pool, barbecue, and badminton games.

A week before that, I visited Brian's place in New Bedford, where he hosted a party. The next day, over very pleasant rum smoothies, I ripped some music from Brian's unterminably huge CD collection ...

Update: It appears that pictures of Brian that I posted here and on my Tabblo webpage are being misused. So, I am taking down all pictures of Brian and his family that I posted online. Brian, I really apologize for the inconvenience.

Earthfest (May 2006)

Earthfest happened on May 28, 2006 at the Esplanade in Boston.  It was a good time ... See my Tabblo>

A Visit to Needham Appraisal, Cambridge, MA

I mentioned previously that my car was involved in a collision -- guy on a motorbike rear-ended me. My insurance company recommended a place where I could get an appraisal for the damages to my car. So I go to this place on Massachusetts Avenue in Cambridge: Needham Appraisal.

Needham Appraisal is run by two aged Italian men, who I will call Vinny and Tony. They were the kind who apply more olive oil to their hair than you need to run an Asian massage parlor. Mind you, they were nice guys. Vinny was sitting at a computer, playing hangman, and Tony was smoking. In fact, Tony didn't stop smoking for the whole duration I was there (about half an hour), not even to talk.

I noticed the hangman game that Vinny was deeply engrossed in. He wore thick glasses, with thicker frames, and was peering into a thick dictionary open in front of him. The partially completed word in the game was:

_ A _ A I S T

I knew immediately what the word was, but he apparently didn't. He was down to two chances, and he still had about half the alphabet unused. Sweat was pouring down his forehead. Shit was tense. I said, "Try 'D'". He looked up from the computer at me with a mixture of hope and suspicion. He wiped the sweat off his brow, and entered "D" in, not having a better option. After about a good second, the computer said, "You Win! DADAIST is the correct answer!" At that, Vinny jumped up, exultant, took my hands in his, and pumped them in gratitude, shouting repeatedly, "Thank you! You saved my life!" I was bemused. I was thinking, "Dude, its only a game of hangman!"

Tony was apparently the appraiser. I led him out to my car, and he came, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and a camera from his neck. He walked around my car and took pictures. Tony was not only old, he also looked so frail he could be on the endangered species list. I was afraid the flash from the camera might shock him into a stroke, and indeed make him extinct. Somehow, that didn't come to pass, and I drove away with my car appraised.

Birthday blues, again

I turned 25 this week. I previously wrote about how birthdays are not exactly a time for celebration as I see them. This one is particularly not. Turning 25 is depressing. You'll start putting on weight even if you eat just a carrot a day, you'll start losing hair where you want them, and gaining hair where you don't. You are not exactly "young" anymore. If you're Indian, your parents might greet you on arrival with a "suitable girl", whom you've never met before, but whom you're supposed to marry anyway. Not to mention your relatives, who, you suddenly find out, number in the millions.

Recently, I had the distinctly painful experience of calling 911 again -- the second time in less than a month. The reason this time: a guy on a Suzuki motorbike rear-ended my car. I had taken my bike (bicycle) out to get to work that day, but it had a flat tire (yes, again). So, I put the bike back in the garage, and drove the car. According to my insurance agency, since I was not liable, I don't need to pay "anything". But the pain of getting the car appraised, filing police reports, talking to insurance agents, and getting the actual damage fixed is payment enough. And my parking ticket count stands at 7, since March. It feels like my life is an object lesson in how everything that can go wrong will go wrong.

Shashank's tech speculation for the month: Google Photo from Google (gPhoto is already taken) -- an easy to use web application for hosting photos ala flickr -- that ties in with Picasa (which Google acquired) and the rest of Google's growing suite of web applications. This is hope, more than speculation, brought on by my frustration with the upload limits on flickr's free accounts, which flickr treats like an anemic stepchild. I uploaded about 8 photos (each about 2 Mb) at the beginning of this month, and I can't upload anymore for this month! That is ridiculous, considering that with Google's Gmail (and many other email providers), you can send potentially unlimited numbers of emails of size 10Mb each. Bad, bad, flickr.

Viva la France!

Updated with better layout.

I finally got my fix of France. I visited Paris from May 10 through May 14. I stayed at a youth hostel in the lively Montmartre district. A few blocks from my hostel is the seedy red light district of Pigalle, with the legendary cabaret: Moulin Rouge, and about a thousand sex shops. With some guys I met at the hostel, I ventured out to Pigalle every night of my stay, and took in the sights, smells and sounds, among them a million hookers, and the Museum of the Erotic -- which turned out to simply be a very, very big sex shop, with inhouse hookers. If nothing else, I had some fine pastry in one of the boulangeries, which are inexplicably numerous in Pigalle. Sex and pastry go well together, apparently...

Arun (seen here at the Arc de Triomphe), who goes to school close to Stuttgart, kindly flew out to Paris for the duration of my visit, so I had good company. Arun and I went to Versailles, which turned out to be a pretty unremarkable visit.

I was initially a bit intimidated as I had heard of how Parisians are famously derisive of people who don't speak French. Dom had told me of his French experience: he was in Paris for a total of 10 minutes and he managed to get punched in the face by a Frenchman, apparently for cutting a line at the airport. After the first two nights, I was beginning to feel right at home in Paris, riding the Metro like a pro, ordering at restaurants, and using my French vocabulary of about 5 words (fromage, merde, parlay, vous, anglais) with great flourish; it was all cool. Then, I stepped on this guy's toes in a crowded Metro train, and bam--he punched me in the back. So much for the friendliness. Luckily he got off soon enough, and it didn't turn any uglier.

Shashanka (seen here at the Eiffel tower with others from the hostel), who was also in Paris for a conference, connected with us in the evenings. We visited the usual tourist destinations: the Eiffel tower (spectacular), the Arc de Triomphe (imagine Delhi's India Gate, only bigger), the Notre Dame (yet another church), the Louvre (more art than you want, notwithstanding the Mona Lisa), among them. We also tried the local cuisine (French Onion Soup, roast duck, poulet roti etc.), although it was virtually impossible to get any service from the highly incompetent waiters at the cafes in Paris. The lazy bastards know they have crazy job security, and they work as little as possible.

The Eiffel Tower, in black and white. Quite easily the single most spectacular thing I have seen. Courtesy my Canon Powershot S2 IS.

Finally, my hostel. The most favorable thing I can say about it is that it had character. I booked a 3-bed dorm online, but I was assigned to a 6-bed dorm, which was about the size of a matchbox. The shower was basically a hole up in the wall from which water trickled, if it felt like it. The upper bunk beds were so creaky and loosely made that just breathing while lying down on them made them swing like Frankie Manning. Room service lost my towel on the first day. Lesson learned: never take a towel the same color as the hotel towels. In summary, if you are going to stay in Paris, the pompously named le Village is not the best option for you. On the upside, the other 5 occupants of my room were these winsome British girls who didn't think anything of changing in front of me. Not that I complained.

Gothika

So, I can bet that most of you didn't have half as exciting a weekend as I had. After all, how many of you almost got arrested for driving a 250-pound, drunk Goth woman on Saturday, and then biked 50 exhausting miles on Sunday?

It all started on Saturday evening. I met my friend Brian and Kara, his friend from church, at Christopher's -- a rather good restaurant/bar in Somerville. Kara is middle-aged, a former Goth, and a born-again Christian. She seemed to be clinging to her Gothic roots, in costume at least. When I shook hands with her, I was pricked in at least 50 different places because of all the spiky ornamentation she had covering every square inch of her hands.

Kara was pretty smashed by the time I joined them. She claimed she could drink anybody under the table. "I'm half Irish, and half Scottish", she claimed. However, within the hour, we were asked to leave Toad (next door to Christopher's), because Kara passed out near the restrooms. So much for her illustrously capacious heritage, I thought. It was decided by all gathered, that she should be taken home, before further damage to public property could occur. It took five grown men to finally put her in the backseat of my car. It was about midnight then.

At this point, Brian and I just wanted to get her home, and go back to Toad, where the music was pretty good, although our exit from Toad was quite embarassing. But Fate deemed otherwise. Kara had had at least 10 drinks that night (some Sex on the Beach, many Dirty Bastards). Halfway to her place, however, what I had been dreading all along transpired. She started getting sick. Real bad. She puked all over herself. And then on my backseat. Brian and I groaned. I decided I couldn't let her vandalize my car anymore, her wellbeing be damned. Did I mention that I am a heartless son of a bitch? So, I pulled up to the curb, and asked her to finish her business outside the car. In retrospect, that was a bad idea.

Kara managed to open the car door, but instead of stepping on to the curb, she just fell out of the car. Afraid to see what actually happened to her, we stepped out too, and went around curbside. Kara, all 250-pounds of her, was stuck in between the rear wheel of the car and the curb. If I moved the car front, she would be crushed. I couldn't move the car back either, because the backdoor, which was open, would then smash her face. And she was still going strong with the puking. I can only imagine what it looked like to passersby: A stopped car with its hazard lights on. A rather sick, obese woman dressed in black, stuck beneath the rear wheel, and two men trying to pull her out of there.

This went on for some time, after which Brian and I realized the futility of trying to move our very drunk Gothika. I decided to call 911. A trooper showed up soon enough, and first thing he did: give me a sobriety test. I had to walk in a straight line, follow his fingers with my eyes, stand on one foot, and count up to an unspecified number. He actually let me go after I got to 55. I had just had a couple beers, so I was sufficiently sober. But the irony of possibly being arrested for drunken driving while trying to help another drunk didn't escape me.

Mr. Trooper had also called for an ambulance, so help was on the way. But the stupid ambulances kept missing the exit ramp just past us, and the nearest exits in either direction were about 3 miles. So, I saw two ambulances go past us on the adjacent highway, only to get to us about a half hour later. In the meanwhile, our drunk lady companion had regained a semblance of consciousness. Not coherence, though. She started flipping the finger at the trooper, and his car, and asked him to "shut those blinding fucking lights off". To his credit, the cop retained his composure. I am not sure I would be so kind to her if I were him.

Finally, one ambulance arrived. Another cop car actually had to "escort" this ambulance to the right exit, to get to us. Fantastic. By this time, Kara was actually able to move, and hallelujah... she rolled over to the curb, leaving my car free! I had half a mind then to just drive the fuck away from all of this. The EMT team had one look at her, and knew she was good to go. Considerately enough, they gave me some sheets, and a towel, to spread over my backseat, in case of further spillage. But it was too late. My car was already smelling like Calcutta after the rains.

The two cops, the two EMT guys, Brian and me lifted Kara back into my car. I thanked the cops, and the EMT guys, and then wasted no time in driving Kara to her place. Brian and I drove to my place in silence. At my place, we got some Lysol and some cloth, and tried to clean the puke on the backseat. This was at 2.30am. A cop car doing the rounds slowed down past us, twice. I am sure they were nonplussed by two guys wiping the stains of something off the backseat of a car late at night. Fortunately, they didn't stop to ask. I won't bother you with the nightmares I had while I slept that night.

The next day, Sunday, was infinitely less fucked up, although it was tiring. I biked to Lake Cochituate with my roommate Yves. It was a good 25-mile ride each way. Confirming that my life is basically an illustration of Murphy's Law, my bike's rear tire punctured about 2 miles from the lake. And this after I had changed the tube just two days previously. Fortunately, there was a bike shop not far from the lake where Yves found a patch kit, and we patched the bike up. Somehow, the patch held on the bike ride home. Strange.

Little Grey: Big pussy

Little Grey: Big pussy, originally uploaded by shashankr.

I live with three cats; three cats with the most unimaginative names ever: Blackie, Little Grey, and Big Grey.

Funnily enough, Little Grey is the biggest pussy of the three, figuratively speaking of course. The slightest disturbance will send her flying to hide in the basement.

Notice in the picture how she is trying to blend into the grey carpet, as I try to get her picture with my new camera.

Little Grey has gotten friendlier with me over time, though. She now deigns to let me pet her head on occasion. I love her, too.

If You're Thinking of Flying (Economy), Think Again

Judging from the last few posts, it seems like my blogging instincts are best triggered when I travel. I am starting to write this on my flight to India. Just a few hours back, I stepped onto the plane in Boston and took one of the cramped seats in economy with no legroom, with armrests that wouldn't move. As I strapped my seat belt on, I had ominous visions of being strapped on to an electric chair. Why, it soon became clear.

I had developed a cold yesterday. Now, this cold was the kind that gives you a running nose: a nose that runs more copiously than the Nile. I purchased three Kleenex packs, and sure enough, by half the flight, I had run through two of them. This cold was also the kind that gives you headaches and body-aches. Add that type of thing when you are trapped in a seat and can barely move, and the results are lethal: in fact, Guantanamo would be a breeze after this. If you want your terrorist to talk, expose him to common cold, strap him onto one of the economy seats on an international flight, and let him fly for, may be, two days. See if he doesn't spill his guts out.

I started feeling feverish after a while. I feared I might have contracted the bird-flu. As I fitfully slept, I had nightmares of waking up and coughing and spraying blood and viruses all over the other passengers, and then being quarantined in Amsterdam. I also realized I had to take a crap. Blame it on my stern upbringing, or call me stuck-up (as it were), but I am one of those squeamish folks who simply can't go in an airplane. So, in addition to my already nightmarish situation, I was now constipated. Just peachy.

Flying to India is like the journey of Moses and his people to the land of Canaan. Its long, arduous, and a great test of resilience. The Jews at least had their manna from heaven. All I got was undercooked schezuan chicken. My flight schedule looked like this: 8-hr flight to Amsterdam from Boston, 3-hr stopover; an 8-hr flight from Amsterdam to Mumbai, and then a stopover for 6.5-hrs; finally, a 2-hr flight to Bangalore. That's over 26 hours in transit.

Having reached Amsterdam without actually dying, or killing other people with my bird-flu virus, I was feeling a tiny bit better. Optimistic even, that with the worst behind me, I would make it. But my heart sank to the floor as I entered the KLM flight to Mumbai. The legions of seats were even more cramped than those on my earlier flight, if that were possible. It's like KLM decided to treat people flying to India (which translates to: Indians, mostly) a bit differently on their flights. The earlier flight at least had individual TV screens. The "in-flight entertainment" on this plane, however, consisted of images beamed onto the wall in front of the first rows of seats from a projector. What are we, in the 70's? Why this disparity, I ask the airlines.

I was feeling slighted (by the conditions on the plane), and debilitated (by the cold). Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, my ear, which was acting up because of the cold, started hurting as the plane changed altitudes. This was not the dull, throbbing pain I very rarely get when I have problems with air pressure at higher altitudes. This was like someone took a screwdriver and inserted it into my right ear to see how far it would go. Within minutes, involuntary tears were running down my face. I felt this urge to unbuckle myself, and storm out of the plane. Just as I reached the limits of my tolerance to pain, the hurting stopped. I collapsed, as much as that was possible, back into my seat, and almost passed out. I then slept -- long and hard. I woke up and was deaf in the right ear. As I write this, hearing has still not returned to my right ear.

As we approached Mumbai, I suddenly started feeling a sense of camaraderie with my fellow travelers: we had made it together! Then, I realized: it was not all over yet. I had the return journey in a couple of weeks. Best not to think of it until I had to experience yet. If I have my way, I will never again fly. At least, not economy.

Oh, Canada

Its been a while since I last blogged. Not that I have a dedicated readership that's waiting with bated breath for my next post. It seems like my posting frequency has somehow found a happy equilibrium: a post a month. That suits me fine.

I am currently sitting at Boston's Logan International Airport, waiting to go to Ottawa, Canada, where I have my visa interview on Monday. The plan is to hang in Montreal, Canada over the weekend. By all accounts, Montreal is the bomb. An airline attendant at Logan said its a "Paris of sorts... except for the Eiffel Tower". Well, I'm going to find out first hand. I am looking forward to have fun in Montreal, but the weather up there is not exactly balmy. Its going to stay around -18C all through my stay.

If you have been following the news at all, you have heard about Muslims getting up in arms about cartoons that don't exactly depict the Prophet Muhammed as the Messaiah. Now, being an atheist who hates religions in general, that doesn't bother me in the slightest bit. The way I see it, free speech means exactly that: Freedom to criticize another religion. This criticism can be expressed in any manner: satire, performance art, or whatever else, as long as you don't hurt another person physically.

I read that Tony Blair (and other world readers) is (are) considering outlawing the criticism of all religions. Not only is that a kneejerk reaction, it is also plain wrong. What about people like me who are not only not religious, but also hate religion? I'd rather like to see people escape the clutches of what Karl Marx called the "opiate of the masses", what Rob Heinlein called an "outdated concept" (that's religion, for the slower ones among you). With this in mind, I fully support the Danish cartoonists' right to create those cartoons, although I might not agree with the content of those cartoons.

Religion is something I have always strongly felt about. I continue to be amazed by the irrationality of a mankind that believes in a concept that is utterly unprovable. Its quite a remarkable feat for religious institutions to have sustained, and even enhanced the power and influence of the god-machine. In my most virulent mood, I'd say that God is a weight tied around your neck, a ghost from the fog of ancient history, a bogeyman, if you will. In its existence, the burgeoning institution of religion has produced more book-burning Savonarolas ¹ than Mendels; more Crusades and Inquisitions than Renaissances.

Update #1: I am at the Montreal train station, waiting to get back to Ottawa. I now realize why the airline attendant in Boston who I mentioned earlier called Montreal a "Paris of sorts". Its because everybody speaks French, and French only. Its like I was in fucking Europe. Which I don't mind so much, as the language barrier. And the Cold. Man, was it cold! After 10 min. out in -15 C, my finger tips went numb beneath the new gloves which I paid CAD $12 for. After half an hour, I couldn't feel my nose. My legs were frigid under my jeans long since.

Luckily, old Montreal had an underground "city" of sorts. There are shopping complexes, restaurants, and even a fountain that shoots up a spout of water 50 feet high, all underground. Pretty cool. I'd take any respite from the cold. The fountain was a bonus. And the girls were real pretty.

I am a bit tense about the visa interview tomorrow. Pretty much everyone I know has had no problems with it, and I have the required documentation. I even bought a pair of pants from Kenneth Cole for CAD $100. But if by any chance I don't get the visa, I can't get back to the US. I will have to return to India, book another interview, and enter the US only if that interview is successful. So, that's a bit heavy.

Update # 2: The visa interview turned out to be a fucking anticlimax. I got the visa, no problem. I am finally on my way back to the US, after what turned into a mini-vacation in Canada. While in Ottawa, I did another thing that I can add to a very short list of achievements I am proud of: I ice-skated on the world's longest ice-rink. This is an 8 km monster of an ice-rink right in the center of the city. I wanted to do some downhill skiing/snowboarding here, but with the recent snowstorm in Boston and the rest of the Northeast, I shouldn't have a problem doing it once I reach home. Yep, this weekend is for that. Come rain, snow or sunshine. Actually, sunshine would be good.

Update #3: I'm chilling at home.

The Orwellian Secretary of Defense, Donald Rumsfeld, had the balls to exhort people to use non-traditional media to fight terror. This, from a man who doesn't even use email. America, good luck with the already dubious "war" on terror, with this guy in charge.

¹Regular readers note my obsession with Savonarola.

On Florida. And some currents.

My words of wisdom to my cousin, who bought his first Macintosh, the 14" iBook: "Once you go Mac, you never go back".

My cousin and I are strolling down this seaside mall/entertainment center in Tampa, and we see a couple of men of Latino descent hauling a big stereo system by hand, across the road. What do we do? We get all suspicious that they stole it. And what do we call it? 'Stereo'-typing.

Later, I am waiting for my return flight to Boston from Tampa. I am pleasantly surprised to see Tampa International offer free wireless access to waiting passengers who otherwise sit in their multitudes at airports across the world, staring vacantly into space, like they're on a big hit.

But then, the homepage for Tampa International Airport opens up, and prominently displays the highly Orwellian Homeland Security threat level, which has constantly been set at Elevated -- like a pressure cooker that is on the edge of blowing up, but doesn't.

On the plane, I have the window seat. A lady from Madrid, Spain, is sitting next to me. She talks non-stop with me all through the flight -- 3 hours. By itself, this wouldn't be so bad (she was around 30, but kinda hot), if she wasn't also married, and if her husband wasn't also sitting in the middle row across the aisle. Said husband is worried I am making a move on the wife (I'd have tried to, if she wasn't married, or if the husband wasn't on the plane), so he keeps looking back at us every five minutes, making me uncomfortable. The wife is oblivious to this. Oh, and she is loud.

Our plane is flown by Captain Carlos. That cracks me up for some reason. Captain Carlos!

My two latest...

TV Shows	Scrubs (NBC), Season 1
	Entourage (HBO), Season 2
Books	Silmarillion (Tolkien)
	Tales of Discworld (Pratchett)
Songs	Hey Nineteen (Steely Dan)
	New York, New York (Frank Sinatra)
Movies	Bonnie & Clyde (1967)
	Brokeback Mountain (2005)

Oldboy: Wierd-ass movie

Go watch this oddball movie, if you haven't already. If for no other reason than that you get to see a live octopus eaten. Also, almost randomly, there was an allusion to the 1999 wierdo-cult hit Being John Malkovich: A character mentions his discreet "7.5" floor business, where the anonymity of clients is top-priority. If you have seen BJM, you will recall that the porthole is in an office which is on floor 7.5. I was just wondering if 7.5 is standard nomenclature for discreet businesses, or if this was a deliberate reference to the other movie.

Addendum: More Questions

Random Walk (on-site)

• Node is an element of a linked list of integers. Define Node, and implement the function:
  Node *addToEnd( Node *list, int val ).
  
• In my implementation of addToNode(), I separately handled the case when the list is NULL. I was asked to improve the implementation to merge handling both cases. Hint: Use a Node ** variable.
  

Technical interview questions

Here's a list of questions I was asked over the last two months, in the course of my job search. No solutions, nor a comment on the quality of questions, will be provided. So, don't bother asking.

Microsoft (on campus):

• Reverse a linked list.
  
• Given an array (positive and negative integers), find the contiguous subarray with the maximum sum.
  
• Implement:
  

  void *aligned_malloc( size_t size_in_bytes, int align );
  void *aligned_free( void *ptr_returned_by_aligned_malloc );

  
  aligned_malloc() is like malloc(), but takes an additional argument - align. If p is the pointer returned by aligned_malloc, then, ( p % align == 0 ).
  
• Find the minimum number of colors required to color a dodecahedron. Now, write an algorithm that does so.
  

NetApp (phone screen):

• When would you prefer hashing as your dictionary implementation?
  
• What is secondary hashing?
  
• Perfect hashing/universal hashing...
  
• How is the open() system call implemented in UNIX?
  
• The rest, I don't remember (its all a haze).
  

Caliber Consulting (phone):

• Given the function:
  

  
  void swap( char *p1, char *p2 ) {
    char *tmp;
    tmp = p1;
    p1 = p2;
    p2 = tmp;
  }
  

  
  what is the output of the following code:
  

  
  #include 
  
  int main() {
    char *s1 = "hello";
    char *s2 = "world";
    swap( s1, s2 );
    printf( "%s, %s\n", s1, s2 );
    return 0;
  }
  

  
  
• Implement strlen(), strcat()...
  
• What is the complexity of strcat() ?
  
• How would you change strcat(), given the following scenario:
  

  
  char src[VERYBIGNUMBER];  /* NULL initially */
  char *s1, *s2, ..., *sn;
  

  
  You need to place the strings s1, s2,..., sn into src using strcat(). Assume that src can accomodate all these strings. Note that normally, a single execution of strcat() takes O(l + m), where the lengths of the two strings are l and m. With that complexity, the above cascade of strcat()'s takes time proportional to:
  
  n*strlen(s1) + (n - 1) * strlen(s2) + ... + strlen(sn).
  
  Can you change the complexity to:
  
  strlen(s1) + strlen(s2) + ... + strlen(sn) ?
  
  
• Given that you had only upto the IP stack implemented on two machines. How would you go about establishing a session between them? Note - you obviously can't just use TCP! Also, no error correction, sequencing etc. are required, so you don't *need* to use TCP.
  
• With the same scenario as in the previous question, how would you implement a messaging client?
  
• What are virtual functions in C++?
  
• How would you implement virtual functions in a compiler?
  

Random Walk (pre-interview - on campus):

• Implement the factorial function.
  
• What is polymorphism?
  
• What are virtual functions?
  
• Talk about inner classes in Java.
  
• Difference between a button and a JButton
  
• 57 cents worth of money in 7 coins. How many of each do I have: 1c, 5c, 10c, 25c ?
  

Neuco (phone screen)

• What are virtual functions in C++?
  
• How does a typical C++ compiler implement virtual functions?
  
• How would you reproduce/simulate the object system of C++ in C?
  
• Given a C++ object and its method, how would you simulate with a C function, the calling of the C++ method?
  
• Suppose you are given a pointer to a function that takes a double between 0 and 1, and returns a double between 0 and 1. The function is continuous, and is zero at some point(s) in the interval. Write a procedure to find those zero-points. What is the complexity of the function, as a function of (a) precision, (b) accuracy ?
  

Random Walk (phone interview)

• What is the difference between the procedural and the object oriented approaches to programming?
  
• Elucidate the cornerstones of OOP.
  
• Suppose you had a Shape class. Its an abstract class that subclasses into concrete classes like a Point, Triangle, Square etc. How would you handle render()'ing a Shape instance...?
  
• Suppose an application program wants to render birds on the screen. Different birds are to have different functionalities (Ducks can quack(), Crows can fly() etc). Suggest a good design pattern to provide these functionalities to different instances, that repsects the paradigms: cohesion and loose coupling.
  
• What is the most prominent characteristic about multi-threaded programming? And why does multi-threaded prog have this characteristic?
  

I'm Rick James, beee-yaatch!

I'm Rick James, beee-yaatch!, originally uploaded by shashankr.

Finally, it is here... a million thanks to Ditch for giving me this shirt as a gift.