Today morning, we went through a grueling “HR-module” training.
A knowledge transfer session done by our Delivery Manager, who had come down from USA.
His primary tasks, when in USA were to, “UNDERSTAND”; “GATHER” client requirements, then get back and “GUIDE” us in functional/technical system-design specs.
[This is how an IT-Project starts]
He was at the client place for over 6 months working HARD and now back to do what he’s best at. “UNDERSTAND” “GATHER” “GUIDE”.
He spoke……
--The critical importance of the data is critically important
--When I were there low level design were never there
--This record is for hiring means this is for hiring
--The client wants the authorization given gives us the authorization responsibility
--Do remember to remind me about the other module [leaning forward towards a colleague]…………Remember
--Select this field and this field and put this there till this with that gives the result WOkey
[Punctuations have been conveniently avoided, to be on the safer side. I wasn't sure if he was asking, telling or threatening us]
Not able to keep up with his erudite disclosure, I stopped with these lines and went back to my dream “private island and nude women”.
zzzzzzzzzzzzz....
Typing this post, I wondered. Will I make it to the Delivery Manager post some day?
“Someday maybe I maybe a someday manager”
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Monday, June 27, 2005
"THANK YOU", Jeeves.
The white ‘Sumo’ severed right, left, up, down, above-turn and sit-down; and all this time I was doing a good job balancing P.G.Wodehouse in one hand and my dad on the cell phone in the other.
The gruffly driver with his big, black mustache, twisted at the ends, was already in heat with only 15 minutes left to get a bunch of lazy software engineers to work.
He drove with vigor, passion and a good looking rear-view mirror to his left.
I liked the whole package the mirror came in. A fresh coat of white paint on its cover and huge, shiny, clean and very very reflecting; even ‘I’ looked good in it!
Book: "Thank you, Jeeves"
Page: 134
[Para 4, line 1]
I read
"And then there came a far -off crash of glass, and the Sergeant went bounding down the stairs."
Cling- bling -clang...swish...
My instincts took over; I closed my eyes and ducked with my hands on my head. A while latter realizing the vehicle has stalled, I come back to my senses. Every body the car had their eyes as big as a pumpkin and rigid on me. The gruffly driver with a back mustache, twisted at the ends, was half out of the car. His tongue and mouth was pouring a symphony of swear words at a truck driver in the front.
The good looking left side rear-view mirror was gone; it dangled from the side of the same truck.
And I rise, to find glass all over me and the front seat.
“Hope he’s alive”
“Good he ducked”
“He is lucky not to have any of that glass in the eye”
“Anoop, can you see?”
15 minutes in stun, a quick seek to make sure my eyes are in their sockets and no glass pieces are in my skin.
Composed and pacified by fellow mates;
I again open the book……
Book: "Thank you, Jeeves"
Page: 134
[Para 4, line 2]
I read
"This was followed by a sound which gave me the impression that Brinkley, feeling that he had done his bit, had galloped to the front door and slammed it after him. And after that another slam, as if the Sergeant, too, had made a break for the open. And then, filtering through the keyhole came a little puff of smoke."
"Puff of smoke" ?????
I shut the book. No, I cannot survive a gun shot now.
The gruffly driver with his big, black mustache, twisted at the ends, was already in heat with only 15 minutes left to get a bunch of lazy software engineers to work.
He drove with vigor, passion and a good looking rear-view mirror to his left.
I liked the whole package the mirror came in. A fresh coat of white paint on its cover and huge, shiny, clean and very very reflecting; even ‘I’ looked good in it!
Book: "Thank you, Jeeves"
Page: 134
[Para 4, line 1]
I read
"And then there came a far -off crash of glass, and the Sergeant went bounding down the stairs."
Cling- bling -clang...swish...
My instincts took over; I closed my eyes and ducked with my hands on my head. A while latter realizing the vehicle has stalled, I come back to my senses. Every body the car had their eyes as big as a pumpkin and rigid on me. The gruffly driver with a back mustache, twisted at the ends, was half out of the car. His tongue and mouth was pouring a symphony of swear words at a truck driver in the front.
The good looking left side rear-view mirror was gone; it dangled from the side of the same truck.
And I rise, to find glass all over me and the front seat.
“Hope he’s alive”
“Good he ducked”
“He is lucky not to have any of that glass in the eye”
“Anoop, can you see?”
15 minutes in stun, a quick seek to make sure my eyes are in their sockets and no glass pieces are in my skin.
Composed and pacified by fellow mates;
I again open the book……
Book: "Thank you, Jeeves"
Page: 134
[Para 4, line 2]
I read
"This was followed by a sound which gave me the impression that Brinkley, feeling that he had done his bit, had galloped to the front door and slammed it after him. And after that another slam, as if the Sergeant, too, had made a break for the open. And then, filtering through the keyhole came a little puff of smoke."
"Puff of smoke" ?????
I shut the book. No, I cannot survive a gun shot now.
Friday, June 24, 2005
Cuckoo......
“Kandu” music blasting from my left.
Noisy, putrid “Bong” on my right. (strong gastric extravagance).
Flirty, “Bitchy Bitch” squeaking on the phone, in the front.
At the back; at the back an access controlled door to the loo.
I am expected to CONCENTRATE and WORK.
No sympathies,
thank you very much.
thank you very much.
thank you very much.
Noisy, putrid “Bong” on my right. (strong gastric extravagance).
Flirty, “Bitchy Bitch” squeaking on the phone, in the front.
At the back; at the back an access controlled door to the loo.
I am expected to CONCENTRATE and WORK.
No sympathies,
thank you very much.
thank you very much.
thank you very much.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Jhai Chamundeshwari
To feel the wind on your face and your jacket flutter on your pillion mates face for 300 odd kilometers is something I want to do every day. All that with a flavor of quick decisions and make my mother say "WHAT??!!!, you are going to Mysore on a bike; that too at night!", makes the fun twofold.
Sense of soothe was absent for us as all. All the bikes were pulsar and cruise bike comforts were zilch, but we bike loving idiots were determined and really really motivated to do the idiot’s thing.
Driving with the green sugar cane fields passing by the corner of (both) my eyes and no worries of deliverables or con-calls made me want to freeze the moment and entrench it in a canvas; so that any time I want I could repaint it, only to make the picture look better.
130 kilometer fanatical ride and a hasty decision. All to be blamed on my crazy friends, those guys crazy enough to decide at the flick of the moment to visit Mysore on a bike.
With no spare under wears, tooth brush or money, we were on the road. Not that any of the above mentioned, except money, is a daily need in my dictionary of life, the above line does explain my haze and stupidity, if you think so.
Mysore welcomed us with open arms and closed restaurants by around 8 PM. Just enough energy left to find a lodge and spot a Malabar restaurant by the street corner to chew some "naiyee choru" with chicken curry. Guess what the "Malabar Restaurant" turned out to be owned by a fellow mallu, it never was a surprise for any of us. (These mallus they are all around the globe)
Please hate me for doing this, but I need to crack a mall joke NOW.
Never let the mallu take the corner kick in a foot ball match.
why why why???
Cos he'll put up a tea stall there.
geee.....
I feel better already.
so then where were we, ah the night in Mysore.
We loitered around the gates of Mysore palace searching for fags, then retired to bed.
I SLEPT LIKE A LOG, till 7 am.
Same clothes, a shower, tea, fags and we advance to Chamundi Hills, holly abode of Chamundeshwari, the tutelary deity of Mysore Maharajas. I was looking forward to that wondrous view down the valley from the elevation, I have missed since my last visit to Munnar and of course a divine bliss visiting chamundeshwari temple.
The temple conveniently had a paid entrance, which of course we took, considering the otherwise looong queue and the short time frame we had.
After a good darshan and the red "bhasmam" spotted between our brows, we take the descent.
Cold wind, twisted roads and a bike gave us the delight none can compare.
Yes we were there.
The "CRS Fun World" visit, I was NOT looking forward to rather my mates were, turned out to be good fun.
All crazy rides, fat people and desperate 'US' added to the FUN mood. We stayed in water long enough to gobble down chunks of food like hungry elephants at a road side dhaba.
Riding 130km back was tiring. Badly missing my bed, and not able to feel my butt, I was more than happy to get back home.
Every bone, muscle in my body aches and worse, I have to get to ‘Work’. With no regrets and all fervor I am looking forward to that ah...... [Clenching my back and tears in the eyes].
I deserve the Chamundeshwari award for "Dedication to IT industry" or what?
Jhai Chamundeshwari.
Sense of soothe was absent for us as all. All the bikes were pulsar and cruise bike comforts were zilch, but we bike loving idiots were determined and really really motivated to do the idiot’s thing.
Driving with the green sugar cane fields passing by the corner of (both) my eyes and no worries of deliverables or con-calls made me want to freeze the moment and entrench it in a canvas; so that any time I want I could repaint it, only to make the picture look better.
130 kilometer fanatical ride and a hasty decision. All to be blamed on my crazy friends, those guys crazy enough to decide at the flick of the moment to visit Mysore on a bike.
With no spare under wears, tooth brush or money, we were on the road. Not that any of the above mentioned, except money, is a daily need in my dictionary of life, the above line does explain my haze and stupidity, if you think so.
Mysore welcomed us with open arms and closed restaurants by around 8 PM. Just enough energy left to find a lodge and spot a Malabar restaurant by the street corner to chew some "naiyee choru" with chicken curry. Guess what the "Malabar Restaurant" turned out to be owned by a fellow mallu, it never was a surprise for any of us. (These mallus they are all around the globe)
Please hate me for doing this, but I need to crack a mall joke NOW.
Never let the mallu take the corner kick in a foot ball match.
why why why???
Cos he'll put up a tea stall there.
geee.....
I feel better already.
so then where were we, ah the night in Mysore.
We loitered around the gates of Mysore palace searching for fags, then retired to bed.
I SLEPT LIKE A LOG, till 7 am.
Same clothes, a shower, tea, fags and we advance to Chamundi Hills, holly abode of Chamundeshwari, the tutelary deity of Mysore Maharajas. I was looking forward to that wondrous view down the valley from the elevation, I have missed since my last visit to Munnar and of course a divine bliss visiting chamundeshwari temple.
The temple conveniently had a paid entrance, which of course we took, considering the otherwise looong queue and the short time frame we had.
After a good darshan and the red "bhasmam" spotted between our brows, we take the descent.
Cold wind, twisted roads and a bike gave us the delight none can compare.
Yes we were there.
The "CRS Fun World" visit, I was NOT looking forward to rather my mates were, turned out to be good fun.
All crazy rides, fat people and desperate 'US' added to the FUN mood. We stayed in water long enough to gobble down chunks of food like hungry elephants at a road side dhaba.
Riding 130km back was tiring. Badly missing my bed, and not able to feel my butt, I was more than happy to get back home.
Every bone, muscle in my body aches and worse, I have to get to ‘Work’. With no regrets and all fervor I am looking forward to that ah...... [Clenching my back and tears in the eyes].
I deserve the Chamundeshwari award for "Dedication to IT industry" or what?
Jhai Chamundeshwari.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
My Balls are missing
Once in a while the loathe software professional finds his peace, at the office basket ball court. A few shots at the basket and a few tedious jokes to keep the fellow loathe entertained; his day is made a little better. Shooting baskets and getting beaten up by fellow loathes who think winning is weighed against punches and broken noses.
Ah how I love playing at my office basket ball court.
Fridays you find a whole bunch of loathes around the court waiting to be entertained. Though they can hardly spell “Basket Ball” and once in a while shout “GOAL….” when the ball goes through the ring; these guys are at the court only to impress the caffeine addicted hideous fellow feminine loathes hanging around the court. Then there were a few who loved the game for what it is, they always found their way through to play some quality basketball; shoot some good baskets and polish their dribbling skills;
Ah how I love playing at my office basket ball court.
[You can skip the thought to decide if I played for the love of the game or the caffeine addicted hideous fellow feminine loathes; cos I am not sure myself].
Days went by, more loathes got disfigured on the court, caffeine addicted hideous fellow feminine loathes increased and more “GOALS” were happening. Then suddenly, just suddenly, out of the blue one day there was an onslaught on the basket ball court. A bunch of men with huge bellies, repulsive tits, thighs as big as me, flab all over to keep them hibernated for 100 years and a CRICKET BAT, came to claim their rights on the Basket Ball court. They wanted to play the Gentleman’s game to keep them fit and fine.
They wanted us to stop this idiotic game of basketball on a basket ball court so that they could play the Gentleman’s game.
When tried to explain that it was a basket ball court and basket ball is meant to be played, they came back and beat us all up with retribution, Gentlemen eh.
Their actions were quite understandable, considering that project MANAGERS and delivery MANAGERS and functional MANAGERS and ONLY MANAGERS were there to play cricket.
Ah how I love playing at my office basket ball court
Days passed by and the loathly cricket playing managers continue with their stint to keep themselves in shape and impress the caffeine addicted hideous fellow feminine loathes.
Till yesterday we the basketball loving broods, stuck to our fear of managers big bellies etc etc and trounce our basic urge for the game and love of court; but we could not take it any more and decided to stand up to the “GENTLEMEN”. Who by then had grown in huge numbers and bellies.
We move to get our weapons; basket balls and tadaan…….
The balls are missing………
The balls are missing…….????
WHAT…!!
The balls are missing…..!!!!
Oh.. my … god….. the balls are gone.
The "Gentle" Men are having a hearty laugh.
Managers always had the last laugh.
Oh how I LOVED playing at my office basket ball court.
[lights dim, only a spot light on me]
[Kneeling down, hands in the air, screaming, camera zooming upwards, away from my face]
“Vishnuuuuuu…......... gimme back my BALLS”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Basic mallu urge to exaggerate has helped me a lot.
But yes, the narration was inspired by an incident at the basket ball court at work and “Only big-fat-ugly men play cricket”]
Ah how I love playing at my office basket ball court.
Fridays you find a whole bunch of loathes around the court waiting to be entertained. Though they can hardly spell “Basket Ball” and once in a while shout “GOAL….” when the ball goes through the ring; these guys are at the court only to impress the caffeine addicted hideous fellow feminine loathes hanging around the court. Then there were a few who loved the game for what it is, they always found their way through to play some quality basketball; shoot some good baskets and polish their dribbling skills;
Ah how I love playing at my office basket ball court.
[You can skip the thought to decide if I played for the love of the game or the caffeine addicted hideous fellow feminine loathes; cos I am not sure myself].
Days went by, more loathes got disfigured on the court, caffeine addicted hideous fellow feminine loathes increased and more “GOALS” were happening. Then suddenly, just suddenly, out of the blue one day there was an onslaught on the basket ball court. A bunch of men with huge bellies, repulsive tits, thighs as big as me, flab all over to keep them hibernated for 100 years and a CRICKET BAT, came to claim their rights on the Basket Ball court. They wanted to play the Gentleman’s game to keep them fit and fine.
They wanted us to stop this idiotic game of basketball on a basket ball court so that they could play the Gentleman’s game.
When tried to explain that it was a basket ball court and basket ball is meant to be played, they came back and beat us all up with retribution, Gentlemen eh.
Their actions were quite understandable, considering that project MANAGERS and delivery MANAGERS and functional MANAGERS and ONLY MANAGERS were there to play cricket.
Ah how I love playing at my office basket ball court
Days passed by and the loathly cricket playing managers continue with their stint to keep themselves in shape and impress the caffeine addicted hideous fellow feminine loathes.
Till yesterday we the basketball loving broods, stuck to our fear of managers big bellies etc etc and trounce our basic urge for the game and love of court; but we could not take it any more and decided to stand up to the “GENTLEMEN”. Who by then had grown in huge numbers and bellies.
We move to get our weapons; basket balls and tadaan…….
The balls are missing………
The balls are missing…….????
WHAT…!!
The balls are missing…..!!!!
Oh.. my … god….. the balls are gone.
The "Gentle" Men are having a hearty laugh.
Managers always had the last laugh.
Oh how I LOVED playing at my office basket ball court.
[lights dim, only a spot light on me]
[Kneeling down, hands in the air, screaming, camera zooming upwards, away from my face]
“Vishnuuuuuu…......... gimme back my BALLS”
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Basic mallu urge to exaggerate has helped me a lot.
But yes, the narration was inspired by an incident at the basket ball court at work and “Only big-fat-ugly men play cricket”]
Monday, June 06, 2005
My Appraisal is ‘DONE’
You seem to be very quite since afternoon Anoop.
Is it the appalling appraisal I gave you or the embittered feeling because of loosing your well deserved "star performer" to my would-be son-in-law?
Anything please talk to me, open up and I'll HELP YOU.
I am there for you Anoop anytime, anywhere.
Never hesitate to talk to me, ok dear.
Friday, June 03, 2005
It's all in the Blouse
The more I enjoy the polluted air and loud horns, more my heart was weeping for the lady on the sidewalk. She looked befuddled and miserable.
Was she new to the big city and mislaid from her family?
Got here to change her fortunes?
Find work; keep the army of hungry stomachs at least half full?
or was she waiting for the pledged time and place by the illusive lover boy?
or evaded from the clutches of her evil uncle, who's wife mistreats her and he; he takes advantage of her?
Flood of humanitarian thoughts overcome my instincts as a pervert, and I forget to notice her bodily bliss, especially below her neck; that huge bulge in her Blouse. Standing across the road, close to the bridge waiting for my friend, staring at her and fanning distort thoughts that clogged my women deprived mind, I was having my share of sweet time. Once in a while my eye strays towards her face; and comes back the deluge of “feeling sorry for her".
As minutes pass, a young man approaches her; no smiles just a cold stare. She stays unmoving with an air of ignorance. Staying close to her, the guy and she have a brief conversation after which, he pass her some money and she digs in to the depths of her Blouse, drawing a small packet. He happily strides away with the lil packet revealed from the divine depths; leaving the lady where she was with the bulge in her Blouse.
Thank you very much. The man stays intoxicated for the nite; and the bulge, ah the bulge works…... as always.
[how did I know about the packet????? hmmm.... who do you think the friend is, I was waiting for!]
Was she new to the big city and mislaid from her family?
Got here to change her fortunes?
Find work; keep the army of hungry stomachs at least half full?
or was she waiting for the pledged time and place by the illusive lover boy?
or evaded from the clutches of her evil uncle, who's wife mistreats her and he; he takes advantage of her?
Flood of humanitarian thoughts overcome my instincts as a pervert, and I forget to notice her bodily bliss, especially below her neck; that huge bulge in her Blouse. Standing across the road, close to the bridge waiting for my friend, staring at her and fanning distort thoughts that clogged my women deprived mind, I was having my share of sweet time. Once in a while my eye strays towards her face; and comes back the deluge of “feeling sorry for her".
As minutes pass, a young man approaches her; no smiles just a cold stare. She stays unmoving with an air of ignorance. Staying close to her, the guy and she have a brief conversation after which, he pass her some money and she digs in to the depths of her Blouse, drawing a small packet. He happily strides away with the lil packet revealed from the divine depths; leaving the lady where she was with the bulge in her Blouse.
Thank you very much. The man stays intoxicated for the nite; and the bulge, ah the bulge works…... as always.
[how did I know about the packet????? hmmm.... who do you think the friend is, I was waiting for!]
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