Remote controls going cheap

Some time ago, Shree Anna Hazareji made a statement here - that our beloved PM is remote controlled.

Since then, there has been a huge amount of curiosity and demand for remote controls which control people. We don't know what kind of remote control is used by whoever it is who controls Manmohan Singh, but it must be one really heavy-duty number, running on Linux or Android or whatever. This is obviously not meant for the aam janta man or woman.

But that is where the demand is the maximum - like in any product category, you gotta crack the mass market. I have been asked by students about cheap rechargeable remote controls for their girlfriends and parents, particularly after a bad term result; I have been asked by their parents about where to buy such thingies to control their children. My wife wanted to buy one to control the bais, I want to buy one to control the wife.

So, anyway. After a lot of research, and many trips to various markets, I have zeroed in on two models, which you may wish to consider:

The El Cheapo:



This is really the simplest one to go for. Simple, you don't need a PhD in Sanskrit grammar to operate this.

If you want something a little snazz, here's your toy:



This one has more functionality, and is also programmable.

They are not too expensive, and if you were to get in touch with me off-blog, I could make you a good offer. And of course, quantity discounts operate.

However, just one word of caution. For some reason, women are immune to these - I have tried, and the little bandage on my forehead is where my well-beloved wife hit me with the expensive remote while I was trying it on her.

You've been warned.

Tiger Tales - Part 4

Here's one more tale from the archives - absolutely genuine and true, just like the other ones which I had related to you some weeks ago.

I must make mention of some carpers and cavilers - obviously from the Extreme Left - who have been muttering "lies", "tall stories", etc while reading the other tiger tales. I guess this is the lot of man, something that all of us have to bear. I have never mentioned that the uncle who ran down the railway lines, chased by the tiger, actually broke the Olympic mile record, did I? Well, the truth is that he did, but I did not mention this because there were no independent observers with timers in their hand, so that the world could have an authentic account of his record-breaking effort. It's just the villagers nearby who were the witnesses to his remarkable achievement.

The uncle of my friend, the hero of this story, was the first person to demolish the myth of the 'the tiger that cannot die.'

The story goes like this.

For many years, the villagers in the Assam and Dooars jungles have been petrified by the 'tiger who cannot die'. Much like the Temple Tiger, made famous by Jim Corbett, this tiger too could not be killed. Not that it was a maneater or caused any trouble to the villagers, except for some innocent cattle lifting, and some playful removal of the pestilential goats that were such a nuisance to the magnificent king of the forest.

Many shikaris had tried and failed. Many officers of the Forest Departments, armed with the mandate of capture by some zoo or the other, had tried and failed as well.

So, finally, my friend's uncle was requested by the District Magistrate and the chief of the Forest Department to come and rid them of the pest. Like all animal lovers, the uncle laid down some pretty tough clauses - he will not shoot to kill, but only with tranquillizer bullets, so they can be captured and moved somewhere safe. Also, he would not want to use any bait - he would sit up himself over the latest kill and see what he had to see.

You don't argue with this uncle. So, one evening, just after sundown, the uncle, accompanied by his large tranquillizer gun, climbed onto a machan and settled down for the night. He had his little hipflask containing some excellent Lagavulin 25-years old. He also had his little iPod with his favourite Rabindrasangeet (how can you keep a good Bong away from Rabindrasangeet?).So, tucking his blankets around him, he settled in for his long, lonely vigil.

Some three hours later, he suddenly heard the slightest footstep on the dry grass on the field about a hundred yards from the machan. He froze, and very slowly raised the gun to his shoulder. After a little while, suddenly, in the total darkness, two eyes lit up.



Ahha, thought the uncle, so this is the unkillable tiger. He took careful aim between the two eyes, and slowly and gently pressed the trigger.

The eyes went off...and after a few seconds, they came back on again.



Now that's curious, thought the uncle. Maybe I had aimed wrong in the darkness, he thought. Another part of his mind said, how can that be? You who have hunted the kinkajou in the Amazon basin, you who have hunted the carcajou in the Canadian wilderness, how could you make such a boo-boo of this shot. So, settle down, and try again, half his mind told him.

Some minutes later, the two eyes popped alight again. Now he won't make a mistake again. He took his time, and aiming for the centrepoint between the two eyes, he shot again. The eyes went off....and after 5 seconds, they were shining there again!



Confound the cat, he thought. This had never happened to me, he thought. Am I going insane, or just old? he thought.

He had to investigate this phenomenon - there was no two ways about this. So, he switched on the torchlight fixed to the barrel of his gun. And this is what he saw:

On his left was one tiger, sitting with one eye shut, like this:



and right next to him was another tiger, sitting with one eye shut, like this:



For the reader suffering from water on the brain, this is what he saw:



The uncle sat back on his haunches, laid down his gun, brought out his Lagavulin, and taking a deep draught, began laughing. In the moonlight, he took of his hat, and bowed his head to the two tigers.

Tiger Tales - Part 3

Now that the weekend is over, and Monday Morning Blues threatens your blood sugar, heart beat, pulse rate,  eosinophil count and other critical health indicators, perhaps you may wish to rejuvenate yourself by reading this account of how my friend's uncle saved himself from an even more critical life-threatening condition. You and I have the advantages of modern medicine to help us through a crisis; this poor shikari had none. If you wish to know how all this panned out, read on.

This uncle - I had told you in an earlier post that my friend the storyteller is blessed with a large number of uncles, like Bertie Wooster is blessed with a platoon of aunts - anyways, this uncle had once gone to the Sunderbans after the Puja holidays. He had been invited by the State Forestry Department to check the condition of the mangroves and the womangroves (if there are mangroves, there have to be womangroves too - otherwise how will their baby mangroves? stands to reason), so he had not equipped himself with guns and other firearms. In any event, his hunting days were over, he felt - and like his hero, Jim Corbett, he had exchanged his guns for some heavy duty cameras and lenses, for wildlife photography had now become his passion.

His trip was at an end, and next morning, he would take the boat up the river and get back to Kolkata. So, late in the afternoon, he took a solitary walk through the jungle along the river. The mist slowly settling on the river; the water still as a mirror shining in the setting sun; the shoots of the young trees sticking out of the mud and the water like the slalom posts of some imaginary race; the dark green leaves shot with gold, the soft calls of the river birds...he must come again in the winter, he thought. He loved the Sunderbans throughout the year, but winter made her really really beautiful, just like the statues of Bonbibi at peace with the world, before she became angry at the depradations of Dakkhin-rai.

It was time to return to his dak bungalow. He turned around - and there was Dakkhin-Rai, about a couple of hundred yards behind him, in the shape of a large male tiger. The tiger looked vicious, with severe malintent towards the person of the uncle. The famous shikari could hear the tiger muttering beneath his breath - being such an expert on all matters tigerish, he could even translate some of them into human language. (I shall not attempt to post some of these comments here - there may be a few delicately nurtured readers among the dozen or so who read this, and I do not wish to sully their alabaster ears with tiger curses. All you need to know is that mc, bc etc is pure beginner stuff compared to what the tiger was saying).

The tiger continued to advance towards the uncle with malice aforethought, while the uncle was rapidly formulating a way of escape from what promised to be a rather sticky end. He had not brought his guns, not even a knife; while his camera equipment were all inside the dak bungalow, the trusty heavy-duty tripod might have been a big boon - but that was also inside the bungalow. No, he would have to depend on his wits alone.

He stood firm and waited. The tiger came up to within ten yards, sat on it haunches and slowly crept into position for the final charge and leap. He furiously lashed his tail; he pushed out and pulled back his talons, to make sure that all systems were go. And he pulled back on his haunches - the attack would be launched any moment now.

The uncle chose this very moment to unleash his own attack. "Bajjat!" he said. "Paaji! haar haram jada!!" he said. "Nirlojjo! behaya!" he said. The tiger stopped at this full frontal attack. While he (the tiger) was considering his next move, came the next wave of missiles from the uncle. "You shameless creature! How dare you come out like this into civilisation! Your mother taught you nothing - I can see that! How many times as a child were you told about proper behaviour with strangers? How many times? Answer me - come on, tell me. It's no use muttering that you are a wild animal. Bad excuse! And, inspite of all that training, now you come out in the nude??? not ever an underwear??? not even a chaddi???"

The tiger froze, and the uncle, with his keen eyesight, could make out the mantle of the deepest blush that covered the tiger's face and head. The tiger looked at his private parts - sure enough, the old shikari was right!

With a pained apologetic look, the beast bowed his head in shame, and with one bound, ran into the deepest part of the forest, far from where he would encounter humans in his state of total nudity and extreme shame.

[For the uninitiated, some translations may be of use. So here they are:

bajjat - wicked, naughty, mischievous
paaji - scoundrel, villain, knave, rascal
haar haramjada - wretch, bastard, scoundrel - bred thus in the bone
nirlojjo - shameless, impudent, brazen, indecent, immodest
behaya - saucy, cheeky, shameless

Hope this helps.]

 

More about Kanai Hori Sen

Forgot to add to the main post on Sen - in case you want a translation from Bengali to any other language, apply to your nearest Bong. If you are male, and she is female, all the best....

More unknown Bong heros - Kanai Hori Sen

In a post from the past (see here), I had occasion to sing the praises of the Brothers Das.

In this post, I have finally been able to track down the Mahakavya that celebrates the undying exploits of the great Shree Shree Kana Hori Sen.

For those who are net savvy, here's the link. For the rest, I have reproduced below the anonymous modern day Gurudeb who has rendered Kanai Hori immortal. (I must thank the person who posted this in his/her blog - if you do ever read my blog, thank you very much. I first read this about twenty years ago, and I am so glad that you have posted this.)

Shealdoh-er bridge-er pashey Potoldanga Lane,
Shei khane te-i baash korto Kanai Hori Sen.
Chotto theke-i Kanai chhilo ak nambor bichchhu;
Onko, bhugol, Rapid Reader porhto na shey kichchhu.
Borho hoye Kanai gelo kortey tickit black -
Pulish-wala dhorlo taake, bollo deke, "Dekh,
Amader ei elaka-te dichchhis tax phnaaki"!
Bollo Kanai, "Dhuttorika! Moger muluk naaki!"
Taar porey-te jaa holo ta shunley pabey kanna -
Kanai regey bollo "Shaala ei desh-ete aar naa!"
Jail hajot-e thekei Kanai phiriey phello get-up,
Bollo "Aamar kodor bojhar eikhaane nei set-up".
Porer din-i bnochka bnedhe, uthey shokal shokal
Dhorlo Kanai Chhawta-r gaari - - - Hollywood-er local!

Naamer opor korlo Kanai ektu karikuri,
'Sean Connery' naam nilo shey palte 'Kanaihori'.
James Bond er filim kore khullo ki taar'forma'
Shukkhyati taar chhorhiey porhlo Paris theke Burma.
Plane theke ei jhnapaye Kanai, porhlo bujhi maara!
Abaar dekhi submarine-e korchhey kake tarha.
Goorrum goorrum photash-photash, chalaye khelna bonduk!
Chhotash photash haat-taalitey hall knaape ar knaape buk.
Kung-fu, judo, sumo, kanchi - baap re ki taar funda!!
'Bruce Lee', 'Mithun', 'Jacky Chan-o', shobai holo thanda.
Potoldangar chhele tumi, korley jogot maat,
Shabash shabash, jeete raho, kya baat, kya baat.

Choturdike chhawrhalo jokhon prochondo naam-dak,
Bhablo Kanai, chhotto korey line maara jaak.
Jane Fonda-r kachhe giye korlo shedhey dosti.
Golf kheley aar sunbath neye, byapok korey mosti.
Boley Kanai, 'Fondoo, tomaar byang-er moto gola!
Havoc lagey dekhe tomar mukh bnekiye chawla.
Chul jeno thik sone-papri, iskin jeno silik,
Neel chokh-ete 440 marchhe kemon jhilik !!
Figure ta ki chhilim tomaar, jeno sojne-r dnaata,
Taar oporey porecho jeans !! Dichchhe gaye knaata!"
Emon korey baarh khawano-ey, Fonda holo kaat
Three cheers for Potoldanga! Kya baat, kya baat!

Kanai-er bou Nettokali; baaper barhi 'Khorda'
Urgent ek e-mail taakey pathalo taar Borh-da.
"Shiggiri aaye, Jamai-babu jachchhe bujhi bokhey.
Ekhon theke din-rattir rakhish chokhey chokhey."
Nettokali khullo PC, likhlo tokhon mail -
"Haarh-haabaatey! Haramjada! Hoyechhe khub tel!
Phurti lota hochchhe, desh-e nijer istiri phele!
Jhentiye tomaar jharhtaam beesh, haater kaachhey peley!
Ghater mawra, haarh-jalani, shiggiri aaye phirey,
Ghor-bhangani, porha-mukhi petni-take chherhe".

Bou er kotha-e Sean Connery-r bhishon holo bhoy.
Jane Fonda-o bhablo sheshey heart attack na hoy.
Ghoomer majhey swapno dekhey , edik odik pherey,
Nettokali jhnata niye ashchey bujhi terhey.
Bollo Kanai, “Onek holo, ebar nebo pension
Aar parina bou-er bhoy-e nitti eto tension.
Ebhaabe tei 'Kanai Hori-r' bajaar gelo sheshey,
'Roger Moore'-ke kaj bujhiye phirlo Kanai deshe.

Gul-golpo bhabchho eshob! Bhabcho chhatar matha?
Holof korey bolchhi dada, shotti e shob kotha!

Tiger Tales - Part 2

This is the story of a hunters from nearly sixty years ago, and how he got the better of one of the fiercest tigers man had ever encountered.

The hunter was my friend's uncle - no, not the one that was chased by a tiger, and who got saved thanks to the timely intervention by Goddess Kali. This was another uncle - my friend has a lot of uncles.

This particular uncle was a famous shikari. His name was so well-known that the slightest whisper of his arrival in a particular jungle was guaranteed to send all the birds and animals into deep hiding for weeks and weeks. In fact, on numerous occasions, the Forest Department had recorded many examples of exodus of animal and birdlife just before his arrival, and a mass return just after his departure.

This particular shikar was no different. The uncle had already spent five days of his week's leave in the Sunderbans, and he had not caught sight of a field mouse, or even heard the caw of a crow. He was aware that hundreds of beady eyes were staring at him from the cover of bushes and trees, peering at from behind every little khud and drain, but he just did not see a single animal.

On the last evening of his vacation, he was wandering about a few miles from the dak bungalow, feeling very morose. He carried his gun negligently under his armpit, kicking moodily at the bits of gravel which lay in his path, muttering unhealthy things under his breath. Suddenly, some sixth sense told him that the game was afoot! He quickly looked up, and there, stepping out of the undergrowth was a large tiger.

The uncle quickly whipped his gun down, rammed a couple of cartridges into the breech and kneeled down to the firing position. While he did all this in a couple of seconds, the tiger acted even faster. One look at my uncle had told the tiger that this was NOT his lucky day! why oh why hadn't he paid attention to the jungle telegraph which had told him of presence of life-threatening danger? The tiger whipped around, jumped back into the undergrowth and ran in a wild zig-zag fashion to avoid the bullets that he knew the wily old shikari was going to send after him, like missiles.

However, little did the tiger know that the uncle's bullets were indeed missiles, but of the very special, heat-seeking kind. His bullets didn't travel in the classical parabolic paths of normal bullets. Once they had locked onto the target, they would relentlessly follow the unfortunate beast - if the beast did cartwheels, the bullets would follow; if they did hoolahoops, so would the bullets; if the animal did a barrel roll, so would the bullets.

That's exactly what happened this time. The tiger, after running for four hours, stopped at a watering hole, completely exhausted. He had led the bullet such a merry wild chase that there was no way the bullet would find him, would it? The next moment, the bullet had indeed found him. The tiger barely had time to look up at the bullet as it paused at the edge of the watering hole - the next moment, the bullet had crashed through his forehead, and the tiger collapsed sideways, dead.

Tiger Tales - Part 1

I read recently that the tiger population in India is just about 1800, gone up from a paltry 1400 odd in one year or thereabouts. Back in 1948, the great Jim Corbett (my particular hero since childhood - mine, not his) had written that the tiger would be exterminated from India in about a decade. We have done a little better than that, but not much. Soon, all we will have of tigers are memories and stories.

I thought I would put down the tiger tales I remember, as I heard them related by a close friend, sitting by the fireside in lonely camps surrounded by the jungles of Kolkata and Mumbai, with only the sound of growling buses, and the chirruping of young humans interrupting the flow of the story; the silence broken from time to time by the screaming of taxi horns, and the death-screech of tormented tyres.

Poignant tales these. The storyteller is extraordinary, the stories themselves timeless. This one's for you, Sunandan Sen, who told us these wonderful tales!

I will relate these over the next few posts.The first one goes thus:

My uncle, said the storyteller, had just retired from service in the Indian Railways. To celebrate his freedom, he decided to spend a few weeks with his cousin in the Dooars, up in North Bengal. His cousin worked in a tea plantation and had asked him to come up a number of times to enjoy the scenery, the salutary climate, and of course, the outstanding cooking of his (the cousin's) wife.

The first few days went really well. My uncle did very little except eat, sleep, and then eat and sleep some more. After a couple of days, his cousin sent him up to the foothills to take a look at the mountains and the forests. On his return, my uncle was so enthused that he doubled his food and sleep rations.

After one marathon afternoon nap, he woke up feeling a little sluggish and thought that a walk would wake him up properly, and get him ready for the excellent dinner his cousin's wife had described over lunch, and which she was cooking even now.

So, he put on his best walking dhoti, his socks and sneakers, put on a sweater (it was getting a touch chilly in late October) and wrapping a shawl around his upper torso, he set out from his cousin's bungalow.

He went through the pretty tea-gardens, past the manager's bungalow, the workers' huts, past the little school set amidst the playing field. He walked along the winding little lane which led through the village, out into the paddy fields. The birds were singing their evensong; the wild-fowl and other denizens of the jungle were telling everybody of their desire of retiring for the night. All in all, a very peaceful and welcome set of sights and sounds to the jaded senses of my uncle, who had been a city man all his life.

The day was closing in, and he said to himself that it was time for him to turn back and go back home. His cousin's wife had promised excellent mutton curry, with cauliflowers and baby potatos, and something special in the way of dessert, and the walk had given him just the right edge to his hunger.

He turned around...and froze. There, a few hundred yards away, strolling towards him in a purposeful manner, was a large tiger.

My uncle was never a man of quick wits - after all, as a clerk in the Railways, he was hardly ever called upon to use any of his wits, except for waking up real quick whenever the bossman came into the staff area.

But this time, he thought and moved fast. He turned around smartly, picked up his dhoti, and scrambled up the lane, away from the tiger, as fast as he could. After a while he turned his head - the damned tiger was walking fast behind him, and indeed had gained considerable distance.

My uncle wrapped his shawl tight around him, and ran. After a while, he turned his head - that horrible benighted tiger was now running full pelt after him!

My uncle ran for his life...past fields, through bushes, past villages, and clambered up a little raised ground, on top of which he found the railway line which connected the tea garden with Siliguri. He ran along the tracks, hoping that a train would come along and save his life. No such luck - he turned his head to see the tiger leap up the embankment, onto the tracks, chasing him down, gaining on him with every leap and, not to mention, bound. Another few yards, and the tiger will pounce on him.

My uncle commended his soul to Goddess Kali, and sought her intervention. As if in response to his prayers, he suddenly noticed a stick standing up straight from the ground next to the tracks and the tracks dividing into two. He paused just long enough to grab the top of the stick and pull it towards him with all his might.

After this, he ran along the main line, and the tiger ran along the chord line.

Everything you wanted to know about GOATs

No, not the kind that reputedly ate a can of film and was heard to comment that the book was better. Certainly not that one, or any of his (or her) ilk.

These GOATs are the kind that wake up all sports-lovers, ensconced in their armchairs, staring at their TV screens, building their biceps through constant lifting of beer mugs and packets full of chips, from their cumulative sloth. Greatest of All Time - now that's a theme that really stirs them up: enough comment is generated to fill up a daily newspaper many times over, and if recorded, would keep TV channels with enough footage for a whole month.

Greatest of All Time. The last time I participated in such a conversation was two years ago, when Federer had won French Open and Wimbledon. Is he the GOAT? This one lasted for weeks, and I am only talking about comments posted in the New York Times - I am sure every sports related media channel must have had similar amount of heat generated.

Now that Barcelona made monkeys out of Man Utd, beating them in the Champions League final, the same debate has started. I saw the match on TV - Man U didn't get much of a look-in at the ball, and the stats showed why. Barcelona possession - 68%; Man Yoo-hoo - 32%. Barca had some 12 shots on target, Man Boo-hoo-hoo had 1 - a single solitary one. Check this out for a whole bunch of stats from this one match.

Most of the match, I saw Man U chasing shadows, very often their own. And Barca did not seem to need to go beyond third gear. The Red Devils were surely children in fancy dress; they were devils only for the first ten odd minutes, after which they were merely dressed in red.

GOAT? Comparisons are being made with the great teams of the past - Pele's Brazil, Cruyff's Ajax and Kaiser's Bayern of the 1970s, Liverpool of the 1980s, Puskas and the Hungarians and DiStefano's Real Madrid of the 1950s. Haven't seen them, except videos of Brazil's 1970 World Cup matches against England and the final against Italy, and some of the Liverpool matches - but if Barca is being mentioned in the same breath as this lot, they must have been really REALLY special. To wake up all the football lovers reading this post, here's a listing of the 50 Greatest European Club Sides!! If this doesn't wake them up, nothing will come doomsday.

A GOAT within this GOAT debate - is Messi greater than Maradona? He's still only 23, so he's got years to go. Since he's likely to get better and better, and seems to be a more stable personality than Maradona, perhaps he will be. He still lacks a World Cup medal - and that's a big gap in his trophy cabinet. Maybe 2014 will be his big year to fill that gap.

The next GOAT? If only Fedex won the real grand slam in tennis - all four biggies in the same calendar year. Never been done since Laver in 1969. That could settle that particular GOAT debate, probably for ever.

The ultimate GOAT? Cycling may provide one. Is Alberto Contador better than Lance Armstrong? He's already won the Giro d'Italia this year. If he adds the Tour de France and the Vuelta a Espana to this win, this year, then surely he will be a serious candidate for the Ultimate GOAT title - after all, this has never been done, ever. Not by Armstrong, not be Merckx, not by Indurain, not by anybody. That would be a serious serious U-GOAT challenge.

Watch that TV guys - I am stocking up on the beer and chips.