Of Hand-written Tests and Horrible Handwritings

Today, I was asked to write something on paper, with a pen. As I read my own musings, I was reminded of a fact I have known as long as I’ve known my ABC – that my handwriting is messier than my vomit (sorry if you just ate).

Why? Why? Why do companies still take tests on paper when there are plenty of free computers around?  Or at least a typewriter for goodness sake. We need to throw all those evaluation sheets out the window. No, not literally, but figuratively. Scoop them all up and hurl them out the window. Hand-written tests are like a conspiracy by calligraphy artists, who ran out of business with technology advancement. Its their scheme to shame those of us who are transcriptionally disabled.

Helping Malayalam Take the Digital Leap

( This article of mine was published in The New Indian Express)


Even as the world celebrated International Mother Language Day on Sunday, the digital experience for non English speakers is highly diminished. Vernacular languages face several challenges on the digital front -- from not being supported by operating systems and mobile apps to a minuscule presence on the Internet, which is dominated by English.

Swathanthra Malayalam Computing (SMC) is a free software group which has spearheaded the movement to bridge the language divide in Kerala on the technology front and is today the biggest language computing community in the country. The volunteer-based group has created several Malayalam fonts, a keyboard for the blind, supported many government digital projects and a keyboard that can support Indian languages for android phones.

'Kakkoor Kalavayal' on the Lane of Changing Times

Enthusiasm filled the air as the strongest and mightiest bullocks of the state ran with all their might to be crowned the fastest at the age-old ‘Kakkoor Kalavayal’, a post-harvest temple festival near Muvattupuzha in Ernakulam district.

In Pursuit of Happiness

Choosing a career can be a difficult decision, one which requires years of pondering. But, some people have it easy and let others make that crucial decision for them and end up hating what they do for the rest of their lives.

Jubanashwa Mishra gave into the middle-class Indian dream of becoming a successful IT engineer, but two years into the job he found himself stuck in a rat race he didn’t want to chase, which led to an introspection on his career choices. In his endeavour to discover what he was passionate about, the 29-year-old former techie from Odisha found himself at the backwaters of Alappuzha, assisting a houseboat driver, atop mountain peaks picking up garbage, rubbing shoulders with Bollywood stars and selling sundals (snack made with chickpeas) in Tamil Nadu.

Worst Times

It’s always the worst times and never the best

when everything gets put to the test.

Only then can you tell if the promise of love will hold

or give in to hopeless remorse.

Murderous Silence

Like a child I was so eager to be free
My soul, an open mind welcomed the world
There was you a friend in a crowded town 
You took away loneliness from early dawn to late twilight
You came, you stayed and then you conquered
Until there was no me, no us, only you
Only you in my fantasies, only you in my dreams
I ignored the warning, I ignored the signs
When I choked I said it was the smoke
When I stumbled I thought it was the hangover
I recognized me no more, I saw the death of me in your every blink

Grammys Play the Quintessential Art Snobs

When Justin Bieber got a hat-trick at the American Music Awards last month he snubbed his critics by dedicating an award "to the haters."

But the Grammy's 2013 nominee list clearly reads "Haters 1: Beliebers 0”. The Teenage "Baby" singer's manager Scooter Braun not impressed with his boy missing out, was quick to react to the nominations with the tweet "I just plain disagree. The kid deserved it".

What lies beneath?

Its poll time again. And this time it’s in the country’s biggest state – Uttar Pradesh.

The world’s largest democracy is all dressed up to conduct elections in its most populated (and typically Indian) state. What’s at stake? The chief minister’s throne!

I did use the phrase “dressed up”, this is not for want of a better word, but an intentional one. If you haven’t heard, the state has been decorated in pink. The pink being the color of the wrapper (covers) used to cover Mayawati and her elephant statues.

Where has the romance of the Newsroom gone?

Fifteen days into being a journalist for the country’s no.1 newspaper (according to random sources), I wonder whatever happened to that dreamy cliché’ image of the writer’s world we believed in.

Men in knee-length kurta’s with the doped look.
Women in loose T-shirts who never bothered to comb their hair and looked naturally sexy.
The stuffy room with old books strew around everywhere and coffee mugs that need cleaning on the tables.
The ash tray, picked up as a souvenir from a poverty sticken country, overflowing with cigarette buds that smelled of more than nicotine.
The editor who speaks in Shakespeare English with an accent that is hard to place and yells for every comma misplaced in a copy.
The walls with pictures of great political movements, anti-war campaigns and hand written phrases of world famous rebels.
The activist who would go any length to put his point across and didn’t care if they paid him peanuts for it.
The hot dude with streaks of silver hair who had an opinion for every issue under the sun.

The curse of the farmer’s wife

The weekend before women’s day was spend in the company of female friends. A complete girls bash-- alcohol, gossip and talk on how all the good men have gone. These were all middle class late 20-something women who had made a living for themselves, no ring around their fingers, but could pay for the apartments they lived in and more. Thirty years back you had to be a rebel or a very fortunate one to be one of those women, but not today, today the country is filled with these independent women.

One of my friends had just got a pedicure done and was flaunting her feet, when she teased another by pointing at her feet and saying, “look at my pretty feet and your feet .Like a farmer’s wife’s feet.” My friend unknowingly was stating the sad truth of reality. That the illiterate lady in the village who toils all day in the field, grazes her cattle, takes her produce to the market, bargains for a fair price is still seen as the farmer’s wife and never the farmer. She does not get the benefits of a farmer, she is not entitled to the same subsidies. All because the Indian government refuses to recognize her. So what happens if her husband passes away, does she cease to exist?