The name being quaint for a B Tech branch, our bloods Boyle every time we're asked these Millikan Dollar Questions:
"Watt do you do in EP?"
Every working week (from Monday to Faraday), our time is spent Moseley in exploring nuclear physics, statistical physics, quantum physics and curvy physiques. Not to mention making PJ's, Poynting out profs' blackboard errors, thieving lab equipment and Hawking them in streets.
"Do you have a bright scope after B Tech?"
A difficult Curie to answer. All we can say is our early seniors' success Gibbs us some hope.
"Why just about 10 people in your branch?"
Our small strength is our biggest strength. That's Gauss we believe too many cooks spoil de Broglie.
"Why was this branch created in the first place?"
That's a Rayleigh nasty question. It Hertz our feelings. Anyway, a necessity to Hooke Physics with Engineering was felt. Hence our dept. profs, both old and Young, went to ESB with their Bose and arrows and said: 'Next time it will be LASER-guided Tomahawks and H-bombs if you don't agree to our terms.'
Thus EP was Born.
"Your contributions to IITM?"
We don't want to Bragg about ourselves and Bohr you to death.
2007/08/26
2007/08/10
Keeping The Record Straight
Drinking glasses in CR are cylindrical.
I asked Akhil to pass me one as I settled down for lunch. A spot of silence prompted me to contribute to the din of the mess.
'Why', I philosophized, 'are these called glasses? They are made of steel...'
'OK, tumbler', said somebody [I don't remember who].
'Again, why are they called tumblers? They don't keep tumbling always!'
'Then what will you call them?'
I eyed the thing for an instant.
'From its shape, I'd call it a metal beaker.'
A quiet agreement went around the table and I bent down to dig the meal.
The thunder changed hands. Vikas, in his spookily polite manner said: 'Why is it called a beaker?'
I dismount at the Gurunath parking lot, kick out the side-stand, slip the key into my pocket and walk towards the coffee vendor.
As arranged, Fishy awaits me, and we purchase the ersatz coffee IITM has got accustomed to.
We find no chair unbottomed.
I suggest the Himalaya lawn.
He prefers to walk.
Which way?
He asks me to pick between left and right.
I vote for the latter.
We beat the path a bit.
Before you could say 'Flippitty Chip', we sit at the Narmada bus stop.
We chat on this, we chat on that, we chat on this and that.
We empty the cups and bin them.
The all-important topic of British sitcoms comes up as we walk back.
He contends that I would get addicted to Coupling.
I try to draw him to Blackadder through quoting.
"Your brain, Baldrick, is like the four headed, man-eating haddock fish beast of Aberdeen."
"In what way, sir? "
"It doesn't exist."
"You're the worst cook in the entire world. There are amoeba on Saturn who can boil a better egg than you."
"Now why in heaven's name are you dressed up like that, Baldrick?"
"There's a long answer, and a short answer, my lord."
"Tell us the short one first."
"Whim."
"And the long answer is -- ?"
"It was a whim."
He in turn sells me Coupling and quotes its punchlines.
They are unprintable.
We cross the Alumni Association and reach the mouth of the road that leads to Sangam and Alakananda.
We promise to watch each other's favourite sitcom.
We trade goodnights.
We part.
I amble toward Saraswathi, all set for the hit-bed-get-shuteye routine.
Sangam comes in view.
My mobile buzzes.
SMS from Fishy.
'Come back'
I go back, full of curiosity.
I see him at the T junction.
'What is it?' I cry.
He runs a finger or two through his hair.
'Didn't you come by your cycle?'
I raised the point.
Immediately Fishy responded:
'They went around the world and came back on the other side!'
I asked Akhil to pass me one as I settled down for lunch. A spot of silence prompted me to contribute to the din of the mess.
'Why', I philosophized, 'are these called glasses? They are made of steel...'
'OK, tumbler', said somebody [I don't remember who].
'Again, why are they called tumblers? They don't keep tumbling always!'
'Then what will you call them?'
I eyed the thing for an instant.
'From its shape, I'd call it a metal beaker.'
A quiet agreement went around the table and I bent down to dig the meal.
The thunder changed hands. Vikas, in his spookily polite manner said: 'Why is it called a beaker?'
* * * * *
[Fishy asked me to give a detailed description of this episode. Let me do just that.]I dismount at the Gurunath parking lot, kick out the side-stand, slip the key into my pocket and walk towards the coffee vendor.
As arranged, Fishy awaits me, and we purchase the ersatz coffee IITM has got accustomed to.
We find no chair unbottomed.
I suggest the Himalaya lawn.
He prefers to walk.
Which way?
He asks me to pick between left and right.
I vote for the latter.
We beat the path a bit.
Before you could say 'Flippitty Chip', we sit at the Narmada bus stop.
We chat on this, we chat on that, we chat on this and that.
We empty the cups and bin them.
The all-important topic of British sitcoms comes up as we walk back.
He contends that I would get addicted to Coupling.
I try to draw him to Blackadder through quoting.
"Your brain, Baldrick, is like the four headed, man-eating haddock fish beast of Aberdeen."
"In what way, sir? "
"It doesn't exist."
"You're the worst cook in the entire world. There are amoeba on Saturn who can boil a better egg than you."
"Now why in heaven's name are you dressed up like that, Baldrick?"
"There's a long answer, and a short answer, my lord."
"Tell us the short one first."
"Whim."
"And the long answer is -- ?"
"It was a whim."
He in turn sells me Coupling and quotes its punchlines.
They are unprintable.
We cross the Alumni Association and reach the mouth of the road that leads to Sangam and Alakananda.
We promise to watch each other's favourite sitcom.
We trade goodnights.
We part.
I amble toward Saraswathi, all set for the hit-bed-get-shuteye routine.
Sangam comes in view.
My mobile buzzes.
SMS from Fishy.
'Come back'
I go back, full of curiosity.
I see him at the T junction.
'What is it?' I cry.
He runs a finger or two through his hair.
'Didn't you come by your cycle?'
* * * * *
Half the Physics Dept was watching Dhoom in the bus returning from SHAR [Satish Dhawan Space Centre, Sriharikota]. In the climax, John Abraham, the fastest biker in the movie, dodges the good guys, hops on to his Suzuki and zips. He tears a straight line at top speed -- but by a logic unique only to the ollywoods, Uday Chopra and the Small B, from whom Abraham made his escape only now, stand yards in front of him.I raised the point.
Immediately Fishy responded:
'They went around the world and came back on the other side!'
* * * * *
We start out on Monday energetically. But when we reach Friday evening, we get weakened.
2007/07/22
Animalia
Suspending for the moment the ubiquitous squirrels and crows, and the tusked duo that, after a heated dispute over Linux v. Windows, turned their backs on each other forever in the heart of the institute, and the residential zone's Pomeranians, Pekingeses, Pugs, Poodles and Profs, the exceptional fauna of Chennai-036 deserves an essay in every blog run by its citizens. Allow me to share my sensations.
Ever since I got kicked into this engineering school, I've chanced upon numerous nameless fliers and reptiles, listened to unfamiliar chirrups, beheld fawns leap forth like springs and stags lock antlers. This fever of studying the animal kingdom from close quarters was at its apex in the first few weeks of my freshman year. My eyeballs felt like National Geographic cameras. I pedalled far and wide in the evenings just to ensure I hadn't missed monkeys or blackmoney [some call it blackbuck] in action, or a strange species at perch or aslither. Hence, while I was indulging in rich zoological pursuits as these, when one nature-loving friend of mine, after calling me to witness a 'superb thing' and having me hurry there with colourful visions of a possible doe in labour or a kingfisher riding on a mongoose, ardently pointed his finger at the course of an ant -- an ant -- the natural fallout of momentarily losing two French words, to wit, sangfroid and savoir-faire, may be excused.
Lately, I visited a cave in the campus, amassing piles and piles of dust, throbbing with coloured bugs and beetles and laced with cobwebs in every cranny. It gave me a thumbnail view of the wide spectrum of insects the emerald woods of our varsity gives asylum to. I set out to spring-clean the grime and sweep the poor invertebrates out as it happened to be my hostel room [update: This was during the summer vacation]. While so doing, I saw, for the umptillionth time, a bug-couple Doing It. I had always wanted to know the name of these perennially charged organisms and, like all, had sworn at Google for not inventing Picture Search. Branchmate Raghu slaked my curiosity one day: they're officially called 'sexbugs'. I couldn't wonder less.
Sitting at my table at the far end of the room one afternoon, I was discussing light issues with Jayavel, who was leaning against the door frame. Since I was, as well, sketching an ME112 regular solid on my A3 sheet, I wasn't looking into his face during speech. The conversation reached a pause that wasn't pregnant, and taking the cue, J left. A bit later, out of the tail of my eye I perceived that he had re-entered and was standing in the centre of the room beside the bedfoot. I resumed the chat and kept at it for about 45 seconds, until I came alive to the feeling that J had considerably thinned down from what I had seen minutes back. I turned sharply.
'Jayavaaeell! Jayavaaaaeeellll!'
It was a cry for help. On the rail of the cot stood upright a rhesus monkey. My panic screams neither scared it away nor reached their addressee. I made an effort to strike my calm, with some success. My fright was not zoophobia; it was merely a shock, an abrupt realization of an animale presence. Typical of his race, the primate ignored shooing gestures with disdain, made a hollow mouth and surveyed the shelves. Only when I swayed my rifle (in the form of my mini-drafter in its canvas case) did he scoot.
A year elapsed. Mozart was treating my ears from the computer abutting a bunch of polythene packets. They contained candies of ginger, thulasi, vallarai and thoodhuvalai [the English names of the last three herbs are not in my cranial word-kit]. I was reclining on the wall by my bed. The subtle notes of the sonata completely mellowed me and more than once I caught myself yielding to the sandman. The world stood still, the sinews were limp with fatigue... It was (wink-wink) a moment of inertia...
All of a sudden a hairy hand appeared through the ajar door. I came to my senses with a start, and scampered to my feet. The monkey behind the hand entered. My pulse escalated. In a moment's notice, my precious gingers were in his clutch! Heavens! You could've felled me with a toothpick! I let out a war cry and sprang at him. He did not, contrary to my expectation, drop the parcel. I kicked air. He took flight. I gave chase. However, when the slapworthy tree-dweller's comrades joined him in the garden, ripped wrappers apart and popped toffees in, I had but to concede the triumph of Beast over Man. Inji thinna korangunga!
Fishy goings-on are taking place at the grassfield near S.A.C. Or rather, under the grassfield near S.A.C. Perhaps a bunker of ballistic missiles, perhaps a subterranean vault for unaccounted bullions. I don't know. All I can say is that the establishment has worked out a shrewd way to keep us off those plains by planting a board reading 'BLACKBUCK ZONE. NO THOROUGHFARE.' For I have sighted more fire-breathing dragons in that area than blackbuck. It is, as Prakriti wails in its mails, that their numbers dwindle by the week. And the buck keep coming up with inventive means of dying. Sigh...
Serious things apart, were Al Gore to look at the resource-squandering in the handful of green spots like ours, (I'm tempted to say) he'd be spinning in his grave. Of frogs, the acts of which I've already chronicled, and of the two kittens Raghu, Sriram and I rescued from the teeth of danger, I shan't blog.
Animals, thus, never fail to provide me with amazement, but when such provision comes from the monkey population, I take it with a pfoot of salt.
Ever since I got kicked into this engineering school, I've chanced upon numerous nameless fliers and reptiles, listened to unfamiliar chirrups, beheld fawns leap forth like springs and stags lock antlers. This fever of studying the animal kingdom from close quarters was at its apex in the first few weeks of my freshman year. My eyeballs felt like National Geographic cameras. I pedalled far and wide in the evenings just to ensure I hadn't missed monkeys or blackmoney [some call it blackbuck] in action, or a strange species at perch or aslither. Hence, while I was indulging in rich zoological pursuits as these, when one nature-loving friend of mine, after calling me to witness a 'superb thing' and having me hurry there with colourful visions of a possible doe in labour or a kingfisher riding on a mongoose, ardently pointed his finger at the course of an ant -- an ant -- the natural fallout of momentarily losing two French words, to wit, sangfroid and savoir-faire, may be excused.
Lately, I visited a cave in the campus, amassing piles and piles of dust, throbbing with coloured bugs and beetles and laced with cobwebs in every cranny. It gave me a thumbnail view of the wide spectrum of insects the emerald woods of our varsity gives asylum to. I set out to spring-clean the grime and sweep the poor invertebrates out as it happened to be my hostel room [update: This was during the summer vacation]. While so doing, I saw, for the umptillionth time, a bug-couple Doing It. I had always wanted to know the name of these perennially charged organisms and, like all, had sworn at Google for not inventing Picture Search. Branchmate Raghu slaked my curiosity one day: they're officially called 'sexbugs'. I couldn't wonder less.
Sitting at my table at the far end of the room one afternoon, I was discussing light issues with Jayavel, who was leaning against the door frame. Since I was, as well, sketching an ME112 regular solid on my A3 sheet, I wasn't looking into his face during speech. The conversation reached a pause that wasn't pregnant, and taking the cue, J left. A bit later, out of the tail of my eye I perceived that he had re-entered and was standing in the centre of the room beside the bedfoot. I resumed the chat and kept at it for about 45 seconds, until I came alive to the feeling that J had considerably thinned down from what I had seen minutes back. I turned sharply.
'Jayavaaeell! Jayavaaaaeeellll!'
It was a cry for help. On the rail of the cot stood upright a rhesus monkey. My panic screams neither scared it away nor reached their addressee. I made an effort to strike my calm, with some success. My fright was not zoophobia; it was merely a shock, an abrupt realization of an animale presence. Typical of his race, the primate ignored shooing gestures with disdain, made a hollow mouth and surveyed the shelves. Only when I swayed my rifle (in the form of my mini-drafter in its canvas case) did he scoot.
A year elapsed. Mozart was treating my ears from the computer abutting a bunch of polythene packets. They contained candies of ginger, thulasi, vallarai and thoodhuvalai [the English names of the last three herbs are not in my cranial word-kit]. I was reclining on the wall by my bed. The subtle notes of the sonata completely mellowed me and more than once I caught myself yielding to the sandman. The world stood still, the sinews were limp with fatigue... It was (wink-wink) a moment of inertia...
All of a sudden a hairy hand appeared through the ajar door. I came to my senses with a start, and scampered to my feet. The monkey behind the hand entered. My pulse escalated. In a moment's notice, my precious gingers were in his clutch! Heavens! You could've felled me with a toothpick! I let out a war cry and sprang at him. He did not, contrary to my expectation, drop the parcel. I kicked air. He took flight. I gave chase. However, when the slapworthy tree-dweller's comrades joined him in the garden, ripped wrappers apart and popped toffees in, I had but to concede the triumph of Beast over Man. Inji thinna korangunga!
Fishy goings-on are taking place at the grassfield near S.A.C. Or rather, under the grassfield near S.A.C. Perhaps a bunker of ballistic missiles, perhaps a subterranean vault for unaccounted bullions. I don't know. All I can say is that the establishment has worked out a shrewd way to keep us off those plains by planting a board reading 'BLACKBUCK ZONE. NO THOROUGHFARE.' For I have sighted more fire-breathing dragons in that area than blackbuck. It is, as Prakriti wails in its mails, that their numbers dwindle by the week. And the buck keep coming up with inventive means of dying. Sigh...
Serious things apart, were Al Gore to look at the resource-squandering in the handful of green spots like ours, (I'm tempted to say) he'd be spinning in his grave. Of frogs, the acts of which I've already chronicled, and of the two kittens Raghu, Sriram and I rescued from the teeth of danger, I shan't blog.
Animals, thus, never fail to provide me with amazement, but when such provision comes from the monkey population, I take it with a pfoot of salt.
2007/07/12
Punnishable Offences
$Question: What does 'P.P.' stand for?
Why did the gloomy man go down to the wine-cellar?
His spirits were low.
Traditional sheep-fodder is no longer in ewes.
What is the difference between (a) a crocodile let loose among goat shelters, and (b) a glycerine-eyed actor playing a kindly vicar?
(a)A crocodile tears apart prey's sheds.
(b)A part prays, sheds crocodile tears.
A novelist tried to write a story while bungee-jumping.
He was killed in the proses.
How come lions appear in groups only in summer?
Pride cometh before the fall. *
Why was the drunk skipper of the ship petrified when he spilt red wine on the right-hand rails?
He saw his port touch the starboard.
___________________________________________________
I fancy this is the, or at worst my, shortest sci-fi piece on record...
The Time-Trotter
Why did the gloomy man go down to the wine-cellar?
His spirits were low.
Traditional sheep-fodder is no longer in ewes.
What is the difference between (a) a crocodile let loose among goat shelters, and (b) a glycerine-eyed actor playing a kindly vicar?
(a)A crocodile tears apart prey's sheds.
(b)A part prays, sheds crocodile tears.
A novelist tried to write a story while bungee-jumping.
He was killed in the proses.
How come lions appear in groups only in summer?
Pride cometh before the fall. *
Why was the drunk skipper of the ship petrified when he spilt red wine on the right-hand rails?
He saw his port touch the starboard.
___________________________________________________
I fancy this is the, or at worst my, shortest sci-fi piece on record...
The Time-Trotter
Twice upon a time there lived a physicist.
_____________________________________________________________
Why did the multiple ship owners chuckle at the newbie setting out in the industry?
He was a one-liner man.
The Special Theory of Relativity:
A rolling stone gathers mass.
Can you name 02 two-hyphen-containing nineteen-letter-words?
How does a urinal behave like a (wo)man?
When it gets pissed, it flushes.
Change in kinetic energy =
Integral v1 to v2 of mvdv
mv = momentum = p
⁂ ΔKE =
Integral v1 to v2 of pdv ...(1)
Work done [by a gas] =
Integral V1 to V2 of pdV ...(2)
From (1) and (2), merely by changing lower case of v to the upper, we have proved that
Work done = Change in kinetic energy, thus establishing the Work-Energy Theorem.
$Answer: Read the papers. She stands for Indian President. So does B.S. Shekhawat.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*(i) I gently remind verbal amnesiacs that a collection of lions is a pride.
(ii) Erudite circles will scorn at the usage of the in a's stead. Can't help it, sorry.
2007/06/27
Chicken II
Q: Why did the chicken cross the road?
But come on! The chicken is not an albino!
It had a bladder problem, but at mid-road it realized things were constipated.
The chicken with a soulful heart
Paused with a silence fraught.
'Twas waiting for a winged friend
To emerge from the next bend.
Here came the awaited footfalls,
And oh! the ear's hope was false...
Sight yielded but a perfect stranger,
As the bird's heart dipped nether.
And then did it with right wrath fume,
Stuck breast out, flurried the plume,
Thrust out foot, and stiffly strode!
Thus did the chicken cross the road.
On this side of the road was Gates, on that side Torvalds.
A road and a chicken struck a partnership to arrange an accident of a car with a briefcase full of cash. The chicken secretly made to run away with all the money without giving the road its cut of the loot. What you saw was just the first half of the chicken's plan to double-cross the road.
Asin was giving autographs across the road. She's beautiful, no?
Researchers in Reykjavik have finally come out with a decisive answer to the unsettling behaviour of chickens crossing roads frequently between mid-July and late August.
From the website of University of Iceland:
|| Gallus gallus, or the domestic chicken, has increasingly become a traffic menace all over the world. Two out of every ten[1] bicycle topples are caused by their running into the rider's way. What is the root source of the instinct that drives these bipeds mad as a, well, wet hen? A four-member team of the Zoology Department [2] set out to unravel these mysteries, and their findings bring to light most shocking results. It was discovered that the age-old medical gospel, that chickens had nothing to do with chicken pox, was a sham. As a matter of fact, the seed of the fowl's impulse (to dash across bitumen) is a hybrid of two viruses -- one causes chicken pox, the other chikungunya! Reports of .... ||
Note:
[1] 'One out of every five' would do.
[2] Its Ornithology Wing (a bit of a pun, eh?), actually. The webmaster prudently so tailored the wordings that it didn't sound like the chicks were stared at by a bunch of bird-watching guys.
The aviator desiderated to galvanise tribulatory predicaments in the precinct-abarticulative for a consuetude of chlerdipsylzubonemaphinschgretion.
But come on! The chicken is not an albino!
Aashish Dattani
It had a bladder problem, but at mid-road it realized things were constipated.
Dr Flea
The chicken with a soulful heart
Paused with a silence fraught.
'Twas waiting for a winged friend
To emerge from the next bend.
Here came the awaited footfalls,
And oh! the ear's hope was false...
Sight yielded but a perfect stranger,
As the bird's heart dipped nether.
And then did it with right wrath fume,
Stuck breast out, flurried the plume,
Thrust out foot, and stiffly strode!
Thus did the chicken cross the road.
Pratyusha
On this side of the road was Gates, on that side Torvalds.
Mathew
A road and a chicken struck a partnership to arrange an accident of a car with a briefcase full of cash. The chicken secretly made to run away with all the money without giving the road its cut of the loot. What you saw was just the first half of the chicken's plan to double-cross the road.
Sriram (EP)
Asin was giving autographs across the road. She's beautiful, no?
Narendranath
Researchers in Reykjavik have finally come out with a decisive answer to the unsettling behaviour of chickens crossing roads frequently between mid-July and late August.
From the website of University of Iceland:
|| Gallus gallus, or the domestic chicken, has increasingly become a traffic menace all over the world. Two out of every ten[1] bicycle topples are caused by their running into the rider's way. What is the root source of the instinct that drives these bipeds mad as a, well, wet hen? A four-member team of the Zoology Department [2] set out to unravel these mysteries, and their findings bring to light most shocking results. It was discovered that the age-old medical gospel, that chickens had nothing to do with chicken pox, was a sham. As a matter of fact, the seed of the fowl's impulse (to dash across bitumen) is a hybrid of two viruses -- one causes chicken pox, the other chikungunya! Reports of .... ||
Note:
[1] 'One out of every five' would do.
[2] Its Ornithology Wing (a bit of a pun, eh?), actually. The webmaster prudently so tailored the wordings that it didn't sound like the chicks were stared at by a bunch of bird-watching guys.
Upcoming post in Chemical Siddharth's blog.
The aviator desiderated to galvanise tribulatory predicaments in the precinct-abarticulative for a consuetude of chlerdipsylzubonemaphinschgretion.
'Frame' Santhosh
2007/06/21
Mutespeak
Santhanam's Laws of Reaction:-
Law One
Every chemical reaction remains under equilibrium or takes place at a uniform rate unless and otherwise an external catalyst acts on it.
Law Two
The rate of a reaction is directly proportional to the molecular mass of the reactant and its k a value at room temperature.
R α M
α ka
R = S.M.ka,
where S = Santhanam's constant, of value 3.1415962 x 10^(-23)
Law Three
Every oxidation has an equal and opposite reduction.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dreams fail. Take, for instance, Conversations of The Big Deal , a book I dug out from a shelf of archives. Its preface is longer than its inner contents! One of its authors didn't pen one word in it. Another lent twelve. It was the third chronicler that furnished the rest of the volume, from the leaves of which I retrieved a piece of paper my idle hand had, at some distant past point of time, filled with the aboveblogged Laws of Reaction. The Big Deal was a legion of three in pursuit of a common end. Each was sufficiently proficient in one stream apiece to coach the other two on his forte. The association didn't stay intact for long.
I present here the book in its entirety.
Page Zero
First edition 2004
Final edition 2004
©The Big Deal™®
This book, or any part of this book, is strictly prohibited from reproduction or republication in paper, microfilm, magnetic discs, etc. without prior written permission from at least one of the authors.
Published by
POLAR BEAR PUBLICATIONS
(Penguin Books and ours are poles apart)
Page One
Conversations Of The Big Deal
M. NAIR
S. BHATTACHARYYA
K. N. RAJ
PREFACE
Books have been written never without an idea in the head of the author(s). In this aspect, we are indeed dignified in presenting a book totally out of the genre. For we, the authors, ourselves do not know as yet the contents of this edition. It will be authored in the coming days on its own, with spontaneity, and with no premeditation. Conversations amongst us shall be in the written form, at least during class hours, and thus what should be called an oral expression shall be penned down hotly from our minds.
We hope our readers will find the book interesting and useless.
Finally, we thank our teachers for keeping us together in the same classroom, making this book possible.
Chennai - 600 101
Page Two
25.05.2004.
Somu, here is the bullet train you told me of.
27.05.2004.
At home, you two try with cuboids, cubes, spheres, etc.
(G.L .)
Insulators are WEAK conductors, actually. Sundari miss told Krishnakanth.
English.
Induction.
Check if my H20 bottle is under your feet.
Isn't it capacitance?
Thanx.
Q = q 1 + q2
Q/t = q1/t + q2 /t
I = I1 + I2
Nearly Kirch's Jn. Rule. Nearly.
18.06.04.
Let's not forget this book.
Muthali yest. gave limit sum.
I will give TRS sir's worksheet note.
x10 -- 10x
------------------
xx -- 1010
Assuming the ammeter is ideal.
I want to do only March 2005.
Page Three
28.06.04.
That was exactly what I did.
One suggestion: "Bargainable" instead of "Bargains can be made".
I should have guessed.
Well-spacy-ventilated-hyphenated HOUSE.
Tomorrow I'm going, but I'll be back by half the day.
Good only. Have some fun.
The letters in the dissimilar font were off the second author's pen. Sentences were not, unlike the above transcript, in the horizontal direction alone.
Hard copy available.
Law One
Every chemical reaction remains under equilibrium or takes place at a uniform rate unless and otherwise an external catalyst acts on it.
Law Two
The rate of a reaction is directly proportional to the molecular mass of the reactant and its k a value at room temperature.
R α M
α ka
R = S.M.ka,
where S = Santhanam's constant, of value 3.1415962 x 10^(-23)
Law Three
Every oxidation has an equal and opposite reduction.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dreams fail. Take, for instance, Conversations of The Big Deal , a book I dug out from a shelf of archives. Its preface is longer than its inner contents! One of its authors didn't pen one word in it. Another lent twelve. It was the third chronicler that furnished the rest of the volume, from the leaves of which I retrieved a piece of paper my idle hand had, at some distant past point of time, filled with the aboveblogged Laws of Reaction. The Big Deal was a legion of three in pursuit of a common end. Each was sufficiently proficient in one stream apiece to coach the other two on his forte. The association didn't stay intact for long.
I present here the book in its entirety.
Page Zero
First edition 2004
Final edition 2004
©The Big Deal™®
This book, or any part of this book, is strictly prohibited from reproduction or republication in paper, microfilm, magnetic discs, etc. without prior written permission from at least one of the authors.
Published by
POLAR BEAR PUBLICATIONS
(Penguin Books and ours are poles apart)
Page One
Conversations Of The Big Deal
M. NAIR
S. BHATTACHARYYA
K. N. RAJ
PREFACE
Books have been written never without an idea in the head of the author(s). In this aspect, we are indeed dignified in presenting a book totally out of the genre. For we, the authors, ourselves do not know as yet the contents of this edition. It will be authored in the coming days on its own, with spontaneity, and with no premeditation. Conversations amongst us shall be in the written form, at least during class hours, and thus what should be called an oral expression shall be penned down hotly from our minds.
We hope our readers will find the book interesting and useless.
Finally, we thank our teachers for keeping us together in the same classroom, making this book possible.
Authors
S.B.O.A. School and Junior College
Page Two
25.05.2004.
Somu, here is the bullet train you told me of.
27.05.2004.
At home, you two try with cuboids, cubes, spheres, etc.
(G.L .)
Insulators are WEAK conductors, actually. Sundari miss told Krishnakanth.
English.
Induction.
Check if my H20 bottle is under your feet.
Isn't it capacitance?
Thanx.
Q = q 1 + q2
Q/t = q1/t + q2 /t
I = I1 + I2
Nearly Kirch's Jn. Rule. Nearly.
18.06.04.
Let's not forget this book.
Muthali yest. gave limit sum.
I will give TRS sir's worksheet note.
x10 -- 10x
------------------
xx -- 1010
Assuming the ammeter is ideal.
I want to do only March 2005.
Page Three
28.06.04.
That was exactly what I did.
One suggestion: "Bargainable" instead of "Bargains can be made".
I should have guessed.
Well-spacy-ventilated-hyphenated HOUSE.
Tomorrow I'm going, but I'll be back by half the day.
Good only. Have some fun.
The letters in the dissimilar font were off the second author's pen. Sentences were not, unlike the above transcript, in the horizontal direction alone.
Hard copy available.
2007/05/22
Poor Jokes
Local
What did junta say when Mr Goodman was sacked?
How did Proxima Centauri console its infant neighbour when it didn't clear the filming auditions?
What did junta say when Mr Goodman was sacked?
That it was a fitting punishment.
Why did Michelangelo refuse to deliver us an EML?
He was told the lecture was extra-mural.
Why did the IIT-ian refuse the top position in the Army?
It was a Gen job.
Why did he decide to take up a job in a Japanese bank?
'Yen cash are there...'
How come he didn't land that job despite slogging diligently and converting all days to work-days?
He never had proper fun-days.
An election in the insti or hostel is a secs-change operation. (courtesy: Nikhil)
How is ISM Dhanbad luckier than us?
All they do is miner courses.
What is the difference between a prospective undertaker and a dead-serious Mysorean?
One will dig a grave, the other is a grave Dig.
How is the polar bear better than MS Windows?
Polar bears continually crash only in winters.
How did the Elec prof find complete job-satisfaction by becoming the bartender at Gurunath Nescafe spot?
Now he could give EVERYBODY a cup.
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Global
Why did our cricketers apply for membership in other national teams?
Why did our cricketers apply for membership in other national teams?
They were bored of control for cricket in India.
How did Proxima Centauri console its infant neighbour when it didn't clear the filming auditions?
'Cheer up, my sun. Some day you will be a great star.'
Using cribs during examinations is thirteenth hour preparations.
'Veni, vidi, veni'
-- Drooler at Miss Universe pageant
Excerpt from the diary of an underground water-table: 'I am getting bored these days...'
Name one left-handed Indian batman.
Gotham Gambhir.
Name one left-handed Indian batman.
Gotham Gambhir.
2007/03/31
From Bad To Verse
Now then I have this what-the-hell for poetry. It just doesn't become of me. And I see no reason why they link poetry to admiration of Nature, Life, Beauty, et cetera. I mean, the whole process of getting awed stops the moment one poemizes the panaroma. You cease the true drinking-in and feeling when you stitch them up in language and grope for words. I bet my fortune (which chiefly consists of some trinkets by way of gifts, fictional scrawls, e-mail accounts and Kindergarten origami, all other material possessions having been purchased by parental monies) that there is a positive gulf between any poet's output and the actual sensations that passed through his bones. I do not say that such poetry is pointless, but merely that one mustn't construe it as the poet's exact mind.
I, for one, can never bring myself to be poetically inclined. That is to say, from the penholder's side of the deal. I am not altogether a verse to poetry... erm, averse to poetry. Like all, I do relish reading good poems, and tunnel through Palgrave's Golden Treasury at will. But composing... No, it is impossible for me to lace into verses what they would call the tender emotions and silent sighs of Nature and grace of women (ugh!). Not my cuppa tea. I simply don't have enough estrogen for the stuff. Such poetry is not my line (oh, pun unintended). The most I could do in this sphere is imagine myself as a merman and sing 'I was standing on the jeans-blue sea, and the beauteous sand-waves clashed on the edge.' No more.
I wrote a poem decribing a rain as seen from the window, four and a half years ago (on 01.11.2002, to be unnecessarily precise), and had the misfortune of reading it. I have a vague remembrance of dashing for the sink and vomiting, and entertaining self-immolative ideas the following week. I vowed never to attempt poetry again, but had to break the oath when the alma mater forcefully sent me as its agent in poetic missions for inter-school cultural contests. I swear I never bred even a germ of the thought of willingly putting out poetry of any variety those days.
I cannnot resist (b)logging this dialogue exchange. Please do let me know if you crack in what way the supplied reply answers the quesion I asked. It's been teasing the old brain for long. Thanks.
Dr Swarnalatha, HS221 instructor: Any questions?
Nirmal : Ma'm, I don't understand why Wordsworth defined poetry as (fingers crooking to gesture quote unquote) spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions recollected in tranquillity. Even his own poetry is not spotaneous... Because the poets need to put their verses in a strict meter and so maintain line lengths. They need to choose their words accordingly. And poems with rhyme schemes makes it only harder. I don't think those poems are really spontaneous. So is Wordsworth's definition really good?
Ma'm: Recently there was this.. this.. I don't know if I could call him an artist... There was this man in England who put up a raw placenta for display and called it Art. So Art is all just personal perspective...
I found the poem below from somewhere. I frankly haven't the haziest clue as to what structure it's been written in. It's not proper iambic pentameter, in which case each and every line must be comprised of ten syllables, while here the last two lines of each stanza is made up of only eight, although the metric has been observed in the rest. And one too many alliterations have been thrown in and liberties taken. I think I came across it today in a notepad file on my Windows desktop. Interestingly, the file wasn't there yesterday ;)
Ode To The Computere
From the instant of booting till I shut
Thee down, ally, thou sucketh up mine hours
As dost a briskish bee off a bloomer, but
Yet I canst help adh'ring mine double arse
To the plastic throne and immerse
Mine head in thy witch-tricks diverse.
Thou possesseth a mind-magnet, methinks,
For thou art flaired at fracturing resolves
Of abstinence and control: mine wit drinks
To thy health, mine little fickle heart dissolves
In thy magic brew of cursors,
Icons, windows, files and folders.
Why, thy windows art labyrinths of dark,
For I am oft-trap't in thy folder maze:
Window sans 'Up' button be a question mark
And a cul-de-sac I do fear to face.
But to be netted as poor fish
In them's what I wish against wish.
I, for one, can never bring myself to be poetically inclined. That is to say, from the penholder's side of the deal. I am not altogether a verse to poetry... erm, averse to poetry. Like all, I do relish reading good poems, and tunnel through Palgrave's Golden Treasury at will. But composing... No, it is impossible for me to lace into verses what they would call the tender emotions and silent sighs of Nature and grace of women (ugh!). Not my cuppa tea. I simply don't have enough estrogen for the stuff. Such poetry is not my line (oh, pun unintended). The most I could do in this sphere is imagine myself as a merman and sing 'I was standing on the jeans-blue sea, and the beauteous sand-waves clashed on the edge.' No more.
I wrote a poem decribing a rain as seen from the window, four and a half years ago (on 01.11.2002, to be unnecessarily precise), and had the misfortune of reading it. I have a vague remembrance of dashing for the sink and vomiting, and entertaining self-immolative ideas the following week. I vowed never to attempt poetry again, but had to break the oath when the alma mater forcefully sent me as its agent in poetic missions for inter-school cultural contests. I swear I never bred even a germ of the thought of willingly putting out poetry of any variety those days.
I cannnot resist (b)logging this dialogue exchange. Please do let me know if you crack in what way the supplied reply answers the quesion I asked. It's been teasing the old brain for long. Thanks.
Dr Swarnalatha, HS221 instructor: Any questions?
Nirmal : Ma'm, I don't understand why Wordsworth defined poetry as (fingers crooking to gesture quote unquote) spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions recollected in tranquillity. Even his own poetry is not spotaneous... Because the poets need to put their verses in a strict meter and so maintain line lengths. They need to choose their words accordingly. And poems with rhyme schemes makes it only harder. I don't think those poems are really spontaneous. So is Wordsworth's definition really good?
Ma'm: Recently there was this.. this.. I don't know if I could call him an artist... There was this man in England who put up a raw placenta for display and called it Art. So Art is all just personal perspective...
I found the poem below from somewhere. I frankly haven't the haziest clue as to what structure it's been written in. It's not proper iambic pentameter, in which case each and every line must be comprised of ten syllables, while here the last two lines of each stanza is made up of only eight, although the metric has been observed in the rest. And one too many alliterations have been thrown in and liberties taken. I think I came across it today in a notepad file on my Windows desktop. Interestingly, the file wasn't there yesterday ;)
Ode To The Computere
From the instant of booting till I shut
Thee down, ally, thou sucketh up mine hours
As dost a briskish bee off a bloomer, but
Yet I canst help adh'ring mine double arse
To the plastic throne and immerse
Mine head in thy witch-tricks diverse.
Thou possesseth a mind-magnet, methinks,
For thou art flaired at fracturing resolves
Of abstinence and control: mine wit drinks
To thy health, mine little fickle heart dissolves
In thy magic brew of cursors,
Icons, windows, files and folders.
Why, thy windows art labyrinths of dark,
For I am oft-trap't in thy folder maze:
Window sans 'Up' button be a question mark
And a cul-de-sac I do fear to face.
But to be netted as poor fish
In them's what I wish against wish.
Graspeth I wherefore thine nineteen-inch screen
Was by brainy bast'rds baptised 'Monitor':
For it doth exude a high might unseen,
Addicting souls stronger than might liquor.
May it too be called idiot box,
And be virussed with Trojan pox!
Thy blinking cursor's one vile hypnotizer;
Thy icons hieroglyphics of today.
Brownian Motion describ'th thy pointer:
Never wilt he in single pixel stay!
I wish pups pee on thy Mouse plus
Thy Sea Pee You and You Pee Us!
Thy Keyboard! Keyless problems art her keys,
Each time mine fingers touch her I draw doom.
Thy encroachment of mine suite ruined mine peace,
Advent killed the notion of Single Room.
Loathe thee for these, O Computere!
Yet love thee for these, Computere!
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