Bar Camp Ahmedabad

How many are attending a barcamp for the first time?

All but two raise their hands. I don't raise my hands because I am holding this laptop.

This is a live blog on the Bar Camp, Ahmedabad.

So what is a Bar Camp?

An unconference, a treat for entrepreneurs, a place for youngsters on the brink of life, of start ups. A non-organized affair. Depending on the mood of the city , the venue, people walk in and write their name on the board outside, in the slot and someone else can come and rub it out.

Most of these participants are students, ripe and receptive for exchanging knowledge.
There are three rooms, this is happening in IIM, Ahmedabad, new building, on a crisp Saturday morning on 19th January.

The speakers are impromptu ( its an unconference, you see), but some have planned ppts.

You can be informal, you can boo out a speaker, you can walk in and out. Lets see how much fun we have .

The first talk is by Sanjay Banerjee . He talks on the mindset of entrepreneurs. He talks of dreaming big and commercialising your hobby, and leadership skills.

Second talk, by Ankur Shukla is a success story, from a small city Jabalpur. He mentioned a large figure, something close to eighty thousand hits on his websites, KoolKampus.com, Kyapoocha.com, KoolKareers.com , all being run by his company Kudos Infomedia

End of first post.


SESSION TWO:

I have moved to another classroom, a pretty lady (dressed in a saree) is going to talk of something no-technical, she said.

Her name is Vinita Shetty, the topic is mobile Governance (whatever that means).

Before she begins, we have Ruchit talking, about how he is going to change the mobile interface within a couple of years. He passes around his cell, showing people how it is already possible to access not just internet, also laptops, other mobiles cameras, from his server.

You can check him out at http://www.ruchit.mymobilesite.net/ Type in ruchit , and the password is samsung123.

Now for the pretty lady, the mGov.

People carry mobile phones, not laptops. (True.)

So people should govern themselves, through the mobile phone. Citizen to Government information flow, is what she is proposing. Make hell for the Govt, call them for every and any problem you have. A police complaint? You need not go there, sign up, just call them and the complaint will be registered.

A fresh new approach to democracy, where public private people (ppp) rule, hierarchy diminishes, voices can be heard.

The common man with a cell phone is empowered, protected, connected.

This was Vinita Shetty, talking of mGov. You can get more on metrobhoomi.com.

Lunch break!

Session three begins:

This is about motivational marketing.

The speaker, Sashi starts with a song, Na todo dil mera, a song I have never heard in my life.

He is gonna tell us about a tool to market. Make it easy for people to buy. That is marketing. Motivation is the fuel that makes a business run, or a person buy from you.

Motivational marketing: Be responsible to your customer if you want him to come back to you.

People buy, act on emotion and later, justify with logic. So emotion is the boss. Take aim at your customer's emotions.

How does a person benefit from your product? Directly and indirectly. Use emotional stimulators.

• Fear. Insurance policies are based on fear of death.

• Love. Connection. A personal touch. Children. Grandparents. Family.

• Sex. A woman's magazine like Cosmopolitan sports a sexy lady on the cover. It gets the men for obvious reasons, and the woman drool to find out how they should be looking to get attention.

• Money / Saving money. Most sales pull crowds on this emotional motivator.

You will find more on www.motivationalmarketing.com.

I need a break, see you next session!

Next talk. Sunayana, a student of NIT Surat Engennering, presents an interesting design for the web.

She is talking about Exploring Online Credibility, on websites like Wikipidia.

How to help people judge the credibility of information on Wikipedia. Any person can go make whatever contribution, factual, imaginary to the contents of the Wikipedia. For example, the Gujarat page carries many factual errors of the earthquake. This misinformation has survived there since many months.

Author credibility , reference credibility, endurance credibility can be the different sections depending on which, you arrive at an average credibility rating. This is mentioned in a small, separate area of the page. And this credibility rating will help in knowing how correct the information could be.

This is her online presentation. www.cs.cmu.edu/ourcs/presentations/ExploringOnlineCredibility

Now it is mykavita. Write your own poem.

Rakshit is getting ragged, or so it seems. Finally, he gets the point through. All of these internet websites like orkut, facebook, etc, communicate short messages, but these ain't serous writers, no sir. However, serous writers, meaning original, long time writers write blogs. They blog their thoughts, their poems, etc. However, there is no copy write on blog. Creative commons a is big confusion.

Your poems can get stolen from you, they can use them for commercial purpose like Fanna (a blockbuster hindi movie). And if that happens, can creative commons do anything?

In an unconference, this can also happen.

Sorry, I have lost count of the sessions. Now I am back in classroom 1, for Tapan Shah's attempt to demystify Facebook applications.

History of Facebook, is that it originated in Harvard, then opened to other universities, high schools, and now it is open to all.

The twenty four year old who mothered it is now a billionaire.

What is the one thing that draws crowds in a social network? Asks Tapan. Gossip, he answers. What are your freinds doing, who are they talking to? Basically time pass.

He gives something like a tutorial (that mostly bounced off my head) on Anatomy of Applications.

'Where did you get this from?' I ask him.

'I stole it,' said the hacker.

'So do you have it saved up somewhere online?'

Here : http://developer.facebook.com/

Feedback session :

More participation needed, be more vocal on mailing lists, no registration please, its dynamic, ideally, in a barcamp , there are no power point presentations. A ppt comes between the speaker and the participant. It creates a formal wall. It was fun. I am happy I came. The best part was that you can move out whenever you get bored.

What is a Bar camp? Where is the bar? Is there a bar?

And India won too. Claps claps claps.

Please, someone, make me laugh...

I wonder sometimes, if I have lost my sense of humor.

A few days back, I mistakenly left my front door unlocked at night. A stray dog walked in and curled up on the couch. I slept peacefully, so did he. So far, so good.

Cut to, Next morning.

The milkman's bell awakens me, I force myself out of the bed, pick up the milk coupons from top of the fridge, and SEE THE MILKMAN STANDING IN THE DOOR!

"The door was open, sister," he says quickly, before I scream. And holds up two Amul milk packets for me. I wordlessly take them, and lock the door.
Instead of relief, I am filled with a dread as I survey the drawing room in the dim early morning light AND SEE THE DOG LOOKING AT ME FROM THE COUCH!

He jumps up as I scream, the milk packets fall on the floor with a flop, he runs inside to the kitchen, I run to the door, open it wide, run back to the bedroom, shut the bedroom door and start banging on it, yelling OUT GET OUT THE DOOR IS OPEN OUT!

After two minutes, I open the door a crack. Slurp, slurp. The dog is licking the cold, still intact milk packets on the floor. NO! I yell at him. He jumps in fright, back on the couch!

And, right in front of a hysterical woman, his legs quivering with fear, the dog pisses on the couch. After he is done, he sheepishly makes his exit.

Cut to, later in the day. As I am cleaning the mattress in the sun, I tell the story to my maidservant. She laughs. I mock laugh. But I am hurt, almost angry at her.

Cut to, few days later, writing this post, I worry. A few years earlier, I would have laughed, giggled my head off. Now, I am too much of a mother to laugh even with my angel. I smile when he laughs, but I can't share the joke.

Laughter can be such a beautiful , such an utter deep breather. Please somebody out there, make me laugh. Don't bore me no more, and don't sing no song. I am tired of words, just make me laugh.

Romance happens in the evenings

Mornings, afternoons are good times to fall in love. However, Romance happens only in the evenings.

When the moon is waning, evening is the last time that you get a glimpse of your beloved. So you sit and gaze at the mountain before night envelopes the path.


This picture is of Arunachala, taken from a friends home, in the evening, a few minutes before we took the bus to Bangalore.

Where half my body resides

I say body because I dig not the meaning of soul. Like a kite, the soul keeps flying about trees and clouds. The body tells me the truth, it breathes deeper when it is whole, when it is one, when it is home.

Tiruvannamalai is the name of the town. Arunachala is the name of the mountain. Since I am an unconventional and yuppie spiritual seeker, I call them Tiru and mountain respectively.

'Look at the mountain, look at the mountain, look at the maa-un-ton!'

This is my secret chant and this is my secret mantra.

Mantras can get tiring sometimes, so I will just look.

This one is called Pradakshina Peek.

The mountain has a sixteen kilometer circumference made of tar road, or outer path. Lovers of the mountain walk this road often, keeping the mountain to your right, near your heart. (The spiritual heart is supposed to be on the right, the place where you thump your chest and say, this is me.)

Like a kaleidoscope, the mountain keeps changing its beautiful face while you walk around it, and this one is an all time favourite.

Tiru is an extremely slow paced town. Apart from the mountain, another time-stopper is the ancient, biggest - in - Asia, temple dedicated to Arunachaleshwar and many many other Gods.

It has four big gates, or Gopurams, out of which, three are kept open, and I never lost my footwear there. And how could I? Were the celestial cows not guarding and watching as constantly as they chewed?

Be yourself

An old friend had come home for lunch.

'Leave your child alone a lot,' he advised me.

'Talk to him less.
Let him become aware of the inner space.
He will enjoy it, trust me.

Don't bother about his education.
Let him learn things by himself.
He will make it, trust me.

Don't force feed him,
Let his stomach decide how much food it wants to digest.
He will grow, trust me.

Remember you are you.
Let him see you as you, not just his mother.
He will still love you, trust me.'

She dreams in a glass of water

I am editing a video based on misconceptions of children.

'Evaporation happens only in large water bodies like lakes, oceans, rivers. Can water in a glass evaporate? No, water in a glass cannot evaporate. How can it? It is not enough for rain,' says a fourth class student.

Tring tring. My sister calls from Goa.

'I had a strange dream last night. I dreamt that.....' She carries on for six minutes as I look at the paused frame.

'But of course, its just a coincidence,' she ends.

'There is no such thing as a coincidence. Everything is connected.' I say.

'I don't believe in all that stuff. A dream is a dream.'

'Yes, you are right, ' I tell her, ' How can water kept in a small glass evaporate? How can a mere dream have any connection to reality? The sun is too busy with evaporating large water bodies.
Why should he bother with a pretty girl dreaming in a glass of water?'

A Homeopathic Experiance

I went to see this doctor because he was good looking. And because he asked me to keep at least two hours free.

That I have a chronic health problem is a secondary matter. Chronic means you are by now used to it.

A doctor who has two hours to spare, who is young, and a Homeopath at that!

Any left brainer would say no way, don't waste your time.

But what is time for, if not for wasting?

If anyone has taken Frost seriously, it is me. I took the road less travelled. And this is what I found :

He actually takes me in without an appointment. The first ten minutes I detail my problem. Then I confess how I play doctor, how I mix and match Ayurveda with Naturopathy, Allopathy with common sense. But I have not yet struck the right combination, probably because I don't do Homeopathy.

He does not react. Instead, he asks me, 'What is the exact nature of your problem? Can you describe it?'

I do. As best as I can.

'Can you describe it more in detail?'

I describe again.

'Please don't mind, but I need to know. Can you describe your pain a little more?'

I take a deep breath. I am aware, now of the pain. I describe it in detail. I tell him how I distract myself. How I have learnt tricks to run away from my body. And how I miss it, the positive connection, the feel good factor, the being factor.

'When you feel good, how do you feel?' He changes the topic.

'I feel connected, to the world, to my body, to my breath,' I say.

'Can you describe it, this happy, connected feeling?'

'I can breathe deep, I feel a flow of energy, my thoughts slow down. When I am happy, I don't feel that I should do Yoga, or walk or exercise to feel alive. '

'Yes, how do you feel when you feel happy?'

'I feel like singing, I sing, I dance without music, I look at fresh vegetables in the market and I say thank you, earth... '

'Can you describe this feeling more ?' he asked.

'I cry, I weep tears of joy,' I tell him, I don't actually weep, though I am tempted to shed at least one tear.

'And how do you feel in your body when you are happy?' he asks yet again.

I am wordless, and I tell him so.

'That is very good. Now describe this feeling a little more, of being wordless.'

'Well, actually right now I am wordless because I am miserable that I am not happy. '

'Tell me more about this, this connected feeling.'

'Well, I can feel connected even when I am without words. ' I say.

'Yes, tell me about this.'

'Well, plants don't talk, but they are silent enjoyers and silent sufferers.'

'Oh, How?'

'Well, they suffer if you don't water them or if you pluck them.' I explain.

'And how do they enjoy?' For a change he is interested in my rambling.

'They look at the moon all night but they don't tell you about it.'

'So how do you feel when you feel this, this connection to plants?' I am beginning to wonder which one of is a moron.

'I feel good.' I say.

Pause.

'I feel that because I understand, I am also understood.' I continue.

'No, this is your mental reaction. Tell me how you feel in your body.'

'There is no tension, no effort to find the right words, their is a deep satisfaction. I feel rested and alert. '

'That is very good. Now we will discuss the opposite. Tell me when do you feel tense.'

'Well, I feel tense when I am criticised, when their is work pressure, or when I am in a hurry.'

'Take one instance. ' he says.

'Well, I can't handle criticism, even constructive criticism.'

'How do you feel when you are criticised?'

'I feel diminished.'

'Diminished? What do you mean, by diminished?' (You no understand English, doc? )

I make a gesture, in which I am squashing a balloon. 'Like this, diminished. Like all my energy, my enthusiasm goes phut.'

'Good. Now make that gesture again , and tell me how you feel, when you feel diminished.'

I smile. But I make that gesture again.

'Yes, tell me how you feel.' he says. I am beginning to respect this young doc.

'I feel, like I am pushed into a dark corner and I can't breathe. I don't have access to my mind, my logical faculties, and so I lash out in anger. Because anger is the only way I can tolerate what I feel. The only way I can survive the dark corner.'

'Anger is again a reaction. Tell me what happens in that dark corner, when you cant breathe.' He prods me further, to go into hell.

'In the dark corner, when I cant breathe, no actually I can breathe but I suppose I am not aware of my breathing. '

'This is your mental understanding. Tell me what happens in that dark corner.' he says.

'I don't feel connected to life. I feel like a stone. Separated from everything and everybody.'

'Yes.' he waits.

'Time stands still. I could be a ghost hanging on a tree for ages, who can see everything, but who cant communicate with anyone.
Can I share something, doctor?'

'Yes.'

'When I was talking of the happy moments, my pain had gone. And now it is back.'

'That is very good. We are getting near the answer.'

He pulls out a fat book, reads for a couple of minutes and finds the remedy.
'Take three pills, three times a day. Come back after three days. If this is the right medicine, it will cure the pain.'

As I go down the steps from his clinic, I make the gesture of squashing a balloon and laugh.

I don't know if this doctor will actually cure me. But is was such a delight to meet an artist in the disguise of a doctor.

Why God does not smile

A filmmaker friend sent me this image today. I looked at it and went Ahhh! I then forwarded it to all my friends. Within five minutes, I got two responses.

Both are filmmakers. One is a gurubandhu. Other is a film school classmate.

Gurubandhu said, 'Wow'!

Other said, 'Computer graphics and effects'.

Questions that muddle.

'Aai, open your mouth,' says my brat, instead of drinking his milk.

'Why?'

'I want to see your tongue.'

I oblige.

'No, open wider. I want to see that tongue, the small one that hangs upside down.'

'Aaaaaa...'

'I still can't see it. It's dark in there.'

'You need a torch. Go get my mobile.'

Runs from room to room. 'Cant find it.'

Runs to the kitchen, asks the cook to call my cell.

Ears open, the kid runs from room to room again.

Ears open, I sip my tea. The cook cocks his head, holding his cell.

No bells jingle. Now I am alarmed. 'Look under my pillow, ' I say.

Its not under the pillow, nor under the rajai, nor have the sheets hidden my mobile.

'Aai's mobile phone is lost.' he announces, rather happily.

'Shut up. Let me think.'

'Ok, think.'

'It must be on the silent mode. Where did I see it last? Last night, it was in my trouser pocket. Where are my trouser's? In the washing bucket?'

Both of us run into the bathroom, the cook follows. There is a double bed sheet under my pant, which has soaked all the water, and, thank God, my mobile is dry and alive.

Back at the dining table. My tea has gone cold, my heartbeat is still fast.

'Open your mouth,' the brat orders, flashing light up my nose.

I oblige.

'I can see it! It is moving! Yuk!'

'Right. Now will you drink your milk? You are getting late for school.'

He points the light to himself. 'Aai, see mine, no.'

'Ok. Say aaaa.'

'Aaaaa.'

'Yup. Its cute, your little tongue. Now drink your milk.'

'Aai, why is it upside down?'

'I don't have the foggiest idea. Now drink your milk.'

'What's it for?'

'To yell at you with! NOW DRINK YOUR MILK!'

And thus ends the early morning anatomy class.

If I were in Mumbai,

If I were in Mumbai today, a second Saturday, I would go meet my longstanding sweetheart, Ramesh Balsekar.

I would get up early and catch a local train to Bombay Central. Hopefully the train wouldn't be crowded, but even if it was, it wouldn't really matter.

I would scan the big clocks on the passing railway platforms, to make sure I am not too late. Ramesh usually starts his talk by nine, and I am usually late by an hour. But thats ok because I have heard him talk since 1996. What appeals to me, and what I still need, is his presence, which is imbibed in the remaining one hour of the talk.

Besides, Ramesh has a clock in his house, with all the numbers having fallen down and the words, 'Who cares ?' inscribed on it. Look for it, you will notice it in the video below.

So my train would reach Mumbai Central by nine forty, max. I would get out of the station, at the west side, and take a cab. At this hour I would probably be his first customer and if I am lucky, there will be flowers and smell of inscence burning...

In twelve minutes, we would climb up Navroji gamadia lane and stop outside the Mountain. Sorry, I mean the Sindhula apartments. As the lift would ascend, so would my anticipation, my heartbeat.

Since Ramesh is ninety plus, it would be a relief to see the shoe rack overflowing. I would quickly remove my sandals and gently push open the door to his voice.

Weekends are for the Indians, so it would be crowded. But I have a special place, on the floor just in front of the chair near the door. If I sit with a straight back, I can see his face. If I feel like chilling out, I slouch and listen. Sometimes, I can see his face in the window of a video camera and thats good enough.

I love the feel of the bare floor in this house. It gently cools down my fatigue, my pain, my thoughts. My Guru's house is inside the ganga.

After half an hour of advaita, Ramesh would signal the end of the talk by asking Murthi to come and sing bhajans. A small re-shuffle would happen, with people in front going back and making space for us to sit in front of Ramesh.

Ramesh would give me a hello smile, and I would smile back, but not completely because the tears may start. I would sit very near to his feet, so that I can touch the wooden patla on which his feet rest.

He has the most beautiful pair of feet in the world.

I would make sure I don't sing too loud, wouldn't wanna make the old man deaf. We sing the same bunch of bhajans since a decade, so its more like humming along in a school prayer. However, like the talk, one word, half a sentence would unknowingly enter the heart and fertilize, and become bigger and bigger.

After the Panduranga's are done, the best bit would follow. Touching those feet in silence.

If I were to translate into words what my tears say again and again,

It's not thank you guru for giving me god,
but, thank you god for giving me the guru.*

If only, I were in Mumbai....




* Quoted without permission from 'A Homage to the Unique teaching of Ramesh S. Balsekar'.

Sculpting in no Time

Forgive me, filmwallas, this is not about Tarkovsky. This is a sunday morning visit to a sculptor's studio. It is Nirali's birthday and she wants to meet him. I want to meet someone wise. And Pavan, well, he is just a tag along.

Kanti kaka (Kantibhai Patel), an award winning sculptor, is the man who has sculpted Gandhiji's statues, among many others.

"I have spent eleven days with Gandhiji." he tells us. If I ask him to recount those days, he will. Hour by hour.

A memory so old, but kept fresh in the fridge of the artist's mind.

I look at his eyes. They are black, luminous, and they hold your gaze. Maybe because he is a sculptor, and has to pay attention to form?

Nirali and his cousin sister are talking about food.

"Garlic is rajasik, isn't it? Onion and garlic are not good for health." Nirali says.

"Nothing like that. You know, we have a habit of always blaming the outer. When, as a small child you hit a wall and get hurt, your mother hits the wall and scolds it. So it is the mother who teaches the child to blame the outer. It is nothing like that. "

Ah, wisdom is so sweet.

I look at Pavan. He is playing about in the studio. I worry that he will break something.

"Let him play. Children should be left alone to play." Right.

"Do you meditate?" Nirali asks him.

"I don't need to. Life is meditation. First, there is rest, then there is awareness of deep centered peace and outwardly, there is tremendous enthusiasm. A happy person is like an ocean. "

I feel a ping of jealousy. An artist without angst. How does he swing it?

Then I look into his eyes again. He looks back. I realize I was wrong. He is not looking at my form. He is looking at himself.

There is no judgement there, no distance, nor time.

"How do you deal with pain?" I ask him.

"You must have heard of Rabindranath tagore?"

I smile.

"You are a writer, so you must have heard of him. Well, he was once unwell, so he went into a long spell of solitude, for six months. He arranged for a servant to keep the food and not to disturb him. During these six months, he wrote the Gitanjali.
So, Tagore says in Gitanjali, If you have pain, know that your Swami is alive, that he is present. Welcome the pain, do not push it away."

Know that your swami is alive....

Flowers at her feet

So rarely, does love meet worship. If I could draw a wen diagram of the two, then the dark area where the two mingle, would be the experience of Uma Trilok's, Amrita-Imroz, A Love Story.

This little book is printed with the ink of courage. Imroz is a heart made brave and clean by love for Amrita, Amrita herself is a tall woman, and to love them both together, and then to write about it, is the loyal tiger, Uma.

There are four ways to read this love story.

If you like paintings, you can see the brush Imroz has dipped in paint that never dried, as he paints and paints the woman with a mind.

If you like Punjabi, even if you don't understand a word of it, you will feel it earthing the three bulbs, Amrita, Imroz and Uma.

If you like poems, you will memorize the poems, so that you may sing them on a cloudy, rainy day. You might even translate them to your mother tongue.

If you like photographs, you will wonder if the photographer was a filmmaker, or did these two really lead such enchanting lives.

Then, of course, if you like reading and breathing deep after every page and sometimes, just closing your eyes and breathing. And letting the tears flow.

'What do you like most of Amrita?' Uma asks Imroz.
'Her presence.' He replies.

Amrita is not well. Uma gives her healing sessions. Amrita asks Uma to recite a poem.

Patte mere ghar aaye
Chandni mein dhule Geet bunte,
jhanjanate
Gungunate
Patte mere ghar aaye

Patte yoon hi bane rahe perh par Phir bhi,
jhankte, langhate
Khirkee ki dehri paar kar
saamne ki deewar par
Dheeme sahme se dolte
Patte mere ghar aaye.

As Uma finishes her poem, Amrita holds her hand and says, 'Uma, how could you feel the pain, the parting, the friendship and love of the leaves?'

When Amrita is burning on the pyre, Imroz stands in a corner, away from the others, watching.
Uma goes to him and says, 'Don't be sad.'

'Why should I be sad? What I could not do, nature did.

I could not free her from her physical pain. But, nature has freed her.

A soul broke away from her body, to become free again.'

If one can learn to love the soul, death is transcended. A loved one is gracefully allowed to fly away.