Selective Amnesia There was a point to this. But I forgot.

Cholas

For all their conquests, travels, achievements, magnanimity, bigness, and all, the Chola clan have failed to live on.

Even today, there are people named Pandyan or Pandya rajan, (not just the actors) and you even had a Veera Pandya Kattabomman to oppose the British. But the Cholas seem to have died out.

I personally, or otherwise, know of no living Cholan. But I do know of a man named Cheran, and men named Pandyan. Why is it so?

All things PSBB

SO I met a friend from PSBB. (For those not yet in the know, PSBB stands for Padma Seshadri Bala Bhavan, my school)
Just while we finished bringing each other up to speed on what’s happened to our respective lives (nope, she wasn’t the one who confessed. At least not yet) she mentioned she met a few other PSBBians and “I’ve met so many of them last week, it’s not funny”.

Which kind of corroborates Anand’s story here. There are really too many PSBBians in this world. And it so happens that you get to bump into them every once in a while. And it definitely is not funny.

There ought to be a law against us folks proliferating. Or atleast, a regulation that says “Thou shalt not meet more than thy fair share of PSBBians” or something. Not that I would respect such a law, cause me being a sworn anarchist and all (with or without the cartel’s blessing)

Speaking of which, I know atleast 5 other PSBBians who are sworn anarcho-capitalists.

Malayalees are everywhere, and so are the bloggers. And if one where to believe Anand, the PSBBians far outnumber all. The logical conclusion therefore would be that the most common species of humans would be a Malayalee Blogger who studied at PSBB. But I’ve not seen or heard of one yet. Goes to show how faulty logic can be.

Thoughts from 100 feet above ground

A sunray (no, not this one) is almost a physical thing. I can see it, discern its shape, trace its path, and more or less touch it. Or rather, feel it touching me.
Just a general observation.

People confess to me. All kinds of people. All kinds of confessions. From their lovelife to their career. From their school days to how they fought their way through their first job. Folks, I’m honoured. I appreciate you opening up to me. But it so happens that after a point of time, I am so chock full of confessions, I can write half a dozen books. Each 400 pages long. The problem is that none of them stay put, the confessed thoughts. They interact, blend together. Go on dates with each other. I am afraid the confessions see each other so much, they might have kids of their own.

I love the roof of my office building.

Nature intended all things to be circular.