White noise is a random signal (or process) with a flat power spectral density. In other words, the signal's power spectral density has equal power in any band, at any center frequency, having a given bandwidth. White noise is considered analogous to white light which contains all frequencies.

Who am I?

Neo-hippie cinephile. Follower of the great Jim Morrison who once said "If the doors of perception are cleansed, everything would appear to man as it truly is, infinite."

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Inertia of Ignorance

I am a warrior, a warrior for peace

A warrior for a better life

A warrior for a little food and a little shelter

A warrior for social justice

For utter dignity

For the man on the street,

Battling with my pen

On my white coarse canvass

Against war, poverty

And the powers that be.

But there’s much more war and poverty

Than warriors dishing out poetry

To counter the oppression

To create much of an impression.

The canvass doesn’t reach its audience.

And we need more canvasses

And many more warriors brandishing pens.

So shake off this inertia of ignorance

My fellow warriors, and hand each other those pens

So that we can march against the enemy

And force its eyes on the harsh reality of our canvasses

So that our children don’t need to fight

Tomorrow for everybody’s rights,

So that the overall darkness is less than the light.

And the sounds of laughter drown the silence

That haunts us today.


Thursday, April 20, 2006

Son of a FOB

This poem was written in jest and is not to be taken seriously.

Hey, you, Son of a FOB

This song’s for you while we steal your job.

This country’s adopted son

Outwardly your culture you may shun,

But secretly you like Tikka Masala

And movies of Rani and Aishwarya

You grew up twirling your Dad’s chest hair

And now you leave him in Old Age Care,

Shaving your own chest

With Silicon in your breast.

You might as well wear bangles

And cut off the peanut that dangles

Between your shaved silky legs

And start laying eggs.

Goras call you “Washer”

Desis call you “Wiper”

Even in the bathroom you are confused

Coz when you asked for a brain, even God refused.

You suck at cricket and baseball too

About business you don’t have a clue.

You are a shame to Genetic Code

As your parent’s tricks, you couldn’t download.

Oh what a waste of the Desi mind

Coz of all of you ABCD kind.

Confused you will always be

And never can draw your Family Tree.

How Do You Sleep?

As you rev the engine of your convertible

Have you ever thought of the blisters on the feet

Of the kids who tried to clean its windshield at a traffic light?

As you waltz under magnificent chandeliers

Do you think of the fraction of a generation

Being raised in support of lampposts all over the nation?

When you throw away half your food

Do you think of the urchins that lurk around the garbage neighborhood?

While you take measured sips of your herbal tea,

Do you think of little Raju who supports his family

Shuttling from kiosk sized shops, wearing almost nothing

Serving tea on early winter mornings?

When you show off the latest fashion

Do you think of the sweatshops and the way they are run?

When you tie the laces of your pair of black leather CK’s,

Have you ever thought of the boys who begged you to let him shine them?

As you lie down on your soft feather bed,

Have you ever thought of the youngest practitioners

Forced into the world’s oldest trade?

How do you sleep at night

When you think of all in the world that’s not right?


The Guest

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

Had been one for a long long time, or so it felt

His only friends being the various instances in his memory

Of a previous life in a different century.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

His hosts had entertained him well.

Lots of gifts – the bodily scars and the limp

Had been products of their kindness

So that he had never had a dull moment.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

His hair was long and had turned grey

His ribs were visible through his scarred skin

He walked with a limp –

An ironic shadow of his former uniformed self.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

He had lost count of time

And Time had lost count of him.

Did they even know he was still breathing?

His son must be grown-up by now.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.

A guest who wanted to go home,

A guest who wanted to walk on the soil of his motherland.

A guest known to us simply as a POW.

He was a guest. A guest of the neighbor’s.