Stay hungry, stay foolish

Steve Jobs is dead. I am not him; I cannot make this statement beautiful. On Facebook, his death made at least two things popular than usual: a cartoon of Steve telling St. Peter that he has an app to help him replace the pile of files in front of him, and the story of three apples. As the world mourned his death, many tech enthusiasts and entrepreneurs-to-be remembered his words: “Stay hungry, Stay foolish”.

Since the news of his death, the Internet is swarmed with multiple articles and posts; some admiring him on being himself and some questioning if the mourning at his death was exaggerated reaction. My post is one of the millions, but I am one of those inspired by his thoughts and ideologies, and so I write in the memory of the man who deserves an appreciation.  

My encounter with Steve
I was familiar with the name since my graduation as his name was always synonymous with Apple. Although we talked, Microsoft and Red Hat, Apple was mere a topic of general knowledge to me till I graduated. I spent almost my entire career in Microsoft technologies; I remained oblivious of Steve except for occasional encounters in tech news, back then, for all sad reasons: his exit from Apple and the diagnosis of his cancer. Then came iPod, it was a cool gadget. Never mind, I wasn’t getting one.

Then came 2007 and the day of iPhone. For the first time, I saw this man in a black t-shirt and jeans on YouTube, already lean from his cancer. This man talked sense; he had a gadget with multi-touch, appealed my appetite the first instance, and although owning the phone that costly would remain a distant dream, I had but admirations for this guy. My encounters with Steve then increased, as he appeared more and more on news and chat shows, and I got more access to the Internet.  

A source of inspiration
About a year later, a friend of mine shared a video of Steve talking to Stanford graduates in 2005, probably the most popular speech he ever made. I liked the content of the speech, appreciated it, talked about it and forgot it. It was only four years later, when my life had taken enough turns shaking me off the path of social rationality that I happened to watch the video again. I googled about him, learnt the ups and down he had in his life as an individual and as a tech enthusiast. I came to know him as an artist, someone who was far above the ideologies of other technology pioneers including Bill Gates. It did not take time for me to learn that here was a man I could align my ideologies with, to the extent possible. I was reading a lot of motivational books then, from multiple authors, and his speech was one of the sources of inspiration I would use as anecdotes in my talks and eventually in my actions, to a larger extend unconsciously. I stopped worrying about the dots. I have not been able to connect them yet, but I strongly believe it will make sense someday.

If I have chosen a path of meaning than social rationality for my life today, it is also because Steve’s words always inspired me. I would never resist noticing and appreciating him for how he outsmarted Bill Gates with his answers at D5 or how he got the better off the guy who insulted him at one of his public talks. To be successful, you have to be appealing as an individual and as an orator. If despite his ways of running a company with internal divide to get the best of his employees or of the late evening meetings with early morning follow-ups, there are millions who appreciate him for his contribution to the world; this man has got to have touched so many lives. I am mere one of the millions.

When I watched him unveil the best phone till date, I could not help recalling Bill Gates notes “if you cannot make it good, at least make it look good.” When I watched him say “real artists ship”, I could not help thinking of how many times have Microsoft postponed their scheduled shipping dates. Apple is an epitome of quality, substance and delivery that I cannot help comparing it with Microsoft, its best and noteworthy competitor. Steve Jobs steered his life towards his vision with passion, and not only trying but also delivering, and that is one big lesson to learn. You have to think different, you have to be the rebel, you have to sweat and you have to deliver. That’s how you survive and that’s how you bring sense out of life. Follow your passion and give it all, it’s the only sensible thing to do. Steve’s personal life, though not of my prime interest, was mostly ignored part of his life.

I am eagerly waiting for Walter Isaacon’s biography on Steve that is scheduled to be released on 24th this month. Unlike previous books written on him, I believe this book will contain the fragile Steve Jobs that I have seen in him; it is going to be the first time the world will know that he was human after all. Perhaps there will be some more words of inspiration he has left for the world to keep moving towards better technology, not just in progression but also in significance.  

My perception of Steve Jobs
I appreciate Steve Jobs as the man who shaped the world with a vision that made technology aesthetic. I know him as one who believed in the meaning of aesthetics, brought spirituality into technology and directed the world towards multiple technological enhancements that made the world better than before. His attitude, despite him being temperamental and erratic, appeals me. You’ve got to be foolish if you are going to redefine the rules of the game. Had Steve been healthy and with Apple all through, we would have had more innovative gadgets around. Had he lived more, we would have seen more stunning products from Apple like the mesmeric iPhone and the fascinating Mac Air. Steve, for sure, had the potential to make things beautiful. He was one of the rare artists who contributed to technology. If you compare the Newton MessagePad (the project that Steve scrapped on his return to Apple) and iPhone, you will know the potential of this man’s imagination.

People always compare Steve with Bill Gates, claiming Bill as the fake Steve. To an extent, it is true, but it is just because there is an overlap in the area of their contributions. If it had been for Steve, I would not own a computer at home today. Apple products always remained appealing, but costly. Bill is a geek and a businessman and someone with a vision to make technology accessible. For Bill, technology is business. Steve was different. Technology was a religion for him and it was his spiritual interest. Steve was neither a geek, it was Steve Woznaick’s efforts and Bill Gates’ floating point algorithm that made the first Mac possible. There is no basis on which you can make a comparison between the two greats. Yet today, if I think of Steve Jobs higher than Bill Gates, it is because I know that, in technology, quality matters.

Almost all new products to be launched in 2012 from IBM, Acer or Dell (think of laptops or tablets) are going to be inspired by iPad and Mac Air. Steve’s contribution in recent years is going to profoundly impact at least another five years of product launches. May be the world of technology won’t be as beautiful as it could have been if Steve were around, but the essence of the visions is rooted into the industry and it will flourish.  

The future of aesthetic technology
Steve is not around. There are articled on the Internet calling it the death of innovation. I disagree. May be, with Steve around, we could have had a more beautiful set of future gadgets. But when I look at the industry now and the gadgets around, I see that the need of aesthetics in technology is instigated into many, including the so call “sluggish follower” Microsoft itself. If Microsoft thinks of investing in Surface and comes up with an operating system for personal computers and tablets alike, Steve has done his job. I hopefully believe that the ideologies he placed in Apple will be retained by its employees, and I stay positive that it must have been some brilliant minds at Apple who collaboratively thought of revolutionary products like iPhone and iPad, along with Steve. I am hopeful that innovation will continue with the same spirit, by another Steve Jobs, and technology will not only grow, but glow as well.

An avalanche of memoirs

I have to go back to code in a while. I work round the clock these days, with short breaks here and there. It keeps me busy; away from thoughts and memories that I want to keep a distance from. In late evenings, I take a stroll in my pajamas to a very posh street of Pune; hardly a minute’s walk. I am either in a corner of Café Coffee Day sipping on my favorite hot Cappuccino and staring at the 3.2” screen of my mobile phone, tweeting and browsing tweets, or on the stairs of the grand Mariplex Gold Cinemas mall watching people get impatient for the red traffic light to turn green and the ensuing sigh of relief when it finally does. Times have changed; they always do. It will be insane to root for any similarity between the life of today with bountiful aids of the twenty-first century advancements and the oblivious days in a then remote village of a developing country. But there are moments like today when one gets submerged into an avalanche of memories, compelled to ponder over the differences of yesterday and today. I have been shaped through this evolution of time; matured through the hardships of the life of yesterday and coddled by the comfort of the life of today.

I have a choice between two huge departmental stores when I think of groceries and sometimes I even hop into both on the same day; and I even own a membership card for both. How is it different from walking down the dusty road to a grocery shop about half a mile away only to get half a kilogram of sugar because we were out of sugar to serve tea to the guest, and savoring an orange flavored chocolate ball on way back home? More than often, when I make instant wise decisions to dine out today, I make sure I have my shopping card in my wallet, rather than cash. How is it different from flipping through the pages of notebooks looking for a ten-rupee note placed the earlier week in order to go for a samosa treat at a roadside cart shop in the nearby square? The weekends are fun when I get bored in the ten by eight cell of my room, switch start my bike and in half an hour, find myself reading my favorite book in a quiet corner of an abandoned seventeenth century fort, twenty miles away from city. How is it different from planning a vacation twice a year, traveling for two hours on a steam engine and then walking three miles in scorching sun, stopping a couple of times under the shade of aged banyan trees on way, only to reach a relative’s place mere twenty miles from home?

The life of yesterday involved me; today I am either the initiator or the customer or a mere spectator. It is only natural of me, when I select a few mangoes at the store and get them weighed and tagged with a bar code, to recall those days and nights in the mango orchard in the outskirts of the village, guarding the mangoes with my kin. Hundreds of mangoes were gathered over a day, scores of them quarreled over and gulped, hands washed again and again in the same water logged in the nearby paddy field. The mud-soaked dress and dirty hands went ignored all day, and nights were even more fun, hushing up and peeking out of the cottage waiting for the well-known lady ghost who supposedly roamed with a torch at midnight. How is it different from vacuuming the slight dirt on floor, washing hands so often with a liquid soap and getting back to the couch to watch the “most haunted places” series on Discovery channel? Life has, for sure, moved at a faster pace than I did. It has taken a giant, a really giant, leap from borrowing a VCR player from a local shop to watch a recent movie to the cozy cushioned seats of the multiplexes that I can book tickets online for, and for sure the 3D glasses.

The calling of a friend’s name from our bicycles outside his house and that too at the top of our voices so that his mom will get irritated enough to let him go, the paper boat competition in a road side temporary water stream after a monsoon shower, the witnessing of weird shapes moving in dark and the scare to death when the kerosene oil lantern went off during evening studies, the days long cycling from village to village to distribute a relative’s marriage card and the list would never end; the individual memories that gushes in this avalanche now. It is only human nature to desire for what I miss, but not at the expense of losing my today. There is a certain liberty that I am hooked to, that makes me crave for an escape from the incompetency of today but then tugs me back to its comfort and indolence.

The green lush of paddy fields, and the mud houses in the village, whatever is left now, still entices me today. And when I crave for the tranquility in air and the panoramic feast to eyes, my status on Facebook says “I need a break”. That’s the restful me inside. I have undergone a metamorphosis, induced by the hallucinations of technological and social encroachments all these years. I am either living the hallucinations or reeling under its after-effects; the life of today is now my habit. A click of a button at my desk does half my job; my favorite book arrives at my doorstep adeptly packed and couriered, access to my favorite wine is only the distance to the refrigerator, I don’t have to go to my neighbor’s house to watch the prime time soap and my friends in the States can call me any time, free of cost. There is too much at stake to advocate against the life of today. The green lush and the mud houses are only a “break” for me from my routine, unfortunately.  I might love it, but I cannot think of my life as a life of yesterday. But yes, I do miss them.

Imperfections at both ends. While I have to reach out for my mobile phone as soon as I wake up in the morning to check my Facebook and Twitter updates, I desperately need the serenity of a rural dawn with the crimson sun. While I need to play loud Akon’s creativity in weary afternoons and plug in my ear phone for Pink Floyd’s creative creations at night, I would prefer the busty village girls singing the countryside folklore on their way to fields to the zero-sized over-smartly dressed girls at the mall bitching about their friends. The chirping of birds is more soothing than the conking of cars at the signal; the life of yesterday was more beautiful.

I know a blend is not possible, because technology kills nature and knowledge kills innocence. Today has risen from the death of yesterday, and the cycle repeats every moment. But awareness of this brutal truth is not going to make memories of the past any less substantial. This avalanche passes by for today, but it will come again, some other day in some other form with some other memories and raise the same questions again. The same questions will emerge significant once again, and once again subside. Life goes on, leaving behind memories; and times do change.

Debugging is like having sex

I have been working as a software developer for about four years now and have known many people from this industry who have chosen development of software as their career path. As exciting as it looks from outside, the task of development if full of filth, gamble and uncertainty. It is true that after having been around for a while, a person begins developing boredom and less liking towards a job. But I do not write this text in such a mood or state. I choose to remain a developer for a while, just because it often becomes challenging enough to let you enjoy your job.

Software development is an above average paying job in many countries now and so I expect it to remain for at least a couple of years after which the global pay scale will slightly decline and then saturate for some time. Despite of other important respectable positions that can be held in a software development company, the role of a developer is more challenging if you like to be at the root of problems and ignite your own solutions. How can a software developer be recognized? A simple management trick! Take your employees for a walk, say around some paddy fields. Those who jump into the fields and run around, they are useless, throw them out! Those who take out some gadgets, a laptop or a mobile or a camera, and starts pretending to be busy, they have good management skills, but obviously not a developer! If there is a group of people, physically not very active, standing at the edge of the fields, grouped together and talking about various topics ranging from the cellular biology to the Proxima Centauri, each person impersonating a genius when each is a jack than a master, you have chosen the right people! These people babbling nonsense and every other person in the group having a say (but remember, they speak because they have to say something!) are the true developers. Another unique idea - talk to them. If you cannot understand them and they look confused all the time, you have met the right person for the post of a developer.

But however the individuals be, respect the job they do. The most challenging task for a developer is debugging. It is an art of going through the garbage so that the garbage remains in tact and the rat with dirty plague hiding inside and squeaking all the time is dead. (Well, you assume its dead, but its just unconscious!) Ok, I will rephrase it...so the rat is dead at least for a while. The patience and skill needed, the analytical power needed and the monotonous task of re-executing the code to reload the scenario are virtues of a developer. In fact, a developer is already a cyborg. His thoughts are mechanical and social consciousness is artificial. His desires are technically sound but morally absurd, and no matter how many wives he can pride on, his first wife will always remain a lousy 17" desktop with a crap keyboard.

Debugging is like having sex. The pleasure that a developer experiences when a bug is solved, is ecstatic. But since debugging is a human task and the debugger is still a human, the level of discomfort always troubles him. That is why, the speed and accuracy of the solutions provided by developers are directly proportional to the junk food and coffee on his table. There is an old teaching for wives that the best way to reach a man's heart is through his stomach. Since successful companies like Google and Microsoft have already learnt this lesson, all projects managers in this industry must. Cutting short the crap, developers need something to munch while he has something to crunch in mind. What about trainings? They are secondary. Oh sorry, did I get the women rights people behind me? But I could not help assuming that all (well, almost all) debuggers are men, because women are good at developing new solutions, but perhaps being hygienically conscious, they rarely like to overturn the garbage for the rat. You do not agree, well no problem, I didn't say all....I said almost all. Congratulations, you are an exception!

It was a funny thought I had when I was trying to explore why software developers are given the facilities they enjoy at their workplaces (well, in many of the workplaces). It seems like the project managers are aware of the nuptial bond between a developer and his PC. They have to do nothing but lure them to stay together, which requires much less effort, because I have never heard of a developer going for a counseling session because his relationship with his first wife is not working! He pays very less attention to other relationships and that is why software developers find wives (or mates) even though they are fat and lousy. You asked why? Well, the wives do not have to worry about planning for future or any expenses that the dummy developer would incur. All he needs is some gadgets (and the much needed munch is often free at his workplace), and the balance from the salary is a treat! You can also watch your favorite TV shows and visit late night parties because the dumb ass is still unaware of the world beyond his PC!

There is much more I could explain about the creepy looking people of this alien world who call themselves the creators of software and pride on their creation unaware of the riches that pour in through it. But I am already upsetting many and I will, for my safety, let it be for a while. When I find less humidity around, I will get back to it.

The passage of life

Life and to live has always been a mystery for me. Every year, I celebrate my birthday with friends and family, and feel happy about it. But it was on my eighteenth birthday that my consciousness asked me a question that knocked me hard. It asked me to explain my life and the eighteen years. Not in terms of success or studies, or wealth or grief, but in terms of the meaning of life.

Having failed to explain my own life, I struggled to write down the moment as it meant to me. But it took days, more difficult days, and finally one day, I wrapped up the fearful voyage in the dreadful world of emotions. By the time, I had a few lines ready to be shared.

This is the most beautiful poem I ever wrote as yet today, I discover a new self with its help. Seven years have passed by and I crave for it the way I did then. Welcome to the passage of life!

Meandering through, in pastime of the eternal sleep,

By sheer chance of the law, that gave me a creep,

Entrapped within the weird length of the passage,

Was welcomed with love, in a prevailing queerness.

High up, the blue giant, extended its caring arms,

But bewildered, stood I, with a feel of wariness.



On the carpet of roses, I could smell their bloom,

Laid heaped in a corner, my preserved heirloom.

Two steep marble cliffs, proud of their grandeur,

Had engraved on them, with hands blood-stained,

Rewards for the dead and epitaphs on who lived,

Beyond the gossamer veil, so through ages remained.



A primeval gallery, with profound paintings on show,

Limned by some splendid hands, marvels of the graffito.

I gazed upon each, my eyes kindles in excite,

For I could see the priming, of smiles, hopes and tears.

The pros and cons of the art, tossed deep in my mind,

As I witnessed, their own blood, a couple endears.



And a crowd of imposters, each had an edifice of hopes,

Headed petrified to the other end of knowing the ropes.

Pondering over the oddity of their own bizarre paintings,

For I could not see theirs, and neither they mine.

Some lolled for an instant, some kept their pace,

But none accompanied me, through all my lifetime.



Reading the ciphers, I’ve been through two short of twenty,

And as the next comes looming, I can relive a plenty.

Determined to face the muscle, in the murky road ahead,

Rich in verve and the paradise boons bestowed in a ray,

The ablazed crave to see more of the art, I tread ahead,

With hopes that the other end, lies still far far away.

(It took me days to record this vision in appropriate words. There were times, when I would fall short of words just because there was so much to describe. I finally completed it on 5 April, 2001.)

The boulder

It has been years since I wrote this, but it still stands so fresh and so true. The mixed emotion of love and fear still dwells in me and I know not if I can claim anything has changed since.

There rests a boulder, pious and divine,

On the top of a hillock, my house aside,

That stares at the sky – a diamond shine,

Engraved on a ring, so the hillock to be.

I oft be lost, know nay what to detect,

Significant so high, I can’t describe,

Numbers fall short to count its worth,

To me and my love and the beats to beat.

I wander in thoughts when the wind is calm,

And dream of my apt love come true.

My ‘she’ do I praise, unfading charm of ever,

With her I be blessed, troubled never.

I dream of then when we two together,

The day in memo, me and ‘my’ on the rock,

Will sing and cheer and kiss and smile.

If my love turned so, I’ll be drowned in joy.

But to me terror times, I dream the worst,

Sweet dreams hampered and heart pierced.

True do I speak to the purity the most,

Will cast my self from the height unknown,

To end my dreams and the pricking breath,

With agony of pain and tragedy in love.

Then will the future write an epitaph on me,

And the boulder decides, life or else for me.

Uncertain yet, me and my love spellbound,

Life is in speed and in search of life,

But still rests a boulder, pious and divine,

On the top of a hillock, my house aside.

(I don’t exactly know when I wrote this. But I am not really satistfied by the way this was formed. It does not quite reflect what it should have. But then, this is the best way I could put it then. It must have been somewhere around the end of the last millenium.)

A lily by the road

I did not have enough time to write these days. Perhaps due to the workload at office for the new project and extended hours, I hesitate to switch on my computer at home. Yesterday, lazy and bored, I was browsing through my collection and came across a couple of poems I happened to carve in my pre-university days.

One evening, under the jackfruit free in our college garden, staring at a few flowers at a distance, I could not resist myself from trying to narrate the beauty, strength and the being of a flower. Pure imagination, but hope you like it.

Flowered in a bough, a lily by the road,

Spreading her fragrance to a limit unknown,

Her aroma so adhesive, gravitated me more,

Circus of humming bees and drone, the clown,

Her nectar so sweet, elixir of arthopods,

Ergo her essence, the least been shown.



So the queen elegant, lured passers by,

A drunkard glared firm, amazed to the sight,

For the beauty alone, appeared to him many more,

The false desire to pluck, deserted him to fright,

And refreshed the officer of the bandit gaol,

Tired, longing to rest, returning late at night.



Came a poor soldier, energetic and so armed,

Bleeding his arms and in tatters be his dress,

His staggering legs braked on the marvel beside,

She embraced him in warmth, stole his distress,

Stared at the charm, martins in iron cage,

What noticed the gypsy, she the best actress!



Ever loved her the most, was a little babe,

Would kiss her all day, from its cradle window by,

A dawn was staged, and when fell on its sight,

Lo! Missed the beauty queen and broke its cry,

Lost in a temple or faded in a lover’s knot,

But will make her lovers’ faces pulled wry.


O! lily by the road, bade you goodbye!

(Written during the Samaritans days, this poem was recorded on 27 November 1999.)