I ran away from home on June 24th, two weeks after my mother passed away. I ran away from Dinesh Devarajan, the grieving son of Late Dr.V Devarajan and Late.Mrs Praveena Devarajan and ran towards DD, so called comedian and flirt who hit shamelessly on all women much to the amusement of those who occupied IMT. I left behind an empty house and occupied room number I-8 and as roommate of Ankur Poddar. I left behind the pitying glances of family and friends and lost myself in the warm smiles that greeted me when I got back. The doors of IMT closed behind me when I entered, sternly forbidding the real world from making its way into my mind. The dirty work of clearing up legal formalities was left to my uncle and sister who ran breathlessly back and forth until every document was signed, stamped and sealed. I cowered behind the walls of my college, refusing to acknowledge that the woman who’d brought me into the world had chosen to leave without my consent.

It was simple to pretend that nothing had happened. My mother had never existed in IMT and so I found it easy not to notice her absence as I smiled into the camera, decked in a business suit as I posed for the placement brochure. I did not miss her when I stayed up for weeks at a stretch preparing for the exams, the quizzes and the projects. I forgot about her as I danced with gay abandon with my friends on freshers night. During the times when I asked my heart if it had acknowledged what had happened, I received no response. I had no feelings, no pain, no lingering memories of motherly love. I shouted into the depths of my soul and waited for a reply that wouldn’t come.

IMT had done its job splendidly. It wordlessly sealed that raw gaping hole in my soul with neat stitches and pretended that the wound would heal. I ran my fingers over the stitches and thought things were all right now, that I was healing beneath the threads that held me together.

The months passed and I settled back into the routine: Classes, mid terms, parties, dinner at nice restaurants, staying up all night just talking to friends, bothersome case studies and end terms. The reward for joining a B school - the much coveted placement now dangled tantalizingly in front our noses after seeming so distant in the first year. There was a sense of purpose to the life I led.

And then when I least expected it, my soul replied. After staying up for an entire week to complete another set of projects, I sat back dirty, weary and tired and said to myself “Man I need a break, I want to go home!” and my soul said “What home?”.

I got scared.

I had a 3 bedroom house complete with furniture, TV and hot water but no one to make it worth returning to. IMT was the only place left where I knew who I was.

Now I feel the pain in every waking moment. I feel it when I see my friends talk their parents on the phone, I see it when they bring back sweets made at home and I taste it when I drink that cat piss that passes off as Nescafe coffee.

I have to feel my way along blindly , without the comfort of parents to tell me who I am and where my place is in this world. I don’t know where I’m going and how I’m going to survive. I ask myself “Why me? Why does all this have to happen only to me? Why must I recover from one blow only to be hit below the belt again? Why do some people get to live their lives so smoothly while others have to struggle just to be able to breathe?”. Perhaps the self pity will get me nowhere but for the moment its all I have.

IMT has been taken over by the first years. Like some sort of Blitzkrieg they have swarmed all over the campus, making themselves at home much to the dislike of us weary seniors. They’re everywhere, you cant move around without suddenly finding yourself in the midst of a annoyingly cheerful crowd of achievers. They spend an exasperating amount of time in the library striving hard to understand concepts we chose to remain ignorant of, they party harder than us, they drink more than us and sit around in the amphitheater and have a rollicking good time till dawn.


We took time getting used to IMT’s culture. We settled in gradually, the essence of IMT seeping slowly into us. We took time to get to know each other, to trust and to have fun. We tested the temperature of the water with our big toe before lowering ourselves gingerly into the pool. The juniors however have leapt off the diving board, screaming joyously, arms and legs splayed out wide and splashed loudly into the water, violently displacing those of us who were content dog paddling.

Maybe we’ve just become old. An entire year of relentless projects, exams and quizzes followed by a grueling summer internship has robbed us of our initiative. Perhaps the time has come for us to move on, to get our jobs and get out and leave it to IMT to wring the zest out of them.

To someone who loves popcorn...

So you sailed away
Into a grey sky morning
Now I'm here to stay
Love can be so boring

Nothing's quite the same now
I just say your name now


But it's not so bad
You're only the best I ever had
You don't want me back
You're just the best I ever had

So you stole my world
Now I'm just a phony
Remembering the girl
Leaves me down and lonely

Send it in a letter
Make yourself feel better


But it's not so bad
You're only the best I ever had
You don't need me back
You're just the best I ever had

And it may take some time to
Patch me up inside
But I can't take it so I
Run away and hide
And I may find in time that
You were always right
You're always right

So you sailed away
Into a grey sky morning
Now I'm here to stay
Love can be so boring

What was it you wanted
Could it be I'm haunted


But it's not so bad
You're only the best I ever had
I don't want you back
You're just the best I ever had
The best I ever had
The best I ever

Growing a french beard is a lot like dating a loser. Nobody's happy that you are doing it."Take it off/break it off", they tell you. "You'd listen to us if you knew what was good for you" they mutter. You smile and let them talk. For they dont see what you see...

The second year had brought with it its own blessings and miseries. The 8:30 AM class was abolished much to the relief of the nocturnal MBA. However we now had a class at 2:15 PM – right after lunch, an hour where most of us where stupefied to stupidity.

Today the post lunch session was to be handled by G.D.S who would explain the intricacies of supply chain management. G.D.S was old, competent, confident and had a large and lovable pot belly that hung wearily over his belt. With his thick glasses and acerbic manner, he gave the impression of a disgruntled communist. With a no frills presentation displayed on the screen, he would walk around with his arms folded, chin tucked into his chest as he held a long sarcastic conversation with himself. The monologues were meant to be enlightening but we merely found them enervating.

However today when we opened the door to enter class, it was a new face that smiled at us. G.D.S slouched morosely at the back of the class looking like a wise hippo with a tummy ache.

“Mrs. J.R will be discussing the use of data mining and date modeling in supply chain management.” He announced grumpily before resuming his wounded expression.

We gazed at Mrs. J.R, waiting patiently for her to begin so that we could let voice gently numb our senses before we toppled over. Mrs. J.R however looked fresh and eager and she played impatiently with a piece of chalk as she waited for the rest of the students to enter.

And then suddenly she began “ Good Afternoon students! My name is J.R and I will be talking about the uses of data mining and data modeling! Now you are all marketing fellows and you must be asking yourselves why must I study Data mining and Data Modeling?? But my dears, these days IT is in yeverything! Suppose I go to a supermarket and buy bread and butter on Monday and milk and beer on Tuesday and nothing during the rest of the week then the marketing fellows at the supermarket can look at their database and say ‘Oho! J.R shops only on Mondays and Tuesdays!’ So they use my buying patterns to decide what I will buy and where I will I buy it next! Are you getting me dears??”

Her onslaught was met with a stunned silence. The enthusiasm and energy coupled with a strong accent and the ability to recite the entire Indian Constitution in one breath proved to be a little too much. The students shifted uneasily in their seats, unsure of what to make of this new specimen that bought milk and beer on Tuesdays . I however only had to hear her say “Good afternoon!” before my heart began to throb with affection. I knew she’d used the beer example to try and reach out to us. Her accent, her simple chappals, her sari, her flushed and sweating face but most of all the earnestness with which she addressed us caused the years to fade away. I was 12 again, listening to a school teacher.

My school had been filled with these motherly figures. They were pious, intelligent, hardworking and radiated affection. With cheerful smiles that lit up their faces they waged a constant battle against time to complete the syllabus. They worried about your health, comforted you when you were depressed and celebrated your small achievements. After a year of being taught by unsmiling disinterested men who kept to themselves outside class, listening to Mrs. J.R was balm to my soul.

She continued with vim and vigor, like she was entertaining a roomful of children with a scary story. Her voice rose and fell as she led us through the treacherous paths of data mining. As she performed a variant of Kathakali, opening her eyes wide to stress a point, I caught a glimpse of the thirty year old marine engineer smiling shyly at her. As the minutes ticked by, we slowly stopped mimicking her accent and mannerisms and grinned at her, letting her know she had our attention and our affection.

I was sorry when the class ended. Time caught up and once again I was twenty four, a so called MBA expected soon to increase profits, reduce costs and keep shareholders happy. Mrs. J.R thanked us for our patience and began packing up. I smiled again at her as I passed her by on the way out, silently thanking her for taking me back to a time I would stand up with my little finger sticking out and earnestly say “Miss, I want to piss” without ever intending to be funny.

An infected ear has left me unable to write this week. For the last seven days I have been sullen, moody,irritable and just incapable of penning my thoughts. Its hard to describe just how much self control I have had to exercise to prevent myself from grabbing a sharp pencil, sticking it into my ear and giving myself a frantic and soul satisfying scratch.

After much cajoling from my friends I finally agreed to visit a doctor. As we couldn’t find an ENT specialist my friend Shublina and I visited a general physician. He took one look at my ear and then called up an ENT friend and said " Why don’t you come here, I have a cartilage infection for you". I took offence at that. I had a proper name and didn’t appreciate being referred to as a disease.

For reasons unknown the first doctor seemed to be very keen on showing my friend Shublina what was wrong with me. Together they peered deep into the recesses of my ear and then made oooh, aah and sympathetic clucking noises. I'm pretty sure that Shublina saw nothing and purposely faked comprehension in order to impress the doctor.

The ENT finally turned up and gravely told me that my canal walls were swollen. He then proceeded to stuff a large wad of cotton down my ear. Shublina walked me back to college like I was recovering from a heart bypass surgery. I resented it when she kept giving me directions on how to cross the road.

I'm not saying that the ear infection is not without benefits. I enjoy the sympathy lavished upon me by all my female friends and I fake incomprehension whenever the topic of project work comes up. I can make crass remarks and escape physical injury because after all, I'm a convalescing patient.

However my writing schedule has gone awry. Once I extract this damn wad of cotton from the depths of my ear, I hope I will be sufficiently motivated to do some serious writing.

This pic was taken by my dad hours after I was born. It remains one of my favourite.

At 6 AM the cell phone alarm comes to life. It seeps through the velvety layers of sleep that swathe my mind and rings timidly at the ear of my consciousness. I ignore it. Alarms come and alarms go but a good nights sleep is hard to come by in IMT. Besides I always set the alarm an hour before I have to actually wake up. I choose to do so that I may drift in that delicious semi conscious state where one knows he has more time before he gets up . I am however disturbed by the violent thrashing about of the other body that occupies the bed, my roomie Ankur Poddar.

“Sir!” He croaks, “ I beg you, Switch it off! Switch it off! I’m going to have a heart attack!”. He searches frantically between the sheets and under my pillow for the phone. I fumble about blindly until I find it and switch it off. With an exhausted groan he drops back into bed and then sighs pitifully.

More out of necessity than affection, Ankur and I had joined our beds together so that we could both benefit from the roaring cooler that made sleep possible on summer nights. Unfortunately as a consequence we had to tolerate each others bedside eccentricities. Ankur is an extremely light sleeper and the mildest of disturbances jolts him awake. Even the light that steals into the room from the crack between the door and the floor can prevent him from falling asleep. Thus every night he seals the crack with the jhadoo I use to sweep the room. He in turn has to put up with the alarm I use so that I may enjoy an early morning jog before the sun becomes unbearable.

An hour later I open my eyes and the large framed poster of Swami Vivekanda, arms folded, face determined greets me with great dignity. I had nothing to do with the poster much preferring delicately clad underwear models to spiritual leaders to gaze at early in the morning. My roomie however was so taken with the poster had seen on the road that he’d immediately had it framed and mounted on the wall. “Soon, Salma Hayek will adorn these walls too!” I promise myself silently for the millionth time.

I brush my teeth and return to the room. Ankur has two pillows covering his face. He hears me enter and partially removes one of the pillows. A single horrified eye looks accusingly into mine. I avert my gaze and look at Vivekanda instead.

“Every morning!” he whispers savagely. “Why must you go jogging when the rest of IMT is still dead? Why must you torture me so?”

I say nothing and continue to look fixedly at Vivekanda. I wonder where I’ll stick that poster of Salma Hayek. Not on the opposite wall, Ankur could consider it blasphemy. It would look like the Swami was determinedly avoiding looking at that fabulous body. Hmm…perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad idea at all…

I turn back to face him. The intensity of the accusing eye is weakening. The eyelid shudders and slowly descends. A gentle snore escapes from under the pillow. I put on my shoes and quietly slip out.


The sun is still mild and I enjoy my run around the ground. I’m mildly pleased with myself for having managed to consistently wake up every morning and pant around the field. Ankur though is beginning to get black circles under his eyes from the lack of sleep. Unlike me, he cannot enjoy an afternoon nap as the sun shines far too brightly through the windows for his comfort.

For all our differences I couldn’t ask for a better roomie. Once properly awake Ankur transforms miraculously into a cheerful, God fearing individual with a permanent smile creasing his face. He gives me a tired smile from the bed when I return.

“What sir, had a nice jog?”

“Fabulous sir, and did you sleep well?”

The smile falters for a second and then returns.

“Sir, why do you even ask me that question? You know I cannot sleep in IMT as long as that bloody alarm of yours rings day and night.”

To an outsider it might seem like a polite exchange of words between strangers. Our habit of addressing each other as Sir might puzzle most people yet it is how we always speak to each other. Ankur started it. When we first met he claimed that as I had professional work experience I knew a lot more than he did and therefore deserved to be addressed as sir. In return I replied that as he was a full year older to me, I had to return the salutation. Most of our friends think we are either nuts or sarcastic in the way we talk to each other. But there’s nothing acerbic in our tones, we sir each other with affection.

I had come to IMT mildly apprehensive of hostel life. Eager as I was though to take advantage of the freedom that the hostel offered, I was unsure of what kind of specimen I would have to share my habitat with. Would he be a tall menacing individual who came in drunk every night and threw up on my bed? Or would he be a Casanova who brought a different girl to the room every night and threw me out? Would he steal my underwear when his own inventory ran low? As I approached my room for the first time my mind conjured up an enormous hairy individual with a bottle of Old Monk in one hand and bikini clad girl in the other. A beedi would hang from his lips and he would glower at me, clad all the while in nothing but my underwear. Instead I got Ankur.

We got along fabulously from the moment we met. The moment he found out that I had no curtains to cover the window on my side of the room, he had them ordered at his personal expense. He bargained ferociously with the cooler salesman and had one installed in the room. I in turn swept and cleaned the room and tried to keep things in order. However we really bonded together when the ragging began.

IMT has a tradition of warmly welcoming all the first year students. The seniors do so by keeping the juniors awake every night for an entire week. I was made to dance, to sing, to deliver long speeches in broken hindi and from time to time act in pornographic skits for their entertainment. I endured it for about 3 days before going out of my mind from the lack of sleep. Ankur went around looking like he was carrying the sorrows of the entire world, with dark circles and bags beneath his eyes. On the fourth night we pledged that we would no longer subject ourselves to this humiliation. We locked the door and went to bed.

It began with a few inquiring taps on the door. It was nothing more than a polite signal from the senior who stood outside our door. The taps meant “Hey, guys its 11 PM and you know what that means. Kindly report to the basket ball court so that we may strip you off your dignity.”

Our hearts went cold. Ankur and I looked at each other and then somehow gaining strength from it we pulled the sheets back over our heads. Perhaps if we were quiet they would go away.

The taps became more persistent. We could sense the anger that was slowly building up in the nincompoop who stood outside. He began to thump on the door.

“Ankur Poddar of HR and Dinesh Devarajan of Marketing, bahar aaja saalon!”.

We cursed ourselves for not removing the stickers that had our names on the door. Now he knew our names.

“BANG!”

The nincompoop had actually kicked the door. “ANKUR AND DINESH!, COME OUT NOW!”. He began to rapidly kick the door, each bang echoing loudly down the corridor. We could hear him panting heavily. Each assault would make us wince. We thought it was only a matter of time before the door was broken down and we would be taken the basket ball court and shot.

He was soon joined by some equally boisterous seniors. They held a loud conversation outside our door and took turns yelling insults and accusing us of incestual relations. As the minutes passed by they grew more and more frustrated. It was unbelievable our attitude they muttered. No respect for seniors at all.

Ankur and I lay in our beds wondering how on earth such specimens could be found in a B school. We had come here expecting mature and reasonably intelligent individuals. Instead we had the spawn of Saddam growling at our doorstep. How could these people ever lead organizations one day?

The kicking and yelling continued throughout the night. At several instances both of us were tempted to just open the door and make the noise stop. But then we would look at each other and our expressions would harden. Let the bastards kick all they wanted to, we wouldn’t give in.

At around 5 in the morning they finally quit. Irritable and hurt that our spirit had not been broken, they warned all the other juniors on our floor that they were to be informed immediately if either of us showed faces outside.

For the next couple of nights we bolted the door from the inside and then pushed the table against it. When we said good night to each other we actually meant ‘may we live to see the day’. In retrospect it all seems silly. The seniors couldn’t actually have done anything to harm us and were just looking for juniors to push around. Ankur and I remained a thorn in their flesh till the very end for we never surrendered.

I think the ultimate proof of our friendship came at the end our first year. IMT permitted the students who had the best grades to move to a single room. I was by no stretch of imagination among the top, Ankur however was. I began to ready myself for looking for a new roommate for a single room is highly coveted(especially by those who have girlfriends). But Ankur surprised me by turning it down. “ Would much rather share a room with you” he smiled.

The news spread like wild fire, that a moron had actually turned down a single room. Ankur was immediately flooded with offers for the room he had turned down. All day and night his phone would ring with classmates and friends asking him to take the room and later hand it over to them.

One evening Ankur’s friend walked in and announced that someone on the 3’rd floor was offering to pay five thousand bucks for the room.

“Is he nuts??” asked a surprised Ankur.

“Yeah, I told him he should pay at least eight thousand” snorted the friend and went away.

Ankur and I now remain one of the few room mates who continued to live together even after the first year. “ I need to improve my English sir.” Ankur told me gravely “and you’d better help me.”. I smiled and nodded.

Now at nights as I check my mail before I go to bed, Ankur sits and writes down quotes which impressed him. “ Humans come in all shapes and sizes!” he read aloud. “Sir have you read this quote before?” he bestows me with a beatific smile. “ Humans come in all shapes and sizes and it is upto to us to forgive them.” I grin back at him and slip into bed.

“Good night sir” he wishes me, “Good night” I reply.

Ankur seals the door gap with the jhadoo, turns off the light and climbs into bed. I silently set the alarm for 6 AM and keep the phone as close to his ear as possible.

He’ll sure regret that decision to let go of a single room.

I have spent this semester consciously avoiding any activities that threaten to add value to my resume. Instead I have tried to become a little more disciplined in activities that make me feel good. Perhaps discipline and feel good don’t go well together but I have realized that if I am ever to write that book then I must write everyday and not just when in the mood.

What I will try to do is write for about half an hour everyday and then post the completed article every Sunday. Your comments and feedback will do a world of good to me :-)

God help me, I'm an MBA who

1) will not read the Economic Times even if he was paid to

2) would much rather read Malgudi Days than Jack Welch

3) thinks Kotler is just a book with of lots of colour pictures

4) will shoot anybody who utters the words "Segmenting, Targeting and Positioning"

5) would rather sell his soul to the devil than take up a sales position in a firm

6) wonders why MBA's should ever be paid so much

7) will never aspire to "Climb the Corporate Ladder" or "Move up the Value chain"(barf)

8) if ever asked to craft a companies mission or vision statement, will leave out "benefit to the shareholders"

9) will probably never get hired because this post will turn up against my name on google

This list will be updated periodically.

Would you employ this man?

I've been having a good time at IMT since I got back. Somehow things like CGPA, placements, Job Profile, etc which worried me so much before all seem trivial in the larger scheme of things. The last 3 years have been very cruel in terms of the amount of hurt and pain that I've been forced to bear. The people around whom my life orbited have all left leaving me a little clueless of who I am and what I'm supposed to do with my life.

However this post is not meant to be a lament. I have no idea what the future has in store for me but I still have my dreams. I still hope to get a book published, I still hope to fall in love and I still hope to rise in the world without being too pushy about it.

For now I just want to enjoy what I have. IMT has given me some truly wonderful people as friends and for now its all I need.

I think Bruce Springsteen's song "Your Missing" perfectly captures what my family(or whats left of it) is going through. Lyrics Below...





Shirts in the closet, shoes in the hall
Mama's in the kitchen, baby and all
Everything is everything
Everything is everything
But you're missing

Coffee cups on the counter, jackets on the chair
Papers on the doorstep, you're not there
Everything is everything
Everything is everything
But you're missing

Pictures on the nightstand, TV's on in the den
Your house is waiting, your house is waiting
For you to walk in, for you to walk in
But you're missing, you're missing
You're missing when I shut out the lights
You're missing when I close my eyes
You're missing when I see the sun rise
You're missing

Children are asking if it's alright
Will you be in our arms tonight?

Morning is morning, the evening falls I have
Too much room in my bed, too many phone calls
How's everything, everything?
Everything, everything
You're missing, you're missing

God's drifting in heaven, devil's in the mailbox
I got dust on my shoes, nothing but teardrops

Because I do not have the words now...
Tribute

Thank you so much Anand.

As usual, I was completely wrong about haveing free time. I am currently touring far and scattered villages in interior Tamil Nadu selling candy at all roadside shops as part of my summer internship. I am also working on "The Life and Times of a Troubled Candy Salesman" on the side. Wish me luck because my project is going absolutely nowhere and yet in 2 weeks time, I am supposed to convince the top brass in the company that I've done some quality work...

Two semesters at IMT had worn me out. I led a wild existence, going to bed at two AM, being woken up again at three AM for a project or committee meeting and then crashing into bed at around six, only to have the alarm shrieking by eight.

Breakfast would be eaten in a daze and then I’d go into a coma in class. I’d stare glassily at various lecturers who inhabited the podium for an hour and half each until it was time for lunch. They could have set fire to themselves or swallowed tube lights for all the difference it made to me. I treated each one of them to the same vacuum of indifference.

Post lunch, I’d try to crawl into bed for a few hours of sleep but then the phone would ring again. More committee work. I’d wail and complain but I had no choice. My conscience would gnaw at me leaving me both sleepless and feeling very guilty. The nap would be postponed and I’d report at the office.

Once at the office, I’d make dozens of calls everyday. As part of the committee, I was responsible for implementing a number of initiatives. Most of the initiatives involved making cold calls and cajoling people into helping us out. I deeply disliked calling up individuals who were complete strangers to me and sweet-talking them into agreeing to an idea. I wasn’t actually bad at it, I was pretty successful at converting nay sayers into reluctant helpers but the very idea of sweet-talking bothered me. The feeling that to most people I was a chirpy, persistent and thorny individual who wouldn’t take no for answer tore at my conscience. Everyday when I looked at the long list of names and phone numbers of people I would have to call, my heart would grow heavy. If anybody called me ten times a day to sell an idea I really wasn’t keen on listening to, I’d rip him to pieces. Yet, I was the one doing the selling.

The afternoon would melt into evening and my nap would be reluctantly abandoned. After some snacks, it was time for more calling or for holding a meeting. I attended a lot of meetings in the last 8 months. Some were scheduled but more often than not, they were emergency meetings. These meetings threw my own schedule into disarray and left me very irritable. I started getting tired of being on call 24/7. When I was hurrying to the committee office and saw my friends unwinding over a game of basketball, my stomach would clench with jealousy.

I began to miss writing. It’s hard to compose light, pleasant humor when all your brain can do is worry about meeting targets and deadlines. It’s even worse when you don’t even believe in what you are marketing.

In the beginning of the third semester, I was fortunate enough to win the debate at IIT Kharagpur along with my friend Ali. Somehow the win helped me put things in perspective. For the first time in months, I had really enjoyed myself. I decided to quit the committee and focus on activities I preferred doing and not stuff where I’d be forced to meet targets.

My decision was met with disbelief in college. Surely I wouldn’t want to leave what was considered to be a fairly prestigious committee. When I pointed out that it was permanently eating into my time, I was told that I wasn’t managing my time properly. All that was needed apparently was a little focus and a little commitment and it would not be that tough. Look at ‘X’ they’d say. He takes time out for himself and still manages, why not you?

It troubled me. Was I just a lousy manager of time? Perhaps if I were a little more organized, life wouldn’t be so difficult. Could it be that I was running away from what was unpleasant? Were my friends right?

But then I realized they didn’t understand. To ‘X’ taking out time meant playing tennis and spending time with his girlfriend. To me taking out time means sitting in front of my laptop and trying to write something funny or thoughtful. To be funny or thoughtful, I need to spend a large amount of time doing absolutely nothing. I need my mind to wander aimlessly. Out of the million thoughts that stroll casually through my head and saunter out, I need to latch firmly onto one. And that wouldn’t happen if I was attending a meeting at four in the morning.

And so I quit. My friends thought I was either lazy or nuts or both. I tried ignoring them as I settled it into my new life. Initially the amount of free time I had unsettled me. I could now sleep in the afternoon and go jogging in the evenings. I had time to have dinner outside instead of settling for the same dull fare at the mess.

But now I enjoy the sheer freedom of not being at the committee’s beck and call. No more emergency meetings, no more cajoling phone calls and no more saccharine sweetness while dealing with irate individuals.

But best of all, I love lying idly in bed wondering about what I’ll try my hand at writing today. I have dreams of finally writing my book, of being published and being famous. The thought of making it in life without running around meeting targets and deadlines appeals to me immensely. Its my way of winking and sticking my tongue out at the focused and driven achievers who dot the MBA landscape.

My first year at IMT has drawn to an end. I shall now make my way to Bangalore for a two month long summer internship. I will be doing the same at a rather famous candy company and as part of my project I shall be studying the gloriously exciting market of mouth freshners.

Yes, I am aware that a lot of you are amused and I dont blame you. I spent 2 years writing code for an american investment bank and now all of a sudden I'm going to be running around asking complete strangers questions like "So what do you REALLY look for in your mouth freshner?"

Still, I do look forward to the experience. It will be rather different from the rather quiet career I had before.Besides, I'd like to know what hardcore FMCG sales is like before I make my final career choice.

I hope to catch up on my writing in the mean time. I'm guessing that my lifestyle will be a little more regular than the highly unpredictable life I led at IMT.

Until later then.

At 1:30 the professor wraps up the lecture and dismisses us. I’m relieved that the class is over. For the last two hours we had waded through a mucky case study involving predicting cash flows after an ERP implementation. The enormous excel sheet that covered the wall from end to end gave me the willies. I make a mental note to avoid all finance electives next year.

Deepa and I emerge from the acad block and make our way across the college grounds towards the mess. A few of my friends are indulging in a lazy game of afternoon cricket. As the stumps are not available, they’ve settled for a dustbin. The umpire is Jango, IMT’s resident mutt. Most of the game involved chasing the umpire as he made repeated attempts to swallow the ball. I smile as we pass him, choking on his prize, eyes far back in their sockets but unwilling to let go. The campus is beautiful in March. The weather is mild and the flowers are in full bloom. I inhale deeply as we stroll.

“So what plans after lunch?” I casually ask Deepa.

She pauses and thinks, a frown of concentration furrowing her brow“ Well, I’ll have to finish working on my short term project. At 5:30, have a meeting with my project group members. At 8:30, there’s an important meeting with the MADF committee members. That should be done by 12:30. Then I have to finish editing the MarkUp Magazine…

Her voice trails off as she pauses to catch her breath. I use the pause to smile a superior, condescending smile. I wait to see how much more she’s stuffed into her day.

She resumes“... Have to register for the case study competition conducted by XYZ B school. Also have to volunteer to be part of the marketing conclave on Saturday. Will later spend a couple of hours studying for tomorrow’s quiz. I’ll probably go to bed by 3 AM. How about you?”

“Umm..I’ll take a longish nap, perhaps for a couple of hours. Jogging with Ali at 6:30 and then dinner outside. Might study for the quiz but good chance I’ll doze off before that.”

Deepa’s countenance is a picture of disgust.

“You waste your time doing absolutely nothing! You are a poor excuse for a manager. I bet you were just as lazy when you were working!” She narrows her eyes in contempt.

“Oh yeah? Well at least I’m not running around sticking my head into everything just for resume points!” I shoot back.

“At least I’m making good use of my time here. There’s some value add in all these activities you know? I don’t see you learning anything new if all you do is lounge around all day. Why did you even come here??” She retorts.

Her question catches me a little off guard but I reply anyway.

“I’m here for the money, what else?”

She says nothing but I’m disappointed with my own answer. I had no idea I was so shallow. Was money the sole motivator?

Like hundreds of thousands of students, I had enrolled for prep courses offered by TIME, IMS, Career Launcher etc. I’d been promised that cracking the CAT involved nothing but hard work. I had diligently worked out thousands of numericals. I’d read long, boring and obscure passages on philosophy, religion and Trade agreements. I’d forced myself to read the editorials of business dailies so that I could reel of statistically proven facts and knowledgeable opinions when required.

After the CAT, I attended numerous classes for Group Discussions and Personal Interviews. I’d been coached to appear to possess leadership skills, to give direction to arguments, to think out of the box, to have a pleasant smile on my face when answering questions, to appear refined and to appear like I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life.

During the personal interview coaching sessions, the instructors had been pretty clear about one point “ No matter what happens, never tell an interviewer that you want to do it for the money. You’ll come across as shallow and directionless. He’ll throw you out the moment the words leave your mouth. Instead tell him how an MBA will help you with your career goals!”

At the interview, I faked my career goals and waxed eloquent on the benefits of the course. When I finally got through, I was thrilled. I’d actually made it. All the hard work and effort had paid off. I’d gone to battle against hundreds of thousands of students and managed to emerge reasonably victorious. The irony was I didn’t know why I was fighting the war. Besides “Lots of money” and “I want to be a post graduate” I had no idea why I wanted an MBA.

I know I’m not alone. While there certainly are a lot of people who know exactly how an MBA will get them to where they want to be, most of us get into a B school and then get even more confused. “Should I go into the manufacturing sector? Or should I go to Pharma? Wait, IT pays the most! No wait, I think it would be really cool to tell people that I’m an investment banker…. But I hate finance!……oh crap, what am I even doing here??”

I guess I realized why I didn’t share the same enthusiasm that Deepa did. The poet in me had been offended. After the euphoria of getting into a good school had died down, I’d been forced to come to terms with the fact that I had willingly become part of the rat race. And with it went the privilege of looking down upon the masses…

Here's a song I've been humming for the last couple of days. Its from "Music and Lyrics". Watch it if you can, its pretty cute.

Its 8:30 PM and I’m sitting in the mess in front of the recently purchased flat screen TV. Its enormous and the sound emanating from the speakers collides violently with the din made by future corporate leaders fighting like savages as they queue up for dinner. There’s no time for elegance and etiquette, you either fight like a mad man for your chappati or end up with nothing but plain rice and a few pieces of carrot.

I’d taken the easy way out and had made it here much earlier than the others. Thanks to my foresight I now had a plate full of chappati’s, panneer, daal and potato. Surprisingly every item on my plate is yellow. Thanks to my foresight, I now wanted to puke.

Bidi Jalyle plays loudly on the TV and the fighting stops temporarily as people stop to admire Bipasha Basu. Any other day, I would have joined the crowd in openly appreciating her fabulous curves but today I’m not in the mood. The alien food, the noisy music, the lyrics I don’t understand and the “Saale Be.. Ch..! Choo..! Maather Ch..!” uttered like a mantra as the fighting resumes depresses me. As if reading my thoughts, my friend Naganathan, also an import from Chennai remarks “First thing we do tomorrow before the others come is set the channel to Sun TV and then hide the remote. Lets see what the Sardar’s do then!”

I grin at the thought of Gurpreet Singh sitting perplexedly in front of a Vadivelu comedy scene. It somehow helps me make my mind. I push my plate away and ask Nags “ I’m going to Krishnasagar for food. Coming?”. He declines, preferring to watch Bipasha’s legs. Unlike me, he finds the food quite palatable.

I pick up a book from my room and head out. I’m one of the few people around in IMT who would go alone to a restaurant. I don’t always need company, a book will do perfectly fine now and then.

I’m heading to a place where I’ve practically emptied my life’s savings. Hotel Krishnasagar is a 10 minute walk from the campus and it’s the only place I can get curd rice. A plate of dosa and curd rice will easily set me back by a 100 bucks but I don’t care. I’ve got a little left in the bank after which I’ll collect alms from my family and friends.

The waiter greets me with a smile. We’ve almost become good friends. He already knows what I’m going to order but waits politely anyway. I order a dosa and a curd rice and he nods knowingly. He leaves with my order and I sit back and read my book.

My food arrives and I admire the virgin dosa as it sits steaming in front of me, long, thin, crisp and pure. I break off a piece and then dip it into the piping hot sambar. I then dip it into the pudhina chutney, the coconut chutney and then into the onion chutney. My dosa piece looks like the Indian flag. I pause respectfully for a moment and then put in my mouth and exhale heavily as the ghee, sambar and chutney blend gloriously and gratify my taste buds.

Next comes the curd rice. Every spoon of it slides soothingly down my throat reminding me of home. Back in Chennai, I couldn’t understand why we ate it everyday. Now I know. It’s the most tranquil food one could have.

I finish my food, pay the bill and head back to college. My stomach is full but I know I cant afford to come back here for a while. No matter. I have a little piece of home in my tummy and its all I need to feel at peace with the world.