And thus my vacation comes to an end :-). I leave for Noida tomorrow to join work. I’m a little excited , a little anxious and a little sad…
Wish me luck. I’m going to need it :-)
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Part 3 (Please scroll down for the earlier parts)
Winter came early to Ghaziabad that year. From strolling around in shorts and cut off vests and sweating into the bed at night there had been an imperceptible shift to full sleeved shirts and light sweaters. Blankets began to be pulled out from the cupboard. The roaring coolers without which the summer days and nights in the hostel had been impossible went into early retirement. The hardier of the students still persisted with the ceiling fan but in most rooms it remained switched off at night. The change in weather also resulted in a general improvement in appearance. The summer months had been cause for endless perspiration and no matter how many times one showered, it was impossible not to appear sticky. Every individual walked within his own half meter radius of icky discomfort and he cringed if anyone crossed the barrier. There was no back slapping among friends and even the most lovesick of couples preferred to talk to each other instead of indulging in acts of affection. There was certain restlessness in the air. Patience was short and tempers flared frequently.
When winter came however the perspiration (and as a consequence the tension) dried up. The air became clean and crisp. The students looked smart in their sweaters and everyone appeared fresh and cheerful. The couples suddenly couldn’t get enough of each other. Even the campus was very pretty in the early months of the cold.
The cold wasn’t the only thing that was new to IMT. Mango had given birth to five pups and they joyfully greeted the world with little yips and wagging tails. Perpetually ravenous, they worried their mother incessantly for milk and affection. With their tiny tails oscillating wildly like pendulums gone haywire, they suckled on her teats like there was no tomorrow. As they toppled each other in a desperate attempt to reach the best teat, they were a treat to watch. Relaxing quietly on her side as she fed them, Mango was the very picture of a serene, content mother.
She was of course a very lucky dog. A student of the executive batch had fallen head over heels in love with the pups. Fearing harm to them, he had allowed her to take up residence in his room. He spread sacking material on the floor for the family to lie down on. Thrice a day, he made trips to the canteen and returned with eggs, milk and bread for her to wolf down. For a stray dog, she led a life of luxury. The room though became a mess. It stank to the high heavens but that did not deter him from providing for her. It was an act of selfless love.
When the administrative staff began to make complaining noises he shouted them down and made it clear that if they tried anything the consequences would be unpleasant. But he was a worried man. The executive course ran only for a year and his time was almost up. He was certain the pups would be thrown out after he left and he had done his best to find homes for them. He managed to find a home for one of the pups but the other four sadly were not that lucky. What was he to do?
The first time I visited the room, I was both touched by the sight of the pups and taken aback by the havoc they had created. The tables had been dragged to the side to make room for a sea of sacking material. From the middle of this sea, rose two beds – tiny human settlements completely at the mercy of their canine overlords. While the exec guy looked perfectly at home, his roomie looked like he didn’t know what hit him. Overnight he had gone from being part owner of the room to a poorly treated guest. Books worth four semesters lay scattered on his bed. Any other location would have invited the curiosity of the four legged fiends. It was impossible not to feel sorry for him. The pups shuffled around, sniffing everything in their path, determined to explore every corner of the room. Every now and then one of them would dart for the door, eager to see what lay outside these four walls. Immediately the exec student would curse and scoop the pup up before he disappeared into the big bad world yonder.
The pups captivated me completely. I couldn’t bear the thought of them being thrown out when they were so small and entirely incapable of looking after themselves. The nasty dogs outside the campus would finish them off in minutes. I brought Mathew, Deepa and Aritri over to look at the pups and think of a solution. As expected they fell for the pups too. I wasn’t alone in my fears anymore.
So we decided to bring them over to our hostel. I-lobby was the only coed hostel in IMT. Coed in the sense that the ground floor and first floor were occupied by the boys while the second and third floors were occupied by the girls. As we all stayed in the same hostel, it would be easier to look after them. We reasoned that if we kept the pups a little longer, they would grow big enough to fend for themselves. It also gave us more time to find homes for them.
It was a decision that would complicate our lives terribly in the weeks to come.
Winter came early to Ghaziabad that year. From strolling around in shorts and cut off vests and sweating into the bed at night there had been an imperceptible shift to full sleeved shirts and light sweaters. Blankets began to be pulled out from the cupboard. The roaring coolers without which the summer days and nights in the hostel had been impossible went into early retirement. The hardier of the students still persisted with the ceiling fan but in most rooms it remained switched off at night. The change in weather also resulted in a general improvement in appearance. The summer months had been cause for endless perspiration and no matter how many times one showered, it was impossible not to appear sticky. Every individual walked within his own half meter radius of icky discomfort and he cringed if anyone crossed the barrier. There was no back slapping among friends and even the most lovesick of couples preferred to talk to each other instead of indulging in acts of affection. There was certain restlessness in the air. Patience was short and tempers flared frequently.
When winter came however the perspiration (and as a consequence the tension) dried up. The air became clean and crisp. The students looked smart in their sweaters and everyone appeared fresh and cheerful. The couples suddenly couldn’t get enough of each other. Even the campus was very pretty in the early months of the cold.
The cold wasn’t the only thing that was new to IMT. Mango had given birth to five pups and they joyfully greeted the world with little yips and wagging tails. Perpetually ravenous, they worried their mother incessantly for milk and affection. With their tiny tails oscillating wildly like pendulums gone haywire, they suckled on her teats like there was no tomorrow. As they toppled each other in a desperate attempt to reach the best teat, they were a treat to watch. Relaxing quietly on her side as she fed them, Mango was the very picture of a serene, content mother.
She was of course a very lucky dog. A student of the executive batch had fallen head over heels in love with the pups. Fearing harm to them, he had allowed her to take up residence in his room. He spread sacking material on the floor for the family to lie down on. Thrice a day, he made trips to the canteen and returned with eggs, milk and bread for her to wolf down. For a stray dog, she led a life of luxury. The room though became a mess. It stank to the high heavens but that did not deter him from providing for her. It was an act of selfless love.
When the administrative staff began to make complaining noises he shouted them down and made it clear that if they tried anything the consequences would be unpleasant. But he was a worried man. The executive course ran only for a year and his time was almost up. He was certain the pups would be thrown out after he left and he had done his best to find homes for them. He managed to find a home for one of the pups but the other four sadly were not that lucky. What was he to do?
The first time I visited the room, I was both touched by the sight of the pups and taken aback by the havoc they had created. The tables had been dragged to the side to make room for a sea of sacking material. From the middle of this sea, rose two beds – tiny human settlements completely at the mercy of their canine overlords. While the exec guy looked perfectly at home, his roomie looked like he didn’t know what hit him. Overnight he had gone from being part owner of the room to a poorly treated guest. Books worth four semesters lay scattered on his bed. Any other location would have invited the curiosity of the four legged fiends. It was impossible not to feel sorry for him. The pups shuffled around, sniffing everything in their path, determined to explore every corner of the room. Every now and then one of them would dart for the door, eager to see what lay outside these four walls. Immediately the exec student would curse and scoop the pup up before he disappeared into the big bad world yonder.
The pups captivated me completely. I couldn’t bear the thought of them being thrown out when they were so small and entirely incapable of looking after themselves. The nasty dogs outside the campus would finish them off in minutes. I brought Mathew, Deepa and Aritri over to look at the pups and think of a solution. As expected they fell for the pups too. I wasn’t alone in my fears anymore.
So we decided to bring them over to our hostel. I-lobby was the only coed hostel in IMT. Coed in the sense that the ground floor and first floor were occupied by the boys while the second and third floors were occupied by the girls. As we all stayed in the same hostel, it would be easier to look after them. We reasoned that if we kept the pups a little longer, they would grow big enough to fend for themselves. It also gave us more time to find homes for them.
It was a decision that would complicate our lives terribly in the weeks to come.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
I have about 7 days to go before I join work and I must say I’m glad this vacation is coming to an end. Three and a half months is just a little too long to have to oneself.
I have no regrets about the way I spent my time. I traveled all over the country, played tennis, spent time with family and friends, read dozens of books and wrote quite a bit. I’ve done a fair bit of introspecting too.
It’s taken the better part of three months to figure out how to proceed with my book and now I can say I have a rough idea of how I should go about it.
That said and done, I need to do something to feel useful again. I’m tired of living in my head, of idly surfing the internet, of relentless orkutting, of checking my mail every hour, of spending too much time on Gtalk just waiting for someone to talk to, of reading every single blog on the planet and just feeling lonely all day. I even went to a movie all by myself once. It was not a thrilling experience.
I can now sympathize with retired pensioners and desperate housewives. It does not matter how smart or sensible you are. Sit at home all day and pretty soon you are going to go soft in the head.
Here’s to a new life :-). Cheers.
I have no regrets about the way I spent my time. I traveled all over the country, played tennis, spent time with family and friends, read dozens of books and wrote quite a bit. I’ve done a fair bit of introspecting too.
It’s taken the better part of three months to figure out how to proceed with my book and now I can say I have a rough idea of how I should go about it.
That said and done, I need to do something to feel useful again. I’m tired of living in my head, of idly surfing the internet, of relentless orkutting, of checking my mail every hour, of spending too much time on Gtalk just waiting for someone to talk to, of reading every single blog on the planet and just feeling lonely all day. I even went to a movie all by myself once. It was not a thrilling experience.
I can now sympathize with retired pensioners and desperate housewives. It does not matter how smart or sensible you are. Sit at home all day and pretty soon you are going to go soft in the head.
Here’s to a new life :-). Cheers.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Part 2 (Please scroll down for Part 1)
If there were still any doubts about Mango’s sex, she put them to rest soon enough. Within a few weeks of setting foot on campus, she went into heat thereby drawing the unwarranted affection of every male dog within a radius of a kilometer. Nobody knows how they managed to enter the college grounds. Overnight IMT went from a relatively peaceful academic setting to a frenzied battlefield as the dogs fought bitterly among themselves for the right to fatherhood. Mango had absolutely no idea why she was the object of so much attention. No matter where she went, a dozen males would trot eagerly behind her, hoping for a whiff of her exotic bottom. Their attention made her uncomfortable and she was prone to snapping at them if they got too close. With her lips drawn back and fangs bared as she snarled, she was a terrifying sight. It did nothing to diminish her suitor’s enthusiasm though. They went berserk with joy if she lunged at them. Evading her snapping teeth in the last second they would determinedly try and squeeze in a fleeting sniff of her behind before leaping to safety. I would watch from a distance and thank the Gods that human mating rituals were not so complicated.
It appeared for a while that Mango would summarily reject all her suitors and opt for a more saintly approach to life. I predicted a life of quiet reflection as she nosed around in the dustbin. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Within a few days she was knocked up.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The library was probably amongst my favorite spots in IMT. Towards the last few months I felt a pang of regret when I gazed upon the rows and rows of shelves, filled with books on finance, economics, operations and marketing. So much I could have read, so much I could have learned. Yet I spent most of my time merely enjoying the air conditioning.
The design of the library was in many ways self defeating. The wall facing the playground was almost entirely made up of large glass windows, offering the student a dreamy view of the football field, the cricket pitch, the volleyball court and at a distance the mess and the hostels. To the right was the tree lined cobbled path that led to the amphitheater. If one were to squint through the trees he could catch a glimpse of the tennis court – a very pretty sight especially under the floodlights late in the evening. It was rather difficult to sit in the library and not let your mind wander – given the number of distractions the field had to offer.
On that particular day I was in the library sitting with my study group, trying my darndest to wrap my mind around a particularly thorny case study on consumer behavior when Shublina began to titter.
“Look! Look!” she exclaimed, urging Akash, Arkava and me to look out of the window.
I gazed at the field. A football match was in progress. I had never played football in IMT but I admired the enthusiasm with which my friends competed. Each of them had a point to prove on the field and would run around hollering for the ball and yelling instructions, often having fierce confrontations with each other. I could never fathom why they took it all so seriously but put it down to one of those things I would probably never understand.
I noticed with a start that Mathew was wearing my shorts – a pair that had disappeared from my cupboard under mysterious circumstances but that wasn’t what caught Shublina’s attention. She nudged me sharply in the ribs and pointed to the middle of the field. It was one of the bizarre sights I had ever seen.
The match was being played with its usual intensity with the ball zig zagging across the field. Two opponents had collided and were screaming bloody murder. The keeper of one side was crouching in anticipation as the ball got closer. Mathew to my disgust had dirtied my shorts. For some reason though, the players were avoiding the center of the field, preferring to skirt around it as they kicked the ball. I squinted at the center and realized why: Mango and a random dog were engaged in a mutual exchange of affection. They were making love.
I know what you’re thinking. What kind of a pervert watches dogs in the act and then writes about it?
The thing is the dogs didn’t seem to be the least bit concerned about the spectacle they were making. “Oh don’t mind us” Mango seemed to be saying. “We’re just having a bit of fun on our own. Perfectly normal for us dogs to get carried away in the heat of the moment no matter where we are you know… Carry on playing, we don’t mind.”
What disturbed me however was not the horrifying spectacle of the dogs going at it in full steam. What disturbed me was how those guys could still play a game around it! I mean, there are limits to how seriously one can take a match!
I tried averting my eyes. We tried reading the case study and made notes from time to time. But we couldn’t help it. Every now and then one of us would take a peek and see if it was still going on…and it went on for a while. It was so unreal.
Those were the days when I wasn’t well acquainted with Mango. She was a friendly if somewhat timid dog. New to the campus she would wag her tail but backpedal if we got too close. I would throw her bread scraps every once in a while but for most part we moved in different circles.
With the puppies on their way now all that was about to change. Little did I know then that my life in IMT would never be the same again…
If there were still any doubts about Mango’s sex, she put them to rest soon enough. Within a few weeks of setting foot on campus, she went into heat thereby drawing the unwarranted affection of every male dog within a radius of a kilometer. Nobody knows how they managed to enter the college grounds. Overnight IMT went from a relatively peaceful academic setting to a frenzied battlefield as the dogs fought bitterly among themselves for the right to fatherhood. Mango had absolutely no idea why she was the object of so much attention. No matter where she went, a dozen males would trot eagerly behind her, hoping for a whiff of her exotic bottom. Their attention made her uncomfortable and she was prone to snapping at them if they got too close. With her lips drawn back and fangs bared as she snarled, she was a terrifying sight. It did nothing to diminish her suitor’s enthusiasm though. They went berserk with joy if she lunged at them. Evading her snapping teeth in the last second they would determinedly try and squeeze in a fleeting sniff of her behind before leaping to safety. I would watch from a distance and thank the Gods that human mating rituals were not so complicated.
It appeared for a while that Mango would summarily reject all her suitors and opt for a more saintly approach to life. I predicted a life of quiet reflection as she nosed around in the dustbin. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Within a few days she was knocked up.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The library was probably amongst my favorite spots in IMT. Towards the last few months I felt a pang of regret when I gazed upon the rows and rows of shelves, filled with books on finance, economics, operations and marketing. So much I could have read, so much I could have learned. Yet I spent most of my time merely enjoying the air conditioning.
The design of the library was in many ways self defeating. The wall facing the playground was almost entirely made up of large glass windows, offering the student a dreamy view of the football field, the cricket pitch, the volleyball court and at a distance the mess and the hostels. To the right was the tree lined cobbled path that led to the amphitheater. If one were to squint through the trees he could catch a glimpse of the tennis court – a very pretty sight especially under the floodlights late in the evening. It was rather difficult to sit in the library and not let your mind wander – given the number of distractions the field had to offer.
On that particular day I was in the library sitting with my study group, trying my darndest to wrap my mind around a particularly thorny case study on consumer behavior when Shublina began to titter.
“Look! Look!” she exclaimed, urging Akash, Arkava and me to look out of the window.
I gazed at the field. A football match was in progress. I had never played football in IMT but I admired the enthusiasm with which my friends competed. Each of them had a point to prove on the field and would run around hollering for the ball and yelling instructions, often having fierce confrontations with each other. I could never fathom why they took it all so seriously but put it down to one of those things I would probably never understand.
I noticed with a start that Mathew was wearing my shorts – a pair that had disappeared from my cupboard under mysterious circumstances but that wasn’t what caught Shublina’s attention. She nudged me sharply in the ribs and pointed to the middle of the field. It was one of the bizarre sights I had ever seen.
The match was being played with its usual intensity with the ball zig zagging across the field. Two opponents had collided and were screaming bloody murder. The keeper of one side was crouching in anticipation as the ball got closer. Mathew to my disgust had dirtied my shorts. For some reason though, the players were avoiding the center of the field, preferring to skirt around it as they kicked the ball. I squinted at the center and realized why: Mango and a random dog were engaged in a mutual exchange of affection. They were making love.
I know what you’re thinking. What kind of a pervert watches dogs in the act and then writes about it?
The thing is the dogs didn’t seem to be the least bit concerned about the spectacle they were making. “Oh don’t mind us” Mango seemed to be saying. “We’re just having a bit of fun on our own. Perfectly normal for us dogs to get carried away in the heat of the moment no matter where we are you know… Carry on playing, we don’t mind.”
What disturbed me however was not the horrifying spectacle of the dogs going at it in full steam. What disturbed me was how those guys could still play a game around it! I mean, there are limits to how seriously one can take a match!
I tried averting my eyes. We tried reading the case study and made notes from time to time. But we couldn’t help it. Every now and then one of us would take a peek and see if it was still going on…and it went on for a while. It was so unreal.
Those were the days when I wasn’t well acquainted with Mango. She was a friendly if somewhat timid dog. New to the campus she would wag her tail but backpedal if we got too close. I would throw her bread scraps every once in a while but for most part we moved in different circles.
With the puppies on their way now all that was about to change. Little did I know then that my life in IMT would never be the same again…
Friday, June 13, 2008
(Note: During the last 6 months that I spent in college, I had a stray dog that comfortably shared my room with me. She was so much a part of my life that all my memories of IMT have bits of fur sticking to them. Considering that I am rather fond of her, I thought it would be inappropriate to write about her in one go. The blog entry would never end and could possibly bore the reader to tears. For a change I have decided to write in installments. This way I can hopefully do justice to the details while managing to keep the entries relatively short. Feedback is welcome.)
Part 1
The dog walked into my life on two legs.
While the other canines I knew were content to run around on all fours, this particular one didn’t seem to rate the four legged experience too highly. Instead she would rear up and place her paws on my chest. Wagging her tail furiously, she would look deep into me eyes she and pant encouragingly. I would pant back and for a few moments we would gaze at each other in pure adoration. After which she would drop back onto all fours and sniff my behind with great interest. It was this part that made me uncomfortable.
But then, she wasn’t the first dog to grace the campus. For several years IMT had been home to a particularly gregarious mutt named Jango. Jango was a short stocky dog of unremarkable appearance. With a scuffed, dirty brown coat he wasn’t the prettiest specimen around but what made him stand out was his exuberance and goodwill. He was everybody’s good friend. Turning up at all our outdoor parties, he would enthusiastically leap about barking his head off as we danced to the music. For every birthday celebration, a small piece of cake was reserved for Jango because no party was complete without him. It didn’t matter which part of the campus we were cutting the cake in. He just instinctively knew when and where to turn up.
Jango spent the chilly winters in the corridors of any of the hostels and was given a blanket too. If someone was inebriated and feeling rather mellow, Jango would slink into his room and clamber onto his bed, spending the night quietly by his side until he was ejected from the room in the morning with a furious yell. He was so popular that he even had his own Orkut profile. Energetic, lovable and slightly off his head, we gleefully accepted that that he was a part of that bizarre puzzle that was IMT. During the ragging sessions, it was essential that you introduced yourself to the dog and addressed him as sir. No one knew how long he’d been at IMT. Our seniors had called him sir and so had their seniors. It was a bit of a tradition, carefully passed on from generation to generation. Like the Phantom, he was the ghost who barked.
Most of all, we needed Jango’s presence to confirm that college life was wild and free – that our lives here were crazy and not bound by rules on how to behave. We all wanted memorable tales to share with our friends outside IMT about how weird things were here. Jango was one such memorable tale. Accepting him seemed to be in the spirit of IMT.
Jango remained a part of our lives in the first year of college until he bit someone. It was completely unintentional. This particular individual had just come out of the mess holding a sandwich when Jango spotted him. Or rather he spotted the sandwich. Jango was used to being fed tit bits and when he wasn’t offered any, he leapt up to help himself. He got the sandwich but his teeth ended up grazing the students hand in the process. The student complained to the authorities and the next day Jango was caught and taken to the pound. He would groove to the music no more.
Not many people knew the Jango was missing because within days a new dog of similar appearance was seen sniffing around. I knew it wasn’t Jango though because this dog had a nice shiny coat. It was a lot younger too. More importantly it was female. Most of them though couldn’t tell the difference and insisted on calling her Jango. When I pointed out the rather glaring difference she was promptly christened Mango.
I didn’t like the new name too much. It didn’t seem right to name a dog after a tropical fruit. For a while I toyed with the idea of calling her Silk Smitha - after a sex siren of the 80’s whose movies were cause for restless nights in front of the TV for the youth of South India…but gave it up. After all, it was rather inappropriate. I was also disturbed to find that the real Silk Smitha had committed suicide due to depression. It would be very wrong to name a dog after her...
Part 1
The dog walked into my life on two legs.
While the other canines I knew were content to run around on all fours, this particular one didn’t seem to rate the four legged experience too highly. Instead she would rear up and place her paws on my chest. Wagging her tail furiously, she would look deep into me eyes she and pant encouragingly. I would pant back and for a few moments we would gaze at each other in pure adoration. After which she would drop back onto all fours and sniff my behind with great interest. It was this part that made me uncomfortable.
But then, she wasn’t the first dog to grace the campus. For several years IMT had been home to a particularly gregarious mutt named Jango. Jango was a short stocky dog of unremarkable appearance. With a scuffed, dirty brown coat he wasn’t the prettiest specimen around but what made him stand out was his exuberance and goodwill. He was everybody’s good friend. Turning up at all our outdoor parties, he would enthusiastically leap about barking his head off as we danced to the music. For every birthday celebration, a small piece of cake was reserved for Jango because no party was complete without him. It didn’t matter which part of the campus we were cutting the cake in. He just instinctively knew when and where to turn up.
Jango spent the chilly winters in the corridors of any of the hostels and was given a blanket too. If someone was inebriated and feeling rather mellow, Jango would slink into his room and clamber onto his bed, spending the night quietly by his side until he was ejected from the room in the morning with a furious yell. He was so popular that he even had his own Orkut profile. Energetic, lovable and slightly off his head, we gleefully accepted that that he was a part of that bizarre puzzle that was IMT. During the ragging sessions, it was essential that you introduced yourself to the dog and addressed him as sir. No one knew how long he’d been at IMT. Our seniors had called him sir and so had their seniors. It was a bit of a tradition, carefully passed on from generation to generation. Like the Phantom, he was the ghost who barked.
Most of all, we needed Jango’s presence to confirm that college life was wild and free – that our lives here were crazy and not bound by rules on how to behave. We all wanted memorable tales to share with our friends outside IMT about how weird things were here. Jango was one such memorable tale. Accepting him seemed to be in the spirit of IMT.
Jango remained a part of our lives in the first year of college until he bit someone. It was completely unintentional. This particular individual had just come out of the mess holding a sandwich when Jango spotted him. Or rather he spotted the sandwich. Jango was used to being fed tit bits and when he wasn’t offered any, he leapt up to help himself. He got the sandwich but his teeth ended up grazing the students hand in the process. The student complained to the authorities and the next day Jango was caught and taken to the pound. He would groove to the music no more.
Not many people knew the Jango was missing because within days a new dog of similar appearance was seen sniffing around. I knew it wasn’t Jango though because this dog had a nice shiny coat. It was a lot younger too. More importantly it was female. Most of them though couldn’t tell the difference and insisted on calling her Jango. When I pointed out the rather glaring difference she was promptly christened Mango.
I didn’t like the new name too much. It didn’t seem right to name a dog after a tropical fruit. For a while I toyed with the idea of calling her Silk Smitha - after a sex siren of the 80’s whose movies were cause for restless nights in front of the TV for the youth of South India…but gave it up. After all, it was rather inappropriate. I was also disturbed to find that the real Silk Smitha had committed suicide due to depression. It would be very wrong to name a dog after her...
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
I've always had reservations about keeping a hit counter on my blog. After all, it can be quite depressing to login and see that not many people are visiting. However after four and a half years of putting it off, I have decided to bite the bullet. Thus you can see a new hit counter on the right.
I also decided to see from which parts of the world my blog gets its traffic from. I picked up this cool widget from Revs blog.
Hmm...I'll give it a weeks trial. If I'm not getting many hits I'll probably take it off :P
I also decided to see from which parts of the world my blog gets its traffic from. I picked up this cool widget from Revs blog.
Hmm...I'll give it a weeks trial. If I'm not getting many hits I'll probably take it off :P
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
I had never consciously planned on getting here. I was never supposed to turn twenty five. What had happened? How did I stop being twenty four?
I think twenty five is the age that you realize that you have begun your inevitable march towards adulthood. Prior to that every birthday is just what it’s supposed to be: a birthday – a cause for celebration and dinner with friends. Nothing more. You don’t stop to think about how you’re doing in life. You’re just happy to be where you are. Also at the back of your mind you’re confident that while everyone else is destined to a normal, uneventful life yours will somehow be very different. You aren’t sure exactly how but you know it will be faster, more exciting and certainly more glamorous.
The twenty fifth birthday though comes with an important realization: You’re just like everyone else. You aren’t very unique, you aren’t very special. You’re leading the same life everyone else is and pretty soon you are going to turn into your parents. You’re going to get married, settle down, have children and worry about their board exams. Then you take a look at you’re grandmother and grandfather and realize with horror that one day you too will be arthritic, have bad digestion and suffer from poor bladder control. Until that point of time you assumed that your grandparents were born as grandparents. You never realized that sixty years ago they looked just like you.
You also start worrying about getting your act together. Its time to stop fooling around and start behaving like a sensible adult. The problem though is that you suck at being a sensible adult. You aren’t very high on confidence and you’re pretty sure that you’re making an ass of yourself all the time. Why aren’t you smarter, more self assured and clear about where you’re heading?
I made two attempts at penning down my thoughts on my birthday. The first was just random collection of everything I’d done on the tenth of June. Half an hour later I deleted it. I had written it in a state of mild hysteria, overcome by an obsessive need to sound cheerful, casual and witty. It hardly reflected how I truly felt about being where I am now.
Sometime later I found an article on the “Quarter life crisis – the unique challenges of life in your twenties” and pasted it on my blog. Then I deleted that too. I could identify with what was written but it wasn’t my voice, it wasn’t MY story. (Sorry your comment was deleted in the process Srishti)
Sigh.My sister gotten herself married a month after she turned twenty five. How could she? How could she?
I think twenty five is the age that you realize that you have begun your inevitable march towards adulthood. Prior to that every birthday is just what it’s supposed to be: a birthday – a cause for celebration and dinner with friends. Nothing more. You don’t stop to think about how you’re doing in life. You’re just happy to be where you are. Also at the back of your mind you’re confident that while everyone else is destined to a normal, uneventful life yours will somehow be very different. You aren’t sure exactly how but you know it will be faster, more exciting and certainly more glamorous.
The twenty fifth birthday though comes with an important realization: You’re just like everyone else. You aren’t very unique, you aren’t very special. You’re leading the same life everyone else is and pretty soon you are going to turn into your parents. You’re going to get married, settle down, have children and worry about their board exams. Then you take a look at you’re grandmother and grandfather and realize with horror that one day you too will be arthritic, have bad digestion and suffer from poor bladder control. Until that point of time you assumed that your grandparents were born as grandparents. You never realized that sixty years ago they looked just like you.
You also start worrying about getting your act together. Its time to stop fooling around and start behaving like a sensible adult. The problem though is that you suck at being a sensible adult. You aren’t very high on confidence and you’re pretty sure that you’re making an ass of yourself all the time. Why aren’t you smarter, more self assured and clear about where you’re heading?
I made two attempts at penning down my thoughts on my birthday. The first was just random collection of everything I’d done on the tenth of June. Half an hour later I deleted it. I had written it in a state of mild hysteria, overcome by an obsessive need to sound cheerful, casual and witty. It hardly reflected how I truly felt about being where I am now.
Sometime later I found an article on the “Quarter life crisis – the unique challenges of life in your twenties” and pasted it on my blog. Then I deleted that too. I could identify with what was written but it wasn’t my voice, it wasn’t MY story. (Sorry your comment was deleted in the process Srishti)
Sigh.My sister gotten herself married a month after she turned twenty five. How could she? How could she?
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Surprisingly, I felt completely at home in Mumbai. Considering I hadn’t visited the city in over a decade and had only vague memories of the same, weirdly enough it all felt reassuringly familiar when I got off the plane. I can’t quite put my finger on why.
Mumbai is a restless city. It crackles with an infectious energy. I found it extremely uplifting just to walk the streets and watch people hurry about their business. The incessant rain didn’t depress me one bit, it only added to the atmosphere. It’s the only city where I have felt both completely at peace and quietly excited at the same time.
It was an extremely satisfying two days in the city. I stayed with Gaurav and Deepak in Mulund, watched Sarkar Raj with them and then met up with Shublina, Ali, Akash and Aritri at Shublina’s house in Thane the next day. My friends from IMT now don new faces. They are no longer mildly eccentric students but working professionals, doing their bit for the Indian GDP. They are consultants, business development managers and area sales managers, working tirelessly for their organizations. They worry about the rent, the price of petrol and professional advancement. I felt slightly in awe of them. With almost a month to go before I joined work I felt like I was still sucking my thumb in an incubator, shielded from the worries of the real world.
The hours flew by. We laughed, shared jokes and relived our memories of IMT. The rains did nothing to diminish the warmth of the gathering. Sitting later in a cake shop and frantically picking at each others cake and ice cream concoctions we were once again IMT’ians living in a make believe world of work and worry. At the back of our minds we were confident that this messy work business would end soon and that we’d all be back in IMT in a couple of months.
We left in the pouring rain; I was already late for my flight back to Bangalore. We scrambled onto the wrong train and went back to Thane instead of heading towards the airport. We caught the right train after that, grinning in spite of the crushing crowd. As one of them remarked wryly “I don’t know if it’s my sweat that’s running down my face or someone else’s.”
I was sorry to leave Mumbai. I have no idea when I’ll see the guys who made my world in IMT again. There’s an emptiness in my life without them. I’d give anything to go back to college and relive my two years as an MBA.
Its twenty one days to employment.
Mumbai is a restless city. It crackles with an infectious energy. I found it extremely uplifting just to walk the streets and watch people hurry about their business. The incessant rain didn’t depress me one bit, it only added to the atmosphere. It’s the only city where I have felt both completely at peace and quietly excited at the same time.
It was an extremely satisfying two days in the city. I stayed with Gaurav and Deepak in Mulund, watched Sarkar Raj with them and then met up with Shublina, Ali, Akash and Aritri at Shublina’s house in Thane the next day. My friends from IMT now don new faces. They are no longer mildly eccentric students but working professionals, doing their bit for the Indian GDP. They are consultants, business development managers and area sales managers, working tirelessly for their organizations. They worry about the rent, the price of petrol and professional advancement. I felt slightly in awe of them. With almost a month to go before I joined work I felt like I was still sucking my thumb in an incubator, shielded from the worries of the real world.
The hours flew by. We laughed, shared jokes and relived our memories of IMT. The rains did nothing to diminish the warmth of the gathering. Sitting later in a cake shop and frantically picking at each others cake and ice cream concoctions we were once again IMT’ians living in a make believe world of work and worry. At the back of our minds we were confident that this messy work business would end soon and that we’d all be back in IMT in a couple of months.
We left in the pouring rain; I was already late for my flight back to Bangalore. We scrambled onto the wrong train and went back to Thane instead of heading towards the airport. We caught the right train after that, grinning in spite of the crushing crowd. As one of them remarked wryly “I don’t know if it’s my sweat that’s running down my face or someone else’s.”
I was sorry to leave Mumbai. I have no idea when I’ll see the guys who made my world in IMT again. There’s an emptiness in my life without them. I’d give anything to go back to college and relive my two years as an MBA.
Its twenty one days to employment.
Monday, June 02, 2008
The little priest was not so little anymore. In fact he more or less towered over me. From a height of 6”2, he sternly regarded me for a few moments before briefly nodding his head. My presence had been acknowledged. I smiled weakly in return.
My first encounter with the little priest was about four years ago when I had to perform monthly rituals in the memory of my father. His father, the priest who usually helped me perform these rituals was of a soft spoken man who patiently guided me through the intricacies of the puja. He also didn’t mind the fact that my Sanskrit pronunciation was awful. The mantras which had to be chanted were complete tongue twisters that varied in pitch, speed, duration and to the untrained ear were total gibberish. He would utter a complicated shloka or mantra and then ask me to repeat after him. I would listen in quiet desperation and try in vain to form the words in my head. In response to his gentle prodding, I would hem and haw, stutter, pause and finally give him a mangled version of the original. He would then give me a kindly smile and move onto the next mantra. It was enough for him that my intentions were pure, what I uttered was not of much consequence.
One morning however called to and regretfully announced that he was busy elsewhere but that I was not to worry, his son was on his way.
“He is well versed in all our rituals; from birth to marriage to death” he assured me “I have trained him well so you have nothing to worry about.”
But I wasn’t worried. Over the course of a few months I had developed a dislike for these rituals. It was no fun to sit shirtless in front of a fire with the smoke stinging my eyes and the sweat running down my back as I muttered words I didn’t understand. Skeptical of the value of mechanically repeating mantras and tossing rice and ghee into the fire, I found the whole exercise a waste of time and money. My father was in my thoughts all the time; I didn’t need a ritual to affirm my respect for him. It didn’t matter who the priest was, I would be still be repeating the same mind numbing activities.
Thus when the bell rang, I went to the door without much enthusiasm. I had already resigned myself to another hour long session of playing parrot. Wearing an expression of indifference I opened the door and came face to face for the first time with the little priest. My eyes widened in surprise.
When the priest had said that he would be sending his son, I had automatically assumed that the son would be a replica of his father: soft looking, bearded, pigtailed, with a tummy around which smaller planets orbited. The priest’s tummy was a separate entity altogether. It ballooned out from under his chest, stretching taut over a vast curvature, struggling valiantly against gravity before resigning itself to fate with a sigh and curving gently into his waist. It always arrived before the priest, wobbling, jiggling and trembling with each step, parting the crowds like Moses parting the sea. I hadn’t however bargained for a stick thin twelve year old bespectacled kid who barely came up to my shoulder.
The little priest however seemed oblivious to my incredulous look. He stepped in with an air of confidence and bade my mother to bring the necessary items. My mother hurried into the kitchen immediately.
As we waited for my mother I studied him intently. His manner was nothing like a normal twelve year olds. He carried himself with immense dignity and had an enlightened air about him. What possessed this boy to conduct rituals and recite slokas instead of doing the things that normal twelve year olds do? Why did I feel hopelessly immature in front of him? He caught be staring at him.With an expression of grave intensity he returned my gaze without the slightest trepidation. I lowered my eyes immediately.
When all the items had been brought, we sat down on the floor and I waited for him to begin reciting. Instead he looked at me expectantly
“Come on, you can start now.”
“Err…”
“Don’t you know what you have to say?”
“Err…”
“How many times have you done this before?”
“Umm…six…”
“Six! And you still don’t know how to begin??”
“No…”
With a condescending expression he began to recite and I hesitantly repeated after him. I was squirming inside. It is one thing to be chided by someone elder to me and quite another to be accused of ignorance by someone half my age, especially on matters of faith and spirituality. Unlike his father, the little priest was not very forgiving about my poor pronunciation. Each time my tongue tied itself in knots; he would stop and glower at me. As we progressed through the ritual I became more and more conscious of myself, stuttering and stumbling over the simplest of mantras. I hated every moment of it.
The truth was I hated it because it forced me to face the fact that I knew nothing about the ritual and had never bothered to learn more. When his father was by my side I would start sincerely but my mind would begin to wander in a few minutes. There were even times when I fell silent and let him go on alone. Because his father had never chided me I had never felt inadequate. His son though made up for all the lost opportunity.
The ritual wasn’t the only thing I knew nothing about. I was vastly ignorant of most of what was expected of me as a Brahmin. I hardly wore my thread because it was uncomfortable and itchy, often slipping down my shoulder and pinning my arm to my side, especially when I was wearing formals. I have a morbid fear of dhotis and have never learnt to tie one by myself, always afraid that it would unravel and cascade down, revealing my naked legs and more to the world. I had never learnt my Abhivadai – my lineage which had to be recited to an elder or a priest as I bent down from my waist with my palms behind my ears. Each time I was asked to recite it, I would bend down, place my palms behind my ears and scowl until my grandmother or uncle recited it for me.
I know what you are asking yourself by now. Why doesn’t he just learn it all instead of complaining about it? Is it that hard?
For me it boils down to a question of faith. Try as I might, I have no belief in the rituals I am expected to perform. To wear a thread and sincerely perform every ritual and adhere to every requirement of tradition requires you to switch off your own questioning mind and conform to a preconceived notion of what the path to enlightenment is. I do not like to conform; I am not just a Brahmin, I am an individual, I am me. Why should I conform to someone else’s ideas?
Don’t get me wrong. I do not sneer at those who have faith. In fact I envy them because life is so much simpler for them. To have great belief relieves you of the torture of doubt. I would give anything to believe that the rituals I perform are significant.
I have an interesting relationship with my thread. During the times I do wear it; it gives me a sense of identity and tells me my place in the universe. It also fills me with a sense of history. I am a Vadagalai Iyengar, a ‘Tam Brahm’, a descendant of a priestly class – a bunch of people generally acknowledged to be highly educated, intelligent, cultured and very good at mathematics. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t occasionally indulge in intellectual snobbery. The thread is my personal key to the world of Rajagopalan, Balasubramanian, Mythili, maami, aacharam, filter coffee, curd rice, kutcheris, The Hindu, veshti, B.Tech, IIT, USA, MS and PhD. It is rather common for proud parents to talk of their children in the US – referring to Texas and Seattle with a certain nonchalant familiarity, as if they were talking about Mylapore and Ranganathan Street. This is my world. I am proud to be a Tam Brahm.
However it ends there. For all the pride that I derive out of being a Tam Brahm, I don’t for a moment enjoy the rituals. The significance attributed to the thread seems patently ridiculous and the heavy emphasis on the correct protocol is tiresome. Why must I sit for hours in front of a fire with the fan switched off and the smoke stinging my eyes? I do not like my love and respect for my parents to be measured by how well I repeat after the priest. Why am I simply doing what others think is the proper thing to do?
When I met the little priest this time to perform a Sudharshana Homam – a puja to bring good luck and prosperity, he had practically doubled in height. He had a man’s face and physique. His manner had become even graver. He made me feel flippant and immature in comparison. Luckily this puja did not require my verbal participation. All I had to do was sit and listen as six other priests recited with vim and vigor. As they chanted I found myself wondering what it would be like to be a priest. Could I resign myself to a life of smoke and fire and ghee and rice? Could I wear nothing but a dhoti all the time? Could I convince myself that what I uttered indeed had tremendous power? Would I feel more enlightened or would I be just another man going through the motions for a salary?
At the end of the puja the house was filled with smoke. We had lunch in silence, our eyes watering as we sat on the floor and ate off a banana leaf. The little priest had lunch with us and then left. I was glad to see him go.
Later as I went to visit a neighbor she told me that she had kept her doors open so that the smoke from our house could drift in.
“The smoke has great cleansing power you know? It drives away all evil spirits in the house. And the chanting creates a special vibration that is so good for the mind and soul! “ she exclaimed enthusiastically.
I smiled at her, wishing for a moment that I could believe too.
My first encounter with the little priest was about four years ago when I had to perform monthly rituals in the memory of my father. His father, the priest who usually helped me perform these rituals was of a soft spoken man who patiently guided me through the intricacies of the puja. He also didn’t mind the fact that my Sanskrit pronunciation was awful. The mantras which had to be chanted were complete tongue twisters that varied in pitch, speed, duration and to the untrained ear were total gibberish. He would utter a complicated shloka or mantra and then ask me to repeat after him. I would listen in quiet desperation and try in vain to form the words in my head. In response to his gentle prodding, I would hem and haw, stutter, pause and finally give him a mangled version of the original. He would then give me a kindly smile and move onto the next mantra. It was enough for him that my intentions were pure, what I uttered was not of much consequence.
One morning however called to and regretfully announced that he was busy elsewhere but that I was not to worry, his son was on his way.
“He is well versed in all our rituals; from birth to marriage to death” he assured me “I have trained him well so you have nothing to worry about.”
But I wasn’t worried. Over the course of a few months I had developed a dislike for these rituals. It was no fun to sit shirtless in front of a fire with the smoke stinging my eyes and the sweat running down my back as I muttered words I didn’t understand. Skeptical of the value of mechanically repeating mantras and tossing rice and ghee into the fire, I found the whole exercise a waste of time and money. My father was in my thoughts all the time; I didn’t need a ritual to affirm my respect for him. It didn’t matter who the priest was, I would be still be repeating the same mind numbing activities.
Thus when the bell rang, I went to the door without much enthusiasm. I had already resigned myself to another hour long session of playing parrot. Wearing an expression of indifference I opened the door and came face to face for the first time with the little priest. My eyes widened in surprise.
When the priest had said that he would be sending his son, I had automatically assumed that the son would be a replica of his father: soft looking, bearded, pigtailed, with a tummy around which smaller planets orbited. The priest’s tummy was a separate entity altogether. It ballooned out from under his chest, stretching taut over a vast curvature, struggling valiantly against gravity before resigning itself to fate with a sigh and curving gently into his waist. It always arrived before the priest, wobbling, jiggling and trembling with each step, parting the crowds like Moses parting the sea. I hadn’t however bargained for a stick thin twelve year old bespectacled kid who barely came up to my shoulder.
The little priest however seemed oblivious to my incredulous look. He stepped in with an air of confidence and bade my mother to bring the necessary items. My mother hurried into the kitchen immediately.
As we waited for my mother I studied him intently. His manner was nothing like a normal twelve year olds. He carried himself with immense dignity and had an enlightened air about him. What possessed this boy to conduct rituals and recite slokas instead of doing the things that normal twelve year olds do? Why did I feel hopelessly immature in front of him? He caught be staring at him.With an expression of grave intensity he returned my gaze without the slightest trepidation. I lowered my eyes immediately.
When all the items had been brought, we sat down on the floor and I waited for him to begin reciting. Instead he looked at me expectantly
“Come on, you can start now.”
“Err…”
“Don’t you know what you have to say?”
“Err…”
“How many times have you done this before?”
“Umm…six…”
“Six! And you still don’t know how to begin??”
“No…”
With a condescending expression he began to recite and I hesitantly repeated after him. I was squirming inside. It is one thing to be chided by someone elder to me and quite another to be accused of ignorance by someone half my age, especially on matters of faith and spirituality. Unlike his father, the little priest was not very forgiving about my poor pronunciation. Each time my tongue tied itself in knots; he would stop and glower at me. As we progressed through the ritual I became more and more conscious of myself, stuttering and stumbling over the simplest of mantras. I hated every moment of it.
The truth was I hated it because it forced me to face the fact that I knew nothing about the ritual and had never bothered to learn more. When his father was by my side I would start sincerely but my mind would begin to wander in a few minutes. There were even times when I fell silent and let him go on alone. Because his father had never chided me I had never felt inadequate. His son though made up for all the lost opportunity.
The ritual wasn’t the only thing I knew nothing about. I was vastly ignorant of most of what was expected of me as a Brahmin. I hardly wore my thread because it was uncomfortable and itchy, often slipping down my shoulder and pinning my arm to my side, especially when I was wearing formals. I have a morbid fear of dhotis and have never learnt to tie one by myself, always afraid that it would unravel and cascade down, revealing my naked legs and more to the world. I had never learnt my Abhivadai – my lineage which had to be recited to an elder or a priest as I bent down from my waist with my palms behind my ears. Each time I was asked to recite it, I would bend down, place my palms behind my ears and scowl until my grandmother or uncle recited it for me.
I know what you are asking yourself by now. Why doesn’t he just learn it all instead of complaining about it? Is it that hard?
For me it boils down to a question of faith. Try as I might, I have no belief in the rituals I am expected to perform. To wear a thread and sincerely perform every ritual and adhere to every requirement of tradition requires you to switch off your own questioning mind and conform to a preconceived notion of what the path to enlightenment is. I do not like to conform; I am not just a Brahmin, I am an individual, I am me. Why should I conform to someone else’s ideas?
Don’t get me wrong. I do not sneer at those who have faith. In fact I envy them because life is so much simpler for them. To have great belief relieves you of the torture of doubt. I would give anything to believe that the rituals I perform are significant.
I have an interesting relationship with my thread. During the times I do wear it; it gives me a sense of identity and tells me my place in the universe. It also fills me with a sense of history. I am a Vadagalai Iyengar, a ‘Tam Brahm’, a descendant of a priestly class – a bunch of people generally acknowledged to be highly educated, intelligent, cultured and very good at mathematics. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t occasionally indulge in intellectual snobbery. The thread is my personal key to the world of Rajagopalan, Balasubramanian, Mythili, maami, aacharam, filter coffee, curd rice, kutcheris, The Hindu, veshti, B.Tech, IIT, USA, MS and PhD. It is rather common for proud parents to talk of their children in the US – referring to Texas and Seattle with a certain nonchalant familiarity, as if they were talking about Mylapore and Ranganathan Street. This is my world. I am proud to be a Tam Brahm.
However it ends there. For all the pride that I derive out of being a Tam Brahm, I don’t for a moment enjoy the rituals. The significance attributed to the thread seems patently ridiculous and the heavy emphasis on the correct protocol is tiresome. Why must I sit for hours in front of a fire with the fan switched off and the smoke stinging my eyes? I do not like my love and respect for my parents to be measured by how well I repeat after the priest. Why am I simply doing what others think is the proper thing to do?
When I met the little priest this time to perform a Sudharshana Homam – a puja to bring good luck and prosperity, he had practically doubled in height. He had a man’s face and physique. His manner had become even graver. He made me feel flippant and immature in comparison. Luckily this puja did not require my verbal participation. All I had to do was sit and listen as six other priests recited with vim and vigor. As they chanted I found myself wondering what it would be like to be a priest. Could I resign myself to a life of smoke and fire and ghee and rice? Could I wear nothing but a dhoti all the time? Could I convince myself that what I uttered indeed had tremendous power? Would I feel more enlightened or would I be just another man going through the motions for a salary?
At the end of the puja the house was filled with smoke. We had lunch in silence, our eyes watering as we sat on the floor and ate off a banana leaf. The little priest had lunch with us and then left. I was glad to see him go.
Later as I went to visit a neighbor she told me that she had kept her doors open so that the smoke from our house could drift in.
“The smoke has great cleansing power you know? It drives away all evil spirits in the house. And the chanting creates a special vibration that is so good for the mind and soul! “ she exclaimed enthusiastically.
I smiled at her, wishing for a moment that I could believe too.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Thursday, May 29, 2008
I had posted an old writeup of mine which involved underwear humour. Within a short period of time I received a comment asking me to take it down because it was in poor taste. Well I thought about it for a while and then finally decided that the person who left the comment was probably right. I don't normally remove posts once I've published them but this time I have made an exception :). I agree with you Anon...perhaps that kind of humour is no longer appropriate on my blog.
Arbit, was it you?
Arbit, was it you?
Thursday, May 22, 2008
This one by Russel Edson made me smile :-)
Like a white snail the toilet slides into the living room, demanding to be loved.
It is impossible, and we tender our sincerest regrets.
In the book of the heart there is no mention made of plumbing.
And though we have spent our intimacy many times with you, you belong to an unfortunate reference, which we would rather not embrace...
The toilet slides out of the living room like a white snail, flushing with grief...
Like a white snail the toilet slides into the living room, demanding to be loved.
It is impossible, and we tender our sincerest regrets.
In the book of the heart there is no mention made of plumbing.
And though we have spent our intimacy many times with you, you belong to an unfortunate reference, which we would rather not embrace...
The toilet slides out of the living room like a white snail, flushing with grief...
Saturday, May 10, 2008
In my mind, I have neat little compartments into which I have slotted my past, my present and future. It helps me deal with all that’s happened. I can take a critical look at all my misfortunes, take a deep breath and say “What has happened has happened. You can’t change the past. Accept it and move on. The future is what you make of it”.
Living in Bangalore has also helped a lot. With new surroundings, I can try and forget memories of hospital corridors and painful heartbreak, grim autopsy rooms and pale green death certificates. Most of the legal hassles and red tape has been dealt with. I’m a little older and a little wiser. I feel sorry for the guy I was four years back. He had no idea what was in store for him. I’d like to go back and assure him that he’d survive because back then he didn’t think he could. Chennai belongs to the past.
Which is why when I got off the train at Central Station in Chennai my mental compartments broke down and the contents flowed into each other. Traveling by Auto to a friend’s house to spend the night, I passed sights and sounds, inhaled scents that were so deeply ingrained in me that the dead city came alive in my head. I didn’t know which was real, my new life or my life as a 21 year old. I could have so easily asked the auto driver to take me home, climbed the stairs and walked straight into a life with Amma making dinner in the kitchen, Appa reading the newspaper and snuck into my room to lift the phone and hold a long whispered conversation that would stretch late into the night and yet not be long enough.
I spent the five days in Chennai paying off outstanding bills, visited neighbors, brushing aside “when are you getting married?” questions, attending a friend’s convocation and then finally a bunch of us took a small trip the hills of Yelagiri to spend the weekend. We went boating in the lake and later climbed seven hundred a fifty steps to a small temple atop the hill. While the hills by themselves were pleasant, the journey in the scorching sun left us dull and irritable. Small towns like Ambur and Ranipet that boiled in the sun filled me with loathing. They reminded me too much of my summer internship when I sold candy on the streets. I dislike small towns for being so hot, being so lifeless and being so backward. Why would anyone want to live there?
I was relieved to get back to Bangalore. Chennai was too unreal to be pleasant. I found it hard to walk the streets and not confuse the past with the present. If it wasn’t for the company of my friends, I would have left almost immediately.
I attended Jo’s wedding, laughed and enjoyed the company of my IMT friends. At the moment the Mangal Sutra was tied around her neck, the four of us fell silent and watched as a solitary tear rolled down her cheek. A few moments later she looked up and smiled at us as we rushed up to offer our congratulations. She wasn’t lost to us. Not yet anyway.She bustled about as usual after the reception. She looked just the same.
I took some time to rearrange my compartments and then felt better at the end of it. The city of Bangalore is my present and my future. I’m no longer the guy I used to be…and that’s okay. I may not want to go back but I’m still supporting the Chennai Super Kings.
Living in Bangalore has also helped a lot. With new surroundings, I can try and forget memories of hospital corridors and painful heartbreak, grim autopsy rooms and pale green death certificates. Most of the legal hassles and red tape has been dealt with. I’m a little older and a little wiser. I feel sorry for the guy I was four years back. He had no idea what was in store for him. I’d like to go back and assure him that he’d survive because back then he didn’t think he could. Chennai belongs to the past.
Which is why when I got off the train at Central Station in Chennai my mental compartments broke down and the contents flowed into each other. Traveling by Auto to a friend’s house to spend the night, I passed sights and sounds, inhaled scents that were so deeply ingrained in me that the dead city came alive in my head. I didn’t know which was real, my new life or my life as a 21 year old. I could have so easily asked the auto driver to take me home, climbed the stairs and walked straight into a life with Amma making dinner in the kitchen, Appa reading the newspaper and snuck into my room to lift the phone and hold a long whispered conversation that would stretch late into the night and yet not be long enough.
I spent the five days in Chennai paying off outstanding bills, visited neighbors, brushing aside “when are you getting married?” questions, attending a friend’s convocation and then finally a bunch of us took a small trip the hills of Yelagiri to spend the weekend. We went boating in the lake and later climbed seven hundred a fifty steps to a small temple atop the hill. While the hills by themselves were pleasant, the journey in the scorching sun left us dull and irritable. Small towns like Ambur and Ranipet that boiled in the sun filled me with loathing. They reminded me too much of my summer internship when I sold candy on the streets. I dislike small towns for being so hot, being so lifeless and being so backward. Why would anyone want to live there?
I was relieved to get back to Bangalore. Chennai was too unreal to be pleasant. I found it hard to walk the streets and not confuse the past with the present. If it wasn’t for the company of my friends, I would have left almost immediately.
I attended Jo’s wedding, laughed and enjoyed the company of my IMT friends. At the moment the Mangal Sutra was tied around her neck, the four of us fell silent and watched as a solitary tear rolled down her cheek. A few moments later she looked up and smiled at us as we rushed up to offer our congratulations. She wasn’t lost to us. Not yet anyway.She bustled about as usual after the reception. She looked just the same.
I took some time to rearrange my compartments and then felt better at the end of it. The city of Bangalore is my present and my future. I’m no longer the guy I used to be…and that’s okay. I may not want to go back but I’m still supporting the Chennai Super Kings.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
The Commodore 64 was the first computer my father owned. He bought it a couple of years before I was born and loved it dearly. It looked nothing like the computers we know today. There was no hard disk; instead it had to be booted using a large floppy disk. There was no monitor either; the setup had to be plugged into the TV. The operating system was neither Windows, nor Linux. It wasn’t even DOS. It ran on BASIC. But most of all, I loved the keyboard. It was solid piece, as thick as a briefcase with chocolate brown keys encased in a light brown body. It was an imposing piece of equipment, typing on it made one look very important.
Everything looked mysterious and exciting. The large and dusty floppy disks in brown semi transparent boxes, the thick user manuals, the miles of interconnecting cables, the flashing red and green LED’s on the floppy drive, the eerie blue screen on the television; it all looked so advanced. My father looked like a Geek God when he was using the computer. I would watch in awe from a distance.
When my father wasn’t around, I would take the brown keyboard to the loo and then surrender to my wild Sci-fi fantasies. I was the pilot of a spaceship, the bathroom -my cockpit. Furiously typing commands on the keyboard, I ascertained enemy ship locations, warned sister ships, launched missiles, dodged enemy fire and escaped into hyperspace. Little did the makers of the Commodore 64 suspect that their product was being used on the potty to conduct nuclear warfare.
Within a short period of time the keyboard stopped working. My father never accused me but I think he felt I was somehow responsible. I didn’t breathe a word. The Commodore 64 was buried at the bottom of the cupboard never to be seen again.
When I turned 16 my father bought a Zenith PC that came with a dial up internet connection. My father and I listened with interest as the modem hemmed and hawed, squawked and screeched until a connection was established. After that we didn’t know what to do. We spent several minutes just waiting for something to happen, for a window to miraculously open and connect us to the only website we knew: hotmail.com. It wasn’t until a knowledgeable friend dropped by that we double clicked on the internet explorer icon. From then on I was hooked.
The very next day, I came racing back from school knowing that no one would be at home. In a feverish state of excitement I switched on the computer and the modem, waited impatiently for the connection to be established. I opened Yahoo search and breathlessly typed “Pamela Anderson, NAKED”. It was my first brush with the infinite possibilities the internet offered. Until my mother came home an hour later, I gazed wide eyed at the screen as compromising pictures of the busty beauty flooded my senses.
If it was my first brush with cyber nudity, it was also my first lesson in the need for careful concealment of my dubious activities. Within minutes an email from VSNL arrived in the inbox warning me of the criminal nature of my pursuits and the punishment that was likely. I had no idea the email had come until my dad opened the inbox later that night.
What followed was a period of intense embarrassment. When my parents demanded to know what the devil was happening, I hurriedly came up with a cock and bull story of how possibly some one had hacked into our VSNL account and misused the same. My mother, a seasoned school teacher didn’t believe a word of it. My father however readily believed me and assured her that these things happen quite frequently, that cyber theft was a common occurrence. I felt couldn’t believe that he’d fallen for my story. Now when I look back I realize that my dad was just trying to save my skin.
With time I learnt to clear the history and remove the temporary internet files. I deleted cookies and used proxy websites. I was as careful as I could be. I always felt guilty though. My father used the computer to run mathematical software called MATLAB for abstract modeling. My own models were stark naked.
While my father and I frequently used the computer, my mother kept her distance. To me the computer was device to be used, misused and abused. She on the other hand would never turn it on but instead reverentially clean its surface everyday and warn me that if I didn’t dust the computer, viruses would enter and cause it to crash. I found her naivety painful and tried hard to ward off her superstitions. I never succeeded.
When she found other teachers at the school were beginning to use the computer to surf the internet, send email and make power point presentations, my mother too began to get interested. With me by her side, she hesitantly turned the computer on and began to explore its features. She never quite mastered it. She would open internet explorer before connecting to the internet, she could never remember where she’d saved her documents and when Microsoft Word formatted her text in ways she never asked for, she would have a nervous breakdown. She was always quite timid around the computer, afraid that any sudden movement would cause the computer to crash. If she hadn’t used the computer for a couple of weeks, she would forget the sequence in which it had to be turned on. The computer was always bigger than her.
But there were moments when the computer behaved and everything operated the way she wanted it to. During these moments, she would relax and grin, happy that she too knew how to use the computer. Having attended typing classes as a teenager, she would sit straight and primly type on the keyboard. I would watch from a distance and smile.
My grandfather was always curious to know what this internet thing was and asked me several times to explain it to him. I’d seat him next to me in front of the computer and enthusiastically launch into a detailed explanation of networks, servers, modems and websites. Within minutes he would be snoring gently.
I now use a HP pavilion laptop and it has been my friend, philosopher and guide for the last two years. In college I used it to make presentations, study, download music, watch movies and chat online into the early hours of the morning. When the hard disk crashed and had to be replaced, I suffered intense pangs of loneliness until it was fixed. Without a laptop, I had no identity, no place in the universe and no meaning in life. Friends would avoid me, knowing that I wanted their laptop. I was loath to join the other nomads who pathetically used the computer lab.
The Zenith PC now lies gathering dust in my house. Like the Commodore 64 it is a relic, no longer fit to be used in today’s fast paced world. It saddens me that’s it importance in my life was transient. For years it patiently bore the onslaught of my impatient fingers and took me to places far far away. I will probably never use it again but I can never throw it away. Perhaps one day in the future I wouldn’t mind if my son took it with him to the loo.
Everything looked mysterious and exciting. The large and dusty floppy disks in brown semi transparent boxes, the thick user manuals, the miles of interconnecting cables, the flashing red and green LED’s on the floppy drive, the eerie blue screen on the television; it all looked so advanced. My father looked like a Geek God when he was using the computer. I would watch in awe from a distance.
When my father wasn’t around, I would take the brown keyboard to the loo and then surrender to my wild Sci-fi fantasies. I was the pilot of a spaceship, the bathroom -my cockpit. Furiously typing commands on the keyboard, I ascertained enemy ship locations, warned sister ships, launched missiles, dodged enemy fire and escaped into hyperspace. Little did the makers of the Commodore 64 suspect that their product was being used on the potty to conduct nuclear warfare.
Within a short period of time the keyboard stopped working. My father never accused me but I think he felt I was somehow responsible. I didn’t breathe a word. The Commodore 64 was buried at the bottom of the cupboard never to be seen again.
When I turned 16 my father bought a Zenith PC that came with a dial up internet connection. My father and I listened with interest as the modem hemmed and hawed, squawked and screeched until a connection was established. After that we didn’t know what to do. We spent several minutes just waiting for something to happen, for a window to miraculously open and connect us to the only website we knew: hotmail.com. It wasn’t until a knowledgeable friend dropped by that we double clicked on the internet explorer icon. From then on I was hooked.
The very next day, I came racing back from school knowing that no one would be at home. In a feverish state of excitement I switched on the computer and the modem, waited impatiently for the connection to be established. I opened Yahoo search and breathlessly typed “Pamela Anderson, NAKED”. It was my first brush with the infinite possibilities the internet offered. Until my mother came home an hour later, I gazed wide eyed at the screen as compromising pictures of the busty beauty flooded my senses.
If it was my first brush with cyber nudity, it was also my first lesson in the need for careful concealment of my dubious activities. Within minutes an email from VSNL arrived in the inbox warning me of the criminal nature of my pursuits and the punishment that was likely. I had no idea the email had come until my dad opened the inbox later that night.
What followed was a period of intense embarrassment. When my parents demanded to know what the devil was happening, I hurriedly came up with a cock and bull story of how possibly some one had hacked into our VSNL account and misused the same. My mother, a seasoned school teacher didn’t believe a word of it. My father however readily believed me and assured her that these things happen quite frequently, that cyber theft was a common occurrence. I felt couldn’t believe that he’d fallen for my story. Now when I look back I realize that my dad was just trying to save my skin.
With time I learnt to clear the history and remove the temporary internet files. I deleted cookies and used proxy websites. I was as careful as I could be. I always felt guilty though. My father used the computer to run mathematical software called MATLAB for abstract modeling. My own models were stark naked.
While my father and I frequently used the computer, my mother kept her distance. To me the computer was device to be used, misused and abused. She on the other hand would never turn it on but instead reverentially clean its surface everyday and warn me that if I didn’t dust the computer, viruses would enter and cause it to crash. I found her naivety painful and tried hard to ward off her superstitions. I never succeeded.
When she found other teachers at the school were beginning to use the computer to surf the internet, send email and make power point presentations, my mother too began to get interested. With me by her side, she hesitantly turned the computer on and began to explore its features. She never quite mastered it. She would open internet explorer before connecting to the internet, she could never remember where she’d saved her documents and when Microsoft Word formatted her text in ways she never asked for, she would have a nervous breakdown. She was always quite timid around the computer, afraid that any sudden movement would cause the computer to crash. If she hadn’t used the computer for a couple of weeks, she would forget the sequence in which it had to be turned on. The computer was always bigger than her.
But there were moments when the computer behaved and everything operated the way she wanted it to. During these moments, she would relax and grin, happy that she too knew how to use the computer. Having attended typing classes as a teenager, she would sit straight and primly type on the keyboard. I would watch from a distance and smile.
My grandfather was always curious to know what this internet thing was and asked me several times to explain it to him. I’d seat him next to me in front of the computer and enthusiastically launch into a detailed explanation of networks, servers, modems and websites. Within minutes he would be snoring gently.
I now use a HP pavilion laptop and it has been my friend, philosopher and guide for the last two years. In college I used it to make presentations, study, download music, watch movies and chat online into the early hours of the morning. When the hard disk crashed and had to be replaced, I suffered intense pangs of loneliness until it was fixed. Without a laptop, I had no identity, no place in the universe and no meaning in life. Friends would avoid me, knowing that I wanted their laptop. I was loath to join the other nomads who pathetically used the computer lab.
The Zenith PC now lies gathering dust in my house. Like the Commodore 64 it is a relic, no longer fit to be used in today’s fast paced world. It saddens me that’s it importance in my life was transient. For years it patiently bore the onslaught of my impatient fingers and took me to places far far away. I will probably never use it again but I can never throw it away. Perhaps one day in the future I wouldn’t mind if my son took it with him to the loo.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
'Watch Out! We are MBA!'
The title caught my eye the moment I entered the Crossword bookshop on Elgin Road. 'Caught my eye' is putting it rather mildly. Instead it scratched, bit and pummeled its way into my consciousness. Its title left nothing to doubt. One glimpse and I knew everything I had to know. Just another wannabe Indian author baiting clueless readers with the MBA tag.
Of course it could be plain jealousy. Another young Indian author with his book published while I drift along with hazy dreams of being a celebrated writer and no concrete evidence of getting there.
But then this is just another one in the whole slew of IIT-IIM books that have wormed their way into bookstores. Books include “Joker in the pack”, “IIM --> Ganjundwara", “Anything for you Maa’m”, “Above Average” and so on and so forth. The blame of course is to fall squarely on those who thought that they could get away with cloning “Five Point Someone”. While Chetan Bhagat’s first novel is good for a few hours of time pass (after which you must lend it to a friend and ask him not to return it), it irks me because without the IIT tag, it would have tanked. It works because we are normal people with average intelligence and we like to be assured that those who make it to the IIT’s and IIM’s are not demidgods but have problems just like you and me. Period. If the book instead had been based on an incident in just another ordinary engineering college we wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. It is by no means memorable. At some level all these books are Indian versions of "Snapshots from Hell", a nicely written account of life at Stanford. "Snapshots" was a lovely read. These Indian versions though are just sad.
I don’t think any of these books will be remembered a few years from now. It’s just a horde of wannabe writers with MBA degrees cashing in on the IIT, MBA craze. After all, don’t we all want to know what life is really like at IIM A?
The sight of 'Watch Out! We are MBA!' affected me powerfully. I felt like time was running out. With so many books coming out how was I possibly going to differentiate myself? What was I writing anyway? Did it not sound suspiciously similar to the very same material I had ridiculed?
I’d like to think that I will write something more enduring.
The title caught my eye the moment I entered the Crossword bookshop on Elgin Road. 'Caught my eye' is putting it rather mildly. Instead it scratched, bit and pummeled its way into my consciousness. Its title left nothing to doubt. One glimpse and I knew everything I had to know. Just another wannabe Indian author baiting clueless readers with the MBA tag.
Of course it could be plain jealousy. Another young Indian author with his book published while I drift along with hazy dreams of being a celebrated writer and no concrete evidence of getting there.
But then this is just another one in the whole slew of IIT-IIM books that have wormed their way into bookstores. Books include “Joker in the pack”, “IIM --> Ganjundwara", “Anything for you Maa’m”, “Above Average” and so on and so forth. The blame of course is to fall squarely on those who thought that they could get away with cloning “Five Point Someone”. While Chetan Bhagat’s first novel is good for a few hours of time pass (after which you must lend it to a friend and ask him not to return it), it irks me because without the IIT tag, it would have tanked. It works because we are normal people with average intelligence and we like to be assured that those who make it to the IIT’s and IIM’s are not demidgods but have problems just like you and me. Period. If the book instead had been based on an incident in just another ordinary engineering college we wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. It is by no means memorable. At some level all these books are Indian versions of "Snapshots from Hell", a nicely written account of life at Stanford. "Snapshots" was a lovely read. These Indian versions though are just sad.
I don’t think any of these books will be remembered a few years from now. It’s just a horde of wannabe writers with MBA degrees cashing in on the IIT, MBA craze. After all, don’t we all want to know what life is really like at IIM A?
The sight of 'Watch Out! We are MBA!' affected me powerfully. I felt like time was running out. With so many books coming out how was I possibly going to differentiate myself? What was I writing anyway? Did it not sound suspiciously similar to the very same material I had ridiculed?
I’d like to think that I will write something more enduring.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
The week sees me perspiring in Calcutta. I'm here for my cousin Prashant's wedding and I'm trying hard to get used to the feeling of the shirt sticking to my back. After experiencing a frigid Delhi winter, playing in the snow at Manali and then finally lazing around in Bangalore's mild weather, Calcutta's humidity makes me gasp.
I'm also gasping because I cant believe Prashant is getting married. Yes, he's four years elder to me but we've always shared a great wavelength. I've never really consciously acknowledged the fact that he's almost thirty. In my mind its still child marriage. His partner in crime is Bengali and that makes the wedding and my extended family very interesting. I've never eaten so many sweets in one sitting. I'm still slightly pop eyed after consuming vast quantities of Sandesh and Mishti Dhoi.
It feels really nice to see the entire family again. The house is buzzing with laughter and noise. Its quite chaotic actually. Its great to wake up early in the morning and have coffee with everyone.
This also marks the beginning of my travel plans. I shall be shuttling between Calcutta, Bangalore and Chennai over the next few weeks. Also planned is a trip to Sikkim with a friend from IMT and then finally a weekend visit to Mumbai to see all my classmates once before we begin to work for a living. I need to move around, it keeps me chirpy. For the last month I have been sitting in Bangalore quietly going out of my mind.
Here's to a chaotic and happy wedding :-)
I'm also gasping because I cant believe Prashant is getting married. Yes, he's four years elder to me but we've always shared a great wavelength. I've never really consciously acknowledged the fact that he's almost thirty. In my mind its still child marriage. His partner in crime is Bengali and that makes the wedding and my extended family very interesting. I've never eaten so many sweets in one sitting. I'm still slightly pop eyed after consuming vast quantities of Sandesh and Mishti Dhoi.
It feels really nice to see the entire family again. The house is buzzing with laughter and noise. Its quite chaotic actually. Its great to wake up early in the morning and have coffee with everyone.
This also marks the beginning of my travel plans. I shall be shuttling between Calcutta, Bangalore and Chennai over the next few weeks. Also planned is a trip to Sikkim with a friend from IMT and then finally a weekend visit to Mumbai to see all my classmates once before we begin to work for a living. I need to move around, it keeps me chirpy. For the last month I have been sitting in Bangalore quietly going out of my mind.
Here's to a chaotic and happy wedding :-)
Sunday, April 13, 2008
I’m sitting in a Café Coffee Day outlet sipping Irish coffee and watching the ice cream melt on a piece of apple pie that I’d ordered in a moment of weakness. Much to my disappointment the Irish coffee does not contain real whiskey as I’d hoped for, only a non-alcoholic variety. Having had only filter coffee or the foul tasting stuff found in Nescafe outlets all my life I’d always been eager to see how coffee would taste with booze in it. It looks like I’m going to have to wait a little longer.
I’m sitting here for what writer’s call ‘inspiration’, the kind of inspiration that comes from a change in setting. At least that’s what Natalie Goldberg says in her book ‘Writing down the bones”, a book that promises to help ‘Free the writer within’. My cousin very kindly lent me the book after I’d shyly confessed that I hoped to write a book soon. She shares my dreams of being a writer too.
To complete the setting I also have with me ‘The Alchemist’ by Paulo Coelho, a writing pad and a pen. The setting is perfect to write. I should riding the waves of inspiration that shall crash against the shores my notepad and recede, leaving behind lines of exquisite literature. My sister’s friend Anu even promised to help me get in touch with a publisher she knew after she read my blog.
“They publish anything!” she said confidently. “Actually they print a lot of Hindutva literature. Would you be interested?”
I mumbled something like “Let me write the damn thing first” and then smiled self consciously. It’s embarrassing to admit in public that you want to write a book. I can’t get myself to face all the raised eyebrows.
But I can’t get myself to write. I’m surrounded by college kids wearing expensive casuals and cooing couples who are pretty well dressed themselves. For some reason I get the feeling we are all a little self conscious, that all of us are trying a little extra hard to show that we belong in expensive surroundings. The college kids are slouching a little exaggeratedly in the cushions and their voices are louder than normal. Even the cooing couples take a break from each other now and then and look around to assure themselves that they fit in, that it is perfectly normal to sip iced cappuccinos that cost a bomb and make small talk. I think it’s the same way members of Indian Rock or Heavy Metal bands feel about their long hair, pierced ears, goatees and Black T Shirts with gothic Mettalica logos. They seem to be able to pull it of effortlessly but somewhere inside a voice niggles “Do I look like I belong?”
Of course I’m probably wrong. Nobody feels that way and my mind likes to poke fun at other people.
I know why I can’t write now, I feel too elitist! The Paulo Coelho makes me look so wannabe. I know I shouldn’t have picked up a book that has had a ‘life-enhancing impact on millions of people’. It’s such yuppie book to read in public. Where’s my originality? Who do I think I am anyway? A fancy writer who goes to café’s for ‘inspiration’? Get real!
When I was about nineteen, a Coffee Day outlet opened close to my home. I was going to meet a few friends there and I told my dad I’d be back late.
“Where are you going?” he asked
“The Coffee Day outlet, you know…the one on the main road?”
“That’s the place where a cup of coffee is forty rupees right?”
“Uhm…that the one”
It didn’t matter that the ambiance was nice, that I could chat for as long as I wanted with my friends and that the waiters wouldn’t bother us needlessly. A cup of coffee was forty bucks…and that said it all-about the place and about the kind of crowd that hung out there. It was a totally unjustified view he had held and now I realize it’s genetic. I have it too. I can’t believe I’ve paid a total of a hundred and twenty bucks just for a change in surroundings.
I eat my ice cream with apple pie morosely and then gulp down the Irish coffee. The pie is not bad but the coffee is awful. I tip ten bucks and leave.
God! The excuses my mind comes up with not to write!
I’m sitting here for what writer’s call ‘inspiration’, the kind of inspiration that comes from a change in setting. At least that’s what Natalie Goldberg says in her book ‘Writing down the bones”, a book that promises to help ‘Free the writer within’. My cousin very kindly lent me the book after I’d shyly confessed that I hoped to write a book soon. She shares my dreams of being a writer too.
To complete the setting I also have with me ‘The Alchemist’ by Paulo Coelho, a writing pad and a pen. The setting is perfect to write. I should riding the waves of inspiration that shall crash against the shores my notepad and recede, leaving behind lines of exquisite literature. My sister’s friend Anu even promised to help me get in touch with a publisher she knew after she read my blog.
“They publish anything!” she said confidently. “Actually they print a lot of Hindutva literature. Would you be interested?”
I mumbled something like “Let me write the damn thing first” and then smiled self consciously. It’s embarrassing to admit in public that you want to write a book. I can’t get myself to face all the raised eyebrows.
But I can’t get myself to write. I’m surrounded by college kids wearing expensive casuals and cooing couples who are pretty well dressed themselves. For some reason I get the feeling we are all a little self conscious, that all of us are trying a little extra hard to show that we belong in expensive surroundings. The college kids are slouching a little exaggeratedly in the cushions and their voices are louder than normal. Even the cooing couples take a break from each other now and then and look around to assure themselves that they fit in, that it is perfectly normal to sip iced cappuccinos that cost a bomb and make small talk. I think it’s the same way members of Indian Rock or Heavy Metal bands feel about their long hair, pierced ears, goatees and Black T Shirts with gothic Mettalica logos. They seem to be able to pull it of effortlessly but somewhere inside a voice niggles “Do I look like I belong?”
Of course I’m probably wrong. Nobody feels that way and my mind likes to poke fun at other people.
I know why I can’t write now, I feel too elitist! The Paulo Coelho makes me look so wannabe. I know I shouldn’t have picked up a book that has had a ‘life-enhancing impact on millions of people’. It’s such yuppie book to read in public. Where’s my originality? Who do I think I am anyway? A fancy writer who goes to café’s for ‘inspiration’? Get real!
When I was about nineteen, a Coffee Day outlet opened close to my home. I was going to meet a few friends there and I told my dad I’d be back late.
“Where are you going?” he asked
“The Coffee Day outlet, you know…the one on the main road?”
“That’s the place where a cup of coffee is forty rupees right?”
“Uhm…that the one”
It didn’t matter that the ambiance was nice, that I could chat for as long as I wanted with my friends and that the waiters wouldn’t bother us needlessly. A cup of coffee was forty bucks…and that said it all-about the place and about the kind of crowd that hung out there. It was a totally unjustified view he had held and now I realize it’s genetic. I have it too. I can’t believe I’ve paid a total of a hundred and twenty bucks just for a change in surroundings.
I eat my ice cream with apple pie morosely and then gulp down the Irish coffee. The pie is not bad but the coffee is awful. I tip ten bucks and leave.
God! The excuses my mind comes up with not to write!
Sunday, April 06, 2008
When I turned 18 and tried to think of all my athletic accomplishments I realized I had absolutely none. Skinny, weak and quite timid I was hardly what you might call a talented sportsman. Deeply touched by James Thurber’s article on his sporting failures I sat down and reviewed my own history with sport. This was what came out of it:
Throughout my junior school days, if there ever was anything that was cause for sorrow, it was the fact that there wasn’t a single sports activity I was good at. My class mates were mostly indifferent, but I was downright bad. Being small of stature and rather weak, I considered a game of carom to be an incredible work out (not that I was any good at it).
Football, I considered too rough and confusing. My classmates often took advantage of my helplessness as I ran back and forth piteously asking every player which team I belonged to and usually convinced me I was in the opposite team. No matter which side I was on, I was told I belonged to the other side. Hence I was always forgotten in glory or solely responsible for defeat.
When it came to cricket, I don’t recollect being anything other than a fielder (another job I failed miserably at).No matter where I stood, the ball would always come to me. The deep sense of affection the ball felt for me generally led to my downfall and once again was I was looked upon as the scum of the earth. I do recollect being a batsman once. The bowler took one step forward and gently tossed the ball. Anxious to prove my worth, I closed my eyes and took a mighty swat at it. An awed silence followed. I opened my eyes and the inert form of the PT sir lying flat on the ground; about thirty meters away greeted my eyes.
"Did the ball do that?" I whispered to a friend. "No" he whispered back "The bat did".
After that incident I gave up sports altogether and spent my time carving my initials on the bathroom door. As time passed I moved on to the walls but alas! They were filled with inscriptions of their own, so I decided to give the games period another shot. This time I tried volleyball. It took a great deal of persuasion, but I finally convinced a senior to teach me the rules. I went out there brimming with confidence and promptly sprained my left hand. My confidence drained, I returned to the senior." Hit it with both hands" he said. I went out there again and sprained my right hand.I haven’t played the game since.
Frustrated by my unsuccessful efforts, I signed up for swimming classes during the summer hols (a decision I regret even today).The coach was an enormous man, about six feet tall and six feet wide. "Swimming" he said” is instinctive." upon which he roughly grasped me and threw me into the deep end of the pool. I thrashed about wildly for few seconds before sinking. "KICK THE WATER!" yelled the coach." PULL ME OUT OF THE WATER AND I WILL!"I yelled back. Looking back, I don’t think I ever was his favorite pupil. He transferred me to the kiddy's section after that.
Though not a good swimmer, I always managed to stay calm in the shallow region, quite unlike a friend of mine. He firmly believed that if the water level was above his ankles, he would die a horrible death. I am ashamed to say, I felt quite superior to him when he would stand in water 2 feet deep and scream for help. As time progressed, my swimming abilities went from bad to worse. Finally a kid, my friend and I were the only ones who had successfully learnt nothing. In sheer desperation, the coach started teaching us all from scratch again. "Now look here" said the coach, clutching the side of the pool. "You kick out like this". He kicked out against the water. He demonstrated about 5 times and stopped.
"Ooh! Do it again! Do it again!" shrieked the kid, jumping up and down with excitement. Puzzled, the coach obliged him. "NO! Not that! I want to see those pretty bubbles again!" (Needless to say the coach didn't oblige him).
I don’t know how I survived the coaching camp, but I somehow did. Other than learning thirty different ways to drown, I never looked upon it as an enlightening experience.
I’m about 25 now. A quarter century on this planet and I can’t say I’ve progressed athletically since the time I wrote that article. IMT had a lovely football field, a couple of badminton courts, a basket ball court, a volleyball court and a perfect tennis court…and I didn’t play a damn thing until my final semester.
It’s not like I didn’t have the time. Somehow my physical activity was limited to either lifting weights at the gym or running around the field. I ran the Delhi half marathon but nothing else.
In the final semester I picked up a tennis racket for the first time in my life and I was immediately hooked. A small group of us would play from late in the night to early in the morning and I loved every moment of it. Granted we were pretty amateur but running swiftly across the court, pausing, stretching and finally whacking the ball across the net gave me a tremendous high. I loved the sweating and the grunting.
I’ve joined tennis classes now and I’m learning to play the game properly. Eleven year old kids make me look silly in comparison but I’m glad that I’ve finally taken a sport seriously. I’m not going to let go of an opportunity again.
Throughout my junior school days, if there ever was anything that was cause for sorrow, it was the fact that there wasn’t a single sports activity I was good at. My class mates were mostly indifferent, but I was downright bad. Being small of stature and rather weak, I considered a game of carom to be an incredible work out (not that I was any good at it).
Football, I considered too rough and confusing. My classmates often took advantage of my helplessness as I ran back and forth piteously asking every player which team I belonged to and usually convinced me I was in the opposite team. No matter which side I was on, I was told I belonged to the other side. Hence I was always forgotten in glory or solely responsible for defeat.
When it came to cricket, I don’t recollect being anything other than a fielder (another job I failed miserably at).No matter where I stood, the ball would always come to me. The deep sense of affection the ball felt for me generally led to my downfall and once again was I was looked upon as the scum of the earth. I do recollect being a batsman once. The bowler took one step forward and gently tossed the ball. Anxious to prove my worth, I closed my eyes and took a mighty swat at it. An awed silence followed. I opened my eyes and the inert form of the PT sir lying flat on the ground; about thirty meters away greeted my eyes.
"Did the ball do that?" I whispered to a friend. "No" he whispered back "The bat did".
After that incident I gave up sports altogether and spent my time carving my initials on the bathroom door. As time passed I moved on to the walls but alas! They were filled with inscriptions of their own, so I decided to give the games period another shot. This time I tried volleyball. It took a great deal of persuasion, but I finally convinced a senior to teach me the rules. I went out there brimming with confidence and promptly sprained my left hand. My confidence drained, I returned to the senior." Hit it with both hands" he said. I went out there again and sprained my right hand.I haven’t played the game since.
Frustrated by my unsuccessful efforts, I signed up for swimming classes during the summer hols (a decision I regret even today).The coach was an enormous man, about six feet tall and six feet wide. "Swimming" he said” is instinctive." upon which he roughly grasped me and threw me into the deep end of the pool. I thrashed about wildly for few seconds before sinking. "KICK THE WATER!" yelled the coach." PULL ME OUT OF THE WATER AND I WILL!"I yelled back. Looking back, I don’t think I ever was his favorite pupil. He transferred me to the kiddy's section after that.
Though not a good swimmer, I always managed to stay calm in the shallow region, quite unlike a friend of mine. He firmly believed that if the water level was above his ankles, he would die a horrible death. I am ashamed to say, I felt quite superior to him when he would stand in water 2 feet deep and scream for help. As time progressed, my swimming abilities went from bad to worse. Finally a kid, my friend and I were the only ones who had successfully learnt nothing. In sheer desperation, the coach started teaching us all from scratch again. "Now look here" said the coach, clutching the side of the pool. "You kick out like this". He kicked out against the water. He demonstrated about 5 times and stopped.
"Ooh! Do it again! Do it again!" shrieked the kid, jumping up and down with excitement. Puzzled, the coach obliged him. "NO! Not that! I want to see those pretty bubbles again!" (Needless to say the coach didn't oblige him).
I don’t know how I survived the coaching camp, but I somehow did. Other than learning thirty different ways to drown, I never looked upon it as an enlightening experience.
I’m about 25 now. A quarter century on this planet and I can’t say I’ve progressed athletically since the time I wrote that article. IMT had a lovely football field, a couple of badminton courts, a basket ball court, a volleyball court and a perfect tennis court…and I didn’t play a damn thing until my final semester.
It’s not like I didn’t have the time. Somehow my physical activity was limited to either lifting weights at the gym or running around the field. I ran the Delhi half marathon but nothing else.
In the final semester I picked up a tennis racket for the first time in my life and I was immediately hooked. A small group of us would play from late in the night to early in the morning and I loved every moment of it. Granted we were pretty amateur but running swiftly across the court, pausing, stretching and finally whacking the ball across the net gave me a tremendous high. I loved the sweating and the grunting.
I’ve joined tennis classes now and I’m learning to play the game properly. Eleven year old kids make me look silly in comparison but I’m glad that I’ve finally taken a sport seriously. I’m not going to let go of an opportunity again.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
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