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

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

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

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

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

I got scared.

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

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

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

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


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

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

To someone who loves popcorn...

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

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


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

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

Send it in a letter
Make yourself feel better


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

“What sir, had a nice jog?”

“Fabulous sir, and did you sleep well?”

The smile falters for a second and then returns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“BANG!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God help me, I'm an MBA who

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

2) would much rather read Malgudi Days than Jack Welch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This list will be updated periodically.

Would you employ this man?

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

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

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

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





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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you so much Anand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until later then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deepa’s countenance is a picture of disgust.

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

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

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

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

“I’m here for the money, what else?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today I became a celebrity. I was part of a discussion on the railway budget on CNBC Awaaz. Granted I contributed nothing significant but now the entire nation gets to see me looking intelligently at the camera for one hour.

It was my first time in a TV studio and it made me feel very important. I’ve never seen myself on television except at weddings where they take videos of you eating. These are profoundly embarrassing as you don’t know how to react when you are blinded by the light and a camera takes a close-up of your face as you chew. Do you look at the camera? Or do you engage in a serious conversation with the person next to you? Are you eating in a refined manner? Or do you look like you are going to steal from the neighbors plate?

12 of the most unqualified people from my college were selected to attend the discussion. We were the management students and our role was to raise pertinent issues and provide solutions to them. On our way to the studio we discovered nobody even had the faintest idea on the railway budget. Instead we came up with brilliant ways to sabotage the show. Balaji and I would heatedly discuss the Cauvery water issue and then wrestle all over the studio floor while Ali vehemently demanded the independence of Ghaziabad from India.

I pondered about raising the issue of certain anti social elements who make a nuisance of themselves on the train but the idea was quickly shot down my Bala and Ali. We didn’t want the country’s entire eunuch community clapping outside my college.

At the studio, the 12 of us were made to sit on a very uncomfortable 2 step arrangement. With us sat some very important people from the railway ministry. To my horror I discovered that the entire program was to be held in pure hindi. While I can swear convincingly in the national language, I cannot for the life of me discuss the railway budget in the same.

The anchor was a nervous man with hairy ears. I noticed the hair on his ears glint in the bright lights. Once the show began, he seemed to calm down and there were very few retakes. I realized we were merely props. While the anchor turned to us occasionally for our point of view, most of the discussion was carried forward by the old men from the railways.

The blood froze in my veins each time the anchor turned to us. I couldn’t understand what he was saying and for some reason he kept turning to me for my opinion. I maintained a fixed smile throughout and prayed until someone else said something.

Somewhere in the middle of the show, I wanted to point out how difficult it was for the elderly to board a train. But a little voice in my head said that I shouldn’t say “ Budde train mein nahin chad sakthe hein.”

By the time the show got over, our bottoms were very sore. Nobody had said anything spectacular and most of were just relieved that our ignorance was not revealed. We shook hands with everyone in the room and were later politely thrown out. They had another show to shoot apparently .

So that was my 60 minutes of fame. I didn’t say a single word for the benefit of the nation but I think my good looks saved me from ridicule.

My friend Ali and I won the 2'nd prize at the IIT Kharagpur Corporate Debate :-). Its the first time we have won outside IMT as a team. I certainly hope we win a lot more in the future.

IMT has very pretty campus. Here's a nice shot of the amphi...

I'm afraid I've been silent on the blogging front. I'd love to tell you that I've been too busy to blog...but then I'd be lying. As an MBA, I am prone to frequent bursts of frenzied activity, true but then I do have time to do other things too...its just that when I do have the time I dont feel like writing at all. I need something like an exam or a project presentation to be made tommorow to inspire me to blog tonight :-)

I'll be flying back to chennai for a week in mid jan. Hope to write something decent then.

This is an ad I shot for an event at a B school competition in Delhi.Its an ad for a product that deodorises smelly shoes. Do let me know what you think of it.

Dirty Dancin@IMT

We all suck at dancing...but hey its fun!

P.S: Turn up the volume

Dancin' little marionette
Are you happy now?
Where do you go when you're lonely?
Where do you go when you're blue?
Where do you go when you're lonely?
I only wish I could follow you

In fond memory of Cocoa...

February 14'th, 4 PM. No women, no romance, no candle lit dinners, no dreamy looks, no intimacy,no passion, no hugs, no moonlight walks, no Eros,no Cupid, no Amor,no Venus, no Aphrodite,no Kama. No sir, all I had was a dogs ass.

A rather unpleasant sight to behold when your in the middle of a cricket match and a dog is lying placidly in the middle of the pitch and chewing the brand new ball . Shouts, warnings, cuss words, a swinging cricket bat, nothing perturbed Cocoa as he calmly exercised his mandibles. The ball morphed rapidly from a shiny sphere to a sorry looking pancake in his very capable jaws but he showed no signs of relenting. On and on went his magnificient molars until all that remained was a piece of dirty dripping rubber. This too was relished and he held it daintily in between his paws as he added the final touches. The job done, Cocoa got up, trotted 11 yards, sniffed around, gracefully raised a leg and peed generously on the stumps. He cast me one final contemptuous look, sneezed violently and then went back into the house.

The match was completely ruined. We couldnt possibly raise the capital to buy a new ball and it also became certain that the stumps would remain pegged to the ground until the world collapsed and crumbled in a dust heap. We groaned and resigned ourself to cursing Cocoa's apalling behaviour.

I met Cocoa for the first time when he came into my friends house as a skinny puppy with an enormous head. I still look back with longing at those days when Cocoa was small enough to fit in my lap. Each time I sat down, he'd run towards me and clamber into my lap. I'd delight in the fact that the animal felt genuine affection for me and I'd grin proudly and stupidly each time he sat on me.

My affection for this particular behaviour began to wilt after a few of months. Cocoa weighed a solid 35 kilos and it became increacingly difficult to breathe when he sat on me. I realised it wasnt affection that made the dog push me down at will, it was downright contempt. I spent many hours lying motionless on the ground while Cocoa gnawed a bone or a coconut on my chest. I couldnt move, each time I twitched, Cocoa would stop chewing and glare menacingly.We would regard each other in complete silence until I let my head fall back. Cocoa would then resume his work, pausing occasionally to growl softly. As reward for my good behaviour, he would leave the remenants of the bone or coconut on my chest which I could chew if I wished to.

When Cocoa went from cute little puppy to terror of the household in a span of two months it I who suffered the most. I was nipped, bitten, scratched and mauled on all possible occasions. When we played downstairs, there was no way I could escape those incisors. I could never outrun him on a straight road so most of my childhood days were spent running round and round a car. I've lost count of the number of times I perambulated around that batterd Fiat car in an effort to preserve the sanctity of my bottom. A million Dinesh's could be cloned from the material on Cocoa's teeth.

Today, February the 14'th was a special day, not because women took extra care to avoid me. It was a special day this year as Cocoa was about to consummate his love for an unknown doberman so that another dozen Cocoa's could be introduced into the world. The thought of a dozen Cocoa's chasing me around the Fiat caused be to break into a cold sweat and I began making plans for a cast iron underwear.

My friend and I secretly envied Cocoa. We'd provided the dog with a home, cared for him, fed him, bathed him, played with him and guess who was getting lucky first? The damn SOB!

The mother to be was to arrive at 3:00 PM and Cocoa was expected to do his stuff and quietly leave. The female would take care of the rest. Cocoa ofcourse had no idea of what was in store for him as he quietly chewed my shoe under the bed. The tension in the house was terrific. My friend paced rapidly back and forth while I hobbled up and down on one shoe. My friends dad kept waiting at the gate , hoping to catch the first glimpse of the mate. We chewed our nails while Cocoa calmly regurgitated my shoe lace.

The suddenly the female arrived. Instantly there was as a flurry of activity. Gates were opened, the female began barking and we began scurrying up and down in search of Cocoa. After an exhaustive search I found him under the bed.

" Come out Cocoa! " I whispered.

" Growl "

" Come out! Come out!" I whimpered.

Cocoa regarded me ominously, a bit of shoe lace sticking out of the side his mouth. Long being used to having my hand bitten, I grabbed the shoelace and yanked with all my might. Cocoa drew his head back and firmly resisted growling all the time through clenched teeth. My friend pulled me and I pulled Cocoa until with great reluctance Cocoa emerged. His eyes had turned a dull red and the course of action became obvious. We dropped the shoe lace and ran. With a great howl Cocoa bounded after us, leaping up to permanantly scar our backsides. Thanks to Tom and Jerry I had learnt the art of skillfully retracting my buttocks at the last possible instant. Having adjusted my shape from convex to conave, I ran towards the garage where the happy couple where scheduled to meet for the first time.

I got the garage and with a roar Cocoa rounded the corner and bounded into view. One look at the female and suddenly everything went quiet. Cocoa was suddenly unsure of what to do and he tread cautiously towards her, his ears cocked and eyes curious. The female growled continuously undertone and snarled the moment Cocoa got too close. Cocoa leapt back and surveyed her with interest. Could it be that it was finally time to abandon the table leg for the real thing?

We decided to leave them alone together. We sneaked out and lightly closed the door. I took the time to survey the crowd. There was my friends dad, mom and sister. The in-laws consisted of a fat hairy man who owned the female and a driver who also doubled up as a " Mating expert ". I was slightly puzzled at his role. What was he expected to do anyway? Cocoa just had to follow his instincts and all would be well. I threw him this question and he grinned.

" Just wait and see " he replied and spat on the ground.

We looked with interest towards the garage and waited for Cocoa to emerge strutting, the female devotedly following him with a meek look in her eyes. In stark contrast, the door suddenly burst open and Cocoa rushed out squealing, hotly pursued by the recalcitrant female. I watched with digust as Cocoa ran round and round the same battered Fiat car. It was obvious he hadnt got lucky.

" Looks like he hasnt made a good first impression " grunted the Mating expert. He spat once more and made his way towards Cocoa who was still galavanting around the car, long after the female lost interest in his blood. I love Cocoa but I would be lying if I were to say he had a high IQ. The mating expert firmly grasped his collar and tried dragging him back to the garage. Cocoa stubbornly resisted and was dragged along his butt back into the love nest. Having shoved him in, the door was shut and we waited once more for Cocoa to emerge the man.

Silence.Complete silence.Sepulchral silence.Cocoa the silent lover silence.

The ME had a frown on his face. I guess he wanted a bit more passion, so he tiptoed towards the garage door and opened it a crack. The frown deepened into a look of complete disgust. He beckoned towards me but I declined. I like Cocoa but there was no way I was going to burst upon him now.It would be sacrilege!

" They arent doing anything " the ME hissed.

" Maybe he's done it and he's taking some rest " I hissed back.

" He's standing on top of the motorcycle, bloody fine place to rest!" he snapped back.

The ME came back obviously digusted with our hero.

" What now? " we asked.

" It simple, we muzzle and tie the female. I hold her head while he does his job." he replied.

All visions of Cocoa, the dog of pure testestorone vanished immediately.

" Cant we give him some more time? " I asked timidly.

" Listen boy, we could wait here all evening but I assure you he isint going to leave that motorcycle. Unless your suggesting we lift the female onto the motorcycle too, I'm afraid nothings going to happen!".

So we bound and gagged the female while Cocoa watched alertly from atop his perch. When it became clear the female was completely immobile, he came down and approached her with great caution. I fled the scene, I didnt want to watch this.

An hour later, Cocoa emerged strutting. He swaggered into the garden and once again relieved himself on the stumps. His manly display was abruptly cut short when the female emerged unbound and ungagged. All pretence was dropped and Cocoa rushed back into the house pausing only to snatch the ME's chappals.

Within a few months, a dozen Cocoa's came into the world and everyone was happy. All I had to do now was to patiently wait for 12 dobermans to get over the fascintation of my tempting backside.

So that is the happy tale of how Cocoa became a daddy. It is also the unhappy prequel to " Cast iron underwear, where can I get one? "

I'd sent a writeup to the Hindu Business Line about a month back and they never got back to me. Thus I was a bit surprised to find out that it had actually been published. Here's the link to it. Its been edited quite a bit however the original remains on my blog.

Hindu Business Line Article

My orkut fortune for sunday said "You will pass a difficult test that will make you happier".

Well, I took the test...but has it made me happier? Only time will tell.

It’s a hot and sweaty Saturday morning and I'm standing at the gate of the institute, waiting for an important alumnus to arrive for a meeting. Being part of the alumni committee has lots of perks but this isn’t one of them. The alumnus had said he’d be here in ten minutes. That was over an hour back and I curse my luck as the full sleeve formal shirt complete with a tie gently cooks my body to medium rare. I don’t even like the tie. It isn’t mine and I'd been forced to borrow it. It’s bright red with garish yellow stripes and it makes me stand out like a beacon to passerby’s who need directions. With my broken Hindi, I try my best but I get the feeling they don’t have a clue as to what language I’m speaking.

The security guard is amused and he calls out from time to time, “ Not come yet has he?
I shake my head in remorse and he grins. I guess it’s nice for him to watch a student sweat in the sun like him instead of dozing in an air-conditioned classroom. As a drop of sweat runs down my nose, I spot a small thin man with a battered suitcase make his towards me. Another lost soul, I presume and I decide that I will talk to him only in Tamil.

“ Why are you standing at the gate?” he asks me in crisp English and for a moment I’m surprised. He looks like a man who lives on the street and the last thing I expected was faultless English.

“ Is the institute open today”, he asks his next question and before I can reply, he answers himself “Oh yes, you have students in the hostel who will be here on weekends too.”

“What is the fees they charge?” he asks the next question and I find myself getting a little annoyed. It’s not pleasant being assaulted with questions by a complete stranger. The fees is fairly steep and not something you feel comfortable disclosing to someone you don’t know.

“You may ask at the admission office.” I reply and look away. He smiles knowingly and shifts himself in front of my gaze.

“What is your educational qualification?”

I look into his eyes. They are large, bright and have a maniacal gleam in them. The security guard looks on with avid interest. I don’t want to answer him but don’t know how to avoid a direct question. I struggle inside and finally mutter, “ Engineer.”

“What specialization?”

“Electrical and Electronics.”

“What specialization have you chosen here?”

“ I will decide in my second year.”

I hate every moment of it. I don’t have the guts to ask him to stop bothering me and I hate the way he’s wringing answers out of me.

He senses my discomfort and smiles.

“Listen to me. In two years you will get a job that pays you a nice fat salary. Then you will get married. But remember this! Keep your wife close to you!”

I look at him in confusion. I don’t know how to react. He comes close to me and looks penetratingly into my eyes. His smile disappears and is replaced by a fearsome scowl.

“Only ten percent of your salary to your brothers and sisters. The remaining ninety percent goes to your wife. If you don’t do that, you’ll end up like this man, a divorcee, a pauper who walks on the road with no chappal.”

He turned around and began walking away rapidly. I didn’t know what to make of the whole thing but it bothered me. I looked at the receding figure and wondered. Did he have some place to go? Was he walking with a great sense of purpose towards a place, which did not exist? Was there anything at all in that broken suitcase? Did he have any food or clothes in it? I wish I’d asked him his story. What had gone wrong with his life? Could the same thing happen to me?

When you studying in a B school, you completely forget the world outside. You assume everyone will earn a six-figure salary, everyone will drive an expensive car and everyone will travel the world. You party, you get drunk, safe in your knowledge that in the near future that some well known company will scoop you up.

As I stood at the gate of my B school, I realized that I was standing at the line that divided two very different worlds. I turned to the security guard.

“Call me when the alumni comes, I’m going inside.”

The song that haunts the corridors of IMT and now my room...

tere bin main yun kaise jiya
kaise jiya tere bin
tere bin main yun kaise jiya
kaise jiya tere bin
lekar yaad teri raaten meri kati - 2
mujhse baaten teri karti hai chaandani
tanha hai tujh bin raaten meri
din mere din ke jaise nahi
tanha badan tanha hai ruh nam meri aankhen rahe
aaja mere ab rubaru
jeena nahi bin tere
tere bin main yun kaise jiya
kaise jiya tere bin
tere bin main yun kaise jiya
kaise jiya tere bin

kabse aankhen meri raah mein tere bichhi - 2
bhule se hi kahi tu mil jaaye kabhi
bhule na mujhse baaten teri
bheegi hai har pal aankhen meri
kyun saans loon kyun main jiyu
jeena bura sa lage
kyun ho gaya tu bewafaaa mujhko bata de wajah
tere bin main yun kaise jiya
kaise jiya tere bin ...
tere bin main yun kaise jiya
kaise jiya tere bin ...

I'm home!

However my biological clock is on IMT time. I slept through the entire day and woke up late in the evening.Its 12:30 AM now and I feel fresh and ready to take on any challenge...but I'm alone..everyone else is asleep.

Fresher's party at IMT....

I'll be going home for 4 days this friday, I cant wait!

As much as I crib about the life here, I've actually had a really good time. The pace of life and trying to be a 4 places at the same time does get to me, but its been a really nice experience.

Right now I look forward to filter coffee(Not Nescafe cat piss), rasam sadam, thair sadam, no phone calls at 2 in the morning("Can you come to my room for the OB project meeting?"), no falling asleep at peculiar hours, not waking up with my heart hammering("Shit, do I have a presentation to make today??").... I need peace...home made peace...

Being in a B school keeps you on your toes. I’m always running around and doing so many things I completely lose track of why I’m actually doing the thing I’m doing. I’m having trouble prioritizing things. Do I study for the quiz or head for the alcom room to make my calls? Do I attend the meeting for the OB project or attend the meeting for the marketing project? Do I figure out how to make a decent profit loss account or do I research the next company that’s coming to campus for summer placements? Everything seems important, I want to do them all but I find myself doing something while wondering if perhaps I should be elsewhere.

There are those who manage to do them all and still find time for a basketball match. Something inside them is driving is them….and I’ve realized I don’t have it yet. There’s a part of me, which rebels at all the hard work. I’m a type B personality caught in a type A environment and I feel guilty about it.

I realize I came to a B school not for the academic learning or the placements. I came to a B school because I felt there were a lot of things about me, which I needed to change. I felt a B school would drive the dreamer out of me and turn me into someone who was assertive and got the job done. Now as I actually try to accomplish a dozen tasks a day, I long for the day I can just loll on the bed without a care in the world. Will that day ever come? What is more important to me? Getting the job done or sitting back and reflecting on life? Can I do both? Only time will tell.

At the end of 3 weeks, we were a limp demoralized lot. The faculty had taken pity on us initially and hadn’t objected too much to our corpse impersonations in class. As the weeks went by however they became more and more irritable and took to prodding those of who drooled on the table, far away in their own sweet world where no senior would bang on the door at 4 in the morning.

Now we found it impossible to sleep during the nights. The 3 weeks had turned our biological clocks inside out. We were wide-awake at 2 PM and colder than stone at 9 in the morning.

The faculty soon started adding to our trouble. Quizzes, exams, assignments and projects began rain down on us. Only now apparently, was real life at a B School beginning.

I spent the first week of my life at IMT leading the life of a hunted animal. I wasn’t alone in my misery; every first year student at IMT will have the memory seared in his brain forever.

Every morning we would be woken up at 6 to attend yoga. We would bend, stretch and groan until 7:30. After which we’d be given an hour to bathe, have breakfast and attend class. For the first time in my life, I faced the problem of sharing a bathroom with 16 individuals fighting a frantic battle against time. I bathed in the loo for the first 3 days.

Breakfast would be eaten in a daze. It was the best meal of the day but we were too bombed to notice.

The first week was supposed to have introductory classes. I say supposed to because none of us were actually conscious to notice. Classes were followed by lunch followed by an alumni lecture. We’d be left alone for a couple of hours and then dinner. Dinner was followed by presentations made by the various committees in college. It would be 1 in the morning by the time it got over. That when the horror started.

We would assemble at the amphitheatre and the seniors would come roaring out of their rooms, fresh and charged up at the time half the world was in bed. We must salute them, they said, wish them, respect them, a senior was always right, don’t you dare forget that. And remember, it is not morning until the classes have started. Nobody cares if its 5 in the morning, you still say Good evening sir, all right?

We saluted, we roared Good evening sir over and over again but they were never satisfied. You can’t say Good evening, at least sing for us, cant sing? Dance then. Stop stop! You call that dancing? Run around the ground, waving your arms shouting, “ It’s raining, it’s raining! Oh I love the rain!”

A senior would come, scan the group and pick the guys and girls he wanted. We’d be led to different corners of the ground and made to do his bidding. We’d start of by introducing ourselves. In the first week, I introduced myself about a thousand times.

For my first PDP (they never called it ragging, it was a personality development programme), I was asked to market ‘Grassy Swipes’, nature’s all natural toilet paper.

When the senior finally got bored of us, he’d send us of to another eager senior and the whole thing would start again. I was asked to enact Rakhi Sawant yelling at Mika Singh, Kareena Kapoor caught by the press kissing Shahid Kapoor. After which I was supposed to throw myself at the feet of some unsuspecting senior and weep “ Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, what will become of our unborn child?” I don’t know why, but I always got the female roles.

Sometimes the senior would take pity on us and send us back to the room. The sympathy was wasted because just after we went back to bed, another senior would bang on the door and take us out.

The ragging would go on till 5 in the morning after which we would be bid good night. We’d stagger back and collapse on the bed. At 6 it was time for yoga. Another day had begun.

I went an entire week without sleep, bombed out my senses, not hungry, not thirsty, totally immune to the fact that the campus was actually filled with lovely women. The 7 days went by like a horror movie played in slow motion.

Updates will follow soon.

I havent got around to really writing about my experiences at IMT yet but my friend Kshitij has taken out the time to do so:

introduction-of-characters

Needless to say I'm pretty flattered with his description of me :-P

Its been a month at IMT. One month of consuming nothing but chappatis, panneer, rajma, daal and holy mother of god, about a billion kilos of potato. Right now I'd just kill for a plate of this...



A more detailed post on my life here in the last month will follow soon.

Many apologies for this very delayed update. My life has been a blur in the last couple of weeks. I havent slept since I entered the IMT campus. Will give more details once things slow down a bit.

At around 6 PM, Balaji, Arnab and I decided to take a break from work and headed for the pantry. Balaji and I munched on our egg puffs while Arnab sipped his tea. I normally avoided coffee and tea because even after two years, I still hadn’t mastered the art of holding a thin paper cup filled with scalding liquid. For the life of me, I couldn’t drink something that hot in less than two minutes. That by itself made me a pariah in the IT community. I’d already lost count of the number of times I had dropped the cup. Needless to say, my friends stood a few feet away from me each time I did decided to have a hot drink.

Balaji took a large bite out of his puff and looked thoughtfully at the tube light above us.

“You know, I think a kid from school could work in IT without any difficulty. Lets face it, what we do isn’t rocket science.”

I had finished my egg puff and I stared hungrily at his, not really paying attention to what he’d said. Arnab on the other hand choked on his tea.

“How could you say that? I work on multiple technologies at the same time to get my project running. Think of the long hours, the impossible deadlines and the terrible pressure! How could a school kid possibly handle all that?”

“ Bullshit multiple technologies. All we do is copy and paste code. It’s the same whether you are working in java, dot net or any other language. Anybody could do it. We sit in an air-conditioned room and do manual labor. Besides I think only Indians are willing to compromise on their personal life to sit and slave in the office.”

The argument went on and despite myself I was drawn into it. I couldn’t side with Balaji who just dismissed all the work I’d done in the last year as childishly easy. Nor could I side with Arnab who believed all he had done was holy. I was somewhere between the two of them. I liked to think I was using my head to do what I was doing but at the same time I realized that if google were to shut down, I could as well retire.

So what had my last couple of years in IT been like?

I can’t say much about the first place I worked at. I wasn’t there for very long. I made a few good friends but the only thing I’ll remember is the awful time the HR gave me when I tried to leave. That instilled in me the deep sense of mistrust that almost all techies have for HR. Perhaps I have a slightly warped view of them but to me all they seemed to do was dress smart and talk smart. Software engineers are mostly an unsophisticated lot and quite incapable of verbal jugglery. This however was what HR did with ease and more often than not, they confused or scared the poor techie and then showed him the door.

I then spent the next couple of months in my second company being completely ignored by everybody. I didn’t have any work, I didn’t have a computer, I didn’t have a cubicle and I didn’t have my own dustbin. It was fun at first. I loved to travel in the big airbus to office. I loved to flash my access card. I loved using the small hand shower at the loo. I loved to use tissue paper and liquid soap at the restroom. I loved to eat at all the different joints in the cafeteria. It felt great to use a shoe polishing machine and most of all whenever people asked me where I worked, I could say I worked at company C. I worked for a known brand and I loved it when people nodded knowingly.

Two months passed and the only thing I did with the team was eat lunch and dinner at places I could never even dream of entering before. The meals were lavish, the deserts made you drool and almost everybody got drunk. I was pitied because I was both a vegetarian and teetotaler.” Go have curd rice and drink milk” my teammates would jeer. I would ignore them as I ladled vast quantities of malai kofta, panneer butter masala, mushroom masala and kashmiri pulav onto my plate. We ate every joint on ECR. We frequented GRT Grand days, Radisson, The Residency, Benz Park and Le Meriden. In short, the two months were a gastronomic delight.



All this however paled quickly. As time went by, I began to get increasingly insecure. Why was I being ignored? Was I going to spend the rest of my life without a project? If by some chance I was shifted to another project, what skills could I say I had?

Having all the time in the world and having nothing to do, I decided to start preparing for the CAT. I figured I could just sit in the library the whole day and study. At least that way I would know where my life was heading. I paid the fees at IMS and collected the material. The next day I was chucked into a new project.

With that began the most trying period in my professional life. Everything seemed just too complicated. I figured I would just design the presentation layer and then the senior people would take care of the code at the back end. That didn’t happen. At each stage, I was pushed to take on a slightly higher responsibility. I was nervous all the time. I thought that at any moment they’d realize that I wasn’t smart enough to do the work they wanted me to do. That didn’t happen either and slowly I began to enjoy the responsibility.

Between June and September, the 5 of us in the team worked 7 days a week from 9 in the morning till 2 in the morning. We became pale and lost weight. Often we forgot to shave. We also had to get used to each other’s personal eccentricities. Raja would be in a coma the entire day and then suddenly come to life at around 11 PM. He would jiggle with delight in his chair as he played Telugu movie songs at full blast.

“Chiranjeevi movie man! It is a sooper doper hit!” he would yell over the music. Through Raja, I became familiar with the world of Chiranjeevi, Nagarjuna, Venkatesh and Ballaya.

“Who is a better actor? Chiranjeevi or Nagarjuna?” I asked once at four in the morning.

Raja pondered over this briefly. “Surely Chiranjeevi! Nagarjuna has style but Chiranjeevi can dance man! He is over fifty but he can really dance!” Raja would get excited and do a vague bharatanatyam movement with his arms, wiggling his bottom while never getting up from the chair.

Whenever work became a little too much for Manish, he would open up Adobe Photoshop and morph photographs. Late one night he was struck by inspiration and proceeded to graft T.Rajendrans face onto a gorilla. The final masterpiece was to remain our desktop background for several months.





Behind me sat Uday. He wasn’t in my team but he worked extreme hours too. Uday’s sole reason for existence was the promised “Onsite opportunity”. To get it, he worked insane hours. As the months went by, everybody but Uday went abroad. This pushed him further into depression and he’s pass time checking out the maximum and minimum temperatures at California, Chicago and New Jersey. Then he would call up his friends who were already there and talk about the weather.

One evening as I sat at my computer, I felt that it was getting a little dark outside.

“Is it raining? ” I turned around and asked.

“Wait I’ll check.” I half expected him to get up and go outside but I should have known better. Uday checked the weather on google.

Uday had to endure 3 last minute project cancellations before he finally caught a plane to New Jersey. As luck would have it, he managed to lose a hundred dollars even before he got onto the plane.

Work meanwhile for me was intense and fast paced. Most of the time I didn’t know exactly what I was doing. I would use the senior peoples code as a reference and then blindly copy paste most of it. “Code first, understand later” was the advice I was given. I was too confused to object.

Working late into the night was interesting at first. It made me feel I really belonged to IT. When I had lunch with my friends, I could look wearily at them and say, “ I was in the office till 4 in the morning!” They would nod in understanding and there would be a moment of respectful silence. “Here’s another guy slogging it out to meet deadlines” I imagined they would think. “He’s one of us all right.”

I enjoyed the new respect I was getting but I hated working nights. It left me totally disoriented. I was always nervous and subject to frequent bouts of depression. I didn’t have a personal life and I lost all hope of clearing the CAT.

The project went live in September and the first couple of weeks were used to fix bug after bug. This is when I began to really understand what we’d done over the last few months. I had to delve deep into the code to fix these issues and I ended up learning a lot. I began to take a more active part in the conference calls with the onsite coordinator and the client.
During the first couple of calls, I was awkward and nervous and I spoke too fast. I couldn’t understand what the clients were saying. Their speech was slow and measured and I found it hard to wait for them to finish a single sentence. With a little more experience I began to enjoy leaning towards the speakerphone and speaking in a deep loud voice.

“So would you like the data to be validated in the front end or the back end?”

“I think we need to code a daemon thread to for that requirement.”

“Ha Ha! It does not snow in Chennai!”

I loved to speak in jargon. Most of the time I didn’t understand what I was saying but it made me feel really good. I was a hardcore techie using hardcore computing terms.

After a rough first couple of weeks in September fixing bugs, suddenly I had no work. But for an occasional enhancement I was usually free. Having ignored the CAT all along I jumped back in right earnest. I sat in the library all day and worked out paper after paper. This was my revenge for being forced to work night and day and I was lucky to have a very understanding team leader.

“Get out of here as soon as you can.” He advised me. “ You’ll get stuck in a rut if you stay on. Software engineers are a dime a dozen. You’ll be just one among the thirty thousand people who work in this company.”

The CAT came and went and I did ok. I still didn’t have any work so I spent my time on google and wikipedia reading up on India’s history, geography and economy. There was so much I didn’t know but wikipedia had answers to everything. GDP, NDP, Fiscal deficit, globalization, capitalism, socialism, stock markets, banking, the WTO, cross border terrorism, China, Pakistan, Jack Welch, I learnt it all sitting at my cubicle.

By the time the next set of requirements came, I was the only experienced guy left in the team. Everybody else had either left the company, the country or the project. Now I had the privilege of being admired by the freshers. They had exactly the same fears and doubts I had when I entered and it made me feel really good when I answered all their questions and handled their code hiccups. I strutted about, gave orders and felt gratified when I was listened to.

Coming back to the original question. So what’s it like working in IT? Besides the money, are you doing any soul satisfying work? Is there intellectual stimulation or are you just doing quantity work?

With just under a couple of years of experience, I’d find it hard to give you yes no answers. I know the way I view whatever work I did now is very different from the way I looked at it when I first joined the industry. Whatever excited or challenged me in the beginning became routine in a couple of months. Unless you are trying something new all the time, work can be really frustrating. There is no fixed timetable. You could be jobless for months and then suddenly thrown into a high-pressure situation. Rarely will you have a perfect 8-hour day.

In the end what you make of your job depends on perspective. As a software engineer I felt it was my God given right to look down at those who worked in the BPO industry. “Their lives must be so boring.” I would think “All they do is speak English to some dumb foreigners at 2 in the morning.”

When I got into IMT for my MBA, for a few moments I felt intensely superior to all the software engineers who surrounded me. I was moving onto something better while the rest of them would go on copy pasting code. Now I know I was being silly. I just somehow assumed that whatever I was doing now was far superior to what everybody else did.

At some level I always knew I would be leaving and so I didn’t worry too much about performance appraisals, salary hikes or onsite opportunities- the 3 things around which every techie’s life revolves. At the end of the day I can neither bash up the IT industry nor can I worship it but I’m grateful for what it gave me. I had a lot of fun; I met some wonderful people and also saved up some money on the side.

So that’s IT for me. I don’t know if I did mind boggling work but I had a good time.

I have indulged in extreme sloth in the last few days. I watch movies on my recently purchased laptop and when I'm exhausted with that, I topple off my chair and go to sleep.

Some warning bells are beginning to go off in my head. I havent picked up a textbook in two years. How am I supposed to just slip back into the routine of classes and exams? The subjects look alien to me : Managerial Economics, Financial Accounting, Quantitative techniques for Business Decisions....I'm clueless.

I'm in Bangalore for the weekend, celebrating my 23'rd birthday. I'll be back in Chennai on monday and then I have to get serious about the packing and the shopping.

More insipid posts later.

Today was my last day at work.I'm officially unemployed now.I cant think of anything poetic to say at the moment, more on this soon.

When we go out to meet friends or relatives, my uncle will put his arm around my shoulders and announce proudly "Dinesh is going to do his MBA!". The relatives will be suitably impressed and I will smile shyly. After which my uncle will ruin the whole thing by saying,

"He's got into IIM Ghaziabad!"

This is profoundly embarassing. The more ignorant relatives wil congratulate me for getting into an IIM while the more knowledgable ones will look at me like I'm some sort of fraud.

"Its IMT!" I'll hiss at my uncle.He will dismiss me with a wave of his hand.


"IMT, IIM its all the same..just changed a letter thats all."


While the IIM's are a powerful brand, known to everyone irrespective of whether they have prepared for the MBA exams or not, IMT is known only to those who have taken all the exams and know that it is among the top 10 schools in the country.

My mother fares no better than my uncle.After I got my admission letter from IMT, she called up all her friends and said that I had got into IMS.That was really irritating because IMS is a coaching center for entrance exams and not a B school by itself. Later that evening when we went to a relative's wedding, people shook hands with me for getting into IIFT, IIM Bangalore, TIME(another coaching center) and MDI.

"Ghaziabad is a very modern city" someone told me very gravely. "You wont believe that you are in India, its full of malls and sky scrapers!"

"Err..thats Gurgaon, not Ghaziabad.Ghaziabad is a small industrial town in Uttar Pradesh."

Its really annoying when there is not even a flicker of recognition when I say I'm going to IMT Ghaziabad.You are quickly robbed of your sense of achievment. At the end of it, you start hating the IIM's.

My only comfort comes in hobnobbing among people who have passed out of B schools and friends who have also given the exams and got into other colleges. Only when I'm with them do I feel a certain sense of satisfaction that comes from being associated with a well known brand.

Hilarious!

I'm eighteen again. I'm at a party. There's fast music playing and people around me move and gyrate in synch with the music. Janak rotates his hips clockwise, anticlockwise and then launches into a frantic backstroke. Nikhil is jumping from point to point doing what I think is a cross between Bharatanatyam and an orangutan in heat. Gitanjali is in her own world. Her eyes are closed and she snaps her fingers as she sways to the music. In the midst of a sea of people lost to the rhythm, I stand rigid, blinking and immobile.

I can’t breathe, I can’t move and I can’t think. I hesitantly try to move my feet to something resembling a dance step but my mind rebels in a flash. For a few seconds I hold the pose, painfully self conscious and then I give up. I make my way to a corner and slouch with exaggerated nonchalance.

Several thoughts run through my head. Part of me has already dismissed my friends as fluff brained rich spoilt brats who think 'partying is so cool'. My middle class morals are offended. Discos, pubs, 5 star hotels, fast bikes, Nike shoes, foreign vacations and outrageous pocket money seem to define the limits of their consciousness. What would my grandmother think if she saw this?

I know I'm lying to myself. Truth be told, I envy my friends for their ability to just let go. I can’t. They fear of making an ass of myself in public is just too great.

As I stand in the corner, I begin examining my own shortcomings. Why am I so afraid to dance? I gently probe my brain for memories and then slowly I remember.

I'm six again. My mother who is a biology teacher in my school is organizing an educational skit on the Food Chain. At the bottom come the plants, then the herbivores, the carnivores and then finally, mankind. Due to lack of volunteers, my mother is forced to use me as a plant. I don’t object, this is the only way I can bunk math class.

Trouble is, I underestimated my mother. I assumed that as a plant, all I had to do was stand and stare expressionlessly at the audience. She has other ideas. Apparently we don’t just stand there, each layer of the pyramid is supposed to sing and dance its way onto stage and into the audience’s hearts. Honestly, my mother can be painfully naive. I'm only six but I know I'll be singing and dancing my way to public ridicule and humiliation.

Along with a dance teacher, she finalizes the dance steps for the plants:

1) Sit on the floor with your arms wrapped around your knees and your head tucked in.
2) Raise your head and look around with wide-eyed wonderment.
3) Stand up and twirl while joyfully raising your arms towards the sun, thanking the lord for the light. (Photosynthesis rocks!)
4) Link arms with your partner and sway happily from side to side as the herbivores prance onto stage and start eating you.



The dance teacher is unhappy. The dance is not cute enough for some reason and she ponders over what moves we could use to entice the audience. She hums to herself as she moves experimentally. Seconds later she hits on the perfect move.

“I want all of you to this as you come up,” she says as she twirls upwards. She turns around wiggles her bottom.

There’s not much one can do when a forty year old woman with an iron will wiggles her bottom at you. I was only six, so in mute agony, we turn around and wiggle our bottoms at her. She’s thrilled.

Now they’ve discovered a technical snag. How exactly do the herbivores eat us? My mother answers almost immediately. She runs out and returns with a few plants stems. She removes a few of her hair clips and forcibly pins the stems onto my head.

Now the herbivore is asked to leap around me for a while and then pull the leaves out of my head with his teeth. I screech in agony as he tugs away with great determination. The clips are too tight.

I have no memories of the actual performance. My brain in all probability suppressed them in an effort to salvage my ego. I just remember they painted my face green and then strapped a potted plant to my head.

I’m going to be 23. I still can’t dance. Will I ever learn? Can I overcome that traumatic experience?

I’ve decided that in the three weeks I get before I leave for Ghaziabad, I’m going to attend a dance class. Will I have the guts to go for it? Only time will tell.

Its been a year since I received that fateful email.I cant believe time flies by so fast...

Its been a year that has been both rewarding and punishing.I've had a great time at work.Life at the office has been challenging in a fun, positive kind of way.I've been lucky to have some truly amazing people as my colleagues.

My career goals are also on track.I knew I wanted to get into one of the top B schools in the country and I did manage that.Yes,there have been times that I rued the fact that I didnt get an IIM call..but its ok.I'm sure IMT is going to be a great experience.

On the downside, its been a year where I've struggled with deep loneliness, anger and extreme confusion. I've asked myself what went wrong and relived and analyzed every mistake a thousand times.Its not easy to just let go of the past.Im not someone who can switch off my feelings and carry on when I know that what I had was beautiful.

But I'm putting my demons to rest today.I know I did my best.Sometimes things just dont work out.People change, but for better or for worse depends entirely on ones perspective.I gave it my best shot and thats enough.

I know I'm moving on to something better.

The weekend finds me in Calcutta, I'm travelling to Orissa tomorrow to attend a wedding.Whose wedding you might ask...so I might as well tell you.If what I heard was right, its my mothers-brothers-wives-uncles-grandaughter who is going to tie the knot.As you can see, we are all very close :P.

I dont feel very wordy at the moment.More updates soon.

LR and Kroopa,I deleted the post because I thought it was very badly written.Forgive me for deleting your comments in the process.

Well, my brief but lively career as a software engineer will come to an end soon. I've been offered admission to the MBA program at IMT Ghaziabad.

Just a lil dazed at the moment. More on this soon.