Me against the World

Let me clear a few things now.

Yes, I'm a Shahrukh Khan, and I cried when I saw Kal Ho Naa Ho even for the fourth time.
Yes, I can't pronounce French words correctly and think it's very stupid to write so many letters when you don't ever want to utter them in the first place, just because it sounds good. And, yes, I especially hate that when desis do that.
Yes, I haven't read anything ever penned, drawn or imagined by J.R.R. Tolkien, and I admit I've slept each of the three times I've tried reading his tomes after the first fifty pages.
Yes, my favourite Harry Potter book isn't The Prisoner of Azkaban. It's the Goblet of Fire, closely followed by the fifth and sixth installments.
Yes, I used to use chat lingo before, and I dumped it for good because I realised it was no good. And, no, I don't believe that's hypocrisy.
Yes, I don't always speak in my mother tongue with the family. You want to make up for me?
Yes, I haven't seen either of the Star Wars or the Star Trek series, or books, or comics, or cartoons, or towels, handkerchiefs and bedsheets and what-not they've made out of them, and am in no hurry to, too.
Yes, I have an impulse to know everything that happens around me- be it in the newspapers, on the computer screen, or when I'm sitting at Nescafe sipping my coffee. Some people are just curious to know things around them, and in some cases, make sense out of them.
Yes, I talk a lot and have no qualms about it.
Lastly, if you have a problem with any of this, bask in the glory that you're superior and/or more enlightened than yours truly and sleep on your Yoda-bedizened bedspread with peace, safe in the knowledge that the force is with you. Ride your high horse with glee; I don't mind walking alone.

More importantly, smile to yourself and for that you'd need to shut up.

P.S.- The title's a song by Simple Plan I used to like. I still do.

Coorg Versus Microcontrollers

It’s seven minutes past seven in the evening, and I decide to head to Nescafe for a coffee. The attire’s very boys’ hostel-ish but I’m too lazy for a change. I try to visualise the notes and coins in my pocket, and the lack of a one-rupee coin strikes me. The counter guy never has change at peak times, and I wonder if I should settle for the four Eclairs I might be offered after I hand the ten-rupee note. No- that’d amount to spending ten rupees instead of six. The only alternative is to lose possession of the one-rupee note I got from the same counter a few days ago. I have a thing for a few things- five-rupee coins, one and two-rupee notes, Dire Straits wallpapers, digressions and some more. The Ravindra circle is reached, and there’re all these dogs littered all around- most lying around aimlessly, some sleeping, and the odd one moving towards that big light pole to raise its leg around. A strange thought of the scene being my corridor comes and is pushed out. I decide I’ll sit and have my coffee- I’ve burnt my tongue one time two many to take the risk of walking back with that cup to Azad. I reach the counter, to hear the following conversation going on.

...aur bhaiya, sandwich aadha karke dena.

Sandwich to aadha hi hota hai.

Haan, use hi aadha karke dena. Accha, ek-chauthai hi sahi.

I find it unusual that such a routine-sounding conversation goes way over my head. Vowing to control my curiosity, I ask for my coffee, while a distinctly feminine voice feebly utters Excuse me. I get my elixir, while the lady in question goes unheard. A couple more Excuse me’s later, I’m asked to pay up, and, to my disappointment, I had to lose the prized note. That wasn’t the bother though, when I turned sheepishly to my right to find the source of the unheard requests, thinking of giving a short discourse on how to get heard in R with my two years’ earned, two-penny worth experience. That wasn’t to be, as a not-so-discrete female voice jammed in to utter Arre bhaiya, suno to! The feebler voice came back to give her order, and after that, went back to her discussion over some kitty matters about she said so-and-so about me, and I asked someone else, and she said blah-and-blah that only two girls with voices like the aforementioned kind indulge in. I make a half-turn to grab a look at their faces, but then realise that’d disturb the hand that holds a hot cup. I console my curiosity by reminding it that it’s still in R.

I forget my resolution to sit, and walk around the back side back to Azad, with the usual set of steps. Starting with my usual pace, which I realise isn’t necessary unless you want to spill the drink you just bought on your white T-shirt, I slow down to a slow drag. Even that isn’t good enough, with the regular rise and drop making me either sip R’s air, or making a few taste buds take medical leave from work. So, the usual set of steps is followed again, meaning I wave to every random soul I see in front of Ravindra, before I reach the circle past the dogs, when the coffee has gone a little colder and easier to sip, while the bubbly froth at the top is lost. Compromises have to be made when you’re dealing with pretty-sounding ladies and dogs. And politicos, too. But that’s another story.

It’s twenty-seven minutes past seven, and I, for no apparent reason, decide to post again.

What It Is

One of the many things that living in R for a little over two years has taught me is the art of eating paranthas. Growing up to my own food whims at home, the tomato ketchup was stormily avoided, and curd regarded as a spoiler, thanks to the logic that curdling being a process of bacterial growth, dahi wouldn’t form an ideal combine with Sunday morning’s hot, fresh stuffed breads. And I’d always hated the chip-chip oily feeling in my hands after having the ones with butter spread all over. It might be the desperation for half-decent food here, or a more abstract maturing of the taste buds, but I’ve begun to accept, and even cherish, these methods of devouring paranthas, apart from the ketchup, of course, which I still believe is an integral part of an evil alien conspiracy to take over the planet. Of course, like any other learning experience, I’ve burnt my hands in this endeavour, too- more often than not, literally. But, getting it right is a most satisfying feeling, and like most such wonderful feelings, extremely short for you to recall perfectly. While sipping a Dew Shikanji in the canteen earlier in the night, I thought for long about how I’d got it right ten days ago with Dela’s favourite cheese paranthas. It was probably the curd tinged with chaat masala that made the difference- a luxury not afforded in the canteen. The thought process took so long that the paranthas went cold, and the butter refused to melt. The drink was still satisfactory, though. After hearing the gory story of how Ravindra’s Shikanji (Lemonade) was, and is continued to be made, I was quite hesitant for a long while. But the love affair that started way back in mah first month in the insti with the Kshitij recruitment treat at Ganga canteen with Sprite Shikanji, refused to go down meekly, and I’ve been regularly downing various variations of the same lately due to the prevailing weather conditions.

It’s getting more and more irritatingly sultry here- a sort of weather which is a way of life back in Visakhapatnam, but a rarity in R. That’s made the classrooms a favourite, strangely, with all on the second floor of the Electrical department being air-conditioned. So much so, that the one-hour gaps in the afternoons between elective lectures and laboratory sessions are now preferred to be spent in the confines of the lecture halls, rather than Nescafe’s booths. The first-years, meanwhile, have caught on to Nescafe like Veronica Lodge to the latest lipstick flavour. Hordes of random freshmen and women pass by daily, with now-almost unsurprisingly bad manners, best summarised by the quip- “Bhaiya, yahan Coke nahi milta? Ye kaisa Nescafe hai?” We surprisingly managed to find a few with much better sense- and manners- at the recruitments for the magazine from the two first-year fortresses.

That consequently included my first and, in all probability arising from commonsense, last visit to a girls’ hostel. I’ve always wondered if living there is even half as close to how living in Rajendra and Azad has been, and part of that unfortunately came true as many young ladies passed by in their night-suits, which forced me to restrict myself to the lounge lest I feel further embarrassed. I politely refused a chance to visit the Nightingale’s Nest last semester and am sure I’ll be less circumspect if by the greatest of Improbability Multiplications I get another pass- the sight of flowery curtains and stick-it notes in a few guys’ rooms is sickening enough for me; I’m not sure I’ll be able to bear almost an entire hostel like that. As soon as I typed that last line, I turned to my tablecloths to notice they both had flower patterns on them, and so does my bedspread. But, I scarcely mind that, and, to be honest, I love it as it reminds me of Ma, as does the empty jar of laddus. The little hair gel box Pa had bought is glanced at, too, as it goes on in its annual dust-catching procedure. I find it almost weird to have my room arranged really well, but Pa’s words of a man being a good manager for others only when he can manage his own things comes to mind. My tennis racquets lie outside catching dust, too. A short session with the newly-turned sophomores a fortnight ago made me feel I’d discovered my touch again, especially with the Justine Henin-inspired single-fisted backhand. But, I was to be laid low soon by an injured toe, crushing daydreams about representing the insti at the 2012 Sports Meet, which might as well be held here. But that’s OK.

P.S.- I thought it isn't worth a mention after Dela's post on reaching the milestone, but, I shamelessly admit, that after counting four deleted posts, this is my half-century on the blogosphere- and I'm not even halfway through my time in R! I'm definitely the Shahid Afridi of R's bloggers- and you can guess why I chose that certain batsman and not any other dasher!

The Ultimate Quest

The third of my five-year, epiphany-filled, poorly-tilled but well-willed journey through the realities of R has begun exactly where I’d left it off the last time I was in G-104: in a state of complete disorder. The difference is that that unusually pleasant May had my room completely devoid of any semblance of habitation apart from an old toothbrush, while my mind was in complete disarray thanks to the events of the year gone by, whereas this inexplicably sultry August has my head clear and my room looking like a wartime minefield. My tea-table sits pretty on top of my study-table, and perched proudly on top of that, is the runner-up trophy from last year’s Ashesh Memorial Quiz (the institute’s official inter-department quiz competition, for the uninitiated). Another batch of freshly-turned-sophomores has moved into the adjacent wings, with their usual baggage of over-filled trunks, numerous bags, Linkin Park and random rap music, and filthy etiquette. Another bunch of Matkas (M. Tech students) have stepped into the empty rooms in our wing, and infiltrated our area with the usual Matkagiri¬- random songs blaring out loud, people making you turn right around when they walk out of their rooms as they’re doing a John Abraham from Dostana (yes- seriously!), and, of course, filthy etiquette.

Thanks to these wonderful characters around, I’ve been out of my dwelling most of the time, which has my corridor-mates asking me when I’ve returned from home some two weeks after the registration. After the wonderful set of coffees at work in the summer, and the visits to Cafe Coffee Day back home, the modest six-rupee Nescafe coffee seemed like one of those Nutri-matic drinks Arthur Dent kept getting served in the Hitchhiker’s series- completely unlike the one you’d asked for. Despite the distasteful drink, I continued to pay my regular visit to the ubiquitous coffee-shop every evening and set off for arbitrary walks all over the campus. There seem to be too many new faces around- enough to make someone with a curiosity like mine very uncomfortable. A chat with Ma on the phone about these very people, the JEE, the government policies and politics, in general, got me thinking.

I theorised that the story of Life, the Universe and Everything is too vast, and has too many complex factors, to be broken up into small pieces to make a jigsaw puzzle out of. Yet, I thought about the few factors that do majorly influence lives, and thought mostly from the perspective of one who’s come to and lived for two years, in R(bit)-land.

Choices roughly determine the course of almost every human’s existence; we’ve all had to make some be it one between Rasna or Tang, or the more pertinent one between Manchester United and the rest of the world. Quite amazingly, whenever I thought of situations where I have had to make choices, it’s almost always between two things. The Jan Shatabdi or bus to Delhi, a laptop or a desktop, a four-year study program or five, the hand-held video game player or a new Ninja Turtles 1-in-1 disk, Bournvita or plain milk, and many more. This almost-omnipotent theory of dichotomy is prevalent in life, in general, too- good and evil, Yin and Yang, mind and body, and a host of others. And it takes no rocket science to know that these choices establish the direction of Life. The number two governs choices.

Another important factor in one’s success in Life is how good one is at remembering the things that matter. And, not surprisingly, another number governs this region. Try to remember some popular phrases you might use- lock, stock and barrel; heart, nerve and sinew; the good, the bad and the ugly- it’s so much easier to remember triplets. Public speaking coaches always speak of the rule of three- that an average human tends to remember things in threes, and of an overall presentation, only three important things. Even Aristotle in his discourse on Rhetoric, divides most things into three, and talks of the importance of this number. Winston Churchill, in one very famous speech of his, spoke of Britons having to give “their blood, sweat, toil and tears”. But, the phrase that has widely been attributed to him out of this is “blood, sweat and tears”, isn’t it? Thus, clearly, the number three governs the capability of memory.

Finally, one of the first things to have struck me on this topic was the significance of Luck. This elusive Lady is benevolent to some, brutal to some others, and benign to the vast majority. And, time and time again, she too has shown an affinity for a number, one which we all know only too well. A look into some of Manchester United’s most successful players- George Best, Bryan Robson, Eric Cantona, David Beckham, Cristiano Ronaldo- shows they’d done most of their legendary deeds when donning the famed number seven jersey. Ergo, quite clearly, the number seven governs luck.

The mysteries of Life, the Universe and Everything have been subject to studies galore, people have spent their entire lives trying to find out the Ultimate Question and the significance of the Ultimate Answer. I strongly believe in Douglas Adams’ idea that if we were able to somehow figure out the purpose of this complex Universe, it’ll be replaced by an even more confounding one. Yet, it is only human to wander and wonder about these questions, and in that course, I happened to get the above findings, after deliberating, at various places, in varied conditions, meeting and interacting with a variety of people along the way, and finally only getting to the following conclusion.

The mysteries of Life, the Universe and Everything can’t be unlocked by only a few factors, but take a few significant ones, get them all to work together, and you might as well be successful.

Remember- Two multiplied by Three multiplied by Seven equals...