Dekho baarish ho rahi hai

The huge huddle in Mishra’s room finally broke out with a collective sigh. While it was relief let out by some, exhaustion was also a part of the air around the Fifth Wing. Merva’s illegible scrawls lay Xeroxed in our hands, as Jynja, Mishra and I ambled around the corridor, filling in on minute details at the eleventh hour. My loose shirt swayed at the sides, as the others scrambled to keep a hold of their loose pages. Downstairs, Haddu joined another jolly bunch in lighting up and away the banalities and vagaries of four long years...

***

Almost proportionally, as the light from the window kept dimming, my chin, unstably resting on my slipping hands, went closer and closer to the books I was supposed to be studying. As I shook up from another unintentional catnap, the darkness outside told a story quite different from the wall clock’s. I got up and trudged that well-worn path to G-27, to find Dela strapping his sandals to reciprocate. Smiling, I asked the obvious question- Coffee, Dile? The weather's amazing outside. He didn’t crib about having a mountain of notes to copy and the usual rants about the insti’s affection for academic bulimia; the cool draft from the back door would barely allow anyone to.

***

While I was eagerly following Man Utd’s second-string’s demolition of Schalke in the Champions League semi-final on the phone, Mango texted that the lights had gone out in the Nightingale’s Nest too, putting her plans of finishing some vast syllabus over the course of the night in great jeopardy. Yet, her voice betrayed little concern for that business. The strong winds were making it difficult to walk, and the century-old tree in front of Ravindra danced in delight. Exams could take a backseat when the heavens were in such a generous mood.

***

Back in the corridor, Mishra was getting goose bumps. “It’s going to rain, I’m telling you. It’s unbelievable. It always rains, ever so slightly, every single time, during these exams. It’s...”
His voice melted away in the rapturous thunder from the sky. We took pictures to mark the occasion; their hair wavy and unrestrained. And it rained. One final time.

P.S.- Anu Malik’s solo albums were great entertainment, weren’t they?

Through the bubbly froth

The incoherence of the early-morning toothbrush conversation never manages to mask the potency of the words it carries. So as a mumble through Pepsodent’s light pink replies to my Colgate Total’s utterances, I’m resigned to another Monday morning beginning with chana-halwa. Almost four years of the same may have dampened my resolve to disregard its presence on the weekly menu, but haven’t broken into my stubborn dislike for black grams and the accompanying oily mud patch. As (to Ma’s utter surprise) I finish the daily ablutions and proceed to pray to the many Gods adorning my dusty shelves (which almost made her faint), I sincerely hope that there is some semblance of taste in the breakfast that follows. Back home, there’d be Ugadi Pacchadi, a dish with six different tastes symbolising the different emotions we’d experience through the coming new year. The mess keeps to its word and emotions in being as stoic as inhumanly possible, and off I am for the last set of mid-term examinations I expect to take.

The euphoria from the World Cup win was, quite obviously, yet to die down, despite the looming spectre of IPL 4. Facebook display pictures still hadn’t lost their “Bleed Blue” badges, which disgustingly kept reminding one of sanitary napkin advertisements. Nor had the Computer Centre forgotten our raucous celebrations after the win, with the huddled chairs in front of the biggest computer screen we had still in their respective places, including those two traitorous ones who were watching United’s miraculous comeback at West Ham on another live stream.

The month-long gap between those final mid-sems, and the ultimate end-semester exams would see a whole bunch of farewells, valedictory functions, photo-ops and other general sentiaap. I couldn’t help but wear my favourite emoticon through it all. :-/
Jynja says that emoticon sometimes looks like someone brushing his teeth. I love this guy.

Dreams visits sometime

If you can dream- and not make dreams your master.

If you can think- and not make thoughts your aim.

One of the most wonderful truths about life on earth is this very fact, that there’s a piece of verse for every situation. Rudyard Kipling’s prescient words couldn’t have been more perfect for the situation I’d found myself in. With yet another set of mid-semester exams less than touching distance away, I had a browser window and a notepad file open detailing how my ideal trip across Europe would be. If one were to write a Wikipedia article on it, the ‘cultural references’ tab might just be the only one on the page. From fiords in Norway, to the clichéd walk along the Champs Elysees, across tulip fields in the Netherlands, and the six hundred-year-old canals of Belgium, down the Calais-Dover ferry to London, and culminating with hitchhiking across the northern countryside to my Mecca- Old Trafford. Midway, there’d also be the castles of Wales, saying ‘Why aye man’ at least once in Tyneside, and a late evening spent sipping coffee watching the citadels of Edinburgh, as high on the parapet, a Scottish piper stands alone, playing the Caledonian blues. That’s just Western Europe. But, the final tab leads to a quick reality check, as I ponder over applying to this random coding internship, with no stipend and food arrangements in either Gurgaon or Bangalore. And, years of reading novels and watching movies still hasn’t made me insensible enough to imagine a huge thud as those rosy plans come crashing down to earth. I plainly close the windows and stare at Mark Knopfler on the desktop. He’ll be touring the continent over the summer, with a week’s dates at the Royal Albert Hall in London. I try to distract myself by logging into Facebook- hoping others’ happiness on the anniversary of St. Valentine might just seep in, but the cruel cycle of events over the past year may have left me with a lot of hope, but little luck. Things get worse as I see Kondy’s status message, beaming ‘This day, last year’. I shut the lid down for good, and trudge wearily for a coffee. But the Shiv Sena or some sister society’s warnings had left all indoors and Nescafe teeming. Sighing, I called Mum and walked back to Azad. Thankfully, her reassuringly cheerful voice has remained one of the few constants from my time in R, and sunset over the main gate combined with that to gladdening effect. Formatting the magazine wasn’t exactly a welcome distraction, but it did take my mind off greyer matters. And, as I returned to my ever-welcoming quilt, I felt lucky to have somebody’s arms to fall into. Hope is a good thing.

There’s a chink of light,

It’s a burning wick-

There’s a lantern in the tower.

Wee Willie Winkie with a candlestick,

Still writing songs in the wee, wee hours.

Much ado about nothing

R-land throws up all kinds of characters. There are those who seem they were born to write algorithms that’ll run the planet, the kind who can see all seventeen primary and auxiliary views of an imaginary object in their head, those who may have been playing with diodes and transistors instead of Lego bricks when they were still sucking their thumbs (if and when they were free).

 

There are those who may not be as brilliant as the aforementioned, but manage things just fine. They may not know why the aperture for *random-lens-name-here* has to be greater than five millimetres, but know that such a thing exists and might as well be on the answer sheet in front.

 

And, then, there are those exceptions who seem to prove one Mr. Murphy right all the time. It’s nice and simple- they just can’t do a thing correctly. Even if they manage to get all the chemicals right, mix them in the right proportions, and by freaks of nature they might call miracles even stir and heat them just right, they will drop the beaker.

 

No prizes for guessing- yours truly belongs to the last category.

 

This semester’s been quite peculiar. The attempts to get back over the wall shaped like the number eight were lost in soporific stupors- the recently installed air-conditioners in the lecture rooms, too, serving dear old Morpheus. The courses have all seemed pretty easy but those marks remain elusive. One might have thought practical exams for three subjects might help bridge the increasing gap between us hapless souls and the unbelievable nerds lying at the top. But, as said earlier, some people just can’t get it right, no matter what.

 

Exhibit A: The first practical exam is Electrical Machines. The preparation’s been half-decent, but I stride into the lab confident that I’ll forget all circuit diagrams as soon as I get my experiment. Thankfully, that doesn’t happen and I find my bed and get started on doing random tests on a transformer. The writing part is duly completed as neatly as possible, and the connections are made arduously over an hour. I get them checked and am given the green signal. I can’t believe everything is going so smoothly. I push up my collar in pride, and give the switch a pompous hit. The circuit is turned on and all but one of my meters reads zero. I almost felt satisfied I was proved right, but one hour of effort for just one of three tests going futile wasn’t a comforting fact. I called the lab assistant for assistance, and was informed I was working in the wrong lab all the while. Oh, yes! I knew my circuit was alright! I entered the other lab to be promptly questioned how I was strutting in an hour late. The lab assistant there couldn’t believe someone could possibly have worked in the wrong lab for an hour, but let me in all the same. Things went on uneventfully, afterwards, until the viva-voce came along.

 

I can talk- a lot. For hours at a stretch, to any random person, at any place, on anything and everything. But, somehow, despite this superhuman loquaciousness, viva-voce sessions aren’t exactly my cup of tea. I’ve only ever given them in two ways- one in which I sit around for a long time saying “Erm... Uhh... Hmmm... Dum tada dum dum”, and the other in which I very straightforwardly say “Honestly, sir- I have no idea.” This one was the former, and I even managed to screw up questions I had a semblance of an answer for.

 

Digital Electronics was up next. The viva was pretty early into the practical, and frustrated with the professor’s slow drooping voice, I resorted to answering questions in a snap, something which seemed to have perturbed the old man and I was sent off in less than five minutes. The LEDs meanwhile, decided to run my counter from 0-3 only, and some jugad later, I was out of the lab after another bad practical. The worst part was that the worst part was to follow.

 

Power Electronics is my M. Tech specialisation. The first course on it has been a nightmare. With the professor’s incorrigible hissing going un-understood and the promise of no attendance, this course has been quietly ignored all the while. The coordinator decides to make amends and conduct a practical exam. Bad idea- no one, including the professors themselves, has taken them seriously and from the first batch, it’s inferred a diagram with some seven transistors, three different ICs, a brand-new clock-timer (?) and some thirty-one resistors and capacitors is to be learnt by heart. No wonder it was called a firing circuit. I was lucky I got to work with only eleven resistors and capacitors and two ICs, but the other components duly made their mind not to help me. The viva-voce was good fun. I answered the first six questions admirably, and to the next three I said “I haven’t a clue, sir.” The nice guy that he was, the professor asked me to make an educated guess. “I don’t really think random guessing is going to help me in any way, sir. You need to know something to guess, don’t you?”, I snapped.

I don’t know why but I think he was impressed.

 

The end-semester theory exams follow, and I ironically feel relieved I only have to communicate by writing on an innumerable number of sheets. Of course, if I can.

 

P.S. - Old Monks this year has been great fun. While Lefty had one full of allusions, Moh meant business with his last quiz. Bang Bang and Chaukanna had a hilarious last one, and Dude's special was most memorable. Only he could've pulled it off!

 

P.P.S. – You’ve got to stick to your principles.

Nostalgia, Nineties and New pinch!

I was thinking that I’m about to go crazy. I do that quite often. Think, that is. I had to wait for another day. A full two hours away. Jason Bourne gladly obliged...

 

It’s 1:47 a.m. as I start typing out yet another post- I’d made a note on the sidebar before I started the movie lest I forget what it was to be about. Dad just purchased that ubiquitous GRE preparation book. For Big B. I laid my hands on it a day before he could. The look of the packet gave away the fact that it wasn’t a second-hand copy. Boy, no! It was a spanking new 2008 edition cover. White and a shade of sea green whose precise name I don’t know- my vocabulary is limited when it comes to colours. I guess turquoise and fuchsia are as far as I go. (The fact that MS Word 2007 thinks it’s spelled right has me very pleased!)

The packet looked inviting, even more inviting than the bunch of The Hindu newspapers- Deccan Chronicle is entertaining alright but you can’t survive without a proper newspaper for more than four days. (May I gleefully add, I actually went through over half of the Sunday magazine supplement today- and I must say, it’s a most wonderful joyride!) The clock has just gone past 2 a.m. and my internet connection’s happy hours start now. I’ll just move over to the room with the router, and be right back. You may go and pick up a cuppa coffee, till then...

 

OK. I’m back. So, where were we? Yes, I’d just laid my hands on Big B’s brand new book, and opened it with little or no regret. The smell of a new book is intoxicating, highly pleasurable, and in this case, brought back some sweet memories...

 

The re-opening of school is this seriously amazing time- the holidays are long beyond a point, and even the fiercest of school-haters get bored enough to want to go back to school. Ah, back to school! The phrase was all over- on people’s lips, their bags, the stickers on their books. Oh! The best part about being back to school was new books! The long waiting in the non-existent queues, the ever-present heckling over the prices, and the overwhelming curiosity to see how colourful the books would be! The big fat ones were always eyed with suspicion, and although one would be very happy to see they were not going into his/her packet, the curiosity to hold even those mountains was always present in the back of the mind. It would be one long, seemingly longer wait to get home and scythe through those packets and lay our hands on the shiny new books! Oh, boy! The calls from the parents to wait till the haldi (turmeric) was applied were almost always disdainfully ignored- at least when it came to the books of that one wonderful subject. After all the covers had been compared- even those of Big B’s- our greedy hands would go straight to the English books- the readers, to elaborate. We’d finish off the whole book the very night- the Maths and Science books would lie untouched for most of the year, leave alone that particular night! But the English books were spared that fate- when the reader was finished being read, and discussed animatedly, sometimes even the main course book, better known as MCB or even MSB in some places, would be scourged for stories, if any.

I remember how my spirits weren’t so high waiting for the class 9 English books, having read Big B’s already. The change in CBSE syllabus couldn’t have come at a better time! Plus, it had stories by O. Henry, R.K. Narayan and Guy de Maupassant- a total joy for short-story lovers! The poetry section was classy- although the archaic language tried its best to make it difficult to digest. I also recall how classes 11 and 12, where I’d shifted to the A.P. state syllabus, were so very disappointing, with almost all stories being repeated, and very few good new ones. Big B had better ones, including the first-ever detective novel- The Moonstone- for full novel-reading. We had Treasure Island, for god’s sake! Brilliant book it is, but more than half of the class had read it multiple times years ago! Not me, though. But I sympathised, and thus, echoed the disappointment anyway.

Anyway, my favourite English reader was the one we had in class 7- not sure whether it was the one published by Oxford or McMillan. But it had some of the most brilliant stories- especially considering the fact that it was a class 7 book. The likes of Riding The Divorce Express, The Slaughter Of The Lamb (by Roald Dahl, I guess), The Monsoon by Khushwant Singh and Rikki Tikki Tavi by Rudyard Kipling are still revered greatly. After You, My Dear Alphonse was nice, too.

And, for the record, I screwed my chance of topping my school in the class 10 board exams in English, thanks to some unforgivable mistakes like not knowing what to fill in ‘He came home and took ___ his boots.’ I had no idea, for some reason, and guessed ‘out’. I got 95. My teachers weren’t too pleased. And, the state board? Don’t even talk about it. Class 11 boards- I thought I wrote a near-perfect paper and got 90. I toned down the language, shortened my answers, actually read a guide for English (a total disgrace, forced upon me though) and after writing the class 12 paper, said confidently- “I challenge you to give me anything less than ninety-freakin’-nine.”

 

I got 80.

Where are the mines?

The clock ticks away relentlessly on the bottom left, the targets keep decreasing a little more solemnly on the bottom right, as I click away furiously while analysing the numbers, looking for more squares to flag triumphantly. Sky blue 1s, bottle green 2s, maroon 3s, navy blue 4s, red 5s and the elusive turquoise 6s and black 7s adorn my imagination while I’m trying to eat in the mess, and I know I’m addicted to Minesweeper again. I make continual attempts at breaking my seemingly pathetic expert level time with the touchpad when an exam‘s 5 hours away with a sunrise in between, and I also know I’ve picked the precisely wrong time for doing that. The exams have passed by now though, taking with them a blur of a third semester. I realized, though, over this span of 14 surprisingly short weeks at the insti, that studies really are way more important than the next Prison Break episode, that assignments are to be submitted on time even if you manage to convince 85 in a batch of 86 that it’s OK not to, that I haven’t really changed much in the past few years- some say in the past ten- and that it’s never too late to try ironing my creases.

 ***

I hate using sentences with the word ‘life’ in them whenever it refers to one’s being; I’m too naïve, and it’s too way too early for me to do so. Plus I think things like “What I’ve learnt from life is…” or “Life is…” are for old people. I’ve edited these very lines at least thrice while typing them to make it very clear that they’re heavily opinionated. The word could’ve featured at least four to five times in the previous paragraph, and a few more times in the ones to follow. But it isn’t worth it. For me, it rarely is. I dislike Orkut status messages that say “Mah life’s screwed” or “Life’s tuf” or compare it to female dog, or any similar professions. They’re way too shallow for teenagers to be broadcasting. ‘Life’s like that’ is the only such sentence I like. Not because it’s by AP, but just because it’s too darn simple, and to the point, and so very logical. It’s almost instinctively understood, like ‘My name’s Bond’. Plus, it actually looks and sounds kind-of nice too. Try it.

 ***

For the record, by the way, in the fag end of the semester, I gave up on consuming eggs altogether, and thought it’s not really a bad idea to be a total vegetarian from now on. The guilt consumed me too much and too often for me to continue the habit. Also, I think it’s time I really start thinking seriously about my religion, and spirituality, in general, because talking to myself can only take me so far. It isn’t too hard on me and my schedule, and it can only make a better person.

 ***

One of my favourite pastimes, apart from the aforementioned game, the aforementioned TV series, and repeating long words in sentences, is reading through my past posts, and the comments on them. I love analyzing the changes in my writing- content and style-wise - and also reader reactions and frequency of comments. It’s fun. I actually cringe at the punctuation in my first few posts, and also realise how crazy the incessant brackets made you feel. It brings a smile to my face now that I think of it. And, laughing at the jokes in the comments, even when I know what‘s coming. It really is fun. I remember talking to my master about my blog, and he mentioned about the categorisation of the bloggers we know- the glory bloggers and the true bloggers. And he didn’t take a second to point out that I belonged to the first category. I agreed graciously, after an instinctive first rebuff. Before I forget, glory bloggers are those who post only once in a while, after a lot of editing and only after carefully considering whether their readers would love reading that or not. The second category, on the contrary, refers to those who post as and when they feel like, don’t really care what their readers think- or even if they have any- and stick to the definition of a web log. I guess I do fit into the first category, considering my aims at present, but also considering my shift in mood and content over the past few months, it isn’t long before I seamlessly shift to the latter. Talking of my lazy inactive master, I’d like to ask him, while restraining my impulsive desire to abuse him, to please start reading again. I guess I do fit into the first category!

I’d also like to add, that this habit of revisiting past mutterings, and discussions, extends to e-mails and chats, even those on Facebook- I sometimes copy-paste them and save them as drafts. I’ve also saved a few special mails in the ‘starred’ folder of my Gmail account.

 ***

The fact that I talk so much has made me so very transparent that I fear I may not have anything more about me to add when I’m tagged, if I’m tagged. For those who aren’t insane enough to get to the end of my posts, like AP, who I actually think might not even reach here, I’d like to remind you of my request to start the practice of tagging in the blogosphere again.

 ***

I’m typing this post as I sit in a delightfully warm room in Noida, where I’d reached last night after two bus rides I’d love to write home about. The first was with AP, where I, as usual, had a wonderful time chatting for almost the entire length of the six-hour journey, apart from the few motion-sick minutes where I’d slept with my mouth wide open. We came up with exciting plans for the magazine, ones we’d love to share with the Perusing Poet, who just about missed joining us.

The other was alone on a rickety Blueline, from the New Delhi inter-state bus station to Noida, in which I couldn’t stop raving about and feeling sad for and bad about the capital, at the same time. I was born in New Delhi and had lived 40 kilometres off the capital for about 9 years, before shifting to the city of destiny, Visakhapatnam. It’s been another nine years since, but clocks roll back effortlessly whenever I have a rendezvous with this wonderful mega-polis, and I still can’t understand, leave alone explain, the sheer love and affection I have for it. People who’ve lived here all their lives will probably never get it. Those who’ve shifted to the city might just. It doesn’t matter to me. I still can’t properly answer the very common question ‘What’s your hometown?’, and usually say ‘It’s kind-of complicated’. The feeling I have for Delhi is most efficiently described by this- je ne sais quoi.

 ***

Roaming around in the markets of Noida, it was impossible not to notice the greatly heightened security measures- frisking is mandatory at the entry points of almost every mall- and although it was only a Wednesday evening, and it was two days before a momentous one in India, December 6^th, the sparse crowds were conspicuous, and a fact that didn’t exactly make my first visit to Great India Place very exciting. Reading the news reports over the week, looking at the pictures of rallies all over the country, the news of the candle-light rally at the insti, and many conversations I’d heard or participated in, all pointed to just one thing- we’re all very very united right now. But it’s sad to think that only incidents as ghastly as those of the past week end up in shows of such solidarity and togetherness. I wonder if it really needed to take this horrid event for us to finally rise and demand for change. It’s not an accusation, and it’s not that I’m trying to suggest we’re hypocritical or that I don’t appreciate this unity in any way- it just comes as a question to a simple mind like mine. There’s been enough carnage in the past to instill a sense of doubt as to whether our chosen representatives have been capable enough of protecting our homeland. But, you know what? I love the fact that people don’t care whether the guy wearing that white T-shirt standing beside them is a fish-gobbling Bengali, or that lady in the white top is a chatter-some Punjabi, or that man in that sober white shirt is a Bihari, or even someone from the north-east, or any other arbit place- all that matters is that he/she is wearing white and holding a candle for India and Indians. It’s touching, and makes me proud. If only  we could have the same feeling every single day of our lives. Utopia is a wonderful place…

 ***

P.S.- This is only for those nice guys who… wait, I do have girls reading my blog, or at least I’m trying, or am deluded enough to think so, so… This is only for those wonderful faithful tolerant people who actually did read till here. It’d be nice if you inform me what you think of the name change for the page, if you’ve bothered to notice it, and whether you think I should scrap it.

 

P.P.S.- As much as I tried not to, for a fear of sounding depressing, I couldn’t help mentioning 26/11. It weighed a little too much on my mind.

 

P.P.P.S.- I deliberately avoided using examples with profanities in the ‘Life is…’ paragraph, although the most popular example is such, as popularised by the Wild Bore.

And so begins...

As stupid as this may sound, I actually love following my Orkut fortune widget on the Home page. And, after a series of Google Easter Eggs, like 'The man who reads your fortune is on vacation. Try visiting someone's profile instead', my cookie suggested two days ago, 'Now is the time to try something new'. Frustrated as I was with my ever-the-same poor preparation for the end-sems, the want for some good news made me trash the usually-interesting cookie, and go renew my affair with Minesweeper, which, I may inform you, is one of the most brilliant games of all time!

Late into the night, though, the Orkut Home page somehow wandered back into my mind and I decided it really was time for trying something new- but not momentarily. Instead, I wanted to start a tradition- one that would stand for some time to come, and one that people, even if they only were a handful, would remember and associate me with. And, as I smiled to myself waiting for the time to come when I would begin this not-so-grand exercise, my scatterbrain took over again and I found myself thinking about the Fantasy Premier League while trying to remember the features of some strange-looking w(h)att-meters...

The best part about exam-time is that my mind always happens to cook up wonderfully pleasant theories about which pair of socks would go with my sweater, without contrasting too much with my sandals. The sad part is I'm not supposed to do so with the sword of Damocles hanging precariously over my head.

The best part about winter is that I sleep like a log, and dreams are longer, and more enjoyable, and, most importantly, more remnant, in this season. The sad part is the insti happens to schedule exams at the same time, and your slot happens to be the 9 a.m. one.

It's been a pleasing week thus far, the best being today when I happened to meet a very old friend, who now is 12 time-zones away, on Facebook and nostalgia has been the only thing in my mind, since then. I love Facebook, by the way. I joined a month or so ago, and I love wasting time on the dumb movie quizzes. But, Orkut is my first love...

My exams start tomorrow, and, I haven't forgotten, dear reader, of the tradition I spoke of at the beginning of this post. From today, I shall post on the eve of every set of exams I write at the insti. That means 21 more, at least. That way you'll have a post to look forward to before every time you feel jobless before that sham begins. Oops, I almost forgot- I've got non-insti readers, too. Or, at least, I'm trying to get some. So, that guarantees three posts every 6 months. That'll mean I can, if I stick to this tradition, get close to two-and-half score posts on this webpage by the time I graduate- or pass out, as popular usage would go!

I guess I'll get back to studying, now, before I make it more exams than scheduled to post before! So long, patient reader! Good night, and wish me good luck!

P.S.- Dela, I do love Lefty, I'd like to remind, assuming you are getting a sense of deja vu.