Tempus Fugit

I don't quite remember what car we were in; the trusty Maruti 800 doesn't fit as well into the mental picture I have as the hospital's Omni ambulance does. To be honest, I don't remember much at all – it was, after all, well past my bedtime, almost two decades back. What I haven't forgotten is being dazzled by the lights outside when Ma woke me up. We were about to reach the airport.

I rubbed my eyes vigorously, trying to wrest open my eyelids through sheer force of curiosity, as my mind sought to put an image to the roaring blast of airplanes taking off. One that had landed, though, was what we were waiting for, and the promise of Pa's invigorating hug got me out of my drowsiness. Plus the prospect of the amazing gifts he'd brought from the exotic foreign lands he was returning from, of course.

I don't remember most of the other gifts, but the second time I was to be dazzled that night was when my brother and I got our final presents – original Mickey Mouse and Goofy watches. My brother chose first, and I got Goofy.

***

The routineness of a school-going child's life had the effect of rendering the concept of keeping time redundant. Pre-recess, you'd wish teachers a good morning and the three 40-minute lessons after the noon's recess, you wished them… you get the idea. Cartoons for an hour after lunch at home were followed by playing in the parks outside till sundown. Catching up with parents when they got back from work passed time till dinner, which was swiftly followed by bedtime. So, it seemed only appropriate that we kids use the accessory of a wrist watch only when going out for special occasions – events that broke from the routine.

Watches were our ice-picks in the snow; tools a nifty turn of which would often be an invaluable way to get out of sticky situations, and dependable accessories in the wild terrain of unplanned events.

***

I almost never wore a watch to school – the few times I did, it lay pristine on my wrist till I had to stuff it into my bag before games. Ma gave me two, though, when dropping me off at Roorkee for the first year there. Use it well, and don't forget to take if off before you bathe, I was told. For the first month, it hung precariously on the hooks on the bathroom doors almost every day.

It was to prove invaluable, as the time I'd leave for breakfast before an 8 am class changed gradually from half past seven to not at all because I landed in class in my pyjamas a good ten minutes after it started. Various tunes like Violin Sonata No. 14 (by unknown), the Pirates of the Caribbean theme and Adele's Rolling in the Deep blasting away in the form of alarms ensured I saw the time every morning - or often afternoon - on a mobile screen first. But it was the watches I turned to surreptitiously in classes, dangerously on cycles, gingerly in the pouring rain, and as quickly as possible even in the unforgiving Roorkee winter.

***

The routine of work over the past few months, and my laziness to get those two old watches fixed meant I got used to going through days without the need to keep time again.

Yet, after I finally got new batteries for them, and wore one proudly last fortnight, I was horrified by myself when I instinctively lunged for my phone in the car to see if I was on time for a meeting. My mind slowly flashed to those early days in Roorkee, to those boring birthday party conversations I got out of by giving the watch a third glance, and, of course, to the magical night at the Delhi airport.

The wistful flick of the wrist that followed gave the watch a new, if only fleeting function, of time travel.

Winter Nights

After an early winter sunset, our cab screamed past Gurgaon's towers and South Delhi's wide boulevards, hurtling through the capital's northern part's patchwork roads before emerging onto the smooth National Highway - 1. Kilometres of shimmering dew-covered fields and highway motels were covered in a few hundred seconds. I couldn't wait for a warm bed and the promise of a night's sleep far, far away from Kolkata.

The body wasn't prepared for winter in the northern plains, though, after more than half a year near the east coast. My feet froze even before I could locate my room on the windy tenth floor. The blanket felt colder than the floor, and as I wrapped myself like a mummy within it, I wondered what a long night it was going to be…

***

I hate this place. A scandalously overcharging rickshaw driver and a swindling cartel of a marketplace might have played their role in forming that opinion, but the few conversations I had had with what were to be people I'd have to see for the next 4-5 years firmed up that opinion. My parents reassured me that what I'd seen was definitely an unrepresentative sample - and like Visakhapatnam so warmly did, maybe Roorkee would grow on me, too.

A week of uninspiring lectures save one, mounting examples of administrative nincompoopery and a hostel full of late teenagers making the ugliest most of their new-found independence meant my daily calls home became ever more frantic. I can still make it to DCE's counselling! I'll write the JEE again, or just apply to DU like I first wanted to!

The rains came and went in a flash, and after a disastrous first set of exams and a brief trip home, winter was coming. The ceiling I stared at every night was no longer painted by a creaky fan whose rotations I counted to sleep - just three dusty blades Pa implored me to sweep clean every day. The trusty bedsheet I invariably knocked down to the floor each night was replaced by a fleece quilt I didn't trust to help me survive the sub-Himalayan plains.

But the cold was a common enemy. We bonded in the wing, our motley crew - crouching around that one hot-air blower, fighting for the last hot rotis, braving the icy winds for paranthas and Maggi and playing cricket in the corridor. Winter mornings got by faster, as I moved from the stationary fan to figure out ways to get the lizards off my ceiling.

In an extremely weird instance of camaraderie, many of us chose to forsake baths for as long as a week during the semester-ending NCC Camp, whose 6 a.m. aerobics sessions were a source of much comic relief. In the subsequent holidays back in Vizag, I was fed like a temple elephant to regain the 17-odd kilograms I'd shed. Waiting eagerly for the delicacies to come, I also thought of the serious writing I needed to get done to impress an Arbit Prat, and to maybe finally winning a quiz, that one connect from school. And, of course, rip that perfect off-break in the corridor…

***

Trucks with Bollywood tunes for horns honked away on the highway below, and a fancy, shiny, golden-coloured fan gleamed motionlessly above. I'd be getting up for some corporate mumbo-jumbo in a factory, instead of uninspiring lectures, 6 a.m. aerobics or corridor cricket. But I knew there were tougher winters I'd gotten through, and it was with warm thoughts about Roorkee winters that I fell dreamlessly asleep.

The next morning had paranthas for breakfast. Oh, it's good to be back!

Stories of the Sabbath

Easily the best part of my ninety-minute bus commute to work is the stretch between the Sector-8 and Sector-11 bus stops. As the conductor announces the arrival at either, I’ve put Kane and Abel, Six Suspects and Two States down over the past week, for those precious few seconds I get to look at my school. One such early morning, I was mildly surprised to see no barrage of cycles in the stand. Between the (now) four buses, below the arch bearing the school’s name, the principal’s almost-ubiquitous car was also missing. I took a look at my watch, which showed the time to be quarter to eight. I wondered why the school would be so desolate so close to the opening time when the bus radio announced how the overnight rains had given Vizag a most pleasant Saturday morning. I recalled one-upping every kid in the township from any other school as ours had a five-day week, and felt sad I’d forgotten that very fact.

Even though it was always Sunday’s less-celebrated cousin for us school-goers, Saturday was most welcome as it heralded the dawn of the weekend: no getting up at seven, no sprints to avoid missing the bus, and best of all, (early in the new millennium) Premier League games. The absence of Power Zone on Cartoon Network and the ESPN School Quiz would dull the afternoon; nonetheless, not looking forward to the stern class-teacher’s rebukes early next morning made holy Sabbath a winner in its own category. Since Sunday would be an off-day for the parents (and would have Bournvita Quiz Contest in the morning, some new movie in the afternoon and a trip to Delhi, more often than not, in the evening), Saturday nights brought no fever, as the spectre of Monday Tests loomed ahead. All the same, the NTPC Club, as I hope the Scuttling Shuttler would corroborate, screened new movies in the auditorium on Saturday evenings.

Even the weekend harbinger changed quickly as school gave way to coaching after Class Ten. The unforgiving six-day week meant Sunday’s little brother was in no way different from the other five. Those same kids we’d been troubling with cries of “Saturday bhi school ja rahe ho?” for ten short years, were now slyly-grinning classmates. The worst part? The weekly tests from school which for so long had nurtured Monday morning blues (and for brief periods, Fridays and Tuesdays, too) had now decided to take over on Sunday, not only ruining the best day of the week, but killing Saturday evenings, too. Truly Black Sabbath.

The return of the two-day weekend in college couldn’t have been more welcome. I could once again pick on some poor ex-classmate who’d graduate on six-day weeks, and sleep in peace on Friday night (or in most cases, early Saturday morning) with no lectures or weekly tests to look forward to. The college weekend is a great leveller, as Sundays now can’t claim any bragging rights and too many times, I forget the distinction between the two days of the weekend.

Back home, in the summer holidays, I can’t distinguish between any days of the week, as I’m down sleeping or up eating no matter what Shani, Mangal or Shukra have in mind. This summer with the internship, whenever I do take the 400N that takes me past my alma mater, I realise why they love to say “Thank God, it’s Friday!”. I realise, I miss the good old Saturday.

Holi, Hammering, Hair and Happiness!

Holidays are on, and it was Holi yesterday. I only got up at eleven, as is the norm but Big B got me ready quickly and we went around the township looking for fellow revellers. Unfortunately, there were none to be found. The whole township was deserted- maybe because it was exam time (which didn’t seem the most obvious reason straightaway. Sad...), and also because undergraduates like us were few and far between. Anyhow, he wouldn’t let go and with his favourite tactic- shock and awe- Big B smeared purple gulal all over my face and “Holi hai!” it was. It was a quiet Holi at home, with a little bit of colour smeared on everyone, and some amazing sweets and food. Ma, Pa and Big B all got their messages and phone calls to reply to, leaving me and my almost-unknown local phone number feeling left out. The STD phone was too busy to be used and I only replied to the solitary SMS I happened to get on my new number- with an M2G original, of course!

 

This was in great contrast to the Holi I’d celebrated in the insti a day before leaving for home. Talk of chalk and cheese! That revelry went on past two hours, and included many songs and dances, permanent colours of various hues, shouts and screams, but most importantly, it had the element of forced wardrobe malfunctions, or in simpler words, clothes being torn off! My famous salmon short kurta was one of the first victims, and 3^rd year Meta was at its perverse best, going down and dirty to the knickers when they ran out of shirts and vests to rip off. The best part was that after all this, there was a fashion show, with all participants strutting whatever stuff was left! And, as the cherry on the cake, there was a special mention for the best costume! Sushi finished a close second in that one, for his Jenna Jameson-type ensemble. I wonder if it was the Reptile’s Superman-in-white-diapers costume that finished first, or if Jaipur’s Is-it-there-or-is-it-not apron won it. The final group photo session was memorable, too. I still seriously wonder how the Reptile made it back to Azad from Ravindra in that garb!

 

The original Holi at home, although a stark contrast to the one described above, was fun all the same- both being my first Holi celebrations after three or four years. I also had the pleasure of watching India pummel the Kiwis into submission yesterday. It was after quite a long while that I sat down to watch an entire innings, and it was worth it! Viru was at his blazing best, scoring the fastest ODI hundred by an Indian, and reigniting that favourite dream topic of cricket-lovers: Who’ll score the first double hundred in ODIs? (A little-known fact is that Belinda Clark, an Australian batswoman, has already done that in women’s cricket) Brendon McCullum, one of my contenders, believes it’s going to be one of Chris ‘Gale Force’ Gayle, Virender ‘Blitzkrieg’ Sehwag or Sachin ‘God’ Tendulkar. Oh, God. One of my biggest regrets this year (already) is missing him score that glorious 163 last week. The aforementioned Kiwi thought that if it weren’t for that stomach injury, nothing would’ve stopped him from that impending double hundred. What could have been! And I missed it all!

 

Although AP’s is an extreme case, Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar (to be henceforth referred to as God, in this post) has shaped many a childhood in our generation. The sheer number of kids growing up in India, holding that MRF bat in the store and saying “Main Sachin banunga” (I’ll be the next Sachin) is probably greater than Australia’s entire population. It saddens me to think, that when he retires, or maybe now already, children growing up now don’t have an idol like him. MSD is OK, but God is a level above. I still remember 1998, that tournament in Sharjah. Tony Greig’s excited voice was breaking as Sachin smashed boundary after boundary off the hapless Aussies. Then came those two strokes that’ll forever remain etched in my memory- those two straight sixes off Steve Waugh and Michael Kasprowicz. That wasn’t my first cricket match, or the first time I saw God, but I knew my life was never going to be the same. The next generations are never going to have that. Forget that- even gully cricket’s now losing its grip. Tazos, cards, tops and other random Jap imports seem to be more popular. Sigh...

 

After the end of the match, lunch followed, and a short nap on the sofa later, Big B and I headed off to the barber’s. It’d been quite a while since I’d been to the barbershop in the township. Big B’s turn was obviously first and I sheepishly forked around the place. The comfortable bouncy couch had been replaced by a solemn stone bench, with no backrest. There weren’t random Telugu newspapers or magazines to gawk at, either. The little 12-inch TV wasn’t there to be seen, too. That left only one form of entertainment- the Infinite Mirror Paradigm. Oh, boy! Every fortnight on Sundays, we’d be over at the barber’s staring away at the mirrors when not arguing over whose turn it was. Indian barbers are freakin’ geniuses. I wonder whose idea it was to implement this marvel! One can stare at it for hours, or however long it takes for three haircuts before yours. One image in another in another in another; front-view, back-view, front-view again, and it never ends! Compare this to those men’s salons with one just one mirror in front, with that sad three-hundred-rupee-paying face looking back at you, forlorn. I don’t give two hoots for fancy haircuts sometimes, when I hear the sweet sound of fifteen rupees being asked for. With the infinite mirror entertainment program coming in for free, it couldn’t be a better bargain! Yeah, but I’d like it if the stupid radio was switched off. Random Haddu love problems aren’t great to listen to in conjunction with those scissor snips.

 

The icing on the sundae was when we returned back to the city, and headed off for ice-cream after dinner. Yup, same place as before. I had Black Forest Fantasy this time. Dad loved his All Litchis so much, that he went on and on about how wonderful Jack Frost is, and so pleased he was, he went over for another- a Choco Chips cone, this time. Oh, did I forget? As ironical as it is, I love this wonderful ice-cream shop’s tagline: Happiness. Served Chilled.

 

P.S. - I still have a size 6 Reebok cricket bat, which we still use whenever we get in the mood for cricket. Beta, MRF waale to khatam ho gaye. Sachin nahi to Azhar ke bat se kaam chala lo! (We’re out of MRF bats, son. Try Azhar’s bat if you can’t get Sachin’s!)

 

P.P.S. - I’m reading Ruskin Bond, right now, and he is a joy to read!

Where’s the party? It’s your birthday!

Only a day into the new year, and the blogosphere is abuzz with activity. That’s given enough time for me to ruminate for this very very special post. Of course, it’s another fact that I rarely think for a post!

 

The last post of the last year had an interesting snippet about it- it could be shortened to HHH! That was posted, as you could see, in the wee hours of 31^st December. New Year’s eve it was, and the campus was slowly filling to capacity again. I only woke up at eleven, after wrestling down my alarm clock and giving the other alarm’s snooze button a stern test of its patience. After the essentials, minus the luxury of a bath, I finally went out on my way to the mess, and the sun had decided not to come out of its warm blanket of clouds, and the eddying cold winds continued to tease the mufflers and wind-cheaters. But, unlike most others around, I was in the mood for a stroll, and lazily braved the cold to go to the gaanv (village) for a phone recharge, and to meet up with the masters down there. After an impatient wait in his room, spent rummaging through his table to find friends’ indulgences, old colourful scrapbooks and trying to find a way to untangle three layers of sheets, Lefty, His Wordiness (official winner) and I set out for a walk in the pursuit of Happinezz. Along the way, we gobbled up sweets with glee (me with especial glee as I wasn’t paying!) and I wondered how those two were slimmer when they ate like they did. Later, though, we did find what we went out to seek, and it was in hot sandwiches full of delightfully melted cheese. Our appetites were good for one each only, though, as a long night was to follow for all of us.

 

After that, I headed back to my room, and sat down to greet anyone with a green dot beside their name, while mine remained grey (invisibility rocks!). After an hour of aimless chatting, I heard a DJ start playing in front of the canteen, with crowd favourites like Hat Ja Tao Jat Ja and Maar Suttiya blaring out loud into the rooms around. I could even hear inebriated shouts and laughs as the Matkas danced their way to the toilets, where they puked uncontrollably, as I was to discover later (not sadly, thankfully!). After re-installing that perennial favourite, FIFA08, time was whiled away rediscovering my touch and Joga Bonito. That was till the Perusing Poet knocked on my door, and, soon enough, we were out having dinner. After a long meal, interspersed with passionate arguments on Ghajini and the varying degrees of the word ‘voyeurism’, we got back to our respective rooms.

 

They say what you do first on New Year’s day defines your year- I definitely hope it doesn’t come true, as I welcomed 2009 very solemnly, alone in my room sitting invisible on Gmail. But, apart from the various calls, messages, e-mails, scraps, pokes, and hugs that followed, the bright spot was the fact that January 3 wasn’t too far, and this page would be celebrating a year in existence (putting many others at risk!). As jobless as I am, I spent the last three quarters of an hour looking up bloggiversary posts of those on my blog-list. (Different story that I found two, at most) As clichéd as it may sound, it’s been a roller-coaster ride of a year blog-wise, and as it always is with most wonderful things, I find it very ironic that one of favourite posts (which can be found here), has no comment on it (although it's a very first-yearish post). Shape-shifting my way from characteristically quirky to whining grumbler to grumbling moaner (as Kaka puts it) to an overly long-writing bore, I’ve realised the best way to one’s true self, is through self (not to be confused with a traitorous Homeland Security agent on a TV show). 363 days in the blogosphere, and my blog has brought out 30 ways to blow your head off without suffering from side-effects like lead poisoning. I’ve not gone far as a writer, as I spent dreaming countless number of nights. But, then, life’s like that. And, in a spurt of nostalgia, and as mark of respect to the page that has spilled the beans on almost everything about me, I shall revert to the old name, ‘cause the geek still speaks... or rather types! Cheers!

 

P.S.- Dela, you’re next! (Goldberg style! Ah, I still love brackets!)

 

P.P.S.- I was waiting for only one song through the whole DJ thingy, and I wasn’t to be robbed of that pleasure. Ta ta-na-na-na tandoori nights... tandoori nights! Btw, Emotional Atyachaar is the song to be heard this year!

Loony List 1: Delicious Dishes Dug

First things first, merry Christmas everybody! It’s a relief of a holiday for parents, which means my face is administered a thorough check-up by Mom, and all possible remedies for those blackheads/ whiteheads/ pimples/ what-not are peacefully ignored as I go on practising my classy albeit slow rendition of N.I.B. by Black Sabbath on my guitar (whose story can be found here).

 

I’d been to my school yesterday, and the breathless wait notwithstanding, I shuddered when I reached the gate and in another one of the now-common panic attacks that I have, I feigned a phone-call and went past the gate some five more times, waiting for a mate to turn up to give me company. But, fate is cruel to cowards, and as I ran out of balance and patience, I mustered enough courage to walk till the portico and start running through the notice boards. Ah, nothing’s changed, I thought to myself as I ran through the list of school’s achievements. Cowardice still had me in its grip, though, as I didn’t dare to step inside fearing a barrage of teachers to wish, and catch up with. Wait a minute- this is what I had turned up for! But, I continued to stand, stare, feign a few more phone calls until one of the organising alumni turned up, and a few greetings and conversations later, so did the mate I was waiting for.

 

Unfortunately, I had conveniently forgotten the fact that school functions rarely begin on time- we had reached dot at half past three and there were only four souls to be seen in the hallowed quadrangle, and I looked at the stage where the morning assemblies were held, a smile on my face. Mate and I then proceeded for a walk around the school’s corridors, revisiting many an old classroom, and also commenting on what a disgrace it was to put class ten on the first floor alongside ten-year-olds. The old store-room, later converted into a room for the then-newly restarted class eleven had now been made the maths lab. Mate said he still felt like throwing around things in that room; for us, it’d always be the dump yard.

 

Old teachers were greeted, names forgotten and retold, memories revived, many a smile here and a smirk in jest there- nostalgia was clearly the order of the evening. Two hours later, spent roaming around in the grounds and the cycle stand, we went back to the quadrangle to see more excited pass-outs bumbling about, and a few girly shrieks were heard and ticked off. The teachers were definitely having a ball- some even posing for pictures with every single alumnus they met- God only knows when, or even if, you people will turn up again. I was disappointed to see the sea-change in one of my favourite teachers- the prim and proper (as in that wonderful story in class six whose name I forgot) lady was now a hasti-khilti friendly teacher. The earlier avatar was so much more memorable, I thought to myself. The favourite class-teacher was seen, too, and after a gasping exclamation of ‘Murty!’ she was lost in work and other alumni, not to be seen again for the rest of the evening.

 

The school in twilight and dark has always fascinated me, and as the clock went past 180 degrees, the alumni meet officially began. By this time, most other batch-mates had duly turned up, and after an initial measly four, it was our year’s batch with the highest strength, and also the highest level of complacency as we totally ignored the speeches, poems, woeful anchoring and the usual hullabaloo associated with social occasions. People from many a batch came and spoke about their colourful memories from school- no one, unfortunately, was in a comic mood, and as my erstwhile classmates continued to push me onstage, my reservations took over and I stayed put. Meanwhile, one by one, people went on stage, spoke something into the mike, and went to receive what-looked-like-mementos from the new principal. What’s he ever done that I haven’t in school, I muttered. Later, I found out, everyone was going on stage at random, giving their name and what they were doing now, and then went on to receive some tokens of gratitude. Pulling along a friend who said she still hadn’t overcome her stage fright, I went to those steps to the stage where I’d been so few times, but each being memorable in its own right. The friend went, spoke uncharacteristically confidently into the microphone, leaving me to follow as she went on to collect her souvenir. Yours truly put a spring in his step, jumped up to the podium, put his mouth to the microphone, and spake thus:

“Good evening, everyone! My name’s M.V.R. Murty and I’m from the class of 2005. Questions asked- What’s your name, batch and what’re you doing now? My name and batch I’ve told you already, and what am I doing? Well, at present, I’m embarrassing myself on stage!”

 

Most teachers who cared to hear in the front row either gasped, put up a contorted expression, or just said- Still the very same. He won’t ever change!

 

The principal said while handing me the souvenir, “I didn’t get a word of what you said. Still, hope to see you next year!”

 

Same here, Ma’am! Same here...

 

P.S.- Oh, did I forget? I’m scrapping the lists idea. I’m too lazy to make those lists. I’m too lazy to change the title as well.

 

P.P.S.- The accompanying friend later thanked me for helping her fight her stage fright. When asked if I ever had some, I quipped “Didn’t you hear me speak into the mic?” and smirked confidently. She said “No, obviously!”

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.

Music, Movies and Joblessness!

(Originally published on December 11, 2008 at 10:31 p.m.)

As I start typing out another post, I’m beginning to wonder if I’m getting on your nerves, but then I take solace in the fact that you have the choice to shut out this page, or worse, just scroll down and comment for the heck of it.

 

Carolisa Monteiro’s mesmerising voice in Phir Dekhiye is playing in the background, and I’m sitting on my first-ever computer chair after a long while- the actual length I can’t seem to remember. This blue chair is nice, lets me stretch my back, although it creaks now, thanks to ageing. Ah! The song’s over. It’s Farhan Akhtar’s... erm... once-fresh voice that’s being heard now, in Pichle Saat Dinon Mein. Rock On had one brilliant soundtrack, and two reviews for the movie from Dela and Lefty come to mind. Interesting they were. I still haven’t seen the movie- and judging by the reviews I’ve got from various sources, I get the feeling this SRK fan might like it, and earn a few more scoffs and scowls from the people who’ll probably jump to comment on this post now itself. I seriously wonder if we do need to take our brains to movies, at least, Hindi movies. I agree that the times they are a changin’, but there’s been enough evidence and experience in the past for us not to! I’ve grown up enjoying David Dhawan no-brainers and SRK entertainers, and I guess that’s exactly what we try to do when we go to the movies- try to put aside one’s issues and have a good time. But starting this debate does put my existence at risk, and I agree the latest David Dhawan movies are utter embarrassments, and Priyadarshan has lost it after Hera Pheri.

 

A conversation with a long-lost friend over movies did raise a valid point, by the way. Gone are the days when one could go out on a free Saturday night to watch the last show of a movie with the family-not a single movie now comes without moments where you’d wish you simply disappear from your seat when that non-veg joke was cracked, or when that item number began, or worse, the actor starts doing an Emraan Hashmi. These moments, resulting in an awkward shuffling in the seat, uncomfortable silences, sudden pretence of getting a phone call, or plain staring at the feet, aren’t exactly pleasurable experiences, and are definitely not memorable! The song that just finished playing was Haule Haule from SRK’s next, Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi, and I must say, it’s a charming little number, and the music right at the start, is very catchy. Anyway, I was talking about uncomfortable situations at the movies, and one thing jumps up to mind. The last three movies I saw with Ma, Pa and Big B in a theatre, were Salaam Namaste, Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehna, and Fanaa- all of whom had their fair share of scenes which made me do one of the aforementioned, apart from the third, as I didn’t have a cell-phone then. Lucky Big B. I remember breaking into a loud laugh when Jaaved Jaffrey, in his legendary role in Salaam Namaste, commented “Short-term mammaries, huh?” (sic). I was busy laughing to notice my parents staring at me, until Big B pinched me, signalling to stop. The silence after the movie wasn’t fun, trust me. When I was watching Dostana with Lefty, I was silently very pleased that I hadn’t forced my unwritten clause at home to watch every single Karan Johar movie with the family! The film industry would like to say that they’ve matured and are making more realistic movies to explain such moments, but it pains me to think that apart from Sooraj Barjatya movies, which I wouldn’t exactly like to spend two hundred-odd rupees and three-plus hours on for crying, movies worth watching with the family are very rare nowadays. I almost feel sad that I saw Khosla Ka Ghosla alone, and Taare Zameen Par only with Big B and his friends. But, to be honest, I can’t just blame the present lot of filmmakers- Qurbani was playing the other night when Mom and I were in Noida, and I could only hum the songs while peering hard into the laptop, avoiding a scantily-clad Zeenat Aman on the television screen.

 

My playlist has gone way ahead, meanwhile, going past a haunting Mar Jawaan from Fashion, a catchy Ride It from Jay Sean’s new album, and another catchy, but rather long-drawn, Tu Hi Meri Dost Hai from Yuvvraaj. The track playing now is another nice one from Fashion, Kuch Khaas Hai. I’ve come to hear all these pretty late. I guess some of you must be wondering what I’m doing listening and talking about these now-stale songs, or just giving me that baansi khabar look! I’ve just gone past one page on Microsoft Word again, with the word count past 800 and inching towards 1000 for the third post in a row- a feat which I barely am able to complete half of, when writing for the magazine! Darn... another post which will force me to give a few hmph’s. Hmph.

 

Hope you’ve enjoyed my playlist so far- I tend to play Bollywood music at home, more diplomatic! I can’t go around playing Black Sabbath or Dire Straits at full volume, now! Plus, I love it when Mom loves a song and starts humming along- with, more often than not, the wrong lyrics! I love it, too, when my aunt says she loves listening to the music, and then falls asleep! Khuda Jaane, from, needless to say, Bachna Ae Haseeno had finished playing before Jaaniye from Dus Kahaniyaan started- bustling number, this one. Separating this into paragraphs is going to be a tough job; so is waiting for an Internet connection 40 kilometres away, to publish this. I seriously don’t know why I’m going to publish this post; I just don’t have anything better to do than type away, now! Just hope that isn’t bugging you, and preventing you from enjoying your holidays/ preparing for your exams/ doing anything else, in any way. If I have managed to waste five minutes of your precious time with my incessant blabbering, I beg your pardon, and hope to serve you, oh dear reader, better with my next offering, which considering my present frequency, shouldn’t be too far away! I think I’ll sign off now, with Kahin To Hogi Woh from Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na playing, and Phir Dekhiye queued up once again, before I set out for a good night’s sleep. So long!

 

P.S. - You might as well thank me if I’ve given you a nice song to hum for the rest of your day- or the next. Or you might as well pat yourself on the back for having heard- and hummed for a day, maybe- all of the tracks on my playlist! I wonder if this belongs on this page but can’t help typing- J .

What's in a name?

The end of another calendar year is near. Ergo, so is this blog’s first anniversary- better known as the first bloggiversary. And, less than a month before the D-day, the blog’s name has been changed as notified in the previous post but mostly ignored. Hmph. I guess that’s because I never explained the change. Well, here goes...

Yours truly was sitting in this delightfully warm room in Noida, and with the cable’s limited capability, was reduced to watching a half-hour ‘news’ report on how four friends hacked another friend to death during a drunken night out. Infotainment at its very best, one might say. Another might just throw up on him. But, one might just deftly change the channel, to a totally unintelligible Tamil channel and then decide to just shut the idiot box for good. This is exactly what I did, as I sat down to type out one of my longest posts. And, change was the thing on my mind, as I thought up more interesting about-me’s for Orkut and Facebook, and this page wasn’t spared too, as I thought ‘The Geek speaks... or rather types!’ wasn’t even a joke any of the Big Bang Theory quartet would’ve appreciated, and, Amy Lee, Shawn Michaels, The Rock, Jena Malone (who played Christopher McCandless’s sister in ‘Into The Wild’) and a few other arbit crushes and idols crossed my mind, and, the next thing I know, I have a new title for this webpage! Of course, implementing that change, and publishing that post, were 8 hours of sleep and a 4-hour flight away. But, then, after that patient wait, spent dreaming about playing the Sultans Of Swing guitar solo in front of my tenth grade batch, and reading the in-flight magazine twice over (ignoring the stupid lofty ads, of course), the changes were duly made, and they shall stand till the next change of mood comes along, ignoring peacefully the challenges posed by nostalgia, incumbency, and a fetish for choosing easily memorisable dates for occasions.

Whoa! Was that sentence long? Grammatically correct, but the structure was surely something my high-school teachers won’t be proud of. I remember telling one- my class-teacher for two years, and one of my favourites- about my blog. She did express a sense of happiness, pride, and some more emotions you would associate with teachers when you meet them after a long while. But, little curiosity was exhibited. Boy, they do know how to dodge these kinds of situations! Never once was the link to my blog asked for, and lost in conversation, I forgot to give it, too. Sad. I guess I’ll get a banner, or wear a T-shirt, to publicise my blog at my school’s alumni meet. I wonder if I’ll be kicked out unceremoniously. Or worse, not allowed to enter in the first place. But I know it’s a dead idea, anyway- I’d be too lazy and too frugal to get that T-shirt made in the first place. The Black Sabbath T-shirt, on the other hand, is a much better idea. And one I think I am going to go ahead with. Oh, in the sudden change of topic, I forgot to mention- I’ve become a huge fan of Black Sabbath over the past couple of months. But, Dire Straits still rule- Crazy Train was toppled by Brothers In Arms. Tandoori Nights, though, continues to play in the background. If loving you was wrong, I don’t wanna be right... (A highly nasal) Rabba Rabba...

 

By the way, back home, and I haven’t learnt any lessons from all my previous holidays, and continue to sit watching TV series and movies on the computer, when not fulfilling the role of Couch Potato. TV’s seen a sea change, now though. No more K-serials on Star Plus. That’s probably robbed the pleasure, and killed the routine, of many a housewife, and working ladies, too, across the country. I know this is coming very late but I had to experience the change to talk about it- and although the channel listings are full every time I press ‘Guide’ on the remote, the hole left by the removal of these serials, not just on the channel, but in our lives, is yet to be filled. Afternoons and nights aren’t the same anymore. This, of course, has given a great opportunity for the other contenders for the No.1 channel spot to rise, especially when one of them has a Balaji show running on it. But, Bani can never be a Tulsi or a Parvati. I still remember, when we’d shifted to Vizag, and had survived in a house without cable television for a few months (Jai Hanuman, Suraag and Chitrahaar were the saviours then), how everyone had a glimmer in their eyes, when they discussed Mihir’s killing-off, and subsequent bringing-back-to-life. I remember reading in newspapers, that Resident Welfare Associations (RWAs, Noida residents would prefer) had actually taken out rallies in many cities, demanding a change in the story, to bring Mihir back. Considering that, the response to this taking off air of the very same serials, has been quite muted. It’ll also be interesting to see how Smriti Z Iraani and Sakshi Tanwar (thankfully, no numerological name change for her) will come back to try and break away from the moulds of the immortal Tulsi and Parvati, respectively. And also, whether Ekta Kapoor will ever deliver something as legendary as KSBKBT and KGGK ever again- these along with KBC, have been enchanting TV viewers since their almost simultaneous release nine years ago.

Speaking of KBC, in what seems to me as an attempt to regain viewership, Star One is now telecasting ‘Legends of KBC’, a collection of classic celebrity KBC episodes. Interesting it will be, to see whether it does gather eyeballs. What has caught mine, though, are some really interesting advertisements. The Futures General insurance ad, showing how a family helps their elderly grandma blow all the candles on her birthday cake, and the new Airtel ad, with Shreyas Talpade rolling back the years with his father, manage to bring a smile to one’s face, and I consider them to be delightful ads. The new Virgin mobile ad, although not as brilliant as its predecessors, remains characteristically cheeky, and gets the point across, importantly.

 

Sigh! There goes another attempt at a short post! There goes another attempt at a good post! There goes another post... (A sigh of relief may now be let out by you without any reservations)

 

P.S.- Do check out my Orkut About Me. And the status message, too. Puhleez!

P.P.S.- Whatever the post may suggest, I liked Kahiin Kisii Roz (not sure about the spelling) the most, as I had a brief crush on Mouli Ganguly, and for the legendary Ramola Sikand. Just to clear the air, I watch F.R.I.E.N.D.S and Scrubs, mostly, nowadays.

P.P.P.S.- Kung Fu Panda is an awesome movie. Forgetting Sarah Marshall is forgettable. Memento isn’t- condition or no condition. And BBT season two is off the hook!

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.

Long time, no see...

Alright. It's been a while since I last managed to bug you with my whining, grumbling or my brilliant sense of humour. 25 days, to be precise. But, this has been a period of change for your truly. 10 days after the last post, I happened to receive my personal computer, or, if I am to indulge in some shameless bragging, my ultra-fast, uber-cool and supremely brilliant (configuration and performance-wise) personal computer. And, it's only a matter of time, before I start getting accused of lack of social activity since its arrival, which might as well be a reason for the inactivity of this very page.

Now, I wouldn't delve into a SriPri or Dela-esque post wondering why I haven't posted in a while, or a Lefty-ish post listing all the wonderful things to have occurred during this hiatus. Not that I dislike doing that; I'm just too lazy. And forgetful.

My sheer joblessness has reduced me to sitting on Chehra ka Kitaab (which always reminds me of that song from Baazigar) with no one else online, sifting between the 'Home' and 'Profile' tabs when not gawking. This, more often than not, results in either me posting, or publicising the blog. As indolent as I've been to type anything longer than a few four-line verses, I chose to do the latter. And, it has actually resulted in something positive, after all. Apart from praise, friends getting nostalgic, and a few cases of nausea, people have actually started taking interest in the blog, even recommending topics for posts. Now, here comes one which I had thought of right at the beginning of this semester before I became too involved in it to remember.

Age of Empires (AoE) had, by the end of the second semester, become quite a fad in our year, so much so that it actually became a significant parameter for the choice of hostels. But, as luck would have it, the branch-wise allotment system led to all Electrical guys being forced to set up base in Azad. But, also as luck would have it, some of the more addicted gamers in the year above ours also happened to move into Azad, resulting in the creation of a huge following and addiction for the game. When I say 'addiction', I mean it.

No meal of the day would have a non-AoE conversation. Strategies, analysis of the previous game, predictions for the next, discussions and a myriad other related things were the order of the day. Chats, even spoken conversations, would be generously littered with spatterings of GG (good game), 11 (AOE chat lingo for laughter), 8 ("All hail, King of the Losers") and other numbers and abbreviations, making normal people (like thou, for a certain period of time) rack their brains.

Now, though, with half the wing playing the game, and the other half too used to it to bother, the aura surrounding the topic has slowly dulled, the LAN installation, removal, and reinstallation being flashes in the pan.

Meanwhile, I also happened to discover that concentrating isn't a tough job. 'Spirit walks', the name stolen from a popular TV series, the idea from Paddy, is this brilliant thing I've discovered which actually lets me think about pin-point issues- an ability whose absence has been felt severely, and mostly reflects clearly in my writing, me being such a scatter-brain.

The other day, a spirit walk went a little astray, with me wandering off to the corner of Azad Bhawan, barely able to hear the chatter at Ravindra Canteen, with Bhupi's voice clearly audible in the now-chilly night air. I went up to the wall and ran my hands over the shreds of broken glass embedded in cement. The instinctive urge to touch those sharp edges surprised me. I started to think of heights, and how I feel it completely natural to imagine falling- not the part where I hit the ground, it's too gory for my fraidie-cat self- it's the idea of falling, going down with gravity, that, well, fascinates me. But, then, the crazy mind of mine began to evaluate the source of the broken glass- light bulbs, broken windows, used tumblers, and whiskey bottles! Yeah, at least all that boozing comes to some use!

Just for the record, a busy Thomso passed by in the weeks gone by, and so did an uneventful Diwali, apart from the night being lighted up by the electrifying guitar scene in one of the most legendary movies of all-time, Karzzzz (It's four Zs, according to the initial publicity promos of the movie).

P.S.- (As promised) Special acknowledgement for the Electrical kholu, for giving an idea for the first half of the post.

Eternal rain in the talkative mind

Disclaimer: The content that follows can only be described as one long-suppressed depressed whine. Any comments on the language/writing style/why-do-you-want-to-suffocate-us are unwelcome, as this is one long-suppressed, depressed whine. Any judgements about me are unwelcome, as this is one long, depressed whine. And, if I don't sound bad enough and you have managed to stay in that chair and continue reading this without controlling that primal urge to go for the Alt+F4 combination, you may read on, at your own risk, because (one last time, for good measure) this is one long-suppressed, depressed whine.

One great soul once told me, "You got a problem? Blog about it, forget it.".
This, of course, differs greatly from my not-so-great quote, "You got something good? Brag about it and don't let anyone forget it.".
But, then, I'm not a great soul, anyway. So, one wouldn't expect it from me. What one would expect from me, now, is a few, rather quite a few geeky jokes, some totally useless campus news and my views on them, and a few, rather quite a few whines.

My latest depresses period came about at the start of this semester- nothing new, just the same reasons I had some time ago (blogged about here). But, I had resolved to kill these issues with my personality off once and for all in the holidays (in December, and in July) but, to no avail. I couldn't force any of my friends to bear my depressed mumblings and I surely couldn't bug any of the so-far-very-patient seniors with that, too and thus plunged into some let's-call-it-useless activity for the past few days.

Playing Age of Empires (better known as just AoE) has become quite a fad down in Azad and, despite my repeated statements of not plunging into its elaborate plans to make me an addict, I just sat and watched the battles for hours. Playing AoE till three in the morning is bad enough, just blankly sitting, staring and asking dumb questions about it is pathetic! So, after getting quite a few rebukes for my indulgences between matches (Chatting in AoE is built for someone like me, but only if I could play and not just chat!). Then came the long hours sitting alone in the room...

You anti-social, over-idealistic nerd. You bhalu (bear). You retard. You over-talkative dumbo. You irritating...let's not go into the details, for preserving the family-reading part of this anyway-not-read page. Can't socialise. Can't drink. Can't smoke. Over-hesitant. Apprehensive about almost everything under the sun. Unrealistic. Impractical. Hypocrite. Haddu Ghissu. Argumentative. Irritating. Over-talkative...Ah, forget it!

What I've lost since coming here, and what I so miss, is that characteristic of being impuylsive, instinctive about everything. Don't think about it before, during or after it. Just get it done (avoiding the active voice for fear of copyright infringement) and forget it.
Before my instinctive answer to an invite to go out would have been "Yeah, where to?". Now, it's a highly apprehensive "Why?". Not a no, not a yes, not a when but a highly questionable why. Why? I wonder why. Where's that instinctive, impulsive, happy-go-lucky, forget-it-yaar Murty? Why do I now have to wrestle with a boring, grumpy, geeky, irritating, over-doubting, idealist Bhalu?

This was what caused my depression over the last fortnight.
This was why I posted.
Now, I'm done with it.
Now, I hope I don't sound like I'm in love- because I'm not.
Now, I hope I'm not speaking (a lot of) Greek and forcing people to up Oxford University Press' sales- because I'm not.
Now, I can continue to finish my box of Laddus, with zero regrets.
Even now, I don't like 'Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na' and still think my review- no- my VV was better than the very best.
Now, I can peacefully watch 'Into The Wild' and, maybe, decide to do a DV on it.
Now, I can stop irritating those who either ignored the disclaimer, or misunderstood it or have nothing better to do than read this.
Or, maybe, like my old self, I can continue to type on like a crazy diamond.

Ah, I feel good. I can do what I should.
Someone tell me how PTV thought of that quote right at the start of the post. How!

P.S.- If you have nothing better to say, just forget it and fulfill your desire of clicking on that red cross.

P.P.S.- Apologies to those offended by the last part. On second thoughts, Nyah na na nyah nyah!

A(n?) year wiser???

It's over now. The year they'd all talked about. Much before we came here, during the year here, and even after it's over, the first year at the insti is easily the second-most talked-about year of 'em all (after, of course, the final year). Considering the fact that most of the (very few) readers of this post are past that stage, I'm going to ignore that fact altogether and just go about typing this post the way it's supposed to be (Thanks, PTV!).

The one big truth (other than Jugad) that I've understood over the (academic) year has been that R-Land is a highly seasonal place, if you like. It all started off with the bucket-mattress-jhaadu season, moving into the books and stationery season, through to the train-ticket concession season and finally culminating in the trunk season.
Each season had its own share of controversies and it all ended with me leaving those final messages for our prospective room betas (sons, insti lingo for our successors in the room), neatly dabbed onto the very wooden doors the (!@#$%^&*) dhobi used to unforgivingly bang twice a week, on the very cupboards where all my highly palatable achaars (pickles) would have (in a very unorganised manner) been stored, on the very windows from where I'd look out into seemingly endless sky on those lonely nights...

The year gone by, also, was my first away from home but ended up with me having a home away from home in a city I loved to hate, at one point of time. But, as PTV very aptly put it, it's one lovely place- a place with no boundaries (except at KB and SB!). A place where I've met some of the most wonderful people, thanks to two of the most "rocking" (ahem...sorry for the Audio sec-sun recall!) student societies...no, the word 'society' robs them of their beauty...student families on campus and to those lush gardens in front of the hostel canteen, where I've met some of my best friends in my year.

This year also had a few pitfalls, though. The early fallout with the bevdas (drunkards), a ghastly course called Engineering Graphics, the anti-social image build-up, et al - all making it one heck of a roller-coaster ride. I supposedly missed out on two things any first-yearite (I still prefer first-year, though. 'First-yearite' makes no sense to me.) shouldn't- the KB bhawan day and the Thomsonian quiz (from a Litta point-of-view). Still, no regrets for the first and full for the second.

All in all, it's been a long year running out pretty fast.

This post goes out to all those amazing people I've met at the insti so far- THE corridor, the bull-s*itters, the batti guys, the Littas, the entire (working) Kshitij team, the all-night bakar enthusiasts, and all those who've been able to bear me- hugs and kisses to all!

In the end, though, picture abhi baaki hai, boss!!!

P.S.- My apologies for those offended by the last line.
P.P.S.- It's my second-favourite part of the post, though.
P.P.P.S- (thankfully, the blogger server crashed for those 3 hours!) THE RED DEVILS LORD OVER EUROPE! GLORY, GLORY, MANCHESTER UNITED!