The tradition lives on...

Another set of mid-semester examinations is upon us, meaning it’s been another week full of coffee, gossip, joblessness and, of course, frantic attempts to make some good out of those tests. Speaking of joblessness, R-land has been unbelievably active on Facebook, and not to mention, the preferred activity being those random quizzes that have invaded our Home pages. The conversations in the midnight rendezvous at the canteen earlier used to be the usual “Are these the subjects I really want to study?”, “I should’ve gone to Delhi or Bombay...” or the omnipresent “I want to get committed!”. Thanks to the aforementioned recent developments, these bakar sessions now sound a little different. “What should be your real job?”. “Which city are you/ should you be living in?”. “What is the first letter of the person you will fall in love with?”. For goodness’ sake, even “Which street animal are you?” (I am supposed to be a mangy cur). Facebook was nice and addictive when I first picked it up, but it was the social networking part which made it fun. Poking friends, commenting on their albums, following their status messages- you got to know these people so much better. These quizzes claim to add to the same, but do they? Who’s bothered if I’m a gamma function or an exponential function, or if you’re a stiletto or a pair of sneakers. You can lie your way to becoming a nice bovine creature on the city roads, or boast about an emotional quotient of 138, or claim you’re a real-life equivalent of Charlie Brown’s cousin, and get a handful of guesses as to who your love’s going to be when his/her name begins with an M (which, by the way, every second person seems to be getting). But is that what I really want to know about people? If you say you’re involved in them as just another activity to bide time, I’m OK with it. If you think it helps you connect with people better, I seriously begin to wonder ‘How?’. As insignificant as it may be here, I’d like to ask Mr. Zuckerberg to ponder over this and the suggestion of reverting to the old Home page.

 

Meanwhile, blogging is now officially a fad on campus. So much so that Kondy’s April Fools’ prank involved one, and was quite a rage, might I add! First posts now gather comments I can’t dream of, and cheap publicity is the norm. The new monthly newspaper, YouthZilla, in their coverage of this phenomenon, asked some chips from the old block why they blogged, and what keeps them going. I got that e-mail, too. Pity I couldn’t reply in time. Do read that article for Sushi’s awesome reply. As I surfed through my chat list and found links to at least half a dozen blogs as status messages, I was reminded of my humble beginnings in the blogosphere.

 

My blog began as my vent for all that I couldn’t speak thanks to lack of time/ space/ cooperative audience. But, as the sands of time flowed down, I realised it was much more. It was an endoscope into those great recesses of my mind, a vent- not for arbitrary chatter- but for anything that’s stimulated me , and, of course, a chance to keep writing regardless of my work (or the lack of it) for the magazine. I realised today, that sometime in November 2012, when I’d be a dapper 22-year-old with a mortarboard for headgear and a scroll in hand, there’d be one place I’d look to recount all those little things that made life in the insti as special as it was, and this page would be it- unblemished by time, untampered by opinions, unhampered by incidents to follow- pure as that first drop of rain. After all, as AP so poignantly says, beauty lies in the minutiae.

 

P.S.- All the very best to Dela and Prondu for the Tata Crucible National Finals. I wish the Grandmaster’s legacy passes on to you.

P.P.S.- For all those who're reading this before Sunday, best of luck for the tests. You seem to need it.

Only buy Rainbow-brand locks

A mushroom burger is being greedily dug into, when its beholder is rudely disturbed by Klaus Badelt's "He's a Pirate" ringing away shamelessly from his cellphone. I pick up the phone, to be gleefully informed by Dela that efforts were underway to break open my lock, and ransack my room. I slip the phone back into my pocket slowly, and after finishing off the burger like only a first-order glutton can, imagine the horrors possibly being inflicted upon my abode. The bland yellow walls may be adorned in Pepsodent toothpaste, the sober floor in water and leftover Holi colours, the bed rummaged beyond recognition with my very own clothes, which would probably need another dose of ironing. This was going to be bad. I gulped, made a call to Mom, and ordered a Tooti-Frooti. A decently full stomach would probably help digest the carnage better, I thought.

Bhawan days are inappropriate names given to hostel nights, where the hostel celebrates its annually-changing birthday, apparently. Azad's 2009 edition was ebulliently named "Jai Ho!", and two huge flexes were put up to inform passers-by of the same. The guy who suggested the name got a 2-gigabyte USB drive. Talk about the lame game! Now, some years ago, when the whole idea of such gigs was mooted, some over-excited hooligans probably decided to make the occasion even more memorable by decorating the rooms of the residents, like the rest of the Bhawan is. Now, they quite possibly couldn't have found confetti, colourful lights and other such decoratives and thus, very ingeniously, decided to do so with whatever they could find on the spot- boot polish, toothpaste, markers, soaps and shampoo gladly obliged. This tradition went on smoothly, with most finding it less thuggish and more cool, leading to it becoming an integral part of such occasions' celebrations, apart from getting facials and manicures, giving good ol' Govinda's dressing sense some stiff competition, embarrassing oneself on stage, and openly flaunting one's relationship status/ popularity quotient.

AP came along as I trudged back to my room, to offer me moral support in case I broke down on seeing my room's probable condition. I'd made Dela a worried call before we left Civil Lines for my room, and it didn't sound good at all. To be precise, it sounded bad. Real bad. I reached the beginning to my corridor to see debris of a wall scattered in front of my room, floating in the quickly-evaporating coloured water. I took a deep breath, gathered all my courage and mental strength and took heavy steps towards G-104, to find a world of colourful messages on my door. The lock wasn't broken- the room wasn't opened! I heaved a sigh of relief, shouted at the top of my voice and jumped high into the air, exchanging triumphant high-fives with it. Just to make sure, I went around to the other side, to check if that side was broken into, and the answer was negative again! AP went back, and I continued jumping around cock-a-hoop. Coming back to my senses, I came around to reading all that was written on and around my door. My eyes went to the left at the very end, where in an emboldened box, was written with Life boy soap and a Reynolds marker- "Read this first: If we don't get into your room, then nobody does!"...

A master in need, is a baster indeed. Thank you, Dela, for finally deciding to go to the hallowed city of Chandigarh, again.

P.S.- It is a bloody brilliant lock. Sorry, again, for the broken hammer, Scuttling Shuttler.

P.P.S.- I know who was and who wasn't there. Thanks for the heads-up, all the same, everybody.

Footnote- A baster in need, is a master indeed.

(Late edit) 1:22 p.m. A ten-rupee note, a classy application and a loud, valiant battle later, I'm finally back to G-104. Thank you, again, Dela. Also, thanks to the Sassy Sage for pen, paper and green paper.

Cloud my judgement

I’ve just bunked another Power Electronics lecture as nonchalantly as ever, walking out of the Electrical Department making sure I don’t step on that wet cement near the North entrance gate. There’s a slight drizzle as I and the PJ Poet take slow, short strides, breathing in deep to take in the wonderful petrichor. AP is spotted just outside Alpahar canteen, and I wave Hi and ask him to join us. We bid PJP goodbye near Nescafe, to look for a hot cup of coffee to sip slowly, while walking and chatting about 42, as the rain slows down further, but the breeze picks up steadily, now becoming a swirling cool wind. The lights are out, so back to Alpahar we were. Some patient waiting in the crowd to order, and a few minutes later, a plate of pakodas, a coffee, and a bun samosa gave us company in our search for a dry bench and table.

 

Half an hour later, I’m on my way back to Azad, cursing my luck for my direction being the same as that of the gleefully uptight wind. I walk in to my room, lunge for the laptop and am lost in Mark Knopfler again.

That's what it is... That's what it is now...

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!

Le terres de sommeil

We'll be off to Delhi in a few minutes from now; me for the second time in four days. The last trip had the experience of a lifetime- something I must post about sooner rather than later. But, it was no ordinary run through the capital- it was a walk of life in the place where we used to live, through the tunnels of love, past private investigations, culminating in two songs on the city, which I hummed all through that fateful Sunday. I thought I'd miss R-land, and be longing for the warmth and comfort of my three pillows in G-104, but Flats 173- A to F, Paschim Vihar had something else in mind. And that's precisely why irony happens to be my favourite literary device, even with all my love for metaphors, alliteration and onomatopoeia.

I've just come back to earth after a marathon session reading the original Purple Cow, and am genuinely overwhelmed by the man's greatness. He's been blogging for about four years, now, leaving us blessed with scores of bites of heaven to browse through, and, boy, is it divine, or what! Leaves you wondering if practice can make you perfect, no matter how subjective the term may be.

We should be on a bus now, on our way to the capital. But, sleep is seductive. Sleep is sensuous. Ah, sleep is unrelenting. Sleep has too much in common with Chandramukhi! Sleep seems to be casting its spell upon me, now. Trinkle after trinkle of those silver anklets...

P.S.- No, Kondy. I did recall the phrase rather than looking it up on Google again.

Of big cats and rotting dogs

It’s amazing how sometimes you discover the most amazing things around very late. I discovered Sultans of Swing to be my favourite song after almost a year and a half in R-land, almost four years after I really got into English music. Another such example sits comfortably on a plank, balanced on the chair in front of me. I came to know of Tiger biscuits’ magic only in eleventh grade- at least a decade after it reached the peak of its popularity, not putting down its popularity now. At four bucks a packet, it is almost insanely cheap for a most satisfying snack. I just went by to the canteen to buy five such packs. For a change, after almost a full six months, I went to the cooler to fill a bottle of water, too. I’m finally living in my room. Now, all I need to do is pick up those fat books and start preparing for classes- I’ve been nothing short of atrociously poor this semester, and that isn’t saying much considering how bad my last four-monther was.

 

It’s also amazing that when you discover some amazing things or people at the right time, they don’t seem to last too long. I met Kaptaan only in the latter half of my first year here, and he left, finally, at the end of that eventful year. The friendship, respect, awe, fun and frolic those four months brought are some of my most cherished memories from the insti so far. Awe was the word for Njan Van Kalip and ARK- two of the most complete people I’ve ever met. It’s another even semester- meaning in a little over hundred days from now, many people I’ve bonded so brilliantly with shall be packing their bags for that hubbub that is the world, leaving behind memories I’ll always associate them with...

 

He was the first one who said to me that he actually liked reading my blog- for it was idiosyncrasy personified! He passed on so many legendary tales from his long time here- of people raising the bar high into the sky, of buildings going from zilch to zenith, and of incidents that had shaped what is status quo. He introduced me to corners of the insti I never imagined seeing, and to a plane of thinking I thought existed only in books and sages. Above all, he was great fun to hang out with. And I hope I gave him some useful advice myself. Best part- fellow Man United fan! Ole to that! To quote Douglas Adams with a Haddu touch,so long, ra, and thanks for all the fish!

 

P.S.- CBRI canteen rocks!

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!