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.

Of memories, milieus and minutiae

The scorching midday sun was all guns blazing in the little lawn behind my room when we decided to celebrate our but temporary emancipation from the clutches of the mid-semester tests. A few sublime goals from the Sexy Sleepy Soccer-lover (SSS), the Electrical Kholu, the Scuttling Shuttler (SS) and other mates were interspersed with some brilliant assists of my own, albeit them being for the opposition! I also scored the maximum number of own goals (three, on my last count), but even an Inter-IIT regular like SSS scored one. By the time we got tired and the others sat down to watch Terrance and Phillip fart their way to ignominy in the South Park movie as I prepared orange juice for them, it was overcast and it wasn’t too long before it started to drizzle. The sleepless nights of the weekend, and the exhaustion after the game caught up with me, though, and I dozed off.

 

The Popular Geek (PG) and Technology Expert (TE) were in my room three hours later, to wake me up after they’d taken pictures of the vestiges of the Bhawan day (described here). It had rained sporadically for the past few hours, and the petrichor was heavy in the cool breeze. Oh, I could go on and on for another rain post! It is one of those things about nature that piques you in so many ways. Rain, to me, is a harbinger of optimism, a reminder of beauty, a messenger of relief, but above all, an excuse to head off for coffee and pakodas! Sipping the hot elixir slowly, when not digging into succulent pakodas, while the rain beats down on the window panes, and the wind hisses into your ears, is an experience beyond my expressive capabilities.

 

Mumma was worried I’d be draining myself in the heat, but it isn’t the same weather as Visakhapatnam here. It isn’t raining in Bhuj in western Gujarat, either, where Papa is in the midst of making sure he visits every corner of the country. It is overcast in Delhi, I hear, but the wind blowing merrily isn’t a pretty situation in a city as dusty as the capital. If you are in R-land as you read this, I’d rather you walk out to feel what I’m trying to say here. If you aren’t, try catching one of those Tata Tea rain advertisements, which, I feel are one of the best depictions of this feeling. A similar one is an old Maruti Alto ad, but that was because of Shubha Mudgal’s enchanting voice singing “Boondon mein jaane kya nasha hai...”

***

It’s a Monday morning, and it’s an exam day. SS and I are on our way to the hall, with both of us having slept little, prepared even lesser and frantically looking for someone who knew more micro-economics than each other. But, unfortunately, we were a little late to leave, too, leaving the two of us praying for our souls. We completed the turn around the hostel gate, to emerge behind the seventh wing, between an exhibit of modern art on Ravindra Canteen’s back-wall (whose popular name has something to do with a horse) and fellow classmates jumping the fence, hurrying to catch vantage seats to make up for their preparation (or the lack of it). As we look at some of them get caught very uncomfortably in those pointed steel spears, our attention is caught by that big tree which just a month or so ago, was all empty-canopied. It now wore a most delightful coat of light violet, and so did the ground beneath it. The contrast compared to the dull yellow of the walls and the brown-tinged green of the other trees around was a sight to behold- if only we weren’t running late already. For the rest of our way, we speculated which tree it may be. Lavender is the option we sat upon at the end, but I have a good feeling it’s not that. This was precisely what I was thinking about after seeing that I had little or no clue on how to calculate the average variable cost of production for a company. Ah, the irony of (ou)R lives!

***

Thursday is a busy day this semester. Classes till one followed by practicals sixty minutes later, and a long, taxing day is rounded off by a tutorial. The only positive is that the practical gets wrapped up in less than three-quarters of an hour, and the research scholar taking the tutorial is accommodating enough (and our batch goony enough) to let us out in less than twenty minutes. The gap between the two usually ranges from thirty to forty-five minutes, spent on some days lazing around on the wooden benches of Alpahar Canteen, sipping fruit juice and eating fruit chaat at the numerous fruit-stalls near UG club on some, or in the pursuit of Frappyness at Nescafe on others.

The last choice is the most chosen one as I get to spend my wait alone on most occasions. On one such Thursday, I picked up a Frappe with the last notes in my wallet, and proceeded to pick a booth looking out to the road, as well as the other booths. It’d been an especially tiring day, and I sought to relax, pulling my legs up onto the bench in front as I searched for my headphones. A couple of middle-aged men, made their way to my booth, making me switch my legs’ position. As I turned, I could see a couple in the diagonally opposite booth coochie-cooing as they gently fed each other their patties. Two deaf-mutes were having an animated conversation, even in sign language, in the booth right in front of me. A graduate student I recognised from the Azad mess was all hurried and harried on his way to the PNB ATM just outside the Nescafe entrance. A bunch of fellow sophomores waved Hi on their way in, while on the other side of the road the Scuttling Shuttler chirped away along with the Scary Godmother. My wait was futile, but blissful nevertheless, as while this scene of humanity played before my eyes, Mark Knopfler was singing melodiously into my ears “...Everybody’s looking for somebody’s arms to fall into; That’s what it is... That’s what it is now...”

***

 

P.S.- Research Scholars (RS) are PG students, aren’t they? Not all of them are blobs, though! J

P.P.S.- The lavender incident was uncannily similar to what the female protagonist of ‘Daze of Our Lives’ in the last issue of Kshitij goes through.

P.P.P.S.- You sit and wait, think it’s futile, and move on. Then, out of the blue, your wait is ended in the blink of an eye, but the sight somehow remains with you for a long, long time! All hail persistence of vision! By the way, try giving “Turn! Turn! Turn!” by The Byrds a hear.

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.