Mental Notes

I keep telling myself I should read more. Right after I finished India After Gandhi, I was convinced that reading the footnotes, and at least some of the sources mentioned therein, had to be my objective for the next few months. The rigours of a rat race are imperiously impatient, though, unlike my insolent indolence, so that resolution got dusty pretty quickly.

I was lucky enough to have got at least 15 or more books, though, as part of a course on leadership -  and just about not lazy to have started reading a few of them. The ideological war raging inside Hugo's head in Sartre's Dirty Hands was intriguing - and led me to a long night spent on the Encylopaedia Britannica page for World War I. I couldn't finish a quarter of it before I eventually crashed - the link lies in my long read-it-later list of links that I keep intending to read later, along with a cumulative total of 136 e-mails across three Gmail accounts.

I also managed to finish reading the delightful The Little Prince. Many of my much better-read friends (Yes, Rapu and Kitty, you are right on top of that list) wondered what took me so long to get my hands on it, but I think there was no perfect time to read a book described as "a children's book for adults", what with aforementioned cynicism raising its resilient head ever so often through the dying winter.

The holidays after college and before work afford way too much free time. I've dozens of books I've wanted to read, and another dozen my father wants me to - not to mention most of the stack that I'd bought with that first stipend in Roorkee. But these holidays are eerily similar to those after the first year in R-land - eating, sleeping and a mad urge to learn a programming language even after it being proven a million times that I'm as out of my depth at coding as one David Moyes at Old Trafford.

So, reading must wait until I'm convinced that the only reason I'm trying to learn said programming language is so that I can make the many jokes hiding in the endeavour to be an articulated Python. (Ugh.)

At least I'm not lazy enough to rant about it. For the second time on this blog.
I keep telling myself I should write more...

P.S. - That alliteration was verily verbose, rambunctiously redundant, ineptly ineffective and... you get the point.

Demented

Mentor.

The “word of the day” mails I got every day for a few years in Roorkee (without solicitation) threw up a few gems every once in a while. The one which said the word of the day was the one above was particularly interesting.

Actors act, curators curate, and orators orate. But doctors don't doct, victors don't vict, and pastors don't past. Such is the English language. And we certainly don't want ancestors to ancest, traitors to trait, or gators to gate.
This week A.Word.A.Day will feature five people, real and fictional, whose names may appear to be derived from a verb form, but aren't. Mentors, for example, don't ment, though that doesn't prevent people from forming nouns such as 'mentee' and verbs like 'to mentor'.

Mentors don’t ment. That made me chuckle.

***

I’m yet to investigate the whys and hows of it, but a lot of people love their hand to be held as they walk, both literally and metaphorically. Having been unknowingly led through school by my brother, and through everything else by my mother, Roorkee was to be a profound shock.

The walk to Ganga Canteen from the Senate Steps after the first Kshitij meeting was about all it took, though, for me to be mented again. I think it was the following conversation that sealed it for me.

Me (after about 30 minutes of chitchat about what books we read): So, what’s your CGPA?
AP: 7.6-something. I’d have liked it to be higher. I’m sure that makes no difference to you, does it?
Me: None. When you told me the number, I just said “OK.” in my head.
AP: Hehe, I did that one year ago, I think.

***

Winter of 2009. Lefty had just bagged an internship with an FMCG major. There was this other firm he interviewed with, too, he was telling me. Some acronym that reminded me of the tuberculosis vaccine.

As was wont, then, I glided to F-61, Ravindra Bhawan. AP was in one of his more cynical moods, I think.

“Just think about it, Murty. Six or seven years at the very top of India’s educational cesspool, and you want to be selling soap at the end of it?”

***

Actors act, and orators orate. Doctors don’t doct, mentors don’t ment. Meanwhile, on a surprisingly chilly February morning, here I was.

“… So, you see, sir, a brand is a promise. It should be the aim of the marketer to ensure this promise doesn’t go unfulfilled.”

Your Move

I suck at chess. And as fate would have it, I happen to routinely run into and befriend too many people who don't. My brother gleefully checkmated me for a good ten years before I made it to college, where Pandu continued to do the honours, if only on his computer and not with one of those magnetic chess pieces. Further west from R, my dorm currently houses a guy who holds an ELO rating almost good enough to complete one of the requirements for an IM norm. I've been wise enough not to chalenge the last of those buggers, but while frequent encounters with my brother and Pandu left me baffled, obviously, I didn't fail to stump my opponents, too. For someone they didn't mind considering fairly bright and one who could get the game, my performances were quite surprising. I'd often challenge them, in response, to a rapid game, with less than 30 seconds fr each move. My win-loss record registered at least some non-zero entries in the first column, and it wouldn't be too hard for me to connect the dots.
I loved playing chess - making moves and waiting for their results was the fun part - not evaluating one of the myriad possibilities for the fourth move after the current one! This spur-of-the-moment, zero-response-time, all-action approach won few games, but was fun while it lasted. The only learning I thus got was from moves or patterns seen in past games, which rarely mattered when I played moves that were never to be repeated impulsively again!

I remembered this aberration in thought games when I wrote the very first words of this little piece. I had no plan for where it was supposed to go. While I knew the result would be something like this, the path was uncharted.
Hell, come to think of it - I think it was this very approach that's brought me to the two colleges I've been to. I'm really hoping that I'm not castling blithely while life watches on with a knowing shrug.

The Pursuit of Happiness

Literature, cinema, art, music and all such forms of entertainment have one thing in common – they’ve created abstract concepts out of ostensibly simple-sounding words like love, friendship, hatred and many others, that’re now seemingly impossible to achieve in a normally-led life. They’ve introduced similes and metaphors that shape an average Aditya’s existence, shadowing his own individuality, moulding his experiences into a cast that is chiselled invariably by what he and his surroundings read, watch or listen to.

Take, for example, the case of an arbitrary lady, say, Lata. Lata’s in her final year of college, and on a fine Saturday morning she can’t see for herself in an air-conditioned interview room, she’s being offered her first permanent job. Lata’s going to be earning money soon enough, to be financially independent, to buy her parents a lovely anniversary gift, to occasionally splurge on a fancy three-course meal – and all that comes with an overriding sense of achievement she’s been continually stimulated to feel. She updates her Facebook status triumphantly – “XYZ and Co., it is!”, with a cheeky “feeling accomplished” emoticon added alongside for good measure. But is that long sigh she let out when exiting that room not her true feeling? Is that long-delayed, well-earned nap not what she’s most looking forward to? Pardon me for putting it mathematically, but isn’t the value of Lata’s relief much greater than the net present value of her sense of future accomplishment?

Perhaps I’ve taken young Lata’s case a little too seriously. But, for a long time, this question remained unanswered to me – when we claim to have fallen in “love”, experience a true bond of friendship or lay other claims of having realised these abstractions, were we subconsciously just achieving imitations of the same abstractions as they were in pop culture? When Lata felt accomplished, was she just trying to put herself in Aamir Khan’s place in “Papa Kehte Hain”? When the average Aditya falls in ishq-waala love, is he acting out a cinema-induced fantasy?

Ever since I'd read enough books, saw enough movies and heard enough music to realise I might’ve been guilty myself of not really expressing my own unique emotions in this manner, my consciousness of this apparent reality troubled me. Thankfully, over the last couple of years, I’ve been lucky enough to have had experiences that have let me realise the true existence of these abstractions. For years, I could never muster a camera-worthy smile. But, after a torrid last few months in Roorkee, as I returned home to a welcoming brother and relieved parents, I smiled the widest of smiles as the full force of happiness stretched my lips and pulled my cheeks up to the eyes! After a day of classes that had me gaping at how much there is to know, and a moonlight night walking the plaza we lovingly call LKP, I was truly amazed. A few months later, back on thelawns of that other great institution, with friends who’d managed to grad me through the aforementioned torrid final year in R – let’s just put it simply – I was happy. Hatred? I’d rather not have that force blinding me. And on a night that saw a phone call which could’ve gone on forever, there was love.

Friendship, you ask? Just three guys and a lady, minus the one charmer who’d stayed back home, making some boiled beans in a dirty Paris apartment, lying down to have it with some bread and the music of the masters. It often really is as simple as that.

The raw strength of these abstract concepts lies not in their glorified abstraction, but in their ability to manifest themselves uniquely in each and every one of us. After all, it's for a good reason that one famous document used the words life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness in the same phrase.

Be A Man

Most parents warn you about being committing too much heart to things. The exuberance of adolescence rarely gives way to sagely restraint, but that is the fine tightrope to adulthood that parents guide you on quite like how China's young gymnasts are trained.

Mine, though, had a slightly different take on that. One evening in Roorkee, Ma was examining the lack of inflection in my voice. “You just spoke for thirty seconds about a quiz and your voice was so low. What happened to your passion? Don't you scream and fight at those anymore?” While I brushed off those suggestions quickly, it did worry me. While dermatologists may say it's that worrying that's got me the garden of greys on my scalp now, I'd like to think it was the lack of passion that was the catalyst.

Passion defines most childhoods; gives rise to meaningful memories, and consequently, direction on the paths we all must take. Logically, too, if restraint is the sign of maturity, passion is the mark of a child, who lest we forget the cliche, is the father of man. No one said maturity was. I guess that's the path my parents were putting me on.

***

After the dust and dirt of the Chatrier and Lenglen, the most heartening fact of the tennis calendar – more for the fans than for the players – was that it was only three weeks till the Championships began in Wimbledon. The sports buffs that my big brother and I were, we tuned in religiously for years. The late 90s saw Pete Sampras set fire to the grass with those booming serves and blazing forehands, but he preferred to walk the walk, rather than talk the talk. Andre Agassi, too, had grown in maturity (at the cost of his once-bountiful mane) and did the same. Tim Henman was as British as one could get in London, and Pat Rafter's Australian was left Down Under, as the only tenacity he showed was in those fearless charges to the net. It was left to the occasional showmanship of Goran Ivanisevic, earning him much love at SW19, but one highlights reel, watched with devout diligence before the Championships one year, gave us a sense of shock at the order of change in players' nature on court. Jim Courier's anger, so cold and acidic one wondered if it was almost planned, wasn't spared even with the umpires. A few years before that, while Bjorn Borg coolly flashed the lines and ticked the corners of the court, John McEnroe would come down raining thunderously at the net and the linesmen with equal vigour. You cannot be serious became a catchphrase uttered with great vengeance and furious anger by us even at gully cricket games. The gentlemanship on show by the masters of the 90s, and the dominance in the 2000s by the implacable, impeccable Roger Federer, made one wonder if a visible, voluble expression of passion for the game was dying. There were few arguments with linespeople, forget other players. Amity had gotten the better of enmity, but did it come at the expense of a lesser love for winning? Well, that was proven wrong by Herr Federer's breakdown after losing to Nadal in 2008 by his tears, but where was the anger? Was it a generational change that I was supposed to conform to?

***

18 years ago, a man who was to be named Crystal Palace's Player of the Year a few months later, was snapping at Manchester United's talisman, Eric Cantona's heels relentlessly, quite literally. The little kicks (not quite different from these) went unnoticed by the referee, but were not forgotten by Le Roi. As champions and the most hated team in the land, United weren't going to be given any mercy or consideration by opposition players, fans or even referees, and as the attack on his feet to stifle his genius continued, the captain of the team could take no more.After yet another foul on him, though spotted by the linesman, was not given by the referee, he replied with a petulant kick back. This was noticed by the officials, and a swift red card was handed out. The Frenchman was seething with anger, as those policing the sport he loved with an intensity matched only by his manager, were doing no justice to their cause. He left straightaway though, knowing he'd broken the laws of that very sport, but even as he trudged off, the night wasn't to end there. On his way back, a man with a history of violence, lawlessness and reckless behaviour, steamed down to the hoardings below from his eleventh row seat, and threw some of his choicest expletives at the departing Frenchman – the much-maligned English xenophobia shining through his ill-judged outburst. Cantona could take no more. His sport, his art was being bullied out of the stadium – he couldn't let his dignity and self-respect take the same treatment. The passionate child in him couldn't let that happen.

He launched into a kung-fu kick that got him a eight-month ban, and United never recovered from the shock of his loss, drawing that particular match, and losing the League title a few months later from an imminently winning position.

I wasn't there at Selhurst Park that night, nor did I watch that match live on TV. But reading just an account of that in a BBC report many years later, put that surge through my body that only a true passion can give. Did his passion lead to his downfall or did it create a man unstoppable? Well, although we'd like to think it's the former, the man himself has a slightly different opinion.

***

Thank you, Eric Cantona, for lighting up our lives through the art of your football, but more importantly, for re-emphasising what it means to be a man.

Chinna-Chinna Aasai

Another blank HR form for some firm that wouldn't shortlist me thanks to my abysmal academic credentials in college lay staring at me; not really begging to be filled straightaway. Despite the multitude of things to be done on my things-to-do list (making one such list was on my things-to-do list; this is an infinite mirror loop), Parkinson’s law usually puts paid to the hope of doing anything substantial until last-minute panic takes over. Yet, as I scrolled down perfunctorily, a question the likes of which I had seen before when  scrolling down perfunctorily, caught my eye. 

“Please paste page 221 from your 300-page autobiography.”

While what I wrote in said moment of last-minute panic was some far-fetched story of changing the face of Indian sport and selling a few colas while at it, all I could really think of was the following murder of sensible literature.

They weren't exactly sofas per se. Cushions met at the corner of the room, making a cosy L-shape. The wall-sized windows above opened to hazy winter sunlight. Curled up in a quilt, next to the morning’s mutilated newspaper whose Sudoku had been finished in less time than it took to make the tea in the mug next to the aforementioned paper, I neatly took off the plastic covers, smelled the familiar scent of a paperback, and lost myself.

Remember that bit about living for your dream and a pocketful of gold? I'm yet to find that silver lining.

Jackfruit and tender coconut

“We’re going to have Naturals ice-cream. Not now, though. The wait will only make it sweeter. Crossword, then?”

Through the incessant pitter-patter on the plexi-glass roof covering our heads, I managed to get a nod through. The bruschetta and ensuing lasagne still bore their vestiges in my throat, and the taste of my first mocktail was still on the tip of my tongue. Dessert could wait.

Up in the bookstore, she wandered off far away from the bestsellers section, where I wondered what the latest mockery of overly-righteous reviewers’ predictions was. Hearing a call from shelves well out of my sight, I found her crouched near a rack taller than me.

“This is the one Ayn Rand book I haven’t read, you know. Never found it in the neighbourhood bookstore.”

“It’s supposed to be her most passionate set of essays, as I understand. If you thought The Fountainhead was intense, wait till you pick this up.”

“Oh, so you liked it?”

“Erm… I kinda, sorta, haven’t, ummm, read it.”

“Oh. Oh, OK. Confound it. Wodehouse section. You may do better there. Chop chop."

It happened, Lefty. Right before United Café.