Well, I'm Off

With due apologies to John Denver - both for toying with his lyrics and mangling the metre to satisfy the ryhme scheme. (Original lyrics)

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go
My landlord's standing outside my door
I've paid the sweeper, car cleaner and the bai

It's coming on twilight, a new night is born
But the taxi's waitin', he's blowin' his horn
It suddenly seems too soon to say goodbye

Some'll miss me, or cry for me
But those who've heard a million jokes from me
Are probably glad to let me go :)

'Cause I'm leaving on a jet plane
It'll be a year before I'm back again
Oh, I've waited so long to go...

I've grown to love this crazy town
Finally found my feet, achieved some renown
Suddenly, now, these don't mean a thing

Every place I go, I experience anew
Every sight I see, I find fresh too
When I come back, my heart will once more sing

The last kisses, and smiles I see
Hugs and back slaps aplenty
She holds me like she'll never let me go

'Cause I'm leaving on a jet plane
It'll be a year before I'm back again
Oh, Gurgaon doesn't seem so bad anymore...

Now the time has come to leave India
And in spite of all said in the media
I can't wait to begin life in Sydney

I dream about the days to come
LOTS of travelling (and then some!)
And a whole new work culture awaits me

Oh, this confusing duality
This world that'll wait for me
And that one that's a distant land no more

'Cause I'm leaving on a jet plane
It'll be a year before I'm back again
And my spirits swing high and low

And I'm leaving on a jet plane
It'll be a year before I'm back again
Oh, I'm off to foreign shores

Yes I'm leaving on a jet plane
It'll be a year before I'm back again
What the future holds, who knows...

Sometimes, little things can make one happy...

...like watching a couple of really nice videos. Videos that are simple, beautiful, joyous, life-affirming. Here are a couple that have recently made me feel much better about life.

One

An old(ish) advertisement, one that warmed my heart and lifted my mood when I first watched it. I came across it again on Mercury's blog, and its effect was exactly the same. The catchy tune, the visuals, the sheer energy of the piece seeks to remind one that there is so much beauty in the world, so much to wonder and marvel at...



Two

This one brought an instant smile to my face. For almost the entire duration of the video, I watched, mesmerized, with a goofy grin on my face and thoughts of how beautiful life and happiness can be swirling through my mind. I wish life was filled with moments like these... or at least that I could be part of something so great, even if only as a spectator.

23rd March, 2009 began as a regular day at Antwerp Central Station. Trains came and went, people streamed in and out, and announcements droned on. Suddenly, as an announcement faded away, music began to play over the loudspeakers, taking all the commuters by surprise. Some were confused, some wondrous, some ignored it. And then...

My baby just turned one!

I took her out to celebrate, bought her some stuff (she looks so beautiful decked up), went on a long drive... just a little private time together to convey to her how much she means to me and how important a part of my life she is.

Yup, my car is now one month old. And boy, do I love her.

There's something incredibly special about the first major investment one makes with one's own, hard-earned money. The sheer exhiliration, the thrill, the oh-my-god-I'm-so-grown-up feeling. And the insane attachment to the object. Buying her in my second month of employment resulted in my bank balance becoming very dangerously low, but I didn't care. I'm probably going to sell her a year or so from now when I move out of Gurgaon, but she'll always be special. There'll always be a little corner of my heart where will nestle an image of my Alto.

She isn't particularly remarkable in terms of looks; there are a million others just like her across India. But she'll always be the most beautiful of them all to me.

Some of my friends refer to their cars/bikes as their mistresses or girlfriends (which allows for corny dialogues like "I was riding her last night"), but for some inexplicable reason I view my car as a daughter. A little kid who has brought new meaning, a new emotional focus to my life, someone who I will nurture as she grows older and her wide eyed innocence (silky smooth gearshift, lovely suspension) meets the big bad world (potholes, pollution, maniacal drivers). Someone who, in just a matter of minutes, can make me forget my worries and strifes. Some who, without a single word, can cheer me up when I'm down. Someone to come home to (or with) after a hard day's work.

As she grows older, she will begin to rebel. She'll acquire a mind of her own, one that simply will not listen to what I have to say. She'll grumble and whine and be difficult. And someday, she'll leave me and go to someone else, someone who will become the new center of her life. But I'll always love her.

Happy Birthday, baby.

Memories

Memories slay me. Completely, totally. And try as I might, I can't block them or reconcile myself to the fact that they are just that, memories. I find myself succumbing ever so often to those memories. Of times when I was more secure, when life was less complicated and one had people who cared and who one cared about nearby, when I was in a better place literally and figuratively. We all move on, adapt, live life as we have to, but we always carry along memories of what was, what could have been, what one wishes could have been... and try to come to terms with the fact that the past, beautiful as it was, will never be back. For a while we let our minds drift back to those times, those faces. We allow ourselves to clutch at straws, consider improbable what-if scenarios, hope against hope. And then, once we calm down and learn to accept reality, we build mental barriers to carefully file away what was strictly in the past, and concentrate on the present and the future...

I thought I had accepted reality. I thought my defences were in place. But they are no match for the flood of memory. Closure, in so far as I had achieved it, has been shattered in an unsettlingly easy manner.

People, places, emotions, experiences. Some of them, I took for granted and never accorded the special status in my mind and heart they deserved. Others, I assumed naively would either be with me throughout my life, or could be dealt with easily when they ceased to be a part of my life. News flash, rude shock, slap in the face. All this while, I thought I was a guy of reasonable emotional stability, only to be reduced to a quivering mass of nothingness by a few mere words, a few images, a few short flashes of buried memories. A phone call out of the blue, a short meeting, an 'Online' status on GTalk, a jpg file dug up from the distant past, a sudden and unexpected Instant Message...

Some things, one thinks will be easy to let go of. Maybe. Over time, one expects they become a little manageable. But one brief glimpse is all it takes for the carefully built walls around a memory to collapse, leaving one weak and vulnerable and open an attack of nostalgia, love, remorse, hatred and all the surprisingly strong emotions one had thought were dead or buried for good.

All those cliches about the past are crap.

"Forgive and forget"? Crap.
"The past is gone, ne'er to return"? Crap.
"Out of sight, out of mind"? Crap.
"Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all"? Crap.

That funny little thing called Love...

I've been thinking... and no, that was not meant to be a joke. I admit my cognitive faculties have wasted away over the last couple of months that I've been at home, but these faculties have dimmed only in the context of financial calculations, economics, operations management and all the other stuff I've spent the last two years studying. In matters of human interest and general ruminations on emotion, worldly ties and life, the brain remains as active as ever.

Hence, this post. What's caused me to think rather more deeply than usual about love is, firstly, this post by Nirmal and, secondly, the astonishingly large number of marriages and/or alliances being formed in my immediate social circle. A very large number of my friends are engaged or are going to be engaged. A number of weddings of dear ones have taken place since April, and a very close friend's marriage is up next in a couple of weeks. In the last three days, three of my cousins have taken a decision on who to marry and when. The maamis seem to be in cracking form.

What makes two people decide they want to spend the rest of their lives together? In this context, I'm not going to consider arranged marriages. The criteria for the decision in these cases is usually based on
- Caste
- Social status
- The education and employment status of the two
- The looks
- A few brief, hurried meetings between the two

At least, this is what my impression is from what I've seen of friends' and family weddings. The families decide the acceptability and appropriateness of the union, and if the horoscopes align and the brief discussion between the potential couple doesn't throw up any nasty surprises, compatibility is assumed. Love, as a concept, is never a consideration. It will come, it will grow, it will happen with time, is the sage prediction. And yeah, that's how it usually happens.

But what about the good old, somewhat filmy, boy-meets-girl (or the equally acceptable girl-meets-boy; no one better accuse me of gender bias!), fall-in-love, get-married story? I find this to be the predominant form of marriage among those that have occurred over the past few months. IIMA seems to be a great place to find your soulmate; several batches would testify to that. These couples found what they believed was love, an emotion that gave them the security and faith in their togetherness, and that helped them take that big decision to spend the rest of their lives together.

What is love? I don't know. Each person probably has his own definition. I could count the number of people I can say I love on the fingers of one hand. Even if that hand were to be missing a finger or two.

Love is, to me, something almost unattainably elusive. It is, at its base, rather simple but finding it (or, perhaps, allowing it to find you?) is what is complex. Love is, to me, not a trivial emotion, not something to be bandied about freely. It is a rare emotion, straddling the stratospheric heights of our strongest feelings, our most personal emotions, in touch with our wants, our needs, our inadequacies and insecurities, our self-image, our very humanism. Love has the power to change us, to make us feel whole again. I think Jack Nicholson's character in As Good As It Gets captures the essence beautifully when he proclaims his love with the line "You make me want to be a better man." A pithy statement, phenomenally expressive. Yes, love can have that kind of effect. Yet, at the same time, it can crush us, making us emotional wrecks, mere shells of our former selves. At times, the sheer force of love and how it affects us makes the emotion almost insupportable, making us wonder why we loved at all if it was going to cause so much pain.

George Eliot said, "What greater thing is there for two human souls that to feel that they are joined... to strengthen each other... to be at one with each other in silent unspeakable memories." I could never hope to be as eloquent, but I understand and agree with the sentiment of those words. There is a certain selflessness and surrender involved in love. And not in the silly, mushy and idiotically sappy way portrayed in most movies and books. These love stories are travesties. I find them portraying a parody of love, some infantile romanticized version of love. Love is not necessarily about roses and kisses and promises and saying 'I Love You'. Love, if recognized and appreciated by both parties, doesn't needs words or objects. These are mere symbols, a means of relatively explicit expression which should not in any way be taken as a substitute for the emotion itself. Nevertheless, these symbols must be used sincerely and carefully. 'I Love You' is probably the phrase that must be used with more caution that any other (with the possible exception of 'Kick me in the groin'), since for a person who is sincere it carries an immense weight of emotion and expectation. These are not words I would use lightly, and not words I would want anyone to use lightly in my context. I have seen friends hopping from one girl/boyfriend to another like insatiable butterflies, all the while claiming that they were in love during the relationship but not afterwards. It sickens me, it pains me. In our quest to find a kindred soul, be it due to loneliness or simply social/peer pressure, we tend to assume attraction, lust, perhaps even a mere flirtation might be love. That isn't being in love. That is being in love with the idea of love.

I'll be frank, I don't know where this post is going, or where it was meant to go. I just had a lot of these thoughts jostling for space in my small, over-emotional, slightly romantic brain... and needed to get them out. Lots of thoughts and memories... People I knew who I thought were perfect for each other, but whose relationship crumbled. Friends whose dreams of love followed by Happily Ever After were brutally crushed due to parental insistence on orthodoxy. Laziness and vodka fuelled discussions on life and love... rushing through the 'Eww girls are icky' stage of early schooling to the wonderfully exploratory (emotionally/physically) stage of adolescence to the mature and relatively level headed and balanced emotions of manhood...

Will I end up spending my life with a person I truly love? Probably not. In fact, I don't expect I will. Perhaps most of you reading this will not. But will I experience love? I live in hope. There will come a day when it will crush me, I am sure. And that day, I will rue the moment I allowed myself to love. But, as the popular verse goes, it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

Blast from the past

It's strange, the way one is sometimes brought face to face with one's past when one least expects it. I don't mean it in an ominous, cimematic sense, like a situation where a person enters a restaurant and suddenly sees the son of a man he murdered 20 years ago. (Naturally, the son looks exactly like the father did. The mentally challenged audience wouldn't catch the drift of the movie if this wasn't so.) Said son then proceeds to take revenge either (a) killing the villian, or (b) ensuring he is apprehended and sentenced to death, while fighting 20 people simultaneously, dancing with buxom beauties and giving sentimental speeches about family and love along the way. But I digress.

Context: Earlier today, I was cleaning up some of my junk, as my mother puts it. Or, as I prefer to put it, I was mining my treasure trove of stuff collected over the last ten years I've lived in India. I'll admit it, I'm a bit of a hoarder. I tend to keep little scraps of paper, worthless pictures, broken stationery and hundreds of odds and ends for sentimental value. It was one such pile of objects and papers that I was clearing yesterday... and out tumbled a host of things that brought back memories of the younger, happier, simpler days.

The bus pass I used in school, complete with a photo of a very young and awkwardly-smiling me in my school uniform (I'm still smiling awkwardly in my current passport photograph - I find it very unsettling and uncomfortable to pose for a snap. My father actually dances behind the photographer's back to elicit a genuine smile from me!) Hall tickets from exams long forgotten, class notes with poems scribbled in the margins, friendship bands. Playing cards, hundreds of games of noughts and crosses. A naughty love letter with no name on it. A small teddy bear with a heart that says "I love you" (And before you ask, no, I don't know who gave it to me.)

Notes that were passed to me in school. Caricatures of teachers, scraps of stilted poetry, arguments about cricket, snide comments about classmates.

Birthday cards. Lots of them. From friends who cared about me, and whom I cared about. Friends whom I am now no more it touch with, friends who are consigned to the photo album and video archive of a part of my memory marked 'nostalgia'. Friends whom I want to contact, want to make a part of my life once more but don't know how.

Declarations of undying friendship, comradeship, passionate promises to stick together through thick and thin, to go through life together laughing, drinking, enjoying life to the fullest, together, always. From people whose faces I don't remember, whose names I can't place.

Acceptance letters and Proceedings of conferences where I presented my papers, the culmination of months of slogging. Recommendation letters (written by me, given the once over and signed by the accomodating profs in my department), acceptance letters from US universities that I gave up on to pursue an MBA.

A miniature BMW car. From a friend who asked me what I wanted most in life. At that point in time, cool dude that I was (OK, I'm stretching things a bit, but what the heck, it's my blog! I'm allowed to pump my image, given no one else will.), I responded I'd like a sleek shiny BMW. And whaddya know, that's exactly what she got me for my birthday.

And a small, beautiful earring left behind by a girl my classmates and I saw years ago under a waterfall in Coorg. A keepsake from a time of crazy, inexplicable adolescent rushes.

All making me wish I could go back in time, to ten years ago. When life was so much more fun. When everything was so much less complicated. When I knew less and therefore worried less. When I was less cynical and depressed about the world, about society and my place in it. And when I felt more secure and more at peace than, probably, any time since.

The Big RB

Today is, my well-informed sources tell me, Raksha Bandhan. The Big RB.

And as is the case every year when this occasion comes around, there is a sudden surfeit of

a. Mushy RB based ads promoting everything from chocolates to electronic gadgets to underclothing. (Keep your beloved brother warm this RB with our premium knitted innerwear!)

b. Uneasy half-jokes among guys about steering clear of girls in the fear that they might be converted from ‘friends’ to ‘brothers’.

Point (a) above, I can't really grouse about. The great marketing wheel turneth. Point (b), however, is something I'm increasingly beginning to feel rather strongly about.

I actually happen to know several guys who have this attitude - the conversion fear. And they're really serious about it. That surprises me.

Being a South Indian, I come from a culture where the concept of RB is not particularly well established and is still seen as a North Indian import. Consequently, the dedication to the concept, and the seriousness with which the RB procedures are followed up North, are not something I have usually seen at close quarters. I know some of my North Indian friends prepare for weeks, searching for the ideal Rakhi and gifts and so on...

I am not very experienced in all this but I find the concept of RB very interesting. Quite beautiful, actually. And I don’t subscribe to the views of those who avoid girls (or claim to) on RB for what I feel are inordinately silly reasons. I think tying a Rakhi is a sign of friendship, acceptance, trust and faith... qualities which are really really important in one’s life, and ones we should find people to share with. It indicates, to me, a deeper connection of minds, a simple and pure sense of belief in the other person, and a knowledge that you will look out for each other in life.

These are emotions I would love to have someone to share with. I would really appreciate it if someone I knew genuinely trusted and cared enough to tie me a Rakhi. It would honestly mean a LOT to me. (I realise this para has just dropped my... er... 'market' value about 50%, but what the heck.)

Anyways, for all those who've actually bothered to read this far... here are a couple of popular Rakhis (taking some liberty with the spelling...) Take your pick. And let me know what you think of Raksha Bandhan.

Goodbye... for now.

I'm leaving my home of 8 years (Chennai, that is) and family of 21 years in 2 days. Less actually, 31 hours or so. I'm off to Ahmedabad on Monday...

The last week has been a whirlwind of activity. Visting relatives, last minute packing, wondering whether I should take a pillow along or buy one there, realising I wasn't using the most efficient way of ironing a shirt, buying stationary, listening to endless lectures on why I should eat properly (padikkyara payyon), trying to remain strighfaced when sermonized by well-meaning uncles on the evils of alcohol (too late!)...

And catching up on memories. I didn't realise, until a week ago, that clearing one's desk can be such an emotional experience. The cover of a failed album by a failed band I was part of 10 years ago, old birthday cards, notebooks with more doodles than useful content, arbit quiz papers, little chits that had been passed to me in class, a forgotten photo of an unforgettable girl... I lingered on every photograph, every scrap of paper, every memory, even as my mother kept pushing me to clear everything as soon as possible.

I also met some of my closer friends, and in each case managed to hold my tears back until I was alone and have a quiet little memories-regrets-loss-missing session in private.

And I bought a suit! I hate shopping in general, and even more so for clothes. But when I saw the suit and felt the material, I fell totally in love with it. Yours truly believes he looks rather natty in it.

This, of course, is relative, since the aforementioned yours truly (not to be confused with yours Schumacher or yours Hakkinen) is usually to be found in shorts or a rather disreputable pair of jeans that are crying (actually, not so much crying as slashing their wrists in agony) for a hard, good, long-overdue wash.

Anyways, it's a whole new life there and I'm really looking forward to it. I'm very excited, and am looking forward to recording all my inital impression on this blog for posterity. I don't think I'll have a computer for atleast 10 days after I get there, and when I'll get an internet connection is something I dare not think about now. The upshot of all this uncertainty is that I will not have any contact with this blog until say, the 5th of July. So, if you find this blog curiously static, don't think I've given up blogging or have gone into hibernation or have been run over or something of the sort. In the words of Governor Arnie, "I'll be back". (Sylvester Stallone later said, "I'll be Beethoven" but no one paid him any attention. (Pause for hysterical laughter and applause.))

For any first time visitors during my hiatus, here is quick intro to my blog and life to bring you up to speed (Please do click on the links or else...):

Q. Who is this AC guy anyways?

A. I'm a regular chap in almost aspects of life and existence except that I'm just a little nuts and am an Anna University engineering graduate. For further details, read each and every single entry in this blog... If you're female and would like me to read it out to you, call me.

Q. Why is he going to Ahmedabad?

A. The truth might be in the vaguely-described "out there", but the answer is here and here, in two parts!

Q. What does he look like?

A. Oh, normal. 10 digits, one nose, two eyes, all that. Plus a paunch! Batteries not included, some assembly required.

Q. Does he have a sex life?

A. A very good question. Here's the closest I've got to it. If you are female and would like to volunteer to educate me in this respect, call me.

Q. Does he have any special talents?

A. You bet! I'm a pro at a very special contact sport. If you are female and would like coaching, call me.

Q. Does he love nature?

A. Well... yes and no.

Q. Why is he even named AC? Is there an expansion, or is that a sad attempt at trying to convince the world he's cool?

A. Ah, why I am named what I am named makes for a very interesting story. I'm just too lazy to tell it to you, so you'll have to make do with this. And if you are female and do think I'm cool, call me.

Q. Why on earth is this blog named 'The Lord of the Things...'?

A. The answer to that is shrouded in the mists of history, leading all the way back to the 11th of November 2004 when this little baby was born... And the world was never the same again... this was the beginning.

Q. And last but not the least, is AC desperate for female companionship?

A. No, of course not! But if you are female and still think so, call me and I'll tell you why I'm not.

That should answer most queries. Have fun, and cya all in a while!

H and C

I'm in a kinda weird mood nowadays. Very unnaturally quiet and reflective, pondering deep ponderations and thinking philosophiocal thoughts... Here's something that really struck me hard today.

People pay thousands, perhaps millions of dollars, to find happiness and contentment. In designer heels and flashy cars. In sulphur springs and yoga. In monasteries and Baskin Robbins. And when they've got whatever it was was that they arrogantly and misguidedly threw their money at, they wonder if it was worth it, whether they really have attained happiness. Happiness is not always about material acquisitions or spiritual awakenings. Or even achievements - winning an award, clearing an exam. These are but fleeting, not rooted in true emotion but merely a means of loosening the knots of tension in our bodies and minds or reassuring oneself that one is still capable of something or the other.

Picture this.

I return home after a four day trip, at half past six in the morning. My brother is curled up on the bed, on his side, his face pressed against the pillow. He's had a haircut just the previous evening, which accentuates his cheeks and makes him look very cuddly-cute. I kiss him lightly on his forehead. He wakes up and stares at me while his vision focusses, then smiles sleepily. "Hi Anna," he murmurs, and pats the bed next to him. I lie down, and he kisses me, puts his arm across my chest and snuggles up to me. In another 30 seconds, he's fast asleep, making little baby noises.

Now that is the closest I've come to true happiness and contentment in a very very long time.

B.E. positive

My exams are over. My undergraduate courses are complete. If I pass these two papers I've written, I'll be Arvind Chandrasekhar, B.E. Four years, 60 courses and about 1110 bus journeys to get two letters after my name. Cool.

People tend to be very disparaging about an engineering education. "What's the big deal?" says a student of literature. "Herd mentality, I say. Herd mentality," proclaims a professor of commerce with a sorrowful shake of his head. "Far too many engineers. B.E. has no value at all!" puts forth a maami at a vegetable market.

Crap. An engineering education has given me far more than I ever expected. Read on. Please.

What has been the purpose of my college education, as charted out by good old Anna University? To make me a responsible citizen, an ethical human being and a qualified technical engineer who can contribute to the growth and development of my society and the human race at large. WRe nwlsmg;s shdslk hgn dslfg. I'm sorry, I couldn't see what I was typing through my tears of laughter. (I'm sure my co-Anna U mates will be rolling on the floor, clutching their sides and beating on the ground, laughing hysterically.)

OK, seriously, what have I learnt? Have the past four years been of any use? I say a clear, resounding (turn up your speaker volume), unambiguous, unmistakable, running-out-of-applicable-adjectives YES! I am now trained to pursue not just a career in a technical field, but any of the following...

1. Xerox operator

A wise Chinese philosopher once said, "To stroke an elephant's forehead, you must first stroke its trunk." His son later said, "My dad was right." That, however, is of no relevance here. A wise Japanese Xtreme skateboarding champion once said, "Watching is learning." Having closely watched more papers being photocopied than girls doing anything (hard to believe, but true!) over the last four years, I am a master of the xerox game. All I need is a machine and confusing Anna U textbook guidelines, and the money will pour in... Clever marketing (All paper types xeroxed! Give one paper, get two!) and pricing (28 paise per side. 25 if you bring your own paper.) will make me a millionaire. I hope to learn all these things at IIMA.

2. Professional athlete/biker

So I've watched the photocopying process. Why was I there in the first place, you ask? Well, taking a photocopy of portions you didn't know existed until the very last minute (read the day before the exam) is a well documented aspect of B.E. lore. Running, cycling, biking or driving in the sweltering heat or pouring rain, battling heavy winds and suicidal/homicidal auto drivers and pedestrians, on all types of roads (tarred roads, mud roads, no roads) has elevated my skill levels to that of a pro. Factor in running about for ODs and no-due certificates (Aside: What certificate would be issued by the Coca Cola company? No Dew!) and I'm Maurice Green and Haile Gebreselassie rolled in one.

3. Bus driver

Again, watching is learning. And what have I learnt? That the primary qualification to drive buses for an engineering college is that you have to be above 55, hard of hearing and must have a rich vocabulary of abusive words to hurl at errant students, bewildered pedestrians and the omnipresent auto drivers. Pension funds be damned, I'm gonna work in my old age. Vroom!

4. Secret agent

What's so secret about a secret agent? I can't tell you! (Bowing, drinking in the applause and reveling in the shower of roses) A large part of a secret agent's job (apart from blowing things up and bedding every alternate women he comes across) is to do things while ensuring that he's not being watched. Skulking around and all that. Shadowing, even. He/ she may also have to send coded messages back to base, investigate, eavesdrop, read private letters, and try to get as much info as possible from limited resources. B.E. to the rescue! Sneaking around the campus, hoping one won't be caught by a righteous and unbending prof. Charting plans to get out of class unnoticed. Sending Secret Messages and Stuff (SMS) in the middle of class. Passing chits. Using ones ocular skills to the utmost during 'test'ing times. And, of course, slyly pumping the lecturer for the test questions. Last heard, MI6 is recruiting people from my college.

5. Adventure sports dude

The experience gained out of repeatedly climbing long flights of stairs for the silliest of reasons is unbelievable. I still don't believe it. One can't find better hiking in the Himalayas. Also, trekking across the burning sands under an unforgiving sun to get to the bus stop is ideal training for anyone intending to embark on a trans-Saharan journey. For those who get their thrills from near-death experiences, try footboard travel on buses plying on National Highway 4. The wind in your hair, sand in your eyes, grit in your mouth and Yama tapping your shoulder... Your walk on the wild and adventurous side of life begins at an engineering college.

6. Negotiator

Squeezing just one mark more out of a sadistic examiner. Convincing the forbidding class counselor to grant one just another coupla days of OD. Trying to get out of having to pay a fine of a thousand bucks at the library. Inducing the office staff to get off their backsides and actually do some constructive work. Again, pumping lecturers for questions... all this makes one such an awesome negotiator and tactician, you'll have terrorists eating out of your hand.

7. Torture machine tester

Having sat through what seems like gazillions of classes over the course of the last four years, I can confidently say this - Nothing gets worse than it. Chinese torture? I laugh at it. Breaking my knuckles? Pooh! Tying me up and tickling me with a peacock feather? Huh, child's play to resist it... It's no laughing matter (unless one is laughing at Chinese torture) that I've survived so many hours of boring classes and sickening tests. An engineering education hardens you from within. Recent studies show that during the recent India-Pak matches, those running about on the streets pulling their hair out in large tufts and babbling wildly as a result of listening to Kris Srikkanth's Hindi (Kar lo duniya mutthi mein hai!) were almost exclusively non-engineers. The clever B.E. chaps, fortified by education, met the linguistic and aural abuse face-on, and did not succumb. A later report by a commission headed by a retired High Court judge claims this was because their advanced technical training helped them find and press the 'mute' button on the remote. More news on this is expected shortly.

Please don't mob me, presspersons. I have time for just one more question. Yes, you in the green bowtie and fluorescent pink pants.

Press chap: AC, what is the one thing you think you have learnt the most from the entire experience?

Well, the most important thing I have learnt in the last four years has to be the value and beauty of friendship. (Come on people, all together now... AWWWWW!). I've met some awesome people... sniff... Had some great times, super fun, lots of memories. Read this very nice piece by Vetri, my classmate.

I'm looking forward to the future... it looks bright coz the sun's behind me.

I look at James Bond's boss - Part 2

Why is this blogpost titled thus? What madness prompted it? And what does this have to do with 53 dead monkeys?

Why does Noot want to kill Pancho? Whose magic cloak was found at VT? And what does this have to do with the weird hieroglyphs on Sammy-Boy's coffin? Will Noot and Pedro live happily ever after? Or will evil Sven Korastapoupolous triumph?

To find out, read on...

But to understand what the hell is going on, read Part 1 of this post...

Flashback: 06 April, 2005.

The dark room is lit only by the glow of the computer monitor. A shadowy form is hunched in front of it, typing details into a form feverishly.

Please enter your Test Registration Number and Date of Birth

Test Registration No. : xxxxxxx
Date of Birth : Date Month Year
(GO)

The words flash on the screen...

Indian Institute of Management, Ahmedabad
Admission Status : Post-Graduate Programme in Management (PGP 2005-2007 batch), IIMA

You have been selected for admission to PGP (2005-2007 batch), IIMA.

The shadowy form pushes back its chair, toppling it over, and breaks into a wierd and wild celebratory dance, vaguely reminiscent of the rain dance of the now extinct Lobofilipogolo tribe of the Saharan rainforest.

Flashforward: 08 April, 2005.

The screen flashes...

CAT 2004 result

You have been selected for admission to PGP (2005-2007 batch), IIMB.

The frenzied dance begins again...

YAHOOOOOOOO! I'm over the moon, like the cow in the poem. Though why on earth (semi-pun unintended) it jumped over the moon, I do not know. Or care, to be frank. Cows that are psychotic enough to jump over moons do not figure high on my list of priority things to be dealt with.

I'm just jumping and singing and dancing coz I've got into the institute I wanted to get into. All that's left is to decide where I'm going - A or B. Not an easy decision at all.

I want to thank each and every person who's made this possible. My parents for putting up with me and encouraging me to dream. Goach, Nandan, Kitty, Appi and everyone else in class at college who kept throwing good-natured insults at me when I was working out CAT exercises, spurring me on to work out even more. Everyone at the coaching class, who pushed me to prove myself and help me out with stuff I had problems with. Archana, Murr, Mul and others who helped me believe in myself and my capabilities. Sujatha, Aditya and the other CAT-takers who helped me benchmark my performance, taught me to work in a group, shared info with me (did you know that the IT (or is that ITES?) sector employs 1 million and contributes 4% to India's GDP?), and helped me aim higher... And basically everyone else who supported and encouraged me, and believed in me even when I did not.

And last but most definitely not the least, the awesome folks at PagalGuy, the bestest ever CAT resource.

Just to complete the Oscaresque thank you speech, I'd also like to thank the pet dog I never had, the pet puppies it never fathered/mothered, the pet cat it never fought with, and Kishore Kumar.

What have I learnt from the entire GD/PI process?

Feeling kinda lazy, don't feel like typing out everything. Here's some; if you want more gyaan, just mail me or leave a comment or something.

1. There are a lot of pretty women in Bangalore. And a large number of them are at IIMB.
2. The atmosphere when one is waiting to be called in for an interview is very conducive to coming up with PJs and lousy puns. Maybe the nervousness helps.
3. There are approximately 57 different ways to say 'I don't know,' ranging from the 'shit I'm nervous and I'm gonna pee in my pants oops there I go' kind of I don't know to the 'hah I'm super confident that I don't know and proud of it and I'm gonna show it' type.
4. Panelists love math and neural networks.
5. The IIMB campus ROCKS!
6. I sleep better on a berth in a moving train than I do in my own bed at home.
7. When wearing the same shirt for multiple interviews, it might be a good idea to wash it once in a while.
8. Ditto for socks.

Dum dum diga digaMausam bheega bheega

The oppressively humid and sultry weather that Chennai has seen of late has been broken today by a few hours of good rain. Beautiful, wonderful rain.

I've just got back from a very peaceful and invigorating walk in the rain. I'm thoroughly drenched and thoroughly happy. I love rain. I share a very special relationship with it.

I have spent over 13 years of my life in Dubai. It's a mindblowingly awesome place, except for the fact that it rains only for a period of two months in a year, if at all. In addition, the rain is very ordered, soft and quiet, just like the traffic there. In fact, showers are mere sputterings of H₂O from the clouds, and are barely worth being called rain. My first encounter with real rain came at the age of two when I visited Bombay (a notorious place for seasonal downpours). I was moved to tears. OK, to be frank, I was scared shitless. I had never known that rain could be so powerful, so angry, so evil (as it seemed to me at that age and size) and so LOUD. I burst out crying and ran to my mommy...

But over the years I've seen all types of rain, and have come to understand and appreciate its simple beauty. There's light, soft rain that caresses your skin. And the type of shower that feels like a million fairies planting soft kisses all over you. The 'shower' shower which is like, well, a shower in terms of force and droplet impact. Also the 'fat rain', as I call it, with big fat drops which is like a big fat auntyji planting a wet, sloppy kiss on your cheek. And the heavy types which pound into and onto you, similar to the manner in which my classmates attack me after a particularly unbearable pun. And, of course, the destructive and powerful big daddy type, which you can only stand aside and watch in sheer awe and curiously excited horror.

Rain always puts me in an exceedingly good mood. I tend to go about skipping and singing and dancing and generally losing all my inhibitions. There have been several ocassions when the old lady next door has given me a disapproving glance when I let out of whoop of joy on feeling the first few drops of rain...

Rain also puts me in an exceedingly romantic mood. But the dampener (pun intended!) is the fact that I generally don't have anyone to be romantic with... and no girl (next door or otherwise) gives me a glance (disapproving or otherwise) when I let out of whoop of joy on feeling the first few drops of rain...

It is undeniable that rain has been a very important part of my life. It forced me to stay indoors and study when I was younger. (I don't stay indoors now. Nor do I study, rain or otherwise) Monsoon duets exposed me to a whole new genre of love songs... and rain-drenched Hindi actresses sated my adolescent longings (Zeenat Aman in Satyam Sivam Sundaram : mmmm!). It's helped me make new friends (co-rain-lovers), and always cheers me up with either pass or compartment... er, without fail. It gives me a chance to curl up on the sofa with a hot cuppa and a good movie, and allows me to wash away my worries and grumpiness by going on long drives with the rain and wind in my face. It also eases the chronic water shortage that cripples the fine city of Chennai. (People say, "Save water; shower with your boy/girlfriend". For those without boy/girlfriends, I say, "Save water; don't bathe." You can save more than the mere two buckets you'd save with Surf. And don't worry, nobody will suspect a thing. I've managed a once-a-week-bath lifestyle for six years now.)

Rain also causes the city drains to clog up, leading to entire roads being submerged. It gives auto-drivers a ready excuse to hike fares 250%. Perhaps the most important effect is that a steady shower makes it damned difficult to get six copies of a 150 page project report printed and bound the day before the submission deadline. In the past, a downpour has resulted in my contracting leptospirosis. (If you would like the whole story - it's a long and entertaining one! - including graphic details of mid-thigh-high water levels and cockroaches climbing up my trouser leg, do leave a comment to that effect.) A sharp shower will result in stagnant pools that will breed mosquitoes which will keep me up until 3 a.m. killing them. And once the rain stops the general mugginess will be unbearable. Yup, rain can cause one hell of a lot of problems.

But, for now, as I see the tree branches bending gracefully under the force of the rain and take in the beautiful smell of fresh, wet earth, I can't help but praise Nature

Surat aapki subhan Allah, hai Allah,

Surat aapki subhan Allah.

A blog is visited, a long book read,And memories of lost days resurrected.

I must admit I have hardly visited this blog over the period of the last 20-odd days. Some bright readers (an oxymoron, perhaps, if you're reading my blog. One of my fav dialogues in the kickass Stallone movie Oscar is "You're both an ox and a moron!" That cracks me up every time... but I digress, as I am wont to do. That sounds kinda cool huh? 'Wont to do...' Anyways, I shall now plead guilty to double digression and get on with things...).

Some bright readers might point out that not all of the last 20 days have been odd in a numerical sense. A large percentage (roughly 50%) have been decidedly even. But since that little bit of mathematical trivia is of no particular interest to me, I shall just ignore those readers (no, please, don't leave yet!) and get on with things. Which, I notice, I've said for the second time. Such is life.

Well, I've been busy with one thing and other. Primarily just the one thing - IIM interviews and stuff - but a decent proportion of other things. And I have therefore not been able to reply to the comments that you, dear reader, have left at various posts. Or, if you haven't left one, you ought to have. So please do not shake your head as if to say, "Hah! This self-absorbed freak is not worthy of our time and comments if he does not deign to reply to them" and stop commenting. I really appreciate your feedback. And the fact that you increase my blog's hit count, so I can boast about it.

*****
My more discerning readers (I'm using the word a lot, for some obscure reason...) would have instantly awakened to the fact that the title of the blog is in verse. And in case you're thinking of a sad joke like "AC's going from bad to verse!", I'd like to say "Hah! I beat you to it!".

The reason for the rhyme? I've just finished reading Vikram Seth's 'A Suitable Boy', a very very long novel. A birdie, unfortunately not a chick, tells me it's the longest Indian novel ever. I'm not surprised. It's huge, approximately 1480 pages. I've read his 'The Golden Gate' before this - that's a novel entirely in verse - and found it smashingly brilliant.

A Suitable Boy is not in verse, though. And it's actually quite beautiful on the whole, although it does drag at certain parts. Over the eight days that it took me to finish reading it, I was introduced to a host of characters (some eccentric, some pure evil, some a great deal of fun and some instantly lovable), a very interesting view of the Indian society in the 1950s (caste, religion and all), and Indian politics just a few years after Independence. This sprawling saga involves four families - the Mehras, the Kapoors, the Chatterjis and the Khans - and their domestic crises in the backdrop of the historical and social events of the era. It's like an old-fashioned soap opera, and typifies Indians pretty nicely... There is a sweeping grandeur to the book that one does not quite realise until one has finished the book, so skilfully have the different threads and subplots been dealt with.

In the book, there is a family called the Chatterjis, and all members of this slightly weird but very lovable clan have a predilection for verse. One of the daughters, Kakoli aka Kuku, breaks out into some very funny poetry throughout the book, and that's what led to the title rhyming.

I loved the book, and I suggest
You read it too; it's by far the best
Novel I've read in a very long while.
It'll make one laugh, cry, think, smile.

I can't rhyme for nuts - almond or cashew,
So I end this part of this blogpost at last... Whew!

*****
Over the past month or three, slam books have made their appearance in class and are being passed around faster than leaked examination papers. A slam book, for those not in the know of things, is usually a normal notebook (though sometimes a preprinted one) in which people fill up their views on you, general musings to fill up the pages (if they don't know you well enough), their contact info and, in most cases, life with you. By you, I don't mean you (dear reader), obviously, but the person who owns the book. I realise I have a pretty irritating writing style, kinda twisted and convoluted and meandering... but I shove it in your face and proudly say - Hah! I don't really know what that is meant to convey, but I hope it conveys it all the same.

Back to slam books. I don't know what's so 'slam' about them, but I'll leave that discussion to another post or another life. (Note to self: try to make sense)

Anyways, the sight of all these slam books and people excitedly scribbling all over them brought back fond memories of my days at school. I dug up my slam books from the 10th and 12th standards and spent a beautiful couple of hours reliving some of the best years of my life. The warmth, love and innocent friendship and affection that leapt out of every entry in the books moved to tears. Really. Some, in particular, brought back nostalgia in full force, all guns blazing and all that.

Sample this - Who is going to lend me his shoulder for me to lean against and shed tears? Who is going to pat me on my back and say 'well done'? Who is going to wish me a Happy New Year in the middle of April?

The last bit is, of course, a reference to my infamous eccentricity and lunacy, which has grown luxuriantly in the fertile grounds of an Anna University education.

And this one - You are exasperating, irritating, calculating, agitating, maddening and infuriating - and a shameless flirt to boot. But all the same, it's been exciting being with you. We've had a great deal of fun. I'm gonna miss you, man. (Sniff)

Long letters on life, girls, exams, music, drumming (read banging on the desk like a madman), girls, elections (to the post of School Pupil Leader in my school), burping (I used to do it just to annoy the girls), weight reduction, dumb charades, girls, balloons (I really don't know why), Tirupati, old crushes and new ones, mothers-in-law, quizzing, birdwatching... ah, those were the days...

On a Birthday Video...

This Sunday was Vishnu's birthday. And Prashanth and Srividya came up with this awesome idea of making him a birthday video, which was to be presented to him at a surprise birthday party.

I don't think I've ever had so much fun preparing for anyone's birthday.

We shot most of the video a week in advance. That included pieces on what we thought of Vishnu (his girlfriend's piece was incredibly sweet and moving), as well as Vishnuisms, stuff that is specific to Vishnu. Issues that were touched upon included his gentlemanly approach to buying applam, his shocking generosity to auto-drivers, his Brit turns of phrase (trundle along, dandy, twit...), his shagging and what it meant to his close friends, Oasis and so on.

Next came the editing. And that, in one word, simply rocked. OK, two words, so sue me. My house served as the editing studio, and I'm so proud of the final product.

We decided to come up with Frasier-like slides in between the different scenes, like 'Why Chennai auto drivers own mobiles' before the part on, obviously, auto-drivers. The process of deciding on sound effects was a long-drawn out one. We chose from hundreds of songs to find the best ones that would fit. A bit of Monty Python here, a clip art there, Elton John in between and Kelsey Grammer (Tossed Salad and Scrambled Eggs) bringing up the rear... superb. Lots of other artistes too.

The credits were fun - Gangotree for 'creative ambience', the Microsoft Corporation for 'sound effects', Hutch for 'cost-effective communication solutions' and many more.

The movie's not on baazee.com. The makers could really get arrested because it contains some very objectional language. We even gave it an 'A' certificate. Really. It's there right at the beginning.

The party itself was fun. I think we succeeded in scaring the hell out of Vishnu when we all yelled 'Surprise!', baritones mingling with altos and sopranos and whatever-else to result a truly blood-curdling sound.

But this blogpost is about the video, so I'll just stop. Here. Maybe more on the party and the CIA-like planning that went into it (calling all stations, they're turning into the road) later.

I loved the video, the love, care and thought that had gone into it's planning and the simple yet professional-ish-ism of its execution. I think Vishnu liked it. I'm glad.

I realise that all this won't matter an iota to a very large majority of those reading this blog. It isn't funny, it isn't thought-provoking, you probably can't relate to it, it's cloyingly personal. But it matters to me, because I loved the experience. It made me feel good and, frankly, worth something. And joking, working and laughing with the others in on this made me feel a renewed warmth, happiness and a desire to live. I felt more alive, less of a machine-like automaton going through the motions of life. I felt human, and glad to be human. Thanks, everybody.

To finish, here's a toast to Vishnu.