A few last words

I suppose I only have the basic human trait of ‘never being satisfied with what they have’ to blame for my lack of emotions (or perhaps an overdose of it) on a day I’ve been waiting for ever since that murky day in August when they made me share a hall with another 500 like-minded souls to get us ‘oriented’ to this supposedly great institution. Four very LONG years I waited for this very day. But now that it’s actually here, I’m not so sure if I want it that badly because deep down, I know that these days are not going to come back in my life. The freedom at CUSAT and the herd of incredible young minds I got to work and live with. I refrain myself from using the word ‘friend’ because if the past 4 years has taught me something it’s the age old truth that it’s just you and your chubby pillow in this big fat world. Do not get me wrong, they are all great people!

Honestly, I’ve never really loved this college. Took up this place because my ‘Kerala ranks’ were pathetic, though like Mr. Madhavan in ‘Three Idiots’(and almost every other Indian), I had my interests in a field that lay on the paradoxical horizon to that of computer science and engineering. So there it was. A college, hardly 6km from where I live. So much for the ‘study in a metro’ dreams.
And there I met a lot of Biharis. I was put into a class where the majority couldn’t comprehend what I was speaking. And the little Malayalis that were present in every corner kept speaking in strange dialects that my virgin mind refused to translate. So much for the “Rang De Basanti” and “Dil Chahta Hei” dreams!  To make matters worse, the people I actually liked in the college kept saying, ‘can’t wait to get out of this shit-hell man’.

Life was in short – Pathetic. It was nice to have a 180 acre campus. But when the nearest bus stop was located at the diagonally opposite extreme, things aren’t that romantic. At places that didn’t have cow dung, there were a thousand crows waiting for that affirmation from the wing commander to bombard.

The truth is I’ll never love this institution. It exemplifies the phrase ‘education ruins you’.  Four years ago I walked into this place as a confident programmer ready to be the next ‘Neo’ and save the world. Today I sit here like a zombie, totally worried about the very obnoxious course viva that looms over my head. For heaven sake, I don’t even know MS Word!

Wait a minute. Was this place that bad?  I might not be a nerd hacking servers hidden in some mysterious port of Malibu but I’m definitely a changed man. For example, now I know what Not to write. I’ve successfully bluffed the role of a good quizzer. Jees, I even called up the lead singer of Motherjane and asked him to judge our rock music competition for free.  And yes, that very long sip of the ‘Absolut’(and it’s aftermath).

Here’s the thing. School prepares you for college. And a college moulds you into a human being capable of taking on the world (ideally). Therefore a college is much more than mere ‘academic enhancement’. It’s where a boy finally learns to become a man. A place where people from different backgrounds live and learn together. This very fact is precisely what differentiates college from school. You either study in a ‘rich’ school or a ‘poor’ school and hence most often you end up with people who are very similar to you. At a college, things don’t work that way. And these friends that you develop during your life at college won’t seem like special human beings.  In fact on umpteen numbers of times they will backstab you, put your life in a miserable spot and even steal your efforts for their glory. But trust me, it’s definitely a give and take thing. You’d do the very same. And perhaps it’s one of those truths that one needs to learn in life without somebody actually saying it to you. No one is perfect. No one can be relied upon. It’s all man for himself. And hence, when somebody asks you to name your best buddies these names might not come out in a reflex. They aren’t the people with whom you’ve shared your complete heart like the pal you probably had at school.

But come to think of it one probably spends the best moments in the life with these people. I certainly did. I was surrounded by my college friends when I first set my eyes upon the mighty Himalayas. That hot summer Saturday, when the Ghost Riders ‘haunted’ the college.

Maybe I got it completely wrong. From day 1 I was adamant about establishing a feeling that I came from somewhere entirely superior to the college. 4 years down the line and I feel sick and ashamed of my former self. And it’s only fair that on this last occasion I hold my hands up and admit I was wrong. You people, all of you who’ve made my life worthwhile in this college are destined for greater heights. And I’m not a person who says good things easily, so you might want to save that line.

Like I said, I’m confused. I still have only the college to blame for my present situation. When the semester 6 results came, I was shell shocked. I had managed to fail in almost all the subjects quite contrary to my expectations. Gave up on CAT and TISS. Completely screwed up my life. Back then I honestly wished I had someone to help me. I had begged to my class co-ordinator and other senior lecturers. But nobody gave a damn. The revaluation results came out the other day. I had passed in almost all the subjects (ah well you don’t count DSP as a subject ;) ). So I had given up on CAT and TISS for no real reason.

I’m neither happy nor sad. And most of the times this state is more confusing than both. This series of ‘realizations’ that is continuously barging into my small conscience! Whether I might like to accept it or not this place has been my home for the past 4 years. Strangely synonymous with Matthew 7:7 " knock and the door will be opened to you." That room number 115 has always been open for me whenever I've wanted a place to hide/enjoy.

Maybe I should have probably given it a chance. But I don’t know.  Maybe I have had my fair share of ill experiences to feel the way I did. I’d never know. One thing’s for sure though. I’ll miss this place. Especially some people in it. And it’s different from school. At school you know that your friend’s will be in touch with you. With college it’s different. Tomorrow is probably the last time we are going to see each other. 

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The secondary tale

Once upon a time there lived a man. Lean, strong, good looking and brilliant. He studied in the country’s premier institute and then chose to follow his heart and start a newspaper. And what happens to him? He gets to become the ‘loser’ in India’s most loved corn-head’s new novel strangely named after the newspaper our ‘loser’ guy had started. Apparently, getting drunk and messing up the objective exams is way cooler than doing everything properly.

Indian’s have traditionally loved drama. Even senseless, soap opera like effluent they’ve been bringing out under the generic name “bollywood masala” has been received positively for years. When a rock-star seeking inspiration went to Prague and stole somebody else’s wife everyone sang about love and everything else wonderful in the world. But did anyone worry about the man who must’ve been really good to own a business in such a hostile environment like Prague?  A poor life had turned miserable over night and nobody cares. Instead the world only cares about the heroes.

Infact these ‘secondary’ roles are so insignificant that even the likes of Salman Khan could don such an avatar and be subjected to no sympathy. So convenient isn’t it, to end it all by saying “Kuch Kuch Hota Hei”? 

In the big scheme of things, these lives are so inconsequential, so secondary that nobody really cares about what happens to these men/women after those moments that changed their lives. After having been ditched, under-valued, and mentally tortured? Nobody really knows right? I suppose they move on. Lead a non sensational life filled with counseling, depression and more.

Human beings like it when underdogs or heroes win. Even more when it’s the former. It’s the sadistic brain we all have which has the ability to instill in its owner the ‘thing’ that drives people mad – hope. Why else do you think people watch Dhanush movies? Here’s a slim, dark guy who looks to be suffering from malnutrition winning pretty girls. If he can do it, we can too.

My story is about such a person. Who did nothing wrong and still had his life turned upside down. The only mistake he probably did was to become the part of somebody else’s fairytale story.  Our protagonist would’ve easily fitted into an average girl’s ‘dream boy’ criteria. A handsome guy who also happened to be a brilliant orator. He loved this girl with all his heart.  Spent hours at the bus stop to get a glimpse of her while she went for her coaching classes. Skipped meals to be with her. All was well until one fine morning he got a call from her saying she had fallen for someone else. The word spread. And suddenly people were all talking about the guy who was short and not nearly as handsome as our ‘secondary’. But it seemed his love for her was convincing enough. His love was termed genuine and real. The girl was called the ‘Goddess’ for realizing true love. She had opted ‘true love’ and turned a blind eye to his looks. And our Mr. Secondary? Who cares right? His love probably wasn’t good enough. The guy ruined his exams, got into some xyz business school and screwed up his life. And yeah, the couples lived happily ever after. End of story. And there are similar stories everywhere.

That’s life on planet Earth. It's confusing, sensational and most of the times unfair. And since it is so inter-twined with somebody else’s, you are bound to wear the ‘secondary’ shoes some day. You, me and everyone else. Be ready!

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Confessions of a restless mind

Confessions of a restless mind

All my life I used to rank ‘nostalgia’ as the most over-rated act in human lives. Movies, poems, stories, plays.. wherever one looked there was always a story about distant memories. Of childhood, parents, country-side. My ideology was fairly simple: what has happened has happened. It was good/bad back then but there ends the story. The present is all that matters. Survive the present.

This probably explains why I have never really saved anything. Why should my first tooth brush be kept in the drawer on the old wooden table? So that one day, when I find it I would be able to remember a time when root canals weren’t a necessity? Why should I keep hold of that autograph book? So that I can send it to the paparazzi incase a classmate turns out to be a celebrity? 

My life always has been a dull stroll in the park. The occasional flower is pleasing to the eye but the thought of what the park would’ve have been had humans not invaded the place comes back to haunt me. A dense forest, where birds chirped with love and streams of water moulded the land, perhaps? However beautiful it might be, do we really love a plastic flower?  Remember the movie matrix?  Would you be able to live peacefully in the simulated world if you knew the real state of the world?

That was when I found an old novel while cleaning my room one day. “Five have a mystery to solve”. I couldn’t help but travel back to the days I spent reading Enid Blyton novels. Walking to Achama’s madam’s library with a fractured hand, telling her that I needed a ‘big’ book and then walking back to standard IV with a 153 page “Tom Sawyer” in hand. All seemed like only yesterday. I was so fascinated by the fact that I could recall almost everything about the book, a gift from my brother. It was my first famous five book. The story about the Whispering Island, the kid named Wilfred, some mysterious golf course, cycle rides.  And the thought gradually shifted to ‘Hardy Boys’.  It scared me as to how well I remembered all those books. “Danger in the fourth dimension” (and I had no clue as to what dimension meant back then), “Slam Dunk Sabotage”. The list was non exhaustive.  And before I knew it, I was completely taken over by the ghost of the past.   Hours spent inside the library finding ‘secret spots’ to hide the favourite books from others, begging mom to buy the “Five go off to camp” from a stall at Kanyakumari, those family trips we used to have, those secret societies in school.. And the visions from the past kept bombarding my brain.

When I did come back to my senses I was upset that I had let my emotions rule me. I took a deep breath and got back to cleaning the room. The next thing I found was an old note book with a yellow cover page. I opened the last page to check if the book could be used again and found a piece of conversation scribbled on it. My heart stopped for a minute when I realized what it was. The 12^th grade chemistry book.  Things I’ve struggled hard to forget ever since that hot summer day morning when I got the ‘call’.  I closed the book immediately and gulped two glasses of water in one stretch. I moved to the living room and found an old school magazine named ‘Clarion’. Clarence Pandey days. And yet again I succumbed to that invisible force called memories. My friend and I sitting under the ‘root tree’, formulating theories about the strange name of the magazine. We even pinned an alternate name, Clara, to our English teacher. Thinking about those days did bring a smile to my face though.

In this ever changing, aggressive world we often do not find time to reflect on our past. Like that star studded cast in the play ‘The Blue Mug’ kept repeating, we are what our memories are. Everything we do, whether we like it or not are reflections of the past.

Did the day’s events change me? It might have. But I did clean the room as I had intended to.  Found a lot of ‘Big Babool’ tattoo stickers and had fun thinking of those days during the cricket world cup spent at waste dumping zones searching for ‘Brittania’ covers which would fetch a ticket to the world cup. And then got back to the editing work for the college magazine. But since that day, there is a certain realization. Pondering about lost love and days spent on lush green outfields with your friends might not be the best thing to do. But what you learn from all these small episodes in this mega series called life is finally what makes us what we are. The point is to learn from your mistakes. And live life to the fullest.

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Life Miserables 1

•   No. This is not another MAD article. Just because I started the same way doesn’t mean anything right?
•   Throughout the article you will find the word ‘BANG’. Its best described as something that cannot be described. Seriously. Like an emphatic, dramatized version of wow in the right kind of ambience.  Eg: Boring lecturer gets a call from Mrs. Unknown. Needs to stop teaching immediately = BANG. A very pretty girl gives you a ‘stare’= BANG. You’ll know!
•  Do I enjoy writing these ‘Hate notes’? Hell, you haven’t even read the article yet! One thing’s for sure though. Drama’s in my blood. Rest you lot can decide. Like every other desperate Indian male would swear , “ I don’t get to do what I’d really love to do.” I genuinely hope that helps.
•  Characters like RooneY, Sabsa, Ubbas, Khan_Girl, still photographer 10dulkar, D_Cool are purely fictional.  Incase you find this strangely coincidental, then your imagination levels are on par with that of the author.
• Throughout the entire trip we missed having “the secretary’s wife”. We could’ve had fun discussing mobile operating systems and scheming ways to steal money from juniors. 
• On a more serious tone, this article’s something that popped up while my groupmates were busy learning ‘remoting’ @ Shiju sir’s. Nothing personal. 

 

                           Life Miserables

I wanted inspiration. 2012 was already a month old and my blog ratings had dropped drastically. Last updated – December, 2011. Girls inside the college weren’t turning pretty. And the St.Joseph girls were getting younger [ Yeah Mr. Pessimist. We were getting older :-/ ]. So I went around seeking that ‘something’ to stimulate my writing senses.

Being dropped from the basketball team by a fellow classmate on my final match at cusat infront of a huge crowd did not help. For someone who has never played basketball seriously! You know this theory that like charges don’t attract? Its dumb. See if you have a white honda unicorn you are bound to like someone else with a white honda unicorn. So much so that you might even drop the grey discover waala for him regardless of his bball prowess. Its like those guys with pink T-shirts. They LOVE each other.  Sitting on the bench(a non existent one) on your final match – definitely un-inspiring! After all this was the first time I got to play in all my 4 years. You simply have to empathize with me.

As if to make matters worse, a student organization that was supposedly the best at cusat (what fellow north Indian mates calls “asses” ) comes with a brain storming idea. A magazine. And I get to be the editorial head of the new magazine. My Evil personality : “ Junior girls Nevin. Remember Bigu Matthai and the KFC offer?” Evil smile. So completely neglecting ‘the song’ that kept haunting me, I agreed. How dumb could I be! Editorial team = Nobody. So what should I do? Make the complete magazine. 2 weeks to do all that. Apparently in strange organizations across the world, the Secy’s wife has more power than the president.  What was that word? Yeah, FUCK! Certainly un-inspiring.

So when Trombay approached us with a tour package – 2 days at Kerala’s most exotic location Wayanad and one day at South India’s most over-rated hill station Ooty, I thought to myself “life’s shit anyway” and nodded a yes. What’s with this stupid song.

Unlike Mr. Jack Dawson who only had to play cards to earn his ticket for the death ride a.k.a RMS Titanic (and who also got to spend some time with THE Kate Winslet) I had to beg, use all my savings, boycott the daily chicken biriyani to get the 3k needed.

Wednesday                  - Anxiety.

Thursday                       - Nothing much. Was busy I suppose.

Friday                           -Wait. Didn’t the internals just get over?

Saturday                       -Spent the entire day reading articles on photography and doing finger exercises.  I didn’t have a tripod so waterfalls required real steady hands. ( Can’t believe people still think that I never wanted to go for the tour.)

Saturday Night   (Day  1)

Tuborg. Al Fahm. Plate shavarma. BANG!
                                                                                    (to be contd..............................)

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The South Zone Experience

I knew I was committing to something which ran strictly against my beliefs, when I gave a nod to Baby sir. The prospect of spending an entire week with a group of relatively unknowns did not tempt me.  Add to that the disappointment of missing out on B.tech arts.

Honestly speaking the journey didn’t start off in the best possible manner either. Was terribly early for the train owing to some mis-communication.  And when I realized I was going to spend the next 24 x 7 with people whom I had seemingly no similarities with, I was completely overwhelmed by an urge to get down at the next railway station and just leave. But I’m glad I didn’t, cause the train ride to Chennai turned out to be very interesting to say the least. Infact it was a teaser to what the south zone would finally do to me – break the conventions. The journey alongside Kerala’s unique ‘Bharatapuzha’ was not spent looking for Pulitzers. Instead we talked loud, shook the entire compartment with our ‘naadan paatu’ and gave the fellow travelers one hell of a time.

We did not really have to reach Satyabama to get the initial impressions. Apparently the only place in the college where a boy and girl can be seen together is the college bus. Just on the emblem outside though. Inside there is a strong iron rod separating the two sections. I wonder if they put curtains in there as well!

Satyabama is a weird college to say the very least. They don’t allow mobile phones, have separate ‘everything’ [ from food courts to hand wash] for boys and girls, sizzling fountains[ quite ironical really, cause they also have bathrooms without water]. Add to that some dumb management, which spells ‘block’ as ‘black’ [ I suppose the blame goes to the pronunciation ], which requires the permission of the HOD to take a printout, and who considers trousers to be ‘against their culture’. Unlike the contemporary engineering colleges which have cameras installed to watch what the students are upto, the folks at Satyabama believes in a more ‘supreme’ power- MGR.  There are portraits of the great actor  everywhere. And I mean EVERYWHERE! Its almost like “ Beware rascala: MGR is watching you.”

The real problem with Satyabama was not their strictness though. Every college has their set of rules. Infact they were willing to do anything under the sun, provided they were allowed to do it in their own way. Where else on Earth would you be provided with a bed and attached bathroom for a fest of this magnitude? What they failed to realize was the whole essence of the fest. These were some of the brightest talents in the country competing.  An assemblage of South India’s best not outcasts.  A platform to meet and share. If only they would’ve realized this and sought advice from anyone who’s been an integral part of these fests. Killed the infinitely many restrictions they had employed. Brought unbiased judges and quizmasters who knew what they were doing!

Conducting classical music inside a hall that’s 16 degrees away from freezing point was not wise.  Hosting the folk/tribal music and the quiz competition simultaneously in venues that shares a wall wasn’t brainstorming either. Too many silly glitches that could’ve been avoided.

But the story of 27^th south zone has nothing to do with these insignificant flaws. Or the infinite dogs and buses that haunts the college. It’s a story of love, how strangers became a family.  Of discovery. A tale about team spirit. The joy of winning. And most importantly the spirit of losing. The attitude some of my friends showed when they were clearly hard done by. Priceless lessons for life. You don’t become a genius sitting under an apple tree. The amount of practise everyone puts in is something one should witness first hand. Add to the dedication their passion. Infact my team mate and I would sit there in that corner of block 7, watch the mime practice in complete awe and then feel guilty about not doing anything ourselves.

Another highlight of the whole journey would be that night when our team decided to serve food for the sub-staff in the college. Satyabama is a mini-nazi camp. From drivers to cleaners, there must be more than 1500 under-paid staff inside the college. And to them, being served was an out of the world experience. Many had tears in the eye when we talked to them. Sometimes it’s good to know that, in the big scheme of things, we are all just human beings.

When I broke freethat murky evening at Mcleod Ganj from the rest of the gang, I thought being alone and having the world to yourself was the ultimate experience. Today, I sit in front of my laptop a changed man because now I realize that happiness is only real when shared. Those walks in search of tea and the happiness when one gets a bonus 'vada'. The backstage before the skit. That makeshift procession. Those ‘evaluation’ sessions in the night where the 'seniors' kept reminding us about the 'south zone' spirit. Crawling through Sholinganallur in search of 'Rasamalai' and the reactions after seeing the bill. All rich memories of togetherness.  The week has transformed me.  Moreover  I got to  know that ‘Hubli’ sells incredible shorts, why madras filter coffee is the world’s best,  ‘Kollegala’ dance is groovier than samba and the answer to the autograph book question “ the best moments in your life so far.”

Iconic journey if ever there was one.

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