Tujhe sab hai pata

   
Her head bowed low, a breath she gasped,
A picture of sorrow, hands tightly clasped, 
She shuddered a bit, willing back a tear, 
Tried to summon grit, to restrain fear,
In utter vain though, her efforts spent, 
To the heavens in woe, her trembling eyes went,
A question they asked, they begged a prayer,
Unrestrained, unmasked, fell a thousand tears,
Ma hugged her close, when she shattered so,
When the terror rose, when it wouldn't go,
When into ma she curled, like a scared child,
Clutching onto her world, with a fierceness wild,
Ma held her tenderly, smiled a small smile,
And whispered to her baby, “sleep for a while...”
She raised her head, and looked into ma's face,
A fearless fighter beyond the weakness she could trace, 
A vitality so true, a love of life so free,
She wanted, one day, too, exactly like that to be, 
To love with such abandon, to laugh without restraint,
To battle every demon, and to never give up faith,
Ma summoned her strength and whispered to her baby, 
“I will love you forever, please don't worry...”
Ma was determined to battle a victorious fight,
To emerge from it certain, to be with joy alight,
She smiled, comforted, up at the warrior, selfless so,
Her ma, her joy, her pride... she'd never let go.

Mumbaichya Mulga

I will begin by stating unabashedly that I was a blob of butter on a plate of pav bhaji in Bombay. Correction: Mumbai. I had to say that, or some people-who-must-not-be-named will eat me alive. I was that nascent, untouched, hopeful globule whose doom is both inevitable and glaringly obvious to everyone staring at it in drooling anticipation. Shady connotations aside, I arrived like a breath of fresh talcum powder, a guy crazy enough to believe he could stay alone in this city and live to tell the tale.

Frankly, the BEST bus gave me a scare the first time I saw one. No, I hadn't been living under someone's rickety floor tiles, so the concept of transportation wasn't entirely unfamiliar to me. It was just that the little town I came from had neither the good fortune nor the adventurous inclination of hosting these 'bus-ke-naam-pe-dhabba's which looked like their singular ambition was to cheerfully burst apart at the seams.

This great metal survivor had in it about a million brave people battling either to stay upright (swaying like pendulums, their hands glued to hand rails), or to not get squashed under the tremendous pressure most of their fellow daredevils were subjecting them to using various parts of their bodies.

The bus conductor was very busy ordering this horde to 'pudhe chala' so he could furtively try to sit on someone. His look of utter disgust at being addressed in any way was only rivaled by the bus driver's one of complete triumph when he managed to leave a huffing, sweaty chaser far behind, enveloped in a cloud of smoke. He then smirked widely at his pitiable million-strong audience via the enormous dusty rear-view mirror. I had a sneaking suspicion that this was the sole purpose of its dull existence. I witnessed everyone from poor bespectacled students to ancient grandmas pressed up against the red beast's innards like peas waiting to burst from their pod. I was nearly launched out of a window myself, but a kindly stranger's shopping was wrapped too snugly about my ankles. And the bus conductor was furtively trying to sit on me.

This was just the start. I hadn’t been to the local train yet.

You’ve probably heard it all before. But if you haven’t actually experienced it, you have no chance of even beginning to appreciate the fact that if you survive the local trains in Mumbai, you’ve conquered the planet. The first time I was on one, in the second class compartment, any vestiges of wide-eyed belief in the good of humanity remaining in my twenty-eight-year-old head were promptly shaken out of me and left behind somewhere on those long, winding tracks.

One of the first to climb into my compartment, I was the lucky guy who gets to stand right in the center of all those bodies, getting sprayed from all sides alternatively by dripping red paan and oh-so-fragrant sweat. I also happened to be the guy who was obviously a stranger to the lifeline of Mumbai. Don’t get me wrong: even if you were born on one of these locals, you could be robbed of everything you hold dear. I was just easiest. I felt a hand groping me in unmentionable places, and thought with a jolt that I was being molested by some sick psycho. Then I felt my wallet slipping out of my pocket and twisted around, determined to catch the idiot. I found my face inches from a pimply innocent-looking teenager’s. His hands were empty. Next to him was a paan-chewing, mustached, red-faced, hostile-looking fellow about three times my weight. All around me were close replicas of this guy. I sighed in defeat. I knew a lost cause when I saw one.

My station finally arrived. I longed for the fresh air outside which I was close to believing had been a dream. I tried to push my way out of the solid, indifferent paan-people’s wall. Milliseconds later, I heard the familiar rattling of wheels beneath me, and every nerve in my body screamed in protest. This could not be happening to me. A few stations along, I was gradually pushed out, and fell on all fours on blessed solid ground. I was lost, hungry, and worse, had no money to buy a ticket back to Andheri. Not that I ever wanted to see another local again in my life.

I saw the train pull away from the station, taking with it the hanging-by-the-tips-of-their-fingers mass of people who gambled with their lives every day. I groped inside my pocket for the phone they'd spared, and called my only friend in all of Mumbai. He sighed, said grudgingly that he'd come fetch me, and muttered some nonsense about how someone called Dadar would have swallowed me whole.

Daring Greatly

Humans are beautiful beings. We are capable of so much. Of love, of compassion, of sympathy, of understanding. 

You are capable of feeling all warm inside when mum says she loves you so much and wants to be there to take care of you, always . You are capable of feeling warm inside when a tiny kitten stares up at you and shuts her tiny eyes in contentment as you tickle her little ears. You are capable of feeling warm inside when you see a truly selfless act. You are capable of loving someone so much that you cry your eyes out worrying over them, hoping they'll be okay. You are capable of withstanding the kind of emotional pain you never thought you could survive, and coming out the other side, still believing in the beauty of love, and of life.

It's how it is supposed to be. You are supposed to love fiercely, to fight fiercely, to express however you best express, and to know when to let go. Letting go is not losing something. It is freeing yourself. Freeing your mind of the tethers that hurt you, and of the false dependence you have on those tethers. You are capable of flying without them. They will only hold you back. So let go...perhaps, one day, they will come back and be the strength in your wings.

The power doesn't lie with the one who cares less in a relationship. They are just better protected from emotional pain. The one who loves wholly, freely, and selflessly is the one who dares to do so. The one who puts themselves out there, knowing the chance they're taking. The one who discovers the extent to which they are capable of love. So even when they are cast aside, when they are told over and over how much more in love they are than the other, they have a reason to smile through the tears - they are, at least, capable of so much love.

Lightening up doesn't imply caring any less. It means seeing the beauty in things and being happy with them. It means seeing things for what they really are, not what you want them to be, and smiling anyway. It means knowing that however bad things seem, they are shaping you into a stronger person. It means realizing that you learn something from every experience. It means taking chances, and not being devastated when the chance doesn't "work out". It means knowing that even if things don't work out, it is always worth the fight. 

Theodore Roosevelt will always be my favourite quoter: 

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."

No place for cold, timid souls.

10 Experiences to Expect on Exchange

Observations on the TF-LEaRN Exchange programme at Nanayang Technological University (NTU), Singapore. This one is all about interactions with people :)

1. Get used to this.

This will happen a lot. In your head. In reality of course, you'll just go rigid for a bit, blink rapidly and try to explain what a shame that movie is, and how your country, as immensely surprising as that is, is NOT a giant shit-and-mud-hole.

2. Not everyone knows about Abel Rosnovski. Yes, not even the Poles.

Just because this book was such a big part of your life, do not be disappointed if your new Polish friend has never heard of Wladek-turned-Abel. Though after you're done staring dumbly in astonishment at their ignorance, they will recommend watching The Pianist, whose main character is called Wladyslaw. Lovely movie.

3. There will be times you will not know what the hell is being spoken.

You'll recognize some words, but not the meaning, and you'll wonder if you're forgetting the English language or simply going insane. Don't worry about the la's and sia's though. Welcome to Singlish. Ask them to repeat, and try deciphering that sing-song accent.



4. Australians love Kangaroo meat.

Yeah, I nearly did a Joey in surprise. You know, where his eyeballs nearly fall off from popping out so much.?

5. If this is true, you're so screwed.

I mean, you can't survive. They live on this stuff here.

6. Nobody thinks this is funny.

The various road directives of "hump ahead" are so giggle-worthy to me. But don't try and exchange winks with anyone here; they just don't see the humour.

7. Your German teacher will be annoyed with you for thinking a girl is feminine.

Translating to "die Mädchen" in a test will drive her right up the wall. Spontaneous outbursts of "Das ist schlecht" at your results accompanied by wild hand movements to punctuate her sorrow will be embarrassingly common.

8. Sometimes Yu Jing will surprise you by blurting "Aiyo!"

I swear, I nearly died of suffocation when I heard this one. I was complaining about taking two language courses and getting completely confused, when the Oriental guy next to me exclaimed "Aiyo!" sympathetically. I couldn't breathe for two minutes, I was left laughing so hard. The professor gave me an odd look, probably pity for my obvious insanity. Cultural integration in Singapore : you gotta love it.

9. Sometimes the above influence is so strong, you will surprise everyone by opening your mouth.

"But you don't have an Indian accent!" will be said to you all the time. Um, which one again?

10. The half-Indonesian girl in Spanish class will exclaim, "Oh, what long eyelashes you have!"

Hm. The better to bat at you with.

A Brilliant Ride

Saarang. Everything I heard of it, however much I tried to anticipate the feeling of being a part of it, the enigmatic royalty that Saarang ultimately unveiled itself to be was almost impossibly (or so it seemed) better, fresh, new, invigorating and surpassed all expectations.

“It’s time for the most talented individuals, with the most varied cultural abilities in the country to face-off (and show off) again. From the 9^th to the 13^th of January, 2013, the usually serene green campus of IIT Madras will turn into a pulsating arena of fiery and dedicated performances and competitions. We invite you to witness this effortless union of the best and gifted in the country and beyond!”

The time I wrote the aforementioned was not a time I could have appreciated myself the full implications and purport of the words. I was writing only from my first idea as a fresher at IIT Madras of what I had seen. As a second-year now and full of zeal to contribute my best to my newly appointed position as Creative and Media Coordinator in the Sponsorship department of the festival, I ran headlong into the preparations for the grand festival that started in May 2012.

The elaborate learning opportunity from the first few stages of ideation, right up to execution that this particular post provided has been invaluable. Combing through websites, feverishly filling up documents with everything we could think of, being set tasks and deadlines by the Sponsorship department Cores (and the frequent disgruntled “What is this, da? You’re way past deadline…” peppered with a few treasured “Well done, team!”) defined the first few heady months of work.

And then the actual execution of it all began. Juggling everything a semester at IITM has to offer, along with this “coordship” (as we called our posts) was a novelty that taught us an irreplaceable lesson in time management. Being assigned separate tasks, and coming up with our own initiatives, the Sponsorship cores put a lot into our hands, and their faith drove us to excel in every way possible.

A swanky new budget, besides the first ever aspect of social cause initiatives under the umbrella of Saarang Eunoia that our department Cores added to Saarang inspired us to push its boundaries. Everyone got very busy with their tasks (streaking past a friend, shouting “Saarang work” as the only explanation to their questioning eyes became a part of everyday life), and I was no exception.

Driving PR deals, handling and contributing to Saarang’s social media sites, writing pages and pages dedicated to every aspect of Saarang for its Facebook page, online publicity and press conference, organizing and preparing for the careful execution of three Saarang events, and having my heart utterly touched by the underprivileged children from Eureka Child that we organized mentorship for as part of Saarang Eunoia, defined the months leading up to Saarang for me.

Endless email and phone conversations helped develop my so far non-existent people skills, and taught me several little things. Every mistake was a major learning experience, and every victory a well-deserved moment of joy. Of course, the team meetings had arguments and disagreements, even moments of utter outrage from the Cores, but it all extracted from us our very best.

What I cherish most is the inter-departmental interactions we had to go through to execute anything. The Design Core was simultaneously the most pained and most liked of them all, and he was always available for advice on everything, besides the Facebook posts he was constantly sought for. Looking back, I think we’d all agree that he had more cause for irritation with the Creative team than with anyone else, and he still managed to do it all with a smile!

When Saarang finally came along, there was not much time to stop and breathe. Our days were filled with sprinting from one place to the next, making sure everything was in place and the sponsors’ stalls set to their satisfaction. Besides this, it was finally time for the events to take place. Panache was the fashion design competition a couple of my teammates and I worked heart and soul for and which I compered. The butterflies on stage were more out of anxiety for it to go off without a hitch. And it did! The joy which the successful completion of two months’ work provided is unequalled by any other. The other two events I was involved with went off smoothly as well.

Our nights were all about the Proshows! Every one of the professional shows organized was exhilarating and enjoyed to the utmost. The violinist on Parikrama Night received, perhaps, the strongest reaction as he effortlessly ran straight into the crowd, all the while setting his instrument on fire and breaking a couple of bowstrings. The 8000-strong crowd sang along to every Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy song, was held mesmerized by every Choreo Night performance and awed by the skills displayed on Classical Night. Sunburn had us swaying and jumping to everything Asia’s youngest DJ had to play.

Contriving to wrest some food coupons from the powerful Cores, laughing late into a night during a Saarang Newsletter making session, giggling at the always popular dance workshop, presenting a Mad Ad at the carnival stage and being completely enchanted by various performances filled up the rest of my Saarang. I was only one of a thousand-strong organizing team, but the insane feeling of belonging and pride I experienced throughout the five-day ride is indescribable, besides utterly addictive. We all of us want to do it all over again, with perhaps some more experience and some more skill next year around!

For A Lady

Well, this was written to help a couple friends with their tentative love lives. Yes, I've been courting women.

Here I am, with a heart beating fast,

Staring at these blank pages,

Thinking, wondering, debating just how

To pen what I’ve felt for ages…

A rush of emotions, so far unknown,

And a million thoughts leap to my mind,

But my ink and pen, they quiver so,

As the perfect words they try to find…

My senses wage an internal war,

But I had better initiate a try,

To make a start, a little beginning,

Before my head asks too many ‘Why?'s…

But a little voice utters in a whisper,

How can I possibly describe thee,

And capture that enveloping radiance,

Of the being who is an angel to me…

With that unique delicate beauty,

Your hair is like the twilit sky,

Mysterious, exquisitely compelling,

A potent sight, but always shy…

It shimmers like a curtain of gold,

Its dance is both mesmerizing and bold,

Your smile has the glow of a thousand suns

Your eyes, the life of a thousand more...

Your silent laugh, it delights me so,

Your lovely face half-hidden,

In your tresses flying high and low,

The sight enchants me, unbidden…

Splendid as God has made you outside,

I admire you a whole lot more,

For what you’ve made of your soul,

That deep, selfless, thoughtful core…

Your vividly strong personality,

The dogged persistence of your mind,

The intensely alive curiosity,

That is a jewel, so rare a find…

Your particular way of facing any situation,

With a true, brave sparkle in your eye,

Handling it all with a soothing calm,

And a hidden subsurface fiery fire…

That perpetual, alive, simmering heat,

That intense passion of your will,

Your simple, sweet, charming grace,

A thousand stories beneath a façade still…

Your voice’s brilliant complex melody,

Tells an ancient romantic tale,

The feelings the strains invoke in me,

Are matchless, as are you, my nightingale…

Now I hesitate and pause, yet ache to say,

To be with you, to never be apart,

To feel for you as I do now, forever and always,

Is the dearest darling wish of my heart…

Check it out

http://iitbwritersbloc.wordpress.com/2013/04/09/blue-navyata-sanghvi-iit-madras/

:) :)

I miss you

I miss you. Every single day of every week. I cannot describe the heart-rending, intensely disabling, crushing pain of being apart and knowing I can never see you again. Never hear your laugh, never feel your loving, tender caress, never hear your stories, never be rocked by you to sweet, blissful sleep, knowing I’m safe. I hate the fact that I could not even say goodbye, that I had to hear of it, that you went so much before your time.

I cannot stand the fact that you had to suffer so much, you, the very embodiment of all that is good. I hate the fact that you withered away into a shell of yourself, a mere ghost of the laughing, happy, witty, vivacious, strong, loving, brave person you always were to me. I hate the disease that did that to you, that caused you so much pain, that took the light out of your eyes, that killed you a million times over before you finally let go.

I could see, throughout the ordeal, how you were still trying to be brave for us. You wanted to brush it all off as if it was nothing, a mere hitch in an otherwise perfect plan. But then there came a time when the horrid disease broke the strongest spirit I’ve ever known. I remember gritting my teeth, hoping against hope God would be fair. This amazing person deserved none of this. This brilliant, saint-like person deserved the very best in life. But no. God would take the person I loved most away from me, away from the world, in the worst way possible.

I ask myself why. Every day, through a haze of tears, I ask myself, and demand of God, why my favourite person. My inspiration in life could not have done anything to deserve this. No one deserves what the bravest person I knew went through. And it’s an unstoppable force. You can’t tell it’s coming, you can do nothing to impede its relentless destruction. And the helplessness is what I can’t forgive myself for. Even though I come up blank when I ask myself what I could possibly have done, I can’t forgive myself for doing nothing.

Irrational as that sounds, I wish I could have been there more. I wish I could have held you, and comforted you, the way you had done countless times against my childish fears. I wish I could have made you feel safe, secure in my arms. I wish I could have taken some of your pain away, could have fought with you against the monster. Above all, I wish I could see you, just one more time…

Kill the *$%@!&*s.

The oft-mentioned cliché urges the world to stop telling girls to dress better, stop telling them when to do what and how, and stop blaming them in general for any assaults and invasions of privacy they may experience (“Haan haan. Dekha kaise kapde pehne the?”).

Contrary to the opinion of most, I suppose, I would do all within my power to not give dirty minds dirty ideas. I would tell myself to not wear so-and-so and go someplace sometime. Simply to protect myself, if not anything else.

I would be excessively stupid to tempt horrendous people to do the unmentionable to me, simply because I wanted to prove a point - that it wasn’t my fault. Small consolation my victory on that front would be, should anything happen. Yes of course! Nobody says it was my fault. Only that I could perhaps prevent it in a small way. Which, one must own, is true to a certain extent.

To a certain extent. What happened with the 23-year-old (in our oh-so-safe national capital) who is uppermost in our minds is far beyond that extent, and far beyond saving. The senseless anger and desperate, helpless, blind rage I feel is perhaps not unlike any of my fellow humans who have heard her story. And yet, the posts on Facebook going crazily viral are more often than not related to “Stop telling your daughter to stop (insert here the aforementioned blah-blah-blah). Start telling your sons not to rape.”

Which is all very admirable and revolutionary. And thoughtless. Because she did none of the blah-blah-blah! She was not alone, she was not dressed ‘indecently’, she did not in any way provoke her assailants or tease them, she was not out at an ‘indecent’ hour, and was all in all ‘above-board’ according to the standard definition of decency in our country. What then can you say about the extent one should go to prevent assault on oneself?

She could have done nothing. She was the victim of barbarous, brutal animals who deserve not to be called men in any sense of the term. They mutilated her beyond what a conscious, thinking individual who claims to have self-restraint or any semblance of a brain could have done. The inflicted cruelty and extreme physical torture they put her through, not to mention the horrendous crime they committed, the worst of any a woman can possibly go through, has ruined her young life forever and will haunt her to her grave, which she is currently fighting to stay out of.

We have the power of protest, and the internet within easy reach. But we must use these well. Sharing a senseless post will really get us nowhere. It will perhaps ignite a few fiery thoughts for a while and then fade away. What’s the freaking point of that?! Stop battling society and their words which you fancy yourself entitled to fight because, hey, isn’t that our aim? Ridiculing Indian society, and believing ourselves oh-so-superior?  No!

Stop using this incident and every other like it to tell the society to shut the hell up. This is not about the society, this is not about you, this is not about your attitude and your ‘birthright’ to rebel. This is about an innocent victim of six animals whose very thought makes my skin crawl. This is about demanding the very worst punishment there is for their heinous (it seems like such a hollow word, hollow as they all are to describe what this was) crime, and hanging them doesn’t seem a proportionate punishment. With feelings too strong for expression, I must abruptly sign off. But I must make one final appeal : Thoughts, anyone?

Over-analyzing a Take-Off

It’s going by fast, it’s going by slow,

Racing on and on in a blurry glow,

Still dragging its feet, hovering over its seat,

Refusing to stay, refusing to start away.

Life seems confused, disjointed scenes,

My last year in the happenin’ teens,

It may seem odd (you may secretly nod),

But sometimes I feel old, already draped in mold.

Is that strange? I haven’t even begun,

I ain’t seen nothin’ solid yet, it’s all just fun,

I have a careful tread, but this unshakable dread,

That I’ll soon tire, lose all that fire.

A light that keeps me going, in the nursery of life,

I’m terrified it’ll be but a wisp amidst real strife,

All this waiting around, waiting for a dream to be found,

Am I wasting away, wasting every single day?

Wasting every day I wait to grow up,

Waiting for experience, in a magic cup?

Or shall I shake it off, stop awaiting a take-off,

Enjoy being naïvely gullible, before I have to be responsible?  

One way or other, happiness is what we seek,

Worry and frowns won’t help the weak,

If I think I’m not smart enough, I’ll try harder with stuff,

If you still think I’m a child, a mild rethink wouldn't be wild!

I Don't Want to Be Perfect

             There are those times in life when you feel so inadequate, like you want to be that little kid again, giggling over flowers, catching the pretty butterflies, having your cheeks pinched and pulled, running to mommy crying after a little fall, hiding in her dupatta when a big, grinning adult looms over you, and having not much else to care for. Nothing you do or say can be contested or challenged. Nothing makes you feel any smaller than your peers. No difficult feelings invade your mind and threaten to sink you under them.

When did all that change? When did life become such a competition? When did people start judging people based on their ideas of what should be? When did we start caring about how these people felt?

             Nobody is perfect, and neither is it humanly possible to fit every person’s definition of it. And yet, we are constantly after pleasing someone or other. Most prevalent on that list of ‘someone’s is oneself. Why do we expect so much from ourselves?

 Why can’t we love ourselves, just the way we are? Strive to achieve, put in our all, but know we could not have done anything differently and thus escape crushing disappointment, should we fail? Why do we try to excel at so many things and feel extreme discontent when we end up being a jack of all trades, master of none? Why do we start judging ourselves and condemning ourselves when we fail to meet expectations despite giving it our all?

             The above is the stupidest thing I have ever written.

 Obviously, the above rant is all true and the answer to each one is “because we are human!” We are a mentally backward species with the tendencies of a deranged lunatic throughout our lives. We are irrational, self-centered, and utterly petulant-child-like.

              We are easily bored, and in eternal pursuit of comfort. We handle the difficult stuff with a pair of extremely long tongs, held carefully away like the most viral disease in existence. We are under-confident and wildly hormonal. Always. Not just when a teen, or pregnant, or menopausal. Always. And we refuse to believe it! Our lives’ aims are to show everyone around us up. Stupidly, we think that miraculously makes us look better than the actual creatures we are. But, hey! That’s who we are!

              And I am fiercely, dangerous-escaped-convict-like, wildly, and passionately glad of the fact. An ideal world would be such a drag, no fun at all. What would life be like if we all reacted rationally all the time? The very basis of enjoyment in life is its sheer unpredictability. If everyone’s reactions could be predicted, our existence would be so …so… yawn…mind-numbingly boring!

              Strange as this may sound, I want to be capable of feeling crushing, heart-rending sadness. I want to able to enjoy the heady feeling of complete victory or achievement.  I want to be able to stand the alternate extreme, warm joy and tear-jerking pain of a blushing heart under the spell of another of God’s imperfect creatures. I want to feel the irrational, all-forgiving, blind and fiercely protective love every mother does. I want to be able to appreciate the restlessness of my mind when I’m in the dark about things, want to feel the suspense that accompanies every one of life’s tests, want to be scared and feel the joy of overcoming it.

  I want to feel imperfect, inadequate, so I can feel the drive that accompanies it to do better. I want to feel the crushing disappointment or discontent when things don’t go my way even though I tried my damnedest. I want to feel the happiness I do in beholding pretty flowers or graceful cats or adorable puppies or my own Austen-inspired fantasies. I want to feel my heart thud in anticipation, the heat rise to my face in response to an affront or much-appreciated compliment, and my legs tremble on a stage in front of hundreds. I want to feel the uncertainty and insecurity accompanying any unsure thing, want to feel the tiny triumphant feeling in going ahead with it anyway.

  I want to feel the extreme curiosity over anything that can inspire it, and the magnificent dissatisfaction with anything that attempts to quench it. I want to be able to blush at my own stupidity, and laugh at another’s. Above all, I want to change not everything, not something, not anything at all.

 Life as an irrational human is the best thing that ever happened to me. We can always learn, grow, improve or have the appearance of it, but essentially, we are the same interesting, unpredictable, child-like creatures we always were. And Thank God for it!

Avant-garde Avanti

IIT Madras was a strange, intimidating place when I first stepped into it. In fact, I was close to wishing I had never been so uncharacteristically mindless as to think I, the very opposite of a fiercely independent, never-tied-to-mummy’s-pallu possessor of a devil-may-care attitude, could actually survive in a place like this, full of the multi-talented brain-iacs of the country as it was.

           

Of course, as I often am about such things, I was dead wrong. JEE preparation was a difficult time, a whirl of confusion and the feeling that I was in a never-ending race for my life, which I managed to save by the skin of my teeth. I felt as if my existence would be even more difficult in this mean green jungle that was now my home. I am not proud to say I was not above the popular reference to a chicken.

           

As I got used to things, life became new and exciting. I was lucky enough to be able to explore everything that caught my fancy and develop every little talent I possessed. I was finally made privy to the existence of Avanti Fellows in this, my first year at IIT, and the work they proposed fascinated me. My worries seemed to shrink into nothing, and I was heartily ashamed of having such petty problems and fears. As I began to realize what this ambitious non-profit organization had set out to accomplish, I was awed by the sheer willpower behind such an aim.

           

Alumni from IIT Bombay courageously decided to form Avanti, a mentoring organization wherein underprivileged children of the 11^th and 12^th standards with big dreams are coached for JEE by students of IIT wishing to do so. I was initially apprehensive of being responsible for part of a student’s education so early when I was so unsure of my own, but the thought of all the better facilities I had during my own JEE training as compared to these innocent starry-eyed children steeled my resolve, and pushed me to help them in any way within my power.

           

I was made in charge of a lovely young girl in the 11^th standard, Vasuki, who had passed screening tests and was now a fellow at Avanti. She is always eager to learn and I do everything I can to clear her many doubts, all the while reminded of my own difficulties during preparation. That is the beauty of Avanti. Teachers are people who are willing to work out of goodwill, and have themselves experienced various entrance exams recently.

           

As enlightening as my experience with Vasuki was, an incident, which truly opened my eyes to the sad situation a dream without funding is in, occurred some time after my induction. I was assigned the task of paying home visits to possible new students for Avanti along with a second year senior, also a mentor. The purpose behind these visits was to talk to the students’ parents, put them at ease when it came to the start of their child’s experience with Avanti, and make sure that they were indeed of the underprivileged.

I was not prepared for what I next saw. The pride on parents’ faces in the houses we visited was evident enough, along with their happiness and sense of gratitude. Equally evident were the conditions they lived in, the tiny rooms and meager furnishing that were occupied with ease and no dissatisfaction at all. I was silenced, overpowered, humbled by their hospitality and happiness against all odds. Equally fascinating were the bright minds we found there. I was suddenly reminded of the fact that this country possesses talent everywhere, unbound by material boundaries, talent that deserves to be nurtured and honed.

I can neither understand nor speak Tamil. That did not keep me from understanding one mother’s emotions, fears and hopes as she conversed with my companion unaffectedly in the only language she knew. Her expressions said it all. She was determined to provide her daughters and son a better education than she had received. And she had succeeded already to a large extent, we realized as we conversed with her daughter.

We cannot deceive ourselves by expecting all the students (fellows) of Avanti to get into an IIT, but we can always strive to do all that is humanly possible to at least afford them a decent shot at it. Whether they make it past JEE or not, they will always be a better-informed set of individuals than they would have been without Avanti. It is this conviction that drives all Avanti workers and helps bring fellows closer to their goals.

I always look back at my unreasonable dissatisfaction at the beginning of my life just before, and at, IIT with a guilt which has taught me something priceless. I will always feel an immense sense of gratitude for being given what Avanti works hard to give its fellows: a shot at their dreams.

^ Avanti fellows during Shaastra, IITM's technical festival

Not all that much Above Average

Jane Austen wrote, “ Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans…from pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers.”

Above Average is a novel by Amitabha Bagchi, written relating to his own experiences in life revolving around his stay at IIT. I cannot go so far as to say it is a part of the oft-lamented trash Austen accuses reviewers of condemning, but to say that Bagchi has foes as numerous as readers when it comes to this book is no exaggeration. But it is neither pride, nor ignorance, nor fashion that leads me to make such a statement.

This is a story written from the point of view of Arindam Chatterjee, a seven point someone while at IIT. Written in a highly confusing way to put it mildly, it seems to be a collection of passing thoughts that the author chose to write down using his life and different names. A very strange hodge-podge of events in this person’s life as he grows from adolescent to adult forms the entire story. The strangeness I mention is entirely to do with narration, not the events themselves, which are at best mildly interesting or alternatively, shocking and at worst mind-numbingly boring.

Starting in a Tamil prep school in New Delhi, this Bengali kid’s life is something we can all relate to, having gone through various similar bouts of anxiety and pressure during our own JEE preparation. Passing with an All-India rank of 62, the 17-year-old looks all set for a B.Tech in Computer Science at IIT Delhi. The rest of the story takes him from boyhood to manhood back to boyhood once again to manhood to…and that never really ends.

While on his journey of life, he encounters a whole range of different characters, ranging from junkies to rock stars, the uninterested to the over-interested, the nerdy to the artistic, and the brutally honest to the tall-tale tellers. He explores his family life, values and friendship with those of other castes, besides matter-of-factly stating the various sexual goings on of the hormonal guys he is destined to acquainted with. His scandalous-tale telling friend seems to know the entire goings on of doodhwaalas of Mandawli and girls of Preet Vihar. Little everyday things of life in Delhi and relationships with friends have been indeed brought out naturally, if a little emotionlessly.

Male characters are numerous in this story, and girls but three, much like life in IIT. However, the girls leave an impression on the reader which is far more than can be said of most male characters. Each character, though having more than a single side, is poorly developed, and at times, rather forgettable. Despite tears being shed more than once in this story, the connect necessary to feel the characters’ pain is just not there, which leaves the reader feeling a rather odd restlessness to move on with the story.

Oddly enough, the character that features least and says but a few lines is the only one I felt for, the only one that rent my heart and evoked sensations other than confusion or downright boredom. Not central to the story, this girl is Arindam’s friend’s niece, an innocent child of fourteen when first introduced to the reader.

The story continues to be a confusing tangle of isolated incidents in absolutely no chronological order, and slowly takes the reader through competition, jealousy, dispute, anxiety, friendship and reflections at IIT during Arindam’s stay there, exploration of his own interests, musical as well as relating to his subject, a rather hilarious description of a class by a famous researcher, changes back home, and his colony friend’s and his own early infatuations.

Love forms but a small part of the whole, and is not dealt with much sensitivity, besides being entirely without dejection. The reader is also taken on a short journey with Arindam to Baltimore, where he completes his PhD, and describes his sensations there, a dark period.

The author does not seem able to settle on a tense for narration, and at several points, repetitive use of the word “would” nearly defeated my will to go on with the story.

Joining the league of the numerous books written on IITians’ lives, this book certainly is not deficient when it comes to being able to relate to it, but it fails to capture the reader’s imagination. It picks up slightly toward the middle of the book, but falls back toward the end. The reader is left feeling as if the story is incomplete and hasn’t been developed enough. It took me a while to go through it entirely, and almost giving up was not a one-time-only experience. All in all, this is not a read that is much above average.

The Hostel All-Tell

If I said that I fell in violent and irrevocable love as soon as I stepped about a year ago into the large, bustling building that is Sharavati Hostel, I would be making a laughable (not to mention: wholly unbelievable ) attempt at a gigantic falsehood.

 I was perhaps not unlike one of those pitiable little scared-out-of-their-wits mice you imagine caught squealing and kicking in a trap (that appeared as if out of nowhere!) so entirely unknown to them. Quite irrationally, I was wildly accusative toward my parents for unceremoniously kicking me out and dumping me into this (gulp) strange, unfamiliar territory full of so many intelligent, intimidating, and (if rumours were to be believed) rare creatures: girls on campus.

                Of course, about a week into my stay there, I was having the time of my life (really, it was as if the mouse had been freed into a private heaven made wholly of cheese).  The oft-mentioned, cheesy, clichéd saying of hostel life being the most memorable time of your life, I was firmly on my way to whole-heartedly acknowledging to be true.

A series of ‘interactions’ were destined to signify the commencement of my life here. These were completely innocent and as angelic as the seniors I had these singing-dancing-gen-fun intro sessions with (I was definitely not told to say that)! Every lost little fresh(ie) face became a fast friend, and we were already running head-on into night-outs full of laughter and heart-to-hearts. Predictably, adjusting to life on our own was different from the mummy’s-kids treatment we were used to, but seeing as pretty much everyone was in the same boat left us admirably unconcerned.

In this first year, we lived three or four to a cramped room, officially that is. Of course, one of these was always chosen as the general, unmentioned hang-out location. It was left only for a bed at night, a giggly brushing-session with at least five others, a hunt for an unoccupied, working, clean bathing stall, or alternatively, a washing-machine of similar description.

We lived in envy of the seniors who lived one or two to a room, and in awe of their all-knowing, or so it seemed, presence. They pretty much kept us afloat and saved us from sinking into a storm of new information. They also gave us our first lessons in insti lingo. “Gen putting peace” is now indispensable to us.

Hurrying five floors down to fill up our water bottles, mumbling to ourselves of the inconvenience of every dispenser on every intermediate floor being extraordinarily empty, and chatting with the security lady once there is a routine in Sharavati. As is scouring for movies, songs, lectures, notes, papers, every heard-of thing in existence on the LAN we cannot live without. DC++ is dearer to us than our dearest friends.

Granted, the lizards took some getting used to, but I love all the other creatures I met there! Food is common property, and I’m not talking about among us humans alone. Monkeys feel themselves entitled to barging into our rooms and snatching our dearest eatables, often just as we are about to taste them. Brooms transform into the deadliest weapons in our fearless hands at such opportunities to display bravery!

The notice board of announcements right opposite the ground-floor dispenser is the most visited place in the building (the full-length mirror next to it may be instrumental to its popularity). It is our window to opportunities in the institute, be it robotics, chess, dance, music, theatre, sport, literary or any other event. There is something for everyone on that beloved black board!

The colourful way Holi is celebrated here I will not forget. Election time sees extensive campaigning as we choose the most eligible leaders to manage affairs in their third year at Sharavati. Exam time sees extensive cramming, and is largely a combined freaking-out session, often lasting all night. Inter-hostel competitions are even more assiduously prepared for, with multiple night-outs. There is always something happening at this dear place (pun intended)! And a year into my stay, I can now safely say: I am most violently (and irrevocably) in love with the wonder that is my life in Sharavati Hostel.

Rebecca Black Named Prime Suspect in Mantralaya Fire Case

Disclaimer:  None of it's true! Seriously, this isn't serious.

The Mantralaya fire that broke out at 3 p.m. on Thursday in Mumbai was horribly mistimed, according to reliable sources. Startling news yet to be revealed as part of the CBI’s, in their own words, “unbiased investigation” was related by a CBI official to this news body.

            “We have strong reason to believe that the infamous Rebecca Black is the mastermind behind this entire thing. However, we are yet to figure out jurisdiction problems.” He secretively revealed after much persuasion.

            Black’s single “Friday-the worst song ever” is speculated to actually be a coded message to her cohorts in India. “It was not supposed to go viral!” is what she is alleged to have said exasperatedly to the friend who’s by her right, yeh-eh.

Read: right-hand-man.

            An intricate plan of deception and greed is revealed on digging deeper into her would-be secret message.

“It’s just so obvious!” is what Mr. Prithviraj Chavan, CM, Maharashtra said, throwing his hands up agitatedly while giving us a statement. “How the CBI missed it until now is mind-boggling.”

            What they missed is Black’s brazen words. “Which seat can I take?” says it all.

“She wants my seat!” Mr. Chavan said, close to tears.                                                  >>>                                         

                

            The Adarsh Scam, which was the reason for one Chavan’s accession and the other’s ouster, seems to have been targeted in an in-genius plan to wipe out all relative documents. The sheer stupidity an over-optimism of the act seems to have led CBI directly to Black.

            

            “Na rahega baas, na bajegi bansuri” seems to have caught the musical Black’s fantasy. Allegedly a die-hard Ashok Chavan supporter, she figured that once the documents were gone, Prithviraj’s seat would be hers to give to Ashok.

            

            But everything did not go as planned. The fire was premature!

            

            The fire was supposed to break out at 7 a.m. on Friday, the 22^nd of June, it has been confirmed. Black’s first line, “7 a.m., waking up in the morning,” implies a desire to wake the city up with a bang at the indicated time.

            

            The bomb is yet undiscovered at the Mantralaya, but then, perhaps her friends did not adhere to her every direction rigidly. “Tickin’ on and on, everybody’s rushing” seems to very obviously point to an explosive with a timer.

            

            “It’s Friday, Friday, getting down on Friday,” is directly indicative of getting him down on Friday.

Black seems to have been big on numerology. The 22^nd was fixed because of his being the 22^nd CM of Maharashtra. 6+2+0+1+2 (June 2012) = 11, which is the exact half of 22! And of course, it’s Friday.

Ironically, this song was blaring out of the CBI official’s radio as we asked him for a statement.  “Kicking in the front seat, sitting in the back seat..”

What remains to be seen is the actual prosecution of this ‘singer’. Meanwhile, the CM lives in fear of his seat being sat on, or worse, kicked.