It's a ten

There is a nip in the air this morning, almost imperceptible, laughable even to anyone who is accustomed to the traditional season of winter (wear). But, for me, it is a trigger to memories from a weather long ago at a place far away. Bangalore of the mid-late 2000s was pleasure, full of greenery, and cool winds, particularly cold inside the hallowed portals of IIMB. Those days, the temperature used to drop a degree or two once you set foot inside campus.

I first walked into the campus in early 2006 to attend my group discussions and personal interviews. Filled with nothing short of awe, I passed my hands over those grey stone walls, walked tentatively across podiums and courtyards, and attended the interviews with trepidation. It’s been over twelve years since then, ten since I graduated from campus.

Ten years out of campus is a lot of learning, as clichéd as it sounds. Student life is a sheltered one, idyllic even, despite the pressures of coursework and tests and grades and placements. Ten years ago, it was even more idyllic because we were one of the last batches to pay dirt cheap fees for a 2-year course in that eminent institution. All we had to do was turn up at class, participate with some inputs and solutions to business problems we half understood and didn’t relate to, cram for tests, complete group projects, and design our resumes. The goals weren’t many, in fact the goal was only one, to get placed on Day 0. Identification of personal strengths and interest areas, evaluating role fitment, considering company culture – none of these were priorities. At pre-placement talks, all of us would wait for that slide titled “Compensation & Benefits” because, nothing else mattered. No wonder then that most B-school graduates quit their jobs within the first year or two of joining.

Ten years out of campus also means a lot of forgetting. We do tend to forget that those 2-years were hardly idyllic. It was a lot of pressure, from within and outside. The first few months were heartbreaking, because relative grading hardly made friends, mostly only people looking for benefits. Summer placements killed whatever friendships remained, because come on, Not Day 0, then not my friend. And that’s why it is important to cherish the friendships that survived that time, in fact thrived through the past ten years. What miracle is that? Who are these people who have wanted to be friends with me all these years? No benefits here. No support in group studies or placement prep, but they are still around, and will be around for the 25^th year reunion.

Ten years do pass by in a flash. So much happens. People move countries, change careers, get married, have kids, get divorced, get married again. But, people at the core never change. Those I remember as the fun ones who can hold happy conversations about the world at large still remain the same. And the others… they too remain. The same. Those of us who would get around and make fun of everything and everyone also remain, the same.

Ten years out of campus, most importantly, just raises more questions than answers. We planted a tree in memory of a dead batchmate. Yes, one of us died. Within just ten years. No one called for silence as the tree was planted, we just went silent. Perhaps, we were all thinking the same thing. What is life? Is it just a tree at the end?

P.S. Thanks M, for making me write on the blog. It was for fear of losing your readership mostly, that I wrote this. Also, because I wanted to write. What’s a ten-year reunion if not a blog post?

K for K

K is a fairly unique alphabet in the English language, in that we don't use it as much as we do use C - Cat, Clay, Create, Commemorate and so on. It is usually a silent accompaniment to the beloved N as in Knack, Knock, Knot and Knit. But, then, it is a potent letter in its individual form, as K.

How do you react when someone says K to you, in response to something you ask them, say over text or whatsapp? 

Super Happy - You are in seventh heaven because that person actually bothered to respond that it doesn't matter they invested time that won't be enough to unlock their phone through touch id, to respond to you. Maybe, the response was from Ratan Tata or Mukesh Ambani.

Reasonably pleased - Your crush responded with a K to your tenth 'Hi'. Maybe she / he meant FO, but hope is a good thing, the best of things, and no good thing ever dies. 

Normal to ignore continuum - It is an acquaintance who asked you for some information, and you said "I don't know". K is acceptable in response. No?

Outraged - You just sent a 500 character message explaining how an induction motor works, along with tricks on how to remember the shortcuts in order to write the answer and pass the exam. And the receiver just 'K'ed you.

K is a potent letter, so remember the lessons before you respond with a K next time someone asks / tells you something. Are you ok with the person on the other end falling in the "outraged" pie of the chart, ready to kill you the next time they see you?

P. S. This post is the eleventh in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

Body shamers

I have always been what one would, if they wanted to be polite, call "healthy" - a chubby child, an awkwardly big adolescent and now, a rotund adult. Neither I nor the people around me have forgotten that, and when I am not taking digs at my own size, my family and friends would run jokes on my behalf. In fact, my cousin's childhood nickname for me was "Moti", and he most definitely was not referring to pearl. I have never considered digs about my weight or size "body shaming", till almost a decade back at B-school.

At the end of a morning class session in the first term, a classmate came up to me and told me, very gleefully, how a bunch of guys in the last bench were just discussing about how large my arms were and the apparent sex appeal in them. My friend, who was sitting next to me, shooed him off saying he was talking 'bakwaas' and he should shut up. But, I was mum, a tad too numb, because I was too shocked that someone said that to me, about a specific body part. I didn't turn up in class the rest of the day as I spent the day wondering about what body parts of me people would be looking at or thinking of instead of talking to me, if and when I turned up. Of course, I went to class the next day, because I couldn't miss the course for the sake of a few bozos. However, my only regret for so many years now has been that I did not give it back to that guy, and had it buried inside me for so long. 

That situation has now been taken care of. The person contacted me for something, and while I was still mum during the initial conversation, something in me snapped when he said, "Looks like you are loving fitness routines. Your photos seem to suggest you have lost weight." I just told him that I am still the same person, only that no one body shames me any more unlike a bunch of bullies back in B-school. It felt good, though it was many thousand hours late.

Body shaming, as the urban dictionary informs me, is about shaming a person for their body. And, it isn't always about a fat person. It is about that girl who has a stick thin body and is insecure about it, because someone once told her that her clothes hang on her like on a pole. It is about the dark skinned boy who is compared to the night of the new moon or a 'karuvadu' (sun-dried fish in Tamil) day in and day out. It is about that short boy being told he will not find a girl his size and a tall girl being informed she is too much of an ostrich for marriage. For years, marketing companies have used our insecurities and these body shamers' words to coerce us into buying and using things we may perhaps be better off without than with. 

No, I am not going to spend time giving links to those advertisements and the outrage in media over them. Many a good samaritan has already taken care of that. I am just going to remind you, the body shamed (no one has the picture perfect body after all), to give it back when someone tries to shame you. You may yell, you may talk nicely, you may smile, you may not smile. Just drive the point across. The more you call out the shamers on their shaming, the lesser they will shame everyone, and the better this world will be, for us and our future generations too.

N for Night-outs

For most part of my student life, I have been a day scholar, someone who goes from home to school / college and comes back in the evening. And, like every other kid who comes home every day in India, I was on quite a tight leash, with strict schedules for going and coming back.

Then, B-school happened, my hostel room becoming the cliched home away from home, and my friends becoming the family away from my family. While the latter suited me perfectly well (you know how some are blessed with great friends rather than a great family), the former took some time getting used to. After the initial wave of home sickness and withdrawal symptoms from mom food and mom love, things got to normal. However, things truly got normal once the night-outs began.

Night outs were invented by the Universe to have long, meaningless (mostly philosophically meaningful) conversations over endless amounts of chai and sandwich from the midnight canteen and Athicas (our very own 24 hour food mecca) under the garb of study groups or project groups. Not surprisingly, no projects have ever been completed in time, nor has anyone aced tests and quizzes as an outcome to these planned night-outs. 

Nevertheless, if one wants to be a better person in life, someone who can obsess over the world and the self equally seriously, identifying strengths and weaknesses of the political system, economic situation, and one's own capabilities in equal parts, I would recommend a few (rather, many) night-outs as part of hostel life.

Nothing can substitute that uninhibited time and mindspace you get in college (despite the workload) to think, mull over and be consumed by something other than monthly salaries, housing loans and the next big promotion. Nothing can replace the awesome minds of students trying to get innovative and creative about solving the problems of this world. Nothing, nothing can measure up to the value of those friendships formed, over nights of joys in conversations, where impossible is a word unknown, opportunities for thought and growth limitless.

This one is dedicated to some of my most special friends from B-School who have been instrumental in making me the better person I am today. 

P. S. This post is the fourteenth in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

K for Kavity

That's some narcissism, you must be thinking. Well, when I thought of K, the first thing that came to mind was my own nick-name, so why not spend some well deserved space on it.

Kavity is not a childhood nickname of mine. In fact, my childhood nickname is quite silly, like how most nicknames go, and is actually sillier than Kavity. Booju is what my mom, and my then neighbors used to call me. My cousin used to call me Moti (because I have always been quite mota). Kavity is a name I got well after my adolescence, thanks to a bosom friend I met during B-School days.

Many of my friends have forever been calling me Kavity, and my mother finds it hard to reconcile to this name even today, after many years. 

While many people have grappled between Cavity and Kavity in addressing me, not really understanding why anyone will hold a nickname that isn't very palatable, my friend's 4 year old went a step ahead. The first time I met him, along with a group of boisterous old-time friends from B-school, everyone kept addressing me by my nickname. This little fellow went up to his dad and whispered silently, but loud enough for everyone to hear - "Do you guys call her cavity because she has bad teeth with lot of cavities?"

Well! Kids these days! And, for the record, no, I do not have bad teeth with lot of cavities!

P. S. This post is the eleventh in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

If I had to do it all over again...

MBA bashing is the only constant in an otherwise changing world. Every year, I read at least one article with over a hundred thousand likes and ten thousand shares (just guesstimating, like a typical MBA), that lynches the mad MBA race, with the author going on to regret having spent time and money on a management degree.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I always was the kind that couldn’t make up my mind. Sometimes, it was music, sometimes writing. Some other times, it was history, only I never wanted to sit around excavating remains of 14th century Ming dynasty. Biology? Couldn’t draw to save my life, so the whole medicine business was out of the window. Look at me, calling medicine a business!

I wanted to specialize in languages, particularly English literature. It was promptly vetoed by my super-conservative-we-will-go-to-US-for-PhD family. So, I was left with little choice but to generalize rather than sit and code on Java and J2EE and .Net (I know those names, I am a ‘specialist’ Computer Science Engineer). 

I don’t remember much of my MBA. I think it had some vague terms like Black Scholes, law of diminishing returns, marginal utility, MBTI etc. But, I made a lot of very intelligent friends there whose brains I pick now (for free) to learn the answer to life, the Universe and everything (which apparently is not 42). And, somewhere down the line, I started liking being this generalist-nobody who doesn’t commit to specialist things, but just brings things together and packages them well for the market. 

So, what’s the harm? Some of us, perhaps many of us spend a good decade or two of our lives as confused souls with no knowledge of what we want to do and hence end up being generalists. And a few of us, after having got into specializations, are worried sick that we will become obsolete. And, consciously move towards the general with a management degree in hand.

The MBA is actually a consequence of our confusion, not cause for our confused careers. The MBA is a consequence of our risk aversion, not cause for our incapability to do innovative things. So, before bashing and blaming an inconsequential degree (for that’s what the "bashers" believe it to be), let us take a minute to reflect whether two inconsequential years can really wreck our lives so much that we will spend the rest of our lives writing about “If I had to do it all over again”.

Down a Goan shoreline

It was a mid-summer evening, darkness almost approaching, on a desolate stretch of a Goan beach. A lone dog howled in the distance. 5 of us walked along the shore, in no particular order, with no particular goal in mind. Our duties for the year were fulfilled, the MBA (rather, the PGDM) was done and dusted, a job was in hand, and a 2 month vacation beckoned. 

That didn’t stop us from dreaming, nothing ever could stop us from dreaming those days. Because, passion, we had oomphs of it, passion to argue loudly, to fit the world into idealistic frameworks, to aspire for the big, to make a real difference to ourselves. Because, we believed that we weren’t people who went behind the regular Joe’s regular job, that we could truly well awaken our inner selves.

That evening was no different. I don’t remember the idea too clearly today, but it had something to do with collaborating on a book. Yogesh and I were really kicked about it, and the other three, perhaps knowing truly well that these were idle dreams, encouraged us enthusiastically, carefully avoiding any commitment to the collaboration. 

The evening came to an end, in a shack filled with random music, much laughter, silly banter, many a photograph and hearts full of happiness. 

The trip came to an end too, and so did that vacation, our last vacation. 

We moved on to our jobs, one job after another, one year after another – the rut that we had thought belonged to the regular Joe. Because each of us were deigned to be that regular Joe.

The book never happened, collaboration a long distance dream. It has been over six and a half years since that day. More than half a decade.

Yogesh reminded me today, of our “failure”, when I was attempting a wisecrack on Chetan Bhagat’s books. “Who are you, to make fun of that enterprising gentleman, a gentleman who doesn’t care about his detractors and their criticisms, and is at his job of creating a new reading order?”, was the tone of his comment.

I cannot deny him the pleasure, or lack thereof, of my answer. I am a tired regular Joe, who would give up much to go back to that evening, an evening where possibilities abounded, opportunities were innumerable, and the mind was ready to kick down the barriers of a boring, templatized life. I would give up much to go back to having that heart that didn’t know, that didn’t know that passion, if not nurtured, would get washed away by this evil flood called every day life.

Of gals and girls

I was reading about the etymology of ‘gal’ earlier today, not because I was jobless, but because I have always been irked by the distortion of that simple word ‘girl’ to ‘gal’ by young and old alike. 

It is surprising that there are at least a hundred thousand others around the world who share this concern and rant about it incessantly online. But, this isn’t a rant post, so am moving on to what I found.

1. An online etymology dictionary states that gal is slang for girl, commonly perceived to be Cockney vulgarism.
2. The Wiktionary claims that gal refers to an adolescent girl or a young woman.
3. The Wikisaurus, while calling the word colloquial and dated, says that woman is an antonym of gal!
4. The Urban Dictionary, the mecca of those new world mutations such as selfies and titties, defines gal as referring to bird, bitch, slut, hoe, girl, woman, pussy, lady and even sex! But, the same dictionary also wants to redeem itself by giving a new twist to the word with this definition – an awesome person who was well-known in her city before leaving for an exotic place – whatever that means!
5. Random online forums, where many random people say random things, thanks to internet, mobile apps and that unquantifiable luxury called freedom of speech, claim the following:
• Men used to refer to their secretaries as gals and their girlfriends as girls
• Men called their lady friends as gals, just like how they called their male friends as pals
• Gal was used as a substitute to that very derogatory word, bitch
• Gals and chicks can be used interchangeably

No matter where I go, I can see nothing but an ugly reference to the word, save Wiktionary and Wikisaurus. Why still do we put up with this word? Is it to make ourselves look cool? 

But, I am no one to ask this question, for, I am part of a google group that carries the word in its name. The only saving grace is that it is a very dormant group, and so, I do not contribute too much to the sin of using ‘gal’.

Then again, I am also part of a group that carries horny in its name. And it isn’t a dormant group. The only saving grace there is that I am not able to find any conceivable sin in using the word ‘horny’.

Amber and I

Amber came into my life in 2007. She brought a whiff of freshness into my mundane, sometimes pointless, and occasionally depressed existence. She brought with her a world of possibilities, a world that I had just about given up on. 

Amber was a beautiful girl. She wasn’t exactly a slender maiden, not a beauty was she in the conventional sense. Rather, she was a confluence of apple and pear and everything dear. She was a spirit of excitement, but also of tranquil elegance.

The very day I met her, I knew I couldn’t have her forever. Folks like Amber are so, constantly reminding one of the transience of life. Yet I held on to her like I would my life, treasured her presence and guarded her jealously. After all, she was my most prized and priceless possession then. 

But, our precious relationship did come to an end eventually. All good things do end after all. While I tried to prolong her time with me by hook and by crook, a day came when she was no more, when her overpowering presence didn’t fill my life anymore. 

Well, life moves on, and so did mine, without Amber and her crispness. There came others, more exotic and acclaimed than Amber, but none lingered on the way she did in my life.

With time, Amber faded from memory, so much so that I forgot her name and her very significant presence in my life. Till last week that is, a thousand miles away from where I first met her. And then too, I didn’t realize for a long time, till I passed her and the fragrance lingered on. 

I picked two of her this time, just to be on the safe side.

Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to recollect to this day who introduced Amber to me. Life would have been much simpler and I would have ensured a steady stock through the years, of ‘Sensual Amber’, my first and most favorite perfume.

A thousand mistakes

I complete five years of professional work experience this month. Half a decade.

Half a decade spent in front of a laptop, talking to excels and ppts, rushing into and out of airports, providing my two cents and more at (sometimes inane) meetings.

Half a decade of not experiencing an evening jog on a Monday, not getting to travel the world at leisure, not resting in a hammock with a book in hand, not letting go of a buzzing BB while on holiday.

Five years back, when I was preparing for campus placements, the questions that worried me the most were “Why do you want to choose this career?”, “How do you see yourself fitting into this profile”, “Where do you see yourself ten years from now?” and “What are your strengths and weaknesses?”. I remember wanting to tell interviewers, out of sheer desperation, that chocolate is really my biggest weakness.

I used to wonder then whether I had wasted 22 years of existence learning math and theoretical computer science and marketing and strategy, without learning about my strengths and weaknesses.

Today, I can wax eloquent about my strengths and weaknesses. I am thankful to my five years for that. More importantly, I am thankful to my thousand mistakes.

Mistakes are what make man perfect, they say. I do not have a view on perfection. But, I do have a view on mistakes and choices that turn out to be mistakes. At any given point in time, we choose a particular path because it makes sense to us, it makes us happy. However, over a period, despite battling through the path, if the choice doesn’t work, it is time to cut the losses and move on. There is no such thing as a “wrong choice”. It is only wrong if we figure out that something isn’t working for us and still go on living with it.

Strange as it may be, these five years of work have taught me more about “living” than 18 years of classroom learning. It is strange because my friends say “Get a life” more often now than ever before. It is strange, also because at times I do wonder whether education is over-rated.

If I try uttering that statement, my mother says, “You have just got arrogant with all the education you were able to have.” Perhaps, she is right. But, then again, I have no way of knowing now. For, that’s a choice I made, and I have to move on from there.

It has been an exhausting five years of work. An exhilaratingly interesting and exhausting five years of work. If the coming years turn out to be anything like the ones gone by, I wouldn’t mind the rush and the stress and the “not having a life” bit so much.

Make your own mistakes, fight your own battles.

For, the war is long and hard, and only with yourself.

Some advice, or maybe not

Have you ever experienced that weird and painful period of time when you sit around in office with absolutely no work to do, feeling only a teeny weeny guilty about all the time in the world going straight down the bottomless pit? Have you ever spent such time, not scouting for work or pretending to look busy, but actually walking around randomly unfocussed, only to settle down to prepare copious hand over documents?

If you haven’t, perhaps this post will prepare you for such a time you may eventually face in your life time. If you have, you already know what I am going to talk about.

I have been meaning to write about this for a really, really long time now, but not exactly in the format it has ended up in. In fact, I wanted to make one of those fancy lists that B-school alumni are coming up with these days and title it to the tune of “Top 10 things you need to know about blah blah blah.” However, I realized I am too emotional to ever be a matter-of-fact ‘listy’ person. Oh heck, who am I kidding? I realized that I do not have even three, forget ten pieces of advice for you. So, let me just ramble on, as is my wont. 

I remember the first ever time I quit. My notice period was pretty cool, and I was all “ha-ha”ish, if you know what I mean. There was excitement about the new journey and some sense of genial well-meaning towards all and sundry. The world seemed to be shimmering brightly, with the heavens shining down upon me, while I wrapped myself in rosy dreams about a successful and flourishing career spread over the next few decades. I even wrote an all-happy blog post in sync with my mood. 

One of my worldly wise colleagues warned me then, “You will never feel this way again. Enjoy it while it lasts.” I argued with him, gave him one of those “I don’t believe you, old man, but will still humor you” smiles and walked off. Over the years, I have learnt to humbly acknowledge that there couldn’t have been truer advice.

After the first time, the excitement wanes down, the trepidation increases. And, the trepidation, while being largely centered on “Am I doing the right thing this time around?”, is not strictly restricted to that, what with lower level details like even PF transfers looming up large and incomprehensive. The youthful fervor of “looking forward to” is replaced by cautious, unavoidable and limited optimism, if only for the lack of another tangible emotion. The world looks a realistic, suspiciously murky place, with unknown demons lurking just around the corner. 

I think I am slowly getting into that exaggeration mode now. Perhaps, it is time to stop.

You will know your emotions, when you get to that bridge. You will know whether you should cross it or not, whether it is worth the effort or not. You will know how you should cross it, without burning it. You will know that some bridges cannot be saved, but you still tried to save them. Even if you do end up crossing the wrong bridge, the wrong way, you will learn from it. Nothing pays like first-hand experience. Nothing pays like learning from a mistake you make. And, you will learn to appreciate the experience, for, when all else fails, you would have the satisfaction that you at least learnt not to repeat the mistake. 

P.S. This post has been in the works for a long time now, and has nothing to do with any current or imminent changes in my life.

The Educated

I absently flick through Facebook (on my unreasonably expensive smart-phone) and, by mistake, click on ‘Write status’. Facebook asks, “What’s on your mind?” I stare at the screen blankly because nothing that matters is on my mind. And, then I see “Vikhroli, Maharashtra” on my location indicator. It is another Friday evening, one filled with lot of work spilling over to the weekend, one spent at the end of the world, because that is where Vikhroli is.

To read the rest of the article, click here.

Glorious days of yore

The month of May brings with it ripe mangoes, blistering heat, an unending wait for the rains and summer holidays. It also brings with it an unquenchable thirst to go back in time, to days of unfettered optimism and freedom from pension funds, gratuities and tax planning.

As kids around me wait with bated breath for their ranks and cut-off announcements and college admissions, I take a trip down memory lane.


To read the rest of the article, click here.

Reminiscing a love long lost

It was the spring of 2004. A myriad of colorful flowers greeted the walkways while there was a perceptible fragrance all around. Youth and its silly banter notwithstanding, love was in the air.

Ah! Those lines sound so beautiful and romantic, I almost want to believe them. However, I, having lived all my life in Chennai and most importantly the year of 2004, would not know. For, have you heard of spring in Chennai, or for that matter “a myriad of colorful flowers”? That part of town I come from only knows a myriad of colorful shops selling even more colorful saris.

However, I do remember the year of 2004 for more reasons than one. The fad then was the Valentine’s Day dress code. Was pink the color of “Yes I am willing” or “Going to propose”? Did black mean “I am against love” or “I have failed in love”? Each of us believed in a different set of rules, and since internet had not seeped into our college as yet (except for half hour a day or some such), we were not sure of which set to follow. Finally, we agreed on the overarching themes. Black could only mean negative, while white just meant “I am at peace with love”. Red could perhaps be termed “Dangerous, but can be tried” and so on. It was much fun, I swear. Many of the girls were scared sick of sending out wrong signals, for, after all love was taboo those days and specially so in Chennai's engineering colleges. I do not remember what I wore, but wanting to test fate, I was planning to wear either a blue or a green. It did not work out all that bad, frankly.

By 2005, I had got bored with the fad and wore pink just to humor someone. By 2006, I wanted to revolt against this ridiculous idea and wore black. I know that sounds more like a rebellious teen than a 20 year old almost engineer, but still.

Life at B-school was a little different. I had forgotten the whole dress code thingy, and I think most of my batch-mates there would have ridiculed the notion. But, we celebrated V-Day differently out there. “Candle-light” dinners were the norm, where we were served the same food but under dark circumstances so that, one, lost in love, would little worry about what they were eating leave alone whose hands they were holding.

And that was the last time I thought about V-Day, really! :P

At least till yesterday. A chat with my kid sister who is already in college (rolls eyes) revealed that she had no idea about dress codes (rolls eyes even more). So, like a responsible adult taking charge of her education, I taught her what I could and sent her “googled” evidence as back-up, for she refused to believe me otherwise. She has promised me that she will wear black, as she doesn’t want to fall in love. Let’s see how long that lasts, kiddo J

Meanwhile, today, our cafeteria wanted to celebrate V-Day by serving us sour pasta, plastic sandwiched burgers and a very milky chocolate. Well, strange are the ways people want to celebrate the spirit of love. Stranger still that V-Day hasn’t really sunk into me this year.

Perhaps, I have grown old K Or perhaps, the special someone isn’t around K K

The train

I sighed. 8 hours left, 8 long hours.

I was restless, excited and had absolutely no concentration on the BGS class (despite the CP* carrot). I had no worries in my mind, at least none that could not wait. The world was sunny, bright, blooming with the spring flowers and inviting in general. I was full of love even for my most detestable adversary, for, in my mind’s larger picture, the cause for such hatred was, at that point of time, as insignificant as having one button missing in an over-buttoned shirt.

As the hours trickled past, my excitement grew further. I had to explain to every single soul I met on the way back from the class to the mess the reason for my glee. Everyone seemed happy for me, or that is all I wanted to believe in.

In the next few hours, I packed and re-packed my bag several times. Did I pack the charger? Did I take my iPod? Does the ticket state the right date and time? Millions of such important (now innocuous) questions were running through my mind as I tried to keep it clear and concentrate on the clock instead. If at all there was any way I could, being the fighter I am, I would have willed the clock to hit 9 p.m. then and there. However, the art of waiting could be a beautiful thing too, I deluded myself into believing.

And, then, the magical hour arrived, when I could finally hail down the auto rickshaw and head towards the railway station. Had I known Eric Cartman then, I would have said, loud and clear, “Screw you guys, am going home.”

This was 4 years ago, when I was still new to the concept of being away from home. Having just then joined B school, I had grown home sick in less than 2 weeks, and in much rush, had booked tickets back home for the weekend.

As I look back at this incident today, I do not have answers to whether I acted overtly silly. Perhaps yes, perhaps all those people who seemed happy for me were actually making fun of my dimwitted behavior. Or, perhaps, it was very natural to actually want to feel like going home.

I tried searching for such a desire a few days back and found myself in want of the emotion. Then did I realize that I miss missing home. I can only hear logic such as ‘Home is where the heart is’, ‘That which has your people in it is home after all’ in my mind the minute I start thinking of home. Net result, I have no strong urge to go to that place I called home for more than a decade.

I am waiting, this time with no eyes on the clock, but with all eyes on my heart, for that train, which would urge me to take it back home and hoping that it would just be a very beautiful wait.

* CP - Class Participation, carrot - marks for participating in class

Uninteresting & hyper random truths

I have been tagged, for the first time in blog – life. And, with due respect to the tagger, S, I hereby present seven random truths about me. I don’t think they fit into the ‘pearls of wisdom’ bill. However, I have consciously tried to avoid stuff that might already be apparent from this overtly descriptive and painfully personal blog.

Starting with the benign, moving slowly towards the more random and ending with the scariest, that’s the idea for today..

1. For a long time in life (read till 12^th standard), I dreamt of graduating with an Arts degree in English Literature. I wanted to go on and on and on.. up to a Ph. D. in English Literature. I still dream of doing it someday.
2. Despite being touted as a pure blooded multi-tasker, I still cannot smile when I am concentrating on playing the Veena. Family & friends who have graciously attended my performances have given me major grief over this. Really, I am working on it. Well, actually not. How does one work on such things?
3. I am an avid bathroom singer. Just walking in to the loo is enough cue to my vocal chords to start off. I sing everything ranging from classical to filmy to advertisement to ring tone level music in all languages once inside the loo, much to the chagrin of co workers.
4. When I was 10, I got very excited by the idea of having a personal diary. Two months in to it, I stopped abruptly. ‘Cos my cousin took it without my permission and read it. That day, I lost belief in the possibility of privacy, be them in hard copies or soft copies. From then on, my private thoughts have always stayed only in my head, nowhere else.
5. I totally love the fact that I am a Leo and consider it the best gift life could have given me. I have still not been able to figure out whether I identify myself with being enthusiastic, courageous, fiery, faithful and bossy & intolerant (a couple of negative traits, just to not appear pompous :P) because I am a Leo or whether knowing the fact that I am a Leo has made me want to identify with these character traits.
6. I forget to eat and sleep when I am in the middle of something important. No, really. There have been times during IIMB when I was working on this paper (which had weekly sectional deadlines) when Nefertiti had to actually come up to my room to remind me to have food (by then I would have missed breakfast, lunch, dinner and one night’s sleep in a row without having realized it). These days, it does not happen so much, firstly because there is nothing so earth shatteringly important that I am up to and secondly because Mom polices me in to eating and sleeping. If not for Moms!
7. I have this (not so ugly) habit of talking to myself. Cannot be such a bad thing, can it? It all started when I was gearing up for my 10^th Boards. A counselor gave us.. hmm.. well.. some great counseling on the effectiveness of reading out loud when studying for exams. I got so totally sold on the idea that from that day on, I started talking out loud – definitions, problems, solutions, analysis – pretty much everything. I have imported the habit in to office as well where I talk to myself for hours together, fighting out with myself on the look, feel and content of my story boards and excels. My colleagues have got so used to this randomness (initially they used to think that I was psychologically affected, perhaps they do so even now) that they no longer respond when I actually try talking to them!

And, I tag:

Manage & Katrix – they don’t seem to be wanting to update their blogs at all!

Nefertiti – curious to know what those 7 random truths might be

Jo – to just satisfy my ego that I already know all those 7 truths, whatever they might be J

The Verdict is Out

Hypothesis:

H0: Men do not realize when they are being stared at intensely, even if for more than 2 minutes

H1: Women realize the same in less than 10 seconds

Testing Methodology:

Identify a sample set and stare (what else)

In order to give leeway to starees:

Ensure that more than one tester stares at the man or the woman so as to increase the intensity of the stare and help them notice

Procedure and Findings:

• Pick up a sample (in our case – 4 men and 1 woman) which is happily standing and chattering away to glory.
• Identify the first bhakra (Manage), who is standing slightly sideways such that the corner of his left eye can actually notice anyone staring at him. Stare intensely at him from a distance of 10 feet for more than 2 minutes.
• Next, identify the second bhakra and repeat exercise. This time choose the guy who is standing such that the corner of his right eye can notice anyone staring at him (Katrix), and stare, for more than 2 minutes, of course.

Neither of them notices the stare

• Now, stare at the only girl in the group (Tuls) who is standing right opposite the testers, at a distance of 12 feet. Keep in mind the fact that the girl is not having direct eye contact with the testers but is actually doing some hyper animated conversation with the rest of the sample. In 10 seconds, the girl turns behind her to check whether there is anything else worthwhile to stare at, and then gives us a questioning glance.

She has been standing bang opposite the testers. So, to make it fairer

• Observe the guy who is standing opposite the testers (Samba). Stare right in to his sun glass worn eyes for 1 minute, then 1 more minute, then even more for a minute (that's totally 3 friggin' minutes!)

He looks right in to the testers' sun glass 'unworn' eyes but does not see the stares!

Conclusions:

1. Men cannot multi task; that is, if they are talking, they can do just that and do not have the capacity to notice if anyone stares at them
2. Men are not as used to being stared at as women are

Implications:

If this was not just two nut-cases testing their hypotheses, this sample of men would have lost out on some major opportunities. Implications enough?

Credits:

Rohini – For conceiving these brilliant hypotheses

Tuls – For assisting in execution (by not bursting in to hopeless giggles when she was told about why she had been stared at)

The Baasha fight to fame

As the readers of this blog are slightly aware from here, my Hindi is thoda khamzor. That was my tagline in Mumbai, when I spoke to anyone ranging from the doodh wallah to the taxi wallah to the apartment security guard.

“Bhaiyya mera hindi thoda khamzor hai”

That would sound weird to the normal reader. However, people who know me well know quite well the extent of my fluency in Hindi. Ok, forget them, any of you tell me how I possibly can converse with the apartment’s Marathi security guard this way:

“Bhaiyya, oopar paani nahi aa raha hai. Motor mein kya problem? Motor wallah nahin aaya repairing ke liye? 4 hours hua hai abhi tak koi nahi aaya? What the hell will I do without water?!”

Or, with the Bihari taxi wallah like this:

“Bhaiyya, yahan se seedha jaayiye, phir aage second right pe white car ke paas ek shop hai na, wahaan ek minute stop kar dijiye. Uske baad Bandra mein ek friend ko fast pick up karna hai.”

Half the time, I would forget that jaldi is what should replace fast. And, of course, there is always the eternal dhed, dhaai problem. I am still not sure which one is 1.5 and which one 2.5. It is quite some magic that I remember that aadha is 0.5.

Aisi haalath mein I could never have risked walking down the roads of Mumbai without a sticker on my forehead saying “Thoda khamzor Hindi, Beware!” Well, almost! I started warning everyone I met with the Thoda Khamzor tagline. The very predictable response I always got (accompanied by something between a smile and laugh) was “Aap Taaaamil hai kya?!”

A story on that will be quite a digression, let’s save it for another day.

The point of this post was to let all of you know that I have come miles from the thoda khamzor girl I used to be, so much so that I have started composing wonderful poems which might some day become famous songs in Bollywood movies.

As faithful readers of my blog, I thought you all should get a sneak preview of these masterpieces before they go public and I start earning millions.

Here goes my favorite:

Hamare Rashtra Basha ko Zindabad

Main nahi bulaiya tereko, Sinbad

Zindabad hai Zinabad

Uske bad

Sab kuch Barbaad!!!!

Manage, on reading this poem, was all praise. He said no one could ever have started the first line with Zindabad and ended the poem with Barbaad. He is still in awe of my immense exponential progress with the Hindi language.

The next one is something I thought up today, while I was struggling to finish some damned Excel work.

Khatarnaak hoon mein

Hindi mein bolne ki pehle

Khadak hoon mein

Hindi mein bolne mein

Joker hoon mein

Hindi mein bolne ki baad!

I need to own up to something here. I actually do not know the meaning of Khadak, just added it for the ‘rhyme value’. And, when I came to Joker, I was stuck with no Hindi equivalent for hours. And, having a bunch of pure blood Tams working around me did not help the cause. So, readers, please bear with it till Kavity is back with the next set of khatarnaak‘ly’ improvised poems!

Thab Thak Pyaar se Aap sab ki dost,

Kavity

(Edit: Thanks to 'Butt'ah for advising me to change 'ka' to 'ki')

P.S. Definitely dedicated to FinalsPrep_Marketing (Nice Try) (same guys linked above) for having encouraged me to talk all the nonsense Hindi in the world :D