एॅनाटोमी आॅफ़ ए हार्ट-ब्रेक

शीर्षक अँग्रेज़ी में लिखा क्यूँकि आगे कही जाने वाली बातें प्रेम के संदर्भ में हैं। और कहीं न कहीं प्रेम के संदर्भ में की गई साधारण बातें हिंदी में छोटी लगने लगती हैं। मिसाल के तौर पर “आई एॅम इन लव विथ यू” और “मुझे तुमसे प्रेम है” में आप अंग्रेज़ी ही चुनेंगे। हलाँकि मोहब्बत से जुड़ी हर तरह की बयानबाज़ी के लिए उर्दू से बेहतर कोई ज़ुबान नहीं, पर उर्दू में ‘डेप्थ’ थोड़ा ज़्यादा हो जाता है। जब प्रेम की पराकाष्ठा जतानी हो, तो उर्दू बड़े काम की चीज़ है – शोला और शबनम सरीखे प्यार को अदब से जता देने, या मैख़ाने में साक़ी के इनकार को तहज़ीब से बता देने में उर्दू ही चलेगी। पर इस वाले लेख में हमने थोड़ी मैच्योरिटी का दिखावा करने की कोशिश की है, और इस लिए शीर्षक में थोड़ा वैज्ञानिक दृष्टिकोण देना पड़ा जो सिर्फ़ अंग्रेज़ी में ही ठीक-ठाक निखर कर आ पाता है। फिर भी अगर जी न मानता हो, तो आप शीर्षक को “हृदय-भंजन का विश्लेषण” से बदल लें और दुबारा शुरू से पढ़ लें।

ख़ैर। हुआ यूँ कि इस बार हमारा दिल फिर से टूटा। मतलब जो कुछ बचा था वो। अब तो अमूमन इतनी बार टूट चुका है कि उपमाएँ कम पड़ने लगी हैं। तक़रीबन दस साल पहले फ़र्स्ट-टाईम टूटा था तो हमने चार-पाँच उपमाएँ एक ही बार में इस्तेमाल कर डाली थीं, जैसे खिलौना, शीशा, घड़ा, गुल्लक (क्यूँकि दिल के अमीर तो सारे ज़माने में बस एक हम ही हो पाए थे साहब!) इत्यादि। आगे के लिए ज़्यादा कुछ छोड़ा नहीं। उस ज़माने में नई-नई जवानी का पायदान था, तो दिल-विल टूटने के बाद फिलाॅसोफी झाड़ने में मज़ा भी आता था, जैसे जीवन का सारा असाध्य ज्ञान बस हमारे दिल टूटने भर से प्राप्त हो गया हो और ये हम सारी दुनिया के साथ बाँटने के लिए भी तैयार हैं; गौतम बुद्ध ने फालतू ही तपस्या वगैरह की।

उस ज़माने में तो ढंग से दिल लगाया भी नहीं जाता था – अभावग्रस्त काॅलेजों से निकलो, और जो पहली लड़की आॅफ़िस में बगल की सीट पर हो, डिकलेयर कर दो कि हमारा दिल तो जनाब बस अब इसी पर आ गया है। और यही सच्चा प्यार है, क्यूँकि ये पहला है, और क्यूँकि हिंदी सिनेमा ने बरसों से ये घुट्टी पिलाई है कि पहला वाला ही सच्चा है। इस टाईप के प्यार को पाने के लिए थोड़ी छिछोरापंथी, आॅर्कुट की दीवारों पर संदेशों की बमबारी, और सेल में मिलने वाली दो-चार टी-शर्टें काफ़ी थीं। मोटरसाईकिल की पिछली सीट पर बिठाकर आईस-क्रीम खिलाने और शाम को साथ में चाय-समोसा बाँट लेने भर से ये प्यार जितनी आसानी से परवान चढ़ जाता था, उतनी ही मुश्किल से छूटता था। तब के दोस्त, जिन्होंने अपनी तब तक की ज़िन्दगी में शायद कभी प्यार या कुछ भी वैसा न किया हो, कुछ पेग और सिगरेटों की बदौलत नई नई उपमाएँ देकर मामला सुलटा भी देते थे – जैसे धोखा, लड़कियाँ-ऐसी-ही-होती-हैं, हटाओ-बे, और-पीओगे?, इत्यादि।

बाद वाले प्यारों में हम, या शायद हमें सिर्फ़ ऐसा लगता हो, कि हम थोड़ा बहुत प्रैक्टिकल होने लगे – कि भई अब ऐसे ही बगल वाली से प्यार नहीं होने वाला, क्यूँकि जीवन का सारा ज्ञान तो हमें पहले ही मिल चुका है। उस ज़माने में बशीर बद्र की क़लम से नई नई पहचान हुई थी, और हमने बस सोच लिया था कि इस तरह का क़लाम तो सिर्फ़ हमपर ही सटीक बैठ सकता है – “हम भी दरिया हैं, हमें अपना हुनर मालूम है; जिस तरफ़ भी चल पड़ेंगे, रास्ता हो जाएगा।” पर ऐसा हुआ कभी नहीं। होता बस इतना था कि दिल तो हमेशा सबसे पास वाली पर आता था, पर आवाज़ नहीं निकल पाती थी। जीवन के इस वाले स्टेज पर सारा मामला आशना दिल को ढाँप कर की गई दोस्ती से शुरू होता था, और समझदारी इसमें लगती थी कि उसी दोस्ती को बचाने की ख़ातिर मोहब्बत का ज़िक्र न करना ही बेहतर रहेगा। आप कहेंगे कि भला ये भी कोई प्यार हुआ? अरे जनाब, उम्र के साथ थोड़ी समझदारी बढ़ी है, और हम आज भी यही कहेंगे कि बस यही तो होना चाहिए! सब कुछ राहुल और अन्नु की ‘आशिक़ी’ की तरह खुल्लम-खुल्ला हो जाए तो उसमें ‘क्लास’ नहीं रह जाता। बहरहाल, जीवन के इस पड़ाव तक हम थोड़े रचनात्मक, यानी क्रिएटिव हो चुके थे, और इसी सोच को आठ-दस गुना बढ़ा-चढ़ा कर ख़ुद ही सोच लेने पर ये लगा कि दिल टूटने पर कविताएँ लिख डाली जाएँ क्यूँकि जो कहा न गया हो, वो अगाध प्रेम है। और अगाध प्रेम की इस ऊर्जा को हम एक सकारात्मक दिशा दे सकते हैं, क्यूँकि अब तो हम सचमुच ज्ञानी हैं और इस बार तो पक्के से सारी क़ायनात को समझ चुके हैं। इस सकारात्मक सोच से कुछ खास फ़र्क तब भी नहीं पड़ा – दोस्त तब भी साथ रहे, और उनमें से ज़्यादातर लोग तब तक इन सब चीज़ों को किसी न किसी प्रकार से देख-समझ भी चुके थे (भले हमें तब भी ऐसा लगता था कि हमारी तरह किसी ने प्यार को नहीं समझा)। मामला सुलटाने के तरीके थोड़े अलग हो चले, और अब ‘हटाओ-बे’ की जगह सचमुच बातें होती थीं। कमरों में जलती सिगरेटें और दलीलें एक-कोने से दूसरे कोने का सफ़र अनगिनत बार तय करतीं, और ज्ञान के साथ-साथ गाने भी चलते – बहस चाहे कितनी भी उत्तेजना-पूर्ण चल रही हो, ‘सबका कटेगा राम’ सरीखे गाने जैसे ही धुएँ में घुलते, सर्वसम्मति हमेशा बन आती।

उम्र थोड़ी और बढ़ी। बाल थोड़े और झड़े, पर गंजापन अभी दूर था और उम्मीदें हमारी बकौल क़ायम। प्यार फिर से हो बैठा। इस बार लगा कि प्यार में परिपक्वता है, क्यूँकि अब हम बिलकुल मैच्योर हो चले हैं। ज़िन्दगी दफ़्तर की घड़ी से चलती तो थी, पर शामें और रातें हमेशा छोटी और गुलज़ार लगतीं। जितना ये आईस-क्रीम वाला प्यार था, उतना ही गहरा भी – बातें होती थीं तो महसूस यूँ होता था जैसे हम बातों को नहीं, सीधे दिल, दिमाग़, और दिल-ओ-दिमाग़ की मिली-जुली सोच को सुन और समझ पा रहे हों। झगड़े अब गुड-नाईट-मैसेज-क्यूँ-नहीं-भेजा सरीखी छोटी बातों पर नहीं, बल्कि गहन मसलों पर होते थे, जैसे ये काली वाली कुर्ती अच्छी क्यों नहीं है। उम्र के साथ दोस्त कम हो चले थे, सो इस वाले प्यार में लगता था दोस्ती ज़्यादा है, और ये पिछ्ले वाले स्टेज से अच्छा है क्यूँकि कितनी ख़ूबसूरती से हम दोनों की दोस्ती को प्यार में काढ़ दिया गया है। लिपटने से ज़्यादा सुकून साथ बैठने में था, आवाज़ से ज़्यादा सुकून ख़ामोशी में, और बाहर से ज़्यादा सुकून घर पर था। पिछले कुछ अरसे से पढ़ी जा रही शायरियाँ अब थोड़ा बहुत ग़ुमान भी दे गई थीं – “तेरा हुस्न सो रहा था, मेरी छेड़ ने जगाया; वो निगाह मैंने डाली, के सँवर गई जवानी।” बशीर बद्र की क़लम से की गई दोस्ती थोड़ी और गहरी हो चली थी, और "ये चिराग़ बेनज़र है, ये सितारा बेज़ुबाँ है; अभी तुझसे मिलता जुलता, कोई दूसरा कहाँ है" सरीखी पंक्तियों को हम अपने ऊपर सटीक बिठाने लगे थे। सब मिला-जुलाकर तय हुआ कि सच्चा वाला बस यही है – शायद पहले इसलिए नहीं हुआ क्यूँकि हर चीज़ वक़्त के साथ समझ आती है; इस बार आ गई है और इसकी बदौलत ज़िन्दगी गुज़ारी जा सकती है। और ज़िन्दगी गुज़ारने का मतलब वो लड़कपन वाला ‘सात जन्मों का साथ’ नहीं, पर गंभीरता से सोचा और समझा गया सिर्फ़ ये वाला जनम है जिसमें दो लोग फ़ाईनली बिलकुल ठोस तरीके से दुनिया के तौर-तरीकों को समझ-बूझ लेने के बाद जुड़े हैं। इससे बेहतर तालमेल हो ही नहीं सकता, क्यूँकि ये वाला सिर्फ़ दिल-ओ-दिमाग़ से गठित नहीं, बल्कि दोनों के कई वर्षों से संचित ज्ञान और अनुभव का निचोड़ है। इससे आगे अब ज्ञान की भी ज़रूरत नहीं, क्यूँकि अब हम इतने समझदार हैं कि ये जान गए हैं कि ज्ञान की कोई परिसीमा नहीं होती, पर जहाँ तक हम पहुँच पाए हैं वो इस वाली ज़िन्दगी को सही से निकाल लेने के लिए बहुत है।

तो इस तरह सब कुछ बिलकुल तर्कसंगत रहा। फिर मामला बिलकुल उसी तरफ़ गया जिस तरफ़ कोई भी प्यार में नहीं पड़ा आदमी आराम से अंदाज़ा लगा सकता है, और जिस तरफ़ कोई भी प्यार में पड़ा आदमी कतई नहीं सोच सकता। आँधी फिर से आई, पर लगा कि तूफ़ान की शक्ल में आई है। “मेरी बेज़ुबान आँखों से, गिरे हैं चंद क़तरे; वो समझ सकें तो आँसू, न समझ सकें तो पानी” टाईप लाईनें आँसू छलका जाने लगीं। लेकिन आँसू बहाने पर वो अल्हड़ जवानी वाला गुस्सा नहीं आया, बल्कि ये लगा कि चूँकि अब हम मैच्योर हो गए हैं, इसलिए अब हममें इतनी समझ आ गई है कि थोड़ा बहुत रो लेने से पौरुष कम नहीं हो जाता। मामला सुलटाना थोड़ा कठिन था क्यूँकि इस स्टेज वाली आँधी मुश्किल वाली होती है – एक तो तक़रीबन सारे दोस्त छिटक चुके होते हैं, और दूसरा आप ख़ुद अपनी परिपक्वता बचाने के चक्कर में ज़्यादा लोगों से तर्क-वितर्क नहीं करते। सबसे ज़्यादा घमासान दिल के अंदर ही होता है और मैच्योरिटी की बनिस्पत थोड़े बहुत आँसुओं के अलावा बहुत ज़्यादा कुछ बाहर नहीं छलकता। दो और दो को चार करने की बेइंतिहाँ कोशिश होती है, क्यूँकि इतिहास को तार्किक आधार पर समुचित ठहराए बिना डब्बे में डालना मुश्किल है। यही सब सोचकर हमने अपनी स्थिति के समीकरण को जोड़-घटाव करके दोनों तरफ़ बराबर करने का निर्णय लिया। पिछले दस वर्षों का धनाढ्य अनुभव, दोस्तों की फ़ब्तियों और क़िस्सों के आँकड़े, और स्वयँ-संचित अमूल्य ज्ञान को मिलाकर हमें सब कुछ इस बार स्फटिक की तरह बिलकुल स्पष्ट हो गया और भूत-भविष्य-वर्तमान की सारी हो चुकी, और होने वाली घटनाओं का सिर्फ़ एक शब्द में साराँश निकल आया। वो साराँश निम्न प्रकार है – घण्टा।

The Magician

"Dhyaan dibin dada, mayjik dakhabo!" - shouts the boy in an attempt to attract attention.

The second class air conditioned chair car feels a bit too cold in these winter temperatures. The train had left Calcutta a little over 30 minutes ago, and is chugging westwards into the mainland. The people - mostly sleepy, induced by a post lunch departure time and the last 30 minutes of train's sweet lullaby - are well sprawled into their seats with backs pushed as far back as possible. For most of them, this is meant to be a 4 hours of journey to meet their loved ones during the upcoming festivities.

Some of them look up with a faint, vague sort of interest at this teenage boy who has just announced his arrival. Old tattered shirt with faded broad check prints, a pair of grey jeans rugged through years of constant use, old but prominent sneakers which might have been discarded by someone after they had lost their prime, and a tattered black bag made of cheap rexine and cotton - the boy's appearance, in both form and expression, bears no resemblance to a magician. The only extra item he has added to his decor is a silk handkerchief tied near his jeans pockets - an odd piece of cloth hung there probably to provide a semblance of oddity, if nothing more; so that he doesn't pass off as just another kid selling magazines or tea or spiced puffed-rice popular in these areas.

He must have taken a calculated risk in entering this reserved coach - the ticket checker, after doing his job within the first 30 minutes of train departure shouldn't be returning anytime soon, and the next station is at least another 60 minutes away - he shouldn't be thrown out prematurely, before he has demonstrated his magic, and collected some coins from those who shall spare any change.

He starts with simple tricks which are sold to curious kids in numerous fun-fairs organized in various parts of the country during celebratory days of the Goddess Durga or the Lord Ganesha - the ones where yellow feathers turn red and blue after being wrapped up in a newspaper, or a rope keeps taut even when held up, or things disappear in small velvet bags with round openings. His incessant narration of what's next up his sleeves is so well rehearsed with overuse, and hence so monotonous, that it has lost the sense of surprise normally associated with this art. The newspaper he uses seems shredded with excessively repeated demonstrations across different trains, the rope has smudge marks all over due to persistent rubbing of his rough, dirty hands, and the velvet has almost lost its sheen and furs, displaying marks of age and tolerance. His small bag is the repository of all this material useful for the performances - bloated with the numerous objects and torn at corners, the bag looks too old to bear this weight beyond a few more months. 

He moves on to probably his harder tricks. A bottle of coke comes out of the bag and is placed in a hollow wooden tube. A few 'leaves' made of the glossy, confetti material paper cut into flowery shapes have been woven into rings, and many such rings are combined into sort of a shining, almost gaudy bouquet of red, blue and green coloured paper; but with too many folds and crumples marked across it. This bouquet is used to cover the tube, and after a flipping into the air, the beverage bottle disappears from inside the tube.

As the boy places his bouquet back into the bag, he is stopped by a man who holds his hand and says - "show that to me!" The boy seems a little petrified at first - the expressions on the man's face are serious, sort of petulant, and his voice has both a commanding, as well as a winning tone. The boy hurries, and his hands seem shaky now - with trembling fingers he pushes the bouquet and other stuff into the non-accepting bag faster, and responds timidly - "after a while, when I'm done I will." The man doesn't seem discouraged and persists - "no, I want to see that now," and the boy repeats his line. The air around the boy seems uncomfortable now, probably he has already self-accused, and self-sentenced himself for this 'cheating' which was almost caught. The man's face is grim, mixed with a slight hint of arrogant satisfaction.

The boy has either ended his performance, or has decided to end it prematurely - one can't be too sure - and walks down the aisle asking for "dada, puroskaar kichhu". He tries to be fast, unsure of himself. After a few coins and currency notes have been spared in the next few seconds, he quickly takes his bag and moves to the next compartment, without looking back.

He had dropped one of his shiny paper rings on the floor, red in colour - probably in the haste of shoving them in his bag.

When the train stops at the next station, activity resumes in the so far lull train compartment. Sleepy people are awake - some of them get down to buy their evening snacks and get bottles of water, or just to stretch themselves. There is a fresh breath of air inside the cold compartment with the opening and closing of doors. People walk in the aisles, and the boy's paper ring slowly gets pushed to a corner near the door, after being tromped by many shoes.

On "mind, body, and soul" and related flimsiness

I feel pain. Of the kind which doesn't tell which part of the body it's coming from - but it hurts; cruelly, tediously, steadily marauding your brain to your heart to your soul. It's invisible, like a disease, or like nostalgia; it creeps into every iota of your existence, rendering you worthless, devoid of rationality, reasons, wisdom; occasionally showing its physical presence through moist eyes or choked throat which only the finest of people around can detect. It wriggles you inside out, exposing your self to yourself shamelessly when you are the most vulnerable, and you can witness your own spirit writhing around, tormented, wasted.

I feel agony. I try to shake myself out of this irrational slumber of the ego. I jerk every body part, in an attempt to wake them up, to let them feel some blood flow, to free each of these tangibles from the lost struggle against intangible, but more powerful randomness of brainwaves. I decide to stand up, and physical laws of nature almost slap me, reminding the absence of food / energy / sleep somewhere over last several hours. The pain still does not show up anywhere physically, it has managed to remain invisible somewhere, basking in the shiny embers of a burnt soul.

I start to walk. The sun hasn't set yet, and the air has a slight bit of warmth which could have been described as a gentle breeze with healing properties on mundane days. I walk straight on a road which initially didn't seem to go anywhere, the kind of road which gets half built for some anticipated future usage, but then gets abandoned and left clamoring for resurrection amidst the tramples of occasional passers-by; dejected, like people in a plague stricken town left to die with mute wishes and stoned hopes. I walk, and the pain becomes more prominent, probably getting fueled by the meanderings of a now hyperactive brain, and circulated with renewed ferocity alongside blood, pumped and thrusted involuntarily into every corner of the body by a battered heart.

Judging by the twilight, I think I've walked for an hour. The half-built road had ended into a mud track a while ago, and the chappals stained in dirt tell the story of the graveled track they've recently braved. The pain has started getting substituted with consciousness now - of this strange surrounding composed of shrubs, rocks and absence of humanity. I walk further, in an attempt to complete this quest over pain, to win my own consciousness back. I walk till I get to a railway track, and I feel fully aware of myself. It is getting dark now, and the air has developed a strange, unpleasant, almost repugnant chill. The heart is pumping faster, and after a long time I feel physical realities rather than the metaphysical randomness of past several hours.

I feel fear. Turning around, I start walking again - this time the gravels and the dirt are more prominent, the air isn't completely indifferent, and the reducing brightness outside is complementing the hightened sense of consciousness. As it grows darker, I get more scared. Each sound of a slithering reptile or screeching insect, each rustle of a dried leaf, each sight of flying bats, even the view of the stars in the open sky which could have been described with romantic adjectives on mundane days, instills and emboldens more fear. I start walking faster.

I feel ache. The feet, the back, the shoulders and the head are now suddenly real, and the pain so much visible in all of them. Things are seemingly rational again - I am 'comfortably' back to the physical world which had unceremoniously kicked me out to the realms of soul, the world described largely only on paper, the world which showed me all the agonies of existence and set me 'free'. I am walking faster, amidst fear, angst, ache and those returning torments of the soul.

The old pain is back with a vengeance as I step into my place again. Old thoughts are all back to once again claim my existence, walk all over rationality, and invade my conscience.

But in the last few hours, how successfully I manipulated my emotions through varying intensities of experience. How surreptitiously I do this everyday, at home or work, through experiences of much less intensity. How beautifully the whole of humanity exists amidst this paradox of manipulative reality and incessant pain.

Jack & Jill went up the hill

Memoirs of skiing on the Ragged Mountains in the pristine town of Camden, Maine.

I had mugged up the term 'self-motivated', amongst others, during the CV making and interview days in college. Not that I ever was. I always believed that just like most of the things in life, with almost anything to do, there are people behind who push you into it. And once you are done, they morph into the "I-told-you-so" mode, the tone of the phrase adjusted based on the outcome of what you did.

The drive up to the hills in Camden was smooth; it had snowed less than an inch last night and the plowers had done a good job on US-1 to ensure I didn't have to bother much about not having an AWD car in this part of the country. Amidst some bollywood music in the background, during the entire drive, my thoughts candidly imagined myself - wearing my duck-feather jacket on a t-shirt on a thermal inner on a vest, and a jeans on a track-pant on a thermal inner on a Jockey brief - swooshing in a perfect wave on those white mountains and fields on both sides of the road, occasionally giving a slight push on this side with the two poles in my hand, turning on that side with a slight pressure on the left toe, wavering on the hills for miles at a stretch. I didn't think about any cheerleaders waiting for me with red and yellow flags at the bottom of the hill, god promise; after all, I thought, this was a private moment, when I wasn't going to do something like those city half-marathons where your entire purpose is to get your photograph clicked and published in the weekly office newsletter - this was where I was going to do something to 'unwind' myself, for the sole purpose of enjoying it - I was kind of self-motivated, yes.

This was the only part where I actually skied.

I pulled over in the parking lot of Camden Snow Bowl. Looking at the number of cars, I congratulated myself - today must be a really good-weather day to ski; and the flashy imaginations from the drive quickly replayed in my mind.

In this country, I have learnt to be comfortable with all sorts of people unloading all sorts of sophisticated-looking equipment at all possible places. Earlier I used to get nervous at the sight of guys unloading huge kite-board sails from those giant SUVs at a lake, or surf boarders near the beaches, or mountain bikers at various trails - I've now come to terms with myself on this part - don't think too much, they are 'professionals' - helps. People around here looked the same - the elegance with which the snow-boards and skis and boots and poles were being unloaded from 'trucks', I had to pass them off as 'professionals' - helped.

The white mountain in front of me was dotted with all colours - multitude of people in red and blue and green jackets could be seen swooshing down the hill just the way I had skied in my mind during the drive. Ah, the moment of glory, I am minutes away from that!

The cold wind slapped me on the face as soon as I stepped out of the car - it was still snowing mildly, and the head-band wasn't much help in braving the cold. I walked up closer to the hills and could see the human forms more clearly. Tiny kids, of size exactly equal to the length of my right leg, were gliding happily round and round on the snow in their duck-toe looking skis. I particularly noticed the kid in a pink jacket, she was cute, and she immediately reminded me of my first few days at swimming back in Bangalore. A kid her size had dived just before me in the 15-feet-depth side of the pool, smiled gay-ly at me, swam to the other side; and a few minutes later, I was throwing my arms and legs splashing the water and desperately gasping for breath at the same spot, till I was thrown a car tube by the instructor. Well, nevermind.

I signed up for the $50 'Beginners Special' - something which included lessons in the morning, after which you could ski on your own the whole day. I was handed over all the equipment, and excited enough, I started with putting on the boots. The ski boot is quite a remarkable invention - once you wear them, you can't bend your ankles anymore, it's like a plaster cast below your knees - probably made to ensure that in accidents, your toes, heels and everything down there don't move at all to get broken or cramped. It also means that you almost can't walk wearing them, you can't sit on the ground without your legs stretched (no squatting), and you can't stand up from the ground. Try the last part, stand up from the ground without bending your ankles. If you think it's easy, go take a walk. Literally, in those boots.

The first fall was uneventful. I came out wearing those boots and carrying my skis and poles, went slowly down the three steps that opened up at the base of the hill where snow had hardened to make a layer of ice, stepped on that ice, and slipped. It was tough to stand back up in those boots, and I managed by holding the railing and struggling my way up. I consoled myself, its fine, I just need to get a little further, cross the ice part, and then walk my way on the snow to the assembly point for group lessons. It wasn't as easy as I imagined, every time I tried to walk on the ice, it was like a Michael Jackson moon walk step, I was walking at the same spot, much slowly. The guy in the renting area looked at me, and said - don't worry, you'll make it. Duck-walk, crawl, sit and walk, do anything - people have done it!

With an air of confidence, I managed, crossed the ice, and then walked up slowly to the assembly area. The second fall came unexpectedly. This was the smallest of the hills with the minimum slope, and you could go up the hill holding a conveyor rope, and then ski down. Looking at everyone going up, and thinking that the lessons might be going on up there, I clicked my boots in the skis, followed someone to see how to catch the conveyor rope, went up the hill on my skis, and just when I released the rope at the top, fell sideways. The fall wasn't that bad, the getting up part was. The two skis were stuck to the my feet like cockroach antennae, and anything I did resembled those cockroaches hunting for food - the skis criss crossed, kept slipping, but there was no way to get up. I had to remove the skis from the boots, and then someone offered me help so that I could get back on my feet.

The next fall was sensational. I clicked my boots back in the skis, and they started gliding slowly down the hill. It seemed fun for a few seconds, but before I could fully comprehend it as a moment of glory, the daunting realization came looming on me that I'm sliding down, and there is no way I can stop. I sat, tried to dig my fingers into the snow like the final scene of Matrix, the speed reduced slightly, and I ended up at the base of the hill with a full-body-roll in the final seconds. A girl in her teens asked me - "Are you ok? You need help?" Wish she was hot. I told her that I can't stand back up with those boots, she offered her hand, I tried to get up, couldn't, and finally managed to get up only by supporting myself using a wooden bench nearby.

The next few falls were under the able guidance of my instructor, Barb, a middle aged plump woman, who somehow knew from the very beginning that I am going to be her career-worst student. The first time I fell in her presence was when she taught me how to stop myself while gliding down by making an inverted V by moving my toes inwards and stretching the legs. While attempting that bravely, my legs were stretched almost to the extent of those stretching exercises in your kiddish martial-art classes, and I could feel that my body was about to be torn apart into two halves like Mahabharata's Jarasandh vadh. Before that could happen, destiny decided to have mercy on me, and I just toppled over in the snow, on my face. The cute kid in the pink swooshed around me on her skis, in a perfect round.

Next one was slightly dramatic. I didn't actually fall, but was gliding down the hill with the same speed as my very first attempt, fully out of control, and Barb shouted 'stop, stop' at the top of her voice. Another instructor who was taking lessons for another group down the hill grabbed my hand, and this time, I didn't fall! "Nice grab!" he said, and I smiled at my few seconds of skiing success.

She actually had to shout 'stop, stop' two more times, to the conveyor operator. The first time was when I was gliding up the hill clutching the rope, my skis decided not to be friends anymore and part ways. They switched from being parallel to each other to a 20 degree angle, and before I had a chance to set them straight, I found myself thrown to one side, and the cockroach antennae saying hello to Barb. The second time was when Barb was skiing exactly a feet away from me, just so that I am prevented from further misfortunes, and leading me to a purple post slightly down the hill. I was thinking on my feet, but somehow my feet decided to do more thinking than me, and as Barb explained later, my right foot had more pressure than the left even when I was going to the right side down the hill. This led to an almost 180 degree of turn towards the left, away from Barb, and I started gliding straight towards the conveyor rope, hit it on my face, tripped over, rolled on the grass on the other side of the rope, and landed up on my ass. The feeling wasn't as great as Tom Hanks getting shot in his buttocks in Forrest Gump - he at least had loads of ice-creams offered later.

After multiple such adventurous ups and downs on the hill they used to call 'Mitey Might', I was sweating and panting with every muscle of my body demanding justice. Barb realised, and exuded a sympathetic sigh, just like different people had exuded the words 'awww', 'are you ok', 'need help', 'oh crap' etc every time I met them down the hill, not on my feet. The pink kid was still swooshing up and down, the smile broadened a bit. I told Barb that I'm tired, and I'll rather return in the afternoon after lunch. She said I just needed some practice, till my feet 'get a feel of it and start thinking on their own', and I will definitely get better - and she sooo did not sound like office HRs. I packed up, managed to limp back to the rental shop, returned the rental equipment, and drove straight up to the harbour for a well-deserved lobster.

The snow-capped mountains on either side looked just as beautiful without any images of me swooshing up and down. This time I thought of taking pictures, rather than skiing on them.

Sleepless nights and Jagjeet

A piece which played multiple times tonight, or should I say, morning:

फिर कुछ इस दिल को बेक़रारी है

सीना जोया-ए-ज़ख्म-ए-कारी है

(जोया : to search)

फिर जिगर खोदने लगा नाखुन

आमद-ए-फ़स्ल-ए-लालाकारी है

(आमद-ए-फ़स्ल : arrival of the harvest, लालाकारी : spawning a particular red flower)

फिर उसी बेवफ़ा पे मरते हैं

फिर वही ज़िन्दगी हमारी है

बेखुदी बेसबब नहीं ग़ालिब

कुछ तो है जिसकी पर्दा-दारी है

Jagjeet Singh mesmerizing with his poignant voice over Galib's masterpiece.  The original gazal has quite a few more shers than the recitation.

The feeling of getting old

You probably wouldn't get the feeling behind this post unless you have a firsthand experience.  Last week, I happened to visit the NIT Calicut campus for some work.  The college was bathed in a festive mood with students celebrating their annual fest, Tathva.

Two young voices sitting on the registration desk announcing timings and registration details for about-to-start events sounded fresh on the microphone.  Teens frantically pacing all around between different makeshift stalls were effervescent in their colourful tees and shredded style jeans.  Those unconcerned couples were spotted walking carelessly chewing peanuts or licking icecreams.  Moving a bit farther, there was a small gathering cheering a bunch of guys dancing on a small stage probably made for impromptu competitions.  The onstage mood seemed to reverberate across the spectators - jubilant and ecstatic, clapping noisily, everyone seemed to be engrossed with the display of energy, youth, excitement, life!

And there I was, standing a couple of yards away across the road with thoughts moving to and fro my mind like those students cycling past their Hero and Avon cycles on the campus' main road.  Nostalgic reflections of college days were the first passers by - the festive spirit of Srijan at ISM bounced back with all its fervor - what energy we had to roam around and shout and at least witness everything that used to happen over the three days!  There used to be life - amidst canteen and hostel backyard chats, amidst elocutions and solos and JAMs, amidst bonhomie of the entire campus at the upperground, amidst midnight trips to GT Road's Khalsa or to Ram Charitra Singh's tea stall on Dhanbad station.  And it's hardly the same now - the euphoria has been waning over the years.

To wash the thoughts all away, I went for lunch at the good old Lovely Dhaba just outside the NIT campus.  It didn't prove much of a respite.  The place was thronged with even more students - small groups of teenage boys and girls chatting incessantly on topics which I feel I have come a long way from.  You yourself don't realise when you changed, or got so much subdued with the waves of time ironing out many of those bubbles of your personality.  You don't realise, or probably don't want to accept, the difference which time brought into you with those few months of job and higher studies interspersed between college life and present.  And pretty much ironically, its time which throws you back sometimes to ensure you understand the reality, that things do change.  It's not a good feeling though, to know that you have aged.

A day perfectly spent!

2:30 AM - Start getting stoned! You lose count of time. Forget count. Its like there was / is no time. Its eternity. You 'observe' yourself. You can feel your breath. You can feel your beats. You can feel your own temperature. You can feel yourself moving. You try to sleep. You 'revolve'. You drive, you fly, you try to control yourself. Its madness! Just perfect! You 'know' you are experiencing madness. Your brain is 'thinking' that it can't think. Perfect!

Sleep. Was it, wasn't it. You don't care. You were traveling in some other world. Probably time travel. And its suddenly the perfect morning, but its the same day. You don't remember when you went to sleep, if at all. You don't care either.

10:30 AM - You're lazy to get out. To do anything. The 'revolving sensation' of the earlier part of the day seems to have ended, but some part of you wants to retain it. Illusions are always good, eh! You want the same space back. You want to hold on to that receding madness. That was, probably, at all levels, much better than the reality. The virtual truth, which dared to counteract the real truth for those few hours of bliss, and did that successfully as well. You want to hold on to that virtuality. And in between, you get on with tit-bits of something called a movie.

And you are hungry, you are human and have humane limitations. Its raining. How about a drive?

12:30 PM - Winds! Wet winds gushing through your hair, cold breeze slicing through the chest like razor sharp ice. You don't care. You persist. You are drenched to the last bit. And its like you wanted this since you don't know when! Your every bit wants to get drenched in this moment of requiem. And yet again, you don't care! Its like this is the very moment, passing on with this blazing speed of the wheels, which you know is your redemption.

05:00 PM - Winds again! And madness again! How about another movie being caught drenching in the rain? And you set out! Wheels rotating, somewhat like you yourself were doing early in the morning! You notice something though. That scent on your skin left by the trial at that Oodh shop guy. It doesn't wash off with rain. Movie: comes and goes, who cares? You care about the sea blazing past you on way to Sea Queen. The place is still the same. And alcohol too. And you again notice, that scent on your skin at the back of the palm is still there!

11:30 PM - Blowin' in the wind! Again and again! The return drive with modest rains, probably looking with awe and showering itself affectionately. You are loving the trance! And probably that's the reason you are driving extra safely. You don't have any hurry to return on time to attend that birthday. Half of the things have ceased to matter. Including thoughts.

01:00 AM - Trance! Psychedelic Trance! Thanks to my neighbour for it. A random visualization and trance music at high volume. Its taking me to some other world. Time travel probably. Yet again. I'm running from reality. Yet again!

A different route

In 1998, an album 'Boondein' debuted at #1 and scorched the charts with its fresh, evocative soundscapes, including the underwater video 'Dooba Dooba'. ‘Boondein’ won rave reviews for its creative song-writing in Hindi, English and Pahadi. The band behind the album was Silk Route, which is now formally over, and not doing any more recordings, concerts or public appearances.

Was randomly scourging through my collection today and happened to hit this song from the album:

गँगा नहा ले चाहे, तिलक लगा ले
किस्मत का लिखा हुआ, टले ना टाले

वो है खिलाड़ी, तू है खिलौना
किस्मत का लेखा, होनी का होना

पूजा करवा ले चाहे, हवन करवा ले
किस्मत का लिखा हुआ, टले ना टाले

The rendition is simply phenomenal! They have truly justified the simplicity and bluntness of this small, powerful lyrics with the most poignant music. The track flows smoothly like those numbers from Raincoat (2004), but is far more touching. Next time, I'd top it up with 3 pegs, no lights in the room, and "Battery: Randomization" visualization in Windows Media Player! I'm sure it has the capacity to throw any soul into the most efficient 'search' mode.

Nusrat Saahab

Revisited the maestro after a long gap with "Ye jo halka halka suroor hai". There's this strange thing about music and literature - whenever you re-visit them, there's always something new you'll notice; in effect, they never go old! This was the surprise today:

साक़ी की हर निगाह पे बलखा के पी गया
लहरों से खेलता हुआ लहरा के पी गया
रहमत-ए-तमाम मेरी हर ख़ता मुआफ़
मैं इन्तहाँ-ए-शौक़ से घबरा के पी गया

पीता बग़ैर इज़्न ये कब थी मेरी मज़ाल
दर पर्दा चश्म-ए-यार की शह पा के पी गया
समझाने वाले सब मुझे समझा के रह गए
लेकिन मैं एक-एक को समझा के पी गया

पास रहता है दूर रहता है, कोइ दिल में ज़ुरूर रहता है
जब से देखा है उनकी आँखों को, हल्का हल्का सुरूर रहता है
ऐसे रहते हैं वो मेरे दिल में, जैसे ज़ुल्मत में नूर रहता है
अब आदम का ये हाल हर वक़्त, मस्त रहता है चूर रहता है

ये जो हल्का हल्का सुरूर है...

Garnished the mood with "Hai kahaan ka iraadaa" and "Pilaao Saqi"; and topped everything up with "Wo hataa rahe hain parda". One nicely spent midnight, eh? :)

Reality: The illusion caused by lack of alcohol

How did I suddenly become so boring! It's a terrible feeling - finding haze all around. You are neither happy, nor sad. Neither good, nor bad. You are doing something and you don't know why. You say you don't like doing this, and you can't think of anything else which you'd like doing perpetually. You say this place is bad, and you can't think of any other place which was always good. You thought you need to talk to people, and you feel worse.

A type of madness is induced by alcohol. Another type is probably induced by the lack of it, or by something which I can't understand. And the former one is better.

The Thundering Sound of Silence

I am afraid... I always was, of heights - acrophobia, logophiles would correct. Its just around 4 mts high, but still its scary. The sky is faintly lighted with a few scattered rays stolen from the morning sun which has decided not to show up so early. The water below is deep blue, like clear shining crystals, in the floodlights flanking the swimming pool. The spring-board feels cold on the naked feet, the light morning breeze colder on the scarcely covered body. I try to move to the edge, prompted by the trainer; taking as small steps as possible, as if, vainly trying to stop the board from shaking. It doesn't stop, keeps on with its minute up-and-down. It must've been just a few inches of movement, but it aggravates the fear.

I look down, and a chill runs down the spine. Instructions come to look straight to the front. The huge sign-board on the other end of the pool with the name of the club in bold capitals gleams proudly, defying me, mocking me, standing erect braving the cold and warding off all materialistic fears that we living creatures have been doomed with.

A voice beats my ear-drums - "Jump!!" I look down once again, as if vainly trying to recollect myself, to try hard one last time and convince myself that its just water below. The voice repeats - "Jump!!!" My brain stops, all body functions too. All I can feel is silence. First, the roaring air, then the thundering water. Both completely silent. There is a tickling somewhere inside, though; and somewhere it feels good. A free fall, of however small duration, the feeling of liberty, the feeling of being free. The air doesn't block my way, nor does the water, nor my own brain and thought processes, nor the fears - nothing in this world. Its the joy of freedom I feel...

Just another day?

The second guy is back. At his first sight, the third one hastily went out of the waiting hall. Its his turn finally. His facial expressions defying all his efforts to hide the impending ordeal which his organs are sensing, he occupies his seat on the sofa outside the interview room. Watching him nervously flipping through his certificates and documents, I casually passed him a smile; it might have helped him ease a little, I think. I was to be the fourth one.

It was to be my sixth experience of appearing before an IIM interview panel. I was relaxed; rather perfectly, I would say; allowing myself the luxury of taking small walks and a lazy cup of coffee. I have always abhorred the idea of last minute preparations. People anxiously sifting through business pages of newspapers and magazines in futile attempts at devouring as much junk as they can, discussing what-nots with each other, pounding on every person coming out of the interview room to extract as much info as they can; all these have always been a funny sight for me.

I couldn't afford to get back to the CCD next-door to this hotel as I had done in my last interview. My turn was soon to come and unable to bear the crap going on inside the waiting hall, I come out to have a chat with the guy sitting on the sofa. He is nervous, for sure, and didn't seem to be much interested in any discussion.

A man with a medium height is arranging plates on a small table outside. Slightly unproportionally built, with some extra flabs at a few places and a small moustache, he appears rather suave and humble. He neatly places cups, thermos of milk, tea bags, spoons and small plates on a tray; arranges everything to as much perfection as his rugged hands allow. Then, he places a few sugar cubes on two of the spoons with much effort, stands erect as elegantly as he can, arranges his bow tie, straightens his short waiter's jacket, getting ready for, I think, the most delicate part of his job - serving morning coffee in rooms. He casually asked me, as if delaying his departure, "Are you from Panel 2 sir?". "Yes", I replied indifferently, too engrossed in observing him.

A girl comes out from Panel 4 room. White shirt, black trousers and a black waist coat - nicely dressed in this perfect business attire. I recognise her - she is the one who had occupied the seat besides me in the morning during document verification processes. She appears confident, all smiles, walks out happily; possibly because she has faired well, or might be because her last and final ordeal is over, or so I thought. I look all around once, as if assimilating her freedom and suddenly becoming conscious of my waiting state. We pass each other brief smiles.

That waiter looks at her as she walks towards the waiting hall. He still seems to be delaying his departure. "Hi mam," I hear the voice; coming back from my split-second wanderings of how I would do everything after just this final half-an-hour blah-blah gets over; and I get back to my work of observing the man. Its his voice. The waiter's. To the girl, who just came out of an IIM interview. I am still too busy in observing him to put some thought to what it actually is.

"Yes?", the girl replies, anxious, suspicious, indifferent, but still managing a smile; possibly too busy in her mind thinking about what happened inside and how fairly she might have went through the interview process. "Mam, can I have your number?", the same voice, this time quivering a little. As if a sudden jolt makes me aware. This man - clearly defying the world! His face is completely white, as if, he himself doesn't know what he is doing. Eyes all too low to convey any expression, I possibly saw some tremor in those same rugged hands which were impeccably arranging the tray I was busy observing.

"My number? What will you do?", the girl says; coming out of her interview thoughts, still expressionless, unable to take stock of the situation, but managing a forced smile. "No, no..", possibly I hear him uttering with much effort, in a trembling voice. He starts to pick up the tray, as if suddenly becoming aware of his stature. He is a poor man. How can a poor man dare to do this crime? A waiter talking to an educated high-profile girl! No, no; its impossible, it might have been a fit of madness, he probably is thinking. His expressions now turning to somewhat remorseful, I observe. Afraid, he must've been. What would happen if this girl even mentions the incident to some other higher staff in the hotel? A poor man, he is; this job is all he has. And there are thousands like him waiting in line for a position he enjoys. He is a poor man, and poor people should not have feelings, he possibly asserts to himself. Yes, he must've been mad; and he hurries with the tray to one of the rooms; not daring to look back, possibly praying in his mind to be saved, resolving to himself that he would visit the local temple daily so that his mind doesn't wander like this again. So that he manages to dedicate himself to the arranging of trays and room-services rather than resorting to such dastardly criminal acts. He rushes off.

I take a look at the sofa besides. The third guy is already gone. I missed to notice when he went inside. Its my turn next. I try to focus. I am going to be "free" soon.

IIM Lucknow

Disaster Venue: Monarch Hotel, Bangalore (Panel 3) 10:00 am on 15th Feb 2007.

GD:

"In business, the rear view mirror is more clear than the windshield. "

10 minutes for writing an essay and 15 minutes for blah-blah-blah...

Interview:

Characters - A female prof (F), a male prof (M) and B, the Bakra (Me!).

F: Vivek what were you doing from 2001 to 2002?
B: Mam I was preparing for IIT-JEE.
F: And then you joined Electronics at Indian School of Mines, Dhanabd...
B: Yes mam. The admissions at ISM Dhanbad are through IIT-JEE.
F: What do you do at IBM?
B: Mam I am working in the AT&T Project. It is a big project going on for past 10 years and the major amount of work these days...
F: I asked what do you do?
B: I am working on the Universal Service Request Platform of AT&T which are used by its end-users for ordering various applications. It is a Java based application and I am a part of the testing team. In addition to this, I have recently got an additional responsibility of handling production issues. They are delicate issues arising at the time of production.

F: Where do you come from?
B: I have been brought up at Jamshedpur.
F: Tell me something about business developments in Jharkhand in past one year.
B: (Blank-face-speaking-with-efforts..) Over the years, the state has been trying to attract investments. The Arjun Munda government earlier...
F: I am not talking about politics. You are here for a business course. Tell me about the business developments. (Whom-are-you-trying-to-fool-looks)
B: Mam I don't think that the state has progressed much in those terms. The Tatas are there in Jharkhand but they too are expanding mostly outside Jharkhand.
F: There is a global player trying to enter in the state...
B: (Blank-face)
F: Have you heard about Mittals?
B: (Sensing-trouble-enroute) Yes mam. They are trying to set up a plant in Jharkhand.
F: What plant?
B: Mam I am not updated about the issue.
F: You are from ISM. Are you interested in mines?
B: Yes. (Anticipating-a-disaster-look)
F: Have you heard of the place called Chiriya?
B: Yes mam. Chiriya is a mine in Jharkhand. (I-don't-know-look)
F: They are trying to tap that and the state is going to become very rich... (dekh-dekh-tujhe-nahin-pata-looks)
B: (Accepted-defeat-looks)
F: What are the roadblocks they are facing in Chiriya?
B: Mostly political. The mindset of the politicians and the issue of jobs-to-locals....
F: Apart from political? (I-am-not-going-to-leave-u-easily)
B: Mam I don't have an idea.

F: What do you think you would learn in management.
B: Firstly, it would give me an opportunity to diversify my portfolio. I can look towards other sector apart from the IT sector in which I currently am.
F: What other sectors are you looking forward to? (Aaya-pahaad-ke-neeche)
B: I would say the services sector. IBM is much into it. Apart from all this, a management course would help in enhancing my leadership and teamworking abilities...
F: So you think you don't have leadership or teamworking skills right now?
B: I do have, but there is always a scope of improvement in anything. Besides, I would also learn about business, the knowledge of which I lack.

M: Show me your documents.
B: (Handing-over-the-file-with-a-forced-smile)
M: And what are those other things you are carrying?
B: Sir it contains my experience letter and other documents.
M: So? Don't you have to show that to us? (How-dare-he-looks)
B: Sure sir.
M: And where are the other documents? Doesn't your call letter says you need to produce other things? What will I do with these certificates of volleyball and other stuff? They don't mean anything for me. (Hands me the call letter and says "Read what are the documents required." Abhi-bataata-hoon-tujhe-looks)
B: The interview call letter...
M: Yes this is the call letter... next...
B: CAT Admit Card.
M: Where is it?
B: (I take that out from the envelope.)
M: Next.
B: Original marksheets/certificates of examinations passed.
M: Where are they? You have kept it with you! Why, you don't want to show them to us? (Chataak-chataak)
B: Sir I had kept them separately because the file I have given you contains only the certificates. I have kept all other documents in this envelope.
M: I am not bothered about your certificates.
B: Sorry sir. Its my mistake.
M: (I-will-kill-you-looks. Flips through my grade sheets.) What did you read in Managerial Economics?
B: Supply and demand... (haklaate-haklaate..)
M: What was the managerial aspect of economics in this paper?
B: Sir I don't think it had specific orientation as such towards management. It was more of...
M: Tell me a scenario when the demand is inelastic.
B: (Daya-karo-looks...)
M: That means you haven't read this paper.
B: (More-daya-karo-looks...)
M: What is Control Engineering?
B: Sir Instrumentation and Control...
M: I am asking about Control. Tell me only about that.
B: Sir it deals with process control...
M: How do you control a process?
B: Sir a process is represented by a state matrix. Input equation is then formed and output is predicted....
M: Digital Communication... hmmm.... What are the two types of digital communication?
B: Sir digital communication is done in many ways like Pulse code modulation, PSK, FSK...
M: There are two broad classifications of digital communication. I am asking about those two.
B: Sir communication can be classified as analog and digital communication. But digital comm..

M: That's what I wanted to know. Vivek you have this beautiful certificate (most-sarcastic-possible-looks) of something called the 9th International Youth Leadership Conference. What was this about?
B: Sir the conference focussed on...
M: What is leadership?
B: Sir leadership is not only about making people follow you. Its more about excellent teamwork. How you can make people believe in you and your ideas and make them generate newer and newer ideas...
M: Tell me five business leaders.
B: N.R. Narayanmoorthy, Azim Premzi, (thinking thinking...) Ratan Tata...
M: Why do you think Ratan Tata is a leader?
B: Sir the aggressive expansion which he is doing for the company, for eg. the acquisition of Corus and new plants for Tata Motors. Secondly, the corporate social responsibility which the Tatas carry...
M: What do you know about Tata-Corus deal? What are the salient features of that deal?
B: Sir the Tatas have acquired Corus at six hundred and eight..een... (nervous!!) pence a share..
M: 608 or 618? (Sahi-bole-to-noch-khaaoonga-looks)
B: Sir 618 pence a share. (Dumbo!! I knew the correct figure and yet messed that up!)
M: And?
B: The acquisition was hyped in the media because of the entry of a third player CSN which...

M: If Vivek had to emulate one personality, who would he/she be?
B: Sir it is difficult to find one person who has all the qualities which I look forward to...
M: Have you read about the Mahabharata?
B: Yes..
M: What happened to Draupadi? She wanted different-different qualities in different-different people and what did she end up with? (Five-husbands! Ab-bolo! I-am-here-to-rag-you-looks!!)
B: Sir if you are specifically asking for one name, I would say N.R. Narayanmoorthy of Infosys.
M: Why?
B: Sir the very basic tagline of Infosys, driven by intellect...
M: What?
B: Sir the middle-class values which have led to..
M: What values are called middle-class?
B: Sir I am talking about the priniciples on which Mr. Murthy has build up the organization. Honesty and hard-work...
M: Do you know about the background of Mr. Moorthy? When was Infosys started? The fifty's?
B: Sir a group of five software professionals came together and...
M: Five?
B: I think so.
M: Were they freshers or were they working somewhere?
B: Sir I think they were working.
M: Where? (I-know-you-don't-know-looks)
B: Apple... (question-mark-looks)
M: Are you asking me or are you giving an answer?
B: Sir I am trying to answer...
M: Ok thank you very much Vivek you can go.

Disaster ends!!!

Love, BC... what the hell??

he : oye?

me : .......

he : pichhle 36 minute se dekh raha hoon, kya soch kar chawanni muskaan diye jaa rahe ho?

me : chup be! la remote la, ghatiyaa channel hai ye!

he : *** ke baare mein soch rahe the na?

me : dimaag kharaab ho gaya hai tera! dekh khaana ban gaya ki nahin.

he : ho gaya hai tujhe...

me : karoge bakwaas? sab kuchh to bata rakha hai tumhen uske baare mein, phir kaise aisa soch sakte ho? paagal ho gaye ho tum...

he : wo sab mat sikhaao. tum to gaye!!

me : hadd ho yaar! sab pata hai phir bhi liye jaa rahe ho!

he : ek hafte se kah rahe ho padhaai band hai, office jaldi jaate ho late se aate ho, yahaan se dinner ke turant baad kat lete ho... tum to gaye!!

me : hadd badtameez ho! phokat mein sar khaa rahe ho! badlo channel phataak se.

he : meri salaah maano. doosri naukri dhoondh lo, bekaar mein wahaan...

Living in Fools' Paradise

Here comes today's actual post. Its going to be rather long, but owing to negligible readership of my blogs, I feel I should continue with my typewriting skills without bothering much about your patience level. I regret if you have been forcefully directed here, but if you chose to, or came across this accidentally, its your luck. Recently I happened to read a TOI article about how a majority of bloggers revolve around the 'I, me, myself' syndrome in their posts rather than writing about general things. Without commenting much on it, I would just say that I am a die-hard democrat, and I usually go with the majority.

The City

Things have changed quite a lot since the previous post. I am in this Indian city called Bangalore which makes sure that every engineer being churned out of the Techy-machines throughout the country-span spends a part of his/her youth here. Managers use the term differently; for the layman called me, I would still say I am 'Bangalored' by IBM.

The city is small enough, end-to-end cross-drive wouldn't be of more than 25 Kms, and the excessive population (believe me, there are more engineers here compared to the number of street dogs) leaves the roads choked like North-Indian colony drains. Leaving aside the offices of MNCs in a few areas, there is nothing high-tech about the city as perceived by we poor North-Indians who just go by the usual media-manufactured oomph about Indian Silicon Valley. Here too, the traffic-policmen use hand signals when the RGY signals are out of order and leave you for a hundred bucks if you are caught flouting a traffic rule. The number of vehicles jamming the roads and consequently filling the air with as much fumes as the old engines can, betrays Bangalore's already waning claim of being a Garden City.

Once while sitting outside Riviera Food Court in my office premises in one of those rare times of partial solitude enjoying the weather (which happens to be the only great thing about this place), I had this thought of how this city is being plundered by people outside India who are bosses for the thousands of lesser-mortals working their brains-out in all these high rise buildings around me - IBM, Microsoft, Dell, Yahoo.... I am working (however little I may be) for this US client called AT & T, and similarly everyone around me for somebody or the other far across the border. They give it a beautiful name - "outsourcing", paying us in the range 15-20k. What are we supposed to do? Spend that in McDonalds' or Domino's or just in buying drinking water - a cash-back scheme of these multinationals because there is only a little fortune which you are actually spending on indigenous products or services. There was a hoarding near Koramangala signal which I read. A pretty girl saying - "Shouldn't the customer queues be reduced through automated processing?" and a caption below proudly announcing - "Hindustan Service Centre made it possible". It was about TESCO HSC. I have been in a TESCO store at Prague, they have truly unique sales ideas and they are proclaiming that many of these ideas are generated here in India. Then why aren't there any TESCO stores in India? We people are presumed to be cheap labourers. There seems to be a basic flaw somewhere amidst all this existing system, something which is the root cause of this "virtual bran-drain". Sometimes, it seems like that particular section of political activists is doing correct opposing entry of foreign firms, goods or services in the country, however criticised it is.

Professionalism, et al...

It feels good moving-in in your own rented flat, driving your own bike, sending your own money to your sister on Rakhi. It is nice being independent - yet is seems lonely out here. With only a small circle of friends in the city and a handful in office, life isn't the same it used to be. 'Professional life is going to be hard' is what seniors had told, and its only getting harder. There is a complete 'team' in office, but they are mere 'resources' - flesh and blood on skeletons, lifeless machines just working in shifts - cluck-tic-cluck-tic-cluck-tic... First of every month should apparently be the best time, when your salary is credited to your account. However, with it comes hell lot of responsibilities - pay flat rent, bike loan EMI, phone bills, this that... hell lot of everything about which I never used to bother about.

There were two experiences worth mentioning. First was when I visited a restaurant called T.G.I.F. on a senior's treat. The menu card with figures in the right column much more prominent than the alphabets on the left, people all around, drinking and enjoying; the place seemed to be mocking my status and my self. A question subconsciously settled in some corner of my mind - would I ever be able to visit this place with friends without bothering about my debit-card balance?

The second one was more thought-provoking. Sitting in this restaurant called "Firangi Paani" at The Forum, a deep thought stirred my mind. Here I am, sitting in the most exotic place I've ever seen - interiors decorated magnanimously with the "British" theme, people spending profusely to have a nice time. And there sits a beggar on the street just outside - spreading his hands infront of everybody; hunger and thirst being the only prominent enunciations of his mute eyes. I am a disbeliever of God, but is this what the master thought of? And the million-dollar question bounces back to me, unanswered since it first originated in my mind at school-level, what is it that I can do to reduce this disparity even by a minuscle.

Life

Finally justifying the title of this post towards the end. This office is a fool's paradise. The kind of work I am doing doesn't require a first class with distinction engineering qualification. Filling up data in forms and checking whether the form is responding correctly requires a sixth-grade child's effort. And yet, it is hectic and inherently boring. Anyway, I guess, its worthless bickering about all this.

Personally, I am dying to listen to some quality music. Without my comp, three-fourth of me is already dormant. Local FMs rarely diversify from regular Hindi-English concurrent worthless hip-hops to let me pacify a little with gazal, sufi, hindi classic or soft english numbers; can't even remember when I last played Madhushala. Reading is the next thing which has been marred by this job. Couldn't even finish one book since I have joined. Bangalore has one very good thing - pirated copies of excellent literature are available at every nook and corner at dirt cheap prices. I couldn't resist myself buying 5-6 titles till date but sadly am still stuck with the first one I started.

Good food is the next thing on the unavailable list.

For a person who never compromised on quality fooding, eating outside daily is a menace; that too when you are craving for a food of your choice. A subtle breakfast about a week ago at a friend's place (which she had cooked herself) seemed to be the only "food" I've had in Bangalore. I guess, I would soon start off with cooking on my own.

Loss of my cellphone has struck me at the worst place - I don't have my 350 people phonebook anymore. Remaining in contact with friends used to be my lifeline and it seems impossible to get back to everybody after this. Got a couple of good friends at office but the one with whom I used to hang around the most is leaving. It seems there won't be much charm left in office as well.

In all, life is giving me enough reasons to feel all fed-up. My own laughter seems to be artificial to me - as if I am making futile attempts to live by "looking" for reasons to be happy. I am still flowing as I used to, but its not as seamless as it was; it is all manufactured. Its not my pessimism speaking, its me; or probably I have already been engulfed by it. My creativity is being lost, my soul is becoming hollow, my "self" is dying. I badly need a rediscovery - of someone called "me".

I NEED A BREEEAAAAAAK!!! (July 1, 2006)

This was written around 50 days ago. I never got time (or rather, solace) to complete it or at least just post it. Finally today, I guess, its best to puke it on this page, rather than throwing it off...

---

Finally, I have joined IBM India Ltd. at Pune. And the effects are evident. Getting time (or rather taking out time) for blogging has come after more than an entire month. Life has been all messy since I have been at this place. Getting training so that you can effectively work at the end of the hierarchy chain in your company (in IT industry they call it Application Programmers analogous to what manufacturing industries call shop-floor labourers) requires motivation, dedication, innovation, passion and all blah-blah as spat out by MBAs hired by the company specifically for employee orientation purposes. In a matrix organisation like this, you work for two such blah-blah guys, one known as the Project Manager who would assign you the task called "project" (so that you don't get time to blog or live) and the other known as the People Manager who makes sure that you are always on a "high" - in their parlance, you are "motivated". The second guy has another important responsibility, to make sure that you do not try to jump to a higher level and keep on changing your position at the lowest chain itself - the action being called "expanding your skill-set" - so that the company can suck out enough from you before you decide to finally quit.

Many more things have been difficult. I am living at a friend's place and the travel time from here makes sure that I leave home at 7 in the morning and come back not before 10 in the night. The rains are incessant and a penniless pocket takes care that rather than thinking about a raincoat or something, I should first think about daily restaurant bills and travel costs and remain contended in being slightly drenched on a regular basis. The city as my friends say is "expensive" - I have experienced that only through market food and travel. I was looking for a flat to move in to ease-off my friend's burden (which, I guess, he prefers not to disclose in front of me) and as soon as I became ready to settle, they say that you are to be relocated to Bangalore. Due to "heavy business volumes", they require immediate deployment of "resources".

Dilemma?

I always considered myself to be one of those "organised" guys around. Clear about life, goals and all those seemingly abstract terms one can encounter in self-help books. But then, life isn't so easy always.

What when it comes to the self? Something happened twelve days ago. And it's pestering me till date. I consoled myself - Not deciding something is a decision in itself. And one of my friends pointed out - Hah! That's what is known as "indecision"! On one end, there's something called heart, on the other, the thing called mind. The same age old contentious topic - love - seems to be coagulating my otherwise wonderfully going on life...

I guess there are only two ways to end this dichotomy. A few hours of perfect solitude - I am craving for which being at home; or some quality time with a wonderful friend - oh I suddenly miss ISM so much!

A "different" experience

"Life is a compromise between what you want to do, what your experience tells you to do, and what your inner self lets you do."

How does it feel to be rebuked by a girl? Bad... How about when you know the thing you are doing would lead to it and you still do it? Let's say - indifferent... I was in a situation, can't say that to be typical, but yes, different from all my past experiences.

Female brain works in myriad ways. In my circle, a discussion goes on many a times in which we unanimously agree on a few things which females just can't do : they can never be good at maths, they can never be good at driving, they can never understand logic! There are positive sides as well. As far as I consider, a female brain has larger areas allocated for emotions and love. Its interconnection with the heart is stronger than with other parts of the brain itself. In essence, it can teach you "life".

I have learnt many different aspects of life from my female friends. This experience was a similar one. Try doing something which makes a guy happy and he would say - "What's the matter with you?" Do that with girls and they would be in seventh heaven. In my case, it gives me a personal satisfaction when I can be the cause of somebody's happiness.

Can't write the details owing to the sanctity of this space, but it was a mixed experience : now I have got a person on this earth I would be ashamed to walk past. But I have also added to my friend list one more person in whose life I was able to add some happy moments. Compromise? I guess that's all I am about!

Aankhon mein namee, hansi labon par...

It's all over. A degree called engineering, much vaunted about, but actually a pile of nonsense, is finally accomplished. The only part which was great about it was this place. Four years - the best days of my life; great friends - who made the life "best"; and our share of happiness residing together - it's impossible to mix up the ingredients again in whatever proportion and recreate the magic. Alas! Moments can only be cherished, they can never be replicated.

People have started leaving now. Each one to some strange unknown world as it seems. Doesn't matter whether or not they give me a destination address together with a contact number, it appears to be granted that they are "gone". I would be - as people say - "remain in contact", but technology can't bridge hearts - it can only try somehow mending the connection.

Today I bid farewell to the "first shipment" - Sanjiv and Thakur. Seemed like somebody snatched away a piece of my heart.

"Kambakht aankhen dagaa de gayee, warnaa dil to hamaaraa bhi mazboot tha..."

Couldn't stop tears. It sounds strange - as every other truth in this world - crying because a friend is leaving. At times, actions defy logic. Things just happen - viscerally, somberly - there is no explanation to it. All you have to show are emotions, nostalgia... and... "heart". Trying to laugh when I couldn't, trying to talk when I couldn't, it was even impossible to stare directly at their faces. I wonder how the guy called me became so weak.

I don't know what's still binding me with ISM. A part of my heart has no strength left to bid good-byes to more people; another part wants to devour the last moments - cherish every fraction of the seconds left at this place.

Farewell

This is what I had quoted from Illusions (Richard Bach) in the farewell invitation I had prepared for the outgoing batch of 2005:


          Don’t be
         dismayed at good-byes.
   A farewell is necessary before
you can meet
       again.

                And meeting
              again, after moments or
                  lifetimes, is certain for
                  those who are
                friends.

It was easy to write at that time, it was difficult to face it “now” – the final nail in the coffin; stamping you officially out of this place which has been much more than just home for the four best years of your life. My odyssey at ISM had to come to an end – every good thing ends sooner or later – I would also be wrong in saying that I wasn’t prepared for it; yet, any amount of preparation always seems less when you actually confront it. The day comes, leaving you flabbergasted, shaking you from inside – wake up; you are about to be thrown into the mayhem outside, enough of the cocoon of hostel life – look how bitter and dirty the world outside can be.

The ceremony was great. Clad in my only black cotton trousers and a white shirt borrowed from a junior, festooned with a garland, drinking early and then dancing with the band they had arranged for, I thoroughly enjoyed the “informal” ragging and then the introductory sessions at Opal. I was overjoyed with the sudden downpour starting around midnight, exactly the time at which I was out for party-hopping – attending the two other farewell parties arranged in different hostels on the same day – giving myself a good excuse to drench when Chandra and Kundan accompanying me weren’t much interested in the idea. After this wonderful drenching-in-the-midnight-when-drunk experience, drank some more, danced some more, got everything above waist torn to tatters, ate a bit around 4:30 a.m. and then called off my day with a 5:30 a.m. RD session.

Its afternoon now. My muddy trousers are hanging in my room besides the torn shirt. The soaked up leather shoes haven’t dried yet. The socks are strewn on the floor. Everything says that yesterday night has ended. The mind knows its not going to come back. The adventure is up, the only reminiscences being the few pictures stored on my system. Yet a part of my heart wants to stay here “forever”.