EXCURSION TO THE GRAVEYARD

I found myself sprinting as I heard the announcement, preluded by the three ominous words - "Kripya Dhyaan den !". The cold air left my lungs in short, heavy breaths, escaping to the freezing mist all around me, and yet my lungs felt no lighter. I winced as I took long, quick strides; my football skills had been overdone for sure, or else the throbbing pain in my knee would have ceased long back. Anirudh had taken the lead, and was running ahead of me. I smiled at his alacrity, and increased my pace as I heard the train's whistle from the distance.

We were spared the trouble of wading through the flood of passengers you would normally expect at a typical railway station in India, most certainly because other inhabitants of the city were sound asleep at this early hour, wrapped in soft, warm blankets, surrounded by peace and tranquility. As the Lucknow-Chandigarh Express pulled into the station, we made our way towards platform 3, where Pinky and Aashray were waiting eagerly, hoping we'd return with tickets to board the train. Only one of their anticipations was fulfilled.

When we reached Chandigarh station, I finally realized the meaning of the adage 'Luck favours the brave.', as I slipped through the exit without being obstructed by the ticket collector, who was busy pulling up other culprits. But little did I know my luck would part with me later in the day, as swiftly as it had come to join me.

I have been to numerous cities as a visitor or a tourist, and never have I come across a city so thinly populated and awfully quiet (before evening, of course), as if built upon a sequence of graveyards. For as far as the eye cold see, there was hardly anybody visible, as if the Ghosts had scared everyone away, and for a moment I doubted if the vehicles plying on the roads were real and the entire city was haunted. The evening was livelier, but still couldn't do much to levitate my spirits after the tortuous day. An hour's 'virtual gaming' on the NFS console was the best I could make of this seemingly long trip.
Nevertheless, whoever laid out the immaculate plan for the city must have been a man of high talent, as I can never fathom a person being lost in Chandigarh, as one would almost always find one's way back.

I have seldom had the misfortune of having to travel in the 'General' compartment, and the journey back to Roorkee was a particularly nasty, cruddy experience. Not the least because I was pushed to the corner near the rancid, stinking lavatory and couldn't see my own feet in the crowd, but more so because of the smoke emanating from lighted beedis and weed being consumed by who looked exactly like goons you see so often on television. I waited and I waited, hoping for the train to come to a halt so that I could escape to a compartment that didn't smell like a dipsomaniac's paradise. I did manage to accomplish this feat at Ambala, carefully making my way through an entanglement of heads and legs and feet that lined the compartment's floor, jumping over rucksacks, avoiding stumbling and crashing into a person's face, and finally breaking into an environment where I could get fresh oxygen to breathe. I took some time to savor my achievement before boarding a different, better sleeper class coach - as I realized a few minutes later, only to my utter dismay.

MIDNIGHT OCTAVES

The last few months in Cautley Bhawan have witnessed innumerable power cuts, especially during the late hours, with the entire hostel plunging into darkness, cringing meekly to the moonlight and the aura of stars in the night sky. The shrewd, cunning administration, bent on reforming our approach to 'engineering' by making us realize the importance of regular study, has stuck to its sinister device of load shedding a day or two before the exams commence. These indeed have been testing times, wherein our cramming abilities have been brought to the fore, whilst persevering in our efforts not to let our focus waver from the illegible text confronting us that almost never makes sense - often for several hours at a stretch. All this in a time when digicams have superseded the more conventional xerox machines, and electricity is what drives a despondent undergraduate's chances of enduring the doom about to fall upon him.


More often than not, such dark, gloomy phases are marked by an eerie silence suggestive of inactivity. An envelope of abominable lull descends upon the environs surrounding us, threatening never to depart, much like an unsolicited, unwelcome guest, whom we cannot dismiss of our own will.

But yesterday was different.

Perhaps it was because of the holidays. We hadn't been preoccupied with our regular vexations - tutorials, assignments, presentations or any other engineering 'chores'. We still had much energy left for other, more entertaining pursuits. Maybe that was the reason we didn't give in to the dispiriting calm accompaning yet another power cut.

As a wise man once proclaimed (that would be me): "The greatest of ideas are conceived when a bunch of perplexed souls who have nothing to ponder about at all, come together for a long, inspiring 'bakar' session."
The question was - 'What could we do to while away time?' (After all, there was no prognosticating when we could expect 'normalcy' to return, even though our neighbours in RKB had it restored already.)

Charades? Nope, it was too dark to even see other faces, how could we figure out gestures ! Wordgames? A few backed out at the onset, the remaining couldn't continue for long, after it became evident participants were coining their own words out of the blue. What next? 'Antakshari' was lame, wasn't it? But apparently, there seemed to be no other pastime viable.

And hence began a series of 'alaaps' and 'vilaaps', changing notes in quick succession as a group of amateurs and 'bathroom singers' rattled the very foundations of Cautley Bhawan with their loud cacophonies. The more gifted sang softly, passionately (which wouldn't imply any level of expertise) while the more enthusiastic made it a point to convey their support for music by blasting off high notes at the top of their voices, straining their vocal cords to the maximum tensile limit possible. What accompanied was a medley of strange sounds, each one completely out of harmony with the other.

And thus, we sang deep into the wee hours. I sang, unmindful of the agony we must have caused our (few) neighbours to suffer from. I was a little held back at first, but some time later, I found myself joining and thoroughly enjoying the clamorous uproar arising from S-4, CB. If it weren't for the human tendency of fatigue and weariness, the show would never have ended.

Somebody must have been praying fastidiously to the heavens, because it finally did, after three full hours - partly because we had run out of songs to holler out aloud. But of course we had no idea it had been so long. Ceding to the quiet that had befallen earlier, we happily returned to the sanctity of our 'peaceful' rooms, realizing at once that it is us who govern our spirits, and nothing the authorities do can tamper with them. WE had turned out victorious.

P.S. : Looking forward to more concerts in the coming few months. :D

WITH AND WITHOUT

"Jis din in dono me se kisi ek ki bhi naukri lag jaaye us din meri moochen uda dena" - barked Virus with contempt and derision as he lay down flat on his stomach with his head tilted to the side, for the typical 15-minute session with his personal barber. He knew there was never a chance those two pricks could pocket a job even if they were the last two remaining to be placed with a hundred more employers due to pay a visit. But little did the poor chap know he would part with his dear moustache during his punctuated, cacophonous snores, and his undoing would be heralded by the very two of Rancho's comrades whom he loathed beyond words could describe, who themselves had been suffering in great turmoil as they knew it'd be ridiculously goosey to field any hopes of a job in the offering - atleast until that dreadful day.

Neither did I. It was there when I last saw it, perched on top of my lips, a black crescent resembling a bow crafted to precision for the most adept of archers, cultivated through careful grooming over several years, not a whisker out of place. The eclectic model which would make its way into the halls of fame once it attained its final dimensions after subtle 'machining' (the word I have so repeatedly been confronted with ever since my return from TATAland), and stimulate envy in men less tolerant towards facial hair especially that found in the region south of the nostrils.

And then in a trance of impulsive mindlessness, it was gone - rather forfeited, abnegated. As soon as I yielded to the misleading proffers of our 'Punk-ie' friend (who has continued to receive constant attention in my writings), it took him no time before he conjured his instrument of mass demolition and wielded it in all malice along the bushy contours of the terrain north of my upper lip, wiping out anything that interrupted its evenness, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. Curious as I was to see for myself the results of this experiment, I prodded along without objection. It was only after the damage had been done beyond repair, that I realized I had committed a blooper. It looked as if I had suddenly recovered a few years in age - like a child trapped in an overgrown body, and I was overcome by the desire to become 'Baba' again.

The sands of time will settle down upon the emptiness and conceal it until blossoms of thin grass begin to grow from underneath and shed them away. The process will take its time, working slowly to regenerate what has been lost. This would probably strengthen my resolve to act with thoughfulness in matters relating to the foreseeable future. But as with every other story, there is a lesson to be learnt. Never heed the advice of a friend who, by any coincidence, happens to have an association with 'Pink'.

BEGINNINGS TO NO END

Nazira, 1998:
A young boy of standard five was escorted by the school peon to an empty classroom. He was perhaps the only student permitted the luxury of spending the morning assembly session in the comfort of a vacant bench right under the ceiling fan, while his would-be classmates were standing in the scorching sun listening to another of the Principal's soporific speeches. Of course, this arrangement would only last for a day and from tomorrow he would become one amongst them - ordinary schoolchildren bound to obey the regulations of the school, puppets in the hands of the institution's administrative machinery. But soon he'd realize this wasn't too high a price for what he was about to be blessed with - friends for life ! He placed his heavy bag next to another one on the front desk near the door and waited. It wasn't long before an army of audacious midgets stormed the room - wrestling, chatting animatedly, eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. A bunch of girls were giggling at me; apparently I had occupied their desk, or maybe I looked lackadaisical and dreamy - I dared not asked them why. The midgets burst into a furore of laughter. Before I could pull myself together, I was greeted by one of the harbingers of the commotion : "Hi new boy! They'd really mind if you don't move to some other desk. You can share my bench if you'd like to. What's your name?" And hence was the beginning of a new bond, a new friend, to be followed by several such bondings in quick succession, of which some would last for a long time to come.

Vadodara, 2001
I hated it when Dad was transferred to a different place. It took so much time to acclimatize, to unpack; I had to start all over again. The most difficult part was to get aquainted with complete strangers. Three years had passed since the young boy of 10 had gone through this ritual for the last time. Another new school. More new faces to read. But this time he was prepared, for he was now wiser, experienced in faking countenances. This time there was no eluding the morning assembly, no unfair privileges, no bizarre antics. I had already made friends with my classmates outside the school premises before it reopened after the summer vacations, so I was just an unrecognised somebody in a nonchalant crowd. Gradually, through my camaraderie(:D),I could garner the patronage, allegiance and friendship of several new 'allies', who stood by my side in every deed worthy of appraisal, each instance of bunking, acts of innocent mischief, or helping me with befuddling assignments, or sometimes thwarting a techer's best laid out plans to infiltrate the brotherhood we had unconsciously created over the years. Rahu, Bunny, Matey, Chobey, Bhaisi, Babba, Pappo, Chimi, Garvit, Arumai and Abhiram were some of the other unknowing members of this brotherhood, who would do their best never to let it down. Unnecessary to mention, they never did. When I left school, I was amazed at how a reserved, shy, down-to-earth person could have gained the company of so many comrades. The numbers, no wonder, have kept growing.

Roorkee has been second to home. It seems three years have whizzed by at a rapid pace. From the days at RJB to the present times at Cautley, there hardly has been time to conceive the slow, subtle changes, that have accumulated over time to result in bigger transformations that today seem so obvious to the eye, but are difficult to comprehend otherwise. However, one asset, needless to specify, has withstood the test of time, and perhaps, will continue to, for the next few decades. Wherever my fortunes might drive me to, I guess I'd always recall your hilarious capers and pranks whenever I feel out of sorts. And also this energetic phrase from first year : "Meta Rocks !".


Thank you so much for being a part of my life, which wouldn't have been as awesome without you folks. And take pride in that you have me too. ;)
Wish you all a HAPPY FRIENDSHIP DAY !

PUN - EH ?

I wake up to the peaceful quiet of a Sunday morning. The one day I’ve been waiting for so eagerly all week. Sundays, I suddenly realize, have so often been undervalued, especially when you work from dawn to dusk six days a week. No bus to hurry for, nor the 1 mile trek early morning, enduring the weight of your eyelids, struggling to keep your pace while half the world is fast asleep. You forget the fear of meddlesome co-workers; minions of evil waiting to bungle your ingeniously knit plans on the first opportunity. You begin the day in a state of beguiling, even though ephemeral, bliss. Eudaemonia.

Pune. The Chicago of India’s western plateau (yes, it’s windy too). A city known for its lifestyle, splendour and luxury cars (which have so tenaciously occupied my thoughts of late). A metallurgical and materials engineer who would otherwise have been stuck at a secluded steel plant in a corner of nowhere, would be fortunate beyond expectations to pursue his/her career in one of the country’s finest places to live in.

Luckily for me, (if I might yet confer myself the esteemed degree of an engineer) my stars have guided me to this charismatic city – abuzz with life and activity. Towering, intimidating buildings, vehicles plying all day along busy roads, the asphalt level and free of undulations. No wonder a stranger in his early days is lured by everything that meets the eye. The evening sky mirrors the fantastic synergy between clouds and the sun, a sight that every nature enthusiast would want to capture on film and tuck away somewhere safe to be preserved forever. Perhaps the only thing lacking is the north Indian cuisine. But as goes the proverb: ‘Where there is a will, there is a way’; there is nothing beyond reach, and ‘the whole world conspires to get to you what you desire for’.

Add to this a spacious apartment, a motorbike, and four ‘idiots’ all set to explore the possibilities and mysteries of this paradise of a city. Isn’t it what we set out for from Roorkee in the first place, the town we’re obliged to spend four precious years of our college life – devoid of the charm of a BMW, the heights of skyscrapers and the glimmer of night lights? I wouldn’t be surprised if one would want to join the millions living in this city as its citizens. But I guess I’d rather be content with the fresh air of the countryside, the aroma of morning dew on soft, lush green grass, and the musical sound of a gushing stream nearby. Then again, there are other things that might make this impossible – for one, I am an engineer.