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 All this in a time when digicams have superseded the more conventional xerox machines, and electricity is what drives a despondent undergraduate's chances of enduring the doom about to fall upon him.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'.

Global Financial Recession impacting the Midsems?!!

It's finally over.....but the hangover still persists in the form of indolance to do anything (which is considered) fruitful.....

The Midsems have concluded after a tough ordeal which kept most of us toiling day-and-night (read "all night") to reconcile with the fact that only people who possess a "good-enough" CGPA (does anybody have the faintest idea what that actually means? I get variable opinions each soul I seek an enlightening answer from) can make it to a decent organization at the end of the 8th semester while the rest will have to be allayed with a job at "Career Point" or "Resonance" or "COER" doing the same thing as a few years back (or was it centuries ago?...because that is out of fashion now, rather a lame pastime) - gorging volumes of concepts and mugging up more than an ordinary human being is capacitated to, what lead us here in the first place - the difference being this they would not be doing for themselves because they won't be entitled to take the prestigious JEE another time.

Four years well spent devising funny stories about each and every professor in the campus, assigning them "suitable" nicknames, bringing out our best abilities in anime - and voila! You step into the latter's shoes when you know that the back benchers are never really interested in the weird theories and pestering mathematics you blabber about; they're busy carefully observing your slightest nuances which can be mimicked on "Bhawan Day" in front of an audience from the entire insti with yourself gracing the occasion as "chief guest". What an honour!

This situation was an alien one until the previous year, and stems from the recent financial recession that has affected not only "raddiwalas", "Thomso - 09", businessmen, corporates and governments alike, but also final year students in search of propective employers. This wariness has been bestowed upon us second yearites by our seniors who have witnessed the consequences of the global slowdown in the form of companies not willing to recruit. As I come to know about the interviews for the selection process, a not-so-major firm was made fun of when students haughtily stated to the interviewer - "We never wanted to be part of your workforce but have come for the sole purpose of gaining some experience for tackling interview questions". Now the same firm has been requested "humbly" to return to the premises.

What if the situation continues for a few more years? Heeding the fact that companies today are more interested in your CGPA rather than your instumental role in organizing "Thomso" as coordinator or even convenor, as secy of various student societies or as a 4-time inter-IIT player - our peers have taken up study more seriously than ever before.

The number of doubts fielded by professors who earlier used to have the front benchers sleeping in their class, has increased exponentially. The library and reading room get occupied to their full capacity a week before the midsems. Everybody seems to be giving some importance to the midsems, subsequently increasing the woes of "Ghissus" who earlier had no challenges from any other quarters. And to further add to this pandemonium, the department has tightened the noose around our necks by means of attendance backs and substituting a "dassi" for an "atthi".

It would be in our best interests if this turmoil in financial systems around the world is brought to a halt immediately. The longer it persists, the longer it will take for us to return to our "normal" way of living at IITR.

PS : Mr. Obama, are you listening?