INCOMPLETE

The sky changes colour from the bright blue of dawn to the crimson of dusk as our tenure at Roorkee comes to an end. And with it, perhaps our love for sightseeing and excursions that have managed to draw our minds away from the nettlesome clutter of engineering chores and maintain our faith in the notion that college education is every bit as fun as it is enlightening.

My aspirations for life have been vacillating ever since I was a kid - from becoming a soldier or lawyer or scientist or pilot or famous athlete, to assuming the role of the country's Prime Minister. Now when my career goals are more definitive and less obscure, I fail to fulfill the smaller ambitions that have gradually sprung into existence, and have accumulated over time, often snubbed for some higher calling, but all the same, waiting patiently for that one opportunity to present itself so that they may be heeded. For as long as they aren't met, I will be incomplete.

It seems the approaching end has once again brought my attention back to these unattended little errands. All of a sudden, I'm brimming with energy. I want to jump off a bridge and hang upside down in mid air - more popular amongst adventure entusisasts as bungee jumping. I want to tie myself to the rear of a speedboat and fly over the ocean - parasail. I want to spend nights camping by the riverside, in the warmth of a cosy bonfire, with friends for company. I have always desired to dwell in a bivouac in the forest, in the lap of resplendent nature amongst its myriad exquisite endowments. I would love to set sail on a voyage across the sea. I want to explore, to discover, and enjoy life to the fullest, before it gets too late.

There is so much left to do, yet so many constraints.
Nevertheless, it is some some before the sky will acquire a blackish tinge - time enough to make a few amends.

As they say,

Picture abhi baaki hai mere dost !

THAHAKE

There are reasons I prefer a journey by train over a jaunt by air when I travel, even though the former might stretch over several hours, and sometimes face vexatious delays at the end of which one would feel completely enervated. It allows me to discover the varying landscape and diverse flora and fauna flourishing across different regions in the subcontinent, and to revel in the beauty of the path that would take me to my destination. But most importantly, it often results in serendipitous confluences that would perhaps occur in no other setting - pleasant encounters that leave an indelible mark in memory.

When I boarded the train to Delhi, I looked around to see the people I would share my compartment with - a habit I've developed over years of commuting. There was a sexagenarian, a stern-looking septuagenarian, a wannabe model and a rather sleepy coeval girl. Recalling I'm not really good at hitting a conversation with either the fairer sex or the elderly, I presumed this was going to be yet another journey where I would spend half the time sulking over a snoring co-passenger and the other half lying lethargically on the top bunk.

Mom and Dad weren't making it any easier by ranting out instructions about taking care of myself until I arrived in Roorkee. I can never really understand why parents fail to realize every journey is not the first time we travel on our own.
"Beta ! Don't take random victuals from lorries stationed at the platform." or "Remember the last time you nearly missed your train? Make sure it doesn't happen again."
Through the corner of my eye, I chanced a quick glance at the girl. She had now woken up, and was smiling at the scene presented before her. I felt as if I was back to age 10, listening impatiently to mom's characteristic words of advice and caution, and was definitely a little flushed.

The engine hooted and slowly pulled out of Vadodara station. I was climbing to the top berth when the sexagenarian intervened - "Itni jaldi so rahe ho? Abhi to bahut time hai. Chalo tumhara thoda manoranjan karta hun."
Only a fool would deny free entertainment, especially when there is no other means to amuse yourself. I gladly accepted and climbed back down.

It so turned out the old man was a hasya kavi. Soon, all the boredom had escaped my mind. I was thoroughly enjoying myself as one verse followed another, each inciting a tingling sensation in my belly. Some compositions portrayed typical human vices of greed, corruption, stinginess and temptation; others underlined the virtues of wisdom and altruism. Each composition carried forth a message to the audience, serving its purpose of delivering a moral at the end while keeping the listeners guessing for the next line. I had no idea how the hours passed by, because it seemed the journey had been ephemeral when I noticed 'New Delhi' displayed on the railway platform.

Of the various modes of self-expression, poetry stands out as being the most evocative. With satire and sarcasm as ingredients, it is capable of putting across abstruse philosophies and grave issues of concern through beautifully crafted lines and aptly depicted situations, at the same time, maintaining a comical tone to draw attention of the audience. A potent tool to spark a revolution and unite the masses to fight for a common cause. I'm certain Gurudev's free spirit would testify to the validity of my earlier statement.

If only more of us were poets, we could really make a big difference to the perception of the people around us, and contribute towards changing the world for the greater good.

STALEMATE

Lost in a state of torpor, I struggle to hide a muffled yawn as my eyes water up from the exhaustion of having to listen to another lecture on 'Mechanical Working'. I manage to steal a quick glance at my watch, taking precaution the professor scribbling away notes on the board doesn't discover my impatience, and I rasp under my breath in frustation when I realize it's only been 20 minutes. Another 40 minutes to go - of course Ash Ray has no idea. He happily prods along, squawking in his omniscient but insipid tone, ever reminding us of how little we know of our own discipline. The particles of chalkdust settling on his beard and caput blend perfectly with the pale white pigment coating his hair. Unperturbed, he rattles on. He probably knows the pen I hold in my hand is never going to make contact with the blank diary resting on my table. And yet I can do nothing but listen, and fake interest.

Not long ago, I used to listen in ceaseless attention to each word he uttered; each principle or theorem he dictated making its way verbatim to the pages of my notebook. I was a 'first-bencher', a distinction not many would possess - not even the voracious pedant feeding on piles of textbooks and the sound of a learned professor giving away 'upadeshas' on the nuances of engineering. I remember raising my arm time and again to ask questions. I was the revered note-maker, the most reliable scholar for classmates. I was 'Baba' in the true sense of the word.

The times are changing.

In a few month's time, I will graduate as a Metallurgical and Materials engineer. Convocation is within sight. Soon we shall complete the ceremony announcing the end of four years of ordeal, and pass into a completely new world. I am about to make the transition from a student to a professional - I am employed. I also fancy a call from an IIM, the next big thing after IIT.
But I am no more the inquisitive student, the knowledge seeker, the 'first-bencher' - not in the classroom atleast. I have accomplished what I had planned for all this time, albeit a bit differently than imagined. With no purpose left, I can feel the inner flame within me wavering. I no more possess the driving force propelling me towards yet another goal, the inner unrest that would keep nagging and cautioning me - "Something is still lacking !".


I am stuck - clearly in need of a more meaningful pursuit during the last few months at Roorkee. Football, music and Cogni are just pastimes. I'm in search of a bigger challenge, a new objective - hoping to find a new 'me'. I wonder what it'd turn out to be, what I would turn out to be. For now, I'm just a 20 plus person aspiring to become a 20 minus dilettante once again, just so I am not devoid of a fervent tenor to keep moving forward.

The January chill has subdued my spirits for now. I'm waiting for the sheath of winter ice to melt away, so that I may free myself of the freezing frost immobilizing me, and feel the warmth of a new, illustrious sun rising.

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