To the nines

One of most startling revelations of being in an Indian B-School is the sheer number of people you find that are absolutely disgruntled with the two-year process ending in the 'prestigous' MBA degree. The sheer worthlessness of it all, they say. "What do they really teach you?" is an oft-asked question a month or so into the course. Most believe that the real learning, if any, is in the mad rush of getting things done, be it placements, lectures, events, fests or clubs and societies. It is also very cool to throw in, every once in a while, your total course fees into a conversation for a quiet chuckle. E.g: "After all, this is what I'm paying xyz lakhs for!". 'R.O.I.' and 'sunk cost' are other frequently used terms to quantify this futility.

Not known to be very extreme in my opinions, my usual reply to any such talk is a re-assuring but non-committal 'hmmm'. Maybe it is because of my scant knowledge of economics, but I generally refrain from valuing life in opportunity cost terms. But, when the topic is within earshot with unusual co-incidence, it does get one's mind thinking.

Poring over the matter for a delicate minute or two, I realised that any 'value-additions' during the course of the MBA are highly subjective terms- just as one man's CGPA is just another number to the other (suggested watching: Sharky 'Fins' v/s Douche 'Marks'). Therefore, I set out to identify the one common and universal take-away from MBA Express, the one thing that all MBAs take back from their days at a B-school, cutting across boundaries of background, specialization and pedigree of the institution etc. And in the process, I discovered just that- the nines!

B-Schoolers across the country, through a process that can be roughly approximated as conditioning, eventually master the art of dressing up to the nines at a few minutes' notice. Strangely though, the actual etymology of the phrase dressed up to the nines is shrouded in mystery with no clear front-runner among them. But, as I began my day with another mad scramble to quickly don a suit and rush to the auditorium for yet another 'talk' by some corporate bigwig, I postulated a theory of my own: in some parallel universe, this phrase could have been coined by a similarly suffering soul (for sake of simplicity, say, me) who would have perfected the process of waking up, doing the early morning chores and putting on a suit (replete with a freshly knotted tie)-all in a span of nine minutes, and still end up looking as though he just got off a taxi from Saville Row. In fact, just a few months back, the thought of suiting up for beyond an hour would really get my goat. But now, Stinson's attire-of-choice seems like second skin to me. In fact, I really would not be amazed if one night I woke up to find myself sleeping in one.

Of course, wearing a suit comes with its own set of perks, although few are willing to accept. Firstly, it cleanses. For a large chunk of male MBA students, shaving patterns mirror exactly their suit-wearing patterns. So much so that if you were to bump into somebody sans any facial fuzz whatsoever, it would not be imprudent to ask "tera aaj session tha kya?". The increase in powers of deduction is just an added bonus.

Then, of course, is the question of the pockets. For some reason, every time I tug at my suit lapels to peek into the insides of my jacket, the strategically positioned pockets of varying sizes seem reassuring to me, almost whispering a hushed "it's ok" in my ear. They may not hold anything presently, but they hold promise. I know that, come what may, everything can and will be accommodated in the dark, vast expanse that is a suit pocket. Funny how something as small as a pocket can boost egos.

So, in my little pocket hole, devoid of any rabbits, I would like to raise a toast- to the nines!

*Clink*