December 11, 2010

Ephemeral



(Disclaimer: The latter part of this post is not for the weak of heart. It is a true account, therefore I may find it hard to sugar-coat words and feelings. I'm not entirely sure why I should post something like this, some may even view it as attention-mongering and an attempt to gain sympathy. It is what it is- a tale told straight from the heart)

The mood here at MDI Gurgaon is quite a festive one at present, with its annual cultural festival, Imperium, in full swing. A hundred bright lights dazzle the lush green campus on this cold winter night. There is a hint of joie de vivre in the air. As for me, courtesy my now-legendary virtue of inaction, I am a far-removed spectator in this celebration. Therefore, while some of my peers break cold sweat trying to ensure things moved in order, I find myself indulging in more frivolous interests.

Scene I

The highlight of my afternoon was the two hours spent watching a movie. The movie in question was Pineapple Express- a light-hearted tale of how one innocent little act sparks off a chain of situationally comic events. During the course of the movie, people get killed in an almost wanton fashion, like popping one bullet here and another one there.  But, I'm ok with that. What caught my attention, though, was how death was reduced to just another consequence- a recurrent by-product of everyday existence. The movie may have been in the lighter vein but it did raise some seemingly 'heavy' questions. I thought about it for a little while, and then sighed the thought away in a chalta hai sort of way.

Scene II


The night had well and truly set in. There was the sound of music in the air that was hard to miss. Energised by a three-hour evening siesta, I set out to give some meaning to a Friday night by doing something more active. After a small discussion on the matter with a friend and crossing out the things we did not want to do, we decided we'd go to a nearby Bar-and-Restaurant- an ironically named joint called Zaika. On our way out of the campus, just as I was haggling with the security guard for a hassle-free return, we heard a loud, silence-shattering thud. We instinctively turned our heads towards the direction of the offending sound. And what did I see? A large truck was stationary, not more than fifteen paces from where I was. Adjacent to truck's headlights was a bike tilted at roughly forty five degrees to the ground. At first sight, the bike seemed have no rider, but on squinting my eyes in the darkness I could make out a pair of legs on the gear and brake pedals of the bike and a body slumped across sideways, motionless.

It took me a moment or two for the situation to sink in to my faculties. And when it did, my heart skipped a beat. People, bystanders, fellow drivers all had converged to the site of the head-on collision, pulling the body up and arranging for medical attention. The 'wiser' of the lot stood at the periphery of the action, passing their judgement. Yeh toh gaya, they ruled.

I'll spare you the gruesome details of the account. My friend, who watched the sight more closely than I did, was visibly shaken. Not that I was left untouched either. My mind was racing with thoughts I did not want to have. Life, with all its intrinsic beauty and all its promises, is so inherently fragile, so momentary. We toil and toil away, each trying to fulfill a goal, and yet I can't say for sure whether I'll make it from one moment to the other. Every second on the graphical timeline has a mathematical discontinuity built into it, and we are just lucky that we weather discontinuity after discontinuity without dropping off the radar.

No, I'm not trying to scare anybody. I'm not spewing macabre nonsense to sound cool either. Tonight taught me a lesson: that of Carpe Diem- seize the day. It is bitterly ironic that in Black-and-White Chessboard of Life, it takes a chance encounter with death to understand how precious life is. I don't really believe in a Higher Being (my religious self being a non-practicing Hindu bordering on the Agnostic), but the events of the afternoon (where I almost questioned the gravity of death) unfolding into the events of the evening had a loud "Beware" written all over it- clearly too much to attribute to mere chance and co-incidence.


But, as is Human nature, things will move on. In a few moments from now, a new day shall break and the sun shall begin its daily ascent. The glass shards in front of the MDI gate will be swept away by some worker, remnants of the night decimated in one fell sweep. People will play Chinese Whisper about the events of the night before, with straight, sympathetic faces. The incident may find mention in a newspaper snippet or two, else it will be just another number to the Public Vehicles Department. Even I, so seemingly affected by the incident, may find something else to keep me occupied, matters more worldly, if you will want to call it that. And, Heavens forbid, when that happens, this post shall serve as a grim reminder that no matter how messed up life is, I'm still lucky to be living it.

December 7, 2010

The Urban Amazon



What does one really need to develop (not 'build') a city? When does a city get a life, in the literal sense of the term? These are some of the questions I have been asking myself ever since I set foot in the monstrosity called Gurgaon.

Before somebody tries to shoo the matter away either by attributing it to a culture shock people get when relocating to The North, or by quoting the more-popular 'This is Haryana' maxim, let it be known I spent four years of my life at NIT (formerly REC) Kurukshetra, in Haryana. Therefore, the rebuttal doesn't hold water for me on both counts. For one thing, Kurukshetra, despite being a sleepy agricultural town in Haryana, had a distinct identity (which could have been because of its many temples, but that's entirely besides the point). Yes, ladies and gentlemen, something is amiss. Or, as the Bard would've like to say in today's day and age: Something is rotten in the state of Gurgaon.

So, what is it? Well, here's my diagnosis. For a truly distinctive identity, it is my sincere belief that a city requires what I call Character - an inherent watermark in the city's culture, something that both defines a city and differentiates it at the same time- like the small three-tentacled star on the bonnet of every Mercedes. Every great city in the world has a unique star of its own, much like its DNA, but with the exception that there isn't a provision for identical twins. If you'll look around, you'll see it in all the major cities and towns of our country- Calcutta is the languid tram ride amidst the backdrop of its glory days of the British Raj. Delhi has the loud, throbbing, car stereo dhinchik dhinchik feel. Bombay is the crowded platform at CST, where if you don't move swiftly enough, you'll end up with a cold shoulder from people moving in both directions. Of course, all the cities mentioned have a character that can't adequately be described in the one line I did, but then, those were merely illustrative and not exhaustive.

One may contend that, after all, Gurgaon does have an identity, some character- the malls, the offices, yada yada. To that, I have only one rejoinder, that even sociopaths and raving lunatics have a character, so what? The point I'm trying to make is that when a city does nurture and develop an identity of its own, it resides in its people. Sadly for Gurgaon, there is no such thing. There is no unique quality, quirk of nature or mannerism that will make you snap your fingers and say "Aha, that's a Gurgaonwala". The city is, at best, an agglomeration of office blocks that mighty New Delhi carelessly threw away like a leftover, not in the least caring where it ended up. As luck would have it, the leftovers landed right outside Delhi's doorstep.

And it is this proximity to Delhi that is at the root of Gurgaon's lack of character. Delhi is the illustrious and successful elder brother to the kiddy younger sibling that is Gurgaon. The more Gurgaon aspires to be like Delhi, the more it slides into recess, so that it ultimately comes across as a cheap fake- like those dummy phones you see on display on Mobilestore shelves.

Those of us who have travelled on the NH8 on Friday evenings would have undoubtedly noticed (and suffered) the never-ending queues at the Gurgaon Toll Gate. I did too, once. On probing as to why it was so, I was told that it was Friday evening, and people of Gurgaon were going 'home'- to Delhi, Noida, Faridabad etc. "Really, they're going home?", I thought, raising my eyebrows by almost an inch, "I wonder what they call the place where they stay from Monday to Friday".

The rot is systemic, you see. When citizens really don't think of their city as their 'home', is it really a surprise that the roads resemble the aftermath of a meteor shower? Or that there is virtually no public transport to think of? As for the malls, they are to Gurgaonwalas what Opium was to the Chinese in the late 18th century. The mall, with its glitzy shops, chic restaurants, dim watering holes and gigantic movie screens breeds addiction. After office hours, it helps people take their minds off all matters worldly, just like the aforementioned opium. And the cycle repeats, day after day, night after night, till its Friday again and time to go 'home'.

Welcome to life in the new millennium, in Millennium City (bookings now open).

December 6, 2010

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*

(pronounced: Add Ab-sir-dum)

Not sure of how to proceed in my journey across blogdom, I figured it would be a good idea to set the mood- you know, pull over to select a favourite track (say, Californication or Highway Star) on the car stereo before you burn rubber against asphalt (or bitumen, depending on which part of the globe you live in).

Firstly the tips-of-the-hat: as is almost customary by now, I'd like to thank the Pink Floyd- for their music.What they dished out in their collective lifetime is so much a part of my existence that it would almost be rude of me to not thank them. Much of my thought process finds significance in the Floydian world of melodious cash registers, flying pigs and crashing walls. Before I get tempted to write monologues about them, let it be known that this is a story for another day. For now, this will suffice.

Moving on, the other major influence on this blog has been a gentleman who goes by the name of Anuranjan Roy. At first he may not strike you as particularly different, but once he puts pen to paper, its impossible to forget him. If there ever was a "must-read" list of blogs on the internet, I'm certain his blog (http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com) would make it on every single one of them, given enough coverage. Its funny to imagine that the very fingers that dish out lines of lifeless code in the day weave magic when re-united with the same keyboard at night. His unhurried, easygoing style of writing is a case in point of how simplicity in writing can accurately capture the profoundest of thoughts. If imitation is indeed the best form of flattery, this blog will make Mr. Roy a very happy man in due course of time.

It shall be my concerted effort to make this blog live up to its name. Absurdity is never an easy act to follow but I believe in my insanity. A word of caution to the gentle reader, though: as will become to apparent to you in due course, I tend to be self-deprecating in my writing- to the point of being almost self-loathing. But, its no cause of concern and I don't intend to swallow a bottle of tranquilizers or self-immolate anytime soon.

Expect here a lot of mad ramblings, pop culture references, lame attempts at humour, armchair pontification and anything and everything that catches my attention. With that caveat and disclaimer, dear Reader, here's wishing you happy reading!