Judgment Day

You may not know me personally, but you've seen enough like me to know what I'm like. They say the likes of me are now few and far between. Some even say that I'm as good as obsolete in most parts of the country. Does it bother me? Should it bother me? After all, I have everything that a man can possibly need to spend the rest of his life in luxury: a spacious leather couch, a remote-controlled LCD TV and cool air-conditioning. But then again, I am not really a man. So, what am I?

Cacophonous and lustrous, I am the coin. Yet, I'm no ordinary coin. I'm the fifty-paisa coin, the veritable atthanni. Like all others of my kind, I have no name. And like all others of my kind, I too have a story, only if you ever cared to listen.

I was born in the early months of 1992, in an India which was suddenly talking of change (no pun intended), liberalization and "opening up". I do not remember much of my stay at the Alipore Mint in Calcutta (where I was born) or at the RBI. But what I do remember is that those were very different times. There was this quiet sense of optimism that I could feel as soon as I smelled the fresh air, a feeling not very different from 'we can do it!'.

It took me a while to get used to the ways of the world. Back at the Mint, my brothers had told me that people outside are going to value me and keep me safely, for, I was something important. Yet, for all that importance, I failed to understand why these very humans would frequently launch me into the air with a flick of their thumb. The toss, as it was called. In those moments, time, space and gravity would all cease to exist for me. Spinning like a top on steroids, all I would be concerned about is how this was going to end. Sometimes it would be in the soft, warm cushion of a cupped palm, at other times, it would be cold, hard floor. So much for helping these gutless, indecisive humans choose.

Then there was that impish little kid (Ingit, I think the devil was called). Buoyed by the disappearing act the five and ten paise kind pulled off when they went swimming in acid, this kid drowned me in what seemed like an ocean of Industrial Muriatic Acid for one whole night, expecting to see me gone the next day. But, little did he know that I was made of sterner stuff. You should've seen his face when he dipped his fingers into the acid to pull me out next day- it was like reality came crashing down on him.

Of course, I could go on and on about human idiosyncrasies, but, given my audience, I get a feeling that it may not be well received. So, I'll move on. The next highlight in my history occurred sometime last year. I had been comfortably lounging around in somebody's shirt pocket when, in the middle of night, thanks to my bearer's constant moving, I was pushed hither-tither, as though in a stampede. And then, I fell. I fell for what seemed like eternity, in complete darkness, before I touched down with a soft belly-landing. Dazed, I looked all around me. It was pitch black, save for some light at a distance, almost like that at the end of a tunnel. Long years of eavesdropping on my human bearers had made me certain that I was definitely in Heaven.

But, as looked more closely into the brightness, I could make out a face, a familiar face! In an instant, it came to me, that was Rakhi Sawant! No sooner had I thought of her name that the absurdity of it all began to dawn on me- if this is Heaven, that can't be Rakhi Sawant and if that is Rakhi Sawant, this can't be Heaven. Besides, the idea of Heaven is preposterous, almost blasphemous! Coins don't go to Heaven, cons do, I thought. A persistent snore somewhere in the vicinity and a wafting melody of the Vodafone commercial made me realize that I had slid and fallen into the crevice between two adjoining couch 'seats'. And the light at the distance was not a God, but a million Liquid Crystal Displays.

To speak nothing about my new benefactors' sense of cleanliness, the couch is where I have been ever since that fateful night. It was difficult at first, what with all the loneliness, darkness and lack of action. But, I have grown to like it ever since. It affords me the comfort and (occasional) serenity that farts my age need. A good time for reflection, I think.

I have indeed thought a great deal over the past year. About my life and myself. How I was a shining young lad only eighteen years ago and how I am an old, dishevelled grouch now, one who has become rough at his edges and whose body has clearly lost its lustre. Maybe it is only fitting that everything connected to my (our) birth has to do with mint or its other variants. But forget my infirmities, even the world at large doesn't care for me. And for somebody whose world is limited by the nation's political boundaries, I'm not asking for too much. Over the years, I have seen lesser coins (the five, ten and twenty paise variety) succumb to an eventual death. I have been told that I am no longer welcome anywhere in the North, and I'm worth nothing save for my intrinsic metal. Why, only last month, CNBC was talking about how me and other fifty-paise coins may be pulled out of circulation soon. Obsolescence, they called it.

The news that the news broke to me completely broke me. What would become of me?, I thought. Melted out to make way for a new breed? Some new, snazzy design with a higher denomination and a higher fake shine? Two metals together, maybe? Nothing's impossible. If coins were to attributed anthropomorphic female characteristics, I would be the aging hooker- used and abused with nobody to care.

While I was burning in the slow fire within, upon tiptoes came the day of reckoning- today. Much of the day was no different from any other. Somewhere in the evening, somebody in the house tuned on to VH1. Almost to reinforce my hatred in them, the channel belted out 18 'Til I Die. Utterly ironical, I thought to myself. Any moment now, if I were to come tumbling out of the couch and onto the floor it won't be too long before I'd have a hit of my own- 18 When I Die! I let out a laugh, half-mocking and half in self-pity.

I must have had these thoughts for a couple of hours before my moment of Epiphany. And I wouldn't have had it if it weren't for Arnold Schwarzenegger. And James Cameron too. Being a mute observer in daily affairs, I had no say in matters of TV viewing. And tonight, it was Terminator 2: Judgment Day on the menu. To be very honest, I had been mostly consumed in my thoughts and watched the movie only superficially. But, when the climax arrived, I couldn't help but sit up and notice. The scene where Arnie tells the young John Connor that there is still one chip they need destroy- in his head, and he must do it, much to John's grief. Just as the Terminator is about to enter the molten steel, he utters the iconic, golden words: I'll be back!

Its a pity coins wear no clothes, for this was nothing less than my very own Eureka!. In Arnie I could see myself, slowly descending to the molten steel, to become one with the larger whole. In reality, Arnie was reciting the lines he had learnt the day before for a movie camera, but to me, it was as though he was talking to me and me only. Gauging the sentiment, Arnie said reassuringly: You'll be back too, just like how I was back for Part 3. Of course, I was imagining the last sentence, but it made sense. Humans go gung-ho about rebirth and reincarnation, trying to correct mistakes of a past life, and doing good deeds in this life, all in the hope that they may live again. Maybe this is what rebirth was to little pieces of metal. Maybe human beings and coins are not so different at all. I would have to die to live again.

As I watched Arnie disappear thumb-last in the smoky, orange liquid, a solitary thought crossed my mind: Hasta la vista, baby!

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.

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).

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!

Fade in

 

Even though I've been through this routine a hundred times in my head in the past couple of years, it is funny that when it is finally time to cross the bridge, I'm unsure of how to begin. What you are reading isn't just another-maiden-blog-post. It is a victory- the victory of valour over cowardice and proactiveness over procrastination. It is a coming of age- the moment when the inherently shy kid comes out to face the warm arclights and the icy cold stares. If this sounds much like a story, that's probably because it is indeed nothing short of one. But, if it is, I must tell it like one.


I cannot place exactly how long the germ (keeda in national parlance) of "having" a blog has been in me. The earliest recollections I have of it date back to 2006, sometime in the second year of my engineering. After a little pondering, the idea was promptly shot down by one of my multiple personalities, citing the then lack of internet connectivity in the architecturally-unstable Abhimanyu Bhavan (and thus necessitating the need to camp at the Computer Center, CCN, everytime I would need to post). The same episode re-occurred a year later, only much stronger. And this time, I did meet the requisite digital infrastructure requirements. The grounds for rejection this time round was the lack of "substantial inspiration" around me to keep the blog running.


Absurd, isn't it? However, it is no co-incidence that this blog shares the same relationship with absurdity that I do with it- namely, genetic. And most of what will go in here will undoubtedly earn that epithet too. But, I can live with that.


Anyway, back to the story. Even though I had successfully sabotaged all plans for a blog, the idea kept recurring to me, and kept growing stronger with each passing day. I would frequently find myself mentally typing out posts in the blog-I-did-not-have. I would think of interesting opening lines, catchy titles, labels, relevant pictures and the works. But, that's where it stayed- in my mind.


Probably it is because of my notably Communist upbringing that I don't generally take to work like a fish takes to water (we Bongs may love our fish, but not enough to make us adopt its aquatic tendencies). To add fuel to fire, the complete inaction I experienced during my four years at NIT Kurukshetra made me detest activity of any sort. However, we've only scratched the surface.


Truth be told, I was a little scared. I was (and still am) unsure of myself as a writer. And knowing full well the tiny attention-span I possess, I feared the day I would run out of gas and say "screw it". Clearly, to have not tried was better than to have tried and lost.


But, the biggest stumbling block for me was what I call (for the want of a better term) Cyberfright. Those who know me as a person and have read my writings in The Helios, The Lampoon, or anywhere else will tell you that I write humour (or try to, atleast). The reason for this is simple: when parodying and lampooning something, it is easy to maintain that disconnect between post and author. One may write volumes of humour/satire and yet not give an iota away of the kind of person one is. Yet, in my mind, my blog was to be different. It was to be me. It was to be the diary I never wrote. But, the blog also seemed to me to be a large transparent window to the house that is Yours Truly- a house that has, so far, had a thick Crustacean shell all around it, and the interiors of which are known only to a couple of people, if at all. In simpler terms, I was scared of opening up. And it is this standoff that resulted in a four-year gestation period for the blog.


So, that's been the story so far. But now that I've crossed the bridge, it was a lot easier than I made it out to be. Upon retrospecting, I find that this post has turned out far too grim and, if I may, confessional to be a first post (first posts having a reputation of being different versions of 'Hello World!'). Maybe it's karma. Good karma or bad karma, I don't know. But what I do know is that Karma is a good note to sign off with on your debut. So be it, then!