I had a chance to go through an article on street food, in a reputed newspaper published from Calcutta. The author, a food columnist, had written a lot about the street food in Delhi, especially the walled city.
With due respect to the author, and on account of mine being a true blue Bengali, I however, found the whole thing far too ironical. A paper being published from Calcutta, singing paeans about Delhi’s street food……..hard to digest boss. Here, I must add a disclaimer. It is not a Delhi vs. Calcutta thing going out here. Every city has its speciality as far as the street food culture goes. And no one city is the best. But somehow, being a Bengali, I could not resist the temptation of putting Calcutta on a higher pedestal. I know I am contradicting myself.
Calcutta is the melting pot of the culinary specialities of almost all the regions of the country. At the same time, it has its own history and specialities as far as the street food culture goes. So while you have stalls selling Dahi Bada and Pav Bhaji you can also see long queues outside shops selling Kobiraji and rolls. Kebabs too are a hit there so is biryani. Here I can say that Delhi could not lay any claim to the kebabs being its own. However, Calcutta can lay a stake to the rolls which almost everyone in the country so loves to devour. Here goes the story. An English officer loved to have his mutton curry and parathas but did not love the oily fingers which resulted. So the owner of the shop which sold the paratha and mutton curry started rolling the mutton curry in the parathas and thus was invented the mutton roll. The roll now has many variants. Egg roll, chicken roll, egg chicken roll and also has the vegetarian varieties, the veg roll, paneer roll and the mushroom roll.
The bhel puri which I had outside Rabindra Sarovar was one of the best I have ever had in my life. In fact better than what I had in many places in Bombay. And the jhalmuri and the phuchka, well almost everything tastes so good in Calcutta. The jhalmuri wallah at the Lord’s Bakery turning on Prince Anwar Shah Road and the phuchka wala at the Gariahat junction are simply marvellous. And the rolls at Hot Kathi rolls near the Asiatic Society museum can put your salivary glands into action even as you pass by the shop. There is also a Biryani walla near the Park Circus connector whose name I don’t remember now. I have heard that Hyderabadis visiting Calcutta pay a visit to the shop at least once.
Now on to what Calcutta is so famous for. Telebhajas. It is a generic term covering almost everything fried. It includes peyajis, begunis and of course the other mouth waterers like kobirajis, cutlets, chops and what not. Talking of kobiraji, it is actually the Banglicised version of coverage. That is the main item (fish or mutton) is covered with a layer of egg. So you have fish kobirajis and mutton kobirajis. Coffee house (any self respecting Bengali knows about Coffee house, irrespective of whether he has ever been there, yours truly included) is famous for its kobirajis and cutlets. However, the best cutlets I have tasted in Calcutta are from a nondescript shop in Deshopriyo Park near the Rash Behari Avenue connector. But since I have not been to coffee house, I cannot and will not claim that they are the best.
What I have mentioned here is a list of the “very best” , integral parts of Calcutta’s street food culture. There are many unsung heroes too. In different areas of the city. And though they did not find a mention here, as you read, they might be fulfilling the culinary desires of hundreds of Calcuttans.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Aap Qatar mein hain
A friend from school who had once gone to Bombay, would often recount how the line busy message there would be relayed by a sweet sounding operator as “aap Qatar mein hain” (You are in a queue). That was way back in the late 1990’s when the mobile phone revolution had not taken the country by a storm. The days of the telephonic “Qatar” have gone away, thanks to the mobile revolution, but no other revolution has probably been able to do away with the queue factor, totally.
Take any railway reservation counter, for instance. Irrespective of the number of windows, one in all probability finds himself behind at least 20 others, the first five of whom make a circle around the counter trying to look at the details of the one first in the line. One very plausible reason for this can be the fact that 50% of the counters are almost always closed, three are current reservation counters and the computers in two others seem to be out of order. So all in all you have three to four functional counters with about thirty to forty persons jostling for space outside each of them. And thus is formed the “Qatar”, which Bombay telephones has been able to do away with.
When it comes to queues, of all the places I have visited so far, Calcutta must take the cake for the highest number of queues. Come out of the Howrah station and look around you will see queues everywhere. Queues at the pre-paid taxi booth, queues for the buses run by the state transport (CSTC) , queues for the auto rickshaws as well as the cycle rickshaws. The Calcuttans are a disciplined and a patient lot, There are long queues at the metro stations at the ticket counters. There are the Sunday queues at the “mangsher dokan”(The shops selling mutton). There are queues at the shops selling “Telebhajas”(fried savouries). There are queues at the shops selling “ruti and dim tarka” (Chapatis and dal fry). There are queues at the pujo baris (the puja pandals) during Durga Puja, during Kali Puja, during Laksmi Puja and almost every festival with which the Banagli bhadralok forms an emotional bonding.
But the greatest laugh is generated at the urinals at the railway stations in Howrah and Sealdah. The urge to piss is quite evident as the commuters in the queue wait with patience, crushing their teeth and swearing under their breath about the volume of the liquid waste the luckiest among them is releasing.
As in life, so in death. While the average Calcuttan spends about half of his life waiting in queues, his dead body too has to wait in a queue, especially if his kin decide to go the green way, i.e use an electric crematorium. Though this is something, I can not and will not generalise, because the Calcutta loving bhadralok will not be able to defend aamar Kolkata, but I have been a witness to such a queue of dead bodies, waiting to be burnt at the Keoratala burning Ghat.
The ones at the back were however not cursing the ones at the front.
Take any railway reservation counter, for instance. Irrespective of the number of windows, one in all probability finds himself behind at least 20 others, the first five of whom make a circle around the counter trying to look at the details of the one first in the line. One very plausible reason for this can be the fact that 50% of the counters are almost always closed, three are current reservation counters and the computers in two others seem to be out of order. So all in all you have three to four functional counters with about thirty to forty persons jostling for space outside each of them. And thus is formed the “Qatar”, which Bombay telephones has been able to do away with.
When it comes to queues, of all the places I have visited so far, Calcutta must take the cake for the highest number of queues. Come out of the Howrah station and look around you will see queues everywhere. Queues at the pre-paid taxi booth, queues for the buses run by the state transport (CSTC) , queues for the auto rickshaws as well as the cycle rickshaws. The Calcuttans are a disciplined and a patient lot, There are long queues at the metro stations at the ticket counters. There are the Sunday queues at the “mangsher dokan”(The shops selling mutton). There are queues at the shops selling “Telebhajas”(fried savouries). There are queues at the shops selling “ruti and dim tarka” (Chapatis and dal fry). There are queues at the pujo baris (the puja pandals) during Durga Puja, during Kali Puja, during Laksmi Puja and almost every festival with which the Banagli bhadralok forms an emotional bonding.
But the greatest laugh is generated at the urinals at the railway stations in Howrah and Sealdah. The urge to piss is quite evident as the commuters in the queue wait with patience, crushing their teeth and swearing under their breath about the volume of the liquid waste the luckiest among them is releasing.
As in life, so in death. While the average Calcuttan spends about half of his life waiting in queues, his dead body too has to wait in a queue, especially if his kin decide to go the green way, i.e use an electric crematorium. Though this is something, I can not and will not generalise, because the Calcutta loving bhadralok will not be able to defend aamar Kolkata, but I have been a witness to such a queue of dead bodies, waiting to be burnt at the Keoratala burning Ghat.
The ones at the back were however not cursing the ones at the front.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
The Brown Shock
Surprise quizzes (I still prefer the word short test) are a very common phenomenon here. Every term has got courses in which the quizzes are “unannounced”, the euphemistic term used by the faculty members for a surprise quiz.. But, the word “surprise” in itself seems to be quite incongruous for something as nasty as a short test. Surprises are supposed to be pleasant. But how can a short test be pleasant, is the million dollar question. With time and experience, we have devised our own methods of predicting a surprise quiz, or at least can predict that a surprise quiz is not about to be given, but many a times they have really caught us unawares. More than this, the fear of a surprise quiz being given always lurks at the back of the mind. Therefore, the first thing which many of us do on reaching the classroom complex is trying to search for the brown envelope in which the teacher carries the question papers. That is if the teacher is already there Of course, the technological revolution has also played a major role as the message passes from one section to another, through SMS.
The teachers too leave no stone unturned in making the quiz a real (nasty) surprise. They try to hide the brown envelope as much as possible. One of our teachers who taught a course in the first term did not even carry the papers in the envelope. Another teacher would send the question papers through his secretary, even when the lectures for some other course would be going on. Now that was what used to come as a shock, more often than not catching us on the wrong foot.
The brown envelope has become synonymous with shocks. You sight it when you least expect or want to sight it. Just imagine, you have a sumptuous breakfast of buttered toast and cutlet, on a sunny morning, looking forward to a lunch of kadhi pakora and rice, just four hours away, when you catch sight of something brown peeping from the teacher’s file. The good and sweet thoughts just vanish away. More so, because, your calculations showed that the test will be given in the next lecture and you were dumb enough to come unprepared for it.
So, it is another chance squandered, another test gone awry and yet another D and the brown saga continues.
The teachers too leave no stone unturned in making the quiz a real (nasty) surprise. They try to hide the brown envelope as much as possible. One of our teachers who taught a course in the first term did not even carry the papers in the envelope. Another teacher would send the question papers through his secretary, even when the lectures for some other course would be going on. Now that was what used to come as a shock, more often than not catching us on the wrong foot.
The brown envelope has become synonymous with shocks. You sight it when you least expect or want to sight it. Just imagine, you have a sumptuous breakfast of buttered toast and cutlet, on a sunny morning, looking forward to a lunch of kadhi pakora and rice, just four hours away, when you catch sight of something brown peeping from the teacher’s file. The good and sweet thoughts just vanish away. More so, because, your calculations showed that the test will be given in the next lecture and you were dumb enough to come unprepared for it.
So, it is another chance squandered, another test gone awry and yet another D and the brown saga continues.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Fortune at the bottom of the class
We had a book review as a part of our class presentations today. A group presented the review of “Fortune at the bottom of the pyramid” by Mr. C.K.Prahlad. Struggling to stay awake during the presentation, I came across a term “Dominant Logic”. Dominant Logic refers to the perceptions which are coloured by the past experiences and logic. The theory of dominant logic makes the MNCs assume that the people at the bottom of the pyramid, (the economic pyramid that is) cannot afford the products or the services which are offered by the MNCs, because of a given cost structure with which they cannot serve the BOP market. It gives some further assumptions which in effect imply that the fellows at the bottom of the pyramid are a bunch of good-for-nothings, and certainly not worthy enough to be approached for market expansions. However the reality is totally different, as Mr. Prahlad emphasises in the book.
Somewhere this dominant logic thing does not seem to operate in the market place alone. Very often I can feel a dominant logic operating in the class too. The lesser mortals, (the C and D graders, I mean) somehow can draw a parallel with the people at the bottom at the pyramid. This is pretty much visible during the formations of groups for the group assignments and the tasks, which are very much a part of any MBA course. I cannot say what happens else where, but it happens here. We lesser mortals, (yes, unfortunately, I am also one of the lesser mortals), somehow don’t seem to fit the bill of the A graders, intellectually. It won’t be tough to draw an analogy between the MNCs and the A graders. The MNCs think (that is what the book says), that the BOP market is not critical for any long term growth and the vitality of the MNCs and are at best, attractive distractions. Similar seems to the thinking among the A graders that the lesser mortals are not worth investing their time behind and are intellectually not critical enough in the formers’ pursuit of yet another A grade. Therefore it is better to leave the lesser mortals behind and form groups with A graders. After all, what can those duffers contribute any way? In b-school parlance, this is called cartelisation after that famous term in Economics. Economics? Yeah, I remember right.
The cartelisation begins even before the teacher announces that we are supposed to form the groups. And the lesser mortals are left at the mercy of the lesser lesser mortals, who chose to honour the former with a hallowed place in their own group. Everything said and done, the reports submitted and the presentations made and the results declared, the A graders score another A and the C graders remain happy with the C, giving rise to another aspect of Dominant Logic….They donot want to improve themselves.
As I prepare my presentation for tomorrow, waiting for another C (All of us in the group are C graders), I hope that some Mr. Prahlad drives home that we should not be looked upon as liabilities but as active informed and involved group members.
I am waiting for the book “Fortune at the bottom of the Class
Somewhere this dominant logic thing does not seem to operate in the market place alone. Very often I can feel a dominant logic operating in the class too. The lesser mortals, (the C and D graders, I mean) somehow can draw a parallel with the people at the bottom at the pyramid. This is pretty much visible during the formations of groups for the group assignments and the tasks, which are very much a part of any MBA course. I cannot say what happens else where, but it happens here. We lesser mortals, (yes, unfortunately, I am also one of the lesser mortals), somehow don’t seem to fit the bill of the A graders, intellectually. It won’t be tough to draw an analogy between the MNCs and the A graders. The MNCs think (that is what the book says), that the BOP market is not critical for any long term growth and the vitality of the MNCs and are at best, attractive distractions. Similar seems to the thinking among the A graders that the lesser mortals are not worth investing their time behind and are intellectually not critical enough in the formers’ pursuit of yet another A grade. Therefore it is better to leave the lesser mortals behind and form groups with A graders. After all, what can those duffers contribute any way? In b-school parlance, this is called cartelisation after that famous term in Economics. Economics? Yeah, I remember right.
The cartelisation begins even before the teacher announces that we are supposed to form the groups. And the lesser mortals are left at the mercy of the lesser lesser mortals, who chose to honour the former with a hallowed place in their own group. Everything said and done, the reports submitted and the presentations made and the results declared, the A graders score another A and the C graders remain happy with the C, giving rise to another aspect of Dominant Logic….They donot want to improve themselves.
As I prepare my presentation for tomorrow, waiting for another C (All of us in the group are C graders), I hope that some Mr. Prahlad drives home that we should not be looked upon as liabilities but as active informed and involved group members.
I am waiting for the book “Fortune at the bottom of the Class
P.S. Some things are best left unsaid
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
It Depends
“Which stream are you going to take up in Class XI?”, asked the father of my father’s good friend. I pondered over the question, scratched my head, made some noises in my throat and said, “it depends”. Not one to leave some one off so easily, the gentleman continued, “depends on what?” “Of course, my percentage in the Xth board exams”. Oh yes, he was finally convinced.
Later on during graduation, a professor of agronomy asked me during a viva voce examination, “So, what is the fertilizer dose for kodo millet?” Pat came the answer, “Sir, it depends”. Fortunately he was not like the gentleman I have mentioned earlier, and actually let me off with that answer. In fact he answered the remaining part himself. “It depends on whether irrigation conditions are available, the weather conditions etc. Good answer.”
“It depends” seems to be an easy way to evade questions. Especially if you are not aware of the exact answer. At the same time it can give you a competitive edge over others because, if it depends, then it must depend on something, and if the teacher assumes that you are aware of that something on which it depends, then he might choose not to probe you further, depending on the strength and conviction of his assumption.
“It depends” has come to my rescue during the stickiest of situations. After my class X board exams were over, I had filled up forms for admission into class XI for more than one school. In one of the interviews, I was asked “which school would you like to join?, this or the other one?” I repeated my favourite phrase. The principal was aghast. “On what?”, she asked. On which school offers me the admission, first. I don’t know whether it was on the merit of this answer alone or some divine grace, I finally got the first admission offer from this school only. Another situation where it saved me from a sure tongue lashing was the viva voce examination, which I have already mentioned. But one (in fact a couple of) situation(s), when my career would have found itself in a state of jeopardy, had it not been for "it depends" was the interviews which I faced for admission into MBA courses. Knowing fully well that depending on my background, in agriculture, I would have a preference for certain institutes, I was asked in many institutes about which one I would like to go to finally, if offered admissions. “It depends”, would always be my answer. On what? Thankfully, I had prepared myself for this question. "I will consult my father, and my teachers at the coaching institute." “And what do you think they will suggest ?” Well, sir, I really don’t know. “It depends on them”.
Later on during graduation, a professor of agronomy asked me during a viva voce examination, “So, what is the fertilizer dose for kodo millet?” Pat came the answer, “Sir, it depends”. Fortunately he was not like the gentleman I have mentioned earlier, and actually let me off with that answer. In fact he answered the remaining part himself. “It depends on whether irrigation conditions are available, the weather conditions etc. Good answer.”
“It depends” seems to be an easy way to evade questions. Especially if you are not aware of the exact answer. At the same time it can give you a competitive edge over others because, if it depends, then it must depend on something, and if the teacher assumes that you are aware of that something on which it depends, then he might choose not to probe you further, depending on the strength and conviction of his assumption.
“It depends” has come to my rescue during the stickiest of situations. After my class X board exams were over, I had filled up forms for admission into class XI for more than one school. In one of the interviews, I was asked “which school would you like to join?, this or the other one?” I repeated my favourite phrase. The principal was aghast. “On what?”, she asked. On which school offers me the admission, first. I don’t know whether it was on the merit of this answer alone or some divine grace, I finally got the first admission offer from this school only. Another situation where it saved me from a sure tongue lashing was the viva voce examination, which I have already mentioned. But one (in fact a couple of) situation(s), when my career would have found itself in a state of jeopardy, had it not been for "it depends" was the interviews which I faced for admission into MBA courses. Knowing fully well that depending on my background, in agriculture, I would have a preference for certain institutes, I was asked in many institutes about which one I would like to go to finally, if offered admissions. “It depends”, would always be my answer. On what? Thankfully, I had prepared myself for this question. "I will consult my father, and my teachers at the coaching institute." “And what do you think they will suggest ?” Well, sir, I really don’t know. “It depends on them”.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
CP
Before I landed up in this well known management institute in Western India, CP for me was a place in New Delhi where Ruskin Bond had spent a part of his childhood. For everyone visiting, passing by or staying in Delhi, CP a.k.a Connaught Place was the place to visit.
But a first look at the evaluation pattern in my first term of MBA, threw up completely new propositions. CP here stands for Class Participation and it effectively means “Don’t you dare to come unprepared for what is supposed to be taught in class”. From the folklores which are passed on to every new batch, it was discerned that CP is used as a tool by the professors to promote effective discussions over a topic or an issue. But considering that there are no free lunches in this world, it was probably assumed by the teachers that no one comes prepared for the class unless, there are some rewards attached to the preparations. And so barring a few courses, every course in every term has a certain weight age attached to CP, the value of which varies from 5-15% of the total evaluation.
For many of my classmates, CP is not only participating in the discussions, but also putting “thoughtful” questions to the teacher. In fact many a times, the participation actually takes a back seat. And therefore we have a first bencher waking up from a peaceful sleep (air conditioned class rooms do provide a perfect ambience), requesting the teacher to take him to the previous slide of the power point presentation and asking him a “thought provoking question”, leaving even the teacher stumped. The question answered, he goes off to sleep again, satisfied at his “victory “. (The question will probably fetch a healthy B+). The menacing face of CP is visible during the case discussions when all our animal instincts come to the fore. Imagine a section of 35 students shouting at the top of their voices to put a point across. Sounds like a market? That is precisely what the class room becomes then.
CP has also assumed some synonyms. For many, the “C” in CP stands for “Chamber” That is they don’t consider lesser mortals like me worthy enough to be privy to the thoughts which cross their minds. So they prefer discussing the nitty gritties with the teachers in the cool climes of their chambers in an intellectual environment. There is also a CP man in every batch without whose “valuable inputs” the discussions are never over.
There is also a variant of CP. OCP, outside class participation. This can be defined as something close to chamber participation, but the difference lies in the climate. It is held in the lounge of the class room complex with both the teacher and the student sweating and panting. Another difference lies in the fact that unlike, Chamber Participation it is not a one to one between the teacher and the student and many lesser mortals (no, not me) surround the two just to watch with blank faces and nod their heads at every word the teacher says. This is the method which is preferred by the students, who used to belong to the club of lesser mortals once upon a time, till lady luck chose to smile on them. They have not forgotten their modest beginnings and do give a benefit of doubt to other lesser mortals.
Hey its 11 P.M. See, how time flies? I have to get down to studying now, for tomorrow's lectures. One of the courses has a weight age of 15% for CP.
But a first look at the evaluation pattern in my first term of MBA, threw up completely new propositions. CP here stands for Class Participation and it effectively means “Don’t you dare to come unprepared for what is supposed to be taught in class”. From the folklores which are passed on to every new batch, it was discerned that CP is used as a tool by the professors to promote effective discussions over a topic or an issue. But considering that there are no free lunches in this world, it was probably assumed by the teachers that no one comes prepared for the class unless, there are some rewards attached to the preparations. And so barring a few courses, every course in every term has a certain weight age attached to CP, the value of which varies from 5-15% of the total evaluation.
For many of my classmates, CP is not only participating in the discussions, but also putting “thoughtful” questions to the teacher. In fact many a times, the participation actually takes a back seat. And therefore we have a first bencher waking up from a peaceful sleep (air conditioned class rooms do provide a perfect ambience), requesting the teacher to take him to the previous slide of the power point presentation and asking him a “thought provoking question”, leaving even the teacher stumped. The question answered, he goes off to sleep again, satisfied at his “victory “. (The question will probably fetch a healthy B+). The menacing face of CP is visible during the case discussions when all our animal instincts come to the fore. Imagine a section of 35 students shouting at the top of their voices to put a point across. Sounds like a market? That is precisely what the class room becomes then.
CP has also assumed some synonyms. For many, the “C” in CP stands for “Chamber” That is they don’t consider lesser mortals like me worthy enough to be privy to the thoughts which cross their minds. So they prefer discussing the nitty gritties with the teachers in the cool climes of their chambers in an intellectual environment. There is also a CP man in every batch without whose “valuable inputs” the discussions are never over.
There is also a variant of CP. OCP, outside class participation. This can be defined as something close to chamber participation, but the difference lies in the climate. It is held in the lounge of the class room complex with both the teacher and the student sweating and panting. Another difference lies in the fact that unlike, Chamber Participation it is not a one to one between the teacher and the student and many lesser mortals (no, not me) surround the two just to watch with blank faces and nod their heads at every word the teacher says. This is the method which is preferred by the students, who used to belong to the club of lesser mortals once upon a time, till lady luck chose to smile on them. They have not forgotten their modest beginnings and do give a benefit of doubt to other lesser mortals.
Hey its 11 P.M. See, how time flies? I have to get down to studying now, for tomorrow's lectures. One of the courses has a weight age of 15% for CP.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Of Roses and quizzes
I have never been very comfortable with the idea of calling a short test a “quiz”. We used to have our unit tests in school. The nomenclature changed to hourly tests (because of the time limit of one hour in which the paper was supposed to be answered), at college and then to short test during post graduation.
Quiz for me holds a sacrosanct meaning wherein the person holding the mike throws a question at you, with a sly smile, you scratch your head, tear your hair make all sorts of expressions signifying its in the stomach but not coming to the mouth and finally allow the question to pass on to the next team once your stipulated time is over. This is precisely what is done in a short test too. Especially when you are grossly under prepared. But there is one difference which makes a quiz, the sacrosanct one that is, a lot better “test” to handle. You can discuss the question with your partner. Or at least pretend to discuss. You might just be laughing or cribbing about all the tough questions coming your way. But then the person holding the mike, also called the quiz master waits in anticipation (may be also hoping against hope) for the right answer. Whatever it may be, you are allowed to talk with your partner in a quiz. And you get points not marks for a right answer. Also in a quiz, you can be asked questions from a subject you know something about, in a short test of say chemistry, that is simply a utopian dream.. However, in a short test, even turning your head to the right or the left will raise the curiosity of the teacher about your creative animal instincts of stealing (the euphemistic word used by the educators is cheating) and irrespective of whether the animal in you is awakened, you become liable for a zero, a red “U” on your copy, signifying Unfair means, besides a red cheek with finger marks on it.
The first time when I heard a short test being referred to as a quiz was in one of the biology periods when I was in class XI. (I am a boy). And I actually confused it with the sacrosanct quiz. Biology and especially evolutionary biology (the topics which were to be covered in the “quiz”) were not particular favourites with me. So I offered to be the time keeper so that I would have to stay away from the torture of going through five chapters of evolutionary biology from the dry NCERT books. Well, NCERT books then used to be monochromatic with black and white illustrations. However I realised the futility of my “innovative volunteerism” when the teacher explained to me what she meant by the word quiz. “Its what you know as a short test”, she explained
Years passed and I finally reached (hopefully), the last leg of my education in a well known institute of management in Western India. One of the seniors in the management institute who was incidentally a classmate in M.Sc.(Arre yaar he quit his M.Sc., I did not fail), gave me some solicited council on the evaluation pattern. And the first thing he referred to was the quiz, which teachers here are apparently very fond of giving. The first thought which crossed my mind then was, “It’s a b-school after all, and as future managers we are expected to be abreast of all that is happening around us. So may be that is why the teachers give quizzes.” The school incident, mentioned earlier had by then been forgotten. But I could feel my face turning pale as he explained to me the meaning of a quiz in b-school parlance. “Its what we used to call short tests”, he explained. I had no choice but to accept my fate of clubbing something which I have always treated as sacrosanct and sanctimonious, with something as horrendous as a short test.
And about 15 months from that fateful night in the university, I am still struggling to find an answer to the question, why on earth do we have to call a short test, a quiz? May be as one Mr. Shakespeare had once said, “A rose by any other name will smell as sweet”, a short test by any other name will feel as nasty.
Quiz for me holds a sacrosanct meaning wherein the person holding the mike throws a question at you, with a sly smile, you scratch your head, tear your hair make all sorts of expressions signifying its in the stomach but not coming to the mouth and finally allow the question to pass on to the next team once your stipulated time is over. This is precisely what is done in a short test too. Especially when you are grossly under prepared. But there is one difference which makes a quiz, the sacrosanct one that is, a lot better “test” to handle. You can discuss the question with your partner. Or at least pretend to discuss. You might just be laughing or cribbing about all the tough questions coming your way. But then the person holding the mike, also called the quiz master waits in anticipation (may be also hoping against hope) for the right answer. Whatever it may be, you are allowed to talk with your partner in a quiz. And you get points not marks for a right answer. Also in a quiz, you can be asked questions from a subject you know something about, in a short test of say chemistry, that is simply a utopian dream.. However, in a short test, even turning your head to the right or the left will raise the curiosity of the teacher about your creative animal instincts of stealing (the euphemistic word used by the educators is cheating) and irrespective of whether the animal in you is awakened, you become liable for a zero, a red “U” on your copy, signifying Unfair means, besides a red cheek with finger marks on it.
The first time when I heard a short test being referred to as a quiz was in one of the biology periods when I was in class XI. (I am a boy). And I actually confused it with the sacrosanct quiz. Biology and especially evolutionary biology (the topics which were to be covered in the “quiz”) were not particular favourites with me. So I offered to be the time keeper so that I would have to stay away from the torture of going through five chapters of evolutionary biology from the dry NCERT books. Well, NCERT books then used to be monochromatic with black and white illustrations. However I realised the futility of my “innovative volunteerism” when the teacher explained to me what she meant by the word quiz. “Its what you know as a short test”, she explained
Years passed and I finally reached (hopefully), the last leg of my education in a well known institute of management in Western India. One of the seniors in the management institute who was incidentally a classmate in M.Sc.(Arre yaar he quit his M.Sc., I did not fail), gave me some solicited council on the evaluation pattern. And the first thing he referred to was the quiz, which teachers here are apparently very fond of giving. The first thought which crossed my mind then was, “It’s a b-school after all, and as future managers we are expected to be abreast of all that is happening around us. So may be that is why the teachers give quizzes.” The school incident, mentioned earlier had by then been forgotten. But I could feel my face turning pale as he explained to me the meaning of a quiz in b-school parlance. “Its what we used to call short tests”, he explained. I had no choice but to accept my fate of clubbing something which I have always treated as sacrosanct and sanctimonious, with something as horrendous as a short test.
And about 15 months from that fateful night in the university, I am still struggling to find an answer to the question, why on earth do we have to call a short test, a quiz? May be as one Mr. Shakespeare had once said, “A rose by any other name will smell as sweet”, a short test by any other name will feel as nasty.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
The sighters' Club
Well I have done it. I now belong to the group of those (un)privileged few who have sighted. Sighted what? Hold your breath…….A GHOST. Yes a real ghost. Well, I am not really sure if ghosts are for real, but I am sure ,it was a ghost.
I had gone with Shankarda on a long drive on the highway. Shankarda is a classmate here in my MBA class but more of a big bro. He is as passionate about going on long drives or rides on the bike, as I am. So we went to Borsad, a place about 30 kms from Anand. While returning, I saw the headlight of a vehicle getting off. My glasses have scratches so I dismissed it as an aberration. And in fact as we passed the spot there wasn’t anything except the trees lining the highway. It was then that Shankarda shouted, gaadi ta kothay gelo (Where did the vehicle go?). And it was then that I became sure that it was not after all a visual aberration. He had seen the headlight and I wasn’t hallucinating. And then reality dawned upon me at 8:25 in the night on National Highway No.228, that I had finally gained an entry into the club. The club of sighters.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
The seller of savouries
Cheere bhaja gulo, cheere badam bhaja gulo,bhujiyar packet gulo,tiffin chanachur (fried flaked rice and various other savouries, a favourite evening snack with many Bengalis). Any body taking the bus on route number 22 from the Kanchrapara railway station, in West Bengal would invariably be greeted by the monotonous yet melodious voice of the old man. No one really knew where he lived. No one knew where he got his wares from, or whether he prepared them himself. But everybody knew that “Dadu” as almost all the commuters lovingly called him will be there, selling packed Cheere bhaja (fried flaked rice). All sorts of people got down from the local trains, all with different moods. Someone had gained a promotion, someone had missed out. Someone’s girlfriend had said yes and someone had had a break up. A man had been blessed with a son a day after another’s daughter lost her battle with cancer. Some happy, some sad. Some elated, some contemplating suicide. But nothing could ever miss the eyes of Dadu. He had seen college goers falling in love, marrying their loves and then becoming parents. He had also heard many stories of young boys and girls consuming poison or cutting their wrists after their “break ups”. But he would always be there. Be it the 6:30 bus in the morning or the last bus at 10:15 in the night.
Rain, storm, heat humidity, nothing would ever deter Dadu from selling the savouries. And I have this feeling that the commuters would actually wait for him. He was like the guardian angel. He would ask the students about their exams. He would ask others how everyone in his or her family was doing? He was not just a seller of evening snacks. He was an agony aunt. He would listen to woes. And though it may be a little hard to believe, people would actually open up to him. I would really find it strange. Though I was fortunate enough at that time to have a bunch of good friends who were my agony aunts, I could clearly feel and understand the need of the others to have one. Dadu would often advise ladies, with children in tow, to take the next bus, as a particular bus would be full. Weather beaten, balding and surely growing old, he was the proverbial god father of hundreds of commuters who got down at Kanchrapara. The hundreds of common men and women, having hundreds of problems of their own.
How do I know about Dadu so much? Well, Kanchrapara was the town, nearest to our university campus. So anything we wanted to do other than studying would be done at Kanchrapara only. If you wanted to go to Calcutta, 65 km away, Kanchrapara was the nearest railway station. And Route No. 22 was the only one which would take us there from our campus.
I don’t know whether he is still there. Jusst before I left the university, he had had a stroke. And I really don’t know what has happened to him. May be I didn’t care either. The last time I went to the university to collect my degree (that effectively means that the probability that I will ever set foot in the university again is 1 in 100), he was not there. I might never really know whether he survived that stroke.
Rain, storm, heat humidity, nothing would ever deter Dadu from selling the savouries. And I have this feeling that the commuters would actually wait for him. He was like the guardian angel. He would ask the students about their exams. He would ask others how everyone in his or her family was doing? He was not just a seller of evening snacks. He was an agony aunt. He would listen to woes. And though it may be a little hard to believe, people would actually open up to him. I would really find it strange. Though I was fortunate enough at that time to have a bunch of good friends who were my agony aunts, I could clearly feel and understand the need of the others to have one. Dadu would often advise ladies, with children in tow, to take the next bus, as a particular bus would be full. Weather beaten, balding and surely growing old, he was the proverbial god father of hundreds of commuters who got down at Kanchrapara. The hundreds of common men and women, having hundreds of problems of their own.
How do I know about Dadu so much? Well, Kanchrapara was the town, nearest to our university campus. So anything we wanted to do other than studying would be done at Kanchrapara only. If you wanted to go to Calcutta, 65 km away, Kanchrapara was the nearest railway station. And Route No. 22 was the only one which would take us there from our campus.
I don’t know whether he is still there. Jusst before I left the university, he had had a stroke. And I really don’t know what has happened to him. May be I didn’t care either. The last time I went to the university to collect my degree (that effectively means that the probability that I will ever set foot in the university again is 1 in 100), he was not there. I might never really know whether he survived that stroke.
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