Satna

Of late I seem to be having the writers’ depression or whatever the hell you call it. In simple words, I just not feel like writing. And I have no qualms in saying, that Facebook is the main culprit. With no offences meant to anyone. Well, of course I have been reading a lot. And a book which I read recently is Chai….Chai, Travels at places where you stop but never get off, by Biswanath Ghosh.
The book, though not exactly, a travelogue, gives a vivid description of places which are important railway junctions and which, despite having a place of worth on the map of Indian Railways, are virtual non-entities on the political map of India.
And quite frankly, after reading the book, I find myself unable to resist the temptation of writing about Satna, a small city in Madhya Pradesh which, though by no means an important railway junction as Mughalsarai or Etarsi is nevertheless an important trade centre and a railway station too, and for the uninitiated, my home for more than six months now.
My story in Satna began on the 27th of May 2010. It was my first posting in my first job. The day my posting was announced in Bombay, where I was then ,for my induction, I found a large number of my colleagues woefully unaware of this place. Many infact confused it with Patna. As a matter of fact, my situation would not have been much different had it not been for my interest in railway routes. I knew for a fact that Satna is a place in Madhya Pradesh and any train to Bombay from Bihar or Uttar Pradesh stops here. It is a different matter that I reached this place after a 31 hours bus journey from Bombay. Bombay to Nagpur, Nagpur to Jabalpur and then Jabalpur to Satna.
The first impression which I have of this place is not very different from that of any person arriving at a newbplace, that too at 12:30 in the night. The autowallahs here are bastards. This impression, I still carry which by the way is not exactly untrue. Satna is the nearest railhead for those who want to have a feel of two words starting with S, one a three lettered and another a twelve lettered, at Khajuraho, which is 126 kms from here.
Satna is a typical small town in the Hindi heartland. Dusty lanes, overcrowded markets and awfully bad traffic. The summers are seething hot, the winters awfully cold and the monsoons, a punishment. Infact the 27th of May was the hottest day this summer. It is,however an important industrial centre, or as the local daily, Dainik Bhaskar claims, the industrial capital of the Vindhya region. This region is an important storehouse of limestone, the basic ingredient for producing cement. And as a result, we have three cement factories in and around Satna. Birla Cement, Jaypee Cement and Prism Cement. In fact, as old timers say, it is solely because of one of the many Birlas, that this place has gained importace in the last ten years. Bees saal pahle ek tho gaon raha e. (Twenty years back, it was a village). The railway station had just one platform, compared to the three we have now. Jyon ghar sab dekh rahe hain kuchcho na raha idhar. Continued, the guy, who as he claimed is one among the first hundred employees of the Birla cement plant. Another comparatively younger person, who had come here at the age of four about 15 years back, added about the platform bit. The importance of Satna on the Indian Railways map, according to the former, grew mainly because of two reasons. One, it being the nearest rail head for Khajuraho from this part and secondly, the trains needed to stop here for the dak (mails) to and from the Birlas from other parts of the country to their cement establishment here. Of course, I can in no way claim the authencity of this statement, as this was reminisced by the person, I have mentioned above. It is a fact however, that you can reach any corner of the country from here. Be it Guwahati in the North East, New Delhi, Bombay, Poona, Bangalore or Rameshwaram, down south.
Brands made a foray into this place just two or three years back. Earlier, it was mostly the traditional market here. By traditional, I mean, the one which you typically find in a place, devoid of all the big brands, which have become so much a part of our lives today. The businesses here are controlled by Sindhis, unlike in many other places where it is mostly the forte of the Marwaris and the Gujaratis. The main market place consists of six or seven roads all running parallel to each other. The roads themselves have many crisscrosses in between and therefore you have many chowks (cross roads)in the market place here. Pannilal Chowk, Jai Stambh Chowk, Bihari Chowk, Lalta Chowk, Hanuan Chowk and the like. The exclusive showrooms are more on the outer skirts of the city, on the National Highway 75, known as Rewa road, because it connects Satna to the capital of the Baghel rulers.
In a city as old as this one, you do have famous establishments. Lotan mugaudi wala at hospital chowk is one such establishment. The original Lotan is perhaps no more there, the person manning the shop claims that the shop is more than 30 years old. Similarly there is the Ahuja Jalpan grih, my favourite shop for my daily breakfast of Poha, which has been in business for the past 25 years. These are the first shops which come to mind when you mention the wares they sell. Similarly Sardarji’s aloo tikki shop in Prem Nagar, though not as old as those mentioned above, is a place to be in. One thing which I find strage here is the name of the phulki walas (golgappa or phuchka or panipuri). 90% of all the phulki carts here bear the name of Kushwaha Phulki Centre. I really don’t know the reason for this, but its not some Mr. Kushwaha , who owns these carts.
However, another Kushwaha, made famous by Bollywood, Mahadev Kushwaha, stayed and operated in a place nearby. Mahadev Kushwaha was the protagonist of the film, Welcome to Saajjanpur, by Shyam Benegal and Sajjanpur is just about 15 kilometres from Satna. The plot of the story was based on this very Sajjanpur, as there were mentions of Rewa, Banban and of course Satna. Banban is about18 kilometres from Satna.
40 kilometres from Satna is the famous temple at Maihar. Maihar apart from being an important religious place for the Hindus, courtesy the Sharda temple, which you reach climbing about 1000 steps. But Maihar, as many claim also holds an important plac in the cultural scenario of the country. It is claimed that Ustad Alauddin Khan learnt most of his music here and some people also claim that he even made his foray into music at Maihar. In fact, you have an Alauddin Chowk at Maihar, in reverence of the great musician.
There are however, only two movie halls here. Jhankar and Chandni. Chandni shows satellite movies (I really don’t know what that means, its probably some DVD movie on a smaller screen). Jhankar shows the regular stuff.
I really don’t find anything more worth wrting about Satna. I might begin someday later as I explore the city more. However, I must thank Satna that it finally gave me a way out of the shell which I had been in for the past four-five months.

The Dream

One fine morning
I wake up and find
A bright face in the mirror
And a worry free mind.

The future looks perfect
No signs of any past gloom
The present I start living for
And life becomes a bloom.

New days I look forward to
With no rat race to run
Every day a new learning
And work becomes fun.

Oh! God Please make this dream come true
Make everyday such a day
Leave me with nothing to rue about
To thee I pray
To thee I pray.

The Shock

I do not find any other word to describe the incident. It was a shock. A big shock. But I hope this serves as a wake up call to all those, who lament about the poor health services in the country.
It was like just another day in office. Some problems which we had foreseen had been solved and though another problem was popping its head up, it too got solved. I was on my laptop going through some mails, when I heard a voice. “Good Morning Sir”. I turned around to see a smart bespectacled young man in his mid 20s. Now our office gets around 10 persons everyday, who come for interviews. This guy too had come for an interview for the post of Centre Manager, the lowest rung in the hierarchy of the field staff. He, however looked different and his Hindi too, was a bit different than what the people in this part of the country speak. I assumed him to be from a different district. But a look at his CV left me stumped. He was a homeopathic doctor. I could not believe my eyes. And if that was a joke he had planned to play on us, I for one, was surely not laughing. I asked him why he didnot start his own clinical practice. He replied “I need capital for it and my family is not in a position to provide me with that.” Our professional ethics do not allow us to reject any candidate without first testing him. So we had to take his interview. We tried to reason it out with him, telling him that he was overqualified for being a centre manager and not having any experience in the Microfinance Sector, under qualified for the next rung in the hierarchy, that of a Branch Manager. But he told us that he was ready for any post we recruited him for, because he badly needed a job. We told him about the duties of a Centre Manager, his pay packet and work conditions. And though we didnot out rightly reject him, we tried to convince him to reject the thought of taking up this job. We also gave him suggestions for those functional areas where he would be more comfortable, keeping in mind the field of his study. And I must thank my colleague from HR for handling this so effectively. Had I been alone, I would find myself all at sea.
As a professional this was perhaps one of the many shocks which our work lives bring us face-to-face with. But this interview left me with so many questions. As a country are we so obsessed with the idea of being treated by MBBS doctors, that homeopathic doctors have to take up jobs of salesmen? Yes, this guy had worked as a salesman after completion of his BHMS. When we lament about the poor conditions of health delivery systems in our country, do we do it considering only MBBS doctors? Or else, why should doctors from the alternate systems of medicine be jobless, when as a country we have one doctor for about 250000 people? And most importantly, aren’t doctors practising alternate systems, considered as doctors? Because, as far as my limited knowledge goes, a leading public sector bank announces many loan schemes for doctors, every year on Doctors’ day. And Doctors’ day was celebrated just a week back. If the bank makes capital available for “doctors”, why was this doctor left out of its purview, even when, as he claimed, he had approached them?
I don’t know what made this guy get into medical college. His description of his family suggests that it was either his parents’ wish or maybe his attempt at making a better life for himself. Whatever, it is, his life is now topsy turvy. A doctor ready to work in the microfinance sector at a post for which the minimum qualification is “Pass in higher Secondary Exam”. Of course, some may argue, that we don’t have any “maximum qualification”, but I certainly would not expect a doctor to apply for such a post, even when we don’t have one.
Going back to the paragraph at the beginning of this post. Are the powers-that-be doing enough to promote the alternate systems of medicine in our country? We do have a programme called AYUSH, which deals with such systems. But is it being done the right way? Are we as a country ready to embrace our own legacy? Or may be even a foreign legacy, which by no means is ineffective? Perhaps not. And if not why allow someone to practice a system, which even the government is not really serious about. Why not order the closure of all the Ayurvedic and Homeopathic medical colleges, when we don’t believe in such systems of medicine? People won’t atleast have to see their dreams being washed away. Doctors are required everywhere to rid people of their miseries. With medicines. Not by disbursing loans to poor women. My questions still remain un answered.

........

So tough it is to tell you
What you mean to me

Feelings fail to inspire words
As, you and only you, my eyes strive to see.

You are my dawn, you are the day
You are the lighthouse showing me the way

You are my dusk you are the night
In all this darkness, showing me light.

You are the warmth,
Brought by the first streak of sunlight

You are the cool beauty
Which the moon spreads at night.

You are the calm lake,
On which I am a boat

Your crests cradle my life
And help me stay afloat.

Shudders are all I get,
When I think what fate has in store

But as seconds become days,
I love you more and more.

Sagar

I don’t know what to term this blog entry as. This might seem to an obituary. But this is a tribute. A tribute to a fighter. A person, who was well aware of his impending death, about a year and a half before he took his last breath.
I first met Sagar at the university, where I went for my post-graduate studies. Infact, he was the one, who had introduced himself to me. The main reason he wanted to meet me was the fact that he had heard about a Bengali “who spoke strange Bengali” and wanted to confirm whether it was me.
Sagar was from Bangladesh. Or that was what I had heard of him in my initial days at the university. His parents stayed in Bangladesh and he would go to Bangladesh during his vacations. Later on, as relations between the two of us improved, I also asked him about his trips to Bangladesh. It was around this time, that the train service between India and Bangladesh was initiated, though, it was of little help for him. But I never came to know, how he crossed the border during the vacations, for he did not possess a passport. He was from a family, which was in no way well-to-do. He did have some relatives staying on the Indian side of Bengal, but I didn’t know much about them. To be very honest, we were not the best of friends, and the fact that student politics at the university did not allow you to trust anyone in a jiffy, further fuelled our distance. But I did see him going outside the campus every evening to give tuitions to school students staying around the campus, while we would go for our rounds of cha and cigarette. This was what made me respect him. He was ready to fight all odds to complete his studies.
My relations with him were seldom cordial. Of course, I did try to make amends later on during my stay at the university, I must admit, he was one of the few persons, whom I have called a mother fucker. He is no more there to accept my apology, but I do wish I could tell him that I am sorry for that. However my initiative at cooling things down between us did work and we became good acquaintances, if not good friends .during the second year of my M.Sc.
At around the same time that I cleared my MBA entrance, he got placed in a leading bank. I still remember the date. It was the 18th of February 2008. That was the day, I was leaving for Anand for my interview.
I had to leave the university early, on account of my classes in MBA beginning early, but, when I went back for my thesis viva, I made a point to meet him. I wanted to know, where he had been given a posting and also wanted him to know that I was so happy at his success. But fate had something else in store for him. I was told that he had been rejected at the medicals because he had leukaemia. My limited knowledge of biology suggested that it was something to do with blood cancer. However, everything was forgotten after my thesis viva was over and I officially became an M.Sc. in agricultural sciences.
He passed away last week in Mumbai. It was blood cancer. The news took me back to that day at the university, when he told me about his medicals at the bank. And that fateful Saturday in Mumbai, marked he end of the road for a “struggler”, who had struggled all his life to make a good life for himself. And quite fittingly, he breathed his last in a place, where people from all around the country land up to make a good life. The city of “strugglers”, Mumbai.

Indian Railways and the Class Divide

Having studied agriculture for ages (six years is a long time yaar!) and then being a student of this well known management institute in western India, words like class divide have been very much a part of my academic lexicon. Though earlier, I would pass it off as a mere jargon, it somehow, did not seem to leave me alone. Having spent two years in a place where the government is run by those who are followers of the person, who actually seemed to have brought the word class divide into existence, I have always had a love hate relationship with this word. But travel in an air- conditioned compartment in a train and you cannot but acknowledge that class divide is not merely just another word, but it actually exists.
To begin with, air conditioned travel in trains in itself is considered to be meant for the “haves”. (That is where the class divide begins, between the haves and the have nots). In fact, this was the exact reason, why a former railway minister whose favourite dish was cow fodder, introduced a new breed of trains, christened, Garib Rath, so that the have nots can enjoy the comforts of air conditioned travel. I am however, not sure, how many of them could actually enjoy that, because, travelling ticket less in a general compartment is economically more feasible.
Coming back to the air-conditioned compartment. The difference that Indian Railways makes between a passenger travelling on an air-conditioned compartment and a general sleeper class one is visible right at the railway station. You have a separate air conditioned waiting room meant for “upper class passengers”. It has all the amenities, mobile phone chargers, cushioned seats and a television with cable connection, included, which many of the sleeper class passengers are often deprived of. As the train arrives, you have a conductor (attendant in Indian Railways parlance) to open the door for you, cater to small whims and fancies of yours and also keep watch as you break the rules (read smoke in the train) at your own free will. The TTE is always in uniform, full with the maroon tie, having the Indian Railways logo on it and who does not address you as “bhaiya” or “hello” but addresses you as “sir”. Quite unlike the often inebriated (especially in late night trains), kurta and black coat wearing TTE, in the sleeper class compartments, bearing a grim face, cursing you under his breath, for boarding the train, so late in the night. And yeah! The TTEs in the air-conditioned compartments also speak English, which their sleeper class counterparts are seldom found doing. Also, probably only the “upper class passengers” need pillows to sleep on, at night, because the sleeper class passengers are not provided any, leave alone sheets or blankets.
The toilets also present two different pictures. The railways probably assume that only the haves possess the need to wash their backsides after answering to the call of nature. That is why you can find mugs (tied to chains of course! The haves can be kleptomaniacs too) in the toilet to fulfil this need. And you don’t need to carry strips of paper soap with you because the toilets are replete with containers of liquid soap. While in sleeper class you have to carry a bottle with you or pray that, someone, who has used the toilet earlier, has left his or her bottle as a mark of benevolence.
The class divide is fully visible even among the haves. This applies to those travelling on fully air conditioned trains like the Rajdhani or the Shatabdi Express. The difference lies in the food served on board. Those travelling three tier on Rajdhanis are served a two course meal, while those on first AC are served three course meals. Same is the case with those travelling on the Shatabdis. The ones travelling the executive chair car are served three course meals, as against two course meals for those travelling chair car.
To be very honest, I am in no way, a socialist at heart and don’t really mind, being pampered in an air-conditioned compartment, when I can afford that. And this class divide is there to stay, no second thoughts abot that too. But may be the Indian Railways, will do better to provide a little more comfort to the sleeper class passengers in way of providing some amenities, apart from just a cushioned berth to sleep on.

Hanging On

Another two days and it will all be over. Some call it a dream fulfilled. I had called it so two years back at around the same time when I got the letter for admission into this well known institute of management in Western India. But I didn’t have the time to revel in the glory of being the only other person from my university to clear the admission process that year. I, along with my classmates from the same department was lodged in a Godforsaken research farm somewhere close to Bardhamaan in West Bengal. And having secured the admission meant that I had to work doubly hard on my thesis so that I would be able to complete it in time before leaving for here.
The first day in class here was not exactly what dreams are made of. Though, I got a seat somewhere in the back (you are supposed to sit according to your roll numbers in the first year), I could not in any way dream of doing any thing other than listening to the teacher, forget passing chits and talking. The classrooms are round in shape and my row would be in the direct line of sight of the teacher.
First day, second period (lecture if you prefer). The course was something called MAC. An acronym (probably) for Managerial Analysis and Communication. There were lots of cases from different sources and each lecture (they call it session here) would consist of discussing the case among the classmates, with the teacher assuming the role of a facilitator. Till this day, however, I don’t know what does a facilitator facilitate? It is probably, a fish market situation by adding a new dimension to the case discussions and revel in the mayhem which follows, as students pounce on the new point and start “participating” in the discussions again. The case discussions were to be initiated by someone, the teacher would select at random and I happened to be that someone that day. Needless to say, not knowing the ways and having being dumb enough, not to have consulted the seniors regarding the discussions I was in direct line of fire of the teacher. The next lecture began with a surprise quiz, based on the readings for that lecture, which I had taken pains to go through. I won’t say that I aced the quiz but surely gave a performance which was better than many others’. That was how the first day in class in was.
As we moved on, slogs and late night binges became the order of the day. And all we hoped for, was the end of it all. Field Work, two traineeship segments all passed by in a jiffy, cribbing, complaining; even crying (I did lose control over my emotions one day when I had to type three assignments all scheduled to be submitted the next day).
The end of it all was all were waiting for, with baited breath, and frankly speaking, it did not seem really far off. Days seemed to turn into weeks and weeks into months in almost no time. Therefore as we began the classes for the fifth and the final term, most of us were not really surprised at the pace at which it all went by. Then came the day which we were desperately waiting for. The 22nd of March 2010. The last day in class. The last day, for many as full time students. The last day of the “class participation”, which we have been so intent on doing. The last day of the sutta break between the lectures. The last day of passing chits. The last day of chatting with the guy on the next seat. But for me, that last day held much more importance. I had two presentations scheduled for the day and one of them was in a course offered by the professor who had offered MAC in the first term. And that incidentally was supposed to be my last presentation here in this institute. Honestly speaking, I was having butterflies in my stomach. He was the first person, whose ire I was at the receiving end of, here, and I certainly did not want him to be last person too. Thankfully it all went off peacefully and he, in fact seemed happy at my defence of one of his questions. Post lunch, I had a lecture at 3:40 for which I woke up at 4:10. Still, I gave it a chance and call it providence or call it the magic of the last moment, the teacher marked me present. I normally do not question miracles, and it wasn’t much different this time around, either. And thus came that moment which almost all of us had been desperately waiting for, since the time we were into the second week of the programme. The end of it all. “No more ppts, no more assignments”, says a G talk status message somewhere. Which probably reflects the sentiments of the whole batch.
Here and there you can come across desperate attempts to hang on to it all. Sitting outside the mess for tea. Gathering at the Sutta wala’s place. All attempts to take back more and more memories, as all of begin a new journey from here. Because, as one of my seniors always said, “In the end you always remember the beginning”.

Living out of a suitcase

The end of my stint as a student will also bring to an end, another aspect of my life, which, I must confess has become quite close to my heart. Life in a hostel. It is close to nine years that I have been living in hostels. Various hostels. Different states. But somehow the vibrancy does not seem to change. It looks almost the same everywhere. Except may be the walls which stare back at you as you wonder, every morning, how much more you can sleep till its too late. Except may be the shit pot which awaits you as you bang on the toilet door cursing under your breath. The food is bad everywhere. The toilets are dirty everywhere. The water supply is always exhausted after 1 in the night. And yes, no hostel ever sleeps. Any time of the night there will be at least one room in which the lights will be on.
I still remember the day, when I began living out of a suitcase (so to say). Though, I had desperately wanted to move out of home before that, the hostel, more so, the residential nature of the course I had enrolled into, provided me a perfect alibi for the same. I did not miss the comforts of home. I did not mind the change in food either. Neither did I miss my study table or my bed. I was actually worried. How to get up so early in the morning? Hell, why did they have classes so early? That too in Gujarat where even the sun takes it own sweet time to rise. At home, it would always be my mother who would wake me up and I had never really conditioned myself to wake up to the ringing alarm. But, I must say, God had been kind to me. My roommate in college was an early riser and his religious ways would wake me up just in time for the 8:10 AM class. Having food in a hostel mess, surely has its own advantages. Especially for those whose motto in life is “I live to eat”. Have it for a week and the motto changes to “I eat to live”. Somehow, the cooks devise every possible way to make the food as inedible as possible. But as the saying goes in Hindi, ”bhukhe pet bhajan nahi hota”, one is forced to gulp it down. A good alibi for the fitness freaks to go on a diet, I must say.
But this life does have its fair share of fun too. You never seem to have a dull moment. More importantly, everyone seems to be having the same problems as you are. Exam time, everyone is tense about passing. Because, like you everyone has made studies take a back seat all through the semester or the trimester. A new movie in town? Almost the whole college (in various groups of course), throngs the theatre to watch the late night show. The entrance exams for M.Sc. just a few months away? Well, the hostel ceases to sleep. You feel hungry dead in the night and bang on a door randomly asking for some biscuits. Or better still smuggle them out and have them in the comforts of your room bribing your room mate to keep his mouth shut.

This life also provides you with a new found sense of freedom. A freedom to spend. Though, most parents never, as a rule, desist from asking you about the accounts and detailed expenditure statements, the phone bills on their side, do force them to stop probing you to the extent of your banging the phone down in exasperation. Quite justified. How can you account for the number of cigarettes you smoke everyday? Or the number of bottles of cold drinks and number of packets of potato chips you consume every month?
Another very good thing about staying in a hostel is the rousing welcome you get every time you come back home. It sometimes becomes unfathomable, as to how, the same house where you were looked upon as a pest, not very long ago and that very set of parents, who seemed to regret the day they conceived you, can throw the red carpet in welcoming you. Probably, for the first time in many years, you are asked, what would you like to eat. For the first time in your life, your father will not make faces as you ask for an extra helping of the pickle. And may be the only time in your life (especially the first homecoming), when your mother will fret at your losing weight, despite the extra inches clearly visible on your waistline.
Few months from now, I will start living in a “house”, still sharing it with others unless all of them decide to move out or one of them decides to tie the knot and continue living in the same “house”. But that will never give me the fun I had in the last nine years, come what may.

The Beginning Of the End

The date is surprisingly near. The 27th of March 2010. The date which will mark, for most of us the end of our students’ lives. Of course before that, we have got our exams to tend to, but I have reasons to believe that the professors are considerate and lenient enough not to fail us.
Its close to two years in this well known institute of management in Western India and it seems as if it were just yesterday that I came here with my metal trunk in tow . One of my friends from grad college was accompanying me and I still remember being overawed at the lush green campus and the numerous trees that lined the pathways everywhere. Everything looked like a dream. A dream that I always had and was still finding it tough to believe that, it had finally come true.
The Darpan is out. My batchmates, as also some juniors, have told me what they think of me (shown me the mirror, that’s what darpan is-a mirror). The placement party has been thrown and the dates for the farewell party are being decided. That effectively means that the days are numbered.
They say, memories remain forever. I agree. And it is probably the memories which I take back from here, which will remain with me forever. I have another six of my batchmates joining the same organisation as I am. And till the time we are together, the days spent here will be all we talk of. Then slowly as we move on with our lives, it will be more memories. May be this laptop won’t be there. I will have changed the brand of my cigarette. I will have started taking a bath every morning before office (I seldom bathe before attending classes), I will have started shaving everyday (as against every week now), but every moment spent here will remain and remind me of the era gone by. And probably these memories will be my only companions when I lie in some goddamn hospital, down with cancer, waiting to die.
Its tough to fathom how time has flown by! May be the pressure, which we always found ourselves under, all through our stay here has a part to play. We didn’t really have the time to see the night turning into day. Getting up late in the evening after an exhaustive sleep, for once would give the feeling that one had missed his dinner. Till one looked at the clock which showed the time as 19:30. Never, by any standards, late to begin the readings for the next day’s lectures. It seems these two years just went by planning, which quiz to ignore and which assignment to take up first. And between all this we had our share of celebrations, fun and of course the parties.
For a moment, I suddenly feel elated at this grown up stage of my life. I feel happy that I can now have my own money to spend. Happy at not having to give a detailed account of the expenditures made (something which I have miserably failed at, all the time).
As I type, our stay here is lesser by another day. A G Talk status message somewhere shows that its only 14 days to go. Time surely flies by! And in the end you are left with memories and memories.

So What??

“In 68% of the households, the decision for buying milk is taken by the male member of the household”, went my presentation for the Organisational Traineeship Segment. Suddenly, a voice boomed somewhere, in the class. “So What?” I was stumped. It was the professor who was evaluating the presentation. I said, “This suggests that the advertisements of the pouched milk have to be directed at the male members of the households.” He seemed to be convinced, because he had given me a B- for the presentation, not, by any standards, bad.
Earlier, in the first term, of MBA, our professor of Quantitative Analysis, would always encourage us to ask the question “So What” after every statement we made. So in effect it would be,” the probability of the Indian cricket team defeating Pakistan is 1 on 100, So What?” Well, in this case, it would not be tough to answer, since everybody knows, that a few heads will roll, may be a few reams of paper will be wasted in lambasting the team and then the team would win an “overseas” test series, whitewashing Bangladesh 3-0, and again everything will get back to normal. But, if the statement goes as “The standard deviation from the mean of the number of customers going for repeat buying of the latest brand of snacks launched by Amul Dairy is 2.09”, So What will become really tough to answer. That is exactly what happened during the end term exams, for the first term, when we had a similar question. Anyways, I had suspected that question to make its presence felt in the question paper and had prepared for the same and had in fact scored a B+ in the end term examination.
But finding an answer to such a weird question often becomes difficult. Especially when it comes bang in the middle of a presentation or a case discussion. One tends to lose focus searching for the answer. But another and more important reason for the loss of focus is the sadist smile that plays on the lips of the teacher or the evaluator, lurking somewhere in the background. Classmates, especially those who are intent on screwing you, too often take recourse to this question, more often than not catching you on the wrong foot.
Another reason, why I find this question all the more disgusting is the fact that, this question often opens the gates for a flood of another set of weird questions. Continuing with the incident, in the beginning, just after I said what I said, the teacher asked “and how exactly do you think, you can direct the advertisements at the male members?” “By slotting the ads during prime time news”. “But do you have any data about the television viewing habits of the males in India?” “Yes, Sir, A national survey has quoted this data…..”. “But how can you generalise that to the people of the city, you have surveyed?” “Well that was a question in the questionnaire, sir”. But do you think………..and the saga continued, till the teacher brought me to the subject domain of research methodology, something which I have always found not to be my cup of tea. And the saga continued till the teacher said, “pass kaise karte ho tumlog”.
I had the answer ready. I wanted to say, “sir, its management school, and we are made jack of all trades here, rather than master of one.” But I refrained from speaking out. Because I would have found myself speechless, had he asked, “So What”.

Mera Block Mahan

It’s JATRA time in this well known institute of management in Western India. I still don’t know the origins of the name of the event. In Bengal, Jatra is an open air theatre form in West Bengal, while a play is called Jatra in Oriya. None of that happens here, however.
According to the folklores which are handed down to the juniors from their seniors, Jatra is presumably the oldest tradition in this institute, the students of which seem to have a special love affair with traditions, however, illogical they may seem to be. Jatra is however, different.
It is an inter block competition and tempers run high in the two days, with each of the hostel blocks going the fullest extent to emerge victorious. And here is a sample of what that “fullest extent” can be:

Trying to have maximum points for those events where the block has an apparent advantage. So, if you have a creative genius in say block X, then that block will rally for having a greater weightage in events like collage or face painting. Or a block having toughies push for a larger weightage in the tug-of-war.

Leveraging the weak points for those events, where brawn gets better of the brain. This tactic is especially followed by the girls’ blocks for events like tug-of-war in deciding the ratios of males and females in each team, if they were to come face to face. The ratio is normally kept at 8:12, but might as well go up to 8:13 on the insistence of the fairer sex and depending upon the softness of hearts, the (male) members of the organising committees possess.

The best of friends take no time in becoming foes during these two days. Block songs are sung everywhere. Expletives are everywhere in the air and madarc*** and behenc*** become the order of the day. The worst time is however faced by those who are in love or assume that they are in love. Now, that is what I would call a moral dilemma. While desiring that their block wins, they seem to go weak when they are up and against the block of their loves. This however, holds true for the male species, more than it does for the female species.

The term blockism assumes a perfect meaning in these two days. Each one is for his own block. Even talking or going to the nearby kiosk for a quick ice cream, especially with any member of the fairer sex, can be reason enough for raised eyebrows and wagging tongues. The love for the block can reach such an extent, that a person who never stays awake beyond 11:30 PM stays awake the whole night for one event and shaves off his moustache for another.

Two days of mayhem and chaos later, things get back to square one. Pending assignments get tended to. Readings are hurriedly gone through. Old friendships are mended. Relationships get back on track and the junior batch prepares itself to pass on the folklore to their juniors.

Disclaimer: I distance myself from any of the views expressed above, except the penultimate paragraph, since it is based on my personal experience. All that I have written elsewhere in the post is a result of my journalistic tendencies resulting into eavesdropping, euphemestically known as unobtrusive observation in this well known instituteof management in Western India.

The Little Giant

As I type, my thoughts go back to a day in the late 80s. India was touring Pakistan and I would get startled by my mother’s shouts now and then. When my father came back from office, my mother told him about a certain 17 year old who had torn one of the best Pakistani spinners apart. Watching the 9’0 clock news on Doordarshan, I came to know his name. Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar.
I was too small to understand cricket then, and Kapil Dev and Srikanth were the better known players. I mean the players whose names would be there on almost every lip.
Later however, when India toured Australia in 1991 and after the 1992 world cup in Australia, Kapil Dev slowly but surely paved the way for the pint size powerhouse answering to the name of Sachin Tendulkar.
Sachin was our role model when we would play those inter club tournaments. At a subconscious level, almost all of us could identify with him. He had come up from a middle class background almost similar to ours. He began with school cricket, which almost all of us did. We would gape at the NIKE ads in Sports World and The Sportstar, where he had learnt most of his shots by playing gully cricket, which again most of us did. And he had become famous at such a small age, which almost every middle class school going kid wants to do.
I still remember the first time he opened in a One day international match. India was touring New Zealand and the match was being beamed live on Star Sports (then Prime Sports). The way he tore the Kiwis apart, was really heartening. I had gone to a neighbour’s house to watch the match as my father hadn’t got a cable connection then. And that match almost had me kicked out of home. So barbaric was Sachin’s onslaught on Pringle, Morrison and co. that we would jump at almost every shot he played. So much so that, my friend’s father was jolted out of his sleep and needless to say, he complained to my father. When Sachin finally got out that day in Eden Park, Auckland, India were just twenty runs away from victory.
The day he got his first ever century in one day cricket, in Colombo, I was suffering from conjunctivitis. But I risked my dad’s ire and the doctor’s warning of vision loss (yes Mr. Doc had told me that I would become blind if I watched TV for an extended period of time, a period which he did not specify), to watch Sachin tear apart Mc.Dermott, Mc. Grath, Fleming and of course his favourite bunny Warnie.
I can go on and on. The Sharjah sandstorm and the subsequent final, which again, I had watched at another friend’s house is again something which every Indian will remember with pride.
Sachin’s love for cricket and that for the country is really unparalleled. His face says it all. Infact he seems happier when he scores a blob and India wins than when even a century from him fails to help India emerge victorious.
His love for the country and his love for cricket were visible during the 1999 world cup when he came back from home, after his father’s death. The fact that he hit a century was probably God’s gift to him and the country which gave birth to such a great human being. I would have bowed in reverence even if he would have been out for a blob.
I was the saddest person when he was made the captain of the team. In fact I had a fight with my best friend over this matter too. But in the end, I (sadly) won. I would have loved to see him excel as a captain, adding another feather to the proud blue cap. But somehow may intuition would always tell me that he is better off without any liabilities. At that point in time, his shoulders were already over burdened with the expectations of over a billion arm chair critics, who would just look for alibis to tear the cricketers apart, which, mind you is not something which every Tom, Dick and Harry can carry, that too with commendable élan.
Talking of Sachin, one can not but avoid his comparison with another great, Brian Charles Lara. The left hander may have garnered all the records, but this quote from Sir Vivian Richards says it all. “The fact that Sachin is still playing (400 one day internationals), itself speaks about his consistency, which Lara lacked”. Great words from a great himself. And it is true.
I really wish, I were sitting with the great Sir Don Bradman, the day he declared that Sachin plays a lot like him. I would have hugged the don and kissed his cheeks. For someone whose idol was being praised by a great, probably, the greatest man ever to hold the cricket bat, there could not have been a happier moment.
I have never batted as Sachin does. More so, because, I have always been a bowler. But if at all, I get a chance to be born again, I would like to be able to bat at least half as good as he does.
I will consider myself, to be one of the unluckiest persons on this earth, because, I could not watch him in that moment of crowning glory, when he hit the first ever double ton in one day cricket. But, I will wait eagerly for the day when I watch this inning on India Glorious and show my children what greatness is.

The fifth term

The term is finally nearing its end. G talk status messages are changing everyday indicating the number of days left before most of us are done with our student lives. Post placements no one is under any kind of pressure and many have even gone to the extent of telling the professors that passing us is their headache now.
But you can count upon the quizzes to spoil the party. Not to forget the submissions and the presentations and the readings. Hell, can’t we get rid of them? The teachers while acknowledging the fact that teaching in the fifth term is the toughest of it all grab at every opportunity for screwing us.
I remember what one of our profs told us on the first day of this term-“Till mid term you won’t study anything because, you will study for the placements. Post mid term you won’t study anything because, by then you will have been placed.” And the obedient participants that we are, we are hell bent on making his prophecy come true. But this does not deter him or any other of his ilk from loading us with assignments, presentations and God knows what. In fact that’s how I spent Valentines’ Day, making two presentations, four hours from each other. It is a different matter that I don’t have any one in my life whom I’d have spent the day with. But Valentines’ day was a Sunday, goddamnit. I would have spent it with myself. But…..well rest is all history.
Things got to real pass today. We had two quizzes. Imagine! Two goddamn quizzes one of them being a surprise (shock) quiz, that too in the fifth term! The teachers are now down to testing our patience. I, in fact all of us are tired of repeating the same thing to the teachers over and over again, that it is the fifth term and we don’t, as a rule, study anything. But then, who the fuck listens to us?
An assignment waits to be submitted the day after, which I am yet to begin typing and we have a quiz tomorrow, which I am yet to start studying for. I have never been so shameless as far as studies go. Though I have always been an average student, I have been serious with my studies. Especially so, in this well known institute of management in western India, irrespective of the fact that I have consistently maintained a place among the bottom fifteen in the class. But it seems, things are changing. It is the fifth term you see!

Early Morning Blues

The post mid term classes began today. And the early morning (8:45 AM), brought to light one of the harshest realities of life, which incidentally was forgotten in the post placement euphoria. That lectures in this well known management institute in western India begin as early as 9:10 in the morning. The week after the placements had spoilt my habit and I would get up at even 10 or 10:30. Quite justified, since I had very little to do besides not studying. But getting up late on a day when you have the first lecture at 9:10, means that you are doomed to make one of the biggest sacrifices mankind can ever think of making. Forgoing your breakfast. And that is exactly what I was forced to do today.
They say, “early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy wealthy and wise”. I can bet my right hand and my left eye, that the person who had put forward this piece of shit had never attended b-school. How the hell can one be early to bed in a b-school is the million dollar question. The professors leave no stone unturned in ensuring that we are always busy with some or the other thing. In fact, things have come to such a pass that even if we, by any stroke of luck, hit the bed, before 1:30 in the night, we would actually doze off only at 3:00. And then to think of being the one to rise early is absolute stupidity.
I must say, I am fortunate enough to have many mates in my hostel block who take pains in waking me up in time, so that even if I am forced to miss my breakfast, I do not miss the lectures. But not everyone is so fortunate. I fully empathise with them. This syndrome called the “early morning blues” syndrome has affected almost everyone in the batch. Bleary eyes, drooping heads and dishevelled hair are some of the sights which are a common feature in the classrooms. The air conditioned climes provide a more conducive environment for a peaceful nap in the class. Presentations or a video show, however, provide a far better opportunity for a power nap. With each passing term, the students in fact grow bolder by the day and select those sessions which can be used to catch up on lost sleep. This, by the way is done on the last night itself.
It is 1:15 in the night. I am bored of not doing anything. Perhaps I should watch a movie. But then it will get over at around 3:30. But, hey! Wait……We have the microfinance lecture first thing in the morning. I can sleep then. Chalo guys! See you….I am off to watch 3 idiots, once more all over again!

Ambition

So, the placement season is finally over. I now have a job. A “decent” job, by my middle class standards. I can now tell my relatives and family members (in that order of priority), that I have always been career conscious. But what did I actually want to be? Which sector (in management lingo), I wanted to go to? Honestly, I don’t have an answer.
When I was in school, I had always wanted to become an engineer. And this ambition of mine was there even when I neither knew what an engineer did nor could I spell the word correctly. But an engineer was all I wanted to become, because my father wanted me to be one and most of friends wanted to be one.
The first serious thought I gave to my career was during my class X board exams, when I watched my first porn movie. I had this bright idea of becoming a porn star. This seemed to be a very lucrative career option and imagine, being paid for having sex, without being a prostitute. However, that idea died down as fast as it had emerged. And then on, it was back to becoming an engineer, till the day, I opened the book, “IIT Mathematics’ “, by ML Khanna. It was then that I started giving serious thoughts to being a doctor. I did not have any other option you see. Telling my dad that I wanted to become a journalist would have resulted in him kicking me out of the house. Only engineers and doctors earned, chartered accountants too did, but for being a chartered accountant you had to study commerce, a social taboo in itself.
Anyways, I did become a doctor, but would treat neither the human beings, nor animals, but plants. Come on, plants too have lives! And they are supposed to be treated. So our euphemism for the students of agriculture came out to be “plants’ doctors.”
Now, studying agriculture alone does not serve any purpose, so you need to go in for higher studies, which would be either an M.Sc. in agriculture or an MBA. I did both. Another change in my career plans happened, dangerously close to the placement week. I wanted to be a manager but wanted to apply the knowledge of the subjects of master’s degree as well. So I had certain organisations in my mind, which would fulfil this ambition.
I also cleared the first screening stages of these organisations and found myself comfortably close to fulfilling this ambition. But then I got a spot offer from another organisation (I did not know what it did, till five minutes before my interview was to begin), and accepted the offer.
Life is full of uncertainities. I had always known this sentence to have existed. But its existence was re asserted a week before valentines’ day of the year 2010. Just the other day, I was listening to the Bengali song “Aami bhobo ghureyi hobo eitai amaar ambition” (I will be a wanderer and this is my ambition).
What is my ambition? Well, am I left with any choice anymore?

Mini

Her arrival into my life was rather accidental. At first sight she was just another of her kiln who would make their daily visits to our hostel. But another look and she was different from all of them. Her eyes were greener than the others’ and her gait and walk…..there was definitely something in her which caught the eye. Our first meeting was un expected. I had just woken up from sleep and was going to the canteen for my early morning cup of tea, hair dishevelled, face unshaven, eyes bleary, not exactly the situation you would like a first meeting to be in. She however seemed to have an instant liking for me and started circling around me all the time rubbing her little body against my legs. I too took a liking for the little kitten and despite running the risk of being scratched, took her in my arms. And thereby began our relationship which lasted till the day I left the university.
She was not born in the hostel, the canteen boy said. Someone from the village, just outside the university campus had left her in the hostel. Her tendency to climb on the benches, in the canteen seemed to ratify this. She would climb on the benches and rub herself against our bodies, in a bid to draw our attentions into sharing food items with her. We would humour her with small pieces of biscuit and bread. She, however, seemed to be more active during lunch and dinner when fish or meat was served. I would be the first one she would invariably approach, to make her presence felt, but she slowly took to the fact that I was a vegetarian and could not offer her any fish or meat. However, she did become a fan of the aloo bhaja (deep fried sliced potatoes), served to the veggies in lieu of the non vegetarian items, and would often wait for me to come for my lunch or dinner, whatever the case may be.
The other hostellers did not take quite kindly to her and would in fact take it out on me for giving her enough leverage, something which according to them was absolutely un called for. But irrespective of what others said, I would always try to jump to her protection and try to convince my friends to leave her alone. By now, she had become a beautiful, graceful full grown cat.
She had started trusting me and knew very well that out of the 120 or so students staying in New P.G. Hall, I would surely be one who won’t ever hit her.
Her intimacy with me grew during the 2007 Durga Puja vacations. I had decided to stay back in the hostel, to prepare for my MBA entrance examinations. However, the mess would be closed at that time. And realising that the major source of her daily diet would be closed, during those fifteen days, she (invariably) turned to me for help. I and a junior who had also chosen to stay back,for a reason similar to mine, would feed her. The whole exercise had assumed a certain pattern. Our days would begin waking up to her constant mewing outside my or my junior’s door. Whoever would listen to it first would get up and feed her bread slices, which we would keep mainly to satisfy her hunger. Lunchtime for her would consist of a little rice which we would literally smuggle from Subirda’s hotel, where we would go for our lunch. For dinner, we would get an extra roti or two from Subirda’s shop and then offer it to her at 10 P.M., the time she would arrive at either of our doorsteps.
Her gaining entry into my room was also in a way, one would not exactly call conventional. Having forgotten to lock my door from inside, one fine day, I woke up from my siesta to find her sleeping peacefully on my table. And thus began another routine which continued through those vacations.
The last time I saw her was the day I was packing my things to leave the hostel. It was the 29th of May 2008. While I along with my friends was busy packing up for yet another leg of hostel life, in this institute, she sat quietly on an old book shelf just outside my room. By then she had mothered three children, who were firmly on their way to become as beautiful and graceful as their mother was. That night I found her to be as much upset, as I was at my leaving the hostel.
And I can swear……I had seen tears in her eyes.
I don’t know, whether she is still alive. I don’t know what fates her children have met. But I know one thing for sure. The only part of my hostel stay of those two years, which I miss today, is the time I had spent with her.

Celebrating sixty years of rape

The mothballed flag is out of the closet. There is a small hole near the Ashok Chakra but the early morning sun will make sure that it is not visible. The cassettes containing “sar kata sakte hain lekinsar jhuka sakte nahin” and “Ae mere watan ke logon” have also been tested, played and replayed. Rafi Sa’ab’s voice is barely audible and Lataji’s voice is quivering. The tapes have taken up a lot of moisture since the last time they were played on the 15th of August last year. Thankfully Mahendra Kapoor is still booming with his “bharat ka rahne wala hoon”. Hell, why don’t they make movies on India’s democracy? As to how India became a democracy. We could have had a different set of songs then. And as for me, I am enjoying a holiday right in the middle of the week. And along with my country men, celebrating rape. The rape of the country in the hands of the democratically elected representatives. It is sixty years since we have thrown the country into the hands of a few gentle men who are supposed to take us forward. Since we are far too busy with fending for ourselves. And just look at what they have done.
“Peoples’ representatives”. The term in itself seems to be a big farce. 25% of the population electing 500 of them who will decide what is good and what is bad for over one billion people. 25% of the eligible voters who are bought off with sarees, toddy and other freebies. You wake up early in the morning on election day, walk to the election booth and see that you vote has already been cast. And by the way….does anybody cast his vote? I knew most vote their caste here. Supporters of political parties intimidate voters. In fact supporters of a particular political party go to the extent of snatching the voters’ identity cards of any one they think might vote for the other party.
The “peoples’ representatives” fan the religious and regional feelings and make hell break loose. And then revel in the mayhem that follows. Everyone, every damn one right form the gate keeper to the mantri sitting in the comforts of his airconditioned office has a “valid” and “logical” reason to steal and embezzle. While the common man, mind you, the one who brought the “peoples’ representative” to power gets fucked on the streets, the “peoples’ representative” , moves around in air conditioned cars, with the police force forced to lick his ass rather than protect the one getting fucked on the streets.
And in between all this, we celebrate the day our country became a republic. A form of government, “by the people” (Doesn’t matter if its only 25%), for (fucking) the people and of the people (belonging to the same caste as theirs). The only other day when the national flag sees the light of the day. A day when we can make love in the afternoon (it’s a national holiday, goddamnit, all of us are at home), while the country gets raped.

Tamacha Bangali Babu ka

The District Magistrate of Lucknow, was caught on camera slapping a striking employee of the UP government. To be very honest I would have found it hard to believe, had I not chanced upon this report in The Telegraph. More surprising is the fact that the incident took place in the heartland, even the mention of which, gives many Bengalis an urge to run to you know where. And a Bengali slapping a bhaiya? More unbelievable. But, I have no reasons to doubt the credentials of a newspaper like The Telegraph, so I take the news item at face value.
One might think, what is so great about an IAS officer slapping another government officer? Does it not happen often? Well, it does, but seldom will you find the slapper in question to be a bong. Bongs are basically docile in nature. Physically, that is. Take my word , they are great fighters with the mouth. In fact a famous quote follows a Bengali wherever he goes, “Mukhe na Maritom Jagat”, I will win the world just by fighting with my mouth. So while you will always have a Bong shouting, “dekhe nebo” (I will see you), or “dekhiye debo” (I will show you), you can well be sure of what he will see and what he will show.
I have found many Bongs having this irritating habit of “Gaye Pore Jhagda”. They some how, always find out ways to pick up a fight or a row, which almost inevitably ends with them being beaten up (if the other person is a non bong) or both parties shouting dekhe nebo and dekhiye debo (if both of them are bongs).
Bongs are normally brought up to be docile. Quite a great paradox it might sound, but they want to steer clear of controversies. It’s a different matter altogether that very few people have this tendency of courting controversies as they do. The Lucknow DM might well be one example. While the whole world (almost the world, because the followers of a certain balding bespectacled man who wore white loincloths apparently don’t) believe in the maxim of “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth” , the bongs while not exactly believing in extending the other cheek when slapped on one, precisely end up doing so.
Not having grown up in West Bengal, I am not exactly sure of the family system that is in place, but as many of my friends claim, they are mostly women dominated households (Mine fortunately or unfortunately is not and both my parents take up equal responsibilities when it comes to fights or quarrels). Therefore, as a natural corollary, it is the woman of the household, who takes up the cudgels against cheating milk men, nosy neighbours or sabzi wallahs who donot weigh the right amount, while the male member sits in the privacy of his bedroom writing poems for his wife or maybe reading “those books” because his wife may as well refuse “that thing” in bed, and he will in all probability……..well you know what.
But the hormones don’t stop making their presence felt. The aggression which nature endows men with has to find an outlet. And so they start fighting the whole world with their mouths and with their shouts, of course when wifey dearest is away. Because in her presence, she will quite inevitably lead from the front.
Bong men are brought up to believe that they do not possess the power to hit back. There are in fact many jokes about Bong men, especially those belonging to a place which carries the legacy of a certain noble prize winner with a long beard. One of them goes as “ A bong (man of course) sees a cow blocking his path and instead of trying to shoo it away he says, “dhenu, rasta char, nahole phool chhure marbo”, Oh! Dear cow, leave my way or I will hit you with a flower.
This possibly sums up my initial surprise at the incident which happened far away in Uttar Pradesh. In fact, I believe, the employee who was slapped, was far too surprised at being slapped by a bong, (rather than being shocked at being slapped in full public view) to react. Otherwise the report might have read something else. And I have reasons to believe, I need not quote the probable headline here.

A bullet for a bullet and.........

It was November 2007. A block in the East Midnapore district of West Bengal had suddenly gained nototeity. A group of people trying to protect their lands from being acquired had been shot dead by the police. Many women had been raped. A dhuti panjabi wearing gentleman, sitting in a palatial building in Kolkata had drawn a dividing line between the perpetrators and the victims. “They are being paid back with the same coin”, he had said. I was at the university then. The students’ union (rather the union of a particular political party which waved red flags with a hammer and a sickle drawn on it) had called for a path sabha a meeting in front of the administrative building. The agenda was, rubbishing the claims of a white sari wearing, puffed faced lady, who was the chief of another political party which waved white flags with three flowers in green drawn on them, that all the violence in the aforementioned district was being fanned by the former party.
A bespectacled moustached, doctoral student, was to address the path sabha. And he shouted “gulir jawab guli, dharshaner jawaab dharshan”, a bullet for a bullet and a rape for a rape. He then went on to sing paeans about the heroics of the supporters of the first party, how they killed people and raped women and teenagers to “recapture” the block. And then the request (rather an order), that we would take out a rally the next day to protest against the protests of the protestors.
This was again reiterated at a general body meeting at 10 in the night. We were reminded of our duties as responsible supporters of our ”priyo sangathan” our beloved organisation. This effectively meant that “walk the rally you fuckers or we are going to kick the shits out of you”, which is precisely what was done to those who gave hints of the sangathan being not priyo to them.
All of us joined the rally and walked on the state highway just outside the campus. Who would like to be kicked around by 15 well built men in a 20 by 20 room, hands tied behind the back, legs tied, and rubber water pipes and cycle chains taking turns to make marks on the buttocks and the back? Neither would any girl like to be branded as a ‘maagi”, a crude bong word for a woman of questionable character. So walk we did.
The slogan for the rally was gulir jawaab guli, dharshaner jawaab dharshan.

The child is dead

I am a grown up man now. I will be in a job (hopefully) in another three months. And as one of my seniors promised today, I might as well be heading a 100 crore profit centre in another three years. What is my age? Well, I think one should have the basic courtesy of not asking a twenty six year old his age.
I remember having these very dreams in my child hood. And I would relive all those dreams by playing office on my study table, every day over and over again. The office would be my spacious bedroom, complete with a table, diaries, product brochures, which would serve as files, a luxor pilot pen, gifted on my 10th birthday by my father and a pen stand (This pen by the way was used only when I played office. In school it would always be fountain pens). And yes, I used to have a secretary too, Sunita, the daughter of my neighbour, Rao uncle. Sunita’s brother, Sudhakar would be the peon, whose only job would be to fetch me water. I was the CEO, the boss. (I was not aware of the meaning of CEO, but was definitely aware of the power, the boss could and did yield ).
Today, by God’s grace and my parents’ blessings, I am pretty close to fulfilling that dream of mine. The day is not far when I will have my own table with my laptop on it and real files surrounding me, not the product brochures which I would earlier pass on as files. But I am not happy. I am pretty close to barking orders on the phone, as I would do then, whenever Sunita would call me to receive a “phone call”, but I am not ecstatic.
The reason, after I assume the position, I will have to behave as a “manager”. Exactly as I had to behave then with Sunita, snapping at her for not typing a letter on time. By the way, the type writer would be the snake and ladder part of my LUDO board. I am often reminded that my conduct should be like that of a manager, which I would become in another three months. I am often reminded, that I am no longer the “mummy ka pyaara beta” which I would be then. I am not expected to mimic animals’ voices, because that will put a label on me. I am not expected to cuddle stray puppies and feed them with biscuits, because that is something which managers probably don’t do. I am not expected to buy yo-yos from the footpath for someone I love, because, as a student of this well known management institute in Western India, I am probably not expected to do that. (This was pointed out to me by a friend). I am not expected to be emotional, because managers probably don’t have hearts and are “men” (Forget Roger Federer, he is a sissy). Today I fear having an inky finger, because it would quickly be pointed out that I might be heading a company ten years from now, so I better learn handling a fountain pen.
Irrespective of what I wanted to be fifteen years back, today, I want to become a child again. I want to dance on the streets after India beats Pakistan in a cricket match. I want to have the taste of the rain drops on my tongue. I want to jump on the puddles of water, a common sight in our country, after any shower. I want to sing my lungs out in the bathroom. I want the reassurance that my classmates are my friends and not my competitors. I want to be excited at the prospect of going home and being with my parents. And I want to do these without ever giving a thought to what others would think of me.
Today as I see a ten year old playing with the puppies, just outside the gate of my institute, or when I see another child jumping in the puddles of water, I am jealous of him. I ask myself, is this why we aspire to become “someone” in life? To weigh the pros and cons of everything before we set a foot forward. To bury the carefree child deep down within us, so deep, that it finds it impossible to express itself. So that cannot even reminisce about our childhoods, because no one else has the time to listen to that “crap”.
Have we grown up? I think, we have grown out. Grown out of the child in us. Grown out of those carefree days. Grown out of the human being, which we are in the first place.

Jargonising Development

They say MBA is common sense delivered through jargons. I don’t know, who said this first, or who propounded this phrase, but I dare say, I cannot help but agree with him (or her, if it was a she. You have got to be “gender sensitive”).
My university education had given me its fare share of jargons. But my real serious love affair with jargons began after I landed up in this well known institute of management in Western India.
The first evening here gave me the first lesson in development, that there are no short cuts to “development”. The d word is something, which I would probably use, most often for the rest of my life. Into the second week in our MBA programme we were packed off to villages all over the state to gain insights into the various “rural realities” and to “unlearn” things which, growing up in cities, we might have been assumed to have taken for granted. There we learnt that, “co-operation”, was a panacea to many of the ills plaguing “rural India”, if not all of them (Bina Sahakar nahi uddhar).
By that time, “mero gaon ka thepare ja” from the film Manthan had become the batch anthem and it could be heard blaring from almost every speaker in the hostels.
Coming back, we learnt that, “livelihood security” is the most important issue, facing the rural populace. And to ensure that, a “holistic” approach to development is the need of the hour. This requires a “paradigm shift” in the mindsets of the people in general and the male members of the society in particular. There is this need to be more “gender sensitive”.
Moving along in the programme, we also learnt that co-operation is after all, not the solution to all rural evil. The “free rider” problem is very much a part of every “collective”, since almost every human being is “rational”. Since, “common property resources” do not belong to any one individual, many, actually want to extract the fullest from them not caring to give any thing in return. However, “self-reliance”, too is important therefore, “capacity building” of all the “stakeholders” assumes very important propositions, if you really want to bring in sustainable development.
But at the same time, one should be aware of all the bull shit which the western world is throwing on us. Because, they are only interested in increasing “consumerism” in us and create “dependency” on them.
By the way, the best way to collect information in the rural areas (if you stay there for an extended period of time), is through “un obtrusive observations”. That is probably the best way to observe the “social networks” and their working.
Well meaning “interventions” from the government have failed to make any sizeable impact in the sixty two years of independent India’s existence, primarily because, true development can never be handed down by the powers-that- be at the top. In other words, it should not be “top down” but rather should be “bottom up”. It should be “need based” and “participatory”.
Last but definitely not the least, the credit needs of the rural poor can be met by providing them “micro finance” and their repayment can be ensured by formation of “self help groups”. And yes, one needs to be sure to directly jump into making “recommendations” when (s)he finds him(her)self face-to-face with any “decision problem” without caring to set the “decision criteria”.
Otherwise, one will not be taken seriously as a manager.

R for Ratta

“Students, the syllabus for the next unit test is going to be evolutionary biology”, announced my biology teacher. And that proved the literal death knell for me. This was way back at the beginning of the new millennium. I was in Class XI then and had been performing poorly in biology all through the term. The reason, this teacher expected us to write down the answers as they were given in the book, effectively meaning that the answers were or rather the chapters were supposed to be mugged, something I was very bad at. As expected, I scored 24 out of a total of 50 marks. The sad saga continued throughout my graduation. M.Sc. was a welcome relief, as despite the muggings, we were given a lot of opportunities to see things in the fields and understand how things actually work.
Watching the movie, 3 idiots evoked these sad memories in me. The movie, apart from generating the laughs, also sends out a subtle message. Learning in the present education system is definitely not fun. Life has actually been made a race. The race to excel. The rat race. We study for marks. We study so that we do not come last in the class. We study so that our parents don’t ask us, “if X in your class scored 95 on 100 why did you score a 94.5”. We study so that we get enough marks in our board exams, so that getting into the coveted school after Class X and getting into “the “ college after class XII does not become difficult. When we were in school, India was slowly but surely enjoying the fruits of the opening up of the economy. The IT sector was booming. Engineering was “the” course to be in. For the ones who were not very good with numbers, it had to be medical sciences. There was no other course one could even think of. “Commerce was for those who did not study enough to get good marks in the Xth board exams” and arts were “for duffers”. You want to learn history? Get lost. Science is the in thing.
I still remember a well meaning father of my friend telling me just before my Xth board exams, “Beta you should study hard for your board exams, otherwise, you might well end up studying commerce or arts”. As luck would have it, his son ended up studying commerce, failing to score well in Class X.
These are just some of the instances of the intense pressure the students find themselves under. Being second is simply out of question, because, “being second means you are the first in a line of losers.” The subjects do not matter here, neither does the stream. The instances which I have provided here are mostly which I came across, growing up in an industrial township, where there were too many engineers and more wannabe engineers.
Even studying something as interesting as science, did not make matters easy for me. The practicals, normally meant to complement the theory, did not evoke enthusiasm. While we would merrily solve problems of pulleys and strings and tensile strength in the physics class, we never had any practical on the same. It was as if, practicals were not used as a complement to the class room learning, but rather as a supplement to make up for the time lost for the busy teachers. The salt tests in Chemistry were learnt by rote again, because no one cared to show us the equations or rather their actual reactions. Adding Fehling’s solution to sugar water gives a particular colour. Why? That is not required. Practicals were in fact something which decided, which teacher you took tuitions from, so as to be able to score the perfect 30. And that was all they were done for. To project yourself as a hardworking student and be in the good books of the teacher, so that you score the full marks. Glimpses of Chatur Ramalingam from 3 idiots? And yes , to top the class, you needed to study hard yourself and at the same time, prevent others from studying. Engineering school is too late for that to happen. The trend would begin in Class XI itself.
Some courses do have entrance examinations but again barring some, the emphasis of the questions are more on remembering than understanding.
Infact I got the shock of my life when I started preparing for my M.Sc.entrance examinations. We were taught the “left side right side method of rote.” “If what you see on the left column of the Xeroxed note, appears in the question stem”, the seniors guiding us would parrot, “then mark the answer as what you see on the right column.” And thus is decided the fate of hundreds of agricultural graduates all over the country, who want to lend a hand in feeding the nation. I am sure many others having studied in various other courses must have faced the same situation while taking their entrance exams, if at all they were given.
I really missed the word “analyse” in the question papers. It was so in high school, it was the same in college. It was almost the same during post graduation too, but byy then I had surely become a part of the system.
I began the post by criticising the expectations, which my biology teacher in school had from us. But, then taking a more objective view, it was not her fault alone. The board expects us to write such answers. The evaluation plans, which are provided to the teachers carry specific marks for key words, which in many cases are the only things which the evaluators look for in an answer. The reason, I feel, again, is marks. .Its all a game of numbers. You have to show the numbers, number of school goers who took the XIIth board and scored more than 33%. The number of final year college students, who took their university exams and scored more than 30%. Fuck learning. What have you got to learn any ways. You are required to be a graduate because that is what gets you jobs. Not the amount of learning you have achieved.
3 idiots might be remembered in the history of Indian cinema for the breast-in-the-hands-of-the-rapist speech, but it’s a slap on the face of the whole educational system prevalent in the country. It is a warning signal. To all the “educationists”, that education and grades should better be compartmentalised. Grades be not made the only criterion for movement in the careers of students. It projects a feeling of empathy for the lakhs of students around the country, on the verge of becoming machines and robots.