Campus is buzzing with activity as usual. I think activity is one of the synonyms of a good B-School. At any given point of time, you have a schedule which says: Class in 5 minutes, XYZ Committee meeting in another 2 minutes, Case Study submission in 30 seconds beyond which you will never be allowed to submit even if you offer to bail out Lehmann Bros plus pending breakfast, lunch or dinner. You choose and you become what you choose.

The people around you do influence your choices. If I was S, my friend, I would have grabbed rice, bread or whatever could fit into my tiny hands, knocked over a 1000 people on my way, looked continuously petrified, munched the food on the way and yet made it to class. S has a good job history, something very unique. She is meticulous and very hard working which makes me wonder however how can someone so small have a brain with so much data. Yet S has lately been developing this theory that she is 'old' since she is older by a year or so. Typical conversations would include:

Us: Hey, let;s do this!

S: I am too old for this.

Us: We have to ask out people for a date for freshers.

S: It is not my age to do so.

Us: Okay, let's do that.

S: I told you I am old.

Us: Beep


G, on the other hand has only two goals in life.

Goal1: Talk to boyfriend before and after class

Goal 2: Talk to boyfriend between class.

In between, she studies and figures in the top 5 in class.

Incidentally, G is an example of the 'adored-customer' set whom all telecom companies would pay billions to capture. This market typically consists of individuals in the age group of 20-29, preferably doing an MBA. Since this clan is low on time and somewhat sufficient in funds, they usually buy 2 phones. One for the rest of the world. One for the chosen one. Phone number 1 is used only when phone number 2 is not operational. And since this clan is adept at talking discreetly on the phone, you are often wondering if any of the conversation is directed at you.
If you are a roommate, then typical morning conversations would be:

G: Hey! Good morning!
Me: Good morning to you too!
G: So you still won't speak to me!
Me: I am speaking with all the vocal capacity I have.
G: You are still angry with me!
Me: No, I forgive you for yelling at me for trampling on your toothbrush.
G: You will never understand.
Me: It's alright. I see no problem why....
G: Listen, tell you what, meet me on Sunday!

Now, since this conversation is getting absurd by the minute, I turn around to see that G is on the phone as usual. I turn whatever pink shade is possible at 7 in the morning and return to sleep.

Its been 89 days ever since I landed in this place called Hinjewadi in Pune. 89 days of 5 hours of sleep, 6 if the Gods smile at me. 89 days that have taught me what I know now, what I assumed I knew and what I never knew.

It's begun to sound like a leaf out of a cliched Bschool story now. But the fact is all BSchools tend to have the same gruelling schedule, barring some few blessed havens. A senior-junior meet, a fresher's party and numerous 'counselling' sessions with the seniors later, I can now say that the gruelling schedule is a part of Bschool life and it might actually teach you to handle situations in corporate life later. I want to laugh out loud now but this is what I would like to believe now.
Sometimes I think that before all Bschools in the country open, there must be some sort of a clan meet that is held among all BSchool administration and deciding authorities at some highly secretive place. A place where all the directors might meet, dressed in black, in eerie surroundings where they decide on the schedule for the year ahead.

Director 1: So, what is your schedule, mate?
Director 2: (tapping his fingers against the rim of a golden sword) : 18 subjects, 100 quizzes and 95% attendance
Director 1: Oh hoh! Looks like the competition has stopped competing with the best! The lambs that come to my abode will be subjected to 24 subjects, 120 quizzes and 95% attendance. Should keep them busy for the first year!
Director 2: (slowly opening his eyes) : Good to know that. But we have yet to plan for the second semester for the first year. What you heard was for the first semester!
And there was applause all around. The duel had been won.

It is funny how your imagination works overtime when you are loaded with work.

Then there are the 'surprise quizzes'. Something that will make you hate surprises for quite sometime. There is pandemonium in the class a day before the dreaded FCQ day. FCQ stands for Frequently Conducted Quizzes though more expletives are used to descibe the abbreviation now. There is a lot of nail-biting, pen scratching, underlining, rattofying and frantic memorising as a class of 20 to 25 year olds run about studying for the exam. Everyone is sure that the one subject that they have studied out of the 18 subjects is sure to come. Or atleast they pray so. Then one guy rushes in and stops just in front of the blackboard.
67 pair of eager and frantic eyes bore into him.
"Economics" he says and looks to the floor.
There is dead silence. Some might have even died if they didnt have the wonder tool called 'Pfaff'. 'Pfaff' in Bschool lingo is the amount of imagination you have multiplied by little knowledge you have of the subject. In short, it is a lot of story-telling when you have no clue what to write.
When the paper is distributed, all of us are silent for quite a while. Then there is a giggle somehwere. Followed by a chuckle. And before you know it, the whole class is laughing.
The exam official smirks, then shooes us into writing the exam.

There is a lot more I can write on this practically non-existent blog. But I heard someone say there is a quiz tomorrow....

No there is no new baba in the scene who serves hot piping vada pav with fried chillies with a flick of his hand. For those who are unaware, vada pav is the poor man's burger, a sort of fast food that possibly originated in Mumbai. It consists of a pav or salty bun and a potato cutlet served with chutney or sauce.



Okay, to stop digressing, mera number bschool mein finally lag gaya and I have joined one. And all thoughts of sitting in classrooms and typing in laptops aaram se were erased after we went for a programme called the outbound learning programme.



It took place in the outskirts of Pune and we climbed a hill called Sinhagad. If you have worked in the IT industry for quite a while, the only trekking you could have possibly done would have been from the first floor to the second floor. That is unless you are a fitness freak who goes on regular adventure outings.

Once we were at the base camp, we looked at the hill and thought that this one must be easy. It looked surmountable afterall. And then we began to walk. And walk. And walk. For some three hours. Our group leader kept saying we are half way through every five minutes. People fell, fussed and even tried to sleep on the rocks for a while but there was a lot of climbing to be done.

So enter our motivators. We were promised vada pav on reaching the top. So there were shouts of 'jai baba vada pav' and 'khayenge hum' to cheer us on as we huffed and puffed up the way. And so Jai baba vada pav kept us going as we finally reached the top. I dont think I have ever been more happier to see a vada pav and some tap water on reaching the top.

The way down was a bit easier. Though a lot more tricky. And we all looked almost the same after the trek. Brown, dishevelled and relieved.

The next day saw a lot of team building activities happen. There was a lot of naming of teams happening and one very enthusiastic team named themselves 'The yaks'. But unfortunately, the instructor read them out as 'yucks' and so 'yucks' they remained for the rest of the day. But the very sportive group were still happy with their new name.

The bus ride back to college was entertaining. A group of budding indian idols were all out to display their singing, seat tapping and histronic skills. So they sang a lot of filmy songs, lifebuoy jingle, the track of kyunki saas bhi kabhi bahu thi and a lot of other stuff. Thankfully, the college appeared around the corner just when the last bit of our eardrums and tonsils were melting away.

Its been quite a rollercoaster ride so far. A sign of things to come. Picture toh abhi baaki hai mere dost!

Trying something here

A jewelry house has chosen a fair skinned actress over a dusky one, thus sparking off a major debate over prejudice based on the color of one’s skin while the average Indian gasps at this grave injustice while buying the latest fairness cream from the kirana shop.

It is an age-old phenomenon. Things ‘lighter’ on the eye are always more dear to the heart. The stereotypes signify the same. The protagonists in myth are always fair or medium complexioned while the baddie usually gets to be dark and ugly. Somehow dark and ugly were made for each other. Ever heard of fair and lovely rakshasas? Or the glowing skins of the brave slaves. Fair skin was reserved for royalty. Well, in most of the cases.

We, as a country are obsessed with fairness. The amount spent by Indian women and Indian men (in hiding) on turmeric, whitening creams, fairness essences and anything, which says ‘glowing’ in any part of its slogan is humongous. If the same is contributed to the Infrastructure Development Fund, Mr. Chidambaram is going to be a happy man and you can take out your childhood bike parked in the pothole on the road which was going to be filled someday.

Coming back to the topic, even fiction reiterates the same and so do the movies. The ‘gaon ki gori’ is the ‘dil ki dhadkan’ of all the village dudes. So what did ‘Gaon ki sanwli’, ‘Gaon ki Kali’ and the likes do? They settled for arranged marriages, I guess.

Marriages, hmmm…. Read one of the matrimonial sections in a magazine and you would find ‘Wanted, fair-skinned, homely, blah blah’ in the brides’ section. The bridegrooms concentrates on ‘Wanted well-settled, regular income…’ conveniently missing out on the skin color of the guy. Of course, tall, dark and handsome is the dream version of a guy and if you get atleast the ‘dark’ adjective in a prospective bridegroom, you must be happy, I think.

Such grave injustice. So what do the dusky and dark skinned folks do? Well, going by recent ‘stately happenings’, we declare a war on the ‘fair-skinned’ people. We break some cars, throw some soft drink bottles in their houses (after drinking the beverage, of course) and shout slogans whenever we are bored.

Or we could have rewrite our lyrics like ‘Kaaliya, chura na mera jiya’, ‘Sanwle sanwle mukhde pe kaala kaala chashma; and the likes. Lug around bottles of tanners and bronzers and throw them at people who say ‘Try this, this will make you fair’. Say that dusky skin is in.

Of course, the ‘Gores’ have it bad too. Talk about sunburn, Holi color that shines on the face for a month, going pink when you blush, going red when you cry, going purple when you are bruised, going red again when the pimple shines, well, a lot of colors that don’t constitute fair. They don’t have it that easy afterall.

Jokes apart, the skin is after all, an organ. And a clean one is the one that signifies good health and prosperity, not one that is fair or dark. And melanin concentration does not make you special. Fair or dark, true ability is what will make you glow at the end of the day.

The world loves to laugh. Especially when the joke is on you.

There is a show on one of the Tamil channels for working folks to showcase their singing talent. Some of them are pretty good at it. And there is plenty of cheering done by the other folks whenever their teammate or officemate(?) does a la la la on the stage. And everytime I see that, my heart goes hmm... No love angles here but just some memories that stay back of a desperate attempt to sing.

It was one of those lag months when work was slow and office conversation became pretty boring. And out of the blue, came this mail from the 'official' band of the company. They were looking out for new talent and auditions were to be held in a week's time. And the best part was that anyone with a tongue, tonsils and a voice in between could audition. No formal training necessary. Skip the sa sa re re and the so fa la ti.

One hop skip and jump and I landed on my colleague's desk. She happened to be reading the mail at the time.

Me: Hey, This is so amazing! Lets go and bunk office...

She: Yeah...

Me: What Yeah?

She: What What Yeah? (We can be pathetic at times.)

Me: Your 'yeah' usually states that the subject is unwilling to perform the task assigned.

She: I don't know. I wouldn't want to make a fool of myself. Besides it's office, not college. We have to work with these people sometime. I don't want people laughing at me when I am troubleshooting websites.

Me: Thanks for the encouragement. But it will be a nice break from work. We can even see how the food is at the other office.

(In most companies, the food is often the deciding factor on its credibility. At least for us, it was.)

She: I think I will pass. Besides I don't think I sing that well.

I swallowed hard. The lady in front of me was the closest anyone can get to Shania or Shakira in my team. The only person who sounds like she is singing an english song when she is singing it. Most of us weren't so lucky. I thought I should also let this pass. But something came over me and soon I shot a reply back stating that they wait for the ultimate singing sensation to join them soon. Of course, I didn't put it that way. I just said I was in. Watching Indian Idol reruns ruins decision making ability.

One of the problems with IT offices is the cubicle system of seating. There is plenty of silence at times that the person in the third cubicle in the fourth row from you can hear you whispering agitatedly on the phone to your mother why you don't want Upma for dinner among other important issues.

Word soon spread like virusfire, no wildfire in IT. I don't know why singing abilities are taken so lightly. Especially mine. My loving team cheered me so much during the run-up to the auditions that I wanted to blow trumpets into their eardrums. Some samples of good cheer are given below.

I was rechristened 'Kuyil' for the week. 'Kuyil' is the Tamil word for Mynah. Whenever I was trying to impress, intimidate or simply act friendly around people outside the team, one of the team members would pop-up out of nowhere and go 'Kuyil' at the top of their voices. I ran to the nearest loo, cubicle or into the elevator.

Any act of intimidation, scaring people or terrorizing innocent subjects was outsourced to me at zero cost.

"Hey, the onsite manager is troubling me again. Can you sing during the next conference call? I want to show him what I can do to him..Gu hahahahaha!"

"The coffee machine is not working? Ask her to sing. It usually scares the machine to working back. Worked on my mouse."

"Lets have Bhoot bangla as the theme for the next get together. We can save money on the BG. Just ask her to sing."

But I wasn't about to be stressed so easily. I finally found one lady who was also willing to participate, forced her to participate and gloated over the fact that there was some company.
Until the last day...

Me: So let's show'em.... What are you singing?

She: I don't think I am singing.. They would want technically perfect modulation, a mersmerising voice and some classical music training atleast..

Me: Don't chicken out now...

She: Sorry. But I really don't think...

Me: It's ok! I will go alone. Besides I want to give it a try.

She: Good for you! So you've sung at competitions before? Have you trained?

(I think it is a good time to showoff whatever little vocal history I have.)

Me: Oh yeah, I went for Hindustani music classes for a week. And I got a participation certificate in kindergarten. I also sing regularly at home.

(Expect her to feel small)

So I guess you haven't had any classical training, huh? That's why you don't want to try?

She: Yeah...something like that. My Guru said it was not the right time for me to sing.

Me: Your Guru? As in Yoga Guru? He he

She: No my Carnatic music teacher. The one who has been teaching me for seventeen years?

I run off to my cubicle at top speed.

I did sing finally at the auditions. And I think I did ok. Because the audience stared at me after the performance for only five minutes before the customary clapping.

When I got back, questions and queries regarding my singing adventure were asked. I said that the panelists were very happy and had asked for an encore. I even tried to say that one of them offered me a song in a movie but I guess that was a bit over the top. I could say anything I wanted because no one had been to the auditions and the results would be mailed only to the participants.

I was blackmailed into singing at one of the official birthday gettogethers. I sang but not before going beet red or any colour my melanin levels would permit. But my team applauded. And very sincerely at that.

I was moved to tears. Such nice fellows!

Later, I heard that they had been very impatient to eat the chocolate truffle cake that beckoned them so invitingly. They would have been ready to cheer Gabbar singh singing 'Pyaar hua. ikraar hua'.

Sigh! So much for some exercise for the vocal chords. And one of the perils of working in a more-than-friendly team.

By the way, I heard auditions are on for the next Indian Idol. Hmm.....

Scene: A hot, smoky kitchen. Subject is vigorously stirring something in a vessel, lit atop a stove. The James Bond theme is playing in the background. Zoom into the vessel which shows a semi-solid substance, slowly turning black. Subject is frantically trying to get it off the pan.

The door bursts open and Bond stands in the most alluring, sleuth like pose, with a gun in one hand and another on the door.

Subject : Aah! Who are you?

James Bond: The name is Bond, James Bond.

Subject : Hey Bond? Can you taste these brinjals first?

And the world heard of Bond no more.

This is what would have happened had Bond flown down to Chennai this Monday. And to start with, let me tell you I am quite a passable cook. Nobody has ever died after eating whatever I make. And I have survived for days with what I cook.

And I love to cook. Not very elaborate cuisines but even simple roti, idli and dosa will suffice. But of late, I have discovered and suffered from a new phenomenon that should, probably, be called “Chef’s block”.

Anything that I cooked, stirred or fried suddenly didn’t taste so good to me. The family’s reactions were also not very encouraging. New ways were found to keep me ‘joyfully occupied’, read as two feet away from the pots and pans while there was buzzing activity in the kitchen.

I mention the matter to a friend while on a telephonic conversation. And I realize that the effort is futile as friend-in-question is a bachelor whose idea of cooking is spraying sauce and chilly flakes on readymade pizza. He says the spraying should be officially termed as cooking. Why? Cause no two sauce or chilly patterns ever in the history of the delicious pizza are the same and that makes all the difference in the taste. I am buying him cookbooks for his birthday. ‘The mysterious science of sauce pattens’ should be more interesting.

I remember one of the more philosophical conversations on cooking that I once had at office. Food on the terrace is very entertaining. Flying pappads, paper plates, aalu chips and splattered sauce have been the foundation for many a strong relationship. My friend, J had a very heavy heart when he mused on why Gulab Jamuns had not yet evolved to flying consistency. His ultimate fantasy would be Catherine Zeta Jones running frantically after a flying Gulab Jamun that found its way to J’s mouth ultimately. Jamun in the mouth and Jones at hand is J’s idea of nirvana.

Anways, coming back to the cooking, V announced that he had cooked on the weekend. The subtle remark had the other of us choking or in a state of shock. Of course, J recovered first. One cannot remain in shock when there are gulab jamuns waiting to be stolen from other plates.

Now V is the perfect stereotype for an IT bachelor. He works for 14 hours, 8 hours of which are spent at the coffee machine, elevator inside and outside the lunch area. The remaining are spent in his apartment calling for pizza or roti or whatever is available at the dead of the night and waiting for them to arrive in an edible state. J also belongs to the same category thoughr his kitchen is actually used for cooking, unlike V’s where microorganisms from a two month old slice of bread are planning the destruction of mankind. J even claims to cook fabulously. But I remember that his roommate ate outside and his pet cat finally divorced him and has taken shelter outside Saravana Bhavan.

V claimed that he had made ‘mind-blowing’ carrot sandwiches for breakfast. Carrot sandwiches? The cook in me stirred on hearing a potential new recipe.

Me: Seriously? How did you make it?

V: Oh you mix carrot pulp with chilli flakes and tomato sauce and spread them on bread.

Me: Blech!! Is it the new Dog food variant?

V: I knew you would say that. But trust me, it tasted heavenly.

Me: But why carrot pulp? Grated carrot makes more sense.

V: Oh that is because I was trying to make carrot juice initially and the damn mixer would not grind the carrots properly. So I made sandwiches.

Me: But it should…You must have had some patience.

V: Patience? I ran the Mixer for half an hour….Funny how the carrots seemed soft at first…

Me: Soft? Wait, when did you buy these carrots?

V: Mom got it for me…

Me: Your Mom left three weeks ago!

V: Yeah…I think it must have been because I didn’t cut the damn thing first. Anyways was too zonked to do that.

Me: Listen.

V: Yeah…

Me: Feed me those sandwiches the next time I ask you for a recipe.

V gets a call. It is his roommate who is using the latest swear words in the bachelor market for good use. We can only hear damn, carrot, Digene, Eno, water in the loo and Doctor punctuated with expletives. V never replies and gets back to lunch.

Somehow I am thinking I might be able to take cookery classes afterall!