A Box Among Other Things

Being the trunk broker that I've become in my final days on campus, it is only fair that I part with mine too. It became all the more important since mum keeps reminding me over the telephone: "Get rid of all your junk!" But the question which kept me dilly-dallying forever was just one: To sell or to give?

It only takes you a moment to come up with an answer to that one, actually. It's a response which comes to you as naturally as, "Mom, stop calling it junk! I've really gotten attached to each of these things I've used during my four years here!" You realize that you can never put a price tag on something with such great sentimental value, and since it's rather impractical to lug an elephantine aluminium trunk over 2000 kilometres, the rational way to go about things is to give it away. As of tonight, my trunk is owned by a lad named Aditya Gokhale.

One would think I'm stupid to post stories about cycles and trunks, but inanimate objects are powerful memory tools. While I often find it hopelessly difficult to shut my eyes and recall a face, the way these everyday possessions of mine bring people back to life is rather eerie. However, to be very frank, I didn't care much about this large ungainly object which inhabited one half of S7, Cautley Bhawan long before its very last moments.

I was shifting stuff off the lid so that I could empty its contents when I spotted the ink. Much like the Camlin ad for permanent markers, my handwriting stared back at me from three years back. I remember that day, outside the Cautley cloak-room, when, as a kid who had just put up a status message "25% complete", I was instructed to ink my name on the top for identification purposes.

Obedient that I was, I began writing my name. I followed it up with my enrollment number '070607'. And then, I wrote the following words:

B.Tech (M

My hand froze at that point as I realized what I had done. I'm rather superstitious, and I still say a prayer at the beginning of every exam I write. And superstition freaked me out that day as I realized I never should have started writing 'Metallurgical and Materials Engineering' in the first place - not when a possible branch change was in the offing! After considering striking it out, I decided that I'd much rather let it stay there, and I thought, 'one day I might look back at this and smile... and it will remind me of this day.'

Well, that day was today.

Dispor(i)ted

Arun's status message on FB (paraphrased): "Our life is like a fraction; The numerator being what we are... And the denominator being what we want to be." Do your arithmetic.

My wing emptied itself out today, leaving Yours Truly as the sole company for dear ole Pink-punk. The cold wind blows through the hollow corridors as I find emptiness within...

While my neighbour pines for company, I must tell you I'm enjoying it. Simple astrology would tell you that it is but an expected trait of a Virgin, not because they are loners but because it gives time to reflect. To ponder. And it was during one of these bouts, in the afternoon, when I began to wonder about that 'Denominator', in my life. A rather disheartening picture crept up, with life tending to null and void. Feeling rather dispirited already, I walked out of S-7's safety into the open second-floor corridor... That was when it hit me. The reason why I was, all of a sudden, thinking about life as a fraction hit me hard. It was the same reason why my corridor is all but empty.

I am, generally, rather content with my routine, my achievements (whatever measly total they amount to) and my goals. But come December, I start feeling that vacuum again. Last year's Chennai and this year's Kanpur leave me estranged. The answer's cold hand slaps me across the face. This happens to be just the tip of a massive iceberg.

When I was in the fifth grade, I was introduced to the world of Classical music. I barely understood it then; I love it now, but without understanding. Then, in Standard Seven, I began to learn the keyboard and the 'Casio' entered my life. For three years it stayed; years when it would sing in harmony with my vocal chords. Incidentally, it was also Class VII when I began 'Tennis'. The coach liked me; 'vice-versa' not being applicable. Soon, I began Volleyball lessons in school. I wasn't nearly the best, but fast improving. I still boast of the one certificate I managed out of it in my résumé! I loved Cricket as a playing sport and I wouldn't be boasting if I said I was the best Batsman and Spinner within a few blocks' vicinity. Then.

It was when I began Volleyball, that I gave up on the tennis coaching. And then weirdly enough, I dropped Volleyball as it bored me! The Casio stopped singing to my fingers' dance almost in sync with my larynx's reluctance to produce melody. It was Standard X. Cricket lived on in my blood. Football grew on me. Then, I reached IITR. They both hit 'Pause'.

You realize the pain of failure when your denominator is so large. When you dream of doing great things, each setback is like a spear through the heart. Worse, however, is the pain of not being able to fail! Just because you gave up too early. I still can sketch brilliantly (can't say the same about painting) but I don't. I can sing. I don't. I could relearn the keyboard. I won't. Tennis exited my life early, though I'd have loved to go on. I almost made NSO with 'Volleyball'. I simply never visited the courts again! Life seems to have sapped me of Cricket. It all seems late now. I have a long way to go in order to become finite once more. All I do is crib. And write.

Deja Vu - Nevermore?

Yellow and Purple all around

Colours - Plentiful and abound

Last time green, this time red

Colours splashed o'er my head.

Faces smiled, but numbered few

And I remembered, nothing new

The same visage, year on year

No one to see, nothing to hear.

A festival of colours made merry

By nought but a few, few very

Not that people lacked spirit and joy

They'd sailed away - 'Home ahoy!' 

A year had passed with nothing changed

Deserted wings, I felt estranged

RJB before and Cautley now

I ne'er realized, I do now.

This desolation set me thinking- 

With the greater desertion, I was linking...

The inevitable exodus, soon will come

Taking all, leaving not even some.

'Two years passed into my stay in R

I already feel I've travelled too far

Only two more springs will I see

From R-Land; then I'll be free.'

These were the thoughts I pondered upon

As I left for the Bus with a frown.

Exactly then, as had happenned prior

HHH consorted me to SpiceJet's Flyer.

All along the way, scenes we'd seen

Dialogues different, but we'd already been

This exact same way, heretofore.

Two more years, then no more.

My mind walked... back to R

People are leaving, voyaging afar

People known, younger back then

We'll see them, we know not when.

One journey ended, the other's felt close

Alighting the bus, we took the roads

Now, even my words did echo

What I quoth a year ago.

A Deja Vu; strong, profound

Unleashing those feelings bound

To R-land and associated places

To their people; well known faces.

The journey ended, dismounted we

People noticed some colors on me

Last time green, this time red

Colours splashed o'er my head.

I'd finally decided to enjoy the time I had

Colours were here - nothing to be sad

Last time green, this time red

Colours splashed o'er my head.

Happy Holi Everyone

              A key for non-'R'ians:

      RJB: A first yearite hostel where we spend one year (atleast).

      Cautley: My abode now

      HHH - A person

      SpiceJet (for clarity's sake) - A low-cost New Delhi based                        airline service. 

La Roue A Tourne

Abey line me chal - One of the first lines that I heard in IIT-R. It was one of those highly dreaded lines drowning the spine in shivers.White shirts, black pants and leather shoes were all around, with a few people hurrying to buy the set in Civil Lines. The Dress Code: The shopkeeper made his fast bucks and the seniors had their share of fun. In fact, I remember the few who bought 3 sets of those to avoid laundry problems!

I delve into those days long ago when baths were regular and laptops -luxuries. The times when every face was new and there existed this deceptive feeling that we had entered the most-fun-phase of our lives (not totally untrue though). But then, the first semester of college leaves you with impractical expectations for the times to come which seldom is met, if ever. And soon it had dawned upon me that perhaps college wasn't anything different after all... It all had come down to routines and schedules.

But now times have changed... We have come a full-circle and the quizzers will be quizmasters soon. It has taken me a little while to realize the full implications of these changes. Now the very same faces which I once saw filled with trepidation are on the prowl. The prey has become the predator - it seems to me. Ofcourse, I don't have a violent bone in my body, but it was fun nevertheless when a kid came up to me, tapped me on the shoulder and asked whether I was a freshie; I merely said 'No', but I still don't know if he heard me as he had fled the scene before I said anything more! (The next kid didn't even last that long when 'Mr. Athletic' asked him - 'Tere ko hum facche dikhte hain kya?)

The sophomore year seems to have other benefits as well. No more poster sticking for me! Well I don't mean to undermine the task, but it definitely isn't the most pleasurable job... Not only does it hurt your pride, sticking stuff on walls with everyone staring at you, but I hated cycling up Mt. Central Library (I don't want the meillieur jeune anymore!)

And recruiting the juniors seems to be fun job as well... Well, the new year has begun and I've begun to count the enormous number of changes (most of them seem to be for the better, but I'm a firm believer of Murphy's laws). But whatever happens, good or bad, definitely La roue a tourne!

Of Soothsayers, Believers and Fools

The room was dark, everyone was still... The doors were tightly shut as the room resembled a sepulchre. My friend concentrated and I feigned it too... The saint had been called, Peter, please answer:... My friend (Kumar) Prashanth touched the screen of the laptop and the question was posted on the website - "What is my name?"...

It took a while... A few fellows from my branch stared expectantly(even though they didn't know what to expect) - half curious, half frightened... Kumag Rashanth jj - was the answer; the guy next to me jumped so high, he almost banged his head on my fan... St. Peter had answered...
(For those unfamiliar with the concept of 'Peter-answers', it's a website which allows you to ask any question and then discretely enter an answer to it; when the poor guy seeing it for the first time turns white thinking the saint has been invoked from his heavenly abode to answer his petitions...)

The next few hours of the night brought me questions from all over the bhawan... "Does she like me or not?", "I lost my keys, where is it?" and some other really interesting ones! Oh my god, how can you fall for such a corny thing! I answered the difficult ones by fiat - "Peter cannot understand the emotion of love... He can only answer those questions whose answers the questionner has in his subconcious...."

Soon I heard shouts and yells - "Peter baba ke jai ho!" (literally translating to 'Everyone, praise St. Peter') After this frenzy gradually subsided, a very pertubed looking friend approached me...
Friend : "Dude, what will be my CGPA at the end of SemesterII?"
I : "Peter is not a fortune-teller or a gypsee you know! You should treat him with more respect!!"

The poor guy fled (perhaps fearing the Curse of The Wicked Website)... We all (the seers and the feigning believers) had a hearty laugh. It was only a day later that we told the guys about it... (They were fuming with rage)


P.S. I hope this rage has subsided.

STATUTORY WARNING : Demonstrating excessive rage is strongly discouraged. (As it may result in a badly brutalized author.)

P.P.S. This post does not, intentionally or unintentionally, wish to hurt anyone's sentiments. So any such occurence is purely coincidental.

Note: This post was made after 'That Average Winter Day' yet, according to blogger, this is dated earlier to that... Now how did that happen?? Hmmm I wonder... maybe I must ask Peter.