Girl, why did you change so much?

The turn of the millennium saw me in standard five, as a gawky kid with over-sized spectacles matching an over-sized head. And as we all know, fifth grade is a turning point in any kid's life. I found it no different, as having returned to India after four long years, the system of making the boys and girls sit separately on opposite sides of the class was new and confounding. More disconcerting however, was the fact that talking to people of the opposite sex was no longer a punishment but a privilege. In fact, I vividly recall some fellows coming up with random excuses so that they could leave our table at lunch and spend a few minutes with the giggling girl by the window.

In science class, the teacher was talking about Entamoeba Histolytica when I found the guy seated next to me staring at the window - at least, that's what I thought at first. Doing a double take, I realized that he wasn't, in fact, looking at the big boys playing volleyball outside... He had somehow locked eyes with the girl in the front row, who was struggling to keep her head constantly turned at some eighty-seven degrees. "Snap out of it, man!" I said to him. To no avail.

Those were the days when hearts could be won with nothing more than a smile, or a soiled note which said "1-4-3" on it. Those were the days when you could poke a girl with a pencil or hit her with a box on one day, and have her fall in love with you the very next. 'Love' was a word which came so easily to our mouths. It was then a word which still carried meaning.

Fast forward - five years: The world was quite the same, except you couldn't hit girls any more without being branded a boor. 'Love affairs' didn't scandalize anyone anymore, but somehow whenever you wanted to talk to a girl really badly, you would be searching for all the right words. And then, they would never come out. Still, those were enjoyable times, made even more fantastic by the plans and strategies we used to come up with to win her heart!

Most plans failed, but some did succeed and V.G. Siddhartha ended up making a truck-load of cash. In fact, as the years ticked by, Cafes' earnings went up exponentially... as it was no longer socially acceptable to enjoy a Pepsi and a Vegetable Puff while standing outside 'Royal Bakery' with her. No. The grander the place you took her to, the happier she felt.

Enter college and there was still some semblance of normalcy in this world... In engineering school - and especially in IITs - girls come in really, really small numbers. But then again, humans are made in two sexes for a reason, I suppose. And so, even though society contrived to make it as difficult for us as possible, you always ended up finding that one perfect someone. Well, a whole lot of us acted upon the feeling, and a vast majority of us failed. And some people I know didn't even get started, as society by now had established so many rules, restrictions, ethics, morals and so many other things I don't even know the names of, that made even the approach an impossibility.

I found that people were no longer as 'easy' as they used to be before. They had changed - well not entirely, definitely not from within... But now, there was layer after layer of 'personality' shrouding what she really was. My god, it was difficult! But there was still music in the background and lights in the air when everything about you knew that she was the one for you.

And now, I have spent the last one year outside college, in strange cities, stranger bars and the strangest place of all, Facebook. This one year has destroyed the world as I knew it not so long ago. In March, last year, I remember deriding my neighbour when he said that 'love' is an act of the hormones and that there is no place called the Heart. Today, I'm ready to go back to him and apologize, for I wholeheartedly agree. Last year, I held so many notions which so many girls would have called 'romantic' and so many guys would have called 'gay'. I've shed all of them today.

The world is not the beautiful, life-affirming song we once knew, but a bitter dirge taking us a step closer to the end. We are afraid to say those three beautiful words because we know that commitment isn't something we can give to the person who means the most to us in the whole, wide world. Besides, it's not about love any more!

Watching the full yellow moon hide behind the Cumulus or taking a long stroll on the sands by the seashore mean nothing anymore. It's more about how much vodka you can load her with, or how you can smoke ganja together. It's about glitz and glamour these days - how high up in society's ladder are you? Let me tell you this - the girl, a few rungs lower, will most probably accept your proposal.

Tell me, if people really believed in romance and love, would they need you to buy them ten tequila shots before they go down with you? Or would it matter what power you wielded over people and how much money you had?

You know the world is coming to an end if you can't even get you heart properly broken.

I'm No Jogger

At 3:25 p.m. the final bell would ring and I’d be among the first lads to run out of class, while most people remained focused on packing their bags. I’d sprint all the way to the autorickshaw which would be my ride home. It paid to get there early as we always beat the rush. Getting home at 3:45 always felt good, and I’d take a shower, have a snack and immediately sit on my homework. Usually, everything would get done by five and I’d run out of the house with my new cricket bat and Cosco ball. Aashrai would follow me out usually, albeit unexcited by the games humans play.

Tennis (or rubber) ball cricket is probably the most widely played sport in India and I was its most ardent fan for the best part of four years; I fancy myself a pretty good spinner even today. Years later, when the days of cricket really did end, it was in favour of a more spirited and I suppose ‘manly’ sport: Beach football. While I can’t defend for my life, I’m pretty good when I’m supplying that final flighted ball for my strikers to finish. Then again, being quite selfish and short-tempered on field, I’d probably go for the shot myself.

The days of regular football did end too, mostly because most of the other kids I’d grown up with no longer thought playing in the sand was what ‘men’ did. Too grown up, that they’d become, they moved further away from the water, closer to the road, closer to the girls… Soon, I was no longer addicted to physical exertion and the sportsman in me died. Roorkee probably burned his remains completely, seeing me play four or five times a semester!

At the end of it all, the mind wants to rekindle the excitement of sport and the thrill of winning but the body fails to come through. Stamina is dead and Strength is left wandering in the desert. While people consider gymming a way out of their misery, it remains to me a poor excuse for your inability to play. However, it is better than nothing at all.

And hence I championed gymming for all of six months, until they decided to throw me into the middle of nowhere. Well, Schlumberger does provide five-star facilities considering the location we are in, but even they are unable to provide us a Gym, it seems. And hence, I decided I will run anyway.

And thus, when fellow Field Engineer and Delhi’s track-champion geared up for his evening jog, I made it clear that I’d be tagging along. “I run in the open desert,” he told me. “Near the road, it’s mainly rocky… Little bits of sand.”

The desert is a funny place. You can see far away objects but you’ll never figure out how far they really hour. They could be a kilometer away or they could be ten, you’ll never know. So, when he pointed at an oil-storage location, “Hah, how far will that be,” I thought. And I ran.

I kept running until I was out of breath and then I ran some more. We reached the oil-station an eternity later when track-champion says, “Hey, we’ve been running six-minutes. Why don’t you wait here? I’ll finish my run…” I looked back an saw the caravan I had started out from at a distance. As I told you, you can’t figure out distance in the desert: it could be a kilometer away or it could be five. Let’s say two. I was damn proud of myself.

It was while running back to the camp that I took note of the most wonderful thing. You never need music while running in infinite space. You’re never fiddling with your iPod searching for ‘Brothers In Arms’ while trying to maintain your pace. You don’t have to change the song to fit your mood. All you have is the wind. And it’s always singing the most perfect notes.

I Shall Always Remember

1.      Roorkee monsoons – for taking me, every time, to the beginning of four wonderful years

2.      The Meta wing – for showing me that not all people change

3.      The BC Dream – for coming true

4.      Watch Out News Agency – without which I’d still be typing in ‘Times New Roman’

5.      LitSec^TM – for being the only group I haven’t been thrown out of

6.      Bone-chilling winters – for moongfali, coffee and rose-cheeked girls

7.      The slope – for letting speed thrill, in the days before the humps

8.      Numbers 62, 63 and 64 – and their occupants

9.      Kondy – for being my name

10.  Se7en – even if it’s on the second floor

11.  Comfortably Numb – for having been my favourite song for most of my college life

12.  Valentine’s Day – because it never came

13.  My old (Atlas) ‘Flame’ – for taking me to places where my legs could not

14.  Mussoorie – for being so close by

15.  Café Coffee Day – for a lot can happen over coffee

16.  Orchid Pharma & Chemicals Pvt Ltd  – my first internship

17.  The Grand Old Men – mentors, if not anything else

18.  The Farjical engineers – for loving Fun more than I do

19.  Chelsea FC – for finding me so many new friends. And enemies.

20.  Cognizance 2010 – for helping me draw half a lakh out of a man who threw a two-thousand rupee cheque at me when I was in school

21.  The Formatting Days – which made me the diplomat I am today.

22.  Pro-Evolution Soccer – because it’s so bloody awesome

23.  iPod Shuffle – for always knowing what to play next

24.  Six Registration Cards – because I cannot forget them

25.  My CGPA – for being the roller-coaster which never went off the rails

26.  The original Krows and Helmet-head – for being who they are

27.  The Schlumberger days – “Money for nothing”

28.  The Newspaper man – who has tossed papers into my room unfailingly for three years

29.  Karan-Arjun in BR – which remains an eternal source of déjà-vu

30.  The Ganga canteen-wala (whose name I still don’t know) – who disarmed me with his smile, every time

31.  ‘Late’ Team-WONA – for being people I will love forever

32.  Delhi and Chandi Debates – for all the cute girls

33.  Old Monk – for coming at 35 Rupees a shot (RP)

34.  The Gym – for helping me put matter over mind

35.  My dying laptop – for staying alive

36.  EDC IITR – for being there through my fourth year

37.  Department of Chemical Engineering, IITR – which god-alone-knows-how is the best department of the country

38.  Spirited Fellows and Solani Nights – “To more of the same!”

39.  Chest-monster and the Robot – Madmen

40.  Gambit and the Camera-man – for sticking around

41.  Team Goa and the Goat – “Next time, Tito’s!”

42.  You, Blog.

Transporter

On 23rd July 2007, I first set foot on Roorkee soil. Being the responsible maddu that I was, I telephoned the only R-person's number I possessed. Obviously, being a long-drawn maddu connection (cousin of friend of school-senior), the person in question was himself quite Maddu. I was with mum when I met Venkatesh Nandakumar outside the Saraswati Mandir some four years ago. And Venky told me the stories and the legends of the land. He also introduced me to the Velociraptor, who I came to know quite well during his years here.

Anyway, the two of them later informed me about how a first year is expected to behave. What they said, in nutshell, could be retold as: Be a proper Maddu who doesn't speak Hindi, wears the quintessential black and white shirt and trousers, and never looks at anything but his feet. And DON'T buy a bicycle.

To be quite frank, I was so terrified by his words that I almost sold my bicycle back home. But as time wore on, I realized that the distances were too much to be negotiated by foot. And so, filled with trepidation, I bought the black Atlas Flame which would become one of my closest companions in IIT Roorkee.

________________________________________________________________________

Having dinner early that evening, I decided it was dark enough to mingle inconspicuously with the campus environs. Cool autumn breeze blowing powerfully across one's face is motivation enough to up the speed. Pedalling furiously up a speed-breaker-less slope, I was greeted by the dazzling Central Library which was as new around these parts as I was. Overawed that I was by the sights that I encountered, I made a few wrong turns and didn't make a few right ones. And I ended up getting thoroughly lost.

'Transport Engineering' was the board that I stood in front of, and I didn't know what the hell it meant. And harbouring that perennial fear of being found-out, I decided not to ask anyone the route back, which only meant that my nerves took a tremendous beating. Naturally, I did find my way around eventually but these are  the very first memories I have with my bicycle.

________________________________________________________________________

Over the years, it helped me reach meetings only twenty minutes late and classes only five. It helped me climb the slope a million times, just so that I could enjoy my ride down. It helped me outrace packs of angry stray dogs and do countless other things. It is only ironic that, never having left my side for three-and-a-half years, it chose to get stolen this semester, thus robbing me of a chance to say goodbye.

Rest in peace, Cycle.

Lavender Girl

The decibel is upped, swallowing the still
In the burning lamps, red turns green
One thousand people palisade him, til’
He’s aware of none but the Lavender girl.

Standing her side, he watches her long
Until in her eyes, he finds his own…
A maudlin sigh, then with a smile so strong
She gazes at him through the cast-iron bars.

He has grown to love the way she laughs
And wishes she wouldn't do any of it now;
For when your world is being torn in halfs,
You cannot bear to listen to that voice.

As a monochrome man on grey cement earth,
Clumsily, he clutches the cold window grille
Black and white and colours without mirth
She reaches out but cannot touch his hand.

He opens his mouth so he can speak
But words don’t flow from a gated heart
Words for the brave, tears for the meek
He fights them back as the Lavender girl leaves.

Bow out with dignity, to himself he says
Kill all passion and restore peace:
He begins to erase their together-days
And erases a part of himself too.

The moment has passed, the train pulls away
Along the platform, he keeps up pace
Knocking over many an invisible man
As he wipes a tear off her face.

A million greys pile upon him
As he gasps and falters; seizes to run
He watches the train disappear dim
That Lavender shade is his no more.

Goodbye TS

The blogger in me was still unborn when I first undertook the rigorous time-trial of a mid-semester examination. Those were days when my Branch-change dreams were still in their infancy; when I saw everything through rose-tinted lenses. The new Central Library had just been opened (and wasn’t the hostile MGCL of today) and India was yet to win the T20 World Cup.

Today, I see tinges of grey even as I re-read my post, though I know that the rose-tinted lenses have just sauntered back on for their second-innings. TSs have always been a time when I’m at my element – at least on my blog (my Glory, Glory Ghissing days are a distant memory). I once made a promise and I've endeavoured to fulfil it over the past few years: Write a blog-post on the eve of every TS. 2011 hasn't exactly been the konfessions’ golden age, and I must be forgiven for last time.

But I won’t fail twice. The days prior to a TS are days when the mind is at its creative best. Make all Indians write TSs and I swear to you that we’ll be a superpower before Armageddon – 2012.

It feels strange and rather disturbing that there was once a time I could write seven exams in two days in relative comfort. Today, three in as many days feels like an ordeal. But it’s probably a lot when you think of the fact that we have only five contact hours in a week. Nevertheless, I must turn away from my blog so I can ensure that this TS is, indeed, my last.

Goodbye TS. I shall miss you.

Off My Bucket List

Some of my fondest moments in Watch Out News Agency, and thus on campus, involve staring at the old tree which the wise old dog speaks about so highly. I’m sure most people who have stared in wonderment at the old tree’s majestic upper-branches will empathize with me when I say that the profoundest of thoughts jump out of its withering bark.

I’m quite certain campus Wi-Fi jumped out of it while it was a few rings younger and maybe co-ed hostels will emerge one fine day, as most of us fancifully dream. But usually, staring results in – The E&C Tower. What to do with the E&C tower? How to blow it up? How to throw oneself to the Gaon using the mighty concrete tower as a giant trebuchet? And so on…

While the greatest ‘Rank’ I’ve written would involve ways of getting oneself into SB and staying there undetected, all other spots in my top ten list would have something to do with the mysterious phallic structure. Fucchas, year after year, are bedazzled by the brilliant Main Building and baffled by the weird tower mastering the slope. And seniors leaving the institute inevitably harbour one unfulfilled dream – “Damn, I never scaled it!” Well, I did. (Albeit with a few score others)

Having gone four dry years, I’ve scaled it twice in two days now: courtesy Cognizance 2011. The fifteen story climb is an arduous one – but like in all great treks and pilgrimages – totally worth the effort! The summit has something for everyone: While flying paper planes off the top never occurred to us when we stared at the tree, the bearded one’s ‘Dragon’ demonstrated what fine aerodynamics must consist of. Gelf’s own multiethnic jackass spotted Kerala on the horizon and the Shutterbug was busy capturing anything and everything under the sun (including the sun itself, which, he very intelligently realized, was a few feet closer).

For me, it was about what R has always been about.

WondeRland lies in full brilliance in front of my eyes in uncorrupted pristine splendour. I watch the people, who have meant so much to me, scamper about like tiny ants disappearing into the trees. The sun drowns us in radiant ochre. And I understand why I’ll never stop loving this place.

Ei8ht

The coat of arms catches your sight in all its magnificent gold and glittering red. A few moments later, you catch yourself gazing achingly at sun-dried brown and mildly striped white. Despite the dazzle and the intoxicating essence, you realize that the experience may not be as wonderful as someone once told you. But Novelty is a cruel friend, and Novelty won't let you go that easily.

You try to do it like them, but you fail miserably... There is not suavity or elegance like what you saw on television, as the powerful substance enters you. You cough and you wheeze. Your vision blurs and you stumble. But do you give up?

As you soon discover, Time is a panacea and your feet rediscover the firm earth below. So you try again, and this time harder. The fumes rise mightily and overpower your feeble body. You are part of it now, as it is part of you. But you don't like it... Not just yet. No.

Somehow you manage the third, to the amusement of some of your friends. This time you feel so much more in control and you realize that it has always been about the mind, from the very beginning: you wanted to conquer that searing stem. And now that you have, you could let go but it has endeared itself to you.

The fourth drag is followed by the fifth and then fresh air floods your lungs. Your hands are numb as they hang loosely by your side, like those of a puppet. A cold breeze, an inky sky, rustling leaves, burning stem, and you are alone... The Universe comes to an end: No longer do the dogs bark; the full moon appears painted on a motionless black screen; the air is stagnant; the waves hang in suspended animation; you freeze. The rhythmic ticking of the clock breaks the silence.

You put your lips to the filter for a sixth time and the world jerks into sudden motion. The dogs hasten after one another; the moon is partially covered by the racing cirrus; a blast of icy cold wind blows away the ash; the waves crash against the rocky shore; and cold noxious fumes enter your lungs. People stare at you in awe, like the way they would stare at their favourite movie hero. But you are unaware of all this, of course.

Lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy and pride: Seven is your ticket to the almighty heavens. Dreams become real in this world, everyone is happy and you are their king. Sorrows in this world ebb away into the infinite and anger is a forgotten pleasure. It is the hardest world to leave, but everything good must have an end. And this does too.

The ring of burning red is very close to your fingers now and you feel it feeding on your flesh. But you don't want to stop now. You want to push the high: thus comes the eighth drag, and your lap of honour. The hot fumes cloud your mouth and you gasp once again. You know that it has ended but you will never want to leave. You will want to stay here forever. But you can't do that. You cannot have more. You must let go. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven and eight... You must let go now!

And so the last puffs of smoke leave you. Forever.

Senti Mental

Another lazy morning reminds me that the calendar has turned yet another page in what has been a semester of erratic fortunes. The mellow light filtering in through the dusty mesh covering my window reminds me that the newspaperman will be here soon with his pricy Hindu newspaper. I remind myself to go to the ATM to forage enough cash to pay him off; that is when yesterday's copy of the paper reminds me that I haven't done justice to it.

I lift it off my side table meticulously, without disturbing myriad other things which lie beside it, and I discover day-before-yesterday's paper below it. I chastise myself for my shameless habit of not reading-up current-affairs, only to discover that my wrath is ill-directed. For I'm not really angry at myself for not reading the latest on the 2G scam, but for the fact that I let these things lie around.

I remember my mom admonishing me as a kid, when I refused to part with toys of yore, "Throw them out, son!" But I did nothing of that sort. I used to secretly stash them in the corner of my shelf along with the other stuff I couldn't bear to part with - books, worn-out crayons, old clothes and other stochastic paraphernalia. I knew that mom would find them out one day and then destroy them all with one cold-blooded swipe. But that never really hurt me, as I wouldn't know about it happening, until it was all done. And after that, I could barely remember what it was she had thrown away. So all ended well.

Now I am not that kid. And mom's not around to throw stuff away for me. And it hurts. I find myself drowning in a deluge of stuff I really oughtn't keep! I look around to find innocuous immaterial collections of Airline Baggage Tags and Bus and Train tickets, weird stationery items like a first semester notebook or a 'historic' pen, clothes which I won't wear ever - like the T-Shirt my dhobi ripped through, sentimental reminders of what I once thought important including wrappers, labels, boxes and memory-cards, empty cans of deodorant and broken knife blades.

I am determined now to rid myself of this horrendous habit. And what better way than to throw out these relics of the past. And thus I proceed to my shelf to blast them all into oblivion; but then the newspaperman is here. And I need to pay him. May be I should throw the stuff out some other day...

Reinvention

It was never about ‘D by DX’s or asymptotic lines which never mean anything! It has never been about swallowing a few pages up whole overnight and spitting the pages out, without having the goddamn decency to assimilate even a few captions… It has never ever been about dirty un-understandable balances or the fact that 2100 is a boundary condition for turbulence!! We have been lied to.

The foremost institutions of learning have pulled the bloody wool over our eyes; our eyes, only too willingly, have submitted to the shroud. We sit here today, indolent as ever, unwilling to put in even that small ounce of energy into understanding what we came here to do. We sit and we get tired of sitting. We get bored. And we begin watching a movie – a movie which propagandizes a well known foreign institution – lifting it a few notches further in our heads; Awesome has just become God-level. And then we curse. We curse the books; the profs; the methods; the exams; the whole f*#ing system! And we sit in awe of those people sitting abroad, going about their jobs with ostensibly effortless ease.

I don’t know where to start. Is it the professors? Is it Us? Is it MHRD? Is it…

The professors, of course, have failed miserably to perform their basic function – to mentor the student. But they aren’t here to mentor us; are they? They aren’t here out of choice… They seem to have been dumped here. One advice to all those who are thinking about pedagogy as a career: Teach if Teaching is your first love. If you are going to teach because you think you have no better option, then kill yourself. That’s better.

But you can’t really blame a professor, can you? They probably were subjected to the same means of education as we are now, and they know no better. And they don’t want to know any better. But that can’t stop someone who claims he chose Engineering for his life, can it? And in no realm of earthly imagination can Engineering sound boring… So what is it?! Why do we think that life beyond the IITs, far away across the oceans, is all lovely and beautiful; life eased by push-button technology and magical inventions. You can bet your four years in the college that they slog their backsides off like we can hardly imagine. Nothing comes easy.

And why does every one of us feel that it is a pain to go through what we are being taught. If there is one thing I have learnt, it is that Work doesn’t remain Work once you start loving it. And Science and Engineering once stood for everything that I believed in… Where has that gone now? It is only plausible that I have fallen to a devil called Disillusionment. But then, so has everyone else! How the hell does it make sense?

How does it make sense that the highest ranker is so oft looked down upon and is subjected to ridicule rather than veneration? And how does it make sense that the highest ranker in a class studies for the Grade, without love for what he is doing? Why does it happen that 'Management' becomes a fall-back phrase as the senior undergraduate year approaches? Life is not about eliminating opportunities and choosing what you hate least. It’s about what you love most.

If you don’t love anything, your existence is irrelevant. Obsolete.

Today, I met a man who explained to me why his name was prefixed by the phrase “Doctor of Philosophy”. I am afraid I have met him too late; beyond the point of no return. He explained to me the ways of nature, the ways of an engineer and the ways of an ideal engineering institution. He told me about the oneness of man and machine… the union of all the disciplines at the pinnacle of human achievement… And how nothing is possible without effort, observation and intelligence…

Did I get senti? Hell, yes. But can I do anything about it…

Alvida

I entered this phase of my life as a sceptic - a disbeliever. I came prejudiced, constantly and repeatedly attempting to poison my mind with the words - "I shan't yield to temptation". Today, I stand a changed man. A believer. A sinner.

For these six weeks have given me some very memorable moments, ones I will cherish for a long, long time to come. I entered SLB wondering why they recruit people from the 'creamy layer' to perform tasks which any blundering idiot can also, with suitable training... Today I know that it isn't about the job as much as about the culture it brings about. Just like Roorkee, godforsaken that it is, has been able to develop its own quaint, unique culture, so has Schlumberger. And this, most disturbingly, has endeared it to me.

I recall those initial days when we underwent examinations which tested our safety training and safe operating practice knowledge. One particular exam required a minimum of 90% to pass and I can proudly say today, that it is the only test until today which I have failed. Four times in a row. Each of these times, there was this question which repeatedly occurred - "What is the last step after tool maintenance & check-up". I repeatedly dismissed a certain option the first few times, laughing my head off when I saw it pop up on the screen. I finally passed the test when I realized that it was, in fact, the correct answer - "Paint it blue".

These few weeks have seen me become a nomad, an epicurean, a spoilt brat, a romantic... I have come to enjoy a certain facet of life which I never knew I could - one involving the world of malls, movies, million-dollar houses, and more city. Somehow, I've also had the time to fall in love with any language which can make beautiful poetry - Urdu being the latest in this list...

I came to Mumbai happy that I was closer to Roorkee. Now, I wish I had more time here - Roorkee can wait. My blood seems to have turned a little blue and I know I have changed. I wonder if it is correct. Nevertheless, I find it exceedingly hard to separate myself from this experience. And I try to find solace in words:

"Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened."

What's Your Dream?

There is this little kid next door, only three years old and clever as hell. He's an overly exuberant kid whose restlessness knows no bounds. It is as though he finds it imperative to do more than whatever he is doing at that moment. Albeit exceedingly fast, and sometimes reckless, I realized that he can hardly keep up with the speed at which his processing centre functions!

And hence, he performs like most machines we have studied about - lagging the stimulus by quite a bit. Strangely though, today I discovered that he wasn't much unlike me! It was an alarming discovery.

Some days back, I had asked the kid what he wanted to do when he grew up; a question I take immense pleasure in asking because of the fact that I used to respond 'An Engine Driver'. He promptly answered, "A Neurosurgeon!"

I was impressed. I was amazed at the nonchalance of it all. He had his life planned out at such a tender age, and I swore to myself that day that if ever I'd meet him as a neurosurgeon some decades from now, I'd eat my hat.

Yesterday, I found myself smiling once more as I stood there observing the way he lay underneath his tricycle studying the moving parts therein. What happened next was unexpected as my flatmate found it prudent to walk up to the kid and ask him the same question - "Child, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

The answer came out just as fast as it had the last time - "An Astrophysicist!" I smiled to myself, as my flatmate appreciated the vocabulary of the three-year old.

Today, I approached that kid once more, this time quite deliberately. I only wanted to know if he'd fall back on any of his previous choices. He was playing with a fancy spinning-top. I asked him the question - "Kid, what will you be when you grow up?"

The answer was unleashed - "The president." He continued fiddling with his toy. He never once looked up at me. I was so happy that I'd have bought the kid a lollypop! But then, he asked me a question next; one I was quite unprepared for. It came out of the blue:

"Bhaiyya, what do you want to be?"

I stood there silently. I looked around as the walls seemed to close in. I whispered to him, "I don't know." And I took the elevator for the ground floor. I'm afraid of seeing the child again.

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.

Foot-lose

If this day hadn't already done enough to merit itself a few inches of space on this Course of Human Events, the events of the last hour have made it inevitable. So much so, that I've succumbed to the thought that - if this post isn't made, nothing else is worth writing about! To begin with, this post could, so easily, have been titled 'Remember, remember; The seventeenth November'.

One major reason I didn't post promptly after receiving two wonderful messages was the fact that I didn't want to sound like a narcissistic creep. The other, of course, was because I wouldn't have had the time to draft one as I was drowned in a deluge of SMSs, GTalk IMs and gargantuan EDC and WONA threads (yes, the latter giving the former a run for its money). Now, however, I realize that this moment of indulgence is perhaps something I must be forgiven for... One of the many reasons which bind me to the blogosphere is the fact that 'konfessionsofageenius' is a chronicle of my life, and if this day didn't make it there among the top days, I don't know what would. Some day I'll look back at this post...

A miss, a mistake and Bang! A strange shortlist and a weird Group Discussion preceded what was to be a classy interview- a dream, to be precise. With no technical question asked and the interviewer delving into subjects like Lit and EDC, I thought I had a reasonable shot. Then finally, when he took a copy of the latest 'Watch Out!', I thought I had it... They made me wait, but yes - I got Schlum.

Just when the formalities of home-calling had been finished and the sluice-gates were gradually giving in, Cogni decides to put up the second overdue list of the day. I wonder whether there are two other such adjacent Cogni rooms in the insti now, apart from Pinky et moi. Well, forget the sluices now. The dam had collapsed.

It took a while for everything to sink in as people all over telephoned and messaged. Thank you, all. Some people went into praise mode, some asked for chapos, few asked me details of the interview, while some said 'I was being too modest'. Still others said that they were doing their best to ruin the day for me. Thank you, Dela. And thank you, Lefty, for having that happen. And thank you, Lit, for everything else about it.

That hasn't dented this evening, but a mongrel almost did. Well, I found myself in Ravindra an hour back trying to get my Practical work signed. A Research Scholar who wouldn't let me into his room with my shoes on greeted me. I took the Four-'K' pair off, of course, and earned entry into the room. Soon, he was using me as an office boy to tabulate his bills, even as he took his time signing my file. Needless to say, I was half Gujju when I left his room, albeit with some A's in the bag, only to see a single shoe greeting me at the threshold!

Who would take one shoe?! Half-an-hour of math was thrown out the window as I realized a single shoe in a Rs.4000 pair wasn't worth two grand. Soon, two madmen (one shoe-less) were seen outside the Ravindra canteen searching for an elusive shoe, which I was told, had been taken by a dog. Soon some others including the watchman joined us in the hunt even as I profusely insulted the RS's lineage in every language I knew. The dog was detected, but the shoe was gone.

Another half hour and thoroughly scanned grounds later, it was discovered beside a bathroom somewhere far-far away! Nothing has gone wrong (yet) and I walk with two shoes.

P.S. Happy birthday, Nimba. The 17th of November will be difficult to forget.

P.P.S. Thank you all. Again.

It All Began Here...

Another week has passed, although with a better conclusion this time - as the recruitments, being as interesting as they always are, didn't fail to satisfy. Half a score girls walk through the same tunnel we traversed two summers ago. The repeated sensations of dejavu were only justified then, even though it was my first time as an interviewer inside KB. Having missed out on the major chunk of the recruitment procedure last time around, I can unequivocally state that this is the first time I formally sat at the other end of a Watch Out interview.

7th August 2009: What one looks for in an interview cannot clearly be put into words. An abstract quantity albeit intangible, can be felt, though not explained. That being stated, its funny then to see a pattern in the way people retort. You place the same question to a number of persons separated spatially or by time, you will inevitably elicit the same responses! One such question turned the hour glass back two complete circles to my very own final interview in the RJB TV room.

Mid August 2007: I entered the room amidst a grim atmosphere, trying hard not to flash all thirty-two. I didn't want to portray myself as a very serious person also. All the same, I can openly admit today that calling the ambience a little unnerving would be a gross understatement. Some fifteen pairs of eyes stared at me intently as I composed myself. I identified but a few then, mainly from the intro-talk, among the many people I would come to know in the years to come. I remember vividly Lefty with a diary in hand (I'm pretty sure) and Khandu, who sported the kind of a look I would have called 'dashing' back then. Banga looked as innocent as he would ever. SriPri, Middah, Sarthak, GoGo, Bonda, Young-Sahith - everyone was there.

I believe it was Khandu who remarked about the disapparition of my spectacles. The questions which followed where not exactly what I'd have called banal; nevertheless I would be lying if I said that they were unexpected altogether! But then came a final question, after which I was asked to leave the room... It was a question which took me back three years, to the days when the mind cared not about anything significant and a time when thoughts meandered so randomly.

Sometime in 2004-05: Standard 9: The day was bright; the guys in their usual boisterous mood and the girls huddled away in their private discussions filled with frequent giggles. The spatial confines of a room which restricted their activities would never be able to incarcerate the human mind. As things stood, on many desks were already carved ambigrams of our names - such was the creativity and joblessness of those days of yore.

It was a free period, and afraid of letting any time go waste devoid of creativity, our minds drifted onto poesy. That was the day, in that very classroom, a friend - my namesake and I sat down to pen a poem; definitely not my first and perhaps not my best, but one which would inspire me to write more. Many more.

The brightness dissolved into the shadows... and there I was, again in KB, asking the same question I had been asked in in 2007. The answer - one which ought to have been my first blog post. One which I had started typing out way back in December 2007, only to give up time and again in favour of a more pressing topic. However, this interview interrogative, one of the less expected ones, finally brings forth the long overdue and heretofore unrecognized. "What is the most creative thing you have penned?"

At that time only one rhyme brimmed my head.

He will come to every being,
Yet he instils fear
With eyes glazed, unseeing;
An expression calm and clear.

He will come when the time is right
Like the grey clouds bringing rain;
Like the darkness swallowing light
The essence of being, he will drain.

When he’s here, we’ll know for sure
By his chilly, rattling breath;
He is Fear, yet so pure

He is here, here is Death…

The interview was then declared complete.

But It Rained

The chapo was over. Suppressing a mighty burp at its very nascence, after having devoured two Paneer-Pyaaz Paranthas, a Pav-Bhaaji, one and two-seventh portions of fried-Maggi and an aloo poha (the last of which, I detected was spoilt after having shovelled in a few spoonfuls), I struggled to rise from my seat which I am quite sure would have buckled under my weight had I eaten another morsel. The human brain recommends that you eat until you are full and then exist in equilibrium with atmospheric pressure - but this process is apparently deleted from the register when some one else is paying for your meals! Nevertheless, with great effort, not only did I manage to stand up, I negotiated a few steps towards the Ganga Canteen exit. To Cautley and beyond... Or so I had so naively thought.

The Met Department predicted, in today's newspaper, (which, thankfully, I have been allowed to read again by the newspaperwala) that the SE-monsoon trough has moved further up north. As an average human being, evincing as much faith in Met as I would express in the IITR Admin, I only thought it convention that a long dry spell should follow. And there. Met tricks you again! This one time they get it right and the everlasting dilemma of 'Can we always consider Met wrong?' continues...

It was 1 a.m. With my tangible presence getting soaked in moon-sized droplets and my mind still pondering about how I must run the Ganga-Cautley gauntlet, my temporal lobe picked up a nutter's quip, "How about football?" Bizarre sounding at first, it gained universal acceptance soon and then against my better sense of judgement, I jumped on the bandwagon too! And into some puddles, in jeans, slippers and all. What followed was an 'awesome' session of dragging the ball through pools, slush tackling (which apparently has it advantages) and observation of wet-ball aerodynamics. An irate Resident Warden and a feckless watchman looked on in awe. And veneration.

The game ended at one all (possibly), with no one keen about keeping scores, when most people had each completed the mandatory ten somersaults in the muck. Chemical's obsession with photo-shoots followed (which might even be uploaded by now) when the cloud-cover relented. I began my arduous, risky trip back home dodging tadpoles here and searching for bricks there. I also realized the importance of being on the look-out for live wires during rainy days such as these. My clothes are ruined, but it was fun all the same. It would have been just another day with a chapo and some footy. But it rained.

P.S. Frogs are cuter and nicer creatures than one imagines them to be. They actually oblige by leaping out of your way before every one of your steps.

Three Point Oh!

A new year. A new dawn. More insolent, supercilious juniors (not that I have any reason to complain). A road leading away from the half way mark... The same old routine, punctuated with few new additions to the my repertoire - like football every evening and arbit walks (which I never previously had considered worthwhile) through the lesser explored realms of the insti. I also rediscovered my penchant for arbit chats, my GTalk status indicating as much a few days back, courtesy GTalk itself and an eighteen year old by the name: Leif K-Brooks. The new year also saw the insti screwing with me once more, as I ended up exiting sophomore with lesser credits earned than any of my contemporaries who hadn't earned themselves a back. I also wasn't given an elective and chosing 'Creative Writing' has been one of the better decisions of my life - if it weren't for which, I'd never have learnt about the 'Dutch' and his 'last Dutchess'. Vocab building is part of this course, I'm given to learn, and I've added at least two more oxymorons to my vocab already, thanks to Jetty - "Useful-Omegle-ing" and "Thomso-work".

I have been one of those few who have been fortunate enough to retain their original names as part of their identity. 'Anirudh', 'Ani-Arun' and 'Ani' were the only names I cared to respond to. However, a short life at IITR has redined nicknaming as I find myself responding to words of varied origins - from the absurd 'Kondy' to the inane 'Andrews' and then the insane 'Kondrews', I have been supplied a plethora of appellations to cope with! Often the name transcends the language boundaries too - I also respond to the call 'Ani-puli'... Why, the burgeoning of names never ceases to amaze me. When people stopped being able to come up with better names, out of fear for having to resolve to banal, hackneyed phrases and words, they simply update the version! Apparently, the 'Kondy' saga has seen a 1.0, a 2.0 and now, most disturbingly, a 3.0 version! Yes. Now people simply say, "Three point oh!"

I cannot elucidate to you the differences between the Kondy prototype and its newest version, as I believe, along with many others, that there has been no modification. However with the higher intellectuals being either vela, bonkers or both, insisting on them being meaningful (read: declaring the same by fiat), I fear these names are here to stay! To the delight of the aforementioned brainboxes (and to my dismay), now any crazy act conceptualized by their fertile and versatile grey cells can be attributed to me by stating, as if obvious, "It's 3.0 da. He can do anything!"

Well, one week into this insti and 3.0 have already been in love (which, I'm told, lasted for a day or two), I have stood for Bhawan-Secy (God alone knows what is happening to that) and today, I've been informed that Kondy 3.0 is the greatest Ghissu ever! God save this world. God save Kondy 3.0 (at least).

The Inebriated End...

My mind was spiralling away... Thoughts skidded through at breakneck pace. My life, and more importantly the past two months, flashed in monochrome. I felt like I had been hit by a Humvee or worse, a hangover which had turned uglier than usual. The things I have done and the things I should have... The colours ebbed away and I felt my life wrung out; drained of hue... Everything was turning black and white. The last stoke of green and droplet of red were moving away, just out of my reach... I forced my eyes open, conceding to the end - what had been two lovely months was just inspiring its last great gasp.

The black was replaced by a blob of brown and some pastel shades of green and yellow. A cuboidal white entered the periphery of my vision. I squeezed my eyes until they watered and resigned to my new, yet familiar, life. As I looked past the globular rubber brown, the strange smelling pastes of yellow - I saw my own face. Strange property of light - this reflection. You see yourself; yet it isn't you. I saw myself shades sadder; mournful - a face feeling relegation. Or was it true?

It was then that I realized that I had been staring at the rotis and urghh... dal on the quintessential stainless steel. I observed the vanilla melt. The reflection was actually my face. I was back here - it was no nightmare. I have oft longed to return to Roorkee but today - the great demise - wasn't one of those days. It was a day I also realized that one half of my engineering life was over and the secong innings had begun! It was the day I finally decided that it was time to witness in awe the great wonders of true - Solani.

The putrid odours soon were in the past. The bizarre nighmares were forgotten. It is a new life, yet old, and I am back... It wasn't long before I recognized my love for this insti yet again. And how lucky the insti is to have people such as us! I love this place once more. It's good to be back.

Vive L'IIT.

To Forgo And To Forget

'Temasek' may not mean a lot to many (no, its not a Russian footballer) and fewer still would give the word more than a fleeting moment's notice. Others still, would see it as a chance of winning not only an all-expenses paid trip to Singapore (for six months), but also the unique opportunity of being able to forget about CGPA during the entire period while the insti maintains it for you. I have come under all the three categories of people I have mentioned during the course of the eventful week which has just elapsed.

I have always dreamt of travelling far and wide - seeing Machu-Pichu, Ougadougou, Vladivostok, Mogadishu... So what more could I have asked for when such an opportunity came knocking on my door - no strings attached? But soon after reflecting on it for but a few moments, I realized that there was, as there is to every good thing in this world, a flip-side of the deal... The implications of missing a sem and with it, one-eighth of my life in R seemed alarmingly profound. The profs who might be like - 'WhoTF are you?' when I get back... Friends who are separated from you by the Bay of Bengal and a few more seas... And juniors about whom you have no idea about in sections that you thought you knew! 'Hmmm, maybe it isn't a good idea after all."

But then, a half-hour spent with the Great Debator in the premises of the Ravindra Bhawan canteen laid all my worries to rest (and kinda made me look stupid to come up with them in the first place!) Paper work followed suit... We had to draft a matching plan with the names of the courses we would take in NUS in place of those here and then get it approved. It was just after the TS and we definitely weren't at our prime when it came to the speed and dexterity with which we were getting things done (Not that I'm any faster at my brisk best). Anyway, soon our hopes were high and my friend almost hummed a tune which sounded a bit oriental and a bit Tamizh!

However, the pace at which things went on, compounded by the many rules which bind our insti and the sloth which calls itself the Department of Chemical Engineering combined magnificently and resulted in a brilliant interview with the Dean of Academics. The prof. whose signature I needed on the all-encompassing subject-sheet did not set foot into the Department on D-Day (other profs refused to sign it citing difficulties in the matching) and I was left to fend for myself when I faced the panel.

The room had three inhabitants as I entered... The DoA, the coordinator of the NUS-IITR exchange (Co) and an Unknown Third Guy (UTG) (I didn't know him anyway). I made a grand entrance trying to look sad as well as hopeful - I had the required CG, you see... But the approved (subject) matching plan with NUS was not in my hands. Actually, the Subject-Plan was - just that there was no approval.

Trying to look guilty for my 'negligence', I sat there on the fourth chair as three pairs of eyes gazed keenly at me. My eyes, however, were fixed on the packet of Lays (American Sour Cream and Onion) placed at the centre of the table.

DoA: So (searching for the name) Anirudh, you have a good CGPA, we hear. One which matches our criteria.

Me: Yes sir. I understand that.

UTG: But we also understand that you do not possess the other criterion - the matching subject plan.

Me: Yes sir. (Avoiding the Lays packet now and looking straight at him) Actually, I do have the plan (holding up a folder) - only that it hasn't been fully approved. Four subjects out of six are oka-

UTG: That's a worthless piece of information you carry there. It clearly said 'Approved Plan'. You can read, surely?

Me: Yessir, I'm sure I can... But the head of the UG Committee didn't grace the department today. And we have shown it to the HOD als...

Co: Aapko leke aana chahiye tha. We can't wait any longer... Tomorrow is a holiday also.

UTG: What were you doing all these days? (Now to the DoA) Sir, we now have three applicants (only?!) - two, who don't possess the subject approvals and a third who doesn't match the CGPA criterion. (How convienient)

Me: Sir, could you give us another day? The TSs were the problem mainly and the fact that we didn't know what courses we have in the next sem. Regol has started now only sir...

DoA: I don't know if...

UTG: How can you even come up with such an excuse?? I'm sorry I don't think we can do anything about this.

DoA (now agreeing with UTG, who seemed to have sworn vengeance on me): Yes. I'm sorry Mr. Anirudh. The CG is okay but nothing can be done. Thank you.

Me: Thank you, sir. I understand that its too late. So if there is nothing that can be done... Thank you, sir.

As I left the room, I felt that maybe I should have insisted on a day's extension - maybe I gave in too easily.

But the next person into the room alleviated all those doubts. He argued for a while and ended up just short of being booted out of the room by the UTG, who now seemed to be on a roll having finished the entire 20 Rupees packet!

The whole experiance did leave me with a bitter taste. But then again, the plan may not have been approved even if the prof had arrived (though I'd have felt a lot better being rejected that way). One may feel it is 'sour grapes' if I say that now, 'I feel better that I didn't make it'. But that is exactly how I feel right now. The only regret I carry now is be the fact that I missed out watching the 3-1 Liverpool clobbering at Anfield (though I did watch the minute-by-minute commentary most of the time). All I'd say at the end of it all is the clichéd, but highly relevant 'All's well that ends well.'

P.S. The name is Ivanovic - Branislav Ivanovic.

P.P.S. Thus ended the first formal interview of my life (at least in R). In a nutshell, short and sweet (or sour, should I say)... I conclude here with the hope that I'll survive for a bit longer in the interviews to come. Amen.

Ideaz - A Thesis on Cogni

Yes, today (yesterday) it happened. Efforts spanning over three months finally manifesting themselves as a brilliant three days was a pleasing sight. This being my first experiance with something so big made it all the more special. Albeit my job involved mainly sitting in the Cognizance office, I'm glad to have been part of the event which seems to have redeemed some lost glory after last year's abysmal show. Throughout the last three months, I have only looked forward to the event and now it has come to an end.

During my great sittings in the office - chatting with arbit creatures, studying the patterns of cracks developing on the walls (and hacking Jetty's facebook profile), I learnt that sitting can often turn out to be a regretful experience. Not only does your backside get numb after a while, it also leads to a highly vela (jobless) and destructive mind which only calms down (on further sitting) due to sleep. Nevertheless, as I was saying, I had looked forward to the event... and perhaps to the temporary periods of plush greenery on campus ('Think Energy. Go Green.' - it was always there for a reason).

Today, the curtains finally fell... (can I take a bow here?) and it was definitely better than I had imagined it to be. In fact Cognizance grew into something so big (amplified by the absence of mishaps during the event - apart from the falling of ceiling tiles at the string theory lecture) during the three days that even the anticlimax, being Anushka (who was bad; apart from the mini) and The Aryans (who were worse and didn't have the mini), couldn't cloud the aura. Even HHH stealing my icecream didn't dampen my spirit! (That's saying something...) The only regret which remains is the fact that I have wound up richer by not a penny (read: I did not participate in Ideaz).

I don't believe in lifting others' years of sweat and brilliance, putting it in one concise 10 slide ppt (or pptx) and winning myself two or three K (which every random guy seems to have done). If Ideas weren't enough, there were a more paper presentations - Prakriti and Urja, Ruraisle, and zillions of other such events attracted people from far off and wide - transcending states (and nations?). But these definitely satiated the monetary requirements of the Roorkee junta and also promises a number of chapos in the month to come. I'm disturbed by the ease with which people have made cash. But then again - maybe I should have entered one? Why blame someone else for my abysmally (yes, I've taken a liking for this word ever since I learnt how wrongly it can be used) dry Cogni!

The quizzes were there again... This time, more than the others, I regretted sitting through some of the torturous finals (esp. General - which gave even the finalists a headache and MMS - which I thankfully didn't sit through). I organized and I participated, but whatever I did - all the quizzes could be described by the great word - "Arbit". In fact it changed from arbit to arbiter to the  arbitest.

'Arbit-Quiz'-manufacturer: Any answers?

The-Biz-Whiz: Pass.

Arbit-fact-collector: That is an artists's depiction of Europa being kidnapped by Zeus! (what?)

'Arbit-Quiz'-manufacturer: What a nonchalant response!

Whoa! I came. I saw. I got Arbitted! As matter of fact, even Bizztech (to the great frustration of Ghajini) was arbit - reasons may have been many: the less time we'd got; we overslept etc... still. I nevertheless congratulate the winners of all  the quizzes whilst I'm still thoroughly perplexed as to where, how and why someone would gather such strange trivia!

Today, the last day of Cogni'09, was the first day I actually went out in a quest for events, but alas, there were none! As usual, the great saviour called Bakar was there yet again.... Though a certain Akhilesh's (who?) losses livened the atmosphere at UG. The day almost ended in a high but the cacophony at Pro-Nite quickly brought us down to the Earth and firmly rooted our feet in good ol' Terra Firma.

What I was looking forward to, since the holidays, has come and gone, leaving behind only a TS, an end-semester and lots of classes hovering ominously in our path. Talking about classes, what about tomorrow? (or is that today?)

P.S. We are the champions of Chandigarh... I congratulate the Biz Whizzes as well as Lit-Sec whilst I condemn Biz Whiz #1 for not showing restraint and rationale in his single handed 'completion' of certain purchases.

P.P.S. The aeroshow rocked. I didn't expect IITR to put up something like it...

P.P.P.S. Guus Hiddink is a magician.