The Selling Foray

The evenings at the Institute is actually a boring affair.

Bland food to the palette and a lot of assignments to bear the burden of!

But, the last 3 days was all about frenzy festivities.

The Great Lakers had all geared up for going in 60 hours to set up their mini ventures and mint money. More than the monetary part, it was for igniting the entrepreneurial blitz in the managers-to-be.

The event 'Gone in 60 hours' was an initiative by the CIECOM (Center for Innovation and Entrepreneurship Committee) at the Great Lakes Chennai campus from the 13th to 15th of July 2013.

Many budding-entrepreneurs-hidden-within came out of their comfort zones and put the hats of sales men, blaring out in their croaky/deep/chirpy/bombastic voices to woo customers to get their stuff out of the inventory. Some were seen as chefs sans the toque, some did shuttle services to get more from MORE and so on.

What a scene, beautiful to behold!

They had to prove their mettle and battle it out to the way to being the best entrepreneur in the campus with a span of 60 hours.

The guys (and girls too) were all girding up their loins to get the things set.

The CEOs-to-be were actually on the field like wayside hawkers to sell their wares to the passers-by.

Lip smacking treats were prepared out of the limitation of the hostel rooms.

People collaborating to get the desired end product done- some procuring raw materials, some setting the work-in-progress, some serving as ancillary suppliers, some filling in as in-bound logistics personnel etc.- a treat to watch.

People running around to get the deliveries done to the hostel room  
                  -and we awaited the arrival of the food with drooling mouths and high expectations.

And they did keep up the expectations and went better than those we kept in stock.

The beauty parlors,
-the hair dressers,
-the adrenaline pumped gaming experience zones,
-helpers of the cupid struck,
-tarot reading fortune tellers,
-the nail biting finishes of cricket
        made it look more like a village fan fare than a college.

It was fun, friends calling out to friends hoping them to shell out some money to buy and those on the other side of the counter hoping their friends to give or gift them out of their friendship.

Last but not the least, all the people clearing their mailboxes over and over, archiving, transferring and deleting all over the place.

The future beckons them, who were ready to help themselves!!

Review- Bhaag Milkha Bhaag

Bhaag Milkha Bhaag- The biopic on one of the finest athlete the nation has produced

A movie fit for being the finest. 

Rakesh Omprakash Mehra has done his best in the director's garb. Penned by Prasoon Joshi, the script has caught on the intricacies of the Indo-Pak relations and the problems that happened during the partition.

The movie has Farhan Akthar at the helm to blow life into Milkha Singh's forgotten glory. Akthar deserves applause as he portrays on screen, his career best performance. At times, Farhan seemed off note and expressionless. But taking into consideration, the acting prowess and dedication this person portrayed, it is definitely not a let down. 

The female lead Sonam Kapoor, who has nothing to do except smile throughout her screen presence, was a let down as compared to her previous performance in Raanjhanaa. Divya Dutta, who was seen as Isri Kaur, Milkha's sister was throughout seen with her brotherly affection. Commendable act indeed. 

Pawan Malhotra as coach and mentor, Gurudev Singh aided by Prakash Raj and Yograj Singh have done justice to their roles. 

Meaty performances by Rebecca Breeds and Meesha Shafi as Stella and Perizad respectively was good and steaming on screen but the question remains, was the obsession towards showing skin and more skin needed in depicting the life of a personality. 

The 187 minute run time of the movie was not quite long as it could have been. The extended duration was well justified with excellent scripting, BGM and lots of visual treats to feast the eyes on. 

Music by Shankar Ehsan Loy was as usual a treat for the ears. 

Verdict: Rating- ***1/2

Bhaag Milkha Bhaag is definitely a must watch- keeping in mind the glorious sporting years we had. 

Milkha shall keep on running for the medallion that the hearts have bestowed on him already. 

The Self-Made Superstar

His eyes glistened with the reflection of the eerie light on the wall.

His biceps twitched at the sight of the sidekicks who blocked his way.

The fiery glare out from his eyes made them tremble with fear.  

He took long strides to meet the evil don. 

Aloof about what lay ahead, bearing the guts and bravery of the iron will, he walked in the door. 

Facing the wall, seated on a tall leather chair was the evil don, who left the world in tears. The blood curdled screams of the lives lost battling the don filled his ears. 

As he was expecting, the don swiveled the chair and faced him. On his laps were his pet iguana, whose eyes resembled the blood shot merciless eyes of the don himself. The evil grin matched with the god of death himself.

Now they were face to face. 

The good versus the bad.

The hero versus the villain. 

As a master of Tai-pu, our man challenged the don for a bout after a swift exchange of dialogues.

It was the war of the worlds. If it happened in the Vedic era, even the gods and asuras who came to see the fight would let out a shriek of agony on seeing the plight they underwent.

A kick on to the groins and the don was floored. A sudden reflex and he came back on to his feet.

The fighters were moving from the don's boardroom and the 101st floor atrium balcony of the Imperial Towers in Kazhakootam was witnessing a terrible fight.

He, the master of Tai-pu, took out his signature move and again the don fell to his feet. Hoisted by his hands, the don pushed up and delivered a nasty ghastly blow on to his opponent's chest. He fell off balance and was dangling down the balcony.

With a grim smile, the don lifted his leg to stamp on his fingers that suspended the whole of his body.

A momentary flash later, he heaved up to catch hold of the don's leg and at the same time, the stamp came to his other hand. And there they were falling off the heights of the tower.

Chances of survival- absolute zero.

A resounding thud and he opened his eyes. The back of his head was throbbing with pain. He sat up on the floor of his hostel dorm, rubbing his head. He sat there with a smile.

The superstar had just woken up from his yet another super hero dream! To many of those Jr. NTR movies, I suppose.

The don was lying on the opposite bed, saliva drooling out on to form a dried-up puddle mark on his bed sheet. And he was sleeping peacefully. The iguana shaped pen holder was smiling at him from the 'don's bedside table.

Food for Thought

I know!

It is too much to expect good food from the college lunch room.

But at times, is it wrong to crave for some stimulation of the taste bud?

Alas, it happens rarely. It happens when you pay for food at the temple town and pay for the commute through your nose, leaving the wallet weigh a kilogram lesser.

Else it happens only when there is some special occasion.

But at times, the rush in the lunchroom makes you think is it a special occasion.

Well, yeah, its SPARTA when it comes to getting that hot aloo paratha off the platter or laying the hands on the tender jucy gulab jamuns (how I wish it was!) The hazelnut colored succulent spherical balls doused in the golden hued sugary syrup leaves me all drooling, not any more.

How contradictory it is on my part to describe the not-so-good-Manamai-made-Indian dumpling as a succulent tasty one!

The wafting smell of the not-so-good curries would actually try making you salivate, mostly in vain.

It would be a rebellious affair to get yourself a plate and spoon. Once you lay hands on them, the wait is real tiring to load the plate and hunting for a place with your fully loaded tray of 'goodies' is really painstaking.

The food, mind you, is worth mentioning.

The paneer is made as if it was to be given for charity. Bland blood-color tinged watery gravy with rock solid paneer- ultimate!

The color of the daal looks tempting but as it makes contact with the tongue, you know what. Watery, gross tasting. Obviously it is food colors galore that gave a sensory misappropriation.

The rice would be as cold as the expression of the staff there. The grains stick on to each other in such unison and the ladle would come up a slice of rice cake.

Most of the south Indian food, when touches the tip of the tongue can get you to identify the ingredients. Not because of you being a connoisseur, but due to the cooking prowess of the self acclaimed cooks. The raw taste of turmeric stands out distinctively. An inch thick layer of oil tops the curries and as you know, it is mandatory for you to drink two teaspoons of oil for a healthy mind, body and soul. (How sarcastic!)

The sweet is often very sweet with no special flavor apart from the sugar that predominates the taste. Boiled concoction of milk and sugar becomes the payasam (kheer) and an overdose of jaggery over rice is our sweet pongal.

Curd, that is made in-house deserves no special mention. Sour or with that prickly tinge, it degenerates the taste buds and makes them capable of doing nothing during your meal, except curse the cook.

The menu is often set by experiment-savvy gentlemen who prefer eating paneer-do-pyaas with dosa and hakka noodles with coconut chutney.

Lastly, we are often denied the ambrosia if we miss the clock by a second. Sadly, the day the taste doesn't linger on the lip puts the day to haywire.

And the saddest part:
Reading the menu to picture the whims and fancies of the ornate delicacies that adorn the table can give rise to a hysterical laugh riot.

Enjoy the 'Pav Bhaji and Chappad Onions'  (read chopped onions)

Footnote:
All those who have abused your mom for not making good food, please do a 'PADAPOOJA' and seek mercy at her feet.

We got what we deserved!

The Turf

The battle was waged and the turf was sown with seeds of hope. The declarations were set loud and clear with manifestos clearly stating the plan of action. The haziness on the path that lay ahead never seemed to diminish the spirit fuming.

The turf was fertile with the attempts made by the previously strewn seeds of hard work clubbed with copious amounts of beads of perspiration that were assumed to be in vain.

But were they? The outcome led to the satisfaction of many a wants and needs.

The question that lies deep within: Was there a need for new crops to be cultivated? Or will the implementation of cross cultivation prove effective?

Fingers crossed for a bumper crop.

The Staircase to Heaven

The metro station was in a bizarre cacophony. There were Indians shouting at the top of their voices over phone. There were Filipinos who were trying to rip off their vocal chords, which sounded more like ducks quacking. There were Arabs who seemed uninterested in the expat balderdash. There were Africans whose multi-coloured multiple braids shone in style. There were some Whites lazily sitting, looking at the Metro clock every now and then. There were many other nationalities whose ethnicities unknown to me made me ignore them. As far as I was concerned, my eyes had enough material to feast on.

And there was me, standing resting my back on the wall and observing the fun.

Subway Surfer was getting immensely boring as my umpteenth attempt to better the score set by a friend on my phone went in vain. Hence, I thought of doing something worthwhile.

The metro clock read 5 more minutes for the train’s arrival. 5 minutes of observation could get me an immensely rich psychographic data.

Finally, the bombastic voice announced that the train was arriving on the platform. The announcement sounded more like a war cry to me. The people, who were scattered in the platform, lazing and chatting, sprang up to life and approached the doors as if marching to the enemy lines.

The rush to get in was tremendous. The crowding at the doors left hardly any area for the exiting passengers. The rush to get out was an equally mad crowd who wanted to rip off any thing that came in their path. The man at the last was waiting with the serenity shaded eyes, for all the mad men to ingress and egress.

At last, the last man got in. I just made it in time, just as Mr. Boombastic announced ‘Doors closing’, first in vernaculars and then in the universal tongue.

The observation was in full swing till the station where I disembarked. I experienced the similar war like feeling as I got down the train. It was really a big deal, getting in and out.

I saw the rush, following suit, at the gates of the elevator. Those who didn't make it this time ran up to the escalators. The people were queuing up to go up. The flight of stairs adjacent to the elevators stood empty as the queue was getting larger.

Those who were in a rush did not seem to consider the time in the queue as a deterrent to their presumably already backward running schedule.

Just then, someone received enlightenment. One last entrant to the queue, looked like a Brit, left the queue and answered the calling of the stairs. No one seemed to get the impetus transferred to them as this guy was climbing up the stairs. 

I was just halfway through the elevator as he made it up through the Staircase to Heaven!

Party of a Lifetime

The scenic beauty of the hilly terrains of the Western Ghats adjoining the picturesque hamlet, accompanying the gentle hustle of the breeze made the party lawns look ever attractive than before. The tingling sound of the wind chimes along with rustle of the leaves in the orchard was a treat for the ears. The background was set as a camaraderie of Bach, Mozart and Beethoven. It was planned to set a base note for the party- truly music for the soul.

The lawn was set in white and gold with flowers flown from Thailand to add to its beauty. The golden hue of the confetti was reflecting on the buffet platters. The streamers and decorations were at their best to induce an effect of the pre-wedding bash.  Butlers and concierges were all in position to attend to the guests who were coming in ones and twos.

His friends hurried up to him, the man of the hour. It was his bachelor party attended only by his friends, dear and near. From his kindergarten mates with whom he still maintained contact, to his friends of his graduation school, everyone would be there for the day he wanted them the most. He stood at the dais, greeting his friends amid rapid flashes of light flickering on his radiant face and handsome smile.

The men at the food counter were busy setting the buffet to its best. Animals of various sizes and proportions were inside the platters, assorted with various spices and oils. Copious amount of time was put into the preparation of each of these delicacies. Chicken was the star of the food counter where he and his friends indulged into bite-sized pieces of chicken prepared in different manners that would satisfy the taste buds of both the east and west. The spread of the buffet also had cottage cheese and vegetables to tempt the tongue of the vegetarians. Desserts were kept off the main counter, having ecstatic varieties of Indian sweets, cakes and ice creams to choose from.

The mixologist had already set the spirit counter on fire which had the best of the spirits stocked to appease the guests. A tinge of lemon on the small shot glass had blazed in a chunk of fire into the inners. 

The guests were full and satisfied, both their bellies and at heart. The memory of party so grand and well planned had created a sense of wellness among the guests. This metamorphosed into blessings for him, for a happy life ahead….