From the Memoirs- 2

Who started the Facebook group?

I don't know.

But who ever did that did a wonderful job of creating and cementing relations. 

As we crossed the gates of Great Lakes, we were not going into an exodus of random people. Instead we were seeing live versions of the photos we had seen and stalked. We knew people, we knew that they were our friends.

The virtual friends got down into the physical space of their bodily existence and then began a saga of a journey called MBA.

We danced, crawled on our knees, learned salsa and let go off our inhibitions.
We learned eating food at the stipulated times. Sloshing sambar onto their plates were the roti clan. The sadam clan relished their breakfast with aloo parathas with melting makhan on top of it.

We learned to adjust. We learned to live. We learned life. 

We made friends. And as they say, we earned some friends too. 

Life was never made easy. But with friends, we just could get going. 

The first term was always difficult. To get us into the spirit and hectic spree of MBA, it took time. The engineering guys who hardly took any time off their schedule to study were actually glued to their books. The comm/arts/science guys who barely attended classes back there, were in the classes, actually listening to the Profs. with their eyes, ears and brain open. (How good a liar am I?)

From bath attached rooms, we graduated to common bathrooms and queuing to finish off the business. We brushed and talked at the same time. Our roomies doubled up as alarm clocks, always ensuring that we went to the 8 am classes. 

As one term went by, we went home and but were eager to be back with our Wolfpack.  

The goodies from the homes were shared, We ate khakras and banana chips side by side. We munched on the namkeens and devoured the pedas and rosgullas. We savored ethnicity. We understood the nation's palette. 

We were the future of India nestling the souls from different parts of the country, yet kindling the soul. Well, that was a bit of context.

Thats for now, and more to follow. 

From the Memoirs-1

Well, 2 years before today, we all were sitting on the couches squatting flies with our CAT score card and gleaming at a seemingly bleak future that lay ahead. Some of us had dropped a year to bell the feline beauty of the Felis family. Most of them were either on the verge of getting their celebrated pink slip or being cracked open by insanity, thanks to harm done to the mankind by coding.   

As our thoughts resurfaced, we understood the plights we were going through.We were distraught with our wallets gone lighter by the day. We seemed to know the post office guy by his first name because of the sheer number of envelopes we’ve posted (to B-schools of course) Those who were bad in remembering numbers knew their credit card number by heart as they keyed it in numerous time a day.

And then were days of preparing for GD/PI process, booking tickets to travel around the country not only for the process, but also to explore the vastness and diversity the nation had to offer.

The GD/PI process brought in copious amounts of mind numbing and stressed moments. As the B-schools started issuing offer letters, those lucky ones were running helter-skelter to get opinions about their calls.

The selection was followed by queuing up in front of your bank manager for a loan. No ‘yeh’ form, run back to home and get it. No ‘woh’ form, run back to the municipal office, bribe the clerk and get it signed by the officer. Seeing the prospect that you would be a big shot and pay up the loan in no time or the possibility that he could be reporting to you in the future, the loan was approved despite making you run.

Great Lakes, yew... Is there a b-school like that?

Great Lakes.... aww.... Nice name? Where is it?

Great Lakes.... Omg! You got through Great Lakes... Well, no one said that!

Well, Great Lakes, hell yeah. Here we are! 

Movie Review- Jilla

Jilla explored the hearts of the masses only to excavate high hope-dipped disappointment.

With 2 stalwarts adorning the crest of the movie, the story should have been crafted for sheer exuberance of talent. Jilla depicted how talent of the Indian pinnacle of acting, Mohanlal was wasted to its core.

With too many songs and many uninteresting sequences, the movie undertakes a vicious cycle of events, a never ending loop of unnecessary stuff.

Illayathalapathy Vijay was impressive with his charming smile but nothing out of the world. His acting seemed just way too common, the mass masala flavored one. His timing and flair for comedy has deteriorated over the years. Neason's attempt to portray the policeman Vijay was nothing but sheer mockery for the whole police force. With the transformation to show what a police officer ought to be, Vijay's mannerisms shows how a police officer should not be sans the sanctity of his mission.

Smoking and abusing was what Mohanlal's role confined to. Portrayed as a don, Mohanlal's Shiva would have opened doors of classic acting to Tail cinema, had the script had a better yielding character for him. A clear deviation from the Georgekuttys of the world, the paradigm shift of Lalettan from Dhrishyam to Jilla calls for utter disappointment for him to have chosen the script.

Kajal Agarwal was pretty on screen showing less skin and more khakhi. Merely used as a pretty prop to extend the duration of the movie, she was either seen making faces to Vijay or sporting that smile.

Of the other actors who shared screen space with the trio, antagonist Sampath steals the show with a small but effective portray of ruthlessness. Soori was cracking witty remarks that failed to induce nothing more than a curve of lips.

Direction, editing, songs etc. etc. has nothing to boast about. Too many songs spoiled the mood as the movie, if devoid of its extensions could have well be curtailed the movie to less than 150 minutes.

Verdict: A mass masala movie for Vijay fans. Expect nothing during the 182 minutes inside the theatre- then its Paisa Vasool.

Rating: 2/5

The Drenched Down Diaries

Did we just think that the rain got lighter?

We did. 

And that was the reason that we went out of the comforts of the restaurant we dined and left the shades and powered the lifeless unicorn.

Within the 1st minute of riding, I could feel my teeth chattering with the icy cold downpour over our heads. My breath was going in and out deeply with the chill creeping up my spine. I could feel my heart beating against my Adam's apple. I could barely breathe as the chilly water droplets were taking its toll. . My eyes went to the auto-tightly-shut mode and my body curved to expose to the minimum amount of rain. 

We were drenched head to toe and were shivering. 

By the time the bike gathered speed, I could feel the rain letting its might on us with pins and needles poking us, faster the bike, higher the prickles. 

Soon, whole drench made us rebellious to the after-rain-side-effects. I suddenly started getting warm. My eyes were slowly opening and was auto-focusing to the pitch darkness, erred at times by the oncoming headlamps and the electrifying lightning. 

Every turn was to be made with utmost precision and care.

I was just thinking of the same-name-but-tirelessly-worked-up rider who braved all the hardships and was valiantly riding to the destination.

The Light that chose to Shine

The silhouette that emerged from the darkness to the light of the single bulb in the room was of an enervated fragile lady. Her eyes were shallow and effete. The under-eye black marks and a scar-smitten pockmarked face made her otherwise charming face seem hideous. The breeze edged her long locks of hair. The sequins on her shoddy suit were glimmering as the fan blades cut the sheen of the bulb above her head.

The surroundings of the police station created in her a sense of fear. The last few days in her life was grief stricken for her body, mind and soul. Till that day, she was a girl of substance. On that day, she was torn apart from the façade of life. She was brutally assaulted and put into shame by the maniac-flesh-loving-heartless-dwellers of the darkness yonder.

The fighter in her freed herself from the clutches of the cables and cords of the dingy methylated spirit-smelling corridors of the hospital.

She was a rape victim, raped once, forsaken by humanity put to rest.

She was not raped once, but every eye that fell onto her dishevelled face gave her a glaring stare. She was getting raped psychologically by her kith and kin. Every look with pity at pittance was raping her. The whole world was putting her through an excruciating pain.

The number was piling on. Every look on her was raping her over and over.

The demeanour and individuality that she possessed had all been sacrificed at the stake. The interrogating policeman with a raised eyebrow and sly smile left her to tears after an eyeing attempt to capitalize on her lost chaste.

The hovering crowd at the gates of the police station wanted to see the rape victim. To see a sad and totally lost person burst to tears, to appease their sadistic hunger at her expense, to rape her all over with their callous eyes, she had to see it all.

As she left the station, the bandwagon of heartless ruthless humanity cheered for her bravery and in the inners, burning cinders jeering for her fate. Did she deserve the jeering of a fallen humanity or the humane touch of solace?

The light that shone over the soul left her astray. She had miles to go over a two forked path that either led her to a necropolis or to lead as an exemplary to fight against the cause she had been hit by.

The Idea of a Sunday Morning Breakfast

Lazing in the bed with the rays of the sun falling on the eye and the smell of breakfast being made running up the nose is a dream nowadays. 

Mom would have already been up getting the Sunday breakfast ready. 

Idlis, the typical South Indian delicacy that now adorns the crest as a breakfast option pan India would be on the cards.

The thick rice batter would be poured into the hemispherical moulds of the idli cooker. 

Soon steaming idlis would give signal to the cooker to let on the whistling and would be gently heaved off the stove. 

Shredded coconut, along with green chillies and salt would go to the mixer to form a uniformly blended thick concoction called chutney. The small tawa would be set on the stove where sautéing mustard and curry leaves would make them splutter and splatter in coconut oil to form a thin tadka topping for the chutney. 

The preserved ‘podi’ (sautéed urud dal, toor dal, asafoetida and red chillies made into a powdered form) would form a heap on the plate where the finger would take intense motions to mix the ‘podi’ with sunflower oil.

Soon the family would be seated around the table, laying their hands on the luscious, succulent, round, plump and soft steamed rice cakes, graciously dipping them in the two accompaniments and gradually washing down the breakfast with hot tea.

Alas!

A 2*2 life

I have often been enthused by the idea of being the topper in class.

Well, my mom, too must have had the same feeling. 

That feeling in her kept me at the top till my 5th standard.

But then, things began to go out of her hand.

And marks went out of mine.

Slowly I sank into the ocean of competition. Went from the top to the top 5 to the top 10 and deeper and deeper.

I have had the privilege to touch the ocean bed once. And mind it, it sucks. All alone in the vast expanse of darkness. Never want to cast a glance again. Crossed fingers got intertwined!

Well, as time progressed, single digit classes went on to double digit classes. And single digit ranks too followed suit. 

As graduation graduated to a phase called post graduation, I was barely hanging on the shaky branch called 3 point CGPA. 

And yes, I wanted to be a topper there too. I had made up my mind to do it in the beginning, as always. But, as always, my mind deviated to the actual calling, to do what I was good at- being idle.

There was this lady, the descendant of the zinc baron, all set to the strings into her course of action and was of course beyond 'question'. 

Also a lady whose name followed the 1st avatar of Vishnu kept that tag 'topper' forbidden to others. 

The third lady, who is to finance as Prof Minerva McGonagall is to Transfiguration, sealed the fate. 

Guys, shame on you.

Shame, shame, puppy shame, man! Oh me!

I was caught busy striving to seal the shakiness of the branch. Hence couldn't pick on the mocking and stayed put.

The weight on the branch was shaking down those who had a less tighter grip on them. 

We, the MBAs from a premier B-school, who believe that we are God's gift to mankind and bear a diadem encrusted with gems dazzling with innate braininess, often use 2*2 matrices to work out on the aspects of management.

After hours of futile thoughts and bizarre streaks of imagination, 
After many cups of coffee and midnight oil burning, 
After going through hundreds, no, thousands of research papers, 
I have come up with a theory that could set the earth off its course. 

A path breaking invention, the brain child of a thought leader designed to classify parameters that could make or break the formation of the future - a blessing to the mankind in disguise. 

I present before you, a 2*2 matrix, one of its kind- for you, for the future CEOs. 

Oh, wait! 

Did you mean to say that some teeny-weeny company called Boston Consulting Group has already come up with this? Is it? For corporations, that too to analyze their business lines. 

We lack IPR. We lack IPR big time.

Et tu America. Et tu BCG. Et tu world. No offenses otherwise!