Inquilab Zindabad!

Last week there was an all India strike at some parts of the country. Having grown up in a town which unfailingly saw a shutdown every fortnight, I have always missed the joy of unexpected holidays due to bandhs in the big cities. When these rare strikes do happen, I always get reminded of the only instance when I had participated in a full fledged industrial action.

This incident took place back when I was in DPS Rkpuram. The hostel food was terribly unexciting and monotonous. But it was the maddeningly drab breakfast which got everyone in a really rebellious mood. There was hardly anything to look forward to at the usual 9am breakfast apart from the fact that the girls dined on a mezzanine above where the guys had their meals. And if one looked up long enough, he would be rewarded with a glimpse of one of the prettier faces or more. Very Dachau-ish but without the killings and the labour. The dissatisfaction with the dull bread, butter and boiled egg menu usually got a voice through sudden pointless thumping of tables. But as protests involving sudden pointless thumping of tables go, it didn’t coerce the administration into corrective action.

One fine evening it was decided that each of us would boycott the next morning’s breakfast and hence by force the administration into making changes. The news of the fatwa spread among the rooms and a consensus was quickly achieved ratifying this decision. One individual however eked out a compromise from the Politburo, where he was permitted to go and have a glass of tea. The reason given was of a medical nature.

So the next morning we all went to the mess gate but refused to go any further. So while there was a crowd of students hovering resolutely around the mess entrance, the wardens and the kitchen staff stood inside with large mounds of boiled eggs and pakodas feeling very stupid with every passing minute. When the lone guy went in and just had a glass of tea, it seemed we inadvertently rubbed the message in pretty harshly. And so the strike was a complete success. Comrades from Bengal would have termed it spontaneous. We were ecstatic. Some of the more naive guys started drawing up prospective menus which we expected our united stand would force the administration to accept. Once the break was over we went back to our classes with a sense of pride and achievement. Some of us started contemplating a career in politics.

The wardens taken aback by this unexpected turn of events conferred among themselves and thought it best to report the matter to the vice-principal. This was our Stalingrad moment and the tide of the battle began moving irreversibly in the opposite direction from hence on. Our vice-principal was a straight talking Jat who had little patience for student uprisings due to culinary issues. What he lacked in way of communication skills, he failed to make up for it by having a sympathetic heart. He felt this act was completely unwarranted and as a penalty, issued clear orders to the wardens that no lunch and dinner should be served to us. This decision was summarily communicated to us by the wardens.

The Politburo discussed the limited options at hand and began to sense the sprouting of dissent among the masses. Whispers referring to the nutritional goodness of boiled eggs started doing the rounds. We also discovered that we were getting very hungry and the prospect of missing out on the otherwise dour rajma-chawal at lunch seemed heart wrenching. In view of the changed circumstances a tactical surrender was wisely recommended. Two hours later we submitted a written apology to the vice principal regretting our rashness and requesting a retraction of his order outlawing the other meals. The vice principal, magnanimous in his comprehensive and crushing victory, promised sweeping changes in the breakfast menu. He kept his promise in a way only he could. From the next day we started getting tomato ketchup with the boiled eggs and pakodas.

I haven’t been a part of a strike since.

Revenge is a dish best served in Vegas.

I will always regret fast-forwarding the parts in the Mahabharata where they discuss Karma. I do realize now that all the jazz about paying for one’s sins is quite true. Let me quote a recent incident where I learnt that smugness usually results in a diet of the proverbial humble pie.

The story goes back to March 2010. Muski had recently transferred to Chennai and most conversations on online threads revolved around on how he would cope with a lack of a life there. These conversations gave rise to a curious tradition where we used to call up Muski from Bangalore and tell him what we are up to and follow it up with an innocuous question, “What are you doing?” Usually that was the point when he hung up.

I always have had a terrible fault of going too far. So when I was off for a jaunt to KL and I was having an interesting weekend after another, I decided it would be a wonderfully friendly and chummy thing to keep Muski updated about my whereabouts. So throughout the month a number of phone calls were made to Chennai which usually involved me spouting lines like these

• Muski, I am at a Placebo concert. What are you doing?
• Muski, I am going camping to an equatorial forest this weekend? Where are you going? Bessie beach?
• Muski, are you watching F1 on TV now? See if you can spot me in the crowd. Hey wait, Schumacher just got down….bye…
• Muski, I am about to go to a Chuco Valdez concert. Hello, hello, can you hear me? * dial tone*

Of course anyone who knows Jatin Gupta, knows he is not the one to take things lying down. The man knows the value of patience and planning. So when I heard that both he and our good friend Debashish were going off to the US for a couple of months I was anxious. Not only was it an astounding coincidence that both their companies decided to send them at the send time, they also happened to be going to the same city, SFO. Everything seemed to be guided by some divine hand. I knew that time for retribution was near. I was soon proved right when I received a mail whose content conveyed in very clear terms that both of them were planning to spend a weekend at Las Vegas and they felt it would be kind to copy all their online discussions about the trip to me.

I knew it wouldn’t end there. I received a stream of assurances from them that they would keep me abreast of how their weekend went. They stuck to their promise and my inbox confirmed my worst fears today. To paraphrase Muski’s mail to me,

As you already know we were in Vegas this weekend. Nothing much. Stayed at the BELLAGIO(yes, the AAA five diamond award winning hotel and casino on the Strip shown in Oceans 11). Rented a CADILLAC, opened its sunroof and cruised down the famous Vegas strip shouting while drunk. Semi nude chicks roaming on the road waved back at us. Gambled a lot! And had the world’s largest buffet at the base of the Vegas Eiffel tower. How was your weekend?

Check mate. Karma I say.

When I crashed a party.

This happened in March. I decided to take a short detour on my way back from office and thought it would be a good idea to return through the KL convention centre. My destination was the Starbucks inside. I loved the elaborate interview Starbucks goes through before getting my coffee. By the time they finish enquiring about the different boundary conditions for my drink, I usually don’t remember what I ordered in the first place. But then they do make great coffee.

The convention centre is an impressive building close to the twin towers. I was too distracted to notice the unnaturally empty surroundings around the centre, devoid of the usual loitering tourist. At a distance, next to the main entrance, I noticed a fleet of swanky cars. A couple of old men had just alighted and they were surrounded by a group of animated photographers clicking away wildly. There were four colourful dragon puppet like things frolicking around the old men in an apparent bid to welcome them. All this was accompanied by loud and incoherent drumming. Apparently finesse and sobriety were dispensed with in a traditional welcome in this part of the world. Obviously the whole thing was too much of a visual treat not to attract a more detailed attention from yours truly. So I decided to take a closer look and followed the troupe as they entered the convention centre. The old men were the centre of the attention and obviously were some sort of local bigwigs. A few guys in suits and dark glasses hovered around whispering what sounded like Roger, I can't hear you, this is fun, albeit in a Chinese accent, into state-of-the-art walkies.

The ensemble entered the main hall. So did I. The sight inside was stunning. The whole hall was spectacularly decked up with flowers and confetti with a huge crowd in their best evening attire. They were in groups sitting around brilliantly made-up dining tables. The moment the gang I was shadowing entered the whole hall stood up and everybody was completely silent.A deep voice announced over the microphone ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Dato Sri Mohd Najib bin Tun Haji Abdul Razak the prime minister of Malaysia’.

I just had the biggest WTF moment of the decade. To say I was surprised would have been an understatement. Being an Indian, who has grown up watching the smallest cog of the government machinery guarded by a posse of grim faced sentinels and having bragged about the sixty car convoy of our own prime minister which I happened to witness a couple of times, standing at an arm’s length of a head of the government, by mistake, was a situation I was finding very difficult to come to terms with. As Wodehouse would describe it, I was in a pickle.

A huge board at the side proudly indicated that I had crashed into the Chinese New Year Gala Dinner. That explained why most of the guests were in the traditional Chinese attire. There was only one person in the world who would have convinced me to have been bold enough to continue with my bravado and sit out the whole event and pretend to be a guest from the Indian embassy. But he was trying to sell things on EBay a thousand miles way. So I felt it was time to call off the adventure and decided to quietly make my exit. I hoped that no one would notice an individual hopelessly under-dressed for the occasion, listening to an IPod had wandered in and none did.

A big sign outside listed the guests for the evenings. The ambassador from the People’s Republic of China, the American ambassador, the British high commissioner, a host of industry and organization heads, the city administration, the party had them all. I do recall not reading any name from the Indian embassy though. I tried to exit the building with that same confidence with which I went in but that plan ran into difficulties when I discovered I had lost my way. But before I was hauled up for walking briskly with no apparent reason around the corridors outside the hall, a sweet lady comprehended my problem and cheerily showed me the way out.

So what was the LFI* ? As long as you walk assertively without furtive glances, you can crash the most exclusive of parties.

*Learning from Incident. I read quality management manuals with my meals.

Beware of the Editor: Revisiting Chandrayaan

This video was uploaded on the blog over two and a half years ago. But the sheer excitement of being on television prevented me from commenting on the delightful way the media absorbs information and spits out complete drivel ruining people’s days in the process. Now that the global oil prices have finally stabilized, I can take out some time to elaborate.

In the year 2007 I was the part of the team which was supposed to be blamed for anything which went wrong during Shaastra 2007. One of the highlights of the event was a feature on Chandrayaan with some of the project leaders telling us about how the whole thing would make the moon (and ISRO) look cool again. Thanks to the media interest, we (me, Muski, Parinda & Jimmy) landed ourselves in this short segment on NDTV. We ditched a class and gave a 20 min long discourse to the reporter on various aspects of the whole project and how it was received by the students. I have given below a succinct version of what we actually told and then how irreverent and imbecilic editing made the whole thing resemble a train wreck.

Input

Me: I expressed my wonder that something so complex could actually be so small and compact.

Jimmy: He discussed at considerable length the details of the two talks we had, describing in intricate detail the technological aspects and future implications. He ended it by quoting one of the jokes of the main speaker about how you could even plan a honeymoon on the moon thanks to Chandrayaan.

Muski, Parida: Discussed their learning at length and their pride at being associated with the event.



Output

The video begins with the anchor saying that one of the aims of Chandrayaan would be to explore the possibility of honeymooning on the moon. Any doubts about whether she is joking is removed by the capital lettered tab below, screaming similar sentiments. Well news anchors are known to have an IQ lesser than Pacific plankton. So she can be excused. But the rest of segment was even more depressing.

Sounding like a wife after the wedding night, expressing her deep anguish about the short-comings of her partner, I am heard saying “Its very small. Its not as big as you are expecting it to be”. The sense of appreciation comes across as complete disillusionment with the India space program just because of sizing issues.

Muski barely manages to mention how proud he was before being brutally cut off to focus on an apparently melancholic and suspiciously constipated Parinda who mentions something about polar ice caps with his body language clearly indicating he doesn’t think highly of NDTV. The fact that he had been speaking for quite a while and may have begun drift a bit comes across as total indifference in the few seconds he gets.

But the worst was reserved for dear Jimmy. None of his astute observations on the event made it to the final cut other than his off the cuff remark on honeymoons with his mistimed snigger making it look as if he needs help in reigning in his mental faculties. The fact that they spelt his name Ukala, leaving out the all important N and making him look like a retarded descendent of a Hawaiian musical instrument didn’t help in anyway.

After this sorry excuse of a news report and ruining our carefully crafted reputations by calling us ‘techies’ on screen, we have refused all future NDTV requests for interviews till date.

Chance Pe Dance

Willie S: All the world’s a stage.
Me: Shit.

It’s been some time since I have discussed awkward episodes of my life. A lot of it has got to do with my current vocation. All embarrassing incidents at the workplace cannot be discussed thanks to the confidentiality agreement signed at the beginning. I can’t even name the company I work for but its name incidentally rhymes with hell and often confused with the Indian steel maker SAIL. But then chances of anything of interest happening while I ponder over the material selection for a sulphur recovery unit somewhere in the wilderness of Western Australia is remote. Very remote. While my fervent opponents in the Meta-Mafia feel working as a materials engineer specializing in corrosion solutions automatically qualifies me for public humiliation, I have passionately defended my profession. But I digress.

People have often asked me whether I like being on stage (very few actually did). And I always tell them what I told the person who first asked this question. No. My affair with the stage begins long back. June of 1991 to be precise. I had just joined Don Bosco as a brash, cheeky brat fresh out of kindergarten. I held a lot of promise and the world was there to be conquered. I was appointed the class monitor in my first week and as expected at such an age, I drunk on raw power began feeling I was capable of anything. Incidentally I was not and was soon going to find that out.

The annual dance competition used to be among the first events in the scholastic calendar. Within a few weeks of me joining there was an announcement in class asking for people who would be interested in participating. Without going into hours long deliberations before taking a decision like I do now, I immediately signed on for it, much to my eternal regret. Being God’s greatest gift to the human race, I felt that shaking a leg would be like a walk in a very boring park. Like any busy six year old with a corporate mindset, I immediately forgot about the fact that I had signed up for a dance competition once I had signed up. So the days which should have been spent in preparing for my hair-brained initiative was frittered away disputing umpire decisions and running fellow batsmen out on the school playground. So the dreaded day arrived and I was blissfully unaware of the impending humiliation. I was so ignorant that I actually entered the great school hall and joined my boisterous group of friends in the audience and was looking forward to heckling the participants. It was when a voice back-stage announced in a booming tone that the next performer is Sayan Ganguly when it struck me. I was on the wrong side of the stage. The heckler was about to become the hecklee. I was transfixed not knowing what to do as my friends pushed me out of the hall and urged me to run to the back stage. I reach the green room afraid, very afraid about what was about to happen.

All participants were expected to bring their respective costumes and their music tracks to which they were supposed to jive to. I of course had none. It seemed that this was a common occurrence and the organizers had default dance tracks to be played when irresponsible asses like me screwed up. Unfortunately the default costumes consisted of only losing the school tie and suddenly there I was on the stage with the curtains about to go up and a sad dance track beginning to play. I don’t remember which track it was but it certainly had never been on any kind of top 1000 songs of the year lists in any country (even Germany). I closed my eyes and said a short prayer and opened my eyes to discover that my prayer was not answered. I was still on stage and the crisis further accentuated by the second as the curtain went up. That was the moment I realized that my school housed quite a large number of students, all of whom happened to be in the hall. My prevalent reputation of being a trail blazing iconoclast induced an unusually keen interest in their eyes. Most of them felt that they were about to view something different. The delayed start had heightened their expectations. Didn’t all famous shows start a bit late, they told themselves.

Meanwhile the dance track had begun, unnoticed by me. It was a non-descript tune with an irreverent mish-mash of beats generally leading to nowhere, somewhat like my imminent dance steps. The crowd was quick to notice that things didn’t look the way supposed to be. I think me being in the school uniform sans the tie with a sorry excuse for a dance track in the background raised suspicions that Superman was about to be out-witted by a devilish Luthorian plot. Transfixed by the million stares, I could only stare back. It was a classic ‘deer in the head-lights’ moment, with the headlights being of half of the Siliguri traffic. Somewhere in the middle of all this, my left foot had started doing a tap while my other left foot was trying to match step for step. The human nervous system has its own mysterious response mechanisms to nervous situations as I was discovering.

Trying to pass off the involuntary tapping as a start to a new form of revolutionary dance, I decided to attempt an arms swing. It was ill-advised to say the least. It looked like I was trying to give a visual explanation of what a sine wave superimposed on a cosine wave may look like but had got confused about the origin and frame of reference. My stock in front of the crowd was plummeting faster than Satyam’s did in January 2009. I realized that something radical had to be tried to turn the tide. So I started turning in circles. Maybe in some parts of the world, turning in needless circles with arms flaying accompanied with involuntary foot taps qualify as sophisticated dance forms, but my fellow school mates didn’t come from those parts. It was a common tradition in this competition to down the curtains in case an act was going haywire. My performance was reaching that qualification with blinding speed. The pointless circling proved to be too much for my cerebellum and it finally gave up on trying maintaining any semblance of balance and I tottered like Pyotr Arsenievich Smirnov did after celebrating the establishing of his first distillery. The crowd remained hypnotized by the continuously unfolding terror in front of them. Had this happened a decade later, Al Qaida may have claimed responsibility in view of the sheer terror quotient involved. Curiosity turned to dismay which rapidly evolved into revulsion followed soon after by uncontrolled laughter.

As a final attempt to salvage some pride, I decided to explore whether moving about the stage may help the situation. I naively thought that the damage caused by writhing hysterically rooted to one spot could perhaps be undone by wriggling about all over the stage. Unfortunately my sudden movement was interpreted by the audience as the much-awaited conclusion and the hall burst out pre-maturely in tremendous applause. My six-year old brain was perceptive enough to make me understand that the applause was less about appreciation and had more to do with relief. The back-stage manager took the applause as the final cue that the curtains just had to be downed before a mass exodus of the audience, did his job to perfection and in a matter of seconds I was back to staring at the back of the red curtain.

A little voice inside told me that perhaps if I had a couple of minutes more, I could have turned the situation on its head and left the stage after an astounding performance. All the initial steps and supposed missteps would finally been seen as small cogs in the bigger wheel of a divine performance. But a second later that notion sounded so stupid that I bludgeoned the small voice to pulp and it hasn’t spoken up since. As I drudged back after the longest three minutes of my life, the teachers backstage glared at me as if I had made a pass at their mothers. I quietly took my tie and slipped out.

I refrained from entering the hall gain in fear of being mobbed or worse made to do a repeat of the performance for the seniors. Feeling like Bangaru Laxman after being outfoxed by Tehelka, lying low seemed a wonderfully refreshing idea and I proceeded to do exactly that in the second floor corridor. After the whole event was over, I quietly slipped out of school. But my friends, knowing my slimy ways, were waiting to accost me. What they said and the humiliation I underwent the following weeks in school is best left unsaid. Some memories are best left to private blog entries where only I and my alter-egos can read them.

This incident laid the foundation of all my future ill-fated flirtations with the stage. I will talk about them in the follow-up articles soon. But as my record with previously promised follow-up articles goes, it may be pretty surprising if I do end up recounting how I mortified audiences over the ages with my dextrous acting/singing skills (yes, I have dared to sing too). I never danced again though. Who knows, perhaps if I had performed well that day, I might have been the one facing the brickbats instead of Shahid for the horrendous Chance Pe Dance today. And all you ladies, who have asked me out so many times in the past only to get a resounding no, don’t doubt my orientation. It’s only because I am afraid that at some point in the evening, you may ask me to dance.

The Conversation

I am back. A long hiatus, I admit. Many things have happened since my last discourse on placements. I visited a steel plant, pulled off unbelievable capers, failed at my most ambitious effort, swam, caught a Maoist, worshipped Larry David, defended my thesis against evil, took crucial signatures, made stupid promises, kept stupid promises, bragged, showed bite marks, lost weight, gained weight, fought, made up, made out, simulated Sach Ka Samna, feel ill at the worst possible night, met Bangalore, liked Bangalore, took up plumbing, rugby, archery and of course broke the forty second barrier. So yes, lots of things have changed. But some things remain the same. Obama still holds promise, Stewart still rocks and vegetarians still need to be guillotined.

The motivation to write again was lurking somewhere behind the nearest KFC when an email hastened my return to the blogosphere. This post is just a representation of a GTalk chat between two IITM alumni. The context has been explained by the victim in his own words. It is an exact lift and there have been no omissions or modifications. Of course all proper nouns have been changed to protect identity.

Main Characters:
Victim: Hamburger
Predator: Old_Monk

Hamburger’s opening monologue.

Prior to reading the following conversation, you need to know this conversation history. Basically the legendary Old Monk buzzed me, asking if I could provide contacts of companies for him to intern at. He asked about firms like Link Equality etc. So I told him that I know this guy BS who interned there. I told Old_Monk that I'll find out from BS and get back to him. The following conversation is what happened thereafter. Enjoy!

Hamburger: hey BS just mailed me. Asked me to give u this email id:Blahblah@yahoo.com. The guy's name is Blahblah and he's an analyst at Link equality

Old_Monk: ok, nice that you informed him prior. I shall refer you as Hamburger, right?

Hamburger: If required u can say that u got the email id from Bhawani Shankar. I dont know this guy Blah Blah!! Reference Bhawani Shankar. Bhawani is BS. He interned at Link equality after 3rd year. clear?

Old_Monk: Ok. That is far fetched. I shall tell what I understood. Bhawani alias BS interned in link equality after third year. But you don’t know him directly. But you know Bhawani Shankar who knows BS. Am i right?

Hamburger: Bhawani shankar is Bhawani is BS!

Old_Monk: So you know him directly, he only contacted you just now, right?

Hamburger: Yup. I know Bhawani Shankar, he was my wingmate, and he interned at Link Equality

Old_Monk: So when mailing him , I can refer your name, right?

Hamburger: My god!!!! Refer to Bhawani Shankar!!!!

Old_Monk: I shall call you I guess. Too confusing. Else you tell full story over here. I shall remain silent.

Hamburger: U got the mail id from Bhawani Shankar, and Bhawani Shankar interned at Link Equality! How difficult is that!

Old_Monk: Mail id of Bhawani Shankar from you. right?

Hamburger: DUDE!!!!!!!!! Why bother about Bhawani Shankar! You mail Blahblah ( blahblah@yahoo.com) saying that u got his email id from Bhawani Shankar who had interned in Link Equality!

Old_Monk: If I mail to Bhawani Shankar, what should I tell him on wherei got his ID from? But who is Blahblah?

Hamburger: U genius!!!! how will u mail Bhawani Shankar???? I never gave u his email id!

Old_Monk: ok, who is this Blahblah?

Hamburger: Dude!!!! He is the guy working at Link Equality man!!! Wake up!

Old_Monk: ok. I underwear**. What is Bhawani doing? I need not mail my resume, right, just a formal mail asking whether they are interested. Right?

Hamburger: That is upto u. I have no clue. See I know nothing abt Link Equality and all.....
*The End*

** Why Old_Monk said underwear remains a point of intense debate among international GTalk specialists. Some say he meant understand while another school of thought feels he meant underwear. But they all agree that it doesn’t matter.

We Indians bargain well.....

You know how insulated you have become from real life after experiences as these. After an agonizingly busy morning of waking up and pressing the snooze button on my cell, I had my usual lunch of fish and some more fish followed by some fish. Then after bringing the balance of nature back to the local marine life, I noticed that there were no oranges. I usually have oranges after lunch in the winter and now there were no oranges. I decided to solve this problem in the conventional manner. I decided to buy some.

‘40 rupees a dozen’, the vendor mumbled.
‘hah! 40! Are you crazy? Where do you think I am from? Chennai? Local chele aami. I will take 6 pieces and wont pay a paise more than 20Rs’, I craftily mentioned.

He looked at me with an expressionless stare, picked up 6 oranges, put it in a bag and gave it to me.

I gave him Rs 20. Left with a smirk. And then it hit me.

PS: No observation on my mathematical prowess will be tolerated. That has nothing to do with this.

30th July, 2008.

11:20 am- 6 :20 pm

One word. Bliss.

The Curse of the Blue Agave.

The ring of the phone wakes me up. I get up. The head feels like someone else's. Most probably of the Great Khali. I am wearing my Tshirt. The wrong way. I am wearing my pajamas. The wrong way. My super precious Seiko 21-jewels lay in pieces next to me. My right arm is bruised. My palm punctured by my broken watch. Was I in Mandak? Or Duisburg? Not Siliguri definitely. My thoughts swirled around trying to fix my geographical coordinates. My bunk bed did the trick. Ah, Parmelee. As dazed as a Columbian revolutionary who had his hostages whisked away from under their nose, I carefully climbed down. The phone ring hadn't stopped. Unable to frame coherent sentences, I pick up the phone. There was some good news and some bad news.

The good news was it wasn't mom.
The bad news was it wasn't mom.

Damn Mexicans and their only worthy contribution to the human race.

Three Men on a Boat....of Death.

I have nothing against near death experiences. I have them every four months. As long as they are not too near, I am cool. But I get a little pissed if I am informed in advance that extinction hovered in the vicinity without me being able to do anything about it. Hence the events of last Wednesday left me a little peeved.

Ever since my intern prof mysteriously disappeared and kept in touch through monosyllabic mails, life has been good. In our grief, my lab mate John and me though it would be a good idea if we went fishing Wednesday afternoon. Now when you are fishing in the middle of the week you know your intern has finally taken the right turn. So I readily agreed. So we went off to Douglas lake some miles north of Fort Collins. Offering a soothing view of the Rockies and surrounded by open fields, Douglas lake was the idyllic angler's paradise. When we reached there was just one boat on the lake with the fisherman seemingly asleep. We were to go out on a canoe belonging to John's friend Matt. So it was around 5 in the afternoon when we pushed the tiny canoe into the lake with all of us a little worried about the gathering wind and whether it was a little too strong.

Before things got tough

The next three hours were one of the laziest ever. We slowly rowed around the huge lake enjoying the slowly setting sun. We also happened to catch two huge rainbow trouts too. Now Matt who was pretty good at this told us that its when the sun actually starts setting that we get the best catch. Now during this whole time we had seen not one but two storms slowly approaching from the west and the east. As the whole area was completely open, we could see brilliant flashes of lightning regularly striking somewhere on the western and eastern horizons. By eight when the sun was finally setting both the storms had finally drifted our side. But we were oblivious to the whole thing, excited as we were by the impending deluge of aquatic creatures. As we were admiring a rainbow very close to the shore, a bolt of lightning struck pretty close to where we were. Never a big fan of things which doesn't give me at least a minute to prepare for it, I nonchalantly asked Matt what were the chances of us getting struck by a bolt or two. Both Matt and John laughed and said they have lived in Colorado long enough to know when to be wary of a thunderstorm. I went back to my fishing rod. It started drizzling. Just two minutes later Matt shouted, “get down! Go low!”. Now when one is in the middle of the lake, it is difficult to imagine what we should get low from. Flying fishes? Bullets from the near-by shooting range? I confess I was confused with Matt's exclamations. I looked back to see an equally confused John. We both looked towards Matt who was now lying down at the canoe floor. He whispered, “ I felt static. A lot of it. Didn't you guys hear it?” Simultaneously we noticed his hair were standing kind of erect. Now those of you with a scientific bent of mend will appreciate this. We know that we sometimes get signs where lightning is about to strike. Hair standing on our head, feeling a lot of static energy around you etc etc. Oh wait, thats a coincidence! It took me ten seconds to realize that Uncle Yamraj was near. Another ten seconds of reflection confirmed why. All three of us had these upmarket graphite reinforced fishing rods. Now as luck would have it, graphite conducts electricity pretty well. (Where is a diamond fishing rod when you need one!) So there we were, three idiots, in the middle of a huge lake, during a thunderstorm, pointing three perfect conductors towards the sky. What could possibly go wrong?

Now getting struck by lightning is fine. But being informed a few moments before that you are going to be struck by lightning, is a very different affair indeed. I am sure all of you know that feeling of imminent vaporization. I felt like that piece of sodium which the eight grade chemistry teacher shows around to the class before plunging it in water. The phrase 'sitting ducks' was never more clear to me. Though one part of felt maybe the strike would end up giving me supernatural powers and I could be the next character in Heroes. The worst part was no one knew I was fishing that afternoon. I would undergo a change of state and no one would ever know of it. And even if I survived I would still be in the middle of the damn lake.

That very moment, a bolt of lightning struck right near the shore. Simultaneously our boat swayed sharply to the left. Matt's fishing line was being pulled strongly and it was evident that in the middle of all this melee, we had just caught our biggest fish. Matt, now presented with this conundrum of rowing for his life or getting hold of his fishing line took a quick decision. He chose fish over life. He pulled with all his might and drew the fish close. But then tragedy struck again, the fish turned out to be a huge trout which unnerved Matt further and he let go of the line for a few seconds which was enough for the fish to make its escape. So now we didn't have the fish either and gazillions of electrons could hit us any moment. First thing we did was to stop pointing our fishing rods out and get our wooden oars out. Then the next ten minutes would have done any Onam boatman proud.

On the run

We made it to the shore without getting zapped and packed up the boat in record time and made our way out of there. And we lived to fish another day. Most probably this Wednesday again.

The days final tally

This post is dedicated to Roy Sullivan who survived after being struck by lightning seven times during his career as a park ranger. He finally died after he shot himself over a failed love affair. So the moral of the whole story is you have a better chance with 7 lightning strikes than a woman. May Roy rest in peace. There is another school of thought who believes that a man who could handle seven lightnings but not a woman deserved to die anyway. The reader is free to choose their side.

Redefining VTOL.

Source: Arun & Team's valiant effort this afternoon at the stadium.

VALENTINE’S DAY MASSACRE…………

It was not a stormy day though it ought to have been. A day with the usual Chennai sun blazing away to glory. Nothing in the air suggested anything untoward. Incidentally it also happened to be Valentine’s Day. Also the first day of our quiz 1. For the fourth semester. The exam for that day was of phase transformation

I always looked forward to my first exam for phase transformation. The reason for this strange yearning lay in the fact that it was going to be my first open book exam. Those people not accustomed to this paradoxical concept, it is an exam in which you are allowed to bring your notes to. Funny, but something we all dream of. The night before the exam I had a terrific time going to every room and mentioning cheekily what a pity it was that they had to work so hard for the next day’s exam. While all I had to do was go through the pages once and ensure I wake up in time.

Well, that little detail about getting up on time did me in. Over confidence led to utter disregard for a certain crucial element- setting the alarm. Under usual circumstances, I have strategically placed alarms in three vantage points in my room. These points were decided on by me after some complex geometrical calculations, for I needed them to be at the farthest positions from where I sleep. Topping the three mechanical alarms, I also repose faith in human alarms. Namely, my wonderful neighbors who happen to believe that getting up early in the morning is a good thing to do. But my pertinent taunting the previous night as mentioned above resulted in them “accidentally” forget that I too needed to be awakened. So much for the human alarms then.

So, in view of this catastrophic failure of my convoluted wake-up buzzer system, it was not surprising that on waking up I was slightly ruffled. The time which my watch dial showed suggested that unless I had been bitten by a radio-active spider or had kryptonite shoved down my throat while I slept the chances of me making to the exam-hall in time was close to naught. Nevertheless, I pulled off an astonishing performance and found myself in the hall only seven minutes late and totally out of breath. I had missed the initial instructions but considered that after all there was nothing more to know about.

I sat on the first row with none of my batch mates in the near vicinity.

Of course, in all this rush, I had not forgotten the all too precious notes. With a song on my lips and mirth in my heart I took up the question paper and glanced through it. Just as I anticipated, it was a piece of cake, rather a slice of pizza as the Italians would put it. Three direct theory-based questions preceded by a long numerical which was the only thing which required me to work the grey cells. The concept based questions required direct lifting of material from the notes. So I wondered the need for having an open book exam. It seemed a futile exercise. It was more like, in terms of Microsoft word a test of one’s copy and pasting skills. On the other hand I told myself not be concerned about such mundane stuff ad rather concentrate on replicating things properly. So I laid out my notes and got down to business. Time flew and before I could realize I had only five minutes and the whole numerical remained to be completed. I had taken so much care to write the rest that my time management suffered significantly. I managed a shoddy solution and submitted the paper. Incidentally, we were also supposed to attach the question paper with it. Something which had escaped my mind altogether. Thankfully, I become conscious of it immediately and asked for my sheets back. Prof Haridoss handed them back and I attached the question paper. On resubmitting began the legendary conversation which will haunt me for a long long time.

He asked,” Have you attached the formulae sheet?”

I replied with a frown,” Which formulae sheet?”

“The one you had with you. The one in which you wrote all the formulas for the exam.”

“I didn’t have one. All the things I required were in my notes”.

“Notes! You mean you had your notes with you? Why?”

“Why? What why? It was an open book exam! That’s why!”

“Open book exam! Who told you that? I had specifically told in class that only formulas were to be brought and then the sheet attached to the answer paper.”

“What! You mean….. You mean…..I mean…..mean…well…..oh god!”

I was speechless. I was without speech.

“Yes, you are right. It was NOT an open book exam. I think someone needs to do some explaining here.”

“Well, basically sir, what I thought was………….”

What happened next is yet another long story. Surprised, stunned, dazed, upset, traumatized, appalled are some adjectives which can barely describe my state then. Prof Haridoss was as shaken as I was. He never knew that ignorance and stupidity could reach such depths. Just imagine. Those 50 minutes in the hall, I happily sat with my notes strewn over the desk copiously noting down the smallest detail and no one even noticed. And not for a second did I comprehend that something was horribly wrong. Whenever, I think about it I can’t help but laugh….To salvage some lost position I did ask him not to mark me for all the theory questions in spite of all this being unintentional.

Nonetheless, from now on I deserve some respect. For I am Sayan. Lord of the Idiots.

A MEMORABLE RENDEZVOUS.

I shall recount a curious incident, which took place in my first fortnight in I.I.T.
First the necessary background. I am an alumni of D.P.S. RKpuram, a place with various claims to fame, some dubious ones at that. In my class, there was a girl. I would rather not name her, keeping in view her social standing in the institute. So lets call her A. i must mention that any resemblance of name to any person living or dead might be coincidental. Anyway lets not digress. She was a quiet sort of girl, always immersed in books and it was not often that we interacted. But still, I was her classmate.

As expected she cleared JEE at one go and landed in Chennai with an impressive branch. In the meantime I slogged for another year and barely managed it the second time. So I landed here, after a nerve-wracking year, 3000 km from my home, hopelessly looking for some help in the vast place that is IITM. Friends from Delhi had asked me to send their regard to their mates in IITM namely A and a certain Varun. Seeing the mammoth size of the place I gave up the idea of delivering regards. After all no freshie with his grey matter in the right place would go inquiring about the hostels looking for lost pals.

So there I was trying to adjust to the hectic schedule, almost forgetting that I had to meet a few people here. One of these days, it was a Wednesday morning if I remember correctly, I was walking down one of the CRC corridors when I saw A coming from the opposite direction. I did not recognize her at once. She had done away with her glasses and done something shocking to her hair. Nevertheless the change finally registered in my mind and before she passed by me, I exclaimed, ”hey A!” She looked up quizzically. My initial plans for the conversation was to go along traditional lines. Something like” hi A! How’s life?” Etc etc etc.

And similarly her reply perhaps would have been “hi, how r u? Which branch?” etc etc etc.But her incredulous stare somewhat unnerved me. I could not understand what should be the next suitable sentence. Finally I gave up and hoped she would take the initiative in furthering the conversation. She did not. After what seemed two minutes not much headway had been made. We just kept staring at each other. These are those moments in life when you fast run out of options and have no inkling what the next course of action should be. A’s quizzical look had slowly begun to give way to an irritated frown. Well, can’t blame her. No self-respecting girl can afford to look at a stranger in a crowded corridor for two minutes without any substantial reason. By this time the search engine in my head had come out with a perfect explanation for the apparently inexplicable situation. Viola! She hadn’t recognized me. At last I uttered the golden words,
“I am Sayan.”
No reply.
“Sayan Ganguly.”
No reply.
“Sayan Ganguly, DPS RKpuram, section E, third row first bench”, with a desperate coaxing voice.
A’s expression changed for the third time. An expression of relief mixed with slight guilt. I am not sure about the guilt part, I might have imagined it.
She said,”ah! Yes. Sayan. Yes. Sayan Ganguly. Yes. Good. So you are in IIT. “

I wanted to reply that no I wasn’t. I was actually on Saturn and she was just viewing my apparition, starwars ishtyle. But I decided to control my sarcastic instincts for the moment.
Her monosyllabic replies were not making the conversation more exciting and I had begun to feel that perhaps talking to her was not among the better ideas I had that day. Suddenly she broke into a laugh and said, “Hey, I hope you don’t mind that I did not remember you. You were in my class, weren’t you?”

That did it.

I muttered with clenched teeth,
“No, not at all. Why should I mind? Anybody could make such a mistake. No problemo”.
Hence making the biggest understatements of my life, I decided that the time at come to draw the curtains on the wonderful rendezvous. I looked at my watched and gave a loud exclaimation , ”yikes, I am late for my class, gotta go. sorry. Will catch up later.”

And hence the meeting ended on a friendly note.