What Women Want....

The characters and situations in this story are vastly exaggerated to introduce juvenile humor where there isn’t any. Both the people involved in this story are great people and I sincerely hope they pull off a miracle. Oh and btw the characters in this story are not real and any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

It might be possible that in some remote corner of the world, say sub Saharan Africa, there might exist an undiscovered species of woman who behave logically and in a way comprehensive to the poor harried members of the opposite sex. Somehow I really doubt it. Don’t get me wrong, I love all women. The ones that look like Pamela Anderson anyway.
Well, to subtly illustrate this point (Not about Pamela Anderson but about women in general) let me narrate a story. The chief characters in the story are: One IIT Type guy, working in a big factory with a large disposable income. And one B school type girl, cute, smart, and with the right smattering of girlish eccentricity which drove IIT type guy mad. (Not with desire I think, though maybe that too).
Some back ground is required. Both of them live in the same city, a measly 20 kilometers apart .A drive in rush hour traffic would take about 2 hours from his house to hers. Through back breaking, bone crushing, soul wrenching traffic which would make Sun TV Midnight masala a very inviting alternative. But our guy was made of sterner stuff, he persevered. He would come back from work, dutifully wear his best deodorant, travel 20 kms to her place, smile and pretend that the drive was pleasantly spent in anticipation of their forthcoming meeting, pick her up, drive back 20 kms to the city to take her to an expensive restaurant (No highway type dhabas for her), eat dinner, drive back another 20 kms to drop her back and then drive back home another 20 kms.
As you can see he spent a good part of his life driving. He could have quite profitably run a cab service (I doubt whether even Blue line buses have a frequency of 2 to and fro trips in 3 hours).All that is ok. He did it because he liked the girl. What is a mere 8 hrs/day on the road compared to the love of a beautiful girl? Right?
One night he drove back home after an unusually agonizing ride back home in traffic. He thought the dinner had gone well; the food was good, although she had been slightly silent and had looked expectantly at him as if she wanted him to deduce something. Not being related to Sherlock Holmes, our guy ignored her and drank and made merry with indecent exuberance. She apologized prettily for having kicked him accidentally in the shin during dinner (3 times no less).He was feeling unusually noble for being chivalrous enough to treat his girl like the princess that she was.
He had just parked his car, when his phone rang. It was her. ”Probably to thank me for doing so much for her”he thought with pride.
This conversation can be described in the following sequence:
Guy: So…good time naa?
Girl: Hmm…
Guy :( in a self congratulatory tone) so… you look like you have something to say
Girl: Well...today…somehow…I dint feel close to you…
Guy: But we were sitting so close that I could feel the wart on your hip…
Girl: that is the problem, you never understand me.
Guy: Err…What... (Doing his imitation of a confused ape-man)
Girl: The whole problem is that you are not driving the relationship.

Well, put yourself for one moment in the shoes of the poor guy. He practically spends his life driving for her. And to get such thoughtless comments about not “driving” the relationship hurt him to the quick. As you may have imagined, the conversation rapidly went downhill from there.
To cut a long story short, they decided to meet up later to resolve the issue. On his birthday in fact.
They had just been seated in an expensive restaurant (where they charge you for merely looking at the waiter).
The waiter in a loud whisper asked the girl whether he should get the cake now or later. Our guy was the bashful type. No loud or raucous birthday celebrations for him. He insisted that it was ok that the surprise had been ruined and could they please cut the cake in his car, without having the ignominy of demented waiters grinning at him. She agreed.
He asked for the bill. With a start he realized that the bill was slightly inflated. He quickly scanned the items in the bill and realized that the cake was billed to him. Well, he was not the kanjoos type .But he considered it only fair that a cake which was bought for him on his birthday should not be billed to him, by principle. Fair right? Especially when he could have fed a slum for 13 days with the amount the cake cost.
He politely smiled, trying to catch her attention. “Did you realize that the inflation rate for chocolate cakes with icing in south Asia is 17% this financial year?”
She looked at him like he had lost it. He gave up.
Later when he was back home, he realized that she had packed the rest of the cake and taken it home for herself. He was chivalrous. He dint begrudge her the cake.
He went and switched off his cell phone before lying down in bed with a cold compress before she could call up and say something like ”The icing on the cake was when I did not feel close to you today.
He couldn’t stand the mention of cakes right then.

An open letter to all aunties traveling in public buses!!!

ATTENTION: The following post is entirely in jest.What i have writtem is not to be taken seriously.

(Dear)Respected Aunties,
I am not disputing the fact that you once put the Hema Malinis’ of the world to shame. However that was about half a million years ago. This letter is to strongly bring to your notice that we, the young innocent men aged 20-25 who travel in the public buses of our city do not intend to tease/leer/molest you at all. We would rather French kiss a Walrus. So next time our hand accidentally brushes your hand or we fall against you when the bus gives a sudden brake, kindly desist with the hurt and outraged look of an innocent 16 year old. What you are imagining as the red lusty look on our faces is merely the pain when our elbow accidentally collided with your hipbone.
It is bad enough when all Bollywood /Tam/Gult movies portray us as maniacs who are waiting for the slightest chance to bump against nubile young girls. That’s true enough. We are like that. But the operative words here are young and nubile. We even nod our heads in agreement when you try to pull your young daughters away from our nasty leering eyes. But pray pause a moment when you pull yourself away. We solemnly promise you that the jasmine in your hair or the kanchivaram sari you wear is not exactly what we fantasize about.
When we decide to sit next to you in the bus, it is merely because of our paining legs after a hard days work. Though your decision of putting half your body outside the bus though the window so that we don’t brush against you accidentally certainly gives us a lot of space to sit comfortably, it pains us. We worry that a passing pole would accidentally knock you back against us and you would die of a coronary thrombosis of the heart. In this world where space is a luxury, we worry about the distance between us on the seat which would be enough to seat two elephants and a hippo.
We also confess that when we were in our early teens and our hormones were out of control we did watch the occasional Shakeela movie when the Jenna Jamieson video was out of stock. But we are well past that stage now. It merely scares us witless when we watch them now. From Meena and Nagma we have now graduated to Scarlet Johansson and Katie Holmes. Our tastes have refined as we have become men of this world. So my dear Aunties, unless you have teenage daughters, you have nothing ever to be scared from us.
I know that you read lurid paperbacks about macho heroes who rescue their heroines from impossible situations. One look at your pot bellied Brahmin husband and you feel like throwing the novel at him. So you try to imagine romance and intrigue where none exists. We are entirely in sympathy. Our wives would probably face the same thing in 20 years time. But in the meantime, when we still have ample hair on the head and only the beginnings of a potbelly (which we can hide under a shirt of the right fit), please let us go about our business of attracting the PYTs in peace. When we are surreptitiously trying to touch the hand of the sweet young thing in the public bus, if our feet actually stamps your feet, please desist from calling for the cops.
Yours (lovingly) respectfully ,
Young Men Bus Travel Association

Picture Perfect!!!!

Ahh…these social networking sites. Breeding grounds of losers par excellence who stalk you at all times with friendship requests and an unsolicited”hey...Remember me?” when all you did was make the mistake of talking to them for exactly 12 seconds 7 years ago. But a lot has been said on these issues. The topic of my ranting is on something more specific-the display pics on these social networking sites.
These attention grabbing pictures can be classified into a few standard types.
Main hoon Hero: The subject, usually male, stares at the camera with ferocious intensity .His photo has been clicked when he is out climbing the Himalayas, strumming on his guitar, fighting the neighborhood Bengal tigers or any such manly activity. Our hero, in spite of the ordeal is immaculately attired in branded clothes, designer sunglasses. A condescending smile and all the right muscles complete the picture.
Most likely scrap:” Whassup dude?”

Mama! I’m famous: Abhishek Bachan, Hrithik, Aishwaria Rai et al. Some go for an international celeb for a more cosmopolitan image.
Consists of two categories
Extremely ugly guys who know that putting up their actual pic would mean they would remain bachelors all their life.
Extremely good looking girls who know that if they put up their pics they would be harassed by Category 1.
P.S: The death of a girl in Mumbai after meeting her lover from orkut has now been understood to have arisen from shock to see how the guy actually looked.
Most likely Scrap:”Guess who”?
Thoda Casual Mangta Hai: Endeavoring to convey a boy/girl next door image. The photos have all been “accidentally” clicked. The subject will be look at any direction except the camera. Quite likely to have a half demented far away look in their eye. Will be wearing torn shorts, pajamas etc to emphasize the casualness of the situation.
Most likely scrap: “Remember me?”(If you don’t they will scrap you 12 more times asking “Why haven’t you replied”,”You look very busy” etc)
Techno freaks: Lots of spare time at their hands. Spend hours on piccasa or Photoshop to scare the living shit outta you. The subject is at a weird angle to the camera. The background is a nauseating combination of weird colors. Sometimes Black and white to cover their spotty complexion. Morph ugly face on handsome body. Morph Ugly body on Ugly face. His own Mom can’t recognize him now.
Most likely scrap: “Album updated!!!”(Note the 3 exclamation marks to emphasize the point)
Tab Main chotta Bachha Tha: The collection of the ugliest baby pics ever found on the internet. Usually dribbling from the corner of their mouths. Painstaking scanned from torn photo albums. To emphasize innocence. Cause of innumerable confusions like the actual age of the person now, the sex of the person etc. Usually sparks off a series of scraps from girls with moustaches on their faces which all go”Cho Chweet….is that you?? Did you wet your pants often then? You get the picture.
Most likely scrap:” It’s been a long time” (To include all the years growing up too”)
Change is the essence of life: Works on a real time basis. Is usually armed with a webcam or phone cam. The aim of his Life is to click pics from various angles and upload it instantly. The face is usually very close to the camera, arm extended giving a slightly distorted picture. Usually is so engrossed taking the pic that he forgets to smile. Badly Lit background.
Most likely scrap: (doesn’t get time to scrap…only upload pics constantly)
Famous Places/Nature: The subject stands in front of the Eiffel tower, the statue of Liberty, the qutub Minar etc else in front of a scenic background. Often have to screw our eyes to locate the person in the pic as most of the pic consists of the back ground. Travels 3 days of the week. Uploads pic the other half.
Most Likely Scrap: ”Eiffel Tower pics uploaded”

I’m sure all of you have identified the category you belong to. And I know my Orkut Page tomorrow will have 4234324 profile visitors all asking the same question”What pic has this guy put up? .We’ll show him.”
After gasping at my nude profile pic you’ll be short for words. Try and classify that … (evil Grin). (Mom and dad! I’m joking.)

The Taj times

Headlines

• The government of India today awarded citizens who cast the maximum votes for the Taj with deluxe holidays for 4 days and 3 nights at the Taj Mahal. The top prize winner was however caught trying to exchange his gift for a second hand microwave oven.




• A mysterious fight broke out between Mr. Manmohan Singh and Mrs. Sonia Gandhi today. Our reporters interviewed Mrs. Gandhi "I am a true Indian. Even though I eat pizza 4 times a day and my Hindi accent sucks, please don't think otherwise. When that sardar insisted that the Taj Mahal was better than the Colosseum I had to teach him a lesson. Mera Bharat Mahan."




• The mysterious disappearances of women all over the country were finally solved. The women are committing suicide by burying themselves. In a emotionally moving letter mirroring millions of other letters, Mrs. Taj Begum (Name changed on request) begged her husband to build a monument in her name so that her soul can rest in peace




• Bill Clinton famously once said" The world is divided into people who have seen the Taj and people who have not ".He today admitted he was wrong. He said it should have been" The world is divided into people who have SMSed for the Taj and the people who have not."
  
  Economic
  




• The share price of Bharti Airtel has zoomed to Rs.6700 per share. In an entirely unrelated incident, after consultation with a numerologist Mr. Sunil Mittal has now changed his name to Sunil Mittaj.




• The tourism revenues have quadrupled this quarter because of the tremendous response from the people of different nationalities who throng the Taj Mahal daily. The breakup was
  Tourists from Agra-96%
  Rest of India -3%
  Foreigners- -1%
  
  Our reporter caught up with Mr. Lal who lived 100 meters away from the Taj Mahal. "It is my first visit" he said" I wanted to know what I had voted for"
  
  Entertainment
  
  




• In a startling twist, months after actress Bipasha Basu exclaimed"Oh my god, it's the Taj Mahal" after the inclusion of the monument of Love in the final list, her personal love life has dipped alarmingly.




• A red faced Abhishek Bachan refused to confirm rumors that he had married Aishwaria Rai after his family conducted an SMS contest to decide the bride. An unrelated report from the telecom department showed that Salman Khan and Vivek Oberoi had unusually high phone bills that month.
  .
  
  Sports




• The Indian Cricket team now leads the ICC cricket rankings. All the other teams had 200 points subtracted because an enquiry revealed that no other team had any monument in the new 7 wonders list. Ian Chappel remarked morosely "I asked my government to nominate my brother Greg for the competition. But they went with the opera house and see what happened?"




• Saurav Ganguly took over as the captain of the Indian team after it was shockingly revealed by our reporter that Dravid had voted three times lesser than the Bengal Tiger for the Taj Mahal. Our reporter caught up with him . "Taj Mahal is the pride of Bengal "he said. When reminded that the Taj was not in Bengal, he threateningly swung his shirt over his head.




• Greg Chappel leaked an email to the press which highlighted how it was the fault of Saurav Ganguly that the opera house could not make it to the final list. "He is not a team player. When I was captain of Australia the Taj was barely known" he complained

Nai...R.I.P...

My Nai died yesterday in an accident.My family and I are desolate and are only slowly recovering from the pain.
We adopted our dog from the streets about 8 years back.Brown in colour and with one ear misshapen,our dog showed up in our house and decided to stay.Fond as we are of dogs we decided to adopt it.We named it "nAI" which literally means dog in tamil.All my neighbours were used to us shouting Nai...at the top of our voices.
My dog ate anything.But it loved tomatoes more than any other thing.If during cooking Mom forgot to put the tomatoes at a safe height,the tomatoes would be gone.It was the cleverest dog i had ever seen.It understood every word we said.It was human,my nai.
When ever the Paper recycling guy used to bicycle down the road in front of my house yelling,my dog would imitate his tone and pitch to perfection.The paper guys soon got used to it. But whenever a new guy came,he would look at our house warily as he cycled past.
We gave it the most comfortable life a dog could ever wish for.It slept only in the AC room or in front of the cooler.It would share our food,right fromn icecreams to curd rice.Whenever it felf that we were eating something without it, it would sit down and utter a sharp bark to remind us.It had blankets during winter but ended up sleeping on the bed.
Once every 2 months it would stay out for 2 ,3 days at a strech and worry us.My father would go out to look for it .It was scared of bathing.It would run miles whenever we planned to bathe it.
I cant go on.I love you Nai.More than you ever know.And i am sure you are looking down upon us from some doggy heaven with lots of tomatoes strewn beside you and having a lot of fun.But we miss you.Rip.

New novel..chapter 1

i hav started a ambitious plan to write a novel.This is the first chapter.Please leave comments,ideas ,suggestions.

Chapter 1:
I looked out of the third floor balcony of the brown colored building. Appa, Amma, Thatas and Pattis, uncles, aunts and a few stray cousins were all waving their hands. My family has this quality of gathering around in big numbers when they foresee an event of some consequence about to take place. And my engineering entrance exam which was scheduled to begin in 13 minutes 34 seconds qualified as an event of consequence. The culmination of months and months of back breaking effort, the thousands of rupees of carefully hoarded money paid for study material and tuitions, the hopes and dreams of a family as they all looked at me as a way out of generations of penury and struggles. Only a small factor stood in the way of their aspirations, a factor that only I realized. I had no hope in hell of clearing the exam.
I carried a water bottle slung over my shoulder. My forehead was smeared with vermillion and veebhudhi as a safety precaution if my mind was not at its razor best on this important day. I carried three gold and red pencils assiduously sharpened to a sharp point by my mother. I carried a pad, which would be used to support the answer sheet. The pad was covered with various stickers. A saraswathi photo tidily pasted to the top right corner was ample evidence that my mother had been at work here too. But there was also a sticker of Spiderman and one of the WWE wrestler the “ROCK”. And in a clear concise handwriting the name Senthil Ragavan scribbled below in tiny letters.
No. That was not my name. I forgot to introduce myself. I am Surya Vinayaka Ragavan. Senthil is my brother. ”Was” rather. He was five years older to me. He was brilliant guy. After effortlessly getting into the BITS, pilani, he died of a lung problem in his final year of his engineering. He smoked too much; catching the habit early from a friend and never was quite able to give it up. My parents were shell shocked for a year. They then recovered rapidly and proceeded to pin their hopes on me instead.
I really liked my brother when he was alive. He would buy me and my friends’ ice golas at the corner shop if we came across him when we were loitering on the hot dusty streets of Hyderabad, for that’s where we lived. He would fly kites with me during the festival of Sankaranthi. I would patiently catch the chakri as he deftly flew the kite and I would yell “Affaaaaa” with all my might when he would cut the kites of the other kids. I was proud of my brother.
But I am ashamed to say, I don’t like him anymore when he is dead.
I looked at Appa. He looked really small and inconsequential from this high up, a small wizened man, prematurely old from too much work and too little money. He looked lonely and forlorn in spite of the people around him. I genuinely prayed for a moment, hoping for a heaven sent miracle to clear the exam, to make him happy. But I neither had the brains or the application required to clear the exam.
I really want to be a writer. I am writing this story at the age of 37.My story. As I sit all day long in this dim room in my cramped flat typing away with one finger my wife thinks I’ve gone mad and leaves me to my own work. But I am happy; finally I am doing what I always wanted to do. Where was I? .Oh yeah I was about to step into the examination hall to write the exam. But let me rewind the story to two years ago.
I had just got the results of class 10 Board Exam. A steady stream of relatives, well wishers and friends poured into my house offering congratulatory messages to Appa and Amma for having been blessed with such a fine son who scored 92% in his board exams. I had my cheeked pulled by a Punjabi aunty, who then proceeded to stuff my mouth with an outsize laddoo saying “Mooh Meetha Kar lo” as was her custom.
This was the earliest I remembered of the sub conscious rebellion against my parents which persisted all through my life. My parents always held centre stage in my life, relegating me to being a nobody in my own life. They were graciously receiving visitors now. Appa was dressed in a Kurta pyjama, old but spotlessly immaculate. Amma was wearing her best kanchipuram Silk sari, resplendently wearing all her jewellery as if she were decked out to go to a wedding. She was being very nonchalant about the whole thing as if brilliance in the family was commonplace.
These class 10 board exams are very dangerous. They are the first genuine indicators of the capacity of a child. Senthil had scored a whopping 96% in his board exams. He was in his third year at BITS right now, smoking three packs a day. He has on-campus offers from a couple of companies to work for them already but he has not committed to anybody yet. He wants to pursue his masters in the USA.
Anyway as I was saying, my family used the class 10 exams as a litmus test of a child capability. If you get below 75% you were a social outcast like that neighbor Latha’s child. Between 75% to 90% you were considered good. And if by any chance you managed to get above 90% you were classified as “IIT material”. And then you were dead. Granted that there were people who got into the IITs and other top engineering colleges,and I am not saying it was a bad thing to do either. Cream of the intelligentsia and all that. But there were people cut out for engineering and people not cut out for engineering. I was most emphatically not.
Appa was a school teacher who taught class 10 mathematics in the neighboring school. He was a sticker for doing things at the right time. He got up at precisely 5 am every day. Took a cold water bath at 5 minutes past. He then went for a morning walk. Had breakfast at 9 am. Went to school at 9.30.Returned at 4 pm. He read the newspaper from end to end after that, commenting acidly to my mother about the articles he did not agree with. He wrote a couple of letters a week to the newspaper in stiff formal language. When one of these letters was printed he would cut them out with his scissors and paste them in a brown scrapbook he displayed proudly to every visitor that crossed our threshold. Pushing forty when I was in class 10 he was a sprightly fit man, proud and intelligent. He had three degrees already. A B.sc in Mathematics when he was a student followed by a B.ed when he was 30 and an M.sc through correspondence only a year ago.
Appa was a conventional old man. But in one aspect he was not conventional. He loved American fast food and would eat pizza and burgers and gulp down Coke like aa American teenager. In fact many years later he would die peacefully in his bed at precisely 9 pm, the last words we would ever hear him utter would be ”Get me some French fries”. It was a wonder he remained fit with all that junk he ate. It was a sight to behold .Appa with a pile of magnificent pizzas in front of him while Amma was timidly eating curd rice and avakai. For all the differences in their eating habits, Amma was the one who turned out to be fat in her middle age.
It was an arranged marriage obviously. Love obviously was frivolous so my Appa avoided it .He worked his way through school and college and supported seven brothers and three sisters besides. He was awarded a gold medal in his graduation which he displays proudly in his drawing room and which looks more like lead and less like gold if you ask me. But maybe I am jealous for I have never won anything in my life. He married my Amma when he was twenty two. My brother was born two years later. Around this time my father’s brother Seenu Peripa had an unusual bit of luck in his cloth business. So that was how Appa’s uneducated brother came to become an enormously wealthy man. He married a pretty, young girl who was closer to my age than his. Reena Perima would come to our house dressed in jeans and such a tight t shirt that my father would lock himself up in his room, refusing to come out till that “devil” had left the house. However I and Senthil would giggle uncontrollably when she would sway past us talking in her high affected voice. I don’t know why she came so often to our house for she had nothing to come for, save two gawky adolescents gaping at her .Appa refused to even speak to her and she drove Amma mad with her tales of what was the latest thing to wear in the Mumbai party circles and the latest piece of delicate artwork she had bought .
From very early on in our lives Amma and Appa made sure that everything that we saw, thought or did was in some way connected with the larger purpose of getting into a good engineering college. Before I even learnt to read a book of numbers was thrust into my hands. While my friends got cricket bats and tennis balls for birthday presents I remember all I got was books of various sorts like the “Magical Mathematical tricks” etc.
At most they would agree to buy us board games which were supposed to improve our thinking ability, while our friends played in the glorious rain outside. I remember playing countless games of Brain vita with my brother in our bedroom. When I was six years old the temptation was too much for me and I jumped out of the window one day and had two glorious hours of fun, playing football with the poor kids across the street. I came home gloriously dirty and tired, nose bleeding through a minor scuffle I had got into.
I was not punished at all. Amma and Appa did not utter a single word of reproach. But Amma did not eat well for three days afterwards, dabbing at her tear stained eyes with the end of her pallu. Corporal punishment was passé in our house. We had a novel kind of Indian torture, punishment by guilt. After the fourth day when Amma began to look weak, I went up to her and apologized. Only then did she eat.
It was not all bad obviously. During meal times my brother and I would sit on the floor in front of her as she made small balls of the sambhar rice and handed it alternately to us, along with a piece of fried papad. Appa would tell me stories about the Ramayana and the Mahabharata as we listened open mouthed. Afterwards Senthil and I would play mock games of the great epics. He loved to play the roles of Rama or Krishna while I was content to play a Duruyodhana or a Ravana.
I used to be rocked gently to sleep on my mother’s lap. Even as a child I used to suffer from insomnia. I would go crying to my Amma. She would gently lay my head on her lap and rock me, singing old Tamil songs from the movies of MGR and Shivaji. The moon would cast a solitary ray of silver through the broken window pane right on my eyes. She would cover my eyes from the rays, glaring at the moon for disturbing her son. They loved me a lot all right. But many years later I still cannot sleep. And when I lie awake thinking about them I realize that love alone is not enough sometimes.

p.s: chapter 2 soon coming soon.....

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I write mainly in the areas of Humor,Business/Marketing,Fiction and general articles.

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Vannakam!!!

I assume that you have taken the trouble to come to this page that you would want to know something about me.

1)Where are you from?

I am a mongrel.Born in Chennai,brought up in Hyderabad and worked in more Indian cities than I can count.And before you ask me,I have not gone onsite yet.

2)Are you educated?

Silly question.I have an engineering degree in Electrical but would be hard pressed to even state Ohms law.I suffer from a poor memory and wandering concentration.I also somehow picked up an MBA in Marketing.

3) Do you live off your parents?

No I dont(though occasionally I take pocket money from them). I earn my own bread and sambhar and rasam.I work in an IT Company in Chennai.(Dont we all?)

4) Do you do anything of note other than eating and sleeping?

Oh yes.Lots of things.I also drink water,laze around,watch TV etc.Seriously I do have my hobbies which include Reading,writing,rock,travelling,photography,cricket etc.Yes I am a jack of all trades.

5) Why do you write Humour pieces?

My humour articles are an extension of what actually goes on in my mind.I think very similar to how I write.Unfortunately it means that I burst out laughing at inappropriate occasions following my own chain of thoughts.

6) Are you single?

Hahahaha...(rolls on floor) After reading my articles how can you even ask such questions.I am surrounding always by a bevy of scantily clad women.But a good application can always find you a spot.

Parties, Placements and Nostalgia

Note: As B school life draws to a close, my own way of reliving those moments through a series of unrelated incidents in college life, some funny, some poignant and all of them etched forever in my memory.

I am most emphatically not a Party animal. I don’t drink alcohol, I don’t smoke, I dance like an animal in pain, and Punjabi music makes me wince. But for reasons I am not able to fathom, I go to all of the parties in my B School with the devotion of a pilgrim. Maybe it’s because of the money we are forced to contribute to the Party. It is usually a hefty amount, carefully designed to pay for my soft drinks and alcohol in copious amounts for ten other people.
This time I decide that I’m going to take things into my own hands. I decide to make sure I eat and drink my four hundred rupees worth or die trying in the process. I reach nice and early and after pushing out two other people in the line grab the first burger of the evening with a satisfied smile. Only 390 rupees to go, I think to myself.
Thirty minutes later I am looking at my half eaten fourth burger with revulsion. I visit the loo frequently but my body refuses to accept any more Coke. Once I figure out who owes me the remaining Rs. 307.25 ,hell is going to break loose.
The first time I heard the MC, BC word after I landed in Delhi was in a party. I turned around in awe struck shock when I heard it. There have been family feuds and people killed with blunt axes for using such language in my hometown. But something was terribly wrong here. One guy was smiling like he had received the biggest compliment of his life. ”Tu hain BC...”the other guy cooed again in tones of infinite love. They hugged each other after that. While I still don’t use the words myself I have learnt not to wince each time people let loose a string of profanities. In fact I confess I stood before the mirror one time to see how it sounded as I tried yelling the words myself. I had really got going when a saw a face peering at me in some concern through my window.” “God...you must really hate yourself” muttered the witty guy as he walked away. ”BC” I whispered to his retreating back.
Punjabi music is something that never appealed to me.But my friends swear by it. And as for the huge Sardarjis, they spring to instant action. They wave their arms and legs in a frenzy, magically acquiring the wingspan of an albatross as they contrive to knock off your spectacles from impossible angles and distances. And they stamp on our fallen spectacles for good measure, as they try out a particularly interesting dance step.
Placements were five days of total madness. I still remember the first day when all of us were trooping into the seminar room for our group discussions for a particular company .I was walking into the room just behind one of my close friends. Suddenly he decided to bow deeply at the two people from the company. Now I was in a quandary, wondering whether I should bow too in order not to lose my competitive advantage. The company representatives were looking with concern at him wondering whether he was overcome with stomach cramps, so I decided not to. A particularly funny rumor is still going around college about how my friend bowed lower and lower each succeeding day of placements till he succeeding in impressing some company with a particularly fine low bow.
I had seen drunken people before I came to IMT. But the scale and the scope magnified tenfold after I came here. We have some of our parties in the amphitheatre which is very pretty. But with its steep steps, it is not easy for navigation by people who are drinking their tenth pegs of alcohol. I was sitting on those steps and enjoying the music at one of the parties when a body came crashing down face first on my feet. I nearly jumped out of my skin (besides having really sore feet for a couple of days afterwards). After another such party ended I was just getting into bed at 5 am when a knock on the door woke me up. My friend stood clad in a towel. ”Wake me up at 10 am “he said seriously. He looked slightly tipsy so I asked him the reason for getting up early. ”I have to go to the court” he proclaimed proudly. Nonplussed I asked him why. He put on a sinister face. ”Blood blood…..blood everywhere “he suddenly screamed and then ran away. I ran into my room and bolted the door.
There are many kinds of drunken people. Some of them become violent and abusive, some of them become and sleepy and pass out, some of them throw up all over the lobby. One of my close friends became emotional every time he got drunk, remembering all the girls he ever loved and was sobbing madly on my shoulders by his fourth peg,leaving me with a very wet t shirt indeed..
I started washing clothes for the first time here. My friend carefully informed me that we had to soak the clothes in water for some time before washing them, in order to get the layers of dirt out .He neglected to inform me that the clothes should not be soaked for more than a day. I remembered about the clothes I had soaked after five days, when people had started complaining about the odor from the bodies buried under our lobby. I always used the dhobi after that. So much for doing your own work.
I had gone to akshardham temple with a female friend. There was very stringent security, so we had to deposit our bags at the counter. My friend very prettily asked me to carry her bright pink purse and lip gloss with me in my pockets. Overcome by a bout of chivalry I agreed. However I had forgotten something. All of the visitors were searched at the entrance by a security guard. He came up with the lip gloss and pink wallet on me and stepped back in a hurry. I gave him my most ungayish smile I could muster up on the spot. It did not work apparently for he gave my things back from a safe distance.
There were sad moments too. We all loved together, had our hearts broken together, we all cried together. A few of us found love here too.
That reminds me.I have another friend who has been commited to a girl since the last five years.They talk on the phone so much that it has become a joke with all of us.We used to tease him a lot about it daily.One fine day his girl friend had gone for a bath .And my friend called her up at precisely that moment.Another girl picked up the phone."Hello...."my friend cooed in his most lovestruck tone."Who are you?"asked the surprised girl.My poor friend almost hit the roof,confusing her for his girl friend.We spent hours calming him down.
Now the days are drawing to a close with frightening speed. Every time we want to hold on to certain moments they seem to gallop away faster. Now we are going our separate ways. Our paths would cross with certain people, while we would never see others again.
It was more than two years of fun. It was an entire lifetime of memories. Thank you IMT.