A little bit of ourselves

The academic calendar was hardly of any interest to us. It was just a schedule interspersed with internals, vivas and assignment submissions before the menace of semester exams re-surfaced. However what we did look forward to if there was anything that could be put under that head would be the college fests. They were of little consequence to anyone not involved in them, and might not have even been impressive to the unbiased observer but for those who organized them, they'd be the centre of the universe for at least a month in time.

For me, it'd be the Mechanchie society's Magnum Opus, and the two biggies of the year for the entire college in the form of the tech-fest Literati and the cultural Confluence. Life was tough as far as getting sponsorships for the fests was concerned. Kurukshetra wasn't quite a name which would spring out of the pages when a senior executive of a company thought of killer brand placement. Consequently, getting the sponsors to shell out more than a pittance and then live up to their expectation to buy the moon for a dime was a near impossibility. But we tried.

"Prof Night", a standard feature of all IIT and big city college fests where a professional musical artist/group performed, remained a spectre through the fog during our 4 years in engineering school thanks to administrative red-tape. The attendance from neighbouring colleges and big cities remained sparse despite our best efforts to portray our inter-college fests as the best there was going to be. Sometimes it seemed that the only ones who believed the event to be a success were we the organizers ourselves. Everyone else was either turning their noses up at the "fun" to come or worser still, running away to avoid the boredom.

We were oblivious to all these shortcomings, us who were in the thick of these things. We'd continue to slave away over the posters that would build up to the events, engage in passionate debates over what actions would draw the 'crowds', spent late nights and long phone calls over supplies & fresh ideas that could pump more life and encourage more participation than last year or the year before last. The unbelievable efforts that we put into what would at the end of it all be just another tacky college fest defied belief. The grandiose nature of these events may only have been a illusion but it was a very useful one for us nonetheless. 

We had invested a little bit of ourselves & the zest of our youthful spirits on each of those tossed away pamphlets that were now being blown around the grounds, into the giant backdrop of the stage, on the furniture that we lugged onto the truck, the giant speakers that would screech in electromagnetic indignation and the million other activities that stitched together this attempt at college fest greatness. If spirit counted for anything at all in these cases, then we were at par with any of the hallowed institutions of the world stigmatized though might we be by being located in a little pocket of rural Haryana.

Rolla' coasta'

Back in the sad old days when I was ignorant enough to tolerate boy-bands and their sentimental rubbish, I had heard a song by Ronan Keating which went "Life is a roller coaster, so just start a-riding..." What nonsense! I so wish that life were like a roller coaster but it is so not.

As the coaster rolls up to the point of no return, the mind goes "Shit! Shit! Shit! Crap! Crap! Crap!" in an infectious rhythm and when the cars cascade down the precipice there is a primeval "Yaaahhh" sound that arises instinctively out of the rows of open mouths. The twists and the turns and the upside down, cork screwy motions of the ride are welcome because there is no other option but to submit to them. If there is one place where a man is completely helpless against the powers of fate, it is on a roller-coaster. Absolving it's riders of all responsibility and ferrying adrenalin-charged participants to a scream-fest, the coaster is a creation for everyone to literally ride their luck. They know that the feeling of danger is real but the danger is probably not. It's like watching dinosaurs on a giant movie screen instead of being pursued by them down the street. 

Life on the other hand is full of observations, schedules and picking between myriad choices each of which have completely different consequences. If only it were as simple as strapping onto a mass of carriages designed to subject the body to G-forces that it wasn't designed to handle nor wanted to, and then wear a silly smile all the way through the self-imposed, self-indulgent freak ride from start to finish.

Exhuming the past

Memory is a funny thing. It tends to build upon the past in such a way that the very earliest ones are buried deep beneath the foundation of consciousness. Total recall is an expectation to laugh at and the contents are so hazy that most of the times I wonder whether these qualify as memory or just a concoction of my brain painting an inaccurate vision of the past.

My memory takes me back only as far as when I was 3-4 years old. The preceding years that I spent in Calcutta find their manifestation only in family photo albums and that is the only reason why I can somewhat agree to the notion that they really happened.

Coming back to what I actually remember, I remember the vast housing colony of Roopnagar in the middle of nowhere (also known as Valia somewhere in south Gujarat, to be more specific) for the GNAL factory where my dad had been hired. I remember the ground-floor flat with the two verandahs- the front and the back where Kelo and Bhuto, two mongrel puppies would show up everyday for food scraps doled out by us delighted children. I have almost a hallucinogenic image of the grounds that lay behind our building. The lawns seemed to be without end as I would run on the neatly mowed grass and do an occasional roll to soak up the refreshing moisture that remained stowed away in those tiny blades. On a sunny day with friends whose names I will never know, I'd be out on these lawns with nary a care in the world and for the most part, high on happiness and the freedom afforded by ignorance.

I distinctly remember Dad coming back from office and puffing away at his harmonica every evening. It was Dad's time-out after a long day at work so I'd sit unintrusively in the living room listening to the tunes being brought to life out in the front verandah. I never really found out what tunes they were because by the time I had reached an age of cognitive memory Dad had stopped playing the harmonica for reasons known only to himself. I am reminded of my Dad whenever I listen to "Hai apnaa dil to awaraa" but not exactly because my dad was as debonair as Dev Anand in this song. It's more because of the carefree attitude exuded by the song and it's harmonica segment. The song seems to resonate with my Dad's throw-worry-to-the-winds approach to life perfectly.

I also recall with chilling clarity, the laugh of the hyenas that lived beyond the boundary walls of our colony in the dead of night. This was still a really wild place a few steps outside the periphery of this enclave of man-made shelters and late at night the hyenas ensured that no one ever forgot this fact. With the numerous stories of hyenas making off with children being told to us to rein in the wayward behaviour of us kids, there were nights spent soaked in cold sweat and unspoken terror of what lurked a stone's throw away from the protective circle of our colony. I am not sure that my parents intended to scare me that much but boy, were they over-achievers in this respect!

As I dig up these old memories, it's hard to believe that it is my own life that I am talking about. I suppose any event when sufficiently in the past ceases to be a reality, ending up as a pile of fine stardust filtered through the multiple sieves of time, only to be scattered further by the wind. 

Mormon? Me?

This Saturday on the streets of Cambridge, I was adjusting my camera to take a picture of a classic shark-finned Chevrolet when I heard someone said, "So you like American cars, huh?" I turned around to see two young fellows probably 18-19 years of age dressed in white half shirts and perfectly ironed trousers. With a church right across the portion of Mass Ave where I was then, there was only one conclusion. "Choir boys!" I thought. Confirming my suspicion I saw lapel pins on their shirt which said 'The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints'.

Interesting! The long name 'The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints' can be shortened to one controversial word i.e Mormon as members of this particular church are famous/infamous as. In the million odd sects within Christianity, these guys had established their presence on the Christian map by being prominent proponents of polygamy. Their founder Joseph Smith believed himself to be the next prophet after Jesus after finding a "Golden Tablet" of some sort sometime in the mid 19th century. No wonder that his more devout Christian critics weren't the happiest lot. I found it really amusing that these guys from the decidedly offbeat edition of Christianity were looking upon me, a bordering-on-agnostic individual as a possible convert. I waited and watched for what this conversation would lead to and how would the talk switch from American classic cars to Jesus Christ & Joseph Smith.

As it turned out, it took them exactly a couple of sentences. One of the guys fished out his digi-cam and showed a picture of his Chevrolet pick-up back in Arizona (from where he claimed to be). Trying to be polite, I muttered something to the effect of "Wow! The true-blue American pick-up truck." He went on to explain that this was what he sold to make enough money to come to Massachusetts and spread THE WORD (which in this case was the word of Joseph Smith, but in reality freely substitutable with any other religious doctrine in the world). Something on my face just then must have told them that I wasn't going to be their dream draft and they let me go with a tiny pamphlet advertising the website 'mormon.org'. 

Whenever I come across such people, I try to part amicably with them no matter how unorthodox their fervent beliefs might be. In part it is because they scare me. Though I am not always successful at my attempts, it really amazes me every time that someone may have such unwavering belief in what seems to me to be essentially a second-hand grandma's tale. Being religious is one thing, but is it really possible for anyone to accept that the stories of every legend and every miracle that is passed down through word-of-mouth or personal interpretations are cent percent true? Do the words scientific enquiry and healthy curiosity mean anything to them at all? Indeed, is there any need at all for such things in their borrowed universe.

Life isn't fair, no sir!

It was a typical long recess in our school. Freed from the restricting confines of the classroom after nearly half a day, the school was abuzz with activity. One hour of cricket, talk and more cricket was to follow as particularly tempting tiffin boxes were flash raided and the ordinary ones were gulped down in as less morsels as possible. Running circles in incoherent joy was the norm, such was the great pleasure at this mid-day pressure release.

Part of the running brigade was Tushar, a junior who was racing in happy abandon behind his friend through the corridor. Everyone else who wasn't involved in purposefully physical unnecessary activities stood at the sidelines munching away at their tiffins before they too had their hands free to do something wild & shrug off the class induced heaviness on their minds. It wasn't unusual for someone to join in the fun uninvited so did Tushar's friend, another junior whose name I forget. He stuck out a leg from behind a classroom door for the speeding duo at exactly the moment which was required to cause the most spectacular bone-crunching tumble I've seen in my 25 years on this planet. I don't think that he intended Tushar to put up such a show but boy, did Tushar fly that day and almost cartwheeled to a tremendously comic fall! The corridor howled with laughter and the building shook with the reverbations of mirth.

The laughter lasted exactly for the time it took for Tushar to gather his embarassed self off the floor. Then there was silence as everyone saw that he had so obviously not taken this fall in the slightest of good humour. His face was dark with anger and he was no Tiny Tim as far as school kids in the 7th standard go. He was a big, hefty guy quite opposite to the size of the braveheart who had brought his downfall. He stalked up to the leg poker who now looked like he had seen his own death and was gulping down his last few mouthfuls of air. Tushar seized him by the collar and now the crowd closed in expecting to see a live murder so soon after an excellent show of slapstick humour.

However the commotion and thunderous laughter post Tushar's fall had drawn the attention of our class teacher, Kalpana Miss (the very improbable scenario of a teacher hanging around the classrooms during the LONG recess came true that day) who pierced through the crowd at the exact moment Tushar had laid his hands on his tripper's collar. She walked right upto Tushar and without any hint of hesitation gave him a resounding slap on the face admonishing him "Very proud of your big muscles, huh? Terrorizing kids smaller than you physically! Shame on you. Now get out of here." Needless to say, she was totally unaware of the events that had preceded this particular case of 'bullying'.

Tushar of course was in no state to explain. The most dazed expression inhabited his face as he stumbled away zombie-like with one hand nursing his cheek, not helped at all by his hurting legs. He could've very well stood and fought his defence but life's utter cold-heartedness had totally robbed him of any response. He just couldn't comprehend this level of inequity and chose wisely to bail out of this situation rather than to prolong his agony. As Kalpana Miss walked off to the staffroom for her lunch, no one spoke up in Tushar's defence. All of us were too busy rolling on the floor in stomach wrenching, gut splitting laughter!

Change seems suspiciously possible

I am of the long line of cynics who said that he won only because he was the better choice when compared to the ancient McCain who had shed the last bit of his reformist Republican skin by choosing Palin as his running mate. I still feel that he has promised too much or rather the people's expectations out of him are too much. His detractors will laugh at every one of his failures in thinly veiled racism. His supporters will find that his long road to recovery is indeed very very long, much farther than the euphoria of his historic election win will carry them.

Yet when the President of the most gung-ho unapologetic nation on the face of the earth clarifies that "America is not at war with Islam!", it means the world to a lot of people. The millions of Muslims who are leading their normal lives away from the stagnation of terrorist camps, crude Sharia law, oppression of women all of which have unfortunately become the dominant image of Islam now have concrete proof that a significant power in the world sees the truth. They are glad that at least some important people in the non-Islamic world understand their dilemma and are ready to seperate them from the other nonsense that happens in the name of their religion. 

Obama says he wants peace between India and Pakistan but only when he swings a bat with the mercurial Brian Lara, does it become a much more believable statement. A casual analogy of Lara as the Michael Jordan of cricket is not too far off the mark indicating that he has more than a passing interest in the matter. The President of a country which historically hasn't looked beyond its self-contained world of Hollywood, cable TV and football (The kind that the rest of the world doesn't care about) taking a crack at something that is so un-American, is a paradigm shift towards making America more sensitive to the world around it.

As far as his policies go, I am an eternal cynic so there is absolutely no chance of me turning into a raging 'Oba'maniac, but here is one case where I wouldn't mind being forced to eat my words.

Tribal truths

Sometime in summer 2008, there was a West Bengal tribal handicrafts fair being held near the newly opened exhibition grounds off the Park Circus bypass. My aunt had asked me if I wanted to tag along. It was a Saturday afternoon and there was actually nothing else to do. On reaching the venue, as expected there were hundreds of visibly excited females running around from stall to stall and their visibly depressed male companion (boyfriends/husbands/brothers/nephews) dragging their feet behind them carrying the tons of items already bought. 

All the usual tribal handicrafts that I had previously seen only displayed in drawing rooms and inside showcases were on display by the dozen.  Tribal art works at a primal level, that delves far deeper than the apparent simplicity of the artwork at its surface. Does a good piece of art have to have multiple interpretations and layers or can the grin of a semi-human statue contain more meaning than the most intricately detailed paintings? Do the stick figures that cavort in a group dance on a quilt really need flesh and bone detailing to convey their mood? I ended up buying for myself a black stone paperweight adorned with a boldly illustrated butterfly and a bronze mask which was oddly reminiscent of the Green Goblin's mask in the Spiderman movie. The mask still hangs with an indecipherable expression above my study table in Calcutta while the paperweight keeps (or at least used to keep) my daily paper from flying off in the late evening Ganga breeze. I look at them and forge a link with long lost ancestors whose lifestyle and skills are still retained by these rapidly dwindling tribal cultures. A doomed culture it is from the outset when less is more and beauty lies in brightly hued innocence.