Adios SOM

Staring at that point of oblivion of sprawling lake in front, one realizes that there comes a time, when you have to look back and smile for all that one has earned and lost. A few friends. A few enemies. A few setbacks. A few victories. A few quarrels. A few revolutions. Like food that’s served, if life was available on a platter, there would be no excitement at all. Let me tell you a story; it could be your story too.

Vito was nobody in the world. He didn’t know what to do with his life; yet he was a guy with dreams. He wasn’t a moron, but an oxymoron. Vito somehow got into SJMSOM. People who knew SJMSOM, called it SOM, and people who got to know of SJMSOM through Vito, called it SJSOM. It was July and it was raining CATs and JMETs in Mumbai. Vito got down at the Thane station. Montana Tony had already reached the hostel and updated on the SOM facebook page about the kick-ass hostel rooms to look forward to. Vito failed to read between the lines. The hostel turned out to be a kicked ass one. He met scores of people – seniors, batchmates, professors, fellow IITians, etc; people of different kinds – artists, management gurus, technical honchos, CxOs. All those were people whom he wanted to be, but never could be.

What followed was a unique experience that Vito would term as “rational attributes of an emotional self”. A lot of those MBA threats that one received from that random B-school friend had come true. Sleep was rare. To meet the EOD deadline, Vito skipped dinner on his birthday. Stubble became a Utopian concept and everyone were scared of those 8 people from SOM ’12. They formally called themselves - Corporate Relations Cell, but looked like Ramadhir Singh’s mob from GOW. Like the climax of GOW2, the Faizal Khan inside every individual wanted to spray thwarting bullets on them, but decided against when better sense prevailed. Dikshas, Continuums, Avenues, Club sessions, assignments, project ppts, announced quizzes, surprise quizzes, midterm exams, term exams, case studies, attendance shortages, labs, self-awareness, depression, frustration, summers preparations, career…the limit of the list tends to infinity. Vito’s first two terms were a reflection of the adage – “Back is on fire / you are in a quagmire”.

December came as a breather. It was time for Mood Indigo, which meant it was time for girls, girls and girls. But, doing an MBA made one ineligible to hit on any girl. To make that worse, Vito was doing his MBA from an IIT. His only solace was the city. Mumbai was better known as Bombay for those who fell in love with the city. Vito enjoyed every inch of the city’s measure with his small group of friends. Second semester began to end with double the amount of workload. But by then Vito had got used to it and didn’t have a clue of what whizzed by him. Through his Summer Internship, he had to travel 60 km every day. Very soon, without a thought of realization, Vito fell for the city and slowly transformed into a Bombaywalla. He appreciated the opportunities Bombay offered but couldn’t decipher her hurry. Shortly after his internship, he started sculpting the three pillars of his life. It read - “Readership, Relaxation and Friendship“, contrary to his school’s pillars of “Leadership, Innovation and Entrepreneurship”. Something he finally learnt by the end of year one.

MBA year two started with a bang, giving way for the new. MIT was in the campus, there were new sets of people to interact with (read juniors), new professors from the industry and academia, new projects (a few fake ones too), swimming classes. Most importantly, it was time for long hair and a time when none would question the beard. Dikshas, Continuums, Avenues continued but they became a congregation of interaction between batches unlike what they used to be in the first year. Travelling to new places inside and outside the country, the year continued with lots of fun and frolic.

Vito, a strong socialist who hated communist ideas was transformed into a capitalist. He joined the MBA programme as a creative person, but ended up ceding to the 2-by-2 matrix of management thinking. He wished those metamorphic changes had never occurred. Eventually, insanity prevailed. Not everyone around him got what they deserved or wanted and finally it was Capitalism that prevailed. He hoped that better things were in store for SOM. Finally, Vito graduated from SOM as a satisfied person. He had got all he wanted, probably because he was at the right place, doing the right thing at the right time. Or probably because he believed that the harder he worked, the luckier he got. Either ways his good life’s clock ticked. Deep within himself he knew that he wouldn’t have learnt so many lessons about life if it wasn’t for SOM or IIT Bombay or the people around him, both friends and irrationals.

Adios Amigo!

The World in Mumbai

Each city has its own specialties and spoilers. Chennai’s buses are great, but autorickshaws ask for a share in you ancestral home. Calcutta Metro is cool, but the buses seem like matchboxes on wheels. Delhi has good Metro service, nice and clean bus service, but you have our netas roaming around here and there threatening our security in the already unsecure city. But, what makes Mumbai special? Local trains will be the obvious answer. It’s like waking up a physicist in the middle of a deep sleep and asking how much ‘e’ equals to. Like a flash in the pan comes the answer “mc²”.

But, there are a few other good things about Mumbai. Autorichshaws and Taxis run on meter. Although their meter conversion sheets may be fudged, an extra ten rupees won’t do much harm to your pockets. Mumbai’s bus service is also fair enough. But there must always be a reason that can pull a city back and for Mumbai, that is – too many people. Just too many people in the city. Wherever you see, there are lots of people. On a torrential rainy day, Andheri station will be as flooded with people as it is with rainwater. One begins to wonder if the rains brought down water or people!

I travel 60 km every day and I use the services of buses, autos, trains and taxis to cover the distance. My office is in the vicinity of Antilla, Haji Ali and Mahalaxmi temple. Burkha-clad women visiting Haji Ali with their families, day-in and day-out while Hindu families enjoying their worship at Mahalaxmi temple. 27-storied bread loaf Antilla on one side, while settlements on the seaside on the other. I work near this place where India’s classification’s culmination is at its best!

I usually take a train from Kanjur Marg station. I can do bungee jumping everyday of my life rather than fight with strangers to get into the local train. The biggest problem being, you really don’t know which one of the guy you are fighting with is the HR head of which conglomerate. But, being taller with a hefty build has its own advantage and I make sure that I use it properly. Once got in, the second race begins – the race for the spot. The spot which is closer to your side of the exit and also where there is proper ventilation. I suddenly feel that I am in a train bogey filled with Sheldon Coopers, “Move it. It’s my spot!” Everyone is in war with everyone else. Push, nudge, budge, punch are all the keywords one has to be well-versed with. Inching towards Kurla, the train gets more crowded. There is an eerie silence when the train comes to Sion. As soon as Sion passes, there is a lot of movement inside the bogie. People are getting ready for the war. The war that everyone wages on everyone else. Looking into their eyes, I listen to what their angry eyes say. They say, “This is Sparta.”

Matunga passes by. People are more restless now. They slowly inch towards the exit like programmed zombies. Step-by-step. When the next station comes, everyone shouts as if it is a battlefield. This is not Sparta anymore, “This is Dadar”. Watches’ glass broken, spectacles flying around, my earphones became someone else’s and someone else’s mine, souls stolen and true to its word, “This is Dadar.” Once the train starts to move, there is calm after the storm. Life comes back to normalcy. Everyone goes back to their office only to wait until evening to fight the “Battle of Dadar” at the sanctimonious Dadar Railway Station.

I am a Racist

“They expect you to give concise answers and don’t beat around the bush.”

“Ok. Mental models and stuffs. Get it. So, where are you from?”

“I am from Chennai.”

“What!! Are you Tamil??????”

Two minutes into the first conversation and that is the question I encounter. Guys introducing their girlfriends play the game of “Guess where this guy is from?” “Uttar Pradesh?? Himachal Pradesh??” I wish so. Leopold’s Café’s security guy pointing at me asks my group of friends if they are with this Punjabi guy. Hearing a Bengali conversation about how much they have contributed to the per capita Roshogulla consumption, I join their banter and gleefully accepted as one of them in no time.

I am a Tamizhan. For easy pronunciation, I am a Tamilian. A Madrasi in pure terms. I am from a varied cultural background – Dad, a Muslim and mom, a Hindu. I have never been told/asked/reprimanded/forced/cajoled to follow any religion. I studied in a “Saet-tu” school (KPCVSS) managed by Gujratis. 70% of my teachers were Brahmins and so was my school’s tradition, so I know most of Gita. Since my neighbor was a Christian, I have attended the Sunday sermons and have seen too many a Christmas. “Well, of course”, my other half of my family follows Islam and I am a part there as well. Because of school, many of my friends are “Saet-tu” a.k.a Marwaris. FYI, almost all of my “Saet-tu” classmates are married now.

I didn’t know to speak Hindi, until I joined NIT Durgapur. My first words were, “I am Tippu from Chennai and I don’t know Hindi.” My group-mates were from Uttar Pradesh and that explains the most part of it. I have been with Bengalis, Biharis, Punjabis, Gujaratis, Gultis, Kannadikas, Rajasthanis, Assamese; people from North-Eastern India (don’t bloody call them Chinkis). I learnt so much from them that my friends back in Chennai say that I have changed. Come on! Give me a break!! I am bound to change. As I tell in every interview, “the exposure one gets is unmatchable”. Blame it on Rachel Green, Naughty America or Robin Scherbatsky, the idea of hooking up with a blonde was always instilled in my mind. Give GRE, score decently and there you go to USA was the writing on the wall until “Jab We Met” changed it to a Punjabi kudi.

Then I went to Orissa (oops!! Odisha) and worked there for two years and as obviously as it may sound I learnt all the unparliamentary Oriya words. Then, went back to Chennai and found a sea of change there. My Tamizh (Tamil for others) was outdated; there were lots of additions to the colloquial language and I felt like a Domar (means a person who doesn’t know the meaning of Domar). Now, the city Mumbai has happened in my life and learning a lot of the “Aahey!” culture. The only piece of the puzzle missing is North India and one can expect that also to happen very soon in my life.

One ubiquitous listing that was missed in the whole length of my life story in a nutshell was Mallus! All through my life there was a Mallu who followed me (or I followed them) diligently. My first tuition teacher (who later became my greatest well-wisher/family friend), my school best friends Ajith and Anu were Mallus. I thought the Mallu following was over when I went to NIT only to find that I my roommate was a Mallu, Sangeet (who is my best friend again). When I went to work, I met my very good friend Akhil, another Mallu. And finally a life dedicated to a ferocious Mallu, Sharanya. I had the option of being with a hot North Indian girl eating Paani Puri at Chandni Chowk or with a Bengali eating Chom-chom at Park Street or with a sexy Mumbaikar eating Vada-pav at Bandra, but I chose a beautiful girl eating Idly-vada at Marina.

We Indians are the most racist people in the world. I am qualified to say that. Because we judge a person on where he is from, from his/her surname, the way he/she speaks and behaves. Yet we crib that other nations racially discriminate us. I have faced a lot of racism in my life and thanks to the good racists that I have met, I have learnt to accept it, come to terms with it, now it’s a part of life. Now, I am that big an expert racist that, I can say where a person is from, from the way one pronounces the word “Be***C**d”. If he doesn’t use the word, he is a Madrasi!! :P