(4th March, 2012) Micamail

I wonder sometimes how MICA functioned before there was micamail. You can imagine MICA without any other single piece of infrastructure, except micamail. Even as you read this, many will have micamail open on the other tab. Its not that you use it all the time, but it’s reassuring to know it’s there, no?

Every once in a while, I refresh the page. Some permanent facets of the page invariably are- a random lost and found article, someone calling out for ‘Footy at 5’ and almost definitely, an input from Ashok Chauhan declaring the interest the Indian print media takes in the happenings on our campus.

I don’t open any of them. They are part of the 8,120 unread mails that are lying in my inbox right now. But I also don’t delete them. If you strung together every email sent from the time you fist accessed that account (after a particularly trying session with the IT guys), till date, you could find an interesting story to tell. Micamail is a kind of a ‘sutradhar’, if you will, of everything that happens here. The fights people had, the jokes they cracked, the assignments they auctioned for Shikari Chicken (read: Lakshmi & Rana) and the general mundane events that happened all through the day. I doubt there is any PGP1 batch in history, at least about 50% of which haven’t lost their umbrellas in the first term and dutifully reported it on micamail.

I also doubt there are too many people out there who haven’t been terminated. While that particular micamail activity is the subject for another blogpost, micamail for PGP17 spawned the very popular SISA awards (Annual Summer Internship SPAM Awards). While that brings many, many memories of the boredom of those initial internship days, it is a very grand celebration of micamail and how it enriches (!) our lives.

I opened the spam (and, of course, about half a dozen important mails) to read intense micamail discussions interrupted by Vamsi and Divyanshu’s private conversations. Then there was the time of ‘Babloooooooooo’ which began every internship week (for us as well as Ashok Chauhan, who most definitely must have been very puzzled!). And of course, there was TD, adding her two bits to the spam. There were also those mails that complaining about the large number of (unnecessary) assignments- that were inadvertently sent to the concerned faculty! This also led to the inclusion of a mandatory line adopted by all CoCos while sending mails-“Please note: This mail has also been marked to ‘insert Prof. Name’ and his/her RA”.

Very soon, our group id- pgp2@micamail.in, will be lost. It will be passed on through generations of micans, just like it was handed down to us. But rest assured, the spamming will continue. Umbrellas will continue to be lost, and deadlines will continue to be extended. And legend has it, that long after we leave this campus, and get busy with the nitty-gritties of the real world, we will return- about a year later, with the words- “Tax return file kiya kya?”.

(2nd March, 2012) Chhota

Chhota. That one small (quite literally) word that could describe my whole time here at MICA- every midnight conversation, every steaming cup of chai (that RK would most definitely call ‘kadak aur meethi’), those tyre swings.

In fact, in my head, the image of Chhota will always be that one Rana made in PGP1. That picture has been used and overused so many times, that I don’t even need to link it into this post. Oh what the hell, you’re gonna google it anyway! Here you go!

This morning every one walked up to Chhota to see that glorious sight- a refrigerator filled with cold drinks, the shelf full of chips and biscuits and of course, the one, most coveted, special snack- Maggi. I wolfed down one at about 11am this morning (don’t judge me!) and thought of all those things this place means to us. It is the place so many people shot to fame- an alumni directory of the who’s who of MICA’s gastronomic geniuses. The Imran of the Sandwich, the Anish of the Paratha, the Manvi of the rice- go down in history as the most popular Micans of all time.

But the list doesn’t end there. The names of the dishes of Chhota tell the tale of what so many people experienced there- sitting on those benches, day and night, sharing stories and lives between cigarette puffs and sips of Nimbu Paani. Chaar Palaash, the Crafting, the Ghosal Thali- every one of  them is one tasty story waiting to be told. It doesn’t matter that the ‘Italian’ (as it is fondly called) has absolutely nothing to do with Italy. Neither does the Manchurian hail from China. All that mattered was that at 2am, when we walked up to Chhota, Kishorbhai always had something ready.

I’ve fought with Lakshmi over the one perfectly aligned tube (that would retire to its crooked ways in a day or so), I’ve spend many solitary afternoons there with just the chai. I have screamed over the counter when the mess made South Indian (ugh!).

Chhota is so much more than just a culinary alternative on campus. It is the stuff a Mican is made of. The fact that it becomes a big part of culturalization is no coincidence. Being the only official smoking area on campus, you can find Matthew here more than in his office! And it always, always has Nimbu Pani.

On Breakups…

When is it the right time to end a relationship? One friend said, “When one person cheats on the other”. Another one said, “When you don’t see a future together”. Yet another one claimed it was “It doesn’t feel right.”

Bull shit. A relationship has already ended when you’re trying to think up all these answers. Ultimately, at the end of the day, all you are looking for is excuses. Love isn’t some magical dove that flies down and gently settles into your life. Its a very tangible thing. You build it when you trust one another, share things and create everyday together. As pfaffy as that may sound, its basically true. When we’re in relationships, we share a bit of our lives. It maybe done through something as silly as discussing what you had for dinner that night, or something as intimate as your greatest fears. But it is there, created by you.

But if you make it, you also know the big shiny button on it with Self-destruct written on it. And one fine day, for no reason at all, you press it. When it happens, you do all of the above: be attracted to another person, talk about the future and just begin to feel its not working.

But the trouble isn’t that. The trouble is that we don’t have the guts to tell another person that its simply over. We wait and beat around the bush. We fish for reasons and excuses to fight. We start finding each other annoying. And then the gravest of them all- insult. The time when you really know that its over is when one person insults another. Makes them feel that they don’t matter anymore. They might not say it that directly or in so many words, but it will show.

And at that point, when you know there is nothing left in that relationship, just up and leave.

On love… (Bob Marley)

Just something I came across, pretty interesting I think…

You may not be her first, her last, or her only.
She loved before she may love again.
But if she loves you now, what else matters?
She’s not perfect, you aren’t either,
and the two of you may never be perfect together
but if she can make you laugh, cause you to think twice,
and admit to being human and making mistakes,
hold onto her and give her the most you can.
She may not be thinking about you
every second of the day, but she will give you a part of
her that she knows you can break her heart.
So don’t hurt her, don’t change her, don’t analyze
and don’t expect more than she can give.
Smile when she maked you happy,
let her know when she makes you mad,
and miss her when she’s not there.

Love Story

‘Next Station: Bandra’ said the recorded notification system of the local train.

She climbed into the crowded compartment with her father. The compartment was too crowded to afford either of them a place to sit and in the jostling of the crowd that followed, she was pushed further and further away from her father and landed up right in front of him. She looked up at him, slightly uncomfortable at the proximity and in a moment their world changed. In that one unexplainable moment, it was like a star was born in a faraway galaxy and world stopped moving. The heat, the dust, the crowd all blurred into the city that sped by outside and they both just stood there looking at each other. There was something in the way she leaned into him when the train curved sharply on the tracks and the way he stood firmly before her. And all of a sudden, the next station came and her father pulled her away from him and she was lost in the crowd. He remained there, stunned, as the train began to move again.

‘Next Station: Santacruz’

Khyal…

जब अधूरे चाँद पर ले जाओ,

कस के मेरा हाथ थम लेना ज़रूर,

किनारों पर से गिर न जाऊ कही…

जभी मेरे लिए coffee बनाओ,

तोह फून्ख मारना ज़रूर,

होंठ न जल जाये कही…

किसी शाम मेरी अगर याद आ जाये,

तोह आँखे बंद  कर लेना ज़रूर,

लम्हा न खो जाये कही…

यु ही कही बैठे हुए आँखे नम हो जाये,

तोह मेरा नाम ले लेना ज़रूर,

तन्हाई न छु जाये कही…

For All My Closest Friends…

I will not tag anyone in this post,
it is for my closest friends,
they know who they are,
and they’ll find themselves in this poem:

The Last Song of Dusk…

It was only several years after it was written that I came across a work of prose which was in fact poetry. Not more, not less, but poetry. ‘The Last Song of Dust’ is not just any poem. It is a sad one. A melancholy ballad that fills you up with itself till in a gesture of respect or out of desperation, tears begin to shed. I read this book one day, from dawn till dusk and cried my heart out. It must not be mistaken that the story is one filled with tragedy which warrants this catharsis. It is undoubtedly tragic, but it is not the death and separation that makes you cry. It is the style.

The book flows out in volumes of sorrow. Like a child lost. Like the night. Like Dariya Mahal. Engulfing. This doesn’t necessarily go to say that it is a spectacular book, or even an excellent one. It is just a little piece of dark magic, above mere literary accolades. To measure its contents and grade and judge it, would be sinful. It is not even something that will be remembered and included in academic texts to be learnt by rote by bored students in faraway inconsequential universities. It almost an insult.

What strikes me about this book is its ability to stare at me. Not just the panther, but every character stares at me. I stare at a little bit of each character in me. The wildness of Nandini, the calm of Anuraddha, the silence of Vardhaman or the wordless innocence of Shloka. Or was it the other way around?

I will never know. What I do know is that it was written by a 26-year-old, which only reminds me, that it’s always possible.

Moonlight

I see the moon every night, as he chugs along the train with me

He used to remind me of you, when you weren’t around

But today he seems to read my mind and refuses to smile at me

Half hearted he shines in the sky, hiding behind a cloudy veil.

The moon is incomplete tonight, just like my thoughts

I decide now and in a flash,

And delete the memories and lose everything with the click of a button

How I hate technology…

It needed to be done long ago, long before I ever started thinking

But it didn’t; because you didn’t believe me

I often said it would end, and often I warned you,

You refused to believe me and denied my fears

It’s happening now; less to you than me

But maybe you were right, because there never was anything to end

Maybe I made up that pretty illusion…

I hung on to it with all my heart, only to watch it die away in the moonlight

I feel happy now, happy to cut myself away

The cut might hurt, but only for a few days…

There is no cure, but to cry myself to sleep tonight,

And wake up tomorrow and talk to you

To you it will seem the same and nothing will have changed

We’ll meet months later, smile politely, ask how we are

We’ll even share a cursory embrace

You will never know, of tonight

Again I saw the moon tonight, as he chugged along the train with me

I thought of all this and smiled at the moon,

But he refused to smile back at me.