Clutter from the Past

It's been a while since I posted something on the blog, that doesn't mean though that I haven't been thinking of posting something. It's just that I haven't been able to encapsulate one complete thought, think about it completely ,and put it into words. They seem like incomplete strands like misled sperms in my head. In an honest effort, to clear them out and start afresh, I'm posting all of these random thoughts together. If anything, it gives me mental hygiene, and my gmail account some extra space.

don't be silly , silly. 

It always takes a little persistence, to come back from office, and put into words something that you've been thinking about the entire day. Isn't that a 'silly' thing to do? Oh, don't be silly.

At the risk of resonating with your inner voice, the one that speaks only the truth, I would want to speak about a feeling which is as intriguing as it is silly. That is , about being silly.

Two months at office, and I've started feeling this hidden discomfort of playing everything with a straight bat. Everything said and done, is done at the minimal risk of sounding silly. Does being a little silly at times really need to that criminal? Does being silly essentially mean a person is left gifted in the top floor accessory? May be the definitions have changed overtime. 

As Darwin put it , life is a race and in everything that one does, one is being judged by somebody, if not everybody. There is a palpable presence around which binds a strand of thought by an even more palpable consciousness, of being judged each and very instant. The leaders, who believe themselves to be caricatures of perfection, forget how 'being silly when required' worked more for them, than 'not being silly when not required'. 

Human beings are complex creatures. There is just so much that we as a species can experience, that others are deprived of. Being silly is a mask that you get wear to hide the 'so much' that you're thinking and experiencing at that moment. It's like a filter between one's interface between the complexity of one's inner thought process, and a simplistic output mechanism, the voice. 

Why ?

At this minute, I should seek the opportunity to sulk out my helplessness.

I think I've already mentioned how silently competitive I have become over time. 

Fate does that to you, it makes you so excited about a particular thing that everything else starts seeming worthless. You could call it, the fragrant future overpowering the odourless present.

The grass is always greener on the other side. Really? Why?

Why it's just so difficult to stay contented with what one already has?

Why the fear of failing takes over more often than not?

Why am I inclined to write this of all things?

Why do I feel that I'm entrapped into something that I'm too weak to break out from.

Why the most important people in one's lives, never know what to say when?

Why , when bad things happen, they happen all at once?

Why I have to live with this world, the way it wants me to?

Why I think, I'm entering into one more dilemma?

Why I think, I'm never going to feel anything permanent for anybody, unless I get everything that I want?

Why the only way fate makes me realise that I don't have something, is by pointing out that others do?

Why everything keeps changing its meaning for me ?

Why introspection is easy and taking action is tough ? 

Chapter 1 : Engineering Love 

I was 97 kilos. I was dark. I was badly dressed. And I was about to become an engineer in four years.

I had taken the brunt of walking two miles from the metro station with an honest intention of losing as much weight as I could before I made my grand appearance at NSIT. 

Turned out it wasn't that grand. I stood amid the hoopla trying to find even one familiar face. For somebody who'd almost been living in hiding for a year , this was an entirely new feeling, A rebirth was the only thing I could compare it with.

Before having gotten this admit, I never thought too highly of NSIT. So seductive is the power of self-deception, that suddenly it started to seem the best this country had to offer. This was obviously, the first time I had ever seen an engineering college up close. 

I was waiting for Sumit. The all-I-knew and the all-I-had for one year. I always believed that losers, no matter what variety, always found solace in the company of other losers. Well, Sumit was the only company I had for the past one year. We were both hard working, both sufficiently intelligent, and both losers in all the other aspects of life , but academics.  We studied together in the much famed Vidya Mandir Classes for JEE, traveled in the same bus, confided in each other our boring lives , and now were studying in the same college. Nevertheless, we were always competitors.

It was the first day. I was wearing the best shirt I had. For somebody who's fat beyond his age allows him to be, a good shirt is the one that hides his paunch. Jeans were usual. I preferred the baggy ones. It was always better to keep people ambivalent on the curvature of one's butt. I felt this inclination to open up and judge people beyond their CEE rank , for once judge them on everything but their rank. 

Before I could come to a relative judgement on myself, I felt as if something had tickled me.     I turned around to find a girl poking at my arm, with a certain inquisitive in her eyes. She wore specs. She was slightly plump. And then she blurted : Uncle, could you guide me to the registration room? Now, that's the kind of catch 22 that you'd rather not be in. There was an equal insult in both correcting her and answering her. 

I chose the latter insult, and pointed her in the right direction. All this while the word 'uncle' kept echoing inside my head in an infinite loop. I read Chetan Bhagat. I had certain expectations from college life. As much as I wasn't expecting girls to give me blow jobs, I wasn't expecting them to call me 'uncle' either. 

Sumit arrived as his cumbersome best. His hair and his tiffin box always had one thing in common- both leaked with oil. I really wanted him to be by my side. He seemed to be the only person who could make me feel slightly more sophisticated. Looking good is relative you see. Losers always look forward to hanging out with bigger losers. I thought of him to be my bigger loser. Sometimes I intuitively felt, that he felt likewise about me. 

how life changes 

So the era of incumbency has begun. I'm strategically moving to a static life, with nothing but one thing to do. The one thing, may fluctuate between doing my work and cribbing about it. 

Now that I'm contemplating as to what to write, I realise the kind of changes, that a routine brings about in you. It's easier said than done, but for people like me, who count more on their idea generating capabilities, than workmanship spirit, job is very much a dampener.  One has to keep reminding oneself,of the bigger purpose that surrounds us. 

The ignominy not having achieved as much as others did, keeps springing up. Not that I mind it. Perhaps, I've come to like it. All that raging competitive adrenaline , arising from the shackles of frustration make it easier to find a purpose in life.

If you ask me, at this moment, I'm just trying to take things one at a time.  

So I was saying

Intellect is a funny word. For many, it's like this perfect ingredient to help them get the ideal skill set. 

My question is - Is it ? Is it something that could be consciously derived or added to one's personality? Is it not that unless one loses all consciousness of intellect, only then can he/she come close to getting some? 

Those were my initial thoughts on the subject. Sooner than later, I realised it's okay to crib. It's okay to be conscious of it. It's okay to crave it. It's okay to try.

However, when you look around, there is a palpable presence of people, who deem themselves to be 'the intellectuals'. No, it's not because they are, but because they may be people of eclectic tastes, tastes confined solely to the intellectual variety. What they think, how they think or even what they do, is pushed completely to the sidelines. The criteria of a sound thought process is found completely lacking. 

Makes me think - Is intellect by one's preference or by one's thought? Shouldn't thought lead to the preference, and not vice versa. 

As I often say, the way it happens, is that it happens that way.

 ---------------------------------

So that was a part of an unfinished conversation I was just having with somebody, languishing inside. Compared to the other articles I've posted here, this may seem more like a tweet. 

Occupational Hazard

'Analytics' was never a domain , that I could imagine being so closely associated with. But now,the way it happens that it happens to be a way, a way of life I mean.

Moving on, I was trying to figure out, what effect such a profession has on one's thinking procedures. 

First things first, you're less a person of opinions, and more a person of facts. It's intriguing, how 'data' becomes such an important aspect of one's professional existence, that one wouldn't buy a brown bread without a rough number crunching of how the brand has been doing in recent times. 

You know you're catching up fast as an analyst, when the question : Are there any more insights to be drawn?, comes to you more often that not ,and you know you're 'one-a-dem', when you wouldn't comment on anything , unless it was backed by some 'solid' data. 

In the world of analytics, the convention is to ask : Do your numbers back you? I can't see any other occupation, where 'numbers' are metaphorized to be living organisms of such critical importance. 


After a certain threshold, you tend to regard them as your pets, which you'd want to groom and make look presentable. The 'grooming' part is what could be termed an 'analysis'. 

When you try and look into the cause-effect of such a change, you tend to realise, that it wouldn't have been any different if you were a consultant, or a manager, or even a personal assistant for that matter. There is always and I mean always, a certain overlap of personal and professional persona , which sometimes one can't help, and sometimes one doesn't want to. Occupational Hazards , as I've come to call it.

Simply Put

There's always a certain amount of satisfaction when one gets to blog while at work. It makes me feel I'm getting to do what I always wanted to, though indirectly. I mean, getting to write for money.

Somehow it always happens that I return to my blog, as and when a certain something in my life has changed. It's been a month, since I last sat down and wrote something, I guess every blog post has its day. I don't know why, but it had to come today of all days. A realisation that springs up time and again is that there is a certain threshold to the sheer 'quantity' of thought that can be parallely analysed by the brain. (Yes, this is the Associate Analyst speaking.) As and when the barometer reaches a ' I cannot handle more' level, you tend to dump it somewhere. Sometimes you dump it speaking to yourself ( not many people can do that), othertimes talking to your close confidants. Yet there are still other people, who try removing the haze in the canopy of a blog.

Office is like a pandora's box. There is so much happening around , but it's still difficult to put one's thoughts in order. One might as well pass off this post as me rambling randomly. ( Ah! alliteration) Small talks always keep happening. So I get to know why abc is late for office, why xyz hates dunnhumby food so much ,why ghj thinks that he should get married before he loses all his hair. These are strands of information that one inevitably and unhelpably enjoys at office. They're majoritarily silly, sometimes serious, and othertimes intriguing. I think I'm getting more than used to them. To be honest, I'm enjoying them. I get to mock abc, if she's late for office tommorrow too, I could offer xyz that I'd accompany him to Subway in lunch time, and ofcourse he could always pay the bill if wants to, and I insist. Although, ghj's case is somewhat serious, I haven't been able to 'derive anything' out of it.

 

So that was office, at a glance. And I realise it's almost 7 in my watch, with the needles enclosing the angle, that I covet seeing most in the evening since June 13th 2011 .Time to wrap up, and run the victory lap. 

 

Garg Ka Swarg

A little obfuscated as you might be by the title, I can only say , if there could be a Khosla ka Ghosla, then why not a 'Garg Ka Swarg' per se. 

Over time I've always realised how obnoxious a family we are. And I don't mean it in a bad sense really. There have always been certain floating characteristics that have differentiated each member of this family , not only from each other, but every other soul that exists. In short , we're pretty much a set of people, with mutually exclusive tastes and characteristics, trying to fit under one roof. As I wait for distant relatives, who're all set to arrive with their Band Baaja Baarat , seeing everybody running around from one corner to the other, only exemplifies my case, or should I say 'our' case.

I might as well start off with dad. The real 'Papa Garg' you see. Dads are such intriguing things. Such coconut characters. They always have to pretend to have a hard outside, albeit a softer inside. Isn't that the case with all dads? Maybe. The keepers of all available plastic money, dads, always command a little respect. Respect given. Moving on to Bubbly. The, perpetually at verbal war with me, Bubbly. I think she's another coconut , just a little harder on outside, and a little softer on the inside. If only one could penetrate her feminist ego, which I do, rather frequently, one could see the soft her. Just for the record, Bubbly is my mom.

Sometimes, I feel so surrounded by emotional women. They don't realise, while they're trying to put in an emotional point, I'm mentally denigrating their entire species. That someday, all the women in my life will connive together and kill me, is an undisclosed nightmare. That someday, all these women, will leave in  complete peace and harmony, is another. Where will all the enti come from if it happens? :-}

At the look of things , I'm the lone 'nut' in this house of coconuts. 

Random Regrets

At the obvious risk of screwing up Mobile Communication tomorrow, I'm writing this post with an earnest desire to freak out and start studying. So far , it ain't happening. The thought that it's the last exam makes it terribly hard to study, the thought that it's the last ''engineering exam'' makes it look like something may be I won't be able to express. There are days when you want to study, days when you have to study, and then there are days like today, when you just can't. So what do you do in such circumstances: you talk.

It's always a little mysterious to write without a topic in hand. May be that's the way exams are. All one wants to do, is to not think about them, and all one doesn't , is to not forget then entirely. It languishes somewhere in the corner of the neural networks, but it's always there.

If only I knew, that there were so much happening behind a simple phone call, I'd have considered making a phone call, a process equivalent to shaking up a coalition government. But whatever.You-gotta-do-what-you-gotta-do, eh?  Still 20 hours to go before this last over in the innings of engineering, and here I am talking about something.

May be I should talk about something I regret having done, so much so, that if there was anything that I'd have wanted to go back in time and do differently, and I mean anything, then that would be it. I do have one such story.

It was a day to go for the first midsem when a random plan to drink with friends sprung up. It wasn't a plan I initiated, but it wasn't one I wasn't enthusiastic about. I sat on the driver seat with music playing at a volume that was audaciously audible. That's what the idea of getting drunk does to you. You begin losing your sanity ,even before you have it. At least I do. If my memory supports me well, it was a narrow lane in the sector-4 market of Dwarka, when I broke all hell loose with the accelerator. I was driving too fast, but I knew I was in control. It was a sudden something that came in front, and screeeech came the brakes ! Stopped just in time. At the outset, yes, it had all the ingredients of a terrible accident. I sat at driver seat, unaffected, rather unperturbed. 

It would perhaps have been my apathy that sparked off a man watching it all, standing at the side of the road. I still remember his face. He must be a decade older than my father, tall and carried a french beard. In short, moderately sophisticated. "Is this the way to drive?" , he said with an ignominy in his tone. It was all too justified , both the question and the ignominy.  For a minute there, I was taken aback. It wasn't something I was used to. Not in front of friends for sure. That's what ego does to you, it makes you an arrogant fool. In this rush of arrogance I replied : " Yes , it is."  I knew he was expecting an apology, and I was too weak to give him one. 

He was offended. Had I been him, I'd have been too. I remember having rushed the car, while he kept speaking something, something I don't even want to recall. The only part I do remember though was about what a ruptured upbringing my parents had given me. In one moment, all that my parents had done for me, taught me, was squashed with my false sense of propriety. 

For a minute everybody sat in the car in silence, just to get to terms with the fact that somebody amongst them had the guts to misbehave to this extent. I wore my mask of apathy as usual. I was ashamed, and I so bloody knew it. Fuck I was ashamed of myself. I felt like stopping the car and banging my head against the wall. Obviously, to express regret explicitly isn't a trait I share. Perhaps it's too afflicting on the male ego.

I could elaborate more, but I don't have that much time. I have an exam , remember ! Even today when I'm idling ,the horrors of that incident haunt me. As the memory retraces itself to that day, it sends chills down my spine. There is a sullen inclination to whack yourself hard. So hard , that you may finally be able to forgive yourself for it. Perhaps I'm not that strong, neither physically nor morally.

You may not believe me, but I must have thought so many times to go to that very place, find that person, just so that I can fold my hands in shame and apologize. It's just the chances of finding him seem too scarce and the notion too weird.

What use is all the success in the world if one feels ashamed to apologize at one's mistake as and when it happens, and feel ashamed about it his entire life, when the damage seems irreparable. Sometimes, I just can't help being sorry for myself. Sorry uncle. I really am. I hope this blog gets very famous someday, and one of your grand children reads this post and tells you about this guy on the blogosphere who felt terribly regretful to have misbehaved with an elderly man, and some supernatural power forces you to read this article. 

What a pleasure it'll be if it happens, the blog getting famous I mean. :P  

Bitter Sweet

It's tough to start a day with nostalgia, believe me , it really is. It's tough to say to oneself that: This is It ! You're on your own now. No more rushing to the college in the morning, no more  metro rides, no more making fun of teachers, no more "See you tomorrow then". The subtle mutiny inside, the mutiny of being an engineering student at NSIT counts its last breath. 

I can't say I've made much out of my college life. A lot of time was just spent in creating a mess, and more time spent cleaning it up. Bad jokes still kept the spirit alive. So much ambition crept up sitting on those white marbles, so much of it died down sitting in the classroom. So much adrenaline flowed through the veins in a JAM, though so much less before an EXAM. Does that rhyme? :P

So, yes, coming back. I'm not digressing today. This is going to be a serious nostalgic post.

It all boils down to this one day, The Mighty Farewell Party. It's not as if I'm not going to meet these people ever. In a place like Delhi, catching acquainted people hanging out in equally acquainted places, isn't too difficult a task. It's a common coincidence you see. But come to think of it, the next time there's got to be a purpose behind everything. There's got to be an agenda of the meeting. Yeah, you could obviously retort :"Who needs a reason to meet friends?" . You're right, may be you don't, but I know I will. It'll take more than sheer will to call up a friend and ask him to meet-up, and it'll take more than courage to write on his wall :"Long time, let's hang out someday". It's hard to imagine myself doing that, but you never know, you know. Solitude makes you do things. 

I'm not ashamed to accept that four years of college life have injected in me more regret, than enthusiasm. But I'm happy that it came in the early stages of life itself. Here on, things are not going to be the same. You can't enter a brawl with a matched indulgence , you can't take a day off at your whim , you can't just bunk and head off for a movie. And of all things, you can't have the liberty of not doing what you didn't want to do. Here on, life's thrown to you like a buffet, you'll have to have what's served to you. College, I swear was different. It was what I call : A Candid Commotion of Choices.

People, yes, I must talk about the people. So technically, college is like this giant aquarium with fishes, crocodiles, sharks etc. pretending to live in peace and vowing not to eat each other up. No doubt, you enter the threshold like an innocent fish, but what you retire as is entirely your prerogative. Honestly, it's always better to stay the fish. You get bumped around all too often. 'Make, break and brake' starts to seems like a motto. One day, you'd grow comfortable staying that way, and then that'll be a way of life. Well yes, that's strictly opinionated, but then that's strictly personal too.     

You may be the who's who of college, but you're all going to end up leaving this place with a taste, not in your mouth, but in your head : Bitter Sweet. 


It's OKAY to accept it. Adios NSIT.