Engineering Love Chapter 1 : Part III

Finally, the seniors were done for the day. They had marked their potential dates, threatened potential threats and leased potential sycophants. 

Sycophants was where I was. And my immediate ambition to switch over to becoming a potential threat. Respect came automatically being a threat to the seniors. There were repercussions of course. 

As the frenzy wore out, the class returned to the status-quo - outside the classroom. 

It became all chirpy outside. Some girls felt an instant urge to rave about the sheer number of seniors who approached them to join one college society or the other. Such was the magnitude of societies inside college, that almost everybody had their own. Perhaps a little something for their visiting cards. I saw it as an identity issue.

It was quite hilarious to eavesdrop though. Apparently, one of the seniors had convinced a whole bunch of how they were the right fit for his theater club and how joining the club would give them such a personality boost and what not. I bet it would - I said to myself. You never need too much push to rise above zero. 

Guys usually got logistics. They were happy to be getting something. And by the time they would realize what logistics really meant, they would already be pushing tables from one spot to another. And all that just for free refreshments. 

I sat on the bench hoping the class would start. A lurking thought of that girl calling me 'uncle' still echoed in my mind, I was etching her face in my memory, just so that I make sure I never chance upon her in the next four years. 

I wanted to hate her but still couldn't stop thinking about her. Eventually, I was coming to believe that she wasn't all that bad looking. In fact, only if she'd have groomed herself half as much as the other girls, she could have been quite a stand out. But then, that wasn't my business, was it? All I had to do, was to stay away from her. 

Suddenly, as if my thoughts were taking 3D shape, she entered the classroom. Without looking here and there, she took the first bench. I was glad to not have caught her sight.

This had to happen, right? First God makes me fat. Then he gives me an admit to this college. Then I meet her. Then she calls me 'uncle'. Then I evade her. Then I pledge never to let her see me ever again. Then I get to know that she's going to be in my class for the next four years. 

Fuck my Life. 

Engineering Love : Chapter 1 : Part II

The next thing on the agenda was to enter the classroom and meet one's academic brethren for the next four years. I remember having thought about this moment while I was preparing. I used to call it - getting to Bond With The Best, a personal phraseology of sorts. 

This was where Sumit and I had to part. I happened not to chance upon any other conversation. To be honest, I couldn't manage one by myself. I was too under-confident to initiate one , and looked too boring(and may be aged) to make it absolutely compelling for anybody to take the first step. Watching each other's back, we looked like two soldiers from a disgruntled third party kingdom, caught in the war of the elite.

The only conversation that I'd had though was beginning to make me think. She meant no insult, I kept telling myself. I just couldn't lose the thought of her. The realization of having lost one's ability to appreciate feminine beauty is, in a way, peculiarly traumatic. Suddenly, as if my senses had taken an offence, I started recalling the aroma of her fragrance, the childlike innocence of her face, the sharpness of her jawline, the sensuality in her voice, the sanctity in the way she walked. Although I could have been imagining it, I also seemed recollect a glimpse of sweat trickling down her neck. I was amazed at ability of my brain to have observed so many things subconsciously. Simultaneously, I was beginning to find truth in something my conscience kept reiterating every time I indulged in watching porn: women, my friend, were born only to distract men.  

Mind me exposing our thought process, but the way it works is that every guy has a fetish for a particular feature in women, the kind that gave him the 'kick', if you know what I mean. For most of the guys, it's either a woman's breasts or her ass. For Sumit, it was to know how-bloody-rich-her-dad-was. For me, it was the neck. The sheer thought of fraying the back of my hand against her neck rendered my neural circuitry short. It's more than just lust speaking then. It's like two body parts cajoling each other in their own way. Lest I be laughed at, I never used to share this piece of fact about myself in guy conversations. It came to be one of those things that I confided into myself. Yes, in case you wondered, giraffe is my favourite animal.


But that was that. Somehow I dragged myself out of the hypothesis of she being the love of my life, and theories of everything happening to have a definite ultimate-purpose. 

It was time to enter the classroom. I could see people swarming in the corridors. 

The crowd did look younger. I masked a demeanor that shouted that I've cheated my way into this college. I had to keep reminding myself , that I was as good as these guys, if not better, but I still couldn't help my inferiority complex. I'd gotten too comfortable living with it.

For the past few years , the only mode of public transport I had frequented myself to, was the DTC. The seat grabbing instinct had become both symptotic and symbiotic. I entered the classroom, hoping that I was in the right room. With an honest intent to reserve a seat as fast as I could, I hurried inside, only to find an empty classroom. In college, it ain't popular culture to wait for a teacher, sitting inside the classroom. In fact, it ain't even popular culture to turn up before the teacher did. That was lesson number one of college coolness. Lethargic, as I was, I decided to keep this lesson for some other time, and perched precariously in a comfortable corner. It was irritating to see students peeping in and then preferring to stand outside until the populists embraced the idea of sitting inside as a cool one. I sat there doubting their individuality. Not that I was any different usually.

I was getting nervous about the kind of first impression I'd end up giving. And then somebody called out loud: abey mote! baaki class kahan hai? My sugar levels nosedived almost instantaneously and my heart sank with it. I knew exactly which territory my college life was trudging to. 

The next thing I knew was that I was being ragged. I wasn't finding it that odd. Being embarrassed was nothing new. Although it was fun to watch the I'm-too-conscious-to-do-anything-silly genre to succumb to it. The so called dudes pretended deaf at the command of shaking a leg at choli ke peechhe. For once, I was happy being just unattractive enough to not have found a senior's wrath.

While most of them stood glued to the ten odd girls in our class, the others made sure we never dared to embrace the idea of being interested in any of them. They made it look as blasphemous as incest. Those girls were their quota you see. It was called tradition. Our seniors took their share and they picked on ours. Since I never presumed that any of these women would be interested in me, I was more than glad to help. 

The seniors never saw a threat in me either. Instead they saw a pet. I'd seen this happen in school. I called it the authorities of scale. With more and more people playing pets, your otherwise unnoticed dadagiri gets a stamped recognition. I thought to myself, if this was something I really had to do. I could have been many things but not somebody's pet. Hoping this was my shortcut to a torture free college life, I decided to play along. I still wasn't playing their pet. I just masked subservience. 

Exit Interviews

You work with a different kind of enthusiasm if you know, that you intend to quit in about six months. The emphasis remains on the word 'intend', because in all probability I will end up not doing any such thing. What it does really, is that springs up this feeling of resilience inside. There are people who can live in mere anticipation of change. I'm one of them. It makes me believe that there's always something better that awaits. Some people need a good job, I need a good reassurance that things will change, no matter how bad a job I'm in . 

Now I've been trying to figure out a pattern in this thought process. It's just occurred to me, that I could be artificially forcing things on myself , trying unnaturally to go against the drift. Is that really so?- I ask myself. It's only to be seen- I answer back. No matter what , it's a win-win. I mean, if I'm right in deciphering this pattern then gung-ho goes the analyst in me, else this going against the drift might just pay off. I've talked about risk management earlier. It's such a funny little thing. How can one even calculate it? It's not partial. It's there, or it isn't. As I see it, either I'm going to make a fool of myself or I'm not. As simpull as that.

In line with the job shedding plans, I thought how an exit interview would look like. By intuition, it's an interview where you can remove your hat of diplomacy and speak up what you really have to say about your work, the organization and more importantly- the person exit-interviewing you. The most unsettling thought though is to evade : 'So,what after this? ' Am I allowed to say : Nothing much really. Actually, it's not about not being allowed to say something, but about being rational at all times. So what if she's my ex boss, I wouldn't want to give her a reason to believe : 'All the betta' that he left.'  I'd expect her to sulk my absence, and every minute of it. ' You naatee naatee buoy' - says my inner voice. 

Winter Soup

Can you imagine yourself laughing at the most humongous soup that you got into at work? I can. In fact, I AM laughing! It's a point of happy sadness. A point when you know , that you've done what you could, and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it. I speak, standing right at that point. 

It wasn't too long ago when I used to boast about being the analyst. Now here I stand, having committed the blunder of my life, trying to cope with it . I've just come to realise that it's a very high beta profession. Lives depend on the correctness of data.

Before I ramble any further, let me give you some background. 

I'm not the best this company has in its 'talented' list and I never thought I would feature in that list either. The fact remains that I'm most definitely not the worst. I was put on a critically important project. I slogged for three weeks. I delivered. I did my job and I believed that I did my job well . The work was presented to the right people. The results weren't that good. The clients had to listen to some tough and terse truths. But that wasn't my problem, was it?  I mean, I'm that bloke who swore by the Geeta, saying " I shall speak only the data and nothing but the data."  But data, like the truth, deceives sometimes. I'm at the forefront of one such deception. I made an error, more of an error of judgement. A misjudgement just enough to screw my results. Just enough to render all the effort that I had been putting in to maintain the sanctity of this project, absolutely worthless.  

The analytic world essentially works on the Pareto principle. The correctness of 80 percent of your effort, depends on that 20 percent of right effort, put in the right direction. I think, that's exactly where I faltered. I forgot , what I keep reminding people not to : the importance of 'little' things. 

It was only because of a colleague's persistent insistence , that I feel a desperate need to keep account of this tragedy. I'm just thinking about the pros and cons. It obviously prepares me well for future mistakes. But that said, somewhere my complacent self hints, that if mistakes don't keep happening at regular intervals, I'm bound to make one big one, to compensate for all the rightness. That's exactly what happened this time. I was driving this project, like I was driving my car on a highway, without inquiring if I had an extra tyre. Now, the odds of a flat tyre are less, but they are there aren't they? Smartness is in knowing that the tyres are tubeless and the odds are really really less, responsibility is in knowing that you-never-really-know.  

In retrospect, I think that it's risk management that differentiates smart people from responsible people. And it's not as if responsible people aren't smart , but so could be the case that they might not immediately seem so. Being called smart is obviously cooler, but the point driven here is, that if you're not responsible, smartness won't help. It's like an interview situation, you might be the topper of the class, but if you aren't carrying your own pen, the chances of getting through reduce drastically. It's like when you're asking out a girl, you might be the smartest , most handsome lad in town, but if you can't wear a decent shirt on a date, she might just say no. It's like when  you're with your girlfriend, you may be the most happening couple around, but if you can't let go of your sophistication to have five gol gappas together without worrying about how wide you should open your mouth, so that it looks appropriate, then you're grossly missing the point. 

Life's in the little things. It's in making someone's day just by telling her that she's looking good. It's in humming the song that you're lately in crush with. It's in saying : it's okay, it happens, shit happens. 

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.