The Other Side

When the first yellow rays hit her face
Dew gave grass the final embrace
Woke she up in the usual space
Without anticipating any fresh race

Leaning casually at small windowpane
Looked at the street she again and again
Passed a man during thin morning rain
Their eyes met daily and lips smiled then

Moved he ahead, her curious eyes gazed him
Until he reached horizon's brim
She wished to go out, relish and scream
She envied his freedom in restless dream

Walked he hopelessly towards the town
His tired feet gradually slowing down
Who the woman was having eyes dark brown
Thought he daily with head always drown

Reckoned she herself a bird in prison
His smile lent her a hope, a reason
With a desire to taste the changing season
She abandoned her haven like a wild pigeon

The sun was warm, she found it sweet
Ran she through the field of wheat
The air she touched was fresh and neat
Believed she was in a company elite

Sneaked into her abode, he saw luxury a lot
An abundance of fortune he always sought
Proud he felt as he handled a golden pot
There was more than what he had ever thought


The sun began beating, it was all heat
She was brought down on her feeble feet
The sun went down, gloom showed its ugly teeth
Gold lost its hue, seemed like an iron cleat

Amid her cosmos, her throat went dry
She couldn't find her any ally
Having had his fortune, got nothing to try
Girdled by golden hue, he sought to vie

On the doorsteps they did collide
There was nothing to show, nothing to hide
Realized they something and then they cried
The grass is not greener on the other side

Futile Steps

Mute I grew, sensed I few
It was only a picture that I knew
Slowly and calmly I carried my soul
From a distance, I looked at my goal

Bare-chested I faced the morning cold
I am the one who was not to be sold
I recognized not the direction of wind
I was ever at the start, ever at the end

The fog came riding on the season
Just for its sake, hardly a reason
Shrouded it me like the darkness of night
I was brutally blinded amidst a fight

The fog grew old and so did I
With closed eyes I learned to fly
Waving my huge wings, the fog I fought
Beaten the nature, I proudly thought

Roared I loud, faster I flew
Aim was left behind, hardly I knew
There was no coming back, I realized late
Was it pride or was it the fate?

The goal looked tiny from the distance
Smiled I little with no resistance
A moth flew over my dead open mouth
I knew today sun will sink into the south

Run Afoul

"These people in AIIMS are doing a commendable job. Their inspiring protest will certainly lead to some very fruitful results," an IITian spoke to his mate with his eyes fixed on the newspaper headlines. "Yes, they are. Why don't we carry out a similar protest? We should also raise our voice. Our voice must be heard. What say?' replied the other guy. "Indeed!"

Two months later, a student-faculty body spread leaflets all over IITD—in every hostel, in insti, on streets of IIT—everywhere. Students along with faculty members were asked if they protested reservation. The students who protested reservations were asked to write their names and entry numbers on papers distributed by the committee especially for this purpose. Overwhelming statistics of the surveillance was printed and distributed in IIT. Around 98% of students and 92% of faculty members protested reservations. Meanwhile, a date was fixed and students who protested this reservation policy in writing were asked to be a part of a peaceful rally to express their disagreement over it. Even the faculty members of different departments were asked to join this act. The organizers of this protest rally looked more than satisfied with the proceedings.

On the D-day--not very surprisingly--only a handful of students turned up. The number of faculty members present there huffed and puffed to go past the mark of a dozen. This handful of students and faculty members hopped to the doorsteps of each and every hostel to urge people inside to come out and be a part of it. But who can alter the ideas of those who always have some more important work to do? Most students ignored the cause citing one reason or the other. Some of the guys had to show their faces to their parents who can't live without seeing their wards every weekend, some of them had to rest their eyes laden with enormous amount of sleep, some of them had to write mock CAT papers while some had to prepare for PIs and GDs. The interesting part is that majority of the guys preparing for GDs must have debated over pros and cons of reservation and proposed peaceful protest as one of the steps against this policy. An irony!

But the most widely-used justification—if at all given--for the absence was—"Yaar, in sab se kuchh hota hai kya? Kuch nahin hone wala protest se. Aaj tak kuchh hua hai kya?" These kinds of explanations—-that are miles away from justifications--can leave anyone speechless. "But mate, no matter what the result is, we can always be satiated that we played our part against something we believe is not correct." "To hell with satisfaction!" No further comments, My Lord.

Next day, NDTV reports that a mob of around 600 IIT students and more than 100 IIT faculty members brought out a grand, avid protest against reservation policy. A reporter interviews a faculty member for a couple of minutes. The Times of India also produces similar huge statistics. People all over read that IIT eventually has started showing the power of its big student and faculty community.

"I didn't know that while I was sleeping yesterday morning, so many students and faculty members measured the length of streets in Delhi ," said someone in the reading room of Vindy after reading the article in The Times of India . "How much did they actually measure," asked his mate. Their giggles saturated the environment.

IIT continues to live up to the expectations of the outer world; and IITians to those of the inner world!! Nevertheless, they co-exist with harmony—-dubious harmony, though.

Ashley Giles

Ashley Giles, poor Ashley Giles!!!

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Interesting

Interesting, in particular, is—ummm what shall I say--a very interesting word. It has got different meanings—ranging from one end of the spectrum where it might mean virtuous and groovy to the other end where it may also mean spoilt and ridiculous.

“You are actually a very interesting guy,” alleged a stranger whom I had met barely half an hour before when I apprized him that I was a big critic of Amitabh Bachchan’s contemporary works. For an avid fan of Amitabh that he was (he loved his every film--even movies like Mrityudaata and Boom), listening my statement was almost an offence and he wanted to call me names which I had never heard before. He, for some mysterious reasons beyond my mediocre intellect, opted for the softer choice of calling me interesting. I couldn’t decide if I would have liked him calling me names more, for I struggled to decipher what he exactly meant when he tagged me interesting. That was mental harassment.

The word interesting is also used when one struggles to find a suitable adjective to describe a particular person, thing or event—something like what I did at the beginning of this post (if you haven’t noticed yet). It also buys you time when you are not quite sure about the quality of something. “It’s an interesting tactics,” says a commentating Rameez Raza whenever he isn’t sure why the captain made a particular field placement. If the very next ball produces a healthy result, he would quickly replace the adjective with a more absolved one and say—what a splendid tactics by the captain. He surely has got a thinking head over his shoulders.

Similarly, this word saves you from public embarrassment if what you think is in complete contrast with the ideas of masses. Even if you think that Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa is a pure tragedy of art and complete shit, you can save yourself from being abashed if you arc your eyebrows, curl your lips and call the painting interesting first and then pass priceless comments upon how Da Vinci could have made minor adjustments in the picture to make it look a bit better. You will invariable be tagged smart and a pundit in the field of painting. Now you know how certain journalists who don’t know the basics of a subject cleverly write half-a-page long columns in the newspapers and once you end up reading it, you feel overwhelmed. Overwhelmed because you couldn’t understand what he actually wanted to say. The melodic theme is that he never had anything to say.

Words having blurred and vague meanings always create an atmosphere where the speaker is invariably uplifted to the position of a great thinker and his listeners who couldn’t understand a single word discuss his profound greatness among themselves. Such is the power of obscurity. It sells. Things that are less understood have more magnetic power than their obvious counterparts.

I am again tempted to use the word interesting—with some caution and ingenuity. It surely is worth trying. Interesting is indeed an interesting word.

Addicted I Am

As a kid, I learnt the eight parts of speech of English from my English teacher. I was told that adjectives held an enormous power--much more than any other part of speech--within themselves. After a decade and a half, when I was virtually forced to write a testimonial for someone for the very first time, I understood why my English teacher called adjectives the powerhouse of English. They indeed serve the purpose of pleasing others.

When I was first introduced to Orkut, I found it anything but captivating. I was in fact hesitant to join it at the first place. But one of my mates sent me an invitation to join Orkut and despite my unwillingness, I joined it just for my mate's sake. I was doing more or less fine with a long list of friends in Yahoo Messenger. And hence, I hardly bothered to check my Orkut account on a regular basis. I never added anyone in my Orkut account, despised each and every community and people felt blessed if they received scraps from me. I never understood why people were so concerned about the number of scraps they have had. "To know the value of invaluable scraps, you need to use Orkut, mate. The unwritten rule of Orkut is--the more you use it, the more scraps you receive. Scraps are earnestly precious. Lesser mortals like you won't understand the addiction," said someone to me. The two words that caught my attention in his speech were 'lesser mortals'. How dare he call me a lesser mortal, I thought. By the time I satisfied myself by knocking him a punch or two in my imagination (of course), he was gone. What the heck! I could have hit him in reality as well. It's a different matter altogether that I would have received many more long-lasting bruises in return.

Today, one and a half years after joining Orkut, I check my account innumerable number of times daily, keep refreshing the page in hope of receiving one more scrap and I yell when I find that no one has scrapped me in last ten minutes or so. "How can people do that to me," I often ask myself. I haven't found an answer yet. These days, I am on a spree of writing testimonials. I have actually mustered a huge set of oh-how-sweet adjectives and I often use them while writing testimonials. Girls tell me that I write testimonials that are lovelier than teddy beers while a diabetic had once said that my testimonials were sweeter than artificial sweetener. As a matter of fact, I am yet to write testimonials for alcoholics and terrorists. I wonder what kind of comparisons they would make.

Believe it or not, the real charm of Orkut lies in the fact that its scrapbook acts as open email ids--open for all to view the contents. A cheesy scrap from the opposite sex can be invitation to disaster if your friends somehow take a look at it. But then, it can also serve as a means of enhancing the number of scraps. Consider the case if a girl proposes you on Orkut. Your friends will surely send you 100-odd scraps asking who she is. And your scrapbook is almost flooded on the eve of your birthday. People don't mind faking their birthdays in order to enhance the influx of scraps. And the number of fans you have had is considered as the only parameter to gauge your popularity.

ATTENTION READERS-- the crux of the article is that if you want others to honor you, enhance the number fans you have, even if the means of acquiring fans is cheesy. Third law of Newton says that every action has equal and opposite reaction. So in order to gather scraps, send more and more scraps to your friends and also to their girlfriends. You can send scraps to your own girlfriend(s) as well if you find time after watching your friends' girlfriends' albums. This is indeed a battle of mustering scraps and fans. And everything is fine, as the cliché goes, in love and war.

And yes, I won't mind lending you my sacred book of adjectives if you are about to write a testimonial. Till then, bye bye. And don't forget to add me as your friend. My identity on Orkut is Full Throttle...! See you on Orkut.

Meet The Rockers

These days, a guy with hair long enough to shroud every square inch of his face and a strange beard on his chin (if his hair allows a glimpse) roams on the streets of IIT after midnight. He is not seen in the day because alcohol, doping materials and drugs generally take over him during daytime. He wears jeans that can accommodate the thick legs of an elephant. To make matters worse, his jeans is at least two feet longer than his own legs. Body builders holding mikes are printed on his every shirt. The back side of his shirt reads—I love Metallica. The body builders on his shirt have looks of a monster that would tear you apart if given a chance to come alive.

During night, the guy listens to rock music at full volume on his Altec Lansing 5-in-1 speakers and 1500 watts woofer, doesn’t let his neighbors sleep and occasionally comes out of his room to have a round of cigarettes and iced tea. That is the only time his neighbors manage to sleep. He is a rocker, I was apprized by one of my mates as we sipped cold coffee. Now I know why he looks so strange, I replied back with arced eyebrows and narrow eyes. Perhaps overwhelmed by the eminent praises he received from me, the rocker stared at us with eyes more close than open. Not interested, bhaisaab, we felt like saying. He kept staring. No words, nothing. Silence. Time refused to move forward. But irrespective of the ideas time had, I needed to move forward. Backwards, I mean. Time can wait. Scared by the look that was anything but polite, we hopped away from him. Looked like a beast. Didn’t he, I said after gaining a fairly safe distance from him. He looked more like a statue to me, my mate said. My heart was still pounding. They all look the bloody same, I was informed again. Thank you for the information. Hey, I spilled all my cold coffee, I cried with sheer pain. That rocker owes me some cold coffee rather than that cold stare.

I have never had a chance to know what rock music was before I entered IIT. I had heard that rock is another form of music—very lusty and magnetic. I dreamt of listening to rock during my pre-IIT days. I got through JEE and got my chance to know more about rock. By the time I listened my first rock, I despised why I dreamt such a nightmare. Man, you need to develop a taste for rock, my seniors who rendered immense love for rock, told me. OK, I will try to develop such taste, I thought. Three and a half years after listening to my first rock song, I have strict reservations against calling it music, let alone lusty and magnetic. I often see rock lovers playing virtual guitars, waggling their heads and extracting pleasure from it. Their fingers move so fast on their virtual guitars that they can put world’s leading guitarists on shame. The wagging of their heads is so severe that their brains come under serious threat of being blown out of the skulls. While listening to rock, they get as animated as a bull at the sight of some red cloth. When I asked one of the rock lovers if he really understood the lyrics, he answered—It’s not about lyrics, man. It’s about feeling. I am, perhaps, too numb to feel rock. My inability, I accept. Most of the guys who take pride in saying that they are lovers of rock music fail to understand the lyrics on their own. It is only after finding lyrics on internet do they understand what the singer is actually singing(singing or shouting??!?). I understand that love for a particular kind of music is not a slave of any particular language--An American, for instance, who might not know a single language other than English can find Ugandan folk music awesome. But for a person like me--naive and foolish if one finds joy in stating--an effort won't be made to love something. There are certain things that come naturally to people and mustn't be imposed. Music is one such thing.

I came across the same rocker the other night on the same place. He won’t spare me today, I thought. Hello man, how are you, he asked. I somehow managed to capture a glimpse of smile of his face enshrouded by long, dense hair. I am fine, I flinched. Want some cold coffee, an invitation from the rocker. Rockers are actually not so bad, I found my lips whispering.