End of Semester

The past 5 months in the US have made me believe I’m God. And by God, I’m not talking about my divine experiences of floating in air or walking on water by the grace of the Holy Spirit called Smirnoff. That’s a different story and hard to pen down since all my friends have a different take on that.

The cause of this godly sensation is because I have read in the Bible that 'You shall not put God to the test’. Well paying heed to the Holy book, my university did not test me with a single exam this semester. My belief in my divine abilities were confirmed when a friend heard about the situation in my school and commented in a tone of reverence, “You are in heaven, dude”. Duh, of course, you mere mortal, where else does God reside anyway!

This conversation took my mind to one of my favorite songs “stairway to heaven”. All I want to say is that if you want to take the stairway to a university in heaven like mine, I’d recommend you slog your ass off under the supervision of a verny devil in hell called Mumbai University for 4 years and bear the scourge called Mechanical engineering. Toss in another 3 years of working in the city and you’ve won the devil’s sympathy to be granted parole in heaven for 2 years.

Thanksgiving was a day when I really thanked the Lord for showering his blessings in the guise of a “Sale”. As a part of my “cultural integration” drive here, I decided to combat the biting cold and stand in line outside a store from 12 am to 6 am.

Later that day I felt like Marlon Brando from the Godfather (big paunch, wheezy voice et al), who had just got an offer he couldn’t resist. As I sat proudly amongst my spoils, my friend complimented the strength of my character to stand constantly for 6 hours, beat the elements and return like a conqueror. I smirked at the compliment and boasted about the advantages of eating right to develop a rock solid mind, body, heart and soul. My ex girlfriends will vouch for the rock solid heart, I’m sure.

In my boastful exuberance, as I sat up, the hot water bottle under my sore lower back changed position and I winced immediately. My kind friend, offered me a hand and propped my limp frame back in position before pulling a blanket over my numb frostbitten toes and legs.

“Next time wear a scarf you dimwit so you won’t get that irritating wheezy voice”, a voice chided me from within. It was the same voice which played spoilsport when I poured honey over my peanut butter sandwiches and whenever I gave the treadmill a convenient miss. Thankfully the deafening bout of my sneezing and coughing smothered the goody two shoed voice.

“I never knew my first time would be this good”, I said as I handed the pretty blonde girl some bills. She gave a smile and said “come again” before handing me my denims, belt and shoes. I gave her one more look as I walked out of the door feeling rejuvenated. After almost 5 months of self control I needed this. The urge to resist temptation is too great for a single young man to bear. I’d made a promise to my soul before coming here that I would not indulge myself in such acts. But some pleasures come at a price and every person has to pay a price for that. For someone in a distant land, such prices are usually paid either in cash or card.

I’m not ashamed to say my friend had recommended the place to me. He said it was where students usually went to seek “solace”. As I entered and looked around, I knew it would be addictive. Everything about the place was enticing. “Retail therapy never killed anyone”, I smirked as I came out swinging my shopping bags.

I was chatting with my friend the other day and she proclaimed something on the lines of “dancing is more of a mental skill than a physical one”. Now before I contest this statement, let me clarify that I suffer from a syndrome called “dancing dyslexia”. I just cannot read the steps which are being taught. I shamelessly admit that I fractured my ankle while learning to jive. The only person who showed no hint of sympathy was my dance partner. To her the “accident” was a blessing in disguise since she had already suffered sore toes because of my flat footed stomping, almost had her arm ripped off a couple of times and narrowly missed crashing into a pillar when I spun her round.

But before I dwell too much on the dark ages of my youth, back to the mental aspect of dancing. Well I believe if dancing is such a mental activity, Einstein would have been an award winning choreographer. Also, Shakira would have made an amazing physics professor. Not that you’ll ever hear a whimper of a complaint for the latter. Some purists may argue that Shakira lacks the communication skills and knowledge required to teach the subject. Such purists have definitely not attended lectures in Mumbai University then.

I’ve been here for quite a while now and have been picking up some local terminologies. Americans have a habit of saying “I’m good” akin to our “No, thank you”. For example if you are asked by a host “do you want another drink and pastry”, the polite thing to do is smile sweetly and say “I’m good”. I know I don’t do that for such invitations, but it’s just an example.

Now in my native country “Hinglish” is the new age national language. Whilst conversing in it, at times you have no idea whether you are conversing in English or Hindi. So saying “I’m good”, if not interpreted correctly, gets a look of scorn from the conservatives, quaking in the boots by the conformists and a whoop of joy from members of the Indian Gay Society (or whatever it’s called).

Had a kind Indian lady ask me the other day, “so beta, do you want me to help you find a nice Indian bride after your graduation”. Instinctively I gave a sweet smile and replied seconds before I saw palpitations for the first time in life, “thanks auntyji, I’m good”.


-Chaitanya

Life Goes On....

The Indian economy is on an upward curve and showing a tremendous growth at 9%. Well my girth is doing exactly the same, though I feel my growth rate is much more. Talk of being a true representative of your country on foreign soil!

What can be more Indian than a game of cricket. Well I finally played a match last month, something I was looking forward to since the day I arrived here. I had this personal ambition of seeing a 100 next to my name on the score card. I was right on track while touching 40, before the captain pulled me out of the bowling attack after 3 overs. He made it pretty clear to me that the 100 looks better next to your name while batting, not bowling. Whatever! I clearly remember hearing commentators saying “A hundred is a hundred in any form of cricket”. Shooting down aspirations of budding sportsmen is such an Indian trait. The captain thus displayed his "Indianness"!

I was chatting with a friend and he asked me “So have you scored in the US as yet?” I was a bit ashamed of my batting performance, but being an honest soul, I said, “Yeah it was pretty tough, but I managed 5”. Knowing every honest bone in my body, he gave me a phone call within 30 seconds of me sending the message in. “So how were they? Americans or Indians? How did you manage so quickly? Damn, 5 chicks in 3 months is rocking! Wish I’d studied there!” Maybe this is the communication gap between virtual teams that the professor warned us about in class. No wonder most people say that MBA education is majorly based on real life situations.

Back to the point, I did not have the heart to act like my captain and curtail someone’s excitement. But after a few seconds of listening to a running commentary of his own exploits, I let the bubble burst and told him I meant cricket. Suddenly I was flooded with comments of how busy he was, how late in the night it was for him and how he really had to hang up.

Since I’m on the topic of sports, I have to mention my experience in a bowling alley. Now my bowling in the alley isn’t as accomplished as that on a cricket pitch. So by the time we were half way through the game, the screen displaying scores appeared like a chart of naughts and crosses. I had most of the naughts because of innumerable gutter balls and my friends had the crosses because of perfect strikes. One of them asked me “Bet you’ll never manage 3 straight crosses?” Well I could have shown him a few sheets with my name and lots of crosses under that. Too bad Mumbai University does not return our engineering answer sheets. But the score sheet surely evoked nostalgia of my engineering tests, with the crosses, and the zeros right next to them.

Attended a Halloween party were I wore a ghost’s mask. Had a few comments on how scary I looked without the mask and that I should keep it on at all times. Yeah, yeah, yeah, you freaking spoilsports! You guys score a 0/10 for originality.

Before the party, I saw a guy at the bus stop on campus. He was tall with a light stubble and long blonde peroxide hair wearing black boots, black stockings, black PVC miniskirt, a white top and glares. I complimented him on the attire and asked him what he was dressed as and what time he would attend the party. Thankfully he couldn’t gauge my exact words because of my heavily accented language. With a feminine squeal he thanked me on complimenting his dressing style, said he would attend the party in an hour and all he had to do was to go home and change into his costume. I almost fainted with fear and remembered the age old adage of “never talk to strangers”. This guy was stranger in more ways than one.

I woke up at 11:00 am on the day every Indian was wishing each other a Happy Diwali. I got nostalgic as I remembered the fireworks I lit as a child and how much I detested an early morning shower. Well across the 7 seas, I finally got what I had always wanted back in India. Well not exactly, but something on those lines.

After waking up my friend casually informed me that the landlord had come in at 9:00 am and dismantled the drainage pipes. Hence we were not allowed to use the bathroom or sink for the next two days. Fireworks flew immediately as I rang up my landlord. The skipped bath was put on the back burner.

As I dressed up meticulously in my thermal, tshirt, sweater and jacket, one of my roomies asked me where I was off to. I managed to answer in a neutral voice, “to the laboratory. To answer the call of nature.” Well not exactly those words. I spiced the words up a bit in Hindi with irritation.

But things aren’t all that bleak. I think I’ve finally learnt to cook now and my roomies have heaved a sigh of relief. Well I don’t blame them. If the cook doesn’t eat his own food, it surely does provide food for thought to the others. Well I’m proud to state my cooking has reached a stage where I can satiate my own taste buds.

Well where I lack in cooking skills, I more than make up for with my hair cutting proficiencies. My room mate gives me complete freedom to trim his hair using an electric shaver. I finally asked him to reciprocate my gesture and he promptly agreed. It did turn a bit messy in the bathroom, but the final result was pure magic. I think it is the best haircut I’ve ever had (this isn’t the case of sour grapes by the way, it genuinely looks good). It may boil down to beginners luck, but as long as my trusted bottle of hair gel is on my table, I can fix any hair problems pronto.

My MBA is really helping me develop entrepreneurial ideas. Since setting foot here, I have evaluated the odds of starting my own photography studio, piano classes and now a hair styling saloon. Maybe in the near future.

Was chatting with one of my friends yesterday and she asked me,”You’ve been there for almost 3 months, what was the most difficult thing you found fitting into”. I read it and I bit my lower lip with regret. That question hit me where it really hurt. An honest answer was typed back. “My denims”.

First days in the US

I’ve been in the US for almost 50 days now and I have gained a lot each and every day. This country makes you realize your potential to grow and I have been taking advantage of it. As I look back to the day I arrived here, I truly feel I have changed and grown as a person.

But more about my weight later.

One of the first things that struck me was the kindness of the people here on campus. When I went for a routine medical check up, the kind lady at the reception asked me sweetly, “are you an athlete”. I looked down at my perfectly portly frame and gave her the sweetest smile I’ve ever given anyone. “I’m not an athlete. But thanks for the compliment”, I replied.

Out here people have a fascination for drinks. No wonder I have been able to integrate myself so well. Though I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since leaving my homeland, I have not lost my empathy towards fellow drinkers. Once a drinker, always a drinker is my credo. When I accompanied a group of friends to a pub, we were asked for age identification at the entrance. Out here you need to be above 21 to even enter a pub. Trust me, when you are 26 and in the “matured” bracket, you take such questions as compliments.

When questioned which degree I gained in India, I am tempted to say B.E (Mech) + MS (Electronics) + Phd (Maths). With the number of times I’ve taken the Electronics and Maths exams during engineering, I think I’ll be eligible for a masters and a post doc in those subjects respectively.

I think Americans have started identifying sacred places where one has to remove his shoes before entering. Though how airports and the ferry to the Statue of Liberty qualify as holy places, I am still trying to figure out. But I overheard someone standing in line to the ferry, pointing in our direction and saying, “it’s because of them”. I think he was talking about the integration of Indian culture in American society on the lines of yoga and meditation.

Back to my weight again and I’ve started applying my MBA principles to try and reduce it. I’ve compared my body to an industry, which is over staffed and needs trimming down to make it more efficient. I’ve read somewhere that trimming starts from the top. Some shedding has to be done pronto. My body is following the same pattern and the MBA has caused my hair to start shedding already. Maybe a bit of intelligence as well, but that’s something I don’t want to dwell upon.

I was playing racket ball the other day and it’s a great stress buster. The game requires precision of timing and anticipation of speed to hit the ball well. The constant bouncing of the ball off the walls while smashing it back and forth was like a Eureka moment. Thankfully I didn’t celebrate the moment like Archimedes. The cold evening air was not highly conducive to run naked in. And thus I missed my first opportunity to add to the list of famous Indians in the US.

I took a cue from some of my Ph.d friends here. Then, using my own experience and feedback from friends back in India, I engaged in some complex calculations to came up with a theory. It’s called the “Rebound Theory”.

It’s a method, which helps us realize the best time to approach a girl after she has broken up. Usually guys approach a girl when she has broken up and they have to hear “I’m not ready yet”. That is so disappointing for them. By applying my theory, we can calculate the best time.

“For every 6 months of a relationship, rebounding will start after 30 days. The subsequent calculations can be done by direct proportion by splitting the time into years, months or days”. For example, if a girl has been in a relationship for 2 years, she’ll take 120 days to “move on”. So approach her after 120 days.

All those who do not understand my theory do not deserve to try it. Those who do, try it out, it really works !

All the best !

P.S It doesn’t work on guys !!!!!!

MARRIAGE MANIA

"Some people claim that marriage interferes with romance. There's no doubt about it. Anytime you have a romance, your wife is bound to interfere" - Groucho Marx.

Exactly my point!

Lately, my friends and acquaintances (of either gender), have been slowly but surely succumbing to the marketing wiles of these mushrooming matrimonial sites, social/ parental / peer pressures and sell by date college romances (not exactly in that order).

Yet, bravely I stood with a trusted few, guarding the haloed frontiers of bachelorhood. Grieving (at times sniggering at) the vanquished.

So while my "online albums" (on those dime for a dozen social networking sites) bore photographs of philandering boys on the beaches of Goa, “their” albums had beautiful wedding and honeymoon snaps.

I wish to clarify that I do not detest marriage. It is as sacred an institution as can be (so I’ve read). But for everything in life, there is a certain age (though there are always exceptions to the rule). Else 8 year olds would be driving just because they love fast cars. You need to be matured enough to peep through the veil of initial thrill and recognize the hazards which lie ahead.

Plus, marriage is akin to bungee jumping or sky diving. You sign a consent form before you actually take the plunge.

Finally when my impatience hit the roof on account of my friends’ “suicidal” tendencies, I sent a mass email to all the vanquished. It had a simple question. “Life is to be enjoyed when you are young and free. So for God’s sake, WHY ?”

I got a variety of responses mostly from the US, Bangalore, Pune and some from Mumbai. The tone of the response depended on the person’s emotional proximity to me, their gender and their reasons for taking the plunge.

The honest ones (exclusively males) were pretty forthright with their reply. Something on the lines of Joseph Barth saying, “Marriage is our last, best chance to grow up”. I totally agree. Next time do something macho in your teens so that you won’t have to take such drastic steps.

The ones who had "arranged marriages" quoted something on the lines of Tom Mullen’s, “Marriages blossom when we love the ones we marry”. As an antithesis to this, I just remembered Samuel Johnson’s saying, “Marriage is the triumph of hope over experience”. Amen!

My creative friends from the Oscar Wilde school of thought responded as the great man would have. “Marriage is the triumph of imagination over intelligence”. No wonder we get along so well on most counts.

But my favorite reason came from my really close bosom buddies (of either gender). It was on the lines of “now at least we get laid each night”. “With the same partner”, was my sardonic remark. “Not always” was their surreptitious reply. Case rested. Meet you in hell.

One last juvenile dig at my “hit list” (excluding my haloed bosom buddies of course). One last email which pleaded, “GET A LIFE!”

One unanimous response from them “GET A WIFE!”

Misunderstandings

WHY AM I SO MISUNDERSTOOD AT EVERY WALK OF LIFE ?

Why am I considered "intellectual" when I'm genuinely allergic to anything/ anyone with a hint of intelligence ?

Why is my silence mistaken for sagacious pondering ?

Is it because of:

1) My "techi" B.E (Mech) degree which I reluctantly reveal when prodded about my educational qualification ?

2) My "above average" grades I managed to garner (solely by hook on most counts and by crook very rarely) at vital junctures of life ?

3) My omnipresent spectacles which try to hide my sleepy eyes ?

4) My unkempt hair and facial foliage ?

5) My unnecessary pedantic outbursts because of the wikipedia hangover ?

6) Emancipation of my emotions through poems and short stories ?

7) My ability to prevaricate out of complexities ?

8) Remembering a thousand faces (most of whom I wish to avoid) ?

9) Being politically correct and precise with my information ?



HMMMMMM COME TO THINK OF IT......MAYBE I AM SMART !

KEEP THE COMPLIMENTS COMING IN GUYS !!!!!