Losing your way....

Date: Some Saturday night, 2000. Time: 11:00 pm.
Venue: Wilderness

“You never ask for directions”, she wailed. “You never listen to me. You can’t find the place because you just aren’t interested in going. You never like partying with my friends…..”


I think she was paying way too much attention in the business communications class. No wonder she was using a “you” in every sentence and totally ignoring the “I”. Using “you” lays more emphasis on what you wish communicate. So the book said. Either way, her tone was laying emphasis on all the words. Thankfully my brain’s auto locking mode was activated and her words bounced off a force field round my ears. Guys have that built in feature which girls realize much later in the relationship.


“How much do I mean to you”, she snapped at me out of the blue, looking me squarely in the eye and smacking my leg. That immediately broke the force field. It is meant to protect guys from sharp words, not feminine physical abuse. The stare was an antithesis to the natural softness of her voice.


I’ve read somewhere that strong men don’t cry. So I managed a smile. I bravely gazed in the hazel reflection and mumbled, “You are the best there is……(her gaze softened, maybe I caught a hint of smile. Damn I’m good at this)……The best there was (surely that can’t be a frown again)…….And the best there ever will be (did that cold gaze even disappear within that split second).


“You said there wasn’t anyone before me! So how do you know I’m the best there was!” (Those words taught me an important lesson in my late teens, “Never lie unless you have a good memory or are smart with words). The look of suspicion reminded me of my 7th grade class teacher when she’d discovered three pastries missing before the Christmas party. No prizes for guessing that all eyes were on the fattest kid in class. How I hated being fat! And a message to my plump brethren: We are lazy body abusers who aren’t adding any value to our body through our large calorie intake.


“How do you know ‘ever will be’! Are you seeing someone else?” (For a second, that accusation made me feel like Brad Pitt. But it definitely wasn’t a compliment). “Take me home right now!” It’s funny how the context of exactly the same words changes on either side of a date. The fact that we were lost and I did not know the way home was lost on her.


Date: Some Saturday night, 2008. Time: 11:00 pm.
Venue: Chicago


“Turn right”, she said in her smooth voice, as I pulled into the parking lot of my house. I smiled lightly as I gazed at her radiant face. It had been that way all evening. She showed tremendous understanding despite the fact that I still drove like an Indian on American streets. Not once did she scream when I was nanoseconds away from banging into a car or millimeters from scraping the car’s bumper against the sidewalk while parking.


That evening had been a dream. She was the best guide to me in the new city. She answered all my questions about the city, however stupid they seemed. She never screamed and abused me if I headed in the wrong direction by mistake. She wanted me to see as much of the city as I could in my short trip.


She told me about the best restaurants to dine in, which I later did. She spoke multiple languages so I could learn a lot from her. She was very talkative in the car so I was thoroughly entertained. She was a fountain of knowledge. That’s a trait which I appreciate. By the time I had turned the ignition off, I was totally in love. And the best thing was that she had not asked about my past or future experiences!


I gently helped her out of the car and took her inside the house. I was humming to myself as I entered the dark living room before flicking on the lights. Laying her on the couch, I gazed her and admired her sleek form. A GPS system for navigation is such a boon.


Talking of navigation, my roommates have totally “lost it” in the past few months. Cleanliness has gone out of the window. Our kitchen has started to resemble a garbage disposal site. On the bright side, despite being in the US for almost a year, we have not moved away from our Indian roots. We still treat our home in small town Bethlehem, PA, like our beloved Mumbai. So we just toss chocolate wrappers on the floor, beer cans in the corner of the room/ under the couch, unwashed plates in the refrigerator, coffee mugs on the couch etcetera; akin to what a majority of the population does back in our homeland. Before any jingoistic retards start abusing me, I would advise them to stop living in denial, get out of their ivory towers and walk the streets of Mumbai.


I am using the terminology “we” with regards to the trash at home despite me not contributing to the mess (I use the trash can outside the house). Because whatever my story may be, they will have their own version. And as we all know, every story has 3 sides: my side, their side and the truth. But on the brighter side, all this mess has helped me develop a fascination for realistic photography. I remember “renowned” photographers getting awards for capturing the civic plight of Mumbai. They usually title such photographs on the lines of “colors of India”. It was a long standing dream of mine to shift from my forte of “shallow” fashion photography, where I objectified beautiful humans. I wanted to do something “hard hitting”, “gritty”, “realistic” that would create an impact. Something that is not meant for the weak hearted. I wish to put forth my nomination for the next photography awards.

COLORS OF INDIA©

Maybe we could contest in the “World’s Most Amazing Games”. We could have contest for the tallest pile of trash in a bin. Well, we have cleared the bin by a good 200%. That’s going to take some beating. It reminds me of the race to build the world’s tallest building, which I heard about during my visit to the Sear’s Towers in Chicago.

Since I do not wish to cook in that kitchen again, I’ve given up cooking on the whole. With all due respect to my culinary proficiency, I’m sure my roomies have breathed a bigger sigh of relief than me. Now the only edible thing we share in the house is beer. On most occasions beer is the lowest common factor which unites people and end wars.

Besides losing their minds, my roomies seem to have lost their ability to aim at the toilet pot. It’s amazing to miss something with a diameter of that size from barely a foot away. They would have definitely sucked at basketball a lot more than they suck at basic civic sense. Their d***s seem to act like a bat who has a conked off SONAR; flapping around aimlessly. I told them this in exactly the same words. It evoked laughter on the lines of when I begged them not to try and “compete” with the Niagara Falls at 3:00 am since the “maid of the mist” there was not a domestic help who would clean it up later. It was laughter that would have made any standup comedian proud. At times, trying to spread social awareness through humor is such a vice.

In India, we are fed a steady diet of social awareness messages which tell us not to complain, but take concrete action to improve civic sense. Well I will if someone just tells me what action I should take in this respect. Should I hold it for them? Or invent something for them to prop it on? Or ask them to use the bathtub (if they miss that, I’ll hang myself). Well in simple words, I won’t do it! I will act like a typical middleclass English speaking city bred aloof non voting Indian and use the other toilet. Period.

While we are on this topic of “manhood”, I remember my trip to Washington DC. The Washington Monument did not give me an inferiority complex as most guys claims it gives them. I remember one of my favorite comedians, Jeff Dunham’s quip about it being “an ode to Bill Clinton”. Now that’s apt! We did take some photographs there. We posed in positions which satisfied our male ego and generated unbridled laughter from the other tourists.

Abe Lincoln didn’t seem too pleased with our actions. His face bore an admonishing look when we went over to his statue. Or maybe it was a sign of pure disgust. I’d be disgusted too if I’d been made to sit and stare at a phallus like structure for decades.

An ode to Bill Clinton !

Disgust ????

And finally, this summer, I fulfilled my parent’s long standing dream of getting into MIT. They always said they would be proud to see me there. I am sure they are happy that I finally got through and made it. As a tourist in Boston, notwithstanding.

-Chaitanya

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 !!!!!