The two lettered evocation seemed to work as the happily dis-engaged man began to twitch in his seat. With an unconscious sense of complete rebuttal, his forehead, now a complex assemblage of furrowed wrinkles, wafted along with the tightly sealed and lightly stifled frown on his lips. As he tried to open his eyes, I stood there watching him break the shackles of sleep and arrive to the call of his senses. He saw me and perhaps as his countenance would suggest, was embarrased. He promptly returned my greeting with one which was inflected with a sense of caring and serving, "Sai Ram?". He essentially meant, "How may I help you?"
I fished out the pale - yellow receipt voucher that was given as an admission certificate at the check in counter from my pocket and handed it over. The man felt his right pocket and tapped it twice. He did the same with the left one. He couldn't find something. He turned back to his armchair and in a great sense of relief and happiness, picked up his spectacles which came off consciously or unconsciously during his session of coming back to life. A few seconds into scrutinizing that poor piece of paper, his tightly clasped lips let go of a few intensely rarified and extremely fortunate words which finally came to see daylight. "Seedhe jaate raho!"
I obliged. As I kept walking, I reached the T junction where the three cemented roads heading out in three perpendicular directions met. There was no road that would take me straight. So I chose to choose the cheesier path. The one between the Western Canteen and the Seva dal office. It was just a walkway with no road. It was a path I often frequented as a child for the cemented roads often clocked melting point temperatures at noon. And without footwear, I used to gingerly hop all along the road from Kulwant Hall to the T junction and this mud path used to give me some respite. The diabolical feeling of consummate helplessness that rushes through your body when your feet land on fierily incandescent material and you have no cold land in sight is worth experiencing, unless you take it too seriously. My feet, however, this time around were snugly buried in split grain suede birkenstocks.
I must have walked a mile. And as the last lump of my energy that I had gathered by reliving my memories faded away into oblivion, there it was, the A1 dorm. It was of a relatyively newer construction, but the essemtial formula remained the same. Some, seven thousand square feet of perfectly ventilated and well lit living space. Memories of my previous visits started to kick in. The dormitory created in me 'dormishness'. A legendary feeling of nostalgic laziness. But why laziness?
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
The abode of Peace
I landed at the great being's abode , Prashanthi Nilayam after a grueling 7 hour journey by bus along the sometimes inhospitable terrain of Southern Andhra Pradesh. To my utter astonishment and later, displeasure, it only dawned on me at arrival that I had indeed taken the longest possible route to arrive at my destination. Self appraisal kicked in at its deceitful best and I blamed the ticket collector at the Cuddappah bus complex for the folly. Then, a strong sense of foreboding broke into my senses and assured me of a certain break down in the very particular bus that I would have boarded if I had chosen the shorter route. A mind full of guile can go distances to prove itself innocent, I thought. No more resentment, I had to indulge in the sanctity of the place ASAP, for time was running out. I had a mere 30 hours at my disposal to rake in whatever I could, whatever I wanted.
I checked in, as a 25 year old, unmarried male with one piece of luggage, a rucksack. Allotted the A-1 dorm at the North West-ish corner of the ashram, I walked along the imposing brick and mortar structure of the performance cum drama center, Poornachandra Auditorium, on the left with the red and yellow barricades that skirted the place along the greyish white balconies made of portland cement and its solitary escort, the bright red fire engine, that always stood there, weathering the heat of time and circumstance, with no signs of budging from its designated place. The master had decided.
Lord Shiva and Ganga, cast for perpetuity in the larger-than-life iron contraption stood stuck to the colossal wall of the auditorium. Riveted in the about 40 feet structure, like immortal custodians of time and space, they stared along into the nothingness of the moment, unflustered, unperturbed. They are here to stay.
As I walked past, the chirping of the birds had just started. The little ones, perhaps awake, waiting for their cuisine were singing in gay abandon. Slowly, the shrill was picking up and as I walked, I could see the flocks of birds, the parents, swiftly fluttering far away in the sky towards their little ones, concievably with food in their mouths.
Past the auditorium, as I walked along the concrete boulevard with the residential complexes on the left and the Southern Canteen on the right, the effervescently intangible scents of baking bread swept my senses as they smoothly jostled me into those forgotten days of foolhardy brawls over food tokens and lost footwear in childhood. Now I stand, at least a few metres tall, a hundred and eighty pounds, stubble on my face and a friable heart. Where am I moving?
I come across a sevadal member as my vision spanned across my left from one residential complex to another. He was pleasantly reclined in a duralumin armchair, dressed in an immaculately starched squeaky white kurta pajama. He must have been a man in his early fifties. Under the shade of the tree and the faint breeze blowing across his face, the silence of the place calmly slid him into a siesta. As his blue scarf with the Sanathana Dharma emblem emblazoned on it flickered in the breeze and the spectacles slithered down his nose, he seemed to be in utter paradise. I quietly muttered in a hushed tone to coolly muscle him out of his skumber, "Sai Ram".
I checked in, as a 25 year old, unmarried male with one piece of luggage, a rucksack. Allotted the A-1 dorm at the North West-ish corner of the ashram, I walked along the imposing brick and mortar structure of the performance cum drama center, Poornachandra Auditorium, on the left with the red and yellow barricades that skirted the place along the greyish white balconies made of portland cement and its solitary escort, the bright red fire engine, that always stood there, weathering the heat of time and circumstance, with no signs of budging from its designated place. The master had decided.
Lord Shiva and Ganga, cast for perpetuity in the larger-than-life iron contraption stood stuck to the colossal wall of the auditorium. Riveted in the about 40 feet structure, like immortal custodians of time and space, they stared along into the nothingness of the moment, unflustered, unperturbed. They are here to stay.
As I walked past, the chirping of the birds had just started. The little ones, perhaps awake, waiting for their cuisine were singing in gay abandon. Slowly, the shrill was picking up and as I walked, I could see the flocks of birds, the parents, swiftly fluttering far away in the sky towards their little ones, concievably with food in their mouths.
Past the auditorium, as I walked along the concrete boulevard with the residential complexes on the left and the Southern Canteen on the right, the effervescently intangible scents of baking bread swept my senses as they smoothly jostled me into those forgotten days of foolhardy brawls over food tokens and lost footwear in childhood. Now I stand, at least a few metres tall, a hundred and eighty pounds, stubble on my face and a friable heart. Where am I moving?
I come across a sevadal member as my vision spanned across my left from one residential complex to another. He was pleasantly reclined in a duralumin armchair, dressed in an immaculately starched squeaky white kurta pajama. He must have been a man in his early fifties. Under the shade of the tree and the faint breeze blowing across his face, the silence of the place calmly slid him into a siesta. As his blue scarf with the Sanathana Dharma emblem emblazoned on it flickered in the breeze and the spectacles slithered down his nose, he seemed to be in utter paradise. I quietly muttered in a hushed tone to coolly muscle him out of his skumber, "Sai Ram".
Friday, July 22, 2011
A brief repreive
I always thought I deserved a break. So, I fled. From this blood thirsty, ever hungry, voraciously gluttonous and shamelessly guiltless baboon called life. It keeps sucking from us. Doesn't it? Sometimes air, sometimes blood, sometimes emotions. It does hurt. So all hard working mules out there need a break. So did I. So do you. Think about it. I thank and I fled. Thank god. Thank me. Thank you. Well, Ok.
Now for the sensible part of it. I was on a pleasure trip across my state. Incidentally, at a time when the state is bursting across its seams with fervent emotions of statehood and regional identity, I got to visit all three major regions of the state. Rayalaseema, Telangana and Costa. Relentless.
The descriptions of the often miraculously captivating incidents and simply spellbinding moments that I came across during my sojourn shall follow in later posts, but let me assure you, the trip was only a notch above boring. Nothing like the Zumanji game actually happened. It was the routine saga like the scrupulously choreographed sequence in the recap portion of the Indian soap serial. I went, I saw, I came back. Ala Alexander the great. And a bit more.
But for the real part, the trip was spiritually rejuvenating, socially energizing and quite admittedly, a true break from the hullabaloo at home. I spent some time with the dark, often misunderstood and mostly incoherent speeches inside my brain. I sat with them over coffee inside the 3 tier AC compartment of the majestic Indian Railways, chugging along since time immemorial, with no sign of retirement for about 2000 kilometres. The speeches wouldn't budge. So wouldn't I.
Now for the sensible part of it. I was on a pleasure trip across my state. Incidentally, at a time when the state is bursting across its seams with fervent emotions of statehood and regional identity, I got to visit all three major regions of the state. Rayalaseema, Telangana and Costa. Relentless.
The descriptions of the often miraculously captivating incidents and simply spellbinding moments that I came across during my sojourn shall follow in later posts, but let me assure you, the trip was only a notch above boring. Nothing like the Zumanji game actually happened. It was the routine saga like the scrupulously choreographed sequence in the recap portion of the Indian soap serial. I went, I saw, I came back. Ala Alexander the great. And a bit more.
But for the real part, the trip was spiritually rejuvenating, socially energizing and quite admittedly, a true break from the hullabaloo at home. I spent some time with the dark, often misunderstood and mostly incoherent speeches inside my brain. I sat with them over coffee inside the 3 tier AC compartment of the majestic Indian Railways, chugging along since time immemorial, with no sign of retirement for about 2000 kilometres. The speeches wouldn't budge. So wouldn't I.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
The bus experience
The fine creases on The greyish burgundy coloured polyester - worsted wool trousers began to lose their character. It was an experience of a lifetime. For the trousers that is. The rocks outside on both sides of the road were perhaps the impala granites. Or the absolute black granites. i never knew. As a matter of fact, I didn't want to know. For the heat, like that in a Rotary Screw Hearth Furnace System was already beginning to strip all patience and every bit of sanity off me. The granites only reflected the sun's rays back on to the metallic container with atleast distinction grade efficiency. The bus that I was traveling in. The set up would have been the front runner for the best Hell- Raising experience award, if any, in Auschwitz-Birkenau. Forget it.
Let's talk about the road. I wished all good luck to the civil engineer and the municipal contractor who helped lay the road. They forgot one important ingredient in the road mix, tarmac. More good luck to the people moving under the bridges they built. There was absolutely no road. Yes, the road was inconsequential. It was long dead. What lay there was a rubble of rock, stone, gravel, pebbles, mud and clay, in decreasing order of the diameter of particle size. How do I know? I picked specimen samples from the pockets in my trousers, my shirt and sometimes from my scalp. I was basically having a sand bath. Why? The bus did have windows. Sure sir. But good ventilation begets good health. Thanks to advice from the ticket collecter and the wise person sitting beside me in white overalls, white floaters, a white hand kercheif, a white coloured purse that looked like it was made out of the skin of a white python snake and a white wrist watch that had the words Kenneth Cole stamped on it, 40, Comic Sans MS, Bold. So we decided to open them wide. And in no time, I could start collecting my specimens.
Now the ride part. Chassis and Suspension System Design Engineers from Lamborghini and Renault would'nt mind travelling the distance to attend training workshops conducted by the Andhra Pradesh State Road Transport Corporation, quite lovingly called RTC, in this part of the world, to know what lies under the skin of this approximately 8 tonne moving mass of steel. It is a magnanimous achievement of considerable success if a bus can provide that level of comfort on a road that is in an absolutely and ridiculously tattered shape. And all this with the same old fellow chucking along atleast 600 kilometres everyday, with no sense of gratitude, in extremely testing conditions both under the tires and above them. No nonsense achievement this. I was pretty contented with the ride quality given the state of affairs beneath, under the wheels. But then, the vibrations were strong enough to put off my white friend to sleep, now his attire turning into a pale yellow. Thanks to the windows.
Let's talk about the road. I wished all good luck to the civil engineer and the municipal contractor who helped lay the road. They forgot one important ingredient in the road mix, tarmac. More good luck to the people moving under the bridges they built. There was absolutely no road. Yes, the road was inconsequential. It was long dead. What lay there was a rubble of rock, stone, gravel, pebbles, mud and clay, in decreasing order of the diameter of particle size. How do I know? I picked specimen samples from the pockets in my trousers, my shirt and sometimes from my scalp. I was basically having a sand bath. Why? The bus did have windows. Sure sir. But good ventilation begets good health. Thanks to advice from the ticket collecter and the wise person sitting beside me in white overalls, white floaters, a white hand kercheif, a white coloured purse that looked like it was made out of the skin of a white python snake and a white wrist watch that had the words Kenneth Cole stamped on it, 40, Comic Sans MS, Bold. So we decided to open them wide. And in no time, I could start collecting my specimens.
Now the ride part. Chassis and Suspension System Design Engineers from Lamborghini and Renault would'nt mind travelling the distance to attend training workshops conducted by the Andhra Pradesh State Road Transport Corporation, quite lovingly called RTC, in this part of the world, to know what lies under the skin of this approximately 8 tonne moving mass of steel. It is a magnanimous achievement of considerable success if a bus can provide that level of comfort on a road that is in an absolutely and ridiculously tattered shape. And all this with the same old fellow chucking along atleast 600 kilometres everyday, with no sense of gratitude, in extremely testing conditions both under the tires and above them. No nonsense achievement this. I was pretty contented with the ride quality given the state of affairs beneath, under the wheels. But then, the vibrations were strong enough to put off my white friend to sleep, now his attire turning into a pale yellow. Thanks to the windows.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Happiness
Happiness is an unimaginably abstract and an unnervingly short lived emotion of us human beings. Also, pretty depressingly, happiness often tends towards being endlessly relative that it more often than not evades a rational and comprehensively cognitive examination by the conscious brain. So, do I mean most of us, the human race, fail abjectly at understanding happiness? Perhaps.
An unassuming UFO sauntering in the upper troposphere above the earth as a part of its monotonous and understandably boring light yearly routine of capturing live feed of happenings on earth would be shocked to disbelief on hearing people's seemingly endless expectations and anticipations about happiness, if UFOs really understood our mind bogglingly complex languages.
So, how do we as humans understand happiness?
Is there a mystery yet unraveled, which is more closer, more intimate and more lovingly ingrained into human psyche than this? Do we, like immaculate automatons with floating point precision, quite unabashedly pound our breasts in exaltation over our success in brilliantly concieving a definition for happiness that reeks of febrile odours of money, fame and deceit? Yes we do! And our accomplishments are unmatched at that.
Cannot we define happiness in a less physical, less materialistic way? Doesn't our definition of happiness transcend?
A new owner of a Merc proudly splashes along his new toy's pics across his blogs, communities and forums only because he is pretty sure of the not-so-small band of the relatively poor humans who cannot proudly splash the pics of their toys. Why would I splash the pics of my new Hero Honda Splendor 100cc with elecric start and 85 kmpl mileage? I wouldn't. For very few rickshaw pullers and auto drivers log into online communities or have gmail accounts to appreciate my immeasurable pride of owning a toy.
So, does it essentially mean that, going by our definition of happiness, someone needs to be relatively less happier for us to be happy? Are we the progeny of the demonaic satans of the darkest recesesses of the underworld which wish for the unhappiness of the many and the happiness of the few, the us? No. We are not.
Bt why do we still stick to the moolah-ic definition of happiness?
An unassuming UFO sauntering in the upper troposphere above the earth as a part of its monotonous and understandably boring light yearly routine of capturing live feed of happenings on earth would be shocked to disbelief on hearing people's seemingly endless expectations and anticipations about happiness, if UFOs really understood our mind bogglingly complex languages.
So, how do we as humans understand happiness?
Is there a mystery yet unraveled, which is more closer, more intimate and more lovingly ingrained into human psyche than this? Do we, like immaculate automatons with floating point precision, quite unabashedly pound our breasts in exaltation over our success in brilliantly concieving a definition for happiness that reeks of febrile odours of money, fame and deceit? Yes we do! And our accomplishments are unmatched at that.
Cannot we define happiness in a less physical, less materialistic way? Doesn't our definition of happiness transcend?
A new owner of a Merc proudly splashes along his new toy's pics across his blogs, communities and forums only because he is pretty sure of the not-so-small band of the relatively poor humans who cannot proudly splash the pics of their toys. Why would I splash the pics of my new Hero Honda Splendor 100cc with elecric start and 85 kmpl mileage? I wouldn't. For very few rickshaw pullers and auto drivers log into online communities or have gmail accounts to appreciate my immeasurable pride of owning a toy.
So, does it essentially mean that, going by our definition of happiness, someone needs to be relatively less happier for us to be happy? Are we the progeny of the demonaic satans of the darkest recesesses of the underworld which wish for the unhappiness of the many and the happiness of the few, the us? No. We are not.
Bt why do we still stick to the moolah-ic definition of happiness?
Friday, June 17, 2011
Disaster occurs!
Even before I could relive my experiences at the examination, the dramaticness of events at home increased hyperbolically each passing day, so much so that, notwithstanding the magnificiently elaborate arrangements at home for my pregnant sister, they seemed abhorrently pathetic even by my middle class standards. So, we all rush to the hospital. Now, dramaticness multiplies a million fold. Why? Just read ahead.
Let's assume you are a guy in the mid twenties. Let's also just assume you are single. You need not fret. It's just an assumption. Now, say you are silently and quite unassumingly warming the bench outside the labour room in a huge corporate hospital. Suddenly, a beautiful nurse, looking just like your neighbour's daughter whom you had strange feelings for, walks across and asks you sweetly, " Uncle, What's the time?". How do you feel? How can you digest the moment when the lady sitting beside you giggles in sadistic pleasure? What do you call this? What do you call the sacrificial ablution of a man's dignity? I would call it DEP. Disaster of Epic Proportions. And a person who doesn't suffer from post traumatic stress is then honored with the title SED, Survivor of Epic Disaster. He is also nominated for the next year's World's most rock hearted young head-in-the sand award - Male. Hw would I feel after all this?
Suddenly and pretty appropriately, the idea of shoving her silently into the forensic laboratory of the hospital and subjecting her to lie detector and brain mapping tests occured. I wanted to desperately know the truth. However immediately, the Honorable Supreme Court's lambasting of these two procedures also came to mind. I resisted. I persisted. I gulped the yell, for the second time in as many weeks. Why me? Was I the only unfortunate male in the entire group that was bench warming? Perhaps, yes. Perhaps she was hallucinating. Perhaps I really look like an uncle. I didn't know. But I knew for sure, this event would ravage the vitals of my brain for the next few days. I felt like running away. But I was hungry. So I waited for lunch. I then slept.
Let's assume you are a guy in the mid twenties. Let's also just assume you are single. You need not fret. It's just an assumption. Now, say you are silently and quite unassumingly warming the bench outside the labour room in a huge corporate hospital. Suddenly, a beautiful nurse, looking just like your neighbour's daughter whom you had strange feelings for, walks across and asks you sweetly, " Uncle, What's the time?". How do you feel? How can you digest the moment when the lady sitting beside you giggles in sadistic pleasure? What do you call this? What do you call the sacrificial ablution of a man's dignity? I would call it DEP. Disaster of Epic Proportions. And a person who doesn't suffer from post traumatic stress is then honored with the title SED, Survivor of Epic Disaster. He is also nominated for the next year's World's most rock hearted young head-in-the sand award - Male. Hw would I feel after all this?
Suddenly and pretty appropriately, the idea of shoving her silently into the forensic laboratory of the hospital and subjecting her to lie detector and brain mapping tests occured. I wanted to desperately know the truth. However immediately, the Honorable Supreme Court's lambasting of these two procedures also came to mind. I resisted. I persisted. I gulped the yell, for the second time in as many weeks. Why me? Was I the only unfortunate male in the entire group that was bench warming? Perhaps, yes. Perhaps she was hallucinating. Perhaps I really look like an uncle. I didn't know. But I knew for sure, this event would ravage the vitals of my brain for the next few days. I felt like running away. But I was hungry. So I waited for lunch. I then slept.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
V S Krishna College. Yes. Decision made.
Most decisions in life are split second. They are sometimes ephemeral yet immensely consequential. They often break hearts. Sometimes, they screw up complete lives. Few other times, they turn inherently impotent and infertile lands into reserves of unimaginable potential and sources of immeasurable wealth. Some other times, when dogs reign over people's luck realms and fortune empires, decisions of magnanimous proportions end up being damp squibs of pacific inconsequence. Why do, at these extremely unfortunate times, men and women of generally respectable cranial capacities commit dangerously insane blunders? Why? Why do we humans with immaculate mathematical skills fail at decision making with intense shamelessness?
Or is it just me out of this whole world of human beings, cats and dogs? Does everyone else make the right decisions? Am I the nincompoop? The imbecile one?
May be yes, may be not. It was a coin's question but the verdict was to be given three months later, for the decision was already made. I made my mind. I had to do it. The decision was not a sentimental one. Far from it. Neither was it emotional. It was sparsely rational too. And no part of it was judgemental. Then what kind of decision was it? Purely instinctive. Since the time my umblical cord was safely detached and stashed away in a high security, high priority, high voltage, cold storage DNA Bank for fear of losing a born winner to congenital defects, ( I only always wish this happened), I never have had the fortune of experiencing the distinctly egoistic and extortionist feeling that seeps through your nerves when instinctive decisions are made by the self. For example, one where you rise your head in pride and laugh in rage after you secretly and quite violently tear open the rubber ball of your neighborhood kid who you know plays better cricket than you did when you were of his age. Instinctive decision. Ain't it?
This decision too was similar. I decided to write the Civil Services Preliminary Examination 2011. It is tension when you write an exam for the first time. You are an epitome of FAIL if you are writing it for the second time. But to write an exam which you have already passed, you become either a paragon of exceedingly surplus energy or completely weighed down boredom. Can be both.
The centre this year, was the V S Krishna Government Degree College. My fateful college, here I come.
Or is it just me out of this whole world of human beings, cats and dogs? Does everyone else make the right decisions? Am I the nincompoop? The imbecile one?
May be yes, may be not. It was a coin's question but the verdict was to be given three months later, for the decision was already made. I made my mind. I had to do it. The decision was not a sentimental one. Far from it. Neither was it emotional. It was sparsely rational too. And no part of it was judgemental. Then what kind of decision was it? Purely instinctive. Since the time my umblical cord was safely detached and stashed away in a high security, high priority, high voltage, cold storage DNA Bank for fear of losing a born winner to congenital defects, ( I only always wish this happened), I never have had the fortune of experiencing the distinctly egoistic and extortionist feeling that seeps through your nerves when instinctive decisions are made by the self. For example, one where you rise your head in pride and laugh in rage after you secretly and quite violently tear open the rubber ball of your neighborhood kid who you know plays better cricket than you did when you were of his age. Instinctive decision. Ain't it?
This decision too was similar. I decided to write the Civil Services Preliminary Examination 2011. It is tension when you write an exam for the first time. You are an epitome of FAIL if you are writing it for the second time. But to write an exam which you have already passed, you become either a paragon of exceedingly surplus energy or completely weighed down boredom. Can be both.
The centre this year, was the V S Krishna Government Degree College. My fateful college, here I come.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
The devil, again!
23rd May 2010 was the day. Or was it the 29th? To hell with the number. The day wasn't dramatic. No thunders and lightning, no dust storms and absolutely no tsunami. Delhi is a landlocked city. The sun rose at its designated time. The morning breeze whizzed past the windows of the bedroom. The morning birds, the species of which I had no inkling of, kept chirping. The alarm rang and it was 06:30 AM. Mom, the usual, the ubiquitous and the prevailing deity at home, comes up close and wakes me up. Yes, I realize. It's today. Civil Services Examination Preliminary Test 2010.
What happened later is history. One year hence, the 12th of June 2011, the tough thing is here again. Preliminary Test 2011. With so many people giving the exam this time, here are a few tips from a not-so-seasoned but successful campaigner. :)
1. You have worked like an ant for the last few years. You have never given up. You have broken all norms. You have given it your all. And, you are now equipped. Can't you defend yourself for a pithy 4 hours? What are you made of if you cannot play hero for 4 tough hours? Plastic? Foam? Rubber? No. Steel! This is 4 hours of your time! Play!
2. Never Give Up! I was asked in my interview to explain the aphorism, "When the going gets tough, the tough get going". I explained. They were satisfied. The same applies to you. This perhaps is the toughest test yet of your life. Never, ever give up!
3. Concentrate on the question. The UPSC does not expect you to know the answer to every question in the paper. They donot need bookshelves to work as IAS officers. They need quick witted, smart and agile performers. So, there's no question that you look at and immediately answer. Every answer has to be thought about. Give it some time. Draw a small diagram. Create a few links. And let me tell you, you are nearer to the answer than you expected.
4. There is no emotion on earth stronger than the will to survive. And survive, you shall, survive, you will. 'Coz, you are here not to buckle under pressure! You are hear to beat every boundary that is drawn, every limit that exists.
5. Do it! And come out smiling!
What happened later is history. One year hence, the 12th of June 2011, the tough thing is here again. Preliminary Test 2011. With so many people giving the exam this time, here are a few tips from a not-so-seasoned but successful campaigner. :)
1. You have worked like an ant for the last few years. You have never given up. You have broken all norms. You have given it your all. And, you are now equipped. Can't you defend yourself for a pithy 4 hours? What are you made of if you cannot play hero for 4 tough hours? Plastic? Foam? Rubber? No. Steel! This is 4 hours of your time! Play!
2. Never Give Up! I was asked in my interview to explain the aphorism, "When the going gets tough, the tough get going". I explained. They were satisfied. The same applies to you. This perhaps is the toughest test yet of your life. Never, ever give up!
3. Concentrate on the question. The UPSC does not expect you to know the answer to every question in the paper. They donot need bookshelves to work as IAS officers. They need quick witted, smart and agile performers. So, there's no question that you look at and immediately answer. Every answer has to be thought about. Give it some time. Draw a small diagram. Create a few links. And let me tell you, you are nearer to the answer than you expected.
4. There is no emotion on earth stronger than the will to survive. And survive, you shall, survive, you will. 'Coz, you are here not to buckle under pressure! You are hear to beat every boundary that is drawn, every limit that exists.
5. Do it! And come out smiling!
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Disclaimer
Visitors to this blog may comment. It is not a sin to comment. Your fingers will not be chopped off. In fact, typing comments helps reduce cholestrol and blood pressure. All great men and women born on earth commented in others blogs. So, I hope you do too! Cheers! :)
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Journeys and more
Burrrrr.....Burrrrr....Burrrrr......Nokia mobiles are famous for their durability. They are also known for their reliability. In case of a doubt, try this, throw one down your toilet, flush hard, wait for a week and call that number. You will hear someone answer the call. But they are known for yet another reason. They vibrate like the world is coming to an end. When you are asleep in the morning with a phone beside your head, someone calls you, and if you are not a polar bear, you will most probably get furious. This is what happened. It was 20 days back that my results were announced. But my phone never stopped ringing all this while. It was 7 in the morning and the nokia mobile kicked some punch. I began to think. I didn't achieve a celebrity rank, I mean one in the top 10 or even a super star rank, I mean one in the top 50. I was miles away from even a super man rank, I mean one in the top 100. I was standing at 250. But why this hype? why all these felicitations? Why are distant relatives from distant towns who maintained good distance all this while, coming so close?
I then recalled one Mr. Nagashayana who used to teach us Public Administration in New Delhi. He called this exam, the King or Pauper exam. I just realized it was true. At least in parts.
My mom appears from nowhere, tiptoes towards the bed, pushes aside the blankets, sits beside me and reads out that day's engagements with clockwork precision. It was the sixth honour in less than a month. I felt like pinching and kicking myself again to make sure it was not that elongated dream. My mother was ready to do it on my behalf but I resisted. the last felicitation I was honoured with was two decades back when I fortunately and quite amazedly ended up winning a speed skating race held in Hyderabad. My relatives were so overwhelmed by disbelief that they kept calling home and asked i f I really won the race even two years after me winning the race. After that I was more or less the epitome and paragon of FAIL. Was it really time for me to hog the limelight?
I then recalled one Mr. Nagashayana who used to teach us Public Administration in New Delhi. He called this exam, the King or Pauper exam. I just realized it was true. At least in parts.
My mom appears from nowhere, tiptoes towards the bed, pushes aside the blankets, sits beside me and reads out that day's engagements with clockwork precision. It was the sixth honour in less than a month. I felt like pinching and kicking myself again to make sure it was not that elongated dream. My mother was ready to do it on my behalf but I resisted. the last felicitation I was honoured with was two decades back when I fortunately and quite amazedly ended up winning a speed skating race held in Hyderabad. My relatives were so overwhelmed by disbelief that they kept calling home and asked i f I really won the race even two years after me winning the race. After that I was more or less the epitome and paragon of FAIL. Was it really time for me to hog the limelight?
Thursday, June 2, 2011
The response
Jubilation, delight, awesomeness, energy, extra energy, funny chills, few thrills, wizardly enchantment, instant gratification and overall happiness. All these feelings swept across home. It is indeed tough to describe when a middle class family is thrown into a swimming pool called happiness and is ordered, "Swim". Dad, who was sitting in the balcony with his companion, his best friend, his love for life, the evil enchantress, the beautiful seductress, the only persona in this world my mother hates, that day's newspaper, rushes into the room where the revelation happened. He heard screams and was afraid the ceiling fan fell on my head. On hearing the news, he was catapulted to cloud eleven. He wouldn't budge for the next three weeks. My sister immediately took a flight to cloud twenty two and kept giving missed calls to all of us. Mom was completely out of sight. She ran out of clouds. So, she entered the exo atmosphere. So, only radio communication. I didn't know how to react. So, I stay put. I was still in that trance. How in this world could this happen? I mean how? What if tomorrow UPSC comes up with a different list saying that the previous one was the wrong one. April fool types? The psychotic satan in me that reared its ugly head when I reached 400 was taking its time to go back to bed. What if I'm dreaming? Because such dreams were commonplace over the last two years. So no big deal if this was another elongated early morning dream.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Revelation
Some religious and spiritual leaders reveal their manifestation only after cross checking themselves. This is something I assume. Like, for example, the mythical Zoperfix, the god of gods of the great island of Timuledany, created a loaf of bread, two duck eggs and a few buffaloes to test himself before he proclaimed his godliness to the world. It is another matter that his wife did the same the next day. I decided to play safe too. I read each letter of the two words exactly 18 times before I did it all over again. I pinched myself silently and swallowed the scream for the fear of waking up the women. I punched my right thigh and gulped the yell. My stomach was full now. Yes, I realized It was real. Yes, I did better than Manisha Chaudhary, yes, I did it. Wooohooo. 2 years of nerve twitching, mind bending, back breaking, soul vaporizing, neck twisting and eye gouging drudgery came to an end. The idea of running bare, shouting "Eureka", never came. The women were lucky. How badly I wished, if my laptop was feminine, I would have married it. But it was tough to know. So, I forgave it.
I ran to my mom. I was a 5 year old last bench kid who just won the consolation prize in spelling the word "FAIL". My joy knew no bounds. My eyes sparkled with joy and my face beamed with ecstasy. A 25 year old sure looks ugly that way. She had a puzzled look on her face. With me grinning widely and a pregnant woman by her side she must have thought, "He sure cannot become pregnant, why is he so happy?" I said, "Ayipoyindi" [It's over]. She replies, "Entadi Ayipoyedi?" [What the hell do you mean is over? With about 2 kilos of sarcasm]. I said, "My rank is 250". She was awestruck. Her mind went blank. This, in my region is called Mind-Block.
I ran to my mom. I was a 5 year old last bench kid who just won the consolation prize in spelling the word "FAIL". My joy knew no bounds. My eyes sparkled with joy and my face beamed with ecstasy. A 25 year old sure looks ugly that way. She had a puzzled look on her face. With me grinning widely and a pregnant woman by her side she must have thought, "He sure cannot become pregnant, why is he so happy?" I said, "Ayipoyindi" [It's over]. She replies, "Entadi Ayipoyedi?" [What the hell do you mean is over? With about 2 kilos of sarcasm]. I said, "My rank is 250". She was awestruck. Her mind went blank. This, in my region is called Mind-Block.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
The number
So, eventually, my fingers stopped shivering, my heart beat fell to normal and like a dead man walking, I scrolled through the list. Where's the fun when you know that you've missed the bus but can try your luck with the next one? I reached 300. The theoritical probability of my name existing in the last 100 numbers was 0.5. However, when you've gone through 800 names out of 900 and you failed, you believe you were born to fail. In short, Eternal FAIL. So, when you are destined to fail, why even look in the last 100? I was turning hopelessly psychotic. The cynical side in me emerged to walk me through the last 100, laughing at me hysterically and asking me, "Why so serious?". It was only a matter of time before I bite the dust.
Breaking the news to the family required another strategy of tremendous resilience. I couldn't have planned for that anyways. I was already almost brain dead.
The last name in the next page, going upwards, sounded similar. It actually rhymed with my name. Somehow, I couldn't understand it at first glance. But it looked familiar. My heart started to beat faster. The length, the curves and the shape of the two words in the name looked similar. I could feel blood flow back into my ears. The first letters of both words matched with those of mine. My finger started to twitch like the hero in the last scene of the film where he lies dead in the ICU, his love interest barges in and shouts in his ear, "Aaaaiiii Lovvvvvvv Uiioouuuoo" and his fingers start to twitch like he's a starving dog and she just bought him some Pedigree. Like tunnel vision, everything in my Span of vision gets out of focus, I feel like being thrown in a trance, every part of my body goes numb and my head reels in delusion. Is this a dream? How is it that I find my name in this list? Did I pass this exam? The number beside my name read 250.
I come back to life.
Breaking the news to the family required another strategy of tremendous resilience. I couldn't have planned for that anyways. I was already almost brain dead.
The last name in the next page, going upwards, sounded similar. It actually rhymed with my name. Somehow, I couldn't understand it at first glance. But it looked familiar. My heart started to beat faster. The length, the curves and the shape of the two words in the name looked similar. I could feel blood flow back into my ears. The first letters of both words matched with those of mine. My finger started to twitch like the hero in the last scene of the film where he lies dead in the ICU, his love interest barges in and shouts in his ear, "Aaaaiiii Lovvvvvvv Uiioouuuoo" and his fingers start to twitch like he's a starving dog and she just bought him some Pedigree. Like tunnel vision, everything in my Span of vision gets out of focus, I feel like being thrown in a trance, every part of my body goes numb and my head reels in delusion. Is this a dream? How is it that I find my name in this list? Did I pass this exam? The number beside my name read 250.
I come back to life.
Monday, May 30, 2011
400
Every 100 ranks that went by, I got reminded of the India Pakistan World T20 final when Misbah got disturbingly close to chasing the Indian total. At that time, every Harbhajan ball that was clobbered out of the park by Misbah left me with a awefully distressing feeling of helplessness. I could do nothing. It was like a mathematical programme that was in a terminal decline. There was no stopping. From 900, I reached 600. No respite. Hope still flickered. The dum aloo debate stopped. The mood was placid. The room was heavily curtained and thus was dark for an extremely humid and hot afternoon. The room was below ambient temperature as the air conditioner worked silently. Womenfolk, tired of the discussion were getting ready for a siesta. And I saw myself all alone in this mad bad world with just 400 more numbers to go. Chills down my spine and I start traveling upwards.
As soon as I reached 400 and my name no where in sight, I realized it was high time I started the fire fighting exercise. I had to become mentally strong. I had to brace for impact. I had to make sure I retain my composure on the arrival of the bad news. I planned for failure. I was searching for a parachute. What had I to do in case I crash landed. First, Chronicle and Times magazines of the last one year. Second, DD Basu and Ravindran sir notes for Polity. Third, Goh Cheng Leong, Savindra Singh, K siddhartha and Shabbir sir notes for geography. Fourth, Misra puri and Dutt and Sundaram for Economy. I didn't have the wherewithal to think about the other subjects. I stopped. But I knew I would be alive to think about another attempt. Yes, if I failed, I knew I wouldn't die.
As soon as I reached 400 and my name no where in sight, I realized it was high time I started the fire fighting exercise. I had to become mentally strong. I had to brace for impact. I had to make sure I retain my composure on the arrival of the bad news. I planned for failure. I was searching for a parachute. What had I to do in case I crash landed. First, Chronicle and Times magazines of the last one year. Second, DD Basu and Ravindran sir notes for Polity. Third, Goh Cheng Leong, Savindra Singh, K siddhartha and Shabbir sir notes for geography. Fourth, Misra puri and Dutt and Sundaram for Economy. I didn't have the wherewithal to think about the other subjects. I stopped. But I knew I would be alive to think about another attempt. Yes, if I failed, I knew I wouldn't die.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
The search continues
Hmmm... One milestone had been reached. Rather, breached. I didn't find my name in the top 200. Ok. Now what? I didn't have much time to think. I could sense the dum aloo debate ending. The momentous discussion of Socratic proportions was drawing to a close. So, there was a distinct chance of the women shifting course to another awe inspiring discussion and it being more than a month that my interview was done, there was an even more distinct chance of the discussion veering towards my result and its aftermath. It was another matter, that the female members, at that moment, as ignorant as bull ants looking amorously at a pitcher plant, did not know that their fellow comrade did not end up in the top 200.
After going through the top 200, I came back to ground zero. Most of my rosy expectations landed safely and got docked happily in the warehouse to be dismantled and sold at scrap rates. I now, quite shamefully and earnestly had only simple expectations, those that reminded me of my middle class roots. To land safely in the list. No matter where. I wanted to be an employed youth. I needed nothing more.
So, this time around, the better of my reflexes worked and I decided to enter from the other end. I scrolled down to the end of the list and started searching my name upwards. So that this time, the sense of rapidly falling off from a cliff wasn't there. The execution would be less painful this way. I desperately wanted to pat my back and jump in eternal bliss to have produced such a mind boggling idea. But the female folk would know. So, I stay put. Infact I had a feeling of confidence as soon I read through 10 names. I wasn't in the bottom 10. What ignominy, what shame? Though the chances of me not being in the list were perpetually increasing, I also had hope flickering at some corner of my heart. Peace! Tension! What the!
After going through the top 200, I came back to ground zero. Most of my rosy expectations landed safely and got docked happily in the warehouse to be dismantled and sold at scrap rates. I now, quite shamefully and earnestly had only simple expectations, those that reminded me of my middle class roots. To land safely in the list. No matter where. I wanted to be an employed youth. I needed nothing more.
So, this time around, the better of my reflexes worked and I decided to enter from the other end. I scrolled down to the end of the list and started searching my name upwards. So that this time, the sense of rapidly falling off from a cliff wasn't there. The execution would be less painful this way. I desperately wanted to pat my back and jump in eternal bliss to have produced such a mind boggling idea. But the female folk would know. So, I stay put. Infact I had a feeling of confidence as soon I read through 10 names. I wasn't in the bottom 10. What ignominy, what shame? Though the chances of me not being in the list were perpetually increasing, I also had hope flickering at some corner of my heart. Peace! Tension! What the!
Friday, May 27, 2011
The miraculous day
I shouted nothing. I eagerly took part in their discussion about dum aloo. I proposed adding half a tea spoon full of salt against my sister's view of one fourth a tea spoon. There were distinct reasons why I did not accede to my sister's stance on this contentious issue, the conclusion of which, it appeared, from the intensity of the expressions of the females faces, had international ramifications. The two distinct reasons were nerve wrangling tension and tooth grinding anticipation. I downloaded the list from the website of the captor. Now the amazing race began. The search for my name started. In the background the dum aloo debate raged on incessantly.
The list was a pdf file which was embedded in an HTML page. This meant that the search option (Ctrl+F) wouldn't work. Even if it did, I wouldn't have used it for the gut wrenching feeling which pervades all through your body when the dialog box appears on the screen saying, " The search string does not exist ", is truly something hard to swallow. All dreams dreamt laboriously over the last two years would come crashing down in an instant. So, I preferred to go the long way, search for my name manually.
I started from the top, Divyadarshini was her name, I could already imagine the front page of the newspapers next day, 40 font, bold, underlined, with her happydent white picture below somewhere, with the caption, "girls do it again". I went lower. There were names, funny ones, unique ones, masculine ones, but none was mine. The top ten was done. My heart sank a bit. The rosiest of my dreams were gone, for ever. I would not be bragging live to NDTV or CNN the next day about my absolutely immaculate strategy to top the examination. I knew I could settle for less. I let go off a few edges of my ego and I went further down.
Top 50 done. My throat went dry. The dum aloo discussion continued in the background. My fingers wouldn't stop shivering. Back in some convoluted corner of the brain, I wished I could redo the top 50. But I was convinced otherwise, I seldom missed my name in lists. Latecomers list, absentee lists, traveling-without-bus pass lists, caught-copying-in-exam lists and some other worthless ones. So I decided to go further lower. I felt like a scuba diver going below 130 feet with no information about his gas mixture. I dived.
Top 200 out.
The list was a pdf file which was embedded in an HTML page. This meant that the search option (Ctrl+F) wouldn't work. Even if it did, I wouldn't have used it for the gut wrenching feeling which pervades all through your body when the dialog box appears on the screen saying, " The search string does not exist ", is truly something hard to swallow. All dreams dreamt laboriously over the last two years would come crashing down in an instant. So, I preferred to go the long way, search for my name manually.
I started from the top, Divyadarshini was her name, I could already imagine the front page of the newspapers next day, 40 font, bold, underlined, with her happydent white picture below somewhere, with the caption, "girls do it again". I went lower. There were names, funny ones, unique ones, masculine ones, but none was mine. The top ten was done. My heart sank a bit. The rosiest of my dreams were gone, for ever. I would not be bragging live to NDTV or CNN the next day about my absolutely immaculate strategy to top the examination. I knew I could settle for less. I let go off a few edges of my ego and I went further down.
Top 50 done. My throat went dry. The dum aloo discussion continued in the background. My fingers wouldn't stop shivering. Back in some convoluted corner of the brain, I wished I could redo the top 50. But I was convinced otherwise, I seldom missed my name in lists. Latecomers list, absentee lists, traveling-without-bus pass lists, caught-copying-in-exam lists and some other worthless ones. So I decided to go further lower. I felt like a scuba diver going below 130 feet with no information about his gas mixture. I dived.
Top 200 out.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
The thing
11th MAy 10:00 AM There was an eerie sense of calm. The thing was about to get out. It was about to be released from captivity. All onlookers, pregnant with anticipation waited in bated breath. They had been treacherously drawn into submission a week before when the captors signalled an early release. It was only later that the onlookers realized that it was a red herring. They were decieved by the sleight of the captors hand. But this time, everything was in place for the final thing to come out. I was among the impatient onlookers. No one at home knew that the results of the CIvil Services Examination 2010 would be released that day. But I knew. With a pregnant sister blessed with horrendously sensitive nerves and a spiritual mother gifted with the keeness of a lioness but the calmness of a hare, I was mighty apprehensive of revealing the truth at home. But i knew.
11th May 1:30PM. My hands shiver and my legs fritter. My laptop was in its designated position, the dusty sliding rack that hid under the sunmica shelf of the Balsam fir cupboard in the corner of my room. It was neatly covered by a piece of half white turkish cloth emblazoned with floral designs. I had no patience or perseverance to appreciate my mother's attention to detail. I logged on to the online forum where most aspirants to the civil service discussed, rabbled, fought, flirted and flaunted. There was news. Yes, the beast was released. The result was out. Bare in the sunlight withthe names of the 900 odd fortunately and awesomely lucky guys. Was my name in it? I was still to check. But my ability to withstand that pressure was running thin. My sister and mother in all sheer handsome ignorance were ranting quite eloquently about the amount of salt that should go into the preparation of dum aloo. They were of the view that I should take them out that day. They were seriously discussing the possibility of eating dum aloo that evening. And i was being asked my views. What do i say? Do I shout, "shut up, my lovely female family, shut up, The result for which i got my posteriors screwn in all wholesomeness for the last two years has been put up. So, if you can shut up, i can think of searching for my name in the form!"
11th May 1:30PM. My hands shiver and my legs fritter. My laptop was in its designated position, the dusty sliding rack that hid under the sunmica shelf of the Balsam fir cupboard in the corner of my room. It was neatly covered by a piece of half white turkish cloth emblazoned with floral designs. I had no patience or perseverance to appreciate my mother's attention to detail. I logged on to the online forum where most aspirants to the civil service discussed, rabbled, fought, flirted and flaunted. There was news. Yes, the beast was released. The result was out. Bare in the sunlight withthe names of the 900 odd fortunately and awesomely lucky guys. Was my name in it? I was still to check. But my ability to withstand that pressure was running thin. My sister and mother in all sheer handsome ignorance were ranting quite eloquently about the amount of salt that should go into the preparation of dum aloo. They were of the view that I should take them out that day. They were seriously discussing the possibility of eating dum aloo that evening. And i was being asked my views. What do i say? Do I shout, "shut up, my lovely female family, shut up, The result for which i got my posteriors screwn in all wholesomeness for the last two years has been put up. So, if you can shut up, i can think of searching for my name in the form!"
It has just started
Chaos. Utter chaos. The last two weeks perhaps broke the record for the two most consecutively rambunctious weeks of all time at home since I was born. A record by some standards when it comes to my home where dad is particularly averse to breaking rules, records and ranks.
Never did the watchman's son witness so many people ask for my flat number, he was convinced, I either committed suicide or broke into the bedroom of the beasty businessman's daughter who lived in the third floor. He was sure it was the latter, for he earnestly doubted my integrity and humility.
The phone kept ringing for two days, non stop. And more dramatically, dad's phone kept ringing for about a day. Again non stop. The poor thing was in perpetual hibernation from the day it was manufactured to this day, for no one called it and it cared to call none.
The household help, usually used to the unnerving calmness at home, stood dazed the whole day, like a cat, just electrified by a 12000 volt thunderbolt. Hair raising indeed. She was amazed at the newly gained popularity of her household which could never stand even one day of her absence.
The lift had its own genre of problems. It never had a day when it had to break bulk at the fourth floor, a hundred times. It got so tired, it voluntarily disabled the button numbered 4 in the cabin and made sure everyone who pressed that darn button had one hell of a ride up to the fifth floor and back to the ground. It disabled the light too. This move was well appreciated by most youngsters in our apartment. I am not sure why.
But the question remains, what was the event of such magnanimous proportions that it threw a middle class family, eking out a living by selling grains of rice and watching the IPL, into limelight? Limelight of lilliputian proportions that is. That's enough to throw most middle class families Into limbo.
Never did the watchman's son witness so many people ask for my flat number, he was convinced, I either committed suicide or broke into the bedroom of the beasty businessman's daughter who lived in the third floor. He was sure it was the latter, for he earnestly doubted my integrity and humility.
The phone kept ringing for two days, non stop. And more dramatically, dad's phone kept ringing for about a day. Again non stop. The poor thing was in perpetual hibernation from the day it was manufactured to this day, for no one called it and it cared to call none.
The household help, usually used to the unnerving calmness at home, stood dazed the whole day, like a cat, just electrified by a 12000 volt thunderbolt. Hair raising indeed. She was amazed at the newly gained popularity of her household which could never stand even one day of her absence.
The lift had its own genre of problems. It never had a day when it had to break bulk at the fourth floor, a hundred times. It got so tired, it voluntarily disabled the button numbered 4 in the cabin and made sure everyone who pressed that darn button had one hell of a ride up to the fifth floor and back to the ground. It disabled the light too. This move was well appreciated by most youngsters in our apartment. I am not sure why.
But the question remains, what was the event of such magnanimous proportions that it threw a middle class family, eking out a living by selling grains of rice and watching the IPL, into limelight? Limelight of lilliputian proportions that is. That's enough to throw most middle class families Into limbo.
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