Main Bhi IIM Banoonga

Gone are the days of the cave men: who made wheels, exchanged ape-like grins and pretty much stopped right there. Today, we need more. In this complex genetic milieu, the newest life form is the Me-Too aspirant. S/he lives in feverish obeisance to their hallowed commandment: Follow thy neighbour. To IIM or Timbuktu.

Cramming for grades only because they heard that someone heard someone (… to n levels) say that grades might count.

Ditching mass-bunks because their cousin’s relative’s old classmate may have lost a seat at B because of (hold your breath) low attendance.

Solving mock-CATs because we all need smart sals and even smarter matrimonial ads.

(Even old darling The Economic Times, is reborn in its rehashed Gadag and Shetty avatar.) Mugging up company balance sheets, earnings reports… the works because hey, you are never too ready for the interviews.

Reading Jeffrey Archer because the topper at the 4th best institute recommended it in Competition Success Review.

Solving crossies because it takes care of part of a 5000-word list.

Going fast because one needs a head start.

Going slow because one shouldn’t ‘peak early’.

Living, breathing and existing because of the neighbour.

IS Kahaani mein twist

Do you find our Engineering syllabus obsolete? Irrelevant? Boring? Think again. Presenting: (Drum roll please) the NITKian’s insight into Corporate India: Information Systems. And who better to learn it from that someone whose only idea of corporate experience is its 45 word definition.

For the uninitiated, Information Systems is the arrangement of people, data, processes, interfaces, networks and technology that interact to support the day-to-day operations of business (data processing) as well as support the problem solving and decision making needs of management (information services).

Religiously understand (read mug) this, two to three times a day… and placements are a cakewalk.

Sadly, this grandmotherly advice missed me. The IS class meant free attendance and the chance to catch up with my nth reading of P. G. Wodehouse’s A Damsel in Distress.

The funda was simple: If people in class could sample ringtones, take new pics and even study for surprise tests, why not Wodehouse? It was just my luck that she (the IS lady, as she is more mildly called) caught me and grabbed the book.

IS had become my latest casualty. And the look on her face said it all. For someone who has mastered the skill of looking perennially confused, this was unmistakably different. This was a Glare.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Even as she marches me to the staff room, I tried to strike a quick deal. Hand over the book, and I will give a Seminar in class. Outsourcing, MIS, Quality Standards, you name it - its Seminared. What’s more, it’s a wild memory game: she would save the arduous task of taking Ashwagandha tablets and some dough too. No luck!

She must have taken the Wodehouse classic for some sleazy porno erotica... at least that’s my guess after 4 renditions of

"You reading Damselaaa...
He reading Damselaaa...
They reading Damselaaa...
Hmmm...
(Staff members join in Chorus)"

…and yet her side smirk suggested that behind that pink facade was a hungry soul eager to ditch her sorry definitions for raw unabridged erotica. Plum would have turned in his grave!!!!

The next day, I was back with a friend in L-109. He was desperately trying to get back a confiscated assignment. The singing was back too, only this time about assignments.

After one heck of begging, Ms. IS turns deal-maker a la grisham. Here's the deal... give me the names of the (hold your breath) noisemakers and you get the sheets back. And you bud, in the back, no Damselaa for some time, I'm not done.

Ahem. Cough. Cough. Did I hear not done? I pop the big Q to her and our worst fears have come true. She was deep into the book. Move over Whitten. Move over Senn. She confesses, even following with a vivid description of Lady Maud trying to meet George at down-by-Platt’s! The Ashwagandha still works.

Someone get me back the book! Pri, are you listening?

Long live IS. Long live Ashwagandha!

Rendezvous with the nouveau riche

There I was. Naïve & Excited. The disaster called exams was over and we had to dutifully go to a Mangalore ice-cream parlor to celebrate our hopes melting before our eyes. My friend rushes in, panting and tells me that it’s his birthday. Where are you when I need you, Orkut? A small group of his friends have started to Mangalore for a cheap sundae and if we hurry, we could join in.

Before we know it, we are in a Service bus to Mangalore. For the uninitiated, there are 2 kinds of buses - Service and the more expensive Express, with fewer stops. For the NITKian on a shoestring budget, Express is a bad word. So if you like the idea of having "Mangalore, Mangalore, Mangalore" bellowed in your ears every 5 minutes, and saving the princely sum of 6 bucks while you’re at it, Service is your best bet.

Pradeep is still sore over his scores. Late night carom never did anyone good. He starts using the seat in front as a punching bag to vent out his frustration, just ending up scaring the hell out of the old ladies sitting there.

Varun, our famished college topper, has spent more time in early morning duties, than asleep. He seems to be changing colour with every road bump. That magic elixir, the panacea for all evils, Maaza is still 20 minutes away.

And me? I am still recovering for some unsolicited advice from friends, on which notebook to buy. Should I buy the one with more memory, or that comes with preloaded Windows? Or the one with a 64-bit processor?

The bus conductor is an old drunkard. He makes his living by pocketing fivers and not giving tickets. He keeps his conscience clean by giving a whole rupee off to those in his amiable win-win.

In Mangalore, we meet this large gang of people who plan to take us to another restaurant. The leader of the motley crowd, A, gives us an impromptu pep talk on why our youth is passing by and we need to do something quick. Hmmm. Before we know it, we are at the entrance of an up market 4-star hotel. Even as people count their dough, the guard rushes to throw us out! This is no small insinuation for A, who marches us in, pausing only to exchange some revolting scowls with the impudent guard.

We enter the rooftop restaurant. And the gang could not get more boisterous. Drooling at the décor. Waiting to call home and brag to the neighbours. We have finally arrived.

Well, what should we order? Always our saviour, A grabs the menu, glances at some exotic stuff to offer and dishes out what suits us best. the brief: half of us will have "Hong Kong" and other half "Shanghai". A has some sympathy for our budgets and has decided to "by-2" our meals. We have much to learn!!!

For the rest of us, who sadly don’t share the quiet sophistication of A, it’s a jubilant moment. Even in unchartered territory, the engineer in A is not lost. "Listen frainds - ladies and gentalmaan - can you give me the praabability of finding on page number 2 the word" - (an adept pause for effect as S surveys the looks of anticipation) - "Chicken?" People feverishly begin the search.

Even the waiters seem to enjoy the moment, and their clients: an almost unending supply of water!!! Hands and legs move up in a struggle for the saunf!

The bill runs into the thousands. Students squirm and cringe. One even reminds us that he is on a scholarship! A, now surprisingly flushed, offered to pay with his expired Debit Card. A la Electron. Numbers surprisingly add up and the bill is paid. In the words of the immortal Snagglepuss: "Exit. Stage Right". The now tame guard watches us leave.

This day simply couldn’t get any worse! Or could it? We have missed the last bus and have to walk across the city to the KSRTC bus station. We can choose between hitchhiking with a Tempo-Trax at 12 or the Nandini Milk vans even later. A has a speech ready for every occasion and begins to explain how we ought to pay more for sitting together.

At the bus stations, all the benches are used by the homeless. The less lucky amongst them sleep on the ground. To the homeless, who have not heard of condos and high rises, this is their idea of Real Estate. We are relegated to old and broken seats. Even the homeless had torn blankets. We have the stench of the men’s urinal and a condom-vending machine. My friend, Varun, almost looks like a drug addict sleeping next to the bin. I tried to ask around for a rupee coin to check if my paltry weight had finally moved up. The enthu was simply not taken well.

At 03:30 in the morning, we jumped into the first state transport bus which would take us back to Surathkal. The conductor expected an extra buck to drop us off at our hostel gate. Nobody dared argue.

The nouveau riche returns. Peeved. Pooped. Much Enlightened.