Its been a long time since I wrote something. Anything really. A strong sense of ennui has stifled me, has kept me away from the keyboard the past months. It was an eventful year with transitions from academia to jobs and vice versa, of sicknesses and terrible nights spent wondering. It was a strange year which brought good things and bad. And as the year comes to an end I feel as if happiness has taken a backseat to existence. My days have acquired a certain sameness,broken ever so less often, the drudgery carries on from one day to the next. For a long time now I’ve simply existed, not lived. I realized that I want to feel the exhilaration when I talked to a friend about life and ambition, when I sat at the steps and watched the sun go down, when I went to sleep, warm and contented. I’d better start getting on with things, with life.
From all my observations across four years on campus and through the placement season, I’ve come across the following certitude regarding earning a living. The two most essential, pragmatic, propitious, instrumental skills to have to get a job are -
1. Maths – Be good at advanced math. Get awesome package. Invest the money. Like a boss.
2. Coding – Learn coding. Be eligible for infinite jobs. Never go hungry again.
True story.
I’m a keeper of sheep.
The sheep are my thoughts
And each thought a sensation.
I think with my eyes and my ears
And with my hands and feet
And with my nose and mouth.
To think a flower is to see and smell it,
And to eat a fruit is to know its meaning.
That is why on a hot day
When I enjoy it so much I feel sad,
And I lie down in the grass
And close my warm eyes,
Then I feel my whole body lying down in reality,
I know the truth, and I’m happy.
-Alberto Caeiro
अब हम किताबें खरीदने लगे हैं|
बिछी हुई है लम्हों की लौ
नंगे पैर उनपर चलते चलते
इतनी दूर आ गए हैं
कि अब भूल गए हैं जूते कहाँ उतारे थे
पर लगता है
कि अब उनकी ज़रुरत नहीं|
घर से निकलना काम पर और काम से घर लौट आना
बड़ा खतरनाक होता है सपनों का मर जाना
– पाश
Formalin, as most of us know, is an aqueous solution of formaldehyde used as an embalming agent to preserve human and animal remains (of course if you don’t remember, you can effing google it). I was reminded of formalin in my chemistry lab while coming back from work the other day. The reason behind such a strange recollection was that I am a corporate office-trundler now, one of the many with knife edged creases on dark pants, mute shirts and shoes buffed to a mirror shine, with an occasional tie here and there too. We all look alike, talk alike, think alike. Its the uniform of conformity which we wear 10 hrs a day, 5 days a week.We are pickled in the formalin of formals, kept to the world for display and on sale to the highest bidder.
You might ask, why do we do this. What is the need. Can’t we work with the same diligence and creativity in a pair of khakis and loafers? Does the dark, double breasted suit lend us some supernatural ability to crunch numbers and make shitloads of moolah for the rich kids in their BMWs? Well, the simple answer is yes, we can .. and no, it doesn’t (erm.. respectively in case u didn’t get it) . But sadly, the simple answer isn’t the right one. The word we are missing here is trust. Yes, its all about trust. And trust in this world, among other things, is also highly based on appearances. The other guy wouldn’t give you his hard earned bucks to play around with if he doesn’t trust you. And by tradition, the conservatively dressed, the conformer is more trusted simply because he is not a rebel. He is apparently sensible, following the world’s dictum, smooth talking wtih each hair in place and agreeable clothes, and hence is less likely to lose your mnoney compared to the next braniac with ruffled hair and cargo pants, who has the Midas touch but the articulacy of a Japanese tourist (no offence). The principle of selling a car given by Arthur Hailey in wheels applies to finance too – looks matter. That is an amportant part of the package you sell and believe me, the wrapping paper is as important as the gift inside. I don’t despise this, in fact I was fascinated the day I wore formals. Sort of a boys to men transition. But the formals have formalized my life too. Fixed hours, routine life. I’m living the life of millions of others, with not an ounce of anything special. On a logical level , I understand it all. The demand, the supply. The principle and the practicality.
But I have been wired differently. Someday when I no longer need this, I shall break free. I have promised me that I shall not fall for the vicious charm of the corporate serpent, and I hope to live up to myself.
The following set of events happened in the last week of April. Any resemblance to a prof, living or (godwilling) dead is purely intentional as the account is true. The author’s love for exaggeration and hyperbole is evident in the writings but let not that take anything away from the base issue of the whims and fancies of the species called profs in IITB for whom power comes free of responsibility. I cannot promise that it will be interesting as these are the ramblings of a harassed individual. So read on at your own peril. You have been sufficiently warned.
Long long time ago, I still remember.. there was a kid. Let’s call him A. A had this weird sense of honesty and morality and believed in the general goodness of people. And that people were reasonable and were willing to help you out if they believed that you were genuinely in a soup (the ignorant old bastard!)
So one fine day, after three straight night outs for his end semester exams, he is getting prepared for his next paper. A friend buzzes and inquires why he did not appear for the paper that was held in the morning. A is horrified, petrified, stupefied. He realizes that he has messed up the timings of his paper (the utterly stupid moronic old rat’s ass). His nightmare has come true and he can’t just wake up out of this one. Panic stricken, he runs around like a headless chicken. Friends implore him to go get a fake medical certificate to bail himself out of the quagmire. He listens to his friends, M and D though, who like him also believe in the general goodness of human beings and the sanctity of the system. He runs to the dept. but everything is closed and there is no way to reach the professor. Heart thumping, he comes back and waits for the next day when his woes will be washed away in the soothing kindness of the professor who will definitely overlook his one indiscretion and give him a second chance. Yeah, he doesn’t see why not. After all, the world is all hunky dory and everything is just fine.
So A has a maths paper today for which he has studied all night, though in hysterics and fits over his fate the next day. He reaches the department but the prof is missing and nobody knows his whereabouts. He begs and grovels to the lab staff to give him his number and call him up. The prof doesn’t listen to a word he says and sends him to the HoD to cover his ass. Okay, i deserve this, not an issue. A writes a long letter the the HoD explaining the situation to him. The HoD takes one look and the worthless piece of junk written on the paper (i.e. his plight) and sends him back to the prof telling him he has no say in the matter. The prof sees the letter and sends A back to the HoD telling him to get the “fuck off” the prof conveyed to him in writing on the letter. Such innocent games these profs play among each other, sending kids back and forth across 3 floors, when they know the kid has an exam today. So cute! no?
Well, the HoD then sends the kid across to his Faculty Advisor, the highly dreaded ancient prof that your mom told you about. A goes in fearing the worst but is pleasantly surprised. The FacAd listens to him, laughs, spends 15 minutes telling him what a worthless piece of shit he is and signs the letter. A is delighted, but later in the story he did realize that the FacAd did so because he knew his signature didn’t hold zilch in the scheme of things. A goes back to HoD, HoD doesn’t believe the kid is alive after the encounter with the FacAdder and goes to his office to enquire about his well being. They spend an hour laughing at the poor bastards who bring them little slips of paper with a hope that they’ll solve their problems while A stands outside, sweating. HoD sends him back to the prof who sends him to the Dean proclaiming the matter is out of his hands but in a tone which suggests, “Oh you poor naive devil! I can do everything. I just don’t want to, you worthless piece of shit!” The letter goes to the Dean, it’s 2 pm and A has a paper to give which he royally screws up as expected. The day ends with him, weary, traveling 10 km to cancel a ticket for the same day. His dad is waiting for him at his sister’s place. But that is another story.
After concoting an elaborate story to his Dad explaining why he could not come that day (more on that later), he reaches the Dean AP’s office with a renewed hope. Prof B is renowned to be the most reasonable Dean in the history of IITB and A is sure if anyone will give him a patient ear, it’s B. He catches B near the shack and makes his sincere appeal with all the heartfelt humility he could muster. B gives him an analogy – “If you miss your first day of joining because you messed up the date, you lose the job. it’s that simple” and A’s heart sinks. The Dean asks him to come to his office after a while and A waits. Although deep inside, A knows that no one will go against the instructor prof to help out this insignificant species called student and all this is an exercise in futility, a facade which has to be upheld to oil the system, feed it’s hungry stomach with protocol.
The Dean comes in, reads his application, and as expected, signs it with the words “On the discretion of the prof” which don’t mean shit. No worries, this was expected. A doesn’t hold anything against the Dean. He is a good guy and A isn’t his relative. A is tossed back to the prof, who, running out of people to send A to get signs from, bares his fangs. Blames A for making a mockery of the system and taking the insti out for a ride. Doesn’t listen to the fact that the excuse given by A for missing the exam is so pathetic it has to be true. The ease with which pink slips can be acquired doesn’t hold currency with him and honesty, can go fuck itself; A doesn’t have a piece of paper which will cover the Prof’s ass and absolve him of all crimes. Prof now comes up with new and innovative ways of torture: tells A to get the class representative. He doesn’t want to see A’s dirty, lying face. A gets hold of the CR who comes and goes. NO effect, obviously. Prof, not finished with A, asks him to get the Department Academic mentor Head. A doesn’t even know who that is. But then this whole thing has been about getting to know the machinations of acads at IIT bombay. He get hold of the guy, but the prof has gone home for the day. The plot thickens. A lives to die another day. But seeds of malice have started germinating. A rues the fact that he didn’t get a pink slip. He starts doubting the general goodness of people. A cynic in the making.
abcderian
