Kid.

“Work ex hai? Kaunse year ka pass-out hai? 2017? Baccha hai!”

One of the best and worst things about an MBA program is that keeps you with people elder to you, or basically, with engineers. Best because I have always turned to these people when I have needed feedback. Worst because I have always received feedback (read: judgements) when I have not wanted it. Very conveniently I was labelled a kid in the first few days of my MBA life and that hasn’t changed even after 400 days. Yes, it was partly because of the lack of facial hair and my happy-go-lucky attitude. Being mirthful was equated to being a kid, which only told me one thing that work experience does make people sad. And so, I was the 23 year old, worried about soon approaching hair loss, and yet a kid now.

Still, why am I making this a conundrum? People are being called obese, skinny, dark, (illegal) immigrant around the world. Among these labels, ‘kid’ does no harm. The problem was not so much in being called so, but in being perceived so for every activity, decision or reaction. 100 cases of being mature, but one moment where I would react, would be when the dialog will follow, “Baccha jaise karta hai!” The problem was that I was denied the opportunity to lead a thing close to my hear because I was just a kid. Oh, the irony? People of this committee were going to elect the leader and yet I was asked before my nomination went in, “Will 26 year olds accept you?” Who’ll drive this common sense that even if they won’t, I am being voted for because majority of the people do accept me! The problem also was that this label was only one way because the moment any of these elder people were made to realize of their age, it used to piss them off. Eureka! The problem was the age gap, not the age. For once, this age gap turned into a communication gap but I soon came out of it.

I struggled changing the way people saw me but I soon realized I was working on the wrong end. It was easier to change how I felt about it. I thought being a kid, maybe, allows me more freedom to act and react. Afterall, kids cannot be controlled so easily. So, I now moved like a free bird, flying to random places, poking my beak anywhere and shitting on people without thinking. Also, I never had the Fear of Missing Out, which I think should be the key metric for maturity in a business school. One time, we attended a lecture by brand manager at Mondelez India who read Oreo’s brand personality from her slides, “Oreo is not childish. Oreo is child-like.” I found validation. Later, as part of one of the committees, we had to decide on a pseudo name for ourselves. I called myself Bira. I thought I cannot be blamed for being the person people want to become and only alcohol helps them then.

I forgot to tell you that I wasn’t alone in being labelled so. There were other Facchas (Fresher + Baccha) too but their label got sided by virtue of their transient loyalties towards their friend groups. I had freelancing experience for an year before joining MBA studies but I was still a part of this Faccha cohort. I was part of this list for an year and suddenly I was drawn out, unfortunately.

Why unfortunate? It was that time of our MBA life when companies visited our campus for internship opportunities. Clearly, some companies preferred freshers more, which I was very roughly aware of. Shortlists were rolled out before the process started and suddenly, all those freshers were mentioned except for me. It was maybe because of my 12 month experience in freelancing that I mentioned in every form. It shook me. The other companies which shortlisted me had a bias for work experience and thus I was way behind in their priority lists again. Being called a kid for an year and not being other kids when it most mattered felt like betrayal. I had not applied for many companies either because I was confident about where I wanted my career to head. But for people, the kid had erred, again.

Shortlists did make me tense. But, I was confident about my choice of companies. I was confident of the risk I had taken, excited about the reward but also aware of the loss that it could mean getting something inferior compared to others. Yet, people walked up to me and kept on reminding me of my ‘mistake’ of not applying to more companies. I was reminded about it even when I had just come out of the interview room realizing that the company has already selected its best candidates and doesn’t need to scan me anymore. How can someone be blamed for being focussed? For others, I was being choosy. People said, “How will you even have interviews? You have not applied only!” It made me anxious. As an alternative, I could have applied and later not be serious in group discussions or interviews. Surely! But that would have meant denying someone else of the opportunity I never wanted in the first place. It would have meant torturing yourself with the guilt of being so close to getting hired by the big heavyweights and yet passing that offer. It can still be called a reckless decision but one cannot keep drilling that in my head while everybody around me is getting placed. My sleep cycle reduced to an hour. Anxiety was real.

People who called me a kid did not realize that I am young. I am not old enough to take this pressure. I believe you’re never old enough for that. Just when this kid was about to give up, he was listening to ‘Behti Hawa sa tha woh’ from 3 idiots just for these lines, “Humko toh raahe thi chalaati, woh khud apni raah banaata, girta sambhalta masti mei chalta tha woh! Humko kal ki fikar sataati, woh bass aaj ka jashn manaata, harr lamhe ko khul ke jeeta tha woh” Lyrics that I have always wanted people to use when they remember me. Because I celebrate each day, lead a happy-go-lucky life, and don’t worry much for what might happen tomorrow, I cannot be called a kid. Because I have decided my own route to success and I have fallen few times, I cannot be blamed for my choices. I got my internship opportunity very soon after I was hearing this. Just the kind of confidence I needed, maybe.

I don’t hate my batch for this. I can proudly say that I couldn’t have found a more virtuous institute than SPJIMR. Thus, I have loved my batchmates much more than I have disliked them on some days in these 400+ days I have spent here. This is more of a complain than a hate speech, a disclaimer I should have put at the start. Kids complain alot, don’t they. Irony is that I complain the most here to one of these elder people only. Not that she doesn’t call me a kid!

 

 

peace or silence?

“sannaata hai ya shanti, aap hi batao Baabu.”

Baabu,
while writing this letter to you, i realize two things: one, which gives me peace, that i don’t even need to write this because i know we connect beyond any tangible evidence. two, which makes me silent, that you will not be reading this. but i heard somewhere that peace will never come to us, if we don’t try to achieve it and struggle through silence. i am writing to you with all things that i have been silent about, hoping to find peace. i am confused with everything, Baabu. i don’t know whether i have made peace with the face that you are gone. i don’t know whether i can silence the cry within my heart which craves for your company. today, two years after you’ve left, i still remember how i craved for your touch those six hours till i was told that we’ve given peace to your soul at the cremation site. i refuse to believe that. how can you be at peace when we arent? you were always the one who slept only when you knew that all of us are at peace, all of us are okay.

i am still sitting in the same red t-shirt, which i was wearing that day, which gives me the peace and happiness of your touch. there’s a red pen drive in your room which on finding silence, goes on to resonate our last conversation.
“Baabu, pen drive hai?”
“le jao. parr phir laake nai deta hai tumlog.”
i brought back the pen drive, Baabu. if only it was as simple for you to bring yourself back? while many things haven’t changed, many things have and you would be glad to know them. in these two years, 750+ days, rarely have i not arranged my slippers properly, the way you used to tell me to. rarely have i said no to taking dal in my plate while having lunch. yes, i have fought with vishakha but i have loved her more than ever and always tried giving her the love i wanted to give you. although, the majority of that love has been rendered to maa who i want to complain about also.
when she misses you alot, she never shares with us the reason she is crying, however much it might be evident. i have to complain about this, the same way as she used to complain about you eating rajnigandha. i miss our code words for all the things that you stealthily used to eat and i made it possible for you. i always had to choose between your health and your desire. my mind never used to be silent, being confused between whether to help you or be strict, but in my heart i was happy to let you have your peace of fulfilling your wishes.

more than complaining about maa, i want to tell you that while i might not have completely met my promises, she has been there as she promised to be. she told me, “hum Baabu bhi hai. hum maa bhi hai” and not even an ounce of that has proven to be false. when she laughs or smiles, that is when i am actually at peace. one time, i love being silent, is when she sings her prayers in the evening and i stay silent in whichever corner of the house i might be to let her voice calm my mind. and she is one of the most modern grandmothers i have seen, one who uses whatsapp, volunteers to sing sonu song for a video on social media, and i am not sure if anyone in our family now solves sudoku faster than her. if anytime i have not missed you, it is when i have had the love of maa. if anytime i have missed you the most, it is when i have had the love of maa knowing how difficult it would be for her.

i remember how you used to act getting scared because you claimed seeing a skeleton, while i just came out of bath, the cheekiest way i have been told that i am that thin. i still come inside your room and dress in front of the mirror the same way. to not have you do that again makes me silent. to see your frame and your smiling face behind me in the mirror in those five minutes of dressing up, gives me peace.

i remember editing your paperwork and letters and how particular you were about every word, sentence and spacing which i have not done here. to not capitalize any letter might show you the chaos in my mind which does not let me come near to peace. i just know that everytime i write Baabu, i capitalize it because that is the way we address god. and everytime i speak, think or write that, i pause for you to reply with, “beta” but only silence follows.

mere toh bhagwaan aap hi ho Baabu,
sanaata hai ya shaanti, ab aap hi batao.

Bass aap saath rehna, sannaata ho ya shanti. 

Classroom. Chapter #6

Its been 2 months since my 3 year under-graduation got over. By virtue of no gap years, its only been that many years since I left school only to realize that I can’t get over it. By virtue of this gap year, I have the time to pen it down.

‘Gap year’ is an interesting concept and shows the obsession of the society with the fact that learning and education can only be availed formally. The other interesting concept, one which has given me some of the best memories from school, is that of a House system. A few days ago, the world celebrated 20 years of Harry Potter by showing their loyalty towards their favourite among Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Gryffindor or Slytherin while it struck me how important is this system for every school-going student.

The sports teacher, Ahluwalia Ma’am, entered on our first day of school and read out our House names from a register. Little did we know then that these freedom fighter names that we’ve been attached to, were going to be one of the most special things of our school life. All we did then was laughed on the little pun in her surname, Aloo-walia, with all due respect to her. We had four houses in junior school named as Nehru (Red), Tagore (Blue), Gandhi (White), and Netaji (Green). For once, houses only meant that on two particular days in the week, I had to wear white by virtue of me being Gandhi house. Back home, Mummy wasn’t too happy with the idea of me being in the same. Any other house would have meant low maintenance of the P.T. T-Shirt and as a child, I was an un-named endorser of  ‘Daag Ache Hai.’ But, it did not take much time for us to become patrons of our houses. The first Run-Touch-Run Back-Tag was where it all started. Four rows of four colours were aligned for the whistle to blow and the race to start. Winning the race might have been the best thing to have happened. But losing the race made me realize that the next time I am running, Netaji house needs to be defeated. Loyalties got etched when Sports Day happened which shouldn’t have been the case. We were too young to realize that in the name of discipline points for the house, we were not being allowed to act notoriously. I cannot just do away with Sports Day without mentioning Free Milo which we tried to sneak out twice. Apart from all the strategies behind doing so, our focus never shifted from the ticking scoreboard. Seeing the senior classes race, we realized that this loyalty is no where near to ending. At Rabindra Sarobar Stadium, I found a home (Or, house?!) inside my home, Birla High School.

Our major chunk of activities like public speaking and music started in the third standard. And so, the thirst to keep contributing for Gandhi House kept growing. There were charts pinned to soft-boards where we got red stars for our houses if we performed well and black stars if we misbehaved. Of course, I was competitive enough to ensure the net red stars (Red Stars – Black Stars) were always the most in class but that isn’t what I loved the most. The best part was when the teacher finally decided to negatively mark a student and asked someone to volunteer draw the black stars on the charts. Out came running the representatives from the other three houses opening their shoes, climbing the chairs and drawing the respective stars. The other good thing because of this was that Back Benchers felt a sense of employment.

Pro Kabaddi League happened much later. Our inter-house Kabbadi competitions were held in junior school, and we were boastful enough to call ourselves Pros. In classes IV and V we were made vice-captains and captains of our respective houses, and I had the opportunity to serve my house in both these positions. More than being proud of the investiture ceremony, I was ecstatic about the fact that we got to move out of our classes while the classes were on. Just when junior school was ending, one of my racing partners died while on his vacation. We only spoke before races on Sports Day. It felt like losing a very important family member. A family called Gandhi House.

Enter senior school. Now there were six houses which only meant that we recognize two more freedom fighters – Shivaji and Pratap. Ashoke came in for Nehru. (Details mentioned to not hurt Blue house students) We were told that we’ll all be shuffled into new houses. I wanted to don a different colour. I wished I was in the same house as my best friend’s. I missed the sorting hat who I could tell my wishes to. Ashoke went to the first roll number, Gandhi to the next, and it carried on. I was Roll No. 10. Number System was on my side, until there was a twist in the tale that I was in Gandhi House again. I was sad at that moment, but when I see it now I am proud I belonged to the same house for 12 years whereas my mother never got an opportunity to feel good about the same. If we really had a sorting hat, we would have told it to not sort us into any house, only because we had to wear the house badges on days we had Assembly, or otherwise we’ll be detained. It isnt so simple as it may seem. House badges were never in place and why would it be? We were growing teenagers taking pressure of the larger phenomenons in the world and all the schools expects us to care about is a small badge? But in that moment before Assembly started, the largest phenomenon was some 10-20 students running around the whole school for a badge. Any badge, of course. Who would remember our house? Some volunteers did. I was one of those volunteers. *Cinematic Pause*

In senior school, we had to decorate our soft-boards when it was assigned for a particular house, and we were marked on the same. We got this opportunity twice a year and all the 6 times till class eight I did it with all my might and with all my free-riding friends. Senior School made it for certain that in the name of houses we have been exploited. We have been asked to be disciplined, to be prim and proper, to stand in rows properly, to participate in cleanliness drives and to decorate soft-boards too. Good habits are these, but still we have been exploited.

The better opportunities included Debates, Elocutions, Quizzes, etc. Senior school upped the ante with all such competitions. With rising intensity, the rewards were also huge. Two of the most special rewards were – one, being the commander for my house at Annual Sports March Past and two, being judged the best house for the year and getting on the stage as one of the representatives to receive that award. There were pitfalls too. For a house that I had been a been a part for 11 years then, did not elect me as their captain in Class 11 which basically made up for the heart-break in this 12 year affair with my love. My love – Gandhi House.

A home. A family. A love. Being a part of a house introduced me to ways of becoming a true patriot. It gave us an identity as a group which was always guided with one purpose – to get our houses above the rest. Whenever I have visited school in these three years, I have never missed visiting the soft-board in the fountain area which shows the grand points tally of all the houses. I still calculate the points to see if my house, Gandhi house, is winning. Thank you Gandhi House. Thank you Birla High School.