Avani Avittam in America

I was jolted out of my bed this morning by my roomie who was arrayed in white ceremonial robes and whose forehead was smeared with ashes. "It is Avani Avittam (day of the thread-changing ceremony of Brahmins) today," he religiously intoned in my ear. I mumbled, still half asleep, that I had just changed my thread a couple of days back since my earlier thread had snapped while using it to scratch my back. But he wouldn't lend me a ear; he would brook no excuse. The thread had to be changed at the prescribed auspicious hour and that was it.

That was how all of us sat down at 11:30 AM, makeshift veshtis hurriedly draped over jeans and porcelain cups supplanting the traditional vessels. The ad hoc arrangement served fine until two chaps each took out a pamphlet -- one authored in Kannada and the other in Tamil. The next half hour was spent arguing over the authenticity and the relevance of each of them to the Iyer and Iyengar factions. I unreservedly expressed my satisfaction about the way the discussion proceeded. I knew to read neither languages.

We waded through many sesquipedalian tongue-twisting litanies and sprinkled half a litre of water to the carpets before one of them was indignant in his realisation of the fact that the chant was for a different occasion. None of us felt like tolerating his indignation. Several tirades past, we chose to amicably settle, for the moment, that the shloka was indeed for a different purpose: removing the sacred thread! One of them suddenly beamed a beam that speaks of a newly-reacquired wisdom. He said he felt sure that it was not such a Herculean ordeal after all. He had felt sure all along. And now he was able to remember the reason for his cocksureness. He then crooned a couplet and asserted that that was the only mantra that was to be repeated 108 times. Instantly he was bathed in water that flew out of the porcelain cups. Nobody, atheist or otherwise, likes to be instructed the Gayathri Mantra like he's forgotten it.

It was at this point that one of my friends proceeded to do what he thought was the least offensive to the Gods. He instantly slung the new poonal (the sacred thread) over his body, removed the old thread, flung it into the dustbin and walked out proclaiming that his thread-changing was complete. I followed suit.

- posted by Dileepan @ 1:32:00 pm

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A Redemption

My Professor told me this morning that he is offering me a TAship. Essentially, to me it means that I can live without sneaking my hand into my father's wallet. I cannot tell you what a relief this news is, coming as late as it did. I was on the proverbial horns of dilemma over my choice between Texas A&M University and the University of Minnesota (before, eventually, the latter preponderated). As if to compound my agony, a mail that dropped into my inbox on the day before my departure to Minneapolis was from a Professor in TAMU who asked me to contact him if I was still interested in working under him. I wrote the following post then, venting out some steam, and then decided I will not post it. The vehemence in the post is interesting ;) . The post:


I received a mail last night from a TAMU professor who said he was just back from a vacation and asked me to get back to him if I was still interested in working under him! I replied, "Thanks, but no thanks! You are way too ahead of time. Had you mailed me five days later, I would have been in Minnesota, just yards away. I would have so readily dropped by your place and we could have had spaghetti for dinner." Up his!

Life tells me: You silly heap of a dummy! You had better not nurse pretenses of being a deep rational thinker and take purportedly-wise screwed up decisions. Your upper story has long been shifted to the backside of your basement and has ever since been empty. You leave the thinking to the others, shut up and restrict yourself to your queasy expressionist miseries and commiserations!

University of Minnesota, which I chose over TAMU at the eleventh hour after tearing all my hair out and boggling my mind, now welcomes me. To say nothing of my money.

- posted by Dileepan @ 12:13:00 pm

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My Mother's Son

I rarely doubted myself on the matter. In fact, I never did. I am, as a rule, a self-effacing and modest person. (You can confirm that with everyone who wrote in my autograph book.) But on this particular matter, I have always been at my supreme confident best. Well, I had never stuck in my finger in this particular pie, so to speak. But the forces of nature often seemed to come and whisper in my ear while sleeping -- while I was sleeping, of course -- that I was the best, potentially. I just had to shed my languor and settle down to business. My olfactory and dextrous hands would take care of the rest. I seldom doubted myself on the matter that I could be a better cook than my mother. I often told my mother that she had no idea of what she was doing. She unfailingly took offense.

The other day, I tried my hand at cooking. Well, 'my hands were almost tried' would be a more apposite description. And almost hung. I took to cooking with a sense of zest and the bravura of a buccaneer who goes out into stormy seas. I set out to make rasam. One of my friends, an expert within the confines of our apartment, reeled away the list of ingredients that would make a good rasam. I decided that potato fry would be a better option for a neophyte. However talented one may be, it was still better to start slowly and handle things with aplomb later. The first potato that I dropped in the frying pan to fry -- I mean, for the potato to fry -- remained adamant on the issue of following Archimedes principle. I mean, I don't nurse any grouse against Archimedes; it is alright for the potato to displace an equal volume of oil. But to splash the oil right on me as if organising a mutiny against getting fried -- I still think of the potato as churlish and rude.

The dough for chappatis seemed to invite me for a message and a cook. I am never the one to decline an invitation. The first chappati made me think I would make a good cartographer. It was an exact replica of Australia! The second one was a little better; it came out elliptical. After replicating India, America and several other countries I was finally able to replicate the shape of the world that had them all! All the world was mine. And I was on cloud nine! My heart leapt up as I beheld. I decided to see that as well. The next chappati that came out was much in the shape of my heart -- large, light and ecstatic. I was overjoyed. Until the gluttonous dandy next to me waited diligently for it to be cooked, and broke the heart -- rending it into two -- and gobbled it in contentment. Heart-rending experiences. My nose was burnt -- I told you what I thought of the oil -- and my heart, rended. And I decided I could do with some sleep. And do a good job of it.

I seldom doubt myself; and that is, these days, when I think I can cook better than my mother.

- posted by Dileepan @ 5:08:00 pm

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Westward Bound

These are the last words, in a long time, to be strung up from the confines of my room which has 'lived' me for the past seventeen years. Am off to Minneapolis to attend the University of Minnesota. Hope to be able to blog away some musings from Minneapolis.

The Jack ;)

- posted by Dileepan @ 7:05:00 am

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Beyond the Best Four Years -- BITS, Pilani revisited

Petrichor.

The first droplets of evening rain fell into the summer, mitigating the Pilani heat, settling the dust and griming it into the narrow jagged roads. Women pulled up the pallus of their sarees to wear hoods and ran for shelter, their jolly shouts of feigned helplessness punctuated with silent murmurs of prayer to the Rain God for their children. And larger droplets of August rain fell in the new semester. Providing respite from the scourge of the Pilani heat. Washing away the present into the past. Cleansing away some memories; leaving behind some. Ushering the newer lot in a cordial yet cooling welcome. Heralding a new season.

The rains fell.

The smell of the earth that saddled the infant droplets of rain suffused in me and transported me to the same place four years back, when I had arrived in BITS as a freshman, escorted by my parents. “Does life come in a full circle?” I pondered, “Or does one simply draw non-existent parallels to satiate oneself with pleasant auguries (the sedative tinge of pleasantness infused by retrospective thought)?” It had rained on the same date four years back. Yes. I was pretty sure of it. My parents had left for Chennai the next day, leaving me to embark on my BITSian life. And now, four years later, it was raining. Was this some kind of consummation of my tryst with BITS? Or, was it a mere coincidence? I did not know.

2004C6PS272.

The latest addition to my mailing list. The reason I was braving the heat and rains of Pilani, though I had graduated a year ago. The reason I withstood the four-day siege of my benumbed limbs in trains that smelt like Auswitch. My first School-Ju (school junior), whom I never got to see during my BITSian life. My brother. He was starting a new life, apparently, away from the comforts of home. My mother told me peremptorily and my father seconded, that it was my responsibility too to help him get settled without hitches. And hence I set my eyes on BITS, Pilani once more. And my heart.

Changes. I expectantly looked for changes.

The dilapidated looking Bhawans; the dusty C-Lawns where junta played cricket and more cricket; the Gym-G where weeding is always long due when it is not BOSM; the Audi where everything happened – from lectures to EDC plays to Music nights (in short, where BITS happened); the clock tower standing like Atlas, fighting off his breasts, rolling rain-clouds that often tried to cloak his towering self; the chowki outside the Audi who, apart from posing riddles to people sitting outside the Audi, was a bit of conundrum himself; the rediwallahs and their redis which offered sam-chaat, shikanji and more sam-chaat (to say nothing of the yarns about BITS that they spun); the Goddess Saraswati who played for years together the same note in her veena; the old-man who oscillated wildly while striking the gong in the Hanuman temple bhajans, repeatedly almost falling down and picking himself with the momentum of the sway; ANC; C’not; insti; I surveyed all of them through lenses tinted with nostalgia, evaluating a mental contrast with the greyscaled images of the flashback. These still remain the way I had left them. Unaffected by change.

The new Library is an imposing magnificent edifice. The walls are tastefully decorated with panels of oil-paintings, some of them depicting mythological scenes. Potted plants and some topiary work garnish the centre of the huge building. The books are also catalogued better, there being halls dedicated for every section. Aesthetically wondrous. It gives me the excuse to remark self-righteously: had this Library been during my time, I would have virtually moved into it; and my CG would have never plummeted the way it did!

BITS has been attacked by the major players in cellular service providing. OASIS has been bought by Airtel. And predictably, Hutch has also ventured into the desert. Every freshman has a mobile phone on him. SMSes fly every five minutes from parent to ward and from fresher to fresher. The wing is alerted if a senior is on the prowl. The seniors, being the experienced campaigners that they are, have learnt to use the mobile to their advantage too. When a senior meets a fresher, he asks only for his mobile number, and not his intro in the public. The mobile is then effectively used to summon the juniors when the coast is clear of wardens and authorities! Lifestyles have digressed from the time when we juniors trudged to C’not to make phone calls to home – the Bhawan phones were perpetually out of order – and were promptly ambushed by seniors.

Some things have changed.

I tagged along my brother for an unusual constitutional on the familiar roads that cut each other at right angles, much like those of Mohenjodaro and Harappa and other early civilizations whose salient features the third standard History book scrupulously detailed. Naagarji waved at me and told me that I had put on a little weight; I told him I missed his sam-chaats for the past six months. Munnaji said in his unique reticently solicitous manner, “Jaate waqt milke jaana.” I nodded, resolving to myself for those three seconds that, unlike the last time, I would see him and leave. The inimitable dosa-maker in ANC (who, I must say, dealt out truly inimitable elliptical dosas!) indulged in some rather expressive bonhomie after which he complained that he had not received last year’s BOSM t-shirt yet. I told him I will see to it that he gets it this time! After which I proceeded to tell him I graduated this June. He bit his tongue and instantly assured me that he knew it all the while and was merely engaging himself in friendly banter. The rickshawwallahs enquired concernedly whether I will be playing this BOSM as well; I told them I had passed out. They then exhorted me to come to BITS representing some Outsti team and participate in this year’s BOSM. I assured them I would try my best. They all – each one of them – avowed, like they do to every parent year after year, that they would take good care of my brother. “Aap fikr mat kijiye; hum iska achcha khayal rakhenge.” The glib words of customary assurance were heartening relief at the moment.

The first-yearites slunk away after stealing a surreptitious askance at my brother; they later came back to me and asked me to which discipline I had been admitted. I told them that my brother was admitted to Infosys! Upon which they proceeded to ask me if he was my own brother. I clarified that, in India, it is not yet custom to lease out brothers; it will take some more time for us Indians to embrace the custom. When your kid brother stands towering half a foot over you at six feet two, it is sometimes prudence for both of you to remain seated. I regretted not having taken one of those detestable ill-fitting ‘BITS, Pilani’ T-shirts of mine.

BITS, Pilani made me feel younger. May be by a year, merely. But younger, definitely. One last time, I gambolled along the road to Gym-G on which I paraded during BOSM; I saw sportsmen arrayed in the colours of their college who were all-importantly striding to the grounds, feeling summoned by the spirit of their college. And I plodded on the road from the insti to Budh where I trudged back, despondent, after screwing up my CDC tests; people were walking to the mess, animatedly discussing solutions and engrossed in the calculation of their marks and prospective grades. And I strolled on the road to C’not at night; girls were cycling in groups ringing their bells wildly and belling at boys who had ganged up blocking their road and were boisterously parading along. Saraswati still smiled at me the same smile she had four years back when I sat in the steps of the temple, staring into the gloaming. And I saw, once again, the hallowed Gandhi Bhawan, which stood witness to its grandest Bhawan’s night, Nihil Ultra 2k++, which, I had thought then, was the grandest celebration of human camaraderie – an overflowing goblet of adrenaline and human spirit; there they were dancing away to night fame and the lilting music was reverberating in every Gandhiite’s ear long after.

I wanted to leave.

The place had been etched to remain a part of me. I sojourned in my brother’s room the H-wing for one night; my brother’s roomie hadn’t arrived.

The night seemed to be echoing Thoppul’s baritone bellows of four years ago, from room number 316 – he was the ten-pointer, the stud of the wing. In 318, Bul and Chaps – new roomies – were breaking ice, parleying in English like a caring boy and bashful dame trying to court each other and trying, at the same time, not to drop the slightest hint of their intentions. Gomes was raucously signing his class notes, before a test, to the tune of the latest Bollywood hit song. His roomie, Sucha, was fuming under his breath. We were the Godfathers of the H-wing. I had felt glad to be in the wing that I was as a first-yearite; my wing.

But, why did I want to leave?

The stately buildings stood spartanly. The trees rustled kindly. The roads led on, ever straight. The place remained. Sans the people. Suddenly there was none to share my memories. I walked in reality, alone. And memories remained, well, memories. Restricted to metaphors. What is a king without a kingdom, a captain without a team, a garden without flowers, art without patrons? What is a place without people? I felt speared with the ignominy of having to play witness to the memories of a fraternity. Alone…

… “Guys, when is the registration?” the new first-yearites quavered in excitement.

I woke up, in my brother’s room.

“Tomorrow!”

A new morrow was ushering itself in.

- posted by Dileepan @ 12:09:00 am

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