Friday, September 30, 2016

An exercise in self reflection

I recently shifted my research focus to MBA colleges and applications. They literally sell their degree programmes online. You get statistics for placements, industries, location, diversity and much more. Which is fair enough since an MBA is probably the biggest investment you make on yourself and you are entitled to know what the returns would be like.

All the colleges say you have an impressive profile and strong potential to succeed in their MBA programme if you happen to mail them your CV for a preliminary evaluation. I strongly believe that atleast some of them are lying, if not all. Anyways, I have made a list of 10 schools where I would apply. I started going through the essay questions the applicant has to answer during the application process. Most of them beat around the bush to ask the same questions, some are direct. The motive of these essay questions, as they say in videos on their website, is to allow the applicant to self relfect and truly find out who they are and put it in 500 words. This part probably is the most absurd. I am 25 years old and have spent a lot of time to self reflect and I've never come to any decent conclusion. The indecent ones won't get me an admission to tier-1 business schools. I tried to self reflect yesterday while eating an apple. I realised that I don't enjoy eating an apple anymore like I did when I was ten years younger. The only reason I eat fruit anymore is to stay healthy, I guess I can't write that on my application either because I am not really sure how I turned into someone who doesn't like fruits anymore. I tried self reflecting in office, trying to understand why my brain feels that it wants to leave this place, it is so comfortable here. Isn't that what we really want, to stay comfortable and happy if possible?

The only reason I am applying for an MBA is because I am tired of staying in my comfort zone. I don't know if it is coming from the outside world or from the depths of my chemically unstable subconscious. I am a socially awkward person, a fact that I accepted when I ended my teenage years. I feel comfortable if I don't have to make small talk with people I run into occasionally and really bear no significance on my life. But since my brain was bothering me to change, I decided to go against my instincts when I went for my first french class. But the thought of going to a new place and talking to strangers was so overwhelming that I decided against it while riding towards the class. So I went there, sat in the corner seat, spoke only when I was asked a question or had an academically related doubt.

And the worst part is, not thinking about how to talk to someone new and being socially awkward enables me to stay happy.

Only God or PM Modi can help me in filling those applications succesfully.

Saturday, June 25, 2016

Marine Drive Blues

I dont know why blue is related to gloomy. I feel blue when I am happy. I feel blue today. Why? The first reason would be that it's a working day and I didn't go to office. The second is because I am in marine drive. Not the real one, the fake one in Cochin. The real marine drive has hosted many good memories for me, it's a place where you can get lost into the crowd just walking around or just sit and stare at the constant gushing waves smashing against funny shaped concrete blocks or just do anything you want, no one will give a tiny rat's ass, you can be whatever you want. The fake marine drive although lacking such qualities and also the scenic beauty is a good enough substitute if you haven't been to the real one for a year. Scenic beauty has never stirred my senses anyways. The marine drive in Cochin is a bit odd, as in it is not continuous, you have to enter through a shopping complex and exit after about 500 meters through a shopping complex again and enter through a labyrinth of tea-snacks shops for the remaining part of it. I had a lot of time to kill so I just walked through the entire length twice. I didn't have anyone to strike a conversation with, so I started observing. Observing the people all around, trying to note the similarities and the differences. Based on this elaborate and time consuming endeavor, I could divide the people into six basic types:

The first type, who were trying to hide the most, but were still the most conspicuous, were the young couples. The couples themselves can be further subdivided into three types. The primary and the most prevalent identities in such locations. These are very shy looking, holding hands, even if they are not facing each other. Even when they do face each other, they whisper so that anyone nearby can not eavesdrop. These are young couples, mostly teenagers, but they all look beautiful, because people in love look beautiful or beautiful people fall in love, either one of them has to be true. 

Then there are the couples with a child. They look similar too. They typically include either the male or female looking after their child and the other one busy on his or her cellphone. There is nothing much to decipher about them, they are just going through this phase of life.
Now you may wonder, as I did, where do the children come from? Holding hands surely doesn't do the trick. The answer probably is that they come from the smart couples. Smart enough to know that love is more than just holding hands. But not smart enough to realise what their actions could lead to!

The third type are the old couples, who have had enough time to realise that all these phases are pointless and are just happy that they are still healthy enough to stroll around or sit without any support.

I also encountered numerous gangs of pretty loud teenagers. It may sound like I am exaggerating, but 
I really saw at least four similar groups. These groups had five dudes, all with the same hairstyle and skinny jeans, and two girls. One of the girls was only interested in one guy and the other one just went blabbering about. Of course there is one cool guy who doesn't give a fuck and is looking in a direction no one else knew existed. The hairstyle part seriously bothers me, although I am not old enough, but I think the generation gap has become apparent  already. They all have the same freaking hairstyle, the hyperbolated virat kohli look.

Next is the group of girls. Now by group I imply two. It is very difficult to find a group of girls with more than two girls in it. Again something I can't comprehend. These girls, although I am not objectifying, has one pretty girl and the other one not so pretty and they are always showing something to each other on their cellphones or taking selfies with a pout.

The last type are the group single guys, mostly five to six in quantity. They too have the virat kohli look and the skinny jeans that look so uncomfortable you wonder how they manage to sit without squishing things. They just stare at the group of girls and the girls in other groups.

The list is not exhaustive, you will also encounter group of adult men in lungis judging everyone else and the occasional husbands who according to their wife are at work but sit looking at the waters instead.

Who am I? I probably belong to the group of those single guys, but since I am alone, I stand free and I judge the others. I don't share their hairstyle though.

Ciao (the last time I spelled it wrong).

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

Another piece of crap

I am 25 and I feel as old as I have never felt before.

I still am puzzled by the same questions what is it that I am doing, what makes me happy, why it makes me happy. I know I am perhaps boring the person who had the free time to open this link. But this is what bothers me, day in, day out. I had my interview today for promotion to higher grade, an interview in which the interviewers decide based on a 20 minute interview, if you are good enough to be promoted to the next grade for the work that you have carried out in the past 4! years!. The concept is perplexing, but it depends on a lot of factors though, mainly on the amount of leaves you have consumed in the review period, the recommendation from the people whom you are reporting to, but the review per se is a faux pas. The type/difficulty of the questions asked to you are inversely proportional to the amount of praise your appraisal carries.

Anyway, due to my amiable behaviour in office and the quantum of work that I could carry out in the review period, I managed to pass the interview, not in flying colours though. There was this one particular interviewer, who after hearing the correct answers, was tired and wanted me to fault somewhere and he burrowed in deep until he could find a suitable question and he could conclude that I was not aware of the things that I am related to and he said and I quote "You are blindly using it", he repeated it atleast four times, for poetic effect obviously, but finally he could prove with considerable proof, that I am indeed a moron.

Anyways, putting an end to that constant bickering, the interview is over and the only way I got myself past it comfortably was by assuming that we are indeed animals and this is just a way to prove ourselves above them or to keep our minds busy enough to stay away from the truth. As far as possible. I have more theories on how love does the same to our minds. But more on that later, or perhaps never, because it is too hard to digest/highly opinionated.

Tuesday, May 24, 2016


Disclaimer: All characters in this story may or may not be fictional. There is only one character anyway.

He woke up when the sun was just rising. He looked out of the window and could see the sun playing with different shades of orange to clouds which had slept peacefully under their black blankets. It was the usual stuff for him, he looked forward to brushing his teeth observing the different hues of blue. But it was not a normal morning, he somehow knew something was wrong. He had just poured paste over his toothbrush when he heard a certain growling. It was mysterious since he was not expecting any company and he had plans of moving around naked after his shower. He heard the growling again, he was intrigued, he searched the whole house but was unable to locate the source. But then it happened again, this time he realised it came from his soul somewhere inside him.  It shouldn’t have been so hard to decipher, it was more due to denial that he didn’t realise that he had to go to his sacred place, the place where he had previously solved all his life problems.

He got to crux of the situation and decided to go along with his toothbrush, he could multitask. He sat there and what used to take a few seconds before unveiling itself came out in a flash of a second and splashed all around the place, luckily all inside the vicinity of the water covered area. He felt an unbelievable relief, the sort he was not accustomed much to feel. It wasn’t long enough before he realised what the watery waste meant and how it would deter his whole day. But he still hoped for the best and was about to leave for office when he heard the growling again, he was confused, undecided, his fickle mindedness was playing with his stomach and there was the growling which refused to shut up. He went back again, this time the expulsion was not as loud as the previous one but it did splash around the same amount. He was relieved, happy, in some way he thought this momentary happiness was far more relieving than the constant nothingness of staying in a healthy body. He decided to accept his faults and move on with his life.

He left for office, his discomfort had presented itself again but this time in a subtle way. There was no growling but he could feel a boiling sensation inside him. He held on until he reached office. He arrived a little late, everyone else had reached before him. He felt they were staring at him, how could they know he wandered, was the discomfort apparent on his face? he couldn't tell. He walked as fast as he could, without looking conspicuos, towards the washroom and fighting against all his instincts stopped first at the mirror to check if his feelings affected his facial expressions. He didn't find anything different and concluded that he was only imagining it. He moved towards the seat, excited and hopeful of the sudden relief that he was going to experience all over again, he was loving it. Although, this time the relief wasn't as fulfilling as he had imagined. He washed his hands and got back to work, people didn't seem to notice anything different about him anymore. He had spent almost an hour without any thoughts of the impending doom and believed it was all over, he was normal again, sort of disappointed though.

Just when he thought he was through with it, it him again, the internal sensations. But this time he could not go to the same washroom again, everyone would understand. So he came up with another move, he went to the office library, he had always heard from his colleagues how beautiful the toilets near the library were, it was his chance to witness them today. He excused himself from his office, notifying the others that he was going to the library. The walk to the library felt rather longer than usual because of the discomfort. But when he reached there he had probably the best idea of his life.

He knew the Director's office was next door. He decided to go where the director goes. It wouldn't be easy, he knew, but nothing that was easy had been satisfying for him. He sneaked in, the P.A. was busy typing, she didn't notice him. In quick but silent steps he rushed inside the loo. When he sat there he was content, the plush toilet gave him a sense of comfort and power. But he couldn't do it, maybe it was the pressure of being director, perhaps it was the reason why the director always looked constipated. But he had heard that pressure was good, he always heard people complaining how they had no pressure in the morning and their day was ruined subsequently. It was amongst all this turmoil that it happened, and it went out all of a sudden and he was relieved. It was at this point he thought all his angst was gone and he finally knew what he wanted to be in life. He wanted to be the Director.

Saturday, May 14, 2016

A fake love story

The other ones weren't real either.

                          It is a love story and it starts with our hero. The hero, as you may find, resembles a lot to the author or what the author imagines himself to be, but it is all coincidental since the author lacks the ingenuity to come up with characters. The hero is a shy, lanky guy, who has a difficult time in matching his clothes; so he ends up buying only shades of blue so they match whichever combination he picks up. He has these not so fancy black eyes that seem too small to decipher his emotions. The leading lady on the other hand shall be described in all her beauty when she first comes into picture, in the next paragraph.

                                 It was hot as hell, as it always is in the hero's city except when it's raining, even at 5:30 in the evening, as the hero reached the parking area of his office. The parking area was small even when full fledged and now it was further reduced due to the refurbishment going on by parts. That, although turned out to be a blessing in disguise. The hero, tired after a long day of work, had finally reached his bike in the parking lot and was about to press the self start button when his eyes wandered off and he saw a damsel in distress. The girl was stuck as her scooter was blocked by another bike. She had her helmet on so he could only see her nose and the sun's reflection on her visor which obscured her soon to be discovered beautiful eyes but her curly yet wavy hair was bustling sideways because of the warm sea breeze that the evening brought along with it. The hero in his mind had already helped the girl, fallen in love and married her, but reality stung him soon as the old guy, whose bike was blocking her scooter, came along and took his bike away silently apologizing to the girl. The hero was still staring and suddenly the girl turned around and noticed, but our hero was used to such situations and knew how to pretend to be just turning around his head as if taking an overview of the construction work going on the in the parking lot. He started his bike as fast as he could, feeling guilty as hell, and ran away from the scene of crime. It would be 48 excruciatingly long hours before he would run into her again.

                                  I lied, he din't see her again for a month, until that fateful day when it was raining, but the story did carry on without them having to meet. It was 48 hours later since his first confrontation, he always hoped to run into her at the parking lot, but luck had it otherwise. He came to his bike, not so tired that day as he had spent the whole day bugging others since he had no work, when he saw his bike and the helmet lying over it, he observed something yellow flapping with the wind but still somehow attached to the helmet. He went closer, his shoes were tiring him, he always hated wearing shoes, it was a sticky note, with a small smiley at the bottom he read the text later, it said in a very neat equally spaced handwriting "I'm sorry I scratched your bike.". He read it and looked towards his bike, it hadn't been cleaned since the last time it was serviced which was six months ago, to observe a scratch on it would have been very difficult for him, and he didn't care enough for the bike anyway. He was just too happy to worry about anything but what to reply or should he reply at all. The anxiety was overwhelming, plus there was the fear of ruining it by writing something stupid or seemingly desperate. His gut feeling was to not writing anything, but his gut had betrayed him earlier too, so he decided against it and planned on writing a reply. He opened his bag and realised that he had no sticky notes, he slammed his head with his right hand, an expression he had learned from his mother, which he often used when he realised he was stupid, his mother's expression were also always directed towards his stupidity, as they say-once a moron always a moron. But then he had an epiphany, he realised he could write on the same paper and stick it on her scooter, he wasn't so stupid after all. 

        He had never faced such lack of words before in his life, he scratched his head a lot trying to figure out what to write, he wanted to sound smart and funny in the shortest possible sentence. The best he could finally come up with was "Kamini, paisa tera baap bharega?"

The end

Friday, April 29, 2016

Sir Picksalot

Chapter 1

Scene 1

Not so far away in a place called nowhere. Sir Picksalot owned a very peculiar bar.

              Sir Picksalot as his name would suggest had a very odd habit of picking his nose, even though such picking due its frequency did not always yield promising results, there was no other place where Sir would rather enjoy his finger. Although you might assume so, but the knighthood wasn't granted to him due to his excellence in the above mentioned field it was just something his family named him, you see his grandfather was accorded with the knighthood for his extraordinary contributions to the war, his parents just passed it onto him to continue his grandfather's legacy. 'Middle' (hereafter referred to as The bar) was placed right at the center of a very busy city. But due to the Mayor’s successful sobriety propaganda  and the failing economy the bar had only four customers. Four regular customers and not another living soul except them ever entered the premises.

Strange as it may sound to a regular bar monger, the place only opened from 8 pm to 11 pm. Which implies no happy hours. Before you stop breathing and loose all your faith in society, we shall continue with the story part of this exorbitantly explained scenario. The new word being a an antithesis/euphemism of course to the writer's inability to create or even imagine a grander or reasonable setting for the story to unfold. Without further ado let's move on to the four regular customers, of which one shall die (no this is not the suspense).
The names, for the sheer lack of imagination or effort and also to avoid the stereotypes that we form in our head relating to names from the people we meet, were Rat, Pat, Mat and Chester Yes you guessed it right, Chester dies.
Just when Picksalot, dribbling through the bushy field of his nose, had located something worthy enough to stick in his nails and expose to the outside world. He heard a gentle thud on the bar door. This was odd as none of his four customers had ever knocked and Chester, who was the only person missing from that bar that night, would be the last person to do so. Picksalot irritably leaving the dried mucus, which had been located after an hour of dedicated searching, carefully in the same place where it was found got up from his seat and limped up to the door. Outside waiting restlessly was a tall figure strongly built with a jawline that would make George Clooney look like a kid. The physical persona was not reflected in his flail bodily movements. It was the renowned  local police officer  detective Chad. As soon as he saw Picksalot his shoulders drooped further and he started scratching his head in order to come up with an opening line. Finally after 10 long seconds of silence he spoke, " We found Chester's body in front of your bar's back door”. Picksalot, seldom a guy with expressions worth noticing, shrieked utilising all the air his lungs could manage. The surprising nature of the news being the major cause behind the wailing. He turned towards the other three inmates of the bar, who had already eavesdropped on the news and were too in a state of shock.

To be contd..

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Found Nemo!

Isn't this what you are fighting for. Isn't this what you are dying for. I have waited for this moment my entire life, and it happened today. Writing the whole story would be tiresome, so here's a doggerel instead.

I was waiting for the elevator
I heard a sound
It was the girl I had seen last week
And my heart started to pound

I looked away immediatly
Trying not to stare
I had seen her last week when I went to cycle
She was sitting on the stairs
I rode for more than 10 km
But when I got back, she was still there

Now was the moment
but the lift took forever, it was better to take the stair?
We stood there both nervous
Towards her weird lunch box I did glare

The lift came finally and we both ground
Guessing who would go first
I waved my hand and allowed her to go in
trying not to be vile
She went in as she obliged
And I could see her hide her smile

The lift closed up and she pressed five
I hit six instead
And all of my emotions I tried to hide

She was as nerve wrecked as I was
She kept tapping her lunch box
I tried to keep calm instead
And stood there like a fox

Her hairbad i noticed
It was a weird shade of yellow
It suited her all the same
Like a spring to a bellow

The end was near
The elevator reached five
She moved away
And swayed like a hive

With her keys she juggled
 as the lift still stood ground
The lift took forever to start
How could I have frowned

She lived in the flat below
towards the serendipity I laid low
To be continued is the story
Atleast I hope so.