The P-word

Placement
/ˈpleɪsmənt/
Noun
* The action of placing someone or something somewhere.
* The state of being placed or arranged.
* The finding of suitable accommodation or employment for applicants.
Synonyms: positioning, placing, arranging, deployment, location, disposition, disposal, emplacement, installation, install, stationing.

I’m sure that some stout Indian professor teaching ‘Professional English’ would have attached the last meaning to the word. And one of the synonyms is disposal? What ra dei!

It all would have started 2 or 3 years earlier. Having walked through ‘counseling sessions’ after consulting with experts, well-wishers, good Samaritans, confused contemporaries and a few more emotional people, one wouldn’t think beyond the college ‘seat’.

Two years down the line, this unassuming student meets people who talk about the ‘future’. What ra, have you joined the GATE/CAT/whatnot classes? I’m joining this weekend. My uncle’s friend’s brother’s son joined there and found it very useful. The student would try to evade the question and perhaps, talk about a new movie releasing. A month later, he would be sitting with his friend in the weekend- in the Prep classes. Everyone sees the whirlpool and jumps into it.

The seniors give a pep talk on placements for them- a fully blown statement of their tryst with future. They ask you to be prepared for ‘whatever it is’. The father is worried that his son/daughter is not consulting his seniors enough. He asks you to read the ‘Opportunities’ page of The Hindu. You wonder why! When he tells you, “Dei, my friend’s son got placed in an MNC today. They are paying him (indistinct chatter you refuse to hear)”¸ you give him a poker face. He asks you if the company will come to your college for ‘placements’. You show the same how do I know face, plug back your earphones and continue watching that TV series on your laptop.

By the time the final year starts and companies start showing up (or viceversa), the Xerox shopkeeper would have sold 1000 copies of R.S.Aggarwal’s Quantitative Aptitude. Once you buy and read it, you will realize that ‘Tenth grade Mathematics is also called as Quantitative Aptitude’. Nevertheless, you spend your precious free time wading through it.

On the eve of a company’s placement drive, we religiously immerse ourselves in the books and hope the lady luck offers us a bounty. One round after another, all we expect is our name to be at least the last name on the list. The moment it vanishes, the heart goes plays an ‘atom bomb drop’ manual and the ego takes a beating. When the first company departs, a small bunch gets jobs and the rest get back to the (whirl)pool of eligible candidates. Some lose hope after the first company departs. Some throw the towel after two months. And some simply go on and on. Irony plays violin and the HRs dance to the tune. Some look beyond the bad music. Some get absorbed in the frenzy. Before you know it, the next company comes playing the guitar.

To the loving parents, a job to their child is, at times, a matter of posterity. Eppo da company varadhu! keeps ringing from the rear door. Worst is when you actually get a job and they tell you, “Adutha vara company nalla pay pola irukkey! You could’ve waited for that!” (The next company seems to offer a better pay package! You could have waited for that). The concerned (read: Nosy, jobless) well-wishers add to the hysteria and amplify the parents further.

When we potti-kadai bajjis (yes, I am one of them) joined in the first year, we were all packed with bubble-wrappers, our self-esteems in proper shape, well oiled. Three years down the line, how do we fall like a house of cards? What has happened to all the uncut diamonds that dropped in and greeted each other on the first day? The answer is blowin' in the wind.

P.S. The graph is made up. Any correlation is absolutely true but entirely coincidental.
- Gopsay

Paradise

Saturday- last day of the week. You have an exam. You fumble and tumble over it and you are glad that it's over. Summer is here and a long, sultry day is here to stay.

Slowly, you push yourself to the nearest bus transit station and wait for a bus. An empty bus pulls over. You prefer to wait. 20 minutes later, you are still there. A bus not in sight. 'Dei, such an idiot you are!', you tell yourself.

Annoyed, you look at the sun that's beating down. It hurts your eyes and you quickly turn your head. And then you see her. You forget the self-loathing session you just finished. Just when sunlight seems to make you go haywire, you sense some hay under the sunshine.

The next ten minutes spent for a bus will be worth a wait, you think. You turn again. And a lady stands next to her, swooping down on the eyes surrounding her. 'Tchah!', you tell yourself and silently criticise the Indian society's textbook behaviour. Before you ridicule the society further, the empty bus also turns up. Your limbs move towards the bus while you want to stay back. You eventually take the bus.

And you turn back to look for an empty seat. None! But wait, there is the seat and there sits the girl. You decide to bequeath a seat and stand in the bus. You praise coincidence. Just then, an old man makes you sit next to him, blurring the coincidence away.

Thirty minutes go by when you want to turn back, see if she has left, see if she is still there. Oh, just to catch a glimpse. Now, the bus gets crowded and you feel like hitting yourself on the iron bar that is motionless near you.

Destination has almost arrived and the bus, still crowded, earns my wrath. The bus slows down and a passenger shouts at you for the foot massage I gave him. You smile and almost get down. You are almost pushed down. But you turn back and see if she still is there. Instead, you see her looking at you and smiling. Paradise!

#Story

The Letter Diplomacy

Gone are the days when people waited for letters from their dear and near. Technology has turned the people cynical and efficient in equally skewed proportions. While the generation gone by has a story to tell of how letters and posts made their life simple and valuable, the current generation is legitimately vocal of how e-mails, phones and chats have turned their lives upside down.

Letters of Gandhiji to Hitler, Jawaharlal Nehru to Indira Priyadarshini are cases in point of how people resorted to politically correct, carefully worded exchange of ideas and deep sense of perspective. Writing letters, replying to them were ubiquitous and a wonderful experience. People resorted to telegrams for formal and instant communication. The people at the telegraph office used to heave a sigh of relief in January and July because the „no marriage‟ season meant fewer telegrams wishing newly-wed couples! Many regretted not having another page in the Inland cover to write.

Now, with instant communication, one can sense a lack of thought and more fearfully, a lack of consistency. The expressive, explosive language has given way for curtness and brevity. And according to the NAEP [National Assessment of Educational Progress], more than 60 percent of middle and high school students scored below the "proficient" level in reading achievement. The results of speed and better access to literature (thanks to Google) have come at a heavier price- lack of depth and flair. The scenario is not very optimistic and the technology overkill might kill literacy.

Letter writing has become a lost art in the era of templates. The wait for wordy replies, appointment orders stretching weeks and in some cases, even years have been replaced by cold impatience and a lack of faith.

The only people who value the essence of writing letters are too old to write or their recipients are lost to time. Has this sorry culture permeated into literature- novels and poems? Time will tell. Has quick relief of communiqué served the eviction notice to sensibility and tranquility? The answer remains lost to the mundane thoughts that transcend on hot summer afternoons.

Having acknowledged that we are in a highway of no return, no one can know it better than the postmen- from a man who was thanked for cycling home good news to many lives, he is now a widely loathed man, a thankless job he wears with a bag of junk mails, discount coupons and credit card bills over his shoulders.


Edit 1: I found a post similar to my post here: http://laughing-listening-learning.blogspot.in/2011/07/finding-god-within-written-letters.html

The Bad and The Ugly

From the confections-loving Marwadis to the Punjabis who are prone to the ‘Balle Balle’ dance fever; our films (read Tamil films) have transcended every lane of stereotyping. To experiment with movies that run full time on such nuanced stereotypes is a lesson in drudgery, a lesson in irony. For instance, the North Indians in Tamil movies, besides their eternally struggle to speak Tamil, are pawn-brokers for life.

Where did we borrow such references from?  One argues that the gun-toting villains of the 80’s were a direct lift from the Spaghetti Western films by the likes of Sergio Leone. When they first arrived, the response was phenomenal. After all, everyone loves an antagonist who is vile and vicious. But the same villains, the same guns and the same emotions establish the difference between cult films and plain absurdity.

The era that succeeded it made sure the notions never changed. It was the time of experimentation with large-bellied hare-brained villains with sickles and spears. It rendered the cinema blank and desperately wanting a change. Ridiculousness redefined itself, time and again. Can we move away from these stereotypes or can we be intelligent with the concoction of the elements churned out? Definitely, maybe.

Only the wonderful reels of Vijaykanth and ‘Action King’ offer a conversation between an Indian and a Pakistani (of course, in a strange dialect) in Tamil. Do we regard this creativity or perceive it to be a coherent, made-lucid stereotype? The work of a critic is made easier and at times, luxurious by such instances.

And now, when another movie industry purportedly takes a leaf out of our culture with ‘curd for noodles’ approach, we wield an iron fist and are agitated. In a TV show, a Bollywood star was asked why his movies feature a copycat style portrayal of people from the Western culture. He defended it in style saying, “Do not oversimplify my films! We put in a lot of money into the films.” It is like applying linear string theory over a 3 dimensional plot to prove that poorly played violins cause headache. The vanity of it, one shall see. 

London Bridge is falling down

‘How to keep your teeth clean’, SHOUTS the poster and gives allegedly easy tips. Yes, I wait in the corridor as my mother visits the Dentist. “Hello, how are you?” the dentist asks her and closes the door behind her. (I expect her to say, “Not very well, considering that I’m visiting you”. But what the hell, she’s the patient and simply can’t say such things). Restlessness now kicks in and I look around. One clutches the jaws in pain. There’s not much chatter, origin of the pain to blame. I see a mother and her three sons sitting beside me. The youngest of the lot is jumping around. The three hollow blocks in the place of his front teeth is an indication that he must’ve jumped a step too much. The elder son wears a constipated look and that gives a fair indication of who will be examined, waiting for some good news. Perhaps, he wishes to say ‘cheese’ instead of a grin. The worried mother wishes likewise, probably. Three months, I rewind by.

When people around complained of sore tooth, I would thrust myself forward to give a lecture on tooth hygiene. That day, I went in and the dentist said, “Don’t worry, it’s just a normal tooth decay. But then, its deep. We’ll fill it up temporarily and observe until 15 days go by.” (What do you mean ‘normal tooth decay!’ you want to ask). The London Bridge has finally come crashing down. All the years of boasting of having a clean dental sheet has buried itself, silently. I ask the dentist if it’s really bad. “Let’s take an X-ray and see how deep it is”, she says. When I get the X-ray report, silently hoping Roentgen has some good news, he refuses to do so. “Right 4 and 5 are decayed, paa”. Not one, but two teeth have met their fiery end. It’s in such downfall that dentists find their windfall, I console myself.

Temporary filling done, the doctor politely tells me not to eat for another 2 hours. She then calls her mother and argues, “Maa, how do you expect me to eat IDLY with only the PODI? I am starving. You better prepare that spicy Thakkazhi Chutney or I’m eating Pizza!” before hanging the phone. Oh Dent, I accept that you are hungry. There’s a bugger sitting here, hands on the jaws, unable to eat and yes, irritated. “Irony, you shall rot in hell”, I say to myself. I wear a desolate look, she understands and she apologizes. I see my dad waiting in the reception, three wrinkles on his forehead. He must’ve been counting the number of visits he had made with his wife and son in the past 3 months and would’ve found his fingers insufficient to do the counting.

A week later, I miss a family reunion citing work. My friend is surprised when he opens a Kitkat strip sitting beside me and finds no hand trying to grab it. When I tell him the reason, he guffaws and says, “Idhellam enna da! I’ve got two RootCanals done. It is really that simple”. Another guy says that Root Canal is painful, that I should use his strategy- ‘Keep Calm and Let the Dentist Play’. I regain my composure. I nod to him and munch something while he asks me, “Dei, inga irundha Kitkat engada!” (Where’s the Kitkat?)

End notes:

·         Two weeks later, I visited the dentist who told “Left 4 and 5 also has decay. Tcha, both sides of your mouth and the same teeth! What unity!”  I agreed with her and cursed Unity and Coincidence alike. Sarcasm also managed to get some thittu.

·         I came home that night. My cousin had whatsapped ‘Keep Calm and Eat Thayir Saadham’. I put the phone down, grabbed the plate of idlies and told my mom, “put chutney”

·         The dentist has become my family dentist now. Thankfully, I am not the protagonist anymore; only accompanying my mother once in a while for dental check-ups.

·         A month after going under the scalpel (not really, but still), while in a chat with my uncle, I mention to him of my teeth and he says “Join the Club”. Bittersweet feelings.

 

Young Expressions 4.0. 04/02/2012

Young Expressions 2012 Quiz Finals

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You can see the quiz by clicking on the Slideshare link :)

Cheers,
Gopsay

That day, that year...

History & Civics exam was the one remaining unfinished. The concentration was haywire. Dad had booked tickets for the customary tour. As a kid, trips were always fun. H&C exam was duly decimated. The monkey was off the shoulders before the holidays. I was to Bangalore, on a train. It was a Saturday. Dad explained, “No tickets to Chennai. We’ll visit our relatives and take the train to Chennai tomorrow!” All that a kid needed was being to new places and so, I made sure dad wasn’t queried further. The train took the necessary turn past Jolarpettai and reached Bangalore.

A cow was run over by a speeding train on a Railway crossing. Mom was quick to close my eyes with her hands. Any scene that was gory received a straight ‘A’ certification from mom and banned from view. On reaching my uncle’s house, before dad could explain, I said, “We were supposed to go to Chennai. We didn’t get the tickets and so we are here!” I told leaving my dad searching for words.  “Why are you eternally lazy? Get up! Grow up!” mom taunted. The Chennai train was to be at 6 30 am. The roads to the Railway station, on a wintery morning in Bangalore were always busy. I picked up a copy of ‘The Hindu’ and got into the train. ‘Aussies looking forward to winning their 300^th test match’, said the paper. On the way to Chennai, “Dad, the first thing we are doing when we reach Chennai is visit the beach”, I said. Srilanka and Newzealand were playing an ODI.

By the time the train reached Chennai, NewZealand team had thrashed SriLanka by 7 wickets. While waiting for a train to West Mambalam, a bystander at the Park Station remarked, “Chennai la niraya yedam kadal kulla poiduchanga!” (A lot of places in Chennai have sunk under the Sea). Dad dismissed him as another deranged fellow, probably drunk. I was angry with dad; he wasn’t taking me to the beach, as promised – a kid from a land-locked city, visiting a beach was always an awesome idea. My cousin welcomed me home. We switched on the TV. Headlines were run. And I watched in complete shock. The land was, under the sea. What the man told, and ignored without a moment’s thought, was true.

And the world was filled with sorrow. I would’ve been on the beach when it was swallowed but for the tickets to Chennai that I couldn’t get. Kamal Haasan, in his epic Anbe Sivam¸ had talked about Tsunamis. Now people took notice. It was a cold Sunday. It was December 26^th, 2004.

 Result: History & Civics: 47/100.

Australia won their 300^th test.

SriLanka cancelled their tour of NewZealand to head back home.  

Cheers,

Gopsay

C-word

coun·sel Verb /ˈkounsəl/

Counselled past participle.

Counselling present participle.

1. Give advice to (someone)

o He was counselled by his supporters to return to Germany.

2. Give professional psychological help and advice to (someone)

o He was being counselled for depression.

3. Recommend (a course of action

o The athlete's coach counselled caution.

And the paradox: Anna University Counselling.

I remember telling my friend once, “I’m not going to attend Anna Counselling. It’s for the idiots”. Ultimately, I was no exception; I was an idiot as well. Ask anyone in Tamilnadu who awaits the D-day about counselling. They barely know the procedure. In times like these, one educational institution or the other organises a special counselling session ‘How to prepare for the counselling’. Talk of irony, this certainly is one.

I remember my dad asking, “Dei, Hindu newspaper la counselling pathi potrukaaname! Padichaya?” (Did you read the article in The Hindu regarding counselling?). I answered in the negative. Is counselling a misnomer? Well, don’t ask such questions. The concept of counselling is better to be accepted as a dogma. Wasn’t that how we studied all the subjects? “Don’t keep thinking. Just write as given in the book!” That was another dogma.

When Chennai welcomed me like a fresh, just-from-the-pan pottikadai bajji, I still didn’t know how the ‘C’ was going to be. Strategists argue that the best thing to do before a meeting is PPCC (Plan Practically, Carefully and Creatively). I wish to differ on this count. The best way to spend the eve of ‘C’ is to sleep, sleep like you never did.

When you wake up, it is still the eve of the ‘C’ and there is calls abuzz about one guy or a girl getting their desired course of study. You see the clock. It tells you that there are 15 more hours until you are lead into AC halls and made to sit in front of a monitor that decides your fate. What? A monitor is all that’s needed to make or break your dreams? And then you remember, certain things are better when left unexamined.

I woke up early on the D-day when my phone alarm beeped with a ‘IT’S YOUR DAY!’ message (a la Match-fixing technique). An IPL commentator would term this a Pressure cooker situation. To watch the seats in your course of choice take a plunge, watch helplessly is the worst possible thing that can happen. Your consolation: You can do the same to others when your turn comes in front of the computer terminals that decide your fate.

I came out of the C-session with an allotment order for the last of seats in a course I wanted. My month-long permutations and combinations did bear fruit. For some, it was a disaster. I remember watching a parent cry since her ward didn’t get their desired course. Shit happens. But one can’t allow it to touch meteoric levels such as the C.

I once again remember that counselling meant giving professional, psychological advice and assistance. And then I remember to accept this specific C as an educational dogma put forth on unaware students like us. The ones on a roll in Anna University are the umpteen monkeys roaming around without certificates and a cut-off to boast. We, the same pottikadai bajjis, are neatly packed and sent to different colleges to be feasted.

And the C-word ends. You feel better? “Definitely, maybe”

-Gopsay

And Savitha Definitely Feels Gawky. Part 2

Just when a train of thoughts was whizzing past Savitha, the waiter at Gluttony showed up with the menu card. She peered into it as if she’d been given an ‘Entrance Exam Question Paper’. Thanks to her profound love of hating garlic, she had extra work in choosing her lunch. She entered into a conversation with her friends. By the time the dishes hit the table, she remembered nothing of what she spoke. Normally a voracious eater, she struggled for appetite that day. “I recall that fail to remember something that’s maddening my day,” she told her friend. She chose to forget it by relishing the lunch. But then, she found herself in a lurch- she had bitten a green chilly.

Grabbing two glasses of water, she remembered Vijay’s punch dialogue, “Kai vekradhuku munnadi oru dharaviku nooru dharavai yosikanum. Oru tharava vechita aprom yosikave mudiyaadhu!” (One must contemplate many times before doing it! Once you do it, there’s no way you can think again!). All she did was curse Vijay while jumping around with a curried tongue.

She found the same thing amiss. But what was it? She chose not to think of anything as she drove her Activa. She was speeding when a cop stopped her. Although steering past them and remembering Vijay’s quote, “Un valai le sikradhuku era illada, naan Sura! Valaiyum muzhunguven, valai veesaravanayum muzhunguven,” (I’m not a fish to fall to your bait. I’m the shark! I’ll make you the bait) was her pastime, today wasn’t her day. Coercing the cop into settling for a 50 buck ransom, she made her way home.

Some relative was visiting her as she barged past the doorway into the living room. This meant extra chores for her. Just then, someone entered into a pep-talk about her studies, something she preferred not to talk about. “I look like a nerdy hillbilly”, she told herself (which happened to feature in The Hangover, a movie she watched the previous night). Her room was a perfect place to lock herself in. She did it with perfection.

“Savitha, wake up! Why do you sleep away the day? I have the Duranto Express at 6. Bye, bye! I’ll be back in 3 days”, said her mom. Eerily awake, she watched as her parents made their way to the car. She switched on the TV. It was recommended in a book she had read titled “Wiling away the day – Made easy”. She kept switching channels (Jeeva’s songs weren’t on air). The clock struck 8 and she picked herself up from the couch only to make herself at ease at the dining table.

Her comfort levels soared as she saw Ravaa Roast served. Just as she was about to devour it, she got a call, “Hi di! What are you upto”, asked her friend. As she kept talking and giggling over the phone, she served the side-dishes to herself and continued the chit-chat. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you why I called!” said her friend. “Mmm, enna solla vara”, she said as she gobbled up a piece of the Dosa. “I’ve got the tickets for Vandhaan Vendraan,” said her friend. “Umm, ok! I’ll talk to you later,” she said and ended the call while her friend kept wailing over the phone. It was the Annapoorna Sambhar. And Savitha Definitely Felt Good.

Special thanks to Savitha for endorsing her name. :) (I hope I executed the task well)

To Serena, for her constant pranks of Savitha. (Your help was always useful)

To May 9 and HSC Results, for helping me with introspection.

To Siva & Kirthana who remain a source of strength.

To QWERTY keyboard, for helping me with the Title of the story.

P.S. I started with an ASDFG and ended with an ASDFG.

- Gopsay

And Savitha Definitely Feels Gawky. Part 1

“What? No tickets for Vandhaan Vendraan! Don’t tell me that! Get the tickets or I’ll kill you!” yelled Savitha over the phone. It was film starring Jeeva. Anything short of a first day first show ticket wasn’t going to satisfy her. “No tickets yaar! Forget about it!” said the voice over the phone. Savitha became restless and started yelling again. “Wake up, Savi! It’s 10 am and you are still sleeping!” Savitha woke up. It was a nightmare. She looked at the calendar. It was a Friday and Jeeva’s film was hitting the theatres only on the next Friday. She breathed a sigh of relief. “You’ve had enough dreams! Get out of the bed”, sighed her mom.

The sunlight was drawing its masterpiece on her room’s wall, stealthily coming through the windows. Savitha found something missing. It was her phone. She had promised to be to her friend’s house at 11. She grabbed ‘Coimbatore Today’, the supplement of ‘Country Today’ newspaper which was lying on the couch. It served her the daily dose of gossips. The newspaper had a photo feature from Rana, Thalaivar’s next film. She wondered if it was K.V. Anand behind the camera. Her phone beeped. Always quick to attend it, she grabbed her phone. It was her friend; a new restaurant had opened and a lunch at the place was duly considered. She felt something amiss.

Slowly munching through ‘idlies and thakkazhi chutney’, watching Aarariraroo song from Raam (which happened to be another song starring Jeeva) on TV, she asked her mom for Sambar. “Thakkazhi chutney irukey! Pinna edhuku”, came the sharp, short reply from her mom. She remembered Vijay’s punch dialogue – Main pesumbudo side ellam silent ah irukanum! (When the main dish is hogging the limelight, the side dishes can remain silent!). She was missing something. But Jeeva on TV was enough a distraction to forget about what was bugging her.

It was 2 pm in the afternoon, the sunlight was all over the place and an oven seemed a cooler place. The buzz was about the new restaurant, Gluttony, and Savitha decided to try it out. She knew something was casting its shadow on her day, but what was it? Why should something mess with her schedule? But the foremost question was: What was asking her these numerous questions?

- Gopsay

Special thanks to Savitha for the name. To Serena, for her valuable inputs!

Thanks to Ernakulam Express for providing me a nice cabin seat with a reading light.

Thanks to QWERTY keyboard for helping me with the Title of the story!

P.S. And Savitha Definitely Feels Gawky has its origin from 'ASDFG' of the keyboard. :)