Nursery Crimes

The stress of joblessness, the effort in laziness and the weight of an empty wallet… so many times I yearn for something to take me back to the good ol’ days… of nothingness, of no worries… of nursery school! I don’t remember how my classroom looked, which fellow kids I kicked and which bullies made me cry… I don’t remember what I finger-painted, which stories I loved, nothing! But that was the best part about nursery school, wasn’t it? There was nothing we needed to remember.

Except the nursery rhymes, of course… our introduction to another 20 years of learning lessons by heart! Learning nursery rhymes and narrating them countless times at school and then at home and occasionally to entertain guests on weekends, meant that our young brains were programmed to learn historic dates, chemical formulae, mathematical equations and Dr Ambedkar’s life history in our future years. And yet, I stutter and stammer, trying hard to recollect the lines, when occasionally I have nothing better to do.

So when my 3-year old niece visits, my family’s favourite way to spend time is to make her speak and nowadays, narrate rhymes. And what rhyme to start with, rather than “Twinkle Twinkle..” So last week, my niece started in her squeaky little voice…

“Twinkle, twinkle traffic light,
Round the corner shining bright.
Red means stop,
Green means go,
Yellow means go, but slow!
Twinkle, twinkle traffic light,
Round the corner shining bright.”

Whatever happened to little stars shining like diamonds in the sky! Whatever happened to the tiny spark that brightens up the night! Whatever happened to imagination, nature and fantasy? Shockingly, my niece has never heard of the original. And most of her rhymes are now New and Improved! No hot cross buns, no ring of roses, no Jack and no Jill! The 21^st century rhymes are here! And they are depressing..

If not now, when else would kids learn to let their minds roam free? Why curb creativity when they are 3? Rhymes about traffic lights? They probably would have stuff about paying their taxes next! One way to look at this would be that, it is probably to ensure good traffic sense in the next generation. But that’s a long shot… and such “reality show” versions of nursery rhymes are definitely not worth it!

Soon the same rhyme may go…

“Twinkle, twinkle traffic light
At every corner, a useless sight!
Red means honk,
Yellow means go!
Green, errrm.. we really don’t know!
Twinkle, twinkle traffic light
At every corner, a useless sight!”

New age rhymes, buh!

The French Connection

Nothing is more fun than learning a new language, especially when one is old enough to be fluent in several others and is subconsciously averse to the idea of learning something new. And this especially applies to a language like French. So when a bunch of adults (and some young ones like me) come together, every morning, and attempt to speak this alien language, it is as good as joining a laughter club.

This language is easily the biggest waste of paper and ink. Its random usage of alphabets to fill in even the simplest of words has puzzled me. Why? Why would one put in so many alphabets, if one has no intention of pronouncing them whatsoever! For example, “many” translates to beaucoup, which is pronounced as ‘bow-cu’. As an unwritten rule 40% of the alphabets in any given word are silent. Learning to speak French is more like, learning what not to speak in French. Hence, ‘Au revoir, tout le monde!’ (goodbye, everyone) is pronounced as “Aaar-wha! Thool-mo.” No wonder, half the Indians think Aishwarya Rai is attending the “Khan” film festival.

One little thing, that could have made this language much simpler for thool-mo, is the inclusion of a neutral gender. But no, every item in the universe is segregated as male and female… including articles, prepositions, adjectives and adverbs. Hence cars, bikes, houses and windows are all feminine. And Monsieur (miss-yore) Leo Tolstoy has apparently written ‘Guerre et Paix’, yes, both are feminine. What the rules for such segregation are, no one knows! The problem with this approach is the multiplicity of words in the dictionary. Hence, ‘big’ can be grand (grao), grande (grao), grands (grao) and grandes (grao).

Another area that absolutely stumped me was the numbers. The guy making up this language was so obviously lazy, he could only think of words up till 69. After which he decided to use multiplication and addition, instead. So ‘75’ in French is literally, ‘60 +15’ and '98' is… ‘4*20 + 10 + 8’. Yes, quatre-vingt dix huit. I’m not even going to tell you how to pronounce it.

And even with such a huge vocabulary, the French have decided that they have to pronounce every word like it has an invisible sex appeal. So a set of 5 words, all meaning radically different things can be pronounced the same way – dous, deux, de, des, du – all these spoken rapidly, sound identical! In the past, when I went to a café, with the crème de la crème and ordered a la carte I thought I was superior. But these are after all words we learnt within a week in class.

This morning, in a reading exercise, when I crossed my eyebrows in concentration, pursed my lips and confidently read out “foh yoh an-foh-may-cee-ohn” and looked up apprehensively at my instructor, she said, “Oh! Dear! That is English. It is pronounced, for your information”.

Clearly, French is not for everyone.

My wonderwall

He is definitely the only man I’ve been loyal to, since I was 12. The last person I look at before I hit the sack, the first person to greet me in the morning. It seems like he’s been there forever. I’ve shown him admiration, respect, shock and even disgust sometimes. In many ways, he is my God.

Various posters of Rahul Dravid have always adorned my walls. His pictures stuck haphazardly, some lying among closed pages in old unused books. His biography stands dusty, yet proud on my bookshelf. It seems like his ups and downs, matched mine several times. What began as a juvenile craze has grown into devoted admiration. Many years ago, my mom gave up on clearing my room off his presence. The Sachins and Sauravs of this country can pass. At home, Rahul Dravid is revered as no other.

When I was 9 years old, my Dad took me to a local state match. And apparently that was where I first saw him bat (claims my Dad). In the beginning it was probably just his good looks and that soft spot for a fellow Bangalorean that got me to watch him. I was too young to understand his game, to appreciate his finer skills. But over the past 12 years, his growth to the top and events after that is a tremendous story. Always in the shadow of the others, considered an underdog, pushed to unwanted roles by other captains, accused of being boring, blamed for many losses as a captain… he hasn’t had it as rosy as he should have. But his obvious determination, focus and skills are worth appreciating. Unquestionably, the best Indian batsman on foreign soil, the coolest mind in the harshest circumstances… and above all, a gentleman, both on and off the field, Rahul Dravid deserves praise of the highest level.

Watching him struggle with probably the weakest team in the IPL is disheartening. It’s a format that so obviously does not suit him. Losing in front of his home crowd, losing to his juniors from the national team, this could well probably be one of his toughest phases. But like every other time, I know that he will get through it. At some point, he will rise from where he is right now. And then I shall yell, “I told you so!” Don’t you dare write him off!

My hero, my inspiration… Rahul Dravid.

Endangered

Is my life in danger? I live a normal boring urban life and have a corporate job. I hardly take risks. My life is just a routine, nothing new. Does that mean I’m safe? Does that ensure that I hit my bed alive each night? Am I going to live a long life?

According to palmistry, the length of the lifeline on our palms does not indicate our lifespan, but rather how well we live our lives. Nothing can actually guarantee us a long life. Just looking around, I can think of several ways that I can die today. Why! Within the next ten minutes there just might be a huge bomb crashing over my roof. Bangalore apparently is a recent target for some extremist groups, they are probably jealous of the weather. At any time, on any day there might be an attack on my city. I am certainly in danger right now.

Out on the roads it is even riskier. Making my way through all that traffic, especially amongst the most undisciplined drivers and potholed roads in the world, I can never actually say what is going to happen next? A speeding truck, an invisible hole, break failure, an accident waiting to occur.

Taking another human being’s life also seems much more convenient nowadays. I watch stuff on TV, I read the news, I’ve heard horror stories and I’ve seen incidents in front of me. A contract to kill apparently costs some Rs 5000 in Bangalore nowadays. Inflation, obviously has not affected the cost of such services. At home when I’m sleeping, or on the roads, I just might be killed intentionally. For some money, for being a woman… it seems so easy nowadays.

My unhealthy habits can strike at any time as well. The average age for a heart attack, for diabetes and several other maladies that I can’t even think of, has been coming down over the decades. The articles in the newspapers and the internet scare me everyday. The ice creams and chocolates that I innocently hog can come back and kill me, anytime. And even if I get myself to a safe place and ensure that none of these ever occur to me, nature always has a way, doesn’t it. It might be improbable for a Tsunami to strike my city or even a deadly volcano. But what about earthquakes? Floods? Nature’s fury is the deadliest of all. It spares none, nowhere.

Do I want to die? Of course, not! There is so much to do, so many places to see and so much life to live. But am I going to live as long as I want? That’s the million-dollar question.

If God was a Banker

Two months before I start my career in a multi-national bank, just out of XLRI with a fin specialization, a long journey to Chennai and back… why wouldn’t I pick up a book called “If God was a Banker”? But several long hours later, when I finally forced myself to finish this book, I was left deeply disappointed.

I chose to read this book because I absolutely love Chetan Bhagat’s writing. Surprisingly, not only is the publisher the same, the author is from a similar background, as well. The books look alike, the font is the same too. What I expected from the book were some insights in to the author’s profession, coupled with a decent plot and some pleasant writing. But that was not to be.

The plot is like any typical hindi movie’s storyline. There is a hero, who is the epitome of good things. Then there is an anti-hero, who is everything a man should not be. There are other characters to fill in the gaps. And then, there is the God of banking. As usual the initial 95% of the book goes on to explain how evil goes unnoticed, but at the very end, everything unravels. The villain suffers, repents and gains forgiveness. Bluh. And in between all this is the theory from the introduction chapter of my Commercial Banking handout – how old banks functioned, liberalization, entry of foreign banks, innovation and sales. There was also a little from the several placement presentations I’ve been through – organizational structure, career growth and job descriptions.

What I expected from an author who is obviously accomplished in his field, was something that only experience could provide. But various painful stereotypes are flung at us throughout the book. A Tam Brahm called Swaminathan, influenced by early family tragedies, extremely poor, swears by filter coffee, reads The Hindu, extremely ethical, soft-spoken, shy with the fairer-sex, a teetotaler , exceptionally faithful. He does not take a single wrong step throughout the story… so ideal, that he becomes tremendously boring. On the other hand, the bad guy is Sundeep, overtly aggressive, steals ideas, gets sloshed at every occasion, flirtatious, disloyal, sleeps with everyone, unethical in all his ways. He does not take a single right step throughout the plot… so wicked, that he becomes extremely predictable. No shades of gray!

And such stereotypes don’t stop here. Relationship managers are always good looking women who are ready to cross any limits for their own benefit. Every woman in the book seems to be super-hot, with a great body and a willing mind to sleep with strange men. The secretaries always entertain their bosses in more ways than one. The good subordinates stick to the good guy, the bad ones unquestioningly try to bring Swami down. Most chapters end with lines that try to revive interest. Too many names right in between kept me confused. And way too much drama in some parts!

The characters have no depth, the story has no twists and even after I finished the book, I failed to understand the title. “If God was a banker…” Other than being a line in the book, I don’t see why it should don the cover. Who is the hero here? Sundeep, Swami or Aditya? Was Aditya that important that the book is named after him? Or is the title just a way to grab some attention?

I liked the simplicity of the narrative, the pace as well. Ravi Subramanian has given some thought into timing of the entire story too. But I still don’t think it’s worth a purchase. MBA aspirants and banking amateurs might find it interesting, but beware of its flaws.

Thanks to this book, I did have an interesting conversation with a guy next to me on my return journey. But he wasn’t that good looking, so… naah! Definitely not worth it!

Chennai

The excuse given was a friend’s wedding, the intent was that and much more. One-and-a-half juice, an evening at the beach, a hilarious movie and several hours on the crowded roads under the scorching sun… if nothing else, a welcome change from long lonely days. Visiting Chennai after 15 long years was worth it.

Thanks to my neighbour/friend/sister/pseudo-mom who decided to get married and trouble only one man from now on, I got my chance to revisit my childhood city, my first home and lots more things. Places that I heard of, like Fruitshop and The Roxburry Chiller, Tea at Cup & Saucer, Corn on toast at Eden, Juice on Nugambakkam High road, shady burger at shady burger place… and people I had missed. The only disappointment being, that after some 20 minutes of searching and looking around, when I finally found the place, I absolutely could not recognize it… my childhood house, the place that saw my first 7 years.

Well, that aside this trip definitely made for some great memories. Bangalore seems so boring already…

Goodbye’s a bitch

I sit on the grass… alone. Four floors of people in front of me, smiling faces eating merrily on my right. A bunch of people sitting on the bench under the tree, laughing. I used to be one of them, not so long ago. But my time is up. This place has tolerated me enough. It’s time to leave.

Leaving XLRI is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. XL has given me more than anything I could ask for. Tonight, I leave XL, hoping that I could return some time, knowing that it wouldn’t be the same. Knowing that I would never be the same. I tried to absorb as much of this place as possible. I stayed here for two weeks in a virtually empty campus and then stayed back after convocation. But it’s never going to be enough. I wish I could write down the things that are running in my head right now, but they’re all stupid. XL has left an indelible mark on me, but I’m just another student from one of the 50 batches here. Yet, I am attempting to leave a record, so here goes.

SUMANA MANOHAR
Roll number : B06115
Youngest in the batch of 2006-08, the only one to enter at 19.
Lived in rooms 206 and 103 at TMTWR, had great neighbours.
My daily schedule included an hour of basketball, gymming and lots of tea.
Played, lost, won and enjoyed to the fullest in XL-IIMC.
One of the few genuine Library lovers at XL.
Scared of the third staircase in the acad block.
A regular at the badminton court, lost so many TT games in GH-3.
Loved Bishu Da’s fried maggi and egg roll, Daadu’s chutney cheese sandwich and nimbu paani.
Didn’t drink at a single wetnite, but danced my heart out every time.
Made some great friends, learnt some great things.
And I’m taking back a big piece of XL with me, intending to hold on to it forever.

I shot my last free throw and took my last lay-up on the baski court, walked my last walk around the football field, visited the library for the final time, ate burgers at HongKong, drank my last glass of nimbu paani at Daadu’s, played my last TT game, took my last shower… everything seems to be moving in slow motion. But these two hours will pass. And soon, I’ll be on my way home, from home.

People are scared of heights and water. I am scared of growing up.

I don’t know if any phase in my life can beat this. The fun I’ve had… the good times. I don’t want to work, I don’t want to go back home. I don’t want to stop writing. I don’t want to look at the time.

But I have to. Goodbye’s a bitch.

Signing out. My last post from XL.

- Mus