The truant brook

I was a truant brook setting off
On its own from the hillside stream,
Charting its joyous path, contentedly

All at once, an ancient Rock,
Stood as a stumbling block
And came to halt the cheery journey.

The brook can but stagger, try to
Push on and falter.
Succeeding in merely letting trickles
Of Itself escape.
As I baulk at this block
That lets me not put pen to paper
And write freely as before.

But the brook will, in time
Trickle slowly, surely,
Steadily through cracks and voids
Until the ageless solid mass
Gives way.

But only to meander on, with none
Of its infant insouciance
Or jauntiness of stride.

And in time, with meaning to the meander
With purpose to the prose
On the journey to the infinite sea



(Radhika AR, Jan 2006)

Driving you crazy - On driving licences and "note"able obsessive compulsive disorders

It was one of those days that remind you just how hot the city of Chennai is, and exactly how monumentally inefficient and antediluvian some government bodies are. So there I was standing in the dizzying heat, in danger of getting dehydrated, running over the events of the morning. The usual haggling with the autorickshaw guy, the instructions from the “Driving School Principal” (Man, what a fancy designation :P) about where exactly the driving test was going to take place, and how the driving licence (for those lucky enough to get it the same day) is akin to a ‘gold biscuit’ that had to be protected with one’s life.

And here I was, at the huge open ground that used to be a bus terminus, amidst roughly a hundred driving licence-hopefuls. Not even insects dared to stir in that enormous open space, as the merciless sun bore down heavily, sucking energy out of each one of us in glee.

The ‘inspector’ was the god of the day. It was he who would officiate at the grand ceremony, put our individual skills to test, and it was him indeed who each hopeful who have to propitiate to attain the grand prize.

I darted a glance around, wondering if it would seem too out of place to pull out my notes for a quick revision before the test. Then I decided not to risk it. Fact is, I was way too embarrassed by my carefully made notes for the driving test. The previous evening, it had come as a revelation to me that I was loth to enter any hall (or open ground) of examination without notes to revise from. Which was why I had made flowcharts and bullet-pointed reminders detailing every possible driving manoeuvre that I would have to exhibit to appease the god of licence-granting.

A sceptical friend of mine, nonplussed by my note-taking openly showed surprise, to which I sheepishly mumbled how I could not stomach the thought of facing any exam without self-made notes. To which, he (always prone to histrionics) asked with a flourish, “It is a serious obsessive disorder that you harbour! What of the grand exam of life, then? What of the test of time? How do you propose to make notes for those?” I was too preoccupied with my test to respond. I am now armed with a well-crafted reply about my daily notes in my diary about myself, my interactions and my self-experiments based on empirical observations of the impact of various forms of interaction, my timetables and schedules and.. oh well, this will keep for some other time.

Let me continue the chronicles of the much sought-after driving licence. The scattered crowds began to draw closer to a point near one wall of the ground and I supposed that the Great One had indeed come. Minions of assorted driving schools approached him with a bunch of filled-in application forms each of their respective candidates. Upon which it came to be known that another of the expected greats had played hooky from work, and hence a quarter of the crowd was to be sent back for want of an inspector. As luck would have it, I was one of those chosen to seek assembly at a later date. Arguments (from me), counter-arguments and promises (from the hapless driving school instructor) later, I left, fuming, indulging in the favourite Indian pastime of ‘blaming the system’ – decrying its inefficiency, its lack of concern for the average citizen and other such banalities.

To me, what was unendurable was the thought of another morning of being subjected to the sweltering heat of that open ground all over again.. ughh!

As I geared up for a repeat adventure the next week, I was so gloomy that I believe my cloud of gloom could have eclipsed the still-inexorable sun. And I couldn't even be bothered to carry my notes with me.

The entire charade repeated itself. The gathered crowds, the interminable waiting, the gods who could choose to make an appearance as and when they pleased, the (just) 2 hour delay in their appearance, the dust and sweat and the sea of hope.

There was also the some “big man”’s grandson, who was respectfully escorted to the office to have his photograph taken for the licence card (sans driving test, of course), the imperious elderly lady who secured her daughter’s (presumably) licence with a large denomination (equally presumably) currency note pressed into the hand of the inspector’s sidekick… and perhaps other such spectacles that escaped the notice of my harried self.

Two hours later, post my successful exhibition of my driving skills, as I offered my not-so-smiling countenance for a photograph for my licence, my overwhelming relief erased all signs of fatigue of body and soul, and soreness of feeling for the Indian way of ‘getting things done’.

In the end, my precious notes were of little use, as tests of display of driving prowess were not sought to the extents I had imagined. The way it always used to happen in my other exams. And no, this did not throw a damper on my note-making enthusiasm :)

"B"een there, being now

A leaf green, of tender stalk, in shielding shade cocooned

Of sprouting wings, of new worlds, desire in veins burned

As rushing gale, revered of yore, swirled it in path of boon

Life new, in a rush of winds, cast a spell on a morn of June

 

Kindred souls in adventure bound, swung along in gale,

With each day in whirl and twirl, in winds unknown did sail

Chasing, racing the stream rushed, while some in peace did float

Held in thrall by the rushing gale, at times loved, at times loathed

 

The gale in path did whisper on, dripping wisdom to its throng

Morals new as days wore on, and to find where each one belonged

And then the journey, with its end attained, left a void, a lull

Gave respite, thoughts to amass, and the hereafter, to mull

 

Here I recline, with all lessons mine, in lone tranquil perch

New paths to embark upon, and newer meanings to search

As the winds cross my path, they whisper into my ear

What is it that you seek, what do you hold dear?

 

Time moves on as grains of sand, in moments precious as gold

As with myself I commune, the better to myself mould

Looking within, looking forward and learning from the old

Travels await, to newer plains, as I make my future unfold…

Motley thoughts on The Black Book

Some childhood memories are poignant... vividly etched in memory, they are hard to forget.

I imagine a sieve in my mind that filters snatches of memory all through my life, letting slip the tiny, inconsequential thoughtlets, and hoarding the important ones. Ever so often, I imagine, some not-so-important thoughtlet remains in the sieve, persisting in active memory... and I would be amazed as some shards of memory come back to me, wondering why the mind ever thought that it was worthy of preserving on the sieve.

Ever since I discovered my love of books as a little child, I was haunted by a lingering fear: That some day, I would have exhausted my capability of understanding books, and reach a stage where I would no longer be able to comprehend the book that I had to read, that somehow, inexplicably, there existed a barrier that would be a test of my skills and which, if I could not cross, I would languish for the rest of my life with the books of early childhood.

Years later, I read a certain book, and I knew instantly that, this was the hurdle and that I had cleared it... and I need fear no more.

It was this thoughtlet that floated up to my mind several years ago when I read Dosteyevsky’s Crime and Punishment and again, and most recently, today as I finished reading Orhan Pamuk's The Black Book.

Beginning as the story of a man trying to solve the mystery of his missing wife, The Black Book builds into the most unconventional form of detective story. There are clues everywhere, but not all of them add up, and most of them have no bearing on the mystery. With each clue the protagonist Galip follows, with each new idea of his, the author develops yet another theme, slipping in a short story in the guise of a newspaper column that Galip is shown to be reading. The result: a multitude of themes, all beautifully woven in the twin forms of the protagonist’s experiences and reproductions of a celebrated local journalist’s daily columns.

Throughout the book, Turkey’s East vs. West dilemma runs as a raging undercurrent. As civilizations come to increasingly resemble one another, with some attaining aspirational value, a process of imitation sets in. This process turns people, customs, cities into mere ghosts of an earlier rich past, in attempting to fashion themselves to the culture they aspire to. The portrayal of Istanbul and its changing landscape, and its people and their changing preferences symbolizes this essentially Turkish dilemma, equally adaptable to cultures like ours.

Another dominant theme is “I must be myself”. The novel is replete with points and counterpoints on imitation as Galip tries to slip into the character of his cousin in a bid to find his missing wife. Another twist is added to this theme, culminating in the power of writing and storytelling as a weapon in “being oneself”.

Layer on layer of abstractions reveal glimmerings of subtle subthemes, ideas within ideas, intertwining of themes. Nothing is what you think it is at first read, and the book may leave one vexed with its pace at times, flummoxed by seemingly irrelevant interpolations and wholly mystified by the last page, where the author and protagonist speak as one.

Maybe my childhood fear was not so unfounded after all… some books call for more than a “reading”, they demand to be pondered over, to be read not just for the words, but for the elusive meaning behind the strings of letters, to involve oneself as an active participant and to engage with the book beyond the words, at the level of ideas.

Capsules of memories

Memories come in various forms and sizes... they are like capsules, wrapped in colourful rice paper, all seeemingly harmless and largely similar.  But each tiny package hides within it various remedies for diverse maladies. Little details tucked away into corners of one'e memory are just like nameless capsules. You don't know what it is for, until you take it in and understand what it does to you.

My mind is a repository of many capsules, large and small, innocuous and potent, deep and superficial. And no capsule can be unlocked at will... each capsule has a key that opens it.  The beauty of these capsules lies in the fact that until unlocked, I am in blissful oblivion of their existence. And I do not know the key that releases the fine powder of memory within. And once unlocked, the powder of memory within is so special to me: it can be retrieved again and again... to another, it just a tiny white cloud of dust. 

The keys are unknown until they perform the very act of unlocking the capsule... and the keys... ah, the keys themselves are deceptively clad... A particular aroma wafting from a nearby kitchen could trigger poignant memories of a childhood outing. A certain tune could unlock a high school memory, long since forgotten. Travelling down a certain road could trigger a wonderful memory of a boisterous schoolday excursion.

Scant would I have thought that an olfactory sensation would transport me to teenage days... or that a cherished memory was trapped in notes of an old song. 

Years of unlocking old memories have shown me that a sizeable number of my memory capsules are hidden in musical ciphers... to me, listening to music is  to be transported to a tranquil world of unlocked capsules and puffs of memory released into  my conscious mind. Not all capsules bring happy memories though... which is why I vehemently block out certain pieces of music or avoid some fragrances. 

Some capsules are memorable... cherished... like the olfactory trigger that takes me back to middle school days and bathes me every time in reclaimed joys of childhood. Or the tune that brings back first days in college, and how I met my best friends...And then, there are those elusive capsules of memory that I try in vain to unlock.. but which are stubborn and unyielding... 

The happy memories are safe in their capsules... to be unlocked and to be relived as I wish. Atleast there are some treasures that are only mine, never to be taken away... 

Parting is such sweet sorrow

My bags were packed, the room was cleaned out, and I sat amidst the few signs of my stay at that room at the top of K block, or K Top as we love to call our hostel wing. 

The three weeks I spent at home before the convocation week evoked mixed feelings in me throughout. The first two days seemed interminable... I missed campus, the night-outs, my friends, the independence: all compounded, of course by the fact that I had to stay at home nursing my still recovering foot while my friends were on a holiday trip. However, the most pronounced of my emotions was joyous anticipation of the trip back to campus. 

The three days in early April were amongst the best three days I ever spent at IIMB. Long walks around campus, taking in the decorations, re-appreciating the beauty of the pergola style walls, the picturesque open air theatre (OAT), the view from K-Top, yes, even the mess food was enjoyable!

On the first of April, I spent time walking around campus and sitting through the Inaugural ceremony at the OAT. It brought back memories of the first week at campus when we fachhas were made to sit at the OAT dais while the PGP2's "developed our personalities" ;)  After the Inaugural ceremony, I headed to the MDC for dinner with the Tam gang. After that there was a General Body Meeting (reminded me once more of first week, when SAC, Place and Acad GBM's were a matter of routine and dread!) where we were given our Alumni identity cards. 

The next day was D-day... the day started with the convocation rehearsal, with fully written instructions that we all poked fun at :) Come evening, we were robed in black and green, all set to be "awarded our degree and charged to be worthy of our award in thought, word and deed".  As the PGP Chairperson called out 250 names in one long roll calling session, the Chairman of the Board, Mukesh Ambani, kept his broad smile throughout, mouthing 250 congratulations as each one of us walked up the dais to receive the grey folder containing the degree certificate and grade sheet. After photo sessions and dinner, it was time for the last L^2! Time to get trigger- happy, to walk around to Athicas for chocolate and to head to Mess top with a bunch of friends, watch the stars and listen in to the music drifting upwards from the most happening party place in the city! And then, a night-out (by my standards) and breakfast at mess, sporting IIMB Alumni t-shirts! It's already the third day of April. Time to say goodbye to some friends who are leaving, and also time to finish my packing. Last dinner at mess... with some stayers-on for company and ice creams at Amul... and giving a rousing welcome to the freshly printed yearbooks to  round off the day. 

The next day, it was time to leave. The mess was closed for the summer, and the campus wore a deserted look... I felt a knot in my stomach as I thought about leaving... and I found my way to the OAT... the place where it all started and where it all came to a nice summation.  I sat in repose,eyes closed,  letting thoughts run freely through my mind. They flowed easily... first day, the PDP sessions, the Aarambh practice sessions, making new friends, the first week of classes, joining FII, my first tests, the sheer challenge and novelty of the first term, the PPTs of Term 2, the summer placements, my new GCR friends, Elections, a mixed term 3, replete with highs and lows, Term 4, the term of colds and coughs, and bigger challenges, Term 5 and the competitions, the run-up to Vista and all the excitement and fun surrounding it, and a Singapore trip to round off an awesome term, Term 6 and my first camping out experience, the play for the Alumni reunion, fights with friends, and my injury... back to campus - to a new hostel wing, to new friends, to new learning. The relaxed days of the last term, getting to know who really cared about me, rebonding with friends...  Two years of learning... not just any kind of management... the biggest lesson was in managing myself. 

I wonder if that paragraph makes sense... but it was all crystal clear to me as images moved in set patterns as if a movie reel was unwinding in my mind in one continuous fluid motion.

I opened my eyes ... I had to say not good bye, but au revoir... until we meet again. 

With parting, I have made my peace

For it's parting that unlocks memories

Sans parting I would've known not what I would miss

Parting teaches what I knew not in your folds, in bliss

This sorrow in parting makes you sweeter...

Sweetness in your grey stone walls

Sweetness in  towering lecture halls

Sweetness in friendships that last

Sweetness in all of the days past...

This parting is but sweet sorrow

Au revoir... we shall meet some morrow

The mind needs but a trigger to reflect...

It takes a certain type of trigger for a person to truly appreciate the real wonders of the world. With due respect to the things that I mention further down in this sentence: to me, magic is not the rabbit that pops out of the performer's hat, nor is wonderment induced by architectural marvels;  it's the miracle of the human body's healing process that is truly wonderful. And healing is not just about the tissues that spring back together, or the parted skin that inch together again, or even the nerves that snap back, restoring feeling... it's the healing that happens in the mind that's just as marvellous. 

Recovering from the injury to my foot has opened up a whole new dimension in my thoughts. And I'm now more aware of the orchestra of muscle, bone, tissue and skin that make the music of movement possible. When I started learning to walk as a child, I was too little to understand all the wonderful complexity... now I now exactly what I have been taking for granted.

 Just as in every effort involving more than one party, faith in each other is the starting point. My first lesson in re-walking: Walking is an act of mutual trust between feet. 

I couldn't begin to move until my uninjured foot recovered its faith in the injured foot's ability to contribute to the movement. That achieved, I started taking it a few steps at a time, and realized this: You never know how fast you've really been going until it is time to pause and reflect.

And reflect I did, so that I could fully appreciate that the art of walking, for many years buried in the subconscious, was brought sharply to the conscious. And as I pondered more over the act of walking, so complex in its simplicity, I realized that there is joy in discovering how you do what you used to do unconsciously.

The more confident I grew in my knowledge of this wonderful mechanism, the more I took pride in every step: every little bit of effort is important!

While my mind was outdoing my walking pace in its pace of thinking, healing enveloped me in its secure embrace... The old makes way for the new, it's all a part healing and growing!

Surely enough, the injured one gained the confidence of the other... paraphrasing our Man on the Moon - Footstrong: A small step forward for the left is a big leap of trust on its part. 

Some other discoveries: it's not the foot that runs forward that is really supporting you... your support comes from the backfoot, paradoxical as it may seem. 

And it's just gravity that makes going down easier: your muscles are more at home walking up the stairs... I find climbing stairs easier than walking straight. 

My paces may have slowed for a while, but my agility in learning to learn has just gained pace... 

The skill of weaving...words

Just like every other person in the world, I have my idiosyncracies that are so uniquely me... that are at times endearing (to a select few), at times just about tolerable and to quite an extent, vexing to other people. 

To me, doing "my own thing" is important. I need to have opinions that are so different from other people's as to provoke them to thought, to use words that others have scant heard of, to have hobbies that I  share with very few people... and so on. In short, appearing intriguing and throwing new light is "my thing".

So, when I write poetry, I want it to be refreshingly different, to have a style that piques the reader and gives her/him a sense of literary gratification. And, of course, I want to belong to a select few who are able to do just that. 

Imagine my consternation, when I find every other person professing poetic skills and composing couplets and quatrains, and claiming they wrote whole "20-line verses". I, of course, turned grumpy and withdrew from poetry as a certain animal withdraws into its shell, offended that my special skills were being "commoditized" and were being wielded with a fake sense of expertise by mere novices. I took a year-long break from poetry and also, got thinking. 

Do I really have a "style" of writing that I imagine I have? Or was I merely  averagely gifted at stringing  words together, and just possessed an exalted sense of my abilities? 

It also got me thinking on what makes poetry, well, poetry. Poetry is  an expression of oneself. Just as an idle doodle can be as much art as a Renaissance masterpiece, so can poetry range from the Vikram Seth-style rhyming verses to Keatsian poetry that draws you gently into its eddies until you yourself become a part of the whirlwind of words. 

I know all about the fact that everyone has got the right to use words anyhow as a form of poetic expression. However, I cringe at such grotesque extensions of poetic licence that result in "poetry" that sounds totally contrived. 

Poetry is not complete without the play of words that bring out vivid imagery, the alliterations that make you take a new look at the words that you once thought were mundane, the metaphors that sound so perfect that you wondered why those words were never used that way all the time! 

Poetry is all about evoking emotions... the magic wand that draws the reader out, makes him flow with the lines, live the experiences, be in harmony with the words. 

But of course, if the purists had their way and were to set the rules of the game, we'd lose some beautiful lines that don't truly conform, but are works of art, nevertheless. Poetry  has eluded definition always. And it will forever remain to be so... 

Poetry is as much about the reader's discovering his love of the language as the ability of the poet to fashion words together into a beautiful rendering. Let the words flow..  take your threads of words, and weave them into patterns of verse, embellish them with the sequins of imagery, be lavish with the tassels of your rhythm... but, most important be true to yourself... be true to the language...  be true to the one who will read it...

Meaning... in the true sense

I recently read Man's search for meaning (by Viktor Frankl) on a friend's recommendation... and I lost myself in the journey that this slim book took me on.

It's quite uncanny how all of us think we know all the answers, but somehow lose sight of the biggest question that fills our existence... and seldom think of answering it. 

The friend that I mentioned probably picked up this book for different reasons altogether- he's been on a concentration camp pilgrimage (more on that later :) ) and is devouring CC literature like there's no tomorrow! I think that this book would make a profound impact regardless of the circumstances surrounding its creation - however, the fact that it was written by a concentration camp survivor adds a ring of authority to his words - for, is there any person better qualified to savour the joys of life than he who has been pushed to the unimaginable brink?

The first part of the book is about Frankl's experiences at the concentration camp - only it runs on quite unexpected lines; the focus is less on the horrendous facts and the suffering and more on the saving graces and the lessons from camp life. He is a psychiatrist and blessed to be able to view the life at the camp from an objective perspective. 

At first,  I wondered how someone who was living only in a nominal sense, deprived of everything that defines humanness - freedom, food, sleep, recreation, expression, could occupy himself with deep thoughts and introspection... and one of the first things that made a huge impression on me was his statement on an undeniable human right: he may have lost most of the freedoms afforded to a human, but there is that one freedom cannot be taken away - and that is the right to shape your attitude to a given situation. The way you exercise this undeniable freedom determines whether you wallow in sorrow and remain grief-stricken or manage to maintain your dignity and be worthy of your sufferings. 

The second part of this book talks about "Logotherapy": the school of therapy that Frankl created. Logos itself is Greek for 'meaning'. When he returned to his practice, Frankl had to deal with a number of cases of people searching for a meaning for their sufferings, and even their existence. 

On suffering, he says one can withstand any 'how' as long as one knows the 'why' - understanding the meaning of your existence and giving it a purpose can help you tolerate any amount of suffering or obstacles. The key, therefore, is to find a meaning. Patients came to him, suffering from the loss of a loved one, or a tormented existence, and questioned him, asking what meaning there is to their life. He boomerangs the question back to them, saying, it is not for us to question life for its meaning. Life itself sets our obstacles and throws the question to us, and challenges us to find a meaning. 

When I discussed this book with the friend who had given it to me, I was astonished that his impressions were along completely different dimensions. 

He spoke about how it made him want to develop a vision in his life, and work towards it. I, on the other hand, spoke about making one's life an answer to the existential question and using one's sense of purpose to handle suffering.

Then we realised that he was trying to relate the lessons from the book to his current preoccupation with career choices, while I, to my state of soul-searching on the path of recovery from an immobilizing injury. 

Amazing how a treatise on meaning can serve as a balm for wholly disparate maladies...

About learning and unlearning at b-school

 

You need to unlearn a lot at b-school, they say... couldn't be truer! And the biggest unlearning is in the area of humility and modesty about your achievements! Yes... how else do you think you can stand out in a peer group of all-life toppers, Mastermind Quizzers, Engineering 10-pointers, multilingual experts, triathlon champions, Olympiad winners and the like?

And the manifestation of this unfortunate reality shows itself in all its grandeur in that work of art that every b-school student is expected to create - the Resume : that short, most sacred document to be crafted  with love, care, blood and tears - that one page that stands testimony to a life of splendid effort! I doubt if a Wordsworth or a Shakespeare would have given himself with such utter dedication to any work of literature!

The  Resume writing game is not for the scrupulous.. this is not a game for non-conformists or (worse!) those skunks that still have enough humility left in them to downplay achievements. Your life at b-school is expected to have steeled you reasonably well for this highly evolved form of writing.



So, folks... let me treat you to a sample of this sub-task of resume writing called "bullet-pointing".

Background: A bullet point is a statement of considerable, quantifiable, unique achievement, worthy of perusal by the powers-that-be.

The catch:It is to be not more than 2 lines in length.

The loophole: Font, unspecified.

So how does the average IIMBiite approach this problem? Just make a Strategy framework,with Inputs, goals and output.  Roughly translated, it means you gotta plug in facts about yourself(creditable or otherwise), play around with it, add accepted jargon and numbers, and hey presto! you gotta brilliant bullet point!

Sample this:

Fact: I'm hopeless at reading poetry. My friend wrote one and I took 6 seconds to understand each line.

Playing around: Read it a second time, take only 3 seconds per line, get somebody to appreciate you!

Jargon: "acclaimed", "exceptional", "turnaround" etc.

Also do: Read the Power Verbs pdf, and show the point to a few seniors

Output:

• Demonstrated high potential for critical appreciation of applied orientations of human thought, achieving 100% decrease in turnaround time

More facts to be bulletized soon!

 See what I mean??