My life in IIT Bombay, Scroll III

There was something in IIT I've never criticized - the food. Most writers who have eaten four years' of meals here tell everyone who has not how terrible it can get. I disrespectfully disagree. I could not have been more pleasantly surprised when that first piece of (paneer*, was it?) slid past my lips and didn't make me regurgitate. Since then, I've rarely come across a bad meal (and I've tasted some pretty apalling stuff) at the messes here. They may not be fit to serve for a grand dinner but they are never inedible. Part of the glamour, I believe, lies in the criticism - it unobtrusively places one at a level above the common hosteller (a word almost always replaced by the annoyingly erroneous 'hostelite'), proclaiming to all who may care to interpret it that one has been brought up on the grub of kings.

Occasionally, a truly dreadful dish does enter the weekly menu but more often than not the long arm of democracy hurls it back out, leaving behind only an unpleasant aftertaste and a enlivening conversational topic for those otherwise subdued dinners.
Tonight, as of now, I shall digress from my mildly cynical stand and speak of more pressing issues through my own biased eyes. To get straight to the point:
RGgiri. This dreaded word is a popular term for an unpopular trait. RG is the IITian acronym for Relative Grading, a concept thoughtlessly borrrowed from the west along with countless other trifles. IIT does not encourage intellectual brilliance - it promotes relative brilliance. If you shined in the past there is every possibility that you will be outshined here. But it is also possible - nay, probable - that collective ineptitude will rule the day. Relative Grading is the institute's way of differenciating between its many students and it is by far the worst way to judge people.

The near-universal acceptance of this system of grading does not deter me, for I am a witness to the bitterness that it can cause. At the end of every quiz (read: test) or exam, the average IIT student is not so worried about how well he has done; it is others' misfortunes that delight him, their mistakes his gains, their success his bane. This mentality, if strictly restricted to classrooms, would not be half as deteriorating as it otherwise is. Students however have the unnerving capacity to compromise their standards and fall in with the system (of grading). They act in accordance with it and turn competitive to the point of boredom. Hostility, though very covert, ensues and any chance at a close-knit student community is tossed out of the window.

The reason we still have some of the camaraderie talked of outside is perhaps because not everyone falls prey to the invidious grading. There are those who shun academics as an excuse for nothing better to do with one's time. I am inclined to fall in with this latter lot as I see them less dependent on the shortcomings of others for their enjoyment.

Some would claim that a relative system would make it easier for companies to efficiently pick the best guys. But since when has IIT's priority been the companies? Why must the students live in such an inherently hostile environment for the sake of companies?

If it appears that I am exaggerating, count the suicides from these elite institutions. Recently I stumbled upon a blog of a friend of one of the dead and read his forthright and angry article directed at the faculty. Academic pressure in IIT is high enough to burst any bubble of protective apathy, and sometimes it drives a student to the other side of the tunnel. The tunnel of light, the tunnel to the Other side.

FOOTNOTES
* Paneer is the Hindi term for cottage cheese.

A Year in IITB, Scroll II

There's finally enough time to continue my acerbic critique of IIT Bombay. It has been a fortnight and I've been kept away by some pretty nasty academic shocks - mostly in the form of midsemester results - jolts every IITian faces at some point of time. Well, I'll put Maths behind me and take up a different thread: the extra-curricular scene and the characters that people it.

There are several sorts of individuals that dwell in the dilapidated hostels of IIT Bombay and it is in this entry that I shall endeavour to classify them as broadly and as vitriolically as possible.

I'll begin with the much-maligned Muggus, the epitome of popular opinion concerning this institute. They are the predictable inkhorn pedants who stay behind their rooms' doors (which usually bear the comments of displeased graffitists) for the greater part of the day, emerging mostly for classes and occasionally for meals. Their studies occupy most of their waking hours and perhaps all their sleeping ones. The average Muggu does not watch movies. He does not believe in the overpowering joy of music or the thrill of sport. The only books he reads are related to his courses, present and prospective. He shows no outward signs of indulgence and is a recluse throughout the year save the night before an exam, when he plays host to a party of parasites, each seeking to undo the damage of half a semester's negligence.

The polar opposite of the Muggus are the Lukkhe (pl.), the self-styled 'studs' of IIT life, who are strangely proud of their one defining characteristic - their persevering struggle to remain free of goals, to lead a culturally hollow four years in the institute, unbound by commitments of any sort. Most of them slip into alcoholism and some even acquaint themselves with the local tobacconists. They have plenty of time at hand and any way to spend it is unquestioningly adopted. More than anything else it's the death of reason on their part that I mourn for.

Then there are the Poltus (pl.): their endlessly amusing antics to hold a post in hostel (and later in institute) hierarchy make them the most predictable of students. They are the most affable of our lot, always eager to please and be known. In the political undercurrents that rock IIT they manage to stay afloat and steer the tides of cultural leadership. Why a man would spend hours campaigning, missing out on precious sleep and harbouring competitive grudges, in order to win the privilege of serving a rebellious student community is quite beyond my powers of understanding. (A little political gyan: the word 'minister' actually meant 'servant' in Latin before it was adopted into the English language as its current meaning. Power, as long as it is not misused, is a sentence of unpaid (or at any rate, poorly paid) service to a community that rarely deserves it.) Primary positions of servitude in IIT hostels include:

1. Mess Secy., noun, the meaning of this entry should become obvious after sufficient application of one's intellect.

2. Maint. Secy., noun, the student whose reign shall encompass everything from squalid toilets to dog-ruled corridors.

3. Sports Secy., noun, see no.3 above.

4. Comp. Secy., noun, the computer enthusiast having special knowledge pertaining to the hoodwinking of institute proxies and firewalls, and though this is not his official designation, repairer of malfunctioning computers.

I may go so far as to include the organizing-enthusiasts in the Poltu crowd. They are the ones who make Mood Indigo, E-Cell events and Techfest a reality - with a great deal of help from the legion of freshies (freshmen) who hope to stand in their shoes in the coming years. Some of them work for that single line in their resume which adds a little weight to their first salary - a reason I don't find compelling enough to tempt me into joining their coterie.

Then there is of course the Lit. Junta. It's the closest thing I come to being branded as a part of. These quintessentially English-speaking chaps have their interests shaped by the institute rather than the other way around. A freshman minutely interested in venturing into the literary world will find himself in a society where that phrase has been redefined beyond recognition:
Lit. , noun, anything remotely related to trivia, quizzing, scrabbling, word games, dumb charades (or the broader version of things : pot-pourri) and principally nothing else.

He would spend the first two weeks silently absorbing the new version of things and slowly put on the affectation of fitting right in. With time, he does - it can be so infectious. Yeats and Shakespeare forgotten, he would play host to the meme and over the years, hand it down to a new generation of hope-filled entrants, perhaps in the meanwhile holding the post of Lit. Secy.
Lit. Secy., noun, blameless goat, specific to a hostel, bullied into editing a hostel magazine and attending boring meetings in exchange for the power of presiding over a library that could fit in a cupboard and has a negative growth rate.

Theirs is the good life, albeit spent in the pursuit of trifling shards of information that they store in the recesses of a brain already crammed full with other forms of trivia.
In my opinion, a sort of rut has formed in the way of things and I find these few events grossly inadequate in quenching my thirst for words and good solid literature. I take respite in the LAN as everyone does (in some form or other - either by delving into the sundry pornographic servers, through gaming or even via the rather recent and addictive phenomenon of Orkut.) In my first semester I discovered Gutengerg and Wikipedia and have thus far found no reason to experiment further.

It is a quarter to one in the morning, and, in keeping with my tradition of ending these entries abruptly, I shall call it a day (if that word is still apposite).

A Year in IITB, Scroll I

It's been a year, I try to convince myself, but the mind is still reeling from the blow. Everything I'd heard of IIT in those days of ignorant bliss now seems like a fairy tale - a conspiracy to mislead.

The cultural shock, I must, admit was no trifle. I found myself one rainy July afternoon seated despondently in an ill-shaped wooden chair of the Convocation Hall, my parents beside me as we waited for the formalities associated with admittance to unwind. As I assured myself for the last time that I had made the right choice (BITS, Pilani ,Electrical, was the option I had given up) an insufferable tune wafted through the crackling speakers - a truly dreadful relic of the 50s/60s film devotionals - and put a dampener on all further conversation. I took the opportunity to crane my neck and study the boys (and the terminally few girls) I would be growing up with. They looked for the most a motley bunch of academics - you can usually tell by their T-shirts which are almost always sponsored by some leading software company - with the odd exception of those fashion enthusiasts with their stained antifits and Livestrong imitations. I confess that, in my mind's eye, it wasn't a very good review that I gave them and I dare say I fared no better in theirs'.

First opinions, some say, are lasting ones. Well, I think I can provide the exception to that rule. As I got to know them better, over the subsequent year, I grew to like them and those oddities so typical of IITians. If there was a misfit in that crowd, it was me.
To begin with, there was the language adjustment. Formerly, I had come to view Hindi as a sort of language of yore, something which was slowly being replaced by an omnipresent English. IIT threw that notion straight in my face. There was Hindi around every bend. It was also, I noted with an initial amusement that soon wore off, a very different sort of Hindi, colourful and littered with slang. The 'ma-behen galis' (incestous insinuations) serve as terms of endearment - almost like some neo-communist replacement for the word 'comraad' (sic). Phrases like "Behen ****, you mugged (burnt the midnight oil) the whole night?" are the basic units of conversation in the mess. In time I found a rare few anglophiles (none of them confess to this openly - it's almost something to be ashamed of in this apparently nationalistic institute).
It's time I reflected the brighter side of life here: the intellectuals. In my first year, I shared a wing with a Chemistry, a Physics, an Informatics and, I think, an Astronomy Olympiad international finalist. This is the place where you will find all the geeks and nerds (and I mean this in a complimentary sense) of India, the guys who'll clear all your doubts and do all your assignments before you can offer them a seat. There is something inspiring to be living under the shadow of greatness. As a kid I often toyed with the idea of a centre of intelligence, based on the rather trite centre of gravity. I'm quite willing to bet that if such a thing existed, in Maharashtra we would certainly qualify as that locus. Then there are of course the dumb happy-go-lucky chaps like me as well, who have only Fortuna to thank. (But we are the unimportant majority).

There are winners from every walk of life residing in these dingy hostels (I'll speak of the rooms in my next installment) and most are reluctant to reminisce their victories. On the whole, they serve as the perfect melting pot to live amidst - and this I believe is the best aspect of IIT. Yes, it isn't the academics or the faculty, or the facilities we have (the library here is a joke - has anyone heard of fiction?). It's the student community and for me - the whirlwind of cultural groups to choose from.

Being the predictable anglophile that I am I unhesitantly joined the ranks of the Literary Club. There I discovered how far one could stretch the definition of 'literary' without actually violating it. There were no recitals from famous works, no poetry readings. The meetings were usually in the form of word games and quizzes (things that appealed to me nevertheless, given my amateur experience of them) and pretty much nothing else. In my spare time (read: weekends) I would rush off to a bookstore, sink into one of the cushy sofas and delve into a book - something almost unknown on campus. Yes, it is one thing I sorely miss from the outside world - the easy access to a library of readable fiction (and I am quite lenient on my criteria for readability - even Middle English Chaucerian tales are just fine) . I make do with the new corporate bookstores that welcome one to sit and read in the hope that one will buy something. It is a hope that I, in gratitude, often fulfill.

Enough for now. The stomach calls and dinner awaits.