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).