Brave New World

I've moved now to newer - though scarcely greener - pastures.

ACT I


Scene I

Ahmedabad, formerly Gardabad and, by an imperial Mughal decree that was fortunately stayed at the last moment, possibly even Jehannoomabad.

The sun scorches the ground and the bricks soak in the heat, on a perpetual microwaved slow-bake. This is IIM Ahmedabad in the middle of a failed monsoon, a petulant recession and epidemic hysteria. The institute, as one soon discovers, is the cynosure of local tabloids, each laden with trite porcine puns and a healthy dose of adoration.

I was, as our case studies would have it, in WIMWI.

(A Well-Known Institute of Management in Western India - this is as good a reason as any to detest contractions, if you don't already - I rest my case.)

In short, I now live in a brick citadel complete with ramp and underground pathway. The architecture deserves more than a few words. Here are as many as I can spare: circles, arches, minimalism, exposed-brickwork, facade, Louis Kahn, genius, LKP.

(LKP: The eponymous Louis Khan Plaza, heart of the campus, a simple square of dry green, straddled on three sides by imposing balconies and the refreshingly cool Vikram Sarabhai Library)

It was freshman week all over again. But this time there were more than a few shocks and surprises - the traditional initiation culture that one keeps mum about. Forever. Till death do part the lips. And a black be tongue be yours, even then. So we skip ahead a few weeks.

IIM has, strangely enough, something much akin to sorority rushes. The campus abounds with clubs and special interest groups, each hierarchically structured into a bureaucratic machine that has been carefully engineered to kill all the fun. To join one, you (a fuchcha) would interview to work under your immediate seniors (the tuchchas). The reward: a measly line on one's CV. It was familiarity all over again, in a very potent form. The scariest part was the normality all of it had assumed, eliciting not the slightest raise of a sardonic eyebrow. It had long ago become the way of things, as I would soon discover. I gave the whole thing a cold shoulder, of course - a certain elitist streak within me will never consent to being judged.

Yet enough queue up to answer dreary questions and pretend to smile, to love work and every iota of responsibility. It is this hypocrisy that one learns to live with, a contradiction of sorts in an otherwise overwhelmingly supportive dorm culture.

(Dorm: three floors, thirty rooms, great bonding - and plenty that stays behind closed doors)

Dorms are the very essence of non-academic life in IIM A. Treats, birthday 'celebrations' , dorm names, hastily composed juices, plagiarized casework, trivial secrets, lives intricately linked forever ... they each deserve a post, but few will eventually get one. After all, everything here is fiercely competitive.

And now, I must go do one of the two things that occupy most of our time: prepare for classes. The other is of course sleep, blissful unattainable sleep.

My Happy Place

Relax... breathe... gently close your eyes... now close them once again... Awake the Seven Sleepers... and cerebrate.

There is no lamp-post here to guide you, no compass to lead you there. But the entrance beckons and you can't help being swept in. Speak, friend, and enter. The door closes gently behind you. All dreams, they say, are but manifestations of old memories. After all, how can you imagine anything you haven't already seen?

Picture it now. First the music: the slow strains of an ancient guitar. The record plays, the LP spins smoothly, and the tortured chords of Pink Floyd greet you as you sink into a padded tub chair. It is a high-backed rosewood piece fashioned two centuries ago, when wood was still wood. The wide splat bears a carved heraldic crest behind it. The front is upholstered in cream silk with stuffed supports shaped to perfection. The legs are gracefully turned, sliding easily on the gleaming floorboards as you swivel around to take a better look.

The room is wide and dimly lit - with low candelabra casting just enough light to read under. Behind you, the walls are lined with books filling expansive shelves, their embellished titles visible only as a soft golden glow. A track ladder leans near the edge, carved out of Burma teak and resting on tiny wheels. The heady smell of leather draws you closer and you see that the books are bound, some in red and some in black, your personal sigil embossed on every spine. Your hand traces a line across the volumes as you walk along the edge of the circular room.

The monotony is broken by a tall window - from floor to ceiling - that allow you to gaze undetected at the world below. And the world is far below, you realize, as the boughs of a tall orange tree tap gently against the pane. You can't see much through the drizzle but the rolling fields offer a comforting, albeit blurred, familiarity. And somehow, through the thin glass (misted with your breath), you can taste the air without. Beneath the tangerine tang you catch the intoxicating whiff of petrichor (that sweet smell of damp earth) and you are rooted there while the minutes slowly tick away.

Turn back to the table by the tub chair. It is a scalloped Chippendale tea set. Atop it is a jug and two glasses - though you're not expecting any company. The glass jug is filled to the brim with freshly fixed Sue Ellen's Nightmare and topped with lime wedges. Ice cubes clink enticingly against the salted rim... The drink is in your hand now, you savour the punch. The dream is going to end soon and you feel it - like seven seals slowly snapping. You recline in the chair and your eyelids flutter open. You open them again.

The child has grown, the dream is gone.
You are now become... comfortably numb.