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.