Masters, they say!

One by one, the last bit of dirty linen went in. On most other days, my thoughts would have already been captured by mom made curd rice. If on the rare days the thoughts did not travel this far, they would have been eagerly waiting for the next 356. Today, they refused to leave the room. The thoughts took the form of a lump in my throat.
Slowly, I locked the doors of my room. But the eyes were threatening to open up any instant. My legs led me to Subbu's room. My mouth murmured, "Yennada naaye, weekend yenna plan". Ears heard something, did not listen. Did not want to listen. I walked away. The mind did not. How could it?

The address of my home has not change. But, the address of my room has. This is MY room, MINE. This is the place where I found my solace, my identity. Where I could lock myself all alone an err, no not cry, but compose mails to sometimes troll, sometimes lol people. Where I could sometimes study, yeah sometimes! Where I could simply sit! Imagine doing THAT at home. Where I could find myself waiting for me, every afternoon, every evening, every night!

Indian kids across generations are threatened,"eat your food right or else you would be sent to hostel". Little did my mom know curd was served in abundance in the hostel. Perhaps, I will force my kid to a hostel. Because, It is only here you know how to talk to a person who has flunked his fourth re test! It is only here you know how to share happiness. Here, you know the art of running away from birthday bumps, even if it is not your birthday.

The transition from a non-hosteller to a hosteller does not happen on the day of joining the hostel. Takes a month. You know you are a hosteller when the formality of knocking your friend's door is invisible. Your phone becomes our phone. Huddled in a room together with the high and glorious aim of studying one day before examination and ending up cursing the teacher, only to come back to curse yourself and your friends. Asking your friend to wake you up knowing fully well he would be fast asleep. Knocking each door after coming back from home. Never feeling shy of letting an expletive from the mouth.

Sigh, the journey from home to college was long. From a boy to man. The journey from college to back home is longer.

B grade

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As a child, when I was asked to write an essay on “Myself”, I could fill up sheets, or atleast lines about myself with ease. However, yesterday when I was trying to fill my bio in a popular so called social networking site, I could not manage a word. And I thought, maybe a couple of lines were not enough to describle someone as dynamic, as charming, as smart, as witty as me!

Or did I? A little more introspection, a couple of cups of coffee later, another long ride without the phone disturbing me I realized, perhaps my life was drowned in the large ocean of medioricity that the most apt bio would be “Just another guy!”. Back when I was a kid, my world was too small to realize it. My world was amma, appa and me. My cousins were yet to be born. I was my parent's world too. That was when I thought I was maybe, different and even better than others. Learning to write “A” would have made my parents so proud of me.

A couple of years later, when I learnt to read faster than others, I wondered if I was perhaps a little different, or even better than others! Those were the days, when in a film I only saw the hero and the villian. Romance made no sense to me. Comedy only understood in parts. And immediately, I could put myself into the hero's shoes.I could see myself coming out victorious in every battle that I fought. Only the villians changed. When I saw cricket, I imagined myself as Sachin pounding bowlers all over the park.When I saw Cartoons, I was Mowgli. I was the hero.

As time passes by, you realize not everyone is a hero in life. Some of the characters just make up a movie. The hero's brother, the villian's sidekick who goes to fight with the hero only to land up in a fruit stall with a broken nose, the friendly shop owner in the film, the doctor, the onlooker on the street. It is only now I realize, I am one of these characters. And am sure, there are many others who too play similar roles. Infact, most people in this world play these characters. We live for those two minutes in a three hour film when we get our friends to the theatre to excitedly show them our role which never altered the script of the movie. Far later, when the lights are off and we can listen to our voice carefully, there is a slow voice telling, You cannot rest my boy! Yes, your role does not alter the movie and that is why you should not rest. There is always someone else to play yours! The hero can rest.

In a college, the A graders are the cynosure of teacher's eyes, subjects of envious glances from peers and well respected. There is also a another group which sits in the last row usually bunking classes and make their presence felt in the only way that they know when they are present. While the intended target of their paper rockets might be the lecturer, they actually hit the girl's hearts with undiluted precision. Most of them are also good in all matters outside classroom. But there is the overwhelming majority like me who lay trapped somewhere in middle. Not the best in studying. There is always this cousin who is better than you in Math, the friend whose English speech is notches above your writing skill, the neighbour who codes stuff for which you took ages and the batchmate who makes you look a fool on the football ground.

But, as I write this, I seem to have found a new found identity for myself. I am the B grader, and a perennial one at it. That guy with spectacles, who makes his way into the class five minutes before it starts, understands a little, goes to play only to concede a stupid goal, that guy whose code you can bet never is the most efficient. That guy, who is omnipresent in every class., I am the B grade boy. After all, for every Sachin Tendulkar, that are nine Sanjay Bangars toiling away in a nondescript ground somewhere in Rajkot.

Accused everywhere!!

I call myself @accusedengineer on Twitter! One of my close friends, calls himself @accused_iyer! Oh yeah, after the infinite amounts of plagiarism, I shall absolve myself by citing him as the source of inspiration for my Twitter handle! Inspiration nevertheless, I was intrigued by some of the memes doing rounds, “What, my parents think I am?”, “What my freinds think I am?”, What my girlfriend thinks I am!!

When will people ever know what I am?! Not that, I care. But sometimes, It hurts when people have a notion of me which is better than my real self. And obviously, I wont live to please their idea of me. And the vicious circle of people getting hurt starts!

But seriously, my introduction itself builds a wrong image in people’ s heads! Hi, Am Rahul. I am from Bangalore! All is fine till then.Then the dreaded question: Whats your native? Am a Tamilian! Therein, forms the image of a Sun TV watching, sambar loving, Hindi bashing image of mine! But heavens, I am anything but this. Yeah, I do have many Tamilian streaks. I love filter coffee. I love curd rice.I do love Vadivel, Vivek, Santhanam and yeah, am a Vijay fan too. But more than, am proud of the fact that I share my blood with the genius of Ramanunjam, the Anands and the ARRs.

Err, did I tell am full bred Bangalorean? Not really, there too! Somehow, people from all places except Bangalore have mapped the image of  a Bangalorean to a gum chewing, Manchester United jersey wearing, blond streaked dude with some hot gals for company. Oh yeah, did I forget people assume us to possess some costly gizmo and with near zero disdain for money! Sorry once more! I am a Bangalorean. Yes, My English oozes Bangalore. However, thy respect for Victorian English shall persist, love the da’s, the le’s , the chumma’s and the ganchalis!As a Bangalorean, love the Darshini hotels more than the fancy malls. But being middle class, am willing to walk the extra mile(yes, i mean it literally from college to home!) to catch an ordinary bus than travelling by the volvo!

In India, another prejudice is caste. In some ways, its not totally away from reality. And as my friend’s dad rightly calls him, accused iyers we have become! Mom calls at 8,”Dai, today Saraswati Puja da! Thala ke ellam kulli da! “. All we hear is Saraswathi and Puja! Pun intended!

But seriously, being Iyer does not mean no-world knowledge knowing, ghee eating, Veda reciting no-girl seeing nerd. Neither are we any good in maths. Again, am a fuzzy iyer. Once in a while, I do my sandhya Vandhanam. Once in a while, I watch Shakeela doing her jalwa!

And last but not the least? Engineering? Am ghanta engineer! The other day, my aunt was trying to get her vehicle to start, when my gracious grandfather interrupts! “Fret not, my dear daughter, I have a grandson, equal to a thousand lions, who has mastered the Vedas, err, sorry engineering. Thee shall transform your vehicle into a 1000 horsed chariot, now”! Aye, dude. I am no mechanic! Not that this has happened, but I can very well see my cousin in a year’s time asking me to solve the Towers of Hannoi problem given a C compiler! Wonder, if he really knows what I did during my engineering.

Not that I really fret over what people think about me. Perhaps, everbody lives in a parallel world. Perhaps, being accused is better than being convicted.