Why Capt. Gopinath never asks for directions today?

Another Slice of life at ISB

Shiv and I worked for the Co Curricular Activities (CCA) department for sometime together. My workstation was right opposite to Shiv and in his den where he thundered almost always on his phone. The one problem with him roaring on the phone is that the guys on the other side seldom tried to cut in.

This was a time when ISB had gone ballistic with getting high value celebrities on to campus. Everyone from M F Husain to George Bush were paying us a visit and we were becoming famous. All in the CCA were engaged in coordinating these visits under the able leadership of Shiv.

One day a Student who was coordinating to get the Chief Minister of AP - the late YSR to campus, walked into the room and handed her mobile phone to Shiv and said Capt. Gopinath on line and he wants directions to reach ISB.

Shiv as usual took the opportunity to thunder... "Where are you coming from?" apparently Captain said "Bagumpet Airport."

Shiv took his customary pause before roaring back... "Oh in that case take the left to Panjaguda junction then from there to Banjara hills, then along KBR park to Jubilee Hills Check Post from where you take a left towards Apollo Hospital but turn right before that to take the Whisper Valley route to come to the old Bombay highway and once you reach the Highway go towards Hyderabad University or Gachibowli Stadium till you reach IDBI. If you see IIIT to your left you have missed IDBI so go back and take the road to Infosys and we are right opposite to that. Actually if your driver is from Noorie (cab service) he will know."

Shiv took a breath as he had done breathless that would put the original song to shame.

There was some stony silence that followed and then want Shiv turned and said to me in nonchalant Marathi makes me laugh even today...

"Arre tichya! hyalla Helicopter sathi directions pahije!"

Translation of the last line in English:

"Shit! this guy needed air directions for his Helicopter."

Mission & Vission

Reading into my social behavior i.e updates on Facebook, Linked In, Google +, PagalGuy, Etc... my McKenzie discard (sorry alumni) friend connected with me.

She wanted to know what exactly I was doing and how did I plan to make money out of this in the MBA prep industry.

She like many others could not believe that I had no profit motive and just would not take no for an answer with regards to free advice for me.

So I decided to shut my trap and listen...

She said "You know you should first draft a Vision & Mission?"

"May be your Mission statement should be like... "If its ISB then you Should go through #."

"Phew! cheesy Mission... " I sighed...

"And your Vision..."

"Short sighted but optically correctable to 6/6." I cut in.

We both had a good laugh and then I had to explain to her that I operate like a Section 25 Entity.

The moment I uttered that she seem to back off like I have never seen a sales consultant do before.

14 Injections!

Those were the days when rumors were rampant that if a dog bites, you got to take 14 injections and that too in the stomach.

A bitch had just littered and like all school kids in my building I too was very keen to play with the pups. 

However the bitch was unpredictable and on one occasion, just out of the blue came over real closed and barked in a threatening manner. 

Everyone ran and so did I.

A little later someone saw that my elbow had a little scratch. Since there was no way I could inspect it, I had to rely on the opinion of my companions. And these brats did not stop there... The ran up to my Mum and told her that a dog had bitten me. They also filled her in with details on how rabies was around and I needed to be taken to the doctor.

My chicken hearted Mum rushed me to the Doc who rightly dismissed it as a small scratch and even said to my Mum that it did not look like I was bitten by a dog. However as a precaution advised an anti tetanus shot. I hated injections and like any kid my age protested but soon I had to give in.

Still in pain and even afraid to touch my bum, I got out of the dispensary to go home with my Mum when the Doc said... "Keep an eye on the dog... If it dies in the next 10 days I will have to give you those 14 injections in the tummy."

I think he was joking but this parting shot took my breath away. Just one bloody prick had taken life out of me and now this guy had told me about the 14 injections in the stomach...

From that day I would be extra nice to the bitch. I just wanted her to live forever if it were possible. I was so frighten about the bitch dying in the next ten days that I would fight with people who would throw stones at her. I even saved up stuff from my school tiffin box by not eating anything to feed the bitch.

I was very small and could hardly count so had lost count of days but thanks to the way I was treating the bitch, she had become very friendly with me.

As soon as she would see me she would come running to me expecting me to either give her biscuits or at least show some affection. 

One day when my Mum noticed this she asked me in a very stern tone why I was still playing with the bitch even after the bite. Innocently, I explained that I was only ensuring that the bitch lived so that I don't have to take the 14 injections in the stomach.   

My Mum laughed and told me that it had been more than a month and I was out of danger now...

That day when I went to play in the evening as usual the bitch and her 3 pups who by now seem to have grown up came to me runing the moment they saw me. 

I had revenge on my mind and picked up stones from near by and started throwing at the bitch. Thankfully my aim was bad and and her dodging skills were good. She and her pups escaped unhurt but ran away not understanding what had happened.

   

A deal that took my breath away…

The year was 2004 and Gachibowli was a very sleepy place then. The AP Housing Board Colony at Gachibowli was built on a set of low hills around a lake. It was a very beautiful place with the famous Hyderabad hanging rocks all around. I really loved the semi forest like feel of the place but I must confess that I was afraid of the eerie feeling at nights. While most of my colleagues and friends felt this was a place for a fugitive, I chose this as my abode. Little did I know that I was going to live here for the next five years!

Singled in life I was trying to find my feet in a new city. As a single child this did not come naturally to me. Born, brought up, produced and developed in a super metro like Bombay I had never been tortured or subjected to household chores of any kind. Leave aside cooking, sweeping or cleaning, I had not much experience in even locking my room. There was always someone to take care of these duties at home.

In a suburb like Gachibowli what was most difficult to find in those days was a servant. I did not know any Telugu and thus could only practice dumb charades with the women who came to negotiate with me. Even after engaging with a few my life was a nightmare. These women would refuse to understand any instructions and keep to timings of their own. They would go unannounced on long leave and demand cash advances in the middle of the month. I also knew that I was paying at least 40% more than the market rate. My middle class neighbors who helped me communicate with my servants often took advantage of this and negotiated package deals with them to get the benefit of the higher premium I was paying.

Among all this walked in Shaheen. She was frail, lived far, did not impress with her work at first but spoke Hindi. The language barrier broken I managed to negotiate much better and soon we were in a deal. Shaheen as the name suggest was also a Muslim and with firm secularism celebrated every festival on earth. She would thus want leave every now and then. Also since she stayed a little far she found it difficult to keep timings. As I had hardly anything of value in my house I was open to the idea of sharing the keys to my place with her.

One day I found my TV on when I returned in the evening. I realized that my assets were being used without my knowledge. Since I would meet her only over weekends and on pay days the communication gap this time was of a different type. I also knew that confrontation would not help as she would just chuck the job. So that weekend I decided to very politely ask her about this.

While she dismissed the allegations, soon she started demanding some more privileges. She had inspected my refrigerator and candidly told me that since there are only water bottles in the fridge she should be allowed to use it to store some stuff occasionally. At first I was reluctant but she showed me the logic in terms of equal power consumption in both cases. I was amazed by her ability to analyze the situation and negotiate. I had no option but to give in to her demand.

I soon forgot about this arrangement as Shaheen would seldom keep anything in the fridge and I would rarely visit my refrigerator thanks to the Hyderabadi winter.

It should have been a night in early April as I remember clearly I was back from the ISB Graduation Day Celebrations. Hyderabad had just begun to get hot and I decided to walk into my fridge and pull out a bottle of cold water to drink. When I opened the door I saw two large goat heads wrapped in a transparent plastic bag staring right at me. I almost let out a scream and dropped the bottle in my hand before running for cover. Was this a scene from a horror show?

After collecting my breath and gathering my courage I decided to approach my fridge door again. The packets were still there so that was nothing paranormal about this. Now I started thinking and inspecting the stuff. The heads in my fridge were like the ones you would see at a butcher’s shop. While thinking I also realized that it was bakri eid a day before and thus finally I concluded that the culprit was Shaheen. I did not have to be Sherlock Homes for that.

I mustered up the courage to speak to Shaheen the next day but my aggression went for a toss when we both had a good laugh about the incident. When my neighbor’s kid inquired about my scream the previous night, I taught him to play this practical joke on his folks at home. Alas they did not have a fridge nor did we have a spare goat head so he found some other carcass from the garbage nearby and tried the trick by putting it in his dad’s trunk. The foul smell was a giveaway and the beating he got actually made me feel sorry for him.

On a ten point scale this blog would only score a Five. To read some of my higher rated blogs click on http://tbgfl.blogspot.com/



To read my views on the news click on http://llewellyn-desouza.blogspot.com/



To read about my adventures in my Yellow WagonR click on http://adventureswiththeyellowwagonr.blogspot.com/

The Convertible.

The information dissemination drives for the Young Leaders Programme (YLP) at the ISB were quite literally taking me places. BITS Pilani is a 5 hour drive from Delhi and Vikram and I decided to hire a cab from Delhi to Pilani and Back. I had been to Pilani before and thus knew that the road could be a bit of a pain in the wrong place but what we had not bargained for was a Sikh Missionary for a driver.

Joginder was a five foot one inch average looking Sardar with extraordinary driving skills. Well at least that is what made me like him. However he was also a missionary on a zealous undertaking. I wonder what made him think that we would be interested in converting ourselves but I have this strange feeling that the ‘Singh’ in Vikram’s name was giving Joginder ideas.

As soon as we were out of bounds of the FM radio network, my dear Joginder switched on a ‘majlis’ like discourse in Punjabi. Thanks to Hindi films we could decipher what was being rendered but I was a little uncomfortable with what followed. Once the speech on the digital media was finished, Joginder started off with his missionary aggression.

He went on and on describing in graphic detail how Sikh Gurus were sacrificed at the hands of Moghal rulers like Aurangzeb, Humayun, Babur and even Shah Jahan. Wonder why he left Jahangir and Akbar out of the list. He even told us the reason why Sikhs differentiate themselves by using a turban and how when the time comes each Sikh warrior like him would be enough to tackle a militia of millions.

Pilani came to our rescue and since we reached our destination Joginder was forced to stop. However he promised us that he was not finished yet and would give us a sequel on our way back to Delhi.

The students at BITS Pilani rocked and made the entire effort worth it. We almost forgot about the tribulation we had been subjected to until the next day a smiling Joginder was back to drive us crazy.

This time he spared the Moghals and started off with how the Hindu Pundits and other holy men had miss used the sacred premises of Sikh Gurudwaras in the North Western Region of a united India. He went on to describe how authority entrusted in good faith was misused and how the Sikhs had to fight valiantly to recover honour.

At each stage we were being reassured that Sardar Joginder Singh was a man who could all alone take on an army in aggression for us.

The road from Pilani to Delhi passes through a place called Bhiwani. This place in recent times is more known for the Jat agitations and the Rail and Road blockades. The Jats are a hot blooded and more importantly able bodied tribe that lives in this region. They are known for their ability beat people into pulp when in a human combat situation.

As we were driving listening to Joginder we saw a few vehicles damaged by accidents on the way and then suddenly it happened. There was a kind of a traffic hold up most probably due to an accident ahead. Even thought the holdup was more than ½ a kilometer away, Joginder slammed the breaks and did a ‘U’ turn almost skidding off the highway. Then he raced away from the place as though we had just looted a bank. Not responding to our inquiries Joginder kept his foot pressed on the accelerator till we were more than 2 kilometers away from the situation at a Petrol Pump. After almost hiding the car behind a tree at the petrol pump by facing it in the opposite direction, Joginder finally heaved a sigh of relief.

After wiping sweat off his forehead and consuming two bottles of mineral water he told us that he had actually saved our life by scooting from the scene. He then told us another story where the Jats had almost beaten the day lights out of a driver for causing an accident. He went on to say that the Jats would end up beating anyone close by even if they were not involved in the accident.

I found it difficult to believe that anyone in this day and time could be as unreasonable as that. Nevertheless, what I could not digest was how someone who was a little while ago telling us about how much valour he as a Sardar was supposed to display, chickened out so meekly.

Although I was tempted to ask, I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and asked him instead if the FM radio was working.

Special Note: Whatever has been written here is a travel experience only. There is no intention to hurt any religious sentiments and if for any reason I have hurt Sikh sentiments, I would like to apologize in advance.

On a ten point scale this blog would only score a Three. To read some of my higher rated blogs click on http://tbgfl.blogspot.com/

To read my views on the news click on http://llewellyn-desouza.blogspot.com/

To read about my adventures in my Yellow WagonR click on http://adventureswiththeyellowwagonr.blogspot.com/

Don’t switch it off first Nagmani.

The GSB elections at the ISB are almost always keenly contested and thus declaring the results is a very sensitive activity for the staff of the Co curricular activities (CCA) team. Shiv has been doing this for years and I think I assisted him one year when this entire near fiasco happened.

This was a year when Pavit had declared that he was going to buy world peace after winning the elections and Rajesh Mani had declared that he is not half as bad as he looks. To be honest I always though he did not look all that bad at all … wonder what made him say that. I think Bharat Ayer the future NDTV Profit guy was the third candidate but I don’t remember if there was a fourth.

We had finished counting and were ready to declare results. Shiv’s experience told us that the moment the results would be sent by email, all the candidates and their string of supporters may descend on the CCA office.

The discussion that followed set us on a plan. We called Nagmani the office help woman and Shiv explained to her in great detail how she should use the mouse to click the ‘Send’ and once the screen changes immediately switch off the computer. The plan was to get into a car reach the ISB gate and call Nagmani and ask her to do this. We then planned to switch off the mobile phones and return back on Monday and hoped by then the storm would have subsided.

We reached the ISB gate and Shiv called Nagmani and said something to her in Telgu. A long silence from Shiv followed and after around a min he said ‘Shit’ and started to shout on phone. I could not understand a thing but what unfolded later makes me laugh even today.

Nagmani had first switched off the computer and thus has nothing on the screen to click.

Poor Shiv had to go back and set it up all over again and I don’t think he tried anything smart this time round.

The day Afzal Khan’s men beat up Shivaji.

Before my blog stirs up any controversy about distorting history, here is my disclaimer which says this is just a semi fiction depiction of one of the million things that happened to me at school and not at all an attempt at maligning the image of Shivaji Maharaj.

 

It was time for the annual day event at my school and like most years teachers were out to showcase the talents of their pupils. My favourite teacher announced that this year she will help interested students make a skit on the ‘Shivaji Vs Afzal Khan standoff.’ I was intrigued by the idea and like most of the kids in class wanted to participate in the skit so almost instantly raised my hand to volunteer.

In those days we were yet to be taught about democracy so there were no auditions but the teacher immediately after announcing the skit selected Amit Marathe(the shortest boy in my class) as the guy who would play Shivaji. Amit was short, frail, spoke fluent Marathi and sat right under the teacher’s nose with Ravi on the 3rd row first bench. I thought he was a pathetic choice but what was to follow was even worse. The teacher pointed towards me (the tallest boy in class) and said you will be Afzal Khan. I think my teacher had done the selection for this skit many times before and knew the roles demand height disparity of extreme proportions.

Now in the actual scrip Shivaji was the obvious hero but Afzal Khan was the most pathetic villain. As portrayed in my History text book, Afzal Khan was a very oppressive general of a Mughal Muslim Emperor and was killed by the very smart Shivaji using artificial iron tiger claws.

As a kid of that age I did not like to play a villain. Plus this was Afzal Khan. Now either my history textbook had to do something with it or the way history was taught to us in school but the character of Afzal Khan was totally BLACK. Afzal Khan was absolutely and typically the Hindi picture villain we love to hate. Nothing was good about him at all.

My teacher then made the rest of the selections for the other characters in a similar fashion and announced that we will meet near the school stage after school for practice.

At practice my teacher came a little late and as usual shouted at us for not standing together as a group. She then narrated to us what I today understand to be a script.

It was terrible for me. I hardly had any meaningful dialogs. I was almost all the while supposed to laugh like Gabbar Singh and in the climax try to strangle Shivaji and as an anti climax die.

Not knowing how to protest I decided to give it a try...

When practice started the next day, people just realised that I was an actor that could be described as a director’s nightmare. By day three of practice they decided to replace me as Afzal Khan because Shivaji had complained against me.

Amit who was playing Shivaji had a genuine problem. In the climax I was very difficult to kill. Plus in one of the many rehearsals I had actually tried my level best to strangle him. This act was prompted by my frustration and had nothing to do with me trying to get into the character or any such attempt.

The Teacher also realised that it would make the episode that we were trying to depict a little more believable in the prevailing context if the ‘Huge’ Afzal Khan was replaced by a more killable (smaller) Mughal General. So history was distorted and a not so big Afzal Khan was chosen.

By now I was feeling a little insulted. First I was asked to portray a character I hated and now I was replaced. I think my teacher read my feelings and ensured I was still in the play...

I was now playing one of Afzal Khan’s guards. I had no dialogs at all but was supposed to get killed without putting up a fight after the anti climax.

The three other fellow sentries of Afzal Khan were almost like me – Big, huge and frustrated. The plot of us dying without putting up a fight was what was killing us even before our eventual end. In the various dress rehearsals that started 2 days before the actual show we were the laughing stock and butt of almost all the jokes. We could not put up with all who were laughing at us. Our Shivaji also left no stone unturned insulting us. He would very much unlike the real Shivaji act to stab each one of us multiple times before curtains. In many such acts he actually hurt us bad in the ribs and the stomach with his rented wooden sword.

This was provocation enough for us to do the unthinkable in the actual show.

After Shivaji had killed Afzal Khan we the proud protectors of our lord decided revenge. We refused to die. Our Shivaji and his 5 soldiers were suddenly surprised and so was the audience. They tried desperately with their weapons to put us to rest but size does matter and this is what they realised. The four of us right there on stage shooed away all of Shivaji’s men and gave Amit Marathe a beating of a lifetime. Even the dead Afzal Khan realised the gravity of the situation and begged us to spare Amit.

I think the audience enjoyed what they saw and laughed their guts out. What happened to us the Crazy 4 is something human rights activists will not let me put in my blog.

The CISF at Hyd airport thought I was a terrorist...

Sunday 16th May 2010.

I was up and away early to the airport. I was going to Chennai for a morning evening trip. I had no luggage to check in. After meeting the smiling lady on the other side of the Jet Konnect counter and getting my boarding pass I thought I would go and have some breakfast at the airport’s departure food court. So I trotted towards security.

 

On most other days Hyd airport is as deserted as a cemetery. Today there was an unusual amount of rush at the security.

 

After patently waiting for almost 5 minutes to place my bag on the conveyer and watching people push their bags into it I decided to push mine too. The CISF security saw me do that and said in a stern voice... “keep safe distance from this... it is a machine.” I could not help myself saying... “if this is a machine... y is it taking so long.”

 

The CISF guy gave me a dirty look and I gave him a sweet smile... Didn’t work I thought but I was in no mood to make him feel any better.

 

Soon I was stepping on the yellow line and getting myself publicly groped in the name of frisking. Travelling so often I have learned to ensure not to let the metal detector beep even once... I do this ensuring all metal is on the table and not in my pockets... So my frisking was over sooner than expected.

 

With the stamped boarding pass in my pocket I moved to collect my luggage.

To my surprise the security guy asked me to open my bag...

 

I never expected anything to be there but since the security has the right to ask you to open the bag I did not argue and unzipped my back pack.

 

The objects the security found objectionable were two empty disposable water bottles in my bag. These were in my bag because I had visited a park with my wife and 7 month old daughter the previous day and like a good citizen who did not want to litter in the park I had carried the bottles home in my back pack. I forgot to dispose them at home as well and in the morning when I left home at 4.45 am it did not strike me that these harmless objects were still in my bag.

 

The CISF guy then asked me “ Why are you carrying these empty bottles?”

 

I knew that the CISF does not allow you to carry water bottles with water and wanted to make the situation light by cracking a joke here so I told the enquiring officer... “because you will not let me carry full bottles...”

A few chinki air hostesses heard this and giggled...

 

Phew... that was the end of it...

 

Insulted and furious the CISF officer asked me to step aside... I knew I was in trouble from the look of the people now surrounding me...

 

I was first asked for identification. I showed him my office Id. I thought this would be good as it was good to get me inside the airport.

“No,” he said... “Have you not got something endorsed by the Government.” I wanted to protest... why do you now want a government endorsed id when at the gate you were impressed by my office id... but I dared not argue...

 

I put my hand in my back pocket to fetch my wallet and almost all who were surrounding me ran for cover... I innocently pulled out my wallet and started to look for my driver’s licence.

 

I honestly had not noticed these guys run for cover. A kid who was watching this laughed out loud and broke the silence. It was only then that I realised what had happened and smiled myself.

 

This was it... hell broke out... The mean looking CISF guys started to shout at me...

One of them took my divers licence examined it and discarding(ly) dumped it on the table...

Another shouted at me and demanded my passport...

Before I realised two guys had held my hand and were almost dragging me to a room nearby under the pretext of making me meet someone more important...

In the room I saw an unusually small guy sitting on a chair with his feet dangling in the air and looking at a computer screen with concentration that could beat a teenagers ability to look at pornography. The two guys who had almost dragged me to the room threw my belongings on the floor in front of him and shouting(ly) explained that they found two empty bottles in my bag and told him that I could not satisfy them with my identification.

He still concentrating on the screen pushed a register like book towards me and asked me to fill the details in it... as I took position to bend down to write in the register on the table the small guy looked at me and realised I was big enough to murder him in one stroke if required. So he told the other two guys and asked them to stay in the room till I finish.

After I finished he asked me for my passport and I explained to him that I usually do not travel with my passport when I fly domestic. He then asked me where did I work and the mention of ISB made him a little soft.

Not wanting to scare him to by putting my had in my other back pocket to draw my visiting card case I asked him if he would want to see my business card. He agreed and I gave him a card.

From then on it was easy...

He next asked me where and why I was travelling... I explained everything and he was amused too...

But by now I could hear my name on the Public Address system. Although this was the most obnoxious pronunciation of my name I knew it was me they were calling out for as it was already 6.10 and my flight was scheduled to fly at 6.20.

I told this to the small guy in the chair and he asked me to gather my things... one of the other two started to help me but the one of them kept arguing that they had still not satisfactorily established my identity.

I was told that a thorough verification of my identity would be done in the next few hours and as I was in a hurry I agreed.

Soon I found myself in a siren blowing CISF jeep that took me to my Jet Konnect flight.

Thank God I work for ISB.

The God of Cricket makes 200 in an ODI.

We all know that Sachin Tendulkar is a great batsman. Being an Indian I am a big follower of his game. I like the rest of India have always looked forward to seeing him play good cricket. Most of the time when he plays I have unreasonable expectations from him.

It was like any other day… but today India was playing South Africa. I was in office when Naveen came over to my cabin and asked me if I wanted to see the match live on the internet. A few clicks and 2 CISCO commercials later I was watching the match.

Out of the blue I suddenly felt today Sachin will score 200 runs. To be honest this was not the first time I was wishing for something as unreasonable as a 200 from Sachin. But this was just a wish… I had a few weeks back when Sachin crossed 160 against Australia also made such a wish but this time was different.

I decided to share my wish on twitter, FaceBook and other networking sites. “My wish for today: India should score over 400 and Sachin should score the first ODI 200. 3:22 PM Feb 24th via web”

Needless to say my wish and prediction came true and the rest as they say is history.

The Tolani College Interview.

Few months out of my MBA I was looking out for some meaningful jobs… I had already bagged some stupid sales assignments but was getting totally frustrated with the unreasonable targets and paltry remuneration. I never thought I would be doing this kind of a job after an MBA. My parents were very supportive and ensured I did not fall into a depression. Not that I was ever susceptible but being the only child my parents ensured that they did their part most dutifully.

One morning before going to work I was scanning through the papers and saw this small classified advertisement from Tolani College of Commerce. The ad was for a lecturer’s post at the college’s BMS section. I had heard about the ambitious BMS course of the University of Bombay and was always inclined to teach. Plus I thought anything would be better than sales.

In response to my application I got a call from a sweet sounding person from Tolani college called Manju. She informed me that I had an interview. “Wow” I thought, “that was quick.”

Quite honestly I thought there would not be many MBAs interested in a teaching job. Moreover Tolani was never such a reputed college. In fact I had never heard of this college myself except that there was a bus that directly went to this college from the Juhu bus station.

My interview was at 12 noon and I used my Kinetic Honda to get to Tolani.

I soon realised I was totally wrong about the number of people applying for this job. Contrary to my expectation more than 50 MBAs of all shapes and sizes had turned up. There were MBAs from some of Bombay’s most prestigious institutes. Some of them even had up to 10 years of experience in the industry. Then there were others who claimed to be running businesses. So I never understood their motivation to apply to a job like this.

Many pretty women who had done their MBA some years back and were now married and were looking out for some ‘lite assignment’ had also turned up. These trophy wives even had the temerity to shamelessly talk about how this kind of a ‘little or no responsibility role’ would enhance their quality of life and provide them independence to buy vanity products out of their own pocket money.

Although the wait was killing but I somehow was having a good feeling about it. I made light of the grim silence that prevailed in the waiting room by making some casual remarks about the desperation. Some liked it and laughed, some didn’t understand it and some smirked and gave me those looks that were asking me not to act smart. These things helped me gauge competition. Making instant conversations with almost everyone who was not looking into the files I realised that there was no one in the room like me.

Yes on the negative side nobody in the waiting room had an MBA from a place like BVIMK, but on the positive side no one there had any idea about a fulltime lecturer’s roles and responsibilities. My communication skills and confidence too were better than most candidates. So much for being born to two Professors.

After waiting for almost 5 hours, it was my turn. I was the last guy to be interviewed that day. Ironically when I entered the room the panel did not look exhausted at all. On the contrary each of the 3 old men in the room seemed to be having fun. I thought may be the experience of interviewing so many women had got the oldies exited.
The first question almost stumped me. Aspi Doctor asked me, “What is your favourite TV Programme?”

“Bournvita Quiz Contest …” I found myself answering. I had never expected a question like this upfront. The answer was more of a reflex.

Another guy called Shahani asked me why I wanted to teach after an MBA. So I told him about my fascination for lecturing and gave him a little bit of my background by telling him that I was the son of two Professors. Wow that literally got me the job. Two of the three panellists knew my parents and I thought getting this job would be just a cake walk now. But then suddenly Aspi said “Well that does not mean you can teach. You see teaching is neither hereditary nor osmotic.”

Phew… never knew what to make of that statement, especially the osmotic bit.

There were other questions that followed. “Business Process Outsourcing… Do you know anything about this?” A Sindhi poet called Mirchandani asked. I think I gave an impressive answer. Honestly I had no clue what it meant. Another question “What will you do if a student asked you a doubt and you are not able to answer it?” In my mind I thought… “well, bluff… What else?” but controlled my emotions and keeping the most serious face said “To the best of my ability I will prepare before the class but if such a situation arises, I will admit I do not know and try and find the answer before the next class.”

As soon as I mentioned ‘admit,’ the Sindhi poet jumped up and said… “You will admit???” And I stood my ground and said “yes I will.” Though Mirchandani did not like my frankness Aspi and Shahani who surely had more experience teaching than writing things that people do not ready bought into my side of the stand.
More meaningless arguments followed. Somewhere in the middle of the interview I realised they had already selected.

In the end Aspi informed me that they will connect with me soon and if shortlisted I would have to go to the Head office for another interview round. I was almost certain I would be shortlisted and that is what happened. I was summoned to ‘Baktawar,’ the head office of Tolani Shipping. Two more people were shortlisted with me. One was an eye candy type trophy wife and another was a 65 years plus gentleman.
The interview there too was similar except that the panel now had another member – Rohet Tolani.

After the interview I was confident again but this time the guys chose the eye candy over me. A short letter arrived few days later in the evening by hand delivery. I was almost heart broken when some prick called Ram who first said he was the Vice – President and later corrected it and said he was the Vice - Principal of Tolani College called up and said “congratulations.”

I didn’t quite understand, but Ram explained that there had been a mistake and I was selected. Now before I could celebrate, Aspi the Principal of the college called up and said that there had been another mistake and my heart skipped a beat.

Aspi informed me that though I was selected but I would have to do a demo lecture to prove my worth. I thought that would be easy.

So on Friday the 13th of August 1999 I joined Tolani College as a Lecturer for the BMS.

More funny stories on Ram coming up in future blogs...

The Jiyala n Hyd Biryani connection…

One of the main time pass activities in Kolhapur where I was sentenced for two years was watching movies. My diary of those days tells me that by the end of the stay I had watched more than a hundred and twenty five movies. We would go as a group to watch any kind of flicks that ranged from naughty ones like Sirocco to classics like Titanic. We also watched a lot of Hindi films too like Dil Se to more nondescript ones like Mere Sapno ki Rani. Super flops like Prithvi and Jhoot Bole Kuwa Kate can also be included in our list.

This will give you an idea how desperately devoid of entertainment our college life was.

One Friday in my final semester, our HR class as usual got over early. Three out of the six who were in class thus decided to go for a movie. We took an auto and landed up this place just beyond the railway station. There were a lot of theatres and cinema halls in Kolhapur and so getting a ticket was not an issue. However there were hardly any options. Jiyala was a movie that had a lot of TV publicity. From the very name we did not seem to like it but still decided to go in.

The movie lived up to our expectations. It was hopeless and the three of us were feeling miserable for having spent our money. On our return to our hostel, we decided to not let anyone know how bad our experience was. In fact we gave raving reviews and thus by evening another set of hostel inmates decided to go for the movie. When they came back they were so dejected that they wanted to blow us originals apart but realised that they had been fooled. To ensure that they were not the only ones fooled they too decided to give a 5 star rating to the movie. As a consequence, by Sunday everyone had seen the movie in the hostel and declared it a hit.

Even today when we meet sometimes we make fun of this Jiyala adventure of ours.

Hyderabadi Biryani too I feel has a similar thing about it.

I think long years ago some disgruntled traveller to Hyderabad must have had to gulp down the 100% substandard and barely edible Biryani at the Paradise hotel and the revenge continues to haunt us.

Love thy neighbour but don’t get caught...

In school I was not one of those whom you could define as a ‘naughty boy.’ However, somehow it was me who always got caught. I think it had something to do with my height. I was the tallest boy in class. I was the youngest too, but that’s another story.

Like it happens in most primary schools, at the end of the day we had to fall in line and walk out of the school gates. Since I was the tallest I was usually seated at one of the last benches in the class. I would try hard but somehow the anxiety within me to meet my folks outside the gate would make me invariably break the queue. Now whenever someone breaks the rules of this so very unjust system, s/he was subjected to detention. My breaking the law was so regular that my class teacher almost made it a ritual to hold me back.

It was my 9th birthday and like most school students I too had gone to school all dressed up. At the end of the day, I thought to myself and decided not to break the rule today as it was my birthday. I treated, my getting caught on my birthday as something that would occur all year round. So very cautiously I decided to ‘fall in line.’

Out of sheer habit my class teacher picked on me and subjected me to a detention. I cried, pleaded and reasoned but she would not give in. I made a last ditch attempt by telling her it was my birthday n I did not deserve the punishments. She replied by telling me that this would teach me a lesson for life.

A lesson I did lean for life. After that day I never got caught for breaking the queue ever in school. I must confess though I never stopped breaking the queue till my last day at school but somehow no one ever managed to catch me.

The rationale behind my casual approach to life.

People often ask me how I could have been so causal with big decisions of my life, like my marriage with Anita, my taking up an MBA in a classless college like BVIMK or my not applying my mind to clear the NET exams of the UGC that would have ensured me a permanent job in a college in Bombay.

I too wonder but may be the story of ‘The Verger’ my mum often told me when I was a kid must have had something to do with it.

THE VERGER is a story by W. Somerset Maugham.

It was about an illiterate guy who worked in a Church in London on odd jobs like cleaning, dusting and its upkeep. Suddenly one day a new Catholic priest who was commissioned to reform the parish asked this illiterate and near uneducated verger to pass an exam to retain his job. The poor guy to retain his job tried desperately to clear the test but after several attempts realised that it was not his cup of tea. Desperately dejected he hoped for a miracle but nothing happened and he lost his job.

At such times we all know the walk back home is long and painful. To fumigate his sorrow the guy thought of having a smoke and to his surprise could not find a single cigarette shop on the really long street he was walking on.

A business idea was thus born in his mind and soon he executed it. Thank god he was not an MBA and thus did not waste time writing a ‘business plan.’
His cigarette selling business flourished and within a matter of years he became a rich man; Rich enough for the bankers to notice.

On one of his many regular visits to the bank a high ranking bank official called him to the investments office and explained to him the benefits of investing instead of using the savings option. Convincing as they are, the banker managed to make a kill and convinced our verger to invest. All that the verger was expected to do was read the papers and sign.

This is when the cat was let out of the bag and the verger confess that he could not neither read nor write. The banker almost feeling pity for him said something that provides the ironical climax of the story.

He said “do you mean to say you became such a rich man without knowing how to read or write...? Imagine what you could have become if you only knew to read and write...”

Pat came the verger’s reply... “well I would have been a VERGER at that church around the corner there.”

Fr. Simon, SJ.

Fr. Simon was my boss when I taught at the St. Xavier’s college in Bombay. His simplicity had a profound impact on my life. He also has a great sense of humour and thus was my choice for the Toast Master for my wedding with Anita (ex-wife.)

Even though he was a priest, his discourses would make very interesting sermons.

This is what he said at my wedding:

There was a couple who happily married for a long time. So in this day and time when marriage is the first step towards a divorce, people wanted to know what their formula for such a successful relationship was. The wife being the talkative of the two was very forth coming with her explanation.

She said that the crux of most discords in a relationship is the decision making function in life. Decision making often leads to arguments which go on to become fights and thus result in unpleasantness.

So she explained how the couple right in the beginning of getting together had decided not to ever fight over decisions taken by the other.

The couple had apparently decided that all the ‘Big’ decisions in life would be taken by the Husband and all the ‘small’ decisions would be left to the wife. No arguments were entertained once the decisions were taken and thus happiness was guaranteed.

Some smart soul who had tried to apply this logic in his life came up to the couple and asked the obvious question: “Well who takes a decision and decides what is a ‘Big’ decision and which one is a ‘small’ decision?”

The Wife instantly replied.... “Oh! That is a very small decision... so it is left to me...”

They once thought I was dead.

It was one of those breaks in school we call summer vacations. Our exams had got over in March and the results were out in April. From then until a black Monday in the second week of June we had holidays.

To escape the heat in Bombay people would take a short break to hill stations but we had this ancestral home by the beach in Goa. This place needed heavy duty maintenance before the rains. So my summer vacations were neither short nor cool. They were always spent with family in Goa where the heat could make anyone see apparitions on the Candolim Beach.

I would year after year look forward to the semi luxury Kadamba bus ride to Goa. Somehow right from my childhood I always loved the Journey more than the destination. But that’s another story and I will leave it for another day.

I had learnt swimming at a very early age. My mum who had no knowledge of swimming taught me swimming by ringside instructions. Over the years I had mastered the art and could swim my way through most pools. On my many trips to Goa I had always begged and pleaded with my elders to let me swim in the sea but since I was the only child, I was always denied permission.

I wonder why they still feel the only child has it easy. Anyway moving on...

So it was around 11 am on a hot May morning in Goa that a group of children from the neighbourhood were going for a swim. The idea was to take a dip and thus cool off.

You must understand that this was a time where we did not even have a ceiling fan in our Goa house. Moreover they electricity situation in Candolim even today is pathetic. So the idea of taking a dip to cool off was actually not so bad.

I requested one of the older boys to help me with the permission from my parents and as my luck would have it he obliged. I think my luck was damn good and even my dad agreed to send me. My mum was worried and in her chicken-heartedness warned this older boy with dire consequences if something happened to me.

On the beach the logic was simple. I just ripped off my cloths and pushed my glasses in to the hands of one of the girls who had come to watch over us and jumped in to the water. I soon realised that swimming in the sea after one passed the waves is no different from swimming in a deep pool. What I did not realise thought was the fact that none of the boys who had come for the swim really knew to swim. Thus they went only as far into the water as their legs could carry them.

Without my glasses I was virtually blind. I had hardly a few meters of clear visibility beyond which it was a haze. Swimming to have fun I soon lost sight of land behind me. I only realised this when I wanted to turn back as I could not sight land. With water on all four sides, I should have been frightened to death. But as a kid I knew no fear. I decided to use my sense of direction. Moreover as it was day the Sun helped me. What I had learnt as a boring lesson in Geography was now suddenly making sense.

A little tired I managed to make my way back to land. I could hardly see where I had reached and there was nobody on the beach. I had lost track of the time and thus thought, may be the people who had come with me for the swim must have left. I realised that there was no sense looking for my friends and decided to head home. Although my home in Goa is hardly 90 meters from the water I still have no idea how I found my way back home from where I landed. In retrospect I believe that I may have been guided by some divine force because I actually found my way back quite easily.

Once back home I did not make much of my trip to the beach. I thought bragging would jeopardise my future chances of swimming in the sea.

I was so thirst that I started to drink directly from the earthen pot. Soon mum sent me off to a bath and then it was lunch. In the meanwhile I also managed to find myself a spare set of glasses and thus could finally see.

It is like a tradition to take an afternoon nap in Goa. So we all went to sleep. Around 4 in the evening I heard a shy knock at the door. As no one was up I decided to answer the door. At the door were a group of my neighbours who looked very scared. Some of them were crying and the moment they saw me the expressions on their face changed so drastically that I could not believe my eyes. Some of them looked at me as if they were seeing a ghost while others were relived and almost rejoicing. While I was wondering what had happened, I saw my clothes with one of them and another one carrying my glasses with both hands.

I soon realised what had happened. These guys thought I was dead when I did not come back from the sea.

Later they told my dad that they waited for me for almost an hour and when I did not come back they thought I was dead. Some of them who thought they would be held responsible for this were so afraid that they first went home and informed their parents about what had happened. Their parents then met and decided what to do and finally mustered up the courage to come to my home to break the news to my folks.

To their surprise they found me home.

Now for the caveat... don’t try this at home unless you know to swim...

The Placement Prank

It was placement time at the BVIMK. All the self appointed captains of the team were trying to get companies to recruit at the College but with absolutely no success. I was supposed to be the head of placements myself but had long given up hope of anything positive. The preparedness of the school was total and the desperation was visible.
Once again it was the 1st of April and the devil in me was egging me on for one final prank before I leave BVIMK and Kolhapur. Immense success from last year was also telling me I could pull off a real huge one.

So the plan was to call up our course coordinator Prof. N J Chavan on the official BVIMK phone and tell him that the Notre Group had met with me - Llewellyn Desouza - the College’s placement head and would like to recruit from the B-school. The story would gain more credibility when Prof. Chavan would connect with me to find out more about the Group showing keen interest in recruiting. Next the Placement committee would put the brigade to work and ensure that the people in charge of hospitality get ready for a welcome and the guys interested in jobs from Notre Group would get ready in formal clothing.

The planning and execution of this entire practical joke was being done by Rathore and yours truly as usual.

As planned, Rathore called up Prof. Chavan at 5pm on the official number of the BVIMK. By now I had acquired quite a reputation of being a master prankster. So to ensure that no one suspects me I was right there standing in front of Prof. Chavan talking to him about my project work when this call came. God alone knows what Rathore said to Prof. Chavan but he came back to me in 15 minutes in a real upbeat mood. He patted me on the back and asked me about the Notre Group. Like a real pro I acted as if I did not remember about this company and told him it was difficult to say as I had been to so many companies with the college brochure.

Prof. Chavan then called Amir a classmate of mine in charge of hospitality for placement companies and told him about the Notre Group wanting to recruit at the BVIMK. Amir was super exited as this was the first company wanting to come to recruit. Amir further put his network to work and thus the juniors got involved.
When Anup Tiwari of my class heard about this he was almost sceptical. Anup had closely worked with me on placements and knew that this was near impossible. Speaking his mind out to Prof. Chavan, Anup told him to beware of the fact that the day marked for the visit of the Notre Group was April First. Anup the sharp classmate of mine had smelt a rat and had almost blown the lid on our prank. Anup had a big enough following and this would mean that by just speaking to people in his hostel he would sow the seeds of cynicism in their minds.

By late evening both Rathore and I after making almost flying visits to the various hostels realised that people were believing what Anup and his group was telling them. We understood that the credibility of the system was at stake and we needed to do something that would make people believe in the ‘official’ version.

We thought that if when we were in class with Prof. Chavan and he gets summoned form the college office for a phone call from the Notre Group on the official number, people would believe his word and thus the prank would work. Also if we were in class with him at that time no one would suspect us. But how would we call him when both of us were in class?

Besides the MBA Students at my hostel, we had a few rich MCA juniors. Shenu was from Kerala and he had the most advanced possession of the time – a mobile phone. When I first had used it I had no idea how it worked but knew that this hand held wireless devise would help us solve the credibility issue. I took Shenu Mobile and his roommate Sajan Pager (that’s how the whole of Siddique hostel remembered them) into confidence. Trust me it was no mean feat as they both hardly spoke or understood any kind of language I spoke or understood. After the negotiations I felt I should have been a hostage negotiator for the Government. Anyway Shenu readily agreed the moment he understood that I was playing a prank on Prof. Chavan. Shenu just hated Prof. Chavan.

In the class the next day Prof. Chavan made our life easy by organising a debate. I ensured that the debate was very lively and intimidated Anup into a fierce argument with Ashish Kapoor. While the entire class was showing off using jargon I was gesturing to Rathore very desperately to make the bloody call. Rathore had developed cold feet and I was very angry, irritated and frustrated. I somehow slipped to the back of the class took the mobile from Rathore and decided to make the call myself.

Now the mobile also needed to be hidden as it was not a very common device. It was bound to draw a lot of attention if noticed. Putting my entire ventriloquism to use, I made the call looking straight in the direction of Prof. Chavan. I spoke to a clerk and asked him to call Prof. Chavan. The idiot started to argue with me saying Prof. Chavan was in class. Left with no other option I had to put the call down.

Not to let anyone feel I was missing from the action, I almost immediately after cutting the call jumped into the debate. As most were speaking nonsense it did not look as if I was putting up an act to participate. All were talking and no one was listening. Rathore was however keen to know what had happened and opened my notebook and stared asking written questions. I was so bloody irritated with him I would have almost slapped him.

I realise after a few minutes that I could call again and try using the key word ‘urgent.’
Mustering up courage after you have failed at such a mission critical but non consequential exercise is very difficult. But I was committed. I called again and this time a peon answered. In a very stern tone I told him I wanted to speak to Prof. Chavan about placement and urgently. It did the tick. He ran and came to class with a message for Prof Chavan. No sooner had he come to the class the bell announcing the end of one class of Prof. Chavan when off.

Prof. Chavan had two classes back to back that day with us. Prof. Chavan asked us to take a break. I hid the phone in the draw of my bench as my entire class walked out for the break. By the time Prof. Chavan reached the college office phone I was in a position to talk freely. I told him that we from the Notre Group will be coming to recruit with our director today at 3.30. I also told him that our director would first like to meet the Profs of the school and then do a small presentation on the Group to the students and then take CVs of interested candidates for short listing.

The tricked worked and Prof. Chavan came back to class with renewed vigour. By the time he was back in class a lot of the students were back from the break and thus he shared with them the breaking story. Anup was still not convinced and asked Prof. Chavan about the whole thing one more time to ascertain facts. By lunch time the hospitality team had got to work on full swing ordering Samosas and chips. Another set of juniors was working on getting the brand new, but unused two year old Transparency Overhead Projector working. Some of the guys from my class walked over to their hostels and came back after lunch dressed in a necktie.

At 3.30 our Director Jacob and Prof. N J Chavan were given bouquets to receive the guests but no one had arrived. By Four, patience was running out and by 4.30 Anup was out telling Prof. Chavan that he always felt this was a prank. Both Rathore and I showed as if we were still hopeful until Six. Finally when everyone went home after eating the Samosas, we had the last laugh.Even today all feel it was a prank but very few know that it was us.

The Prefect Mistake (How I took up an MBA.)

The year was 1997. I was working for IMRB for some time now and making reasonably good money. My assignment can today be classified as a KPO/ BPO job but this was a time when no one had any idea what out sourcing was.
Although I worked in the Esplanade Mansion office of the IMRB in Bombay, my work was assigned from an office in Hong Kong. The job was all about analysing market research data that would come via email from Hong Kong. The problem was that the emails were generation next technology at that time and we had to go to our Nirmal Towers office to even check these incoming packets. Yes, believe it or not we did call these attachments to emails as packets. Once we got the email and the relevant attachment, we downloaded them on to the most unreliable storage devises of the time called floppy disks and transport the data to our desktops. This ensured a few trips between the offices a day and if lucky the data to be analysed would be on our desktops only by 6 in the evening. As the processing started after that, I had to stay back nights in office. With firm regularity, I travelled home only in the wee hours of the morning and thus returning back to work by 9 am to sign a muster was almost impossible.
Moreover the work I did was complex, used yet to be relied upon technology, subject to rejection, time consuming, tedious and most importantly not understood by anyone in my reference group. For example, the timekeeper (yes we had one) at the IMRB, employed by the HR of the company never understood that it was impossible for me to come at 9 am to sign a muster when I had just left office at 5 am. The timekeeper would insist on a ‘red mark’ on the register and three such marks would mean a causal leave (CL). Exceeding the number of permitted CLs per week which was 3 invited a Memo. Not replying to the Memo would mean a remark in the service book and no pay until justification. It was only during the clarification interview that the HR head would realise what was going on and for some strange reason even though the pay would be released no corrective procedural action for the red marks or the Memo would be initiated from his end.
More than me it was my parents who were impacted. My parents in their line of work took their service book and muster remarks very seriously. A Memo for them would mean some grave crime committed against organization like neglect of duty or embezzlement of funds. Also my family was a close knit one. Each one of us would usually comeback from outside and sit together and discuss what happened. This ritual though time consuming and almost an invasion of privacy was the binding force in the family. Eating out every day with hardly any physical exercise had now made me 145 kgs. I was finding it very difficult to move the ton around. With my erratic timings and my weight problem I was drifting apart from the family.
I think this is what they call pressure and thus the cookie crumbled. Suddenly one day Mum got palpitations. Not that this was a new sickness as this kind of a problem with mum’s Blood Pressure had happened in the past when I was in college but the difference here was I was not free and available to do the legwork. So dad was stressed out a lot. Almost a month after mum recovered, Dad got a heart attack. My dad who is, was and will always remain the back bone of my existence was never so sick. I had no idea what was happening to me and my life. It as if the rest of life took a back seat. I had to become the man of the house. I had to look in to my mother’s eyes and tell her “My father is not dead, he is just sick.” Not knowing want else to say, we had to simply resort to stopping each other from crying.
This episode jolted us out of our comfort zone.
My mum and I would take turns at the hospital vigil. At the hospital one day I met a college friend of mine. He was there because his father too was admitted to the ICU. In the waiting room outside the ICU, I saw him struggling with some math like problems. I took keen interest in what he was doing and after some time indulged myself in solving the puzzles. Soon he told me that the puzzles I was solving with extraordinary easy were not puzzles as such but aptitude testing material that frequently appears in MBA entrance exams. Later in the day that friend of mine told my mum that I was too good at the MBA entrance stuff and should try my luck at the Common Entrance Test. Convinced that I had no future with the job I was doing both my mum and my dad even in that condition forced me to think of an MBA.
An MBA is a big decision in a students’ life. However like many decisions of my life, I took to an MBA ‘Just like that.’
The World around people take up an MBA after a few years of work. The logic is to use the MBA College like a dictionary and refer to it with problems you encountered at work. Using your MBA years to find solutions for the problems you encountered while working makes your MBA sojourn more meaningful.
However in India we do it differently. We first try and finish all our education at one shot. So we go through our bachelors’ degree and then straight into an MBA. At the MBA we equip ourselves with solutions for the business world, which we have no idea how or were to apply. Then we go out into the big bad corporate world ‘looking for problems’ which would help us apply our knowledge. Now I always thought leading a life looking for problems is not such a great idea.
Once dad was back from the hospital I went back to work and got myself re engrossed in the routine forgetting the MBA preparations. My routine was tough and my schedules were punishing so there was no time to think of anything else.
I still remember the day before my entrance test; I was working till 2.30 in the night. I don’t know how I managed to get up the next morning and go to the examination centre. At the centre I was overwhelmed with the magnitude of people that had come to give the test plus the fact that each one of them was preparing for the test vigorously till the last minute. After the test too I met a few acquaintances furiously debating some college ranking. All this puzzled me as I had not taken my MBA decision seriously.
Once I went back to work I made inquiries about an MBA course and its prospects. Even though I was an educated son of educated parents, I had no idea about how admissions to an MBA work.
The scene was very complex. There were some 2 to 3 hundred MBA colleges in Maharashtra affiliated to the various universities. The admissions to their MBA programme were centralised. Which means a common entrance test was taken and then a group discussion was held and then we were subjected to a personal interview. At the end of this we got a score and a rank. With this rank we were suppose to appear for a counselling session. At the counselling we get to chose from the available colleges from all over Maharashtra. Though the system looks simple, what makes is complex is the stature and reputation of each MBA college and the placement record of the institution.
One day I got my results and I realize I had not done that badly after all. With the kind of score I could comfortably get an admission in a good college in Bombay. However things were made difficult by the fact that most of the seats left in Bombay were ‘paid seats.’ So not knowing the consequences of a bad college, I decided to take the economic option and go out of Bombay to do an MBA….
Moreover what I thought were good colleges were not necessarily the top colleges in Bombay according to the others who were appearing for the counselling. Some of the people who appeared for the counselling ahead of me had taken up colleges in Pune and one had even gone to Nasik. There was hardly any time to think when my turn came. So I asked the polite looking gentleman on the other side of the ‘Counsellor’ sign where would I get a free seat. To my surprise he said Kolhapur. I had once been to Kolhapur so I kind of liked the option. I asked him to tell me which was the number one college in Kolhapur. What I meant was a qualitative numbering implying the best college but he was a simple man and went by the first college on his list as far as Kolhapur is concerned. Bharthi Vidyapeeth Institute of Management was the number one college on extra large register and I don’t think was the best college on any list but not knowing what to do I signed on the dotted line, submitted my certificates (as I had not got the necessary drafts) and took a plunge into the unknown.

Cindy Furtado @ KadamWadi Dafan Bhoomi

The official address of BVIMK or My MBA College includes the words Dafan Bhoomi. We actually had a Christian graveyard next to the college. I had to often walk through the grave yard past midnight when everyone was afraid to go there just to take a shortcut back home from my long walks to the STD (telephone) booth. In those days this was a common practice among hostilities with shallow pockets. These late night trips to the STD shop were done with a view to avail the quarter plus rate applicable on phone calls made after eleven thirty in the night. Many times in the day too during breaks between classes I often would wonder into the graveyard to read interesting inscription on the graves. This meant I was well versed with some of the names of people buried there. Cindy Furtado who according to an inscription on her grave died in 1987 was one such name that intrigued me. I liked Cindy Crawford the model and maybe that’s why the name stuck on.

Chintan was my roommate for the 2 years I was in Kolhapur. We lived in Sidiqe hostel which was very close to My MBA College. Chintan was a compulsive grade ‘B’ wannabe skirt chaser. He was hardly successful. He usually ended up putting us fellow hostilities in a lot of trouble with his misadventures. One night a huge gang of sword brandishing goons was banging at the door of our room. The moment Chintan heard the loud thuds he was scared. On the other hand I was a little angry as I had no idea why they were banging our door. So with a serious grim face I opened the door and started giving the guys dirty looks. Although they had swords, they did not look hostile or maybe it was my size that made the difference. They were not expecting such a huge guy at the door. So one of them who was behind asked in a gruff but meek voice “Where is Chintan?” I turned around to point towards Chintan who by now was almost smiling and pointing towards me. I immediately realised that the goons did not know who Chintan was but had been hired by someone to beat or threaten Chintan. Fortunately the guy who ran our hostel had stepped in by then and we were saved a scuffle.

We later realised that Chintan had tried to make friends with a girl form the new MCA batch. The girl’s brother did not like this and had brought over his friends to give Chintan a stern warning. This is something we had got used to but what surprised me was the fact that to escape Chintan had pointed towards me. I wanted to teach him a lesson.

The new MBA class had just joined in and among our juniors was a Goan girl called Seema Rodrigues. She was the best looking junior that had arrived and as I was a Goan, she befriended me for help in finding her a hostel. She was cute and we hit it off as friends almost instantly. To save herself from being ragged she would invariable be with me. So we became very friendly. Chintan being what he was (and most probable still is) came up with an indecent proposal as usual. He wanted me to introduce him to Seema. At first I did not want to introduce him but later that night when I saw the Grave of Cindy Furtado I thought of a plan to take revenge.

Years ago I had seen an episode of a Doordarshan serial called ‘Honi UnHoni.’ I remembered the plot where in a guy goes for a date with a girl only to realise she was already dead years ago. The next day I took Seema to Cindy Furtado’s grave and explained to her my plan. I told her I would introduce her as Cindy Furtado to Chintan and later we would show this grave to Chintan and scare the shit out of him. Seema was apprehensive at first but later agreed knowing how much fun this would be. To play her part Seema would have to be like one of those easy to date girls and in fact go for a date with Chintan. I also promised her full protection from Chintan in case things go out of hand. Moreover I knew Chintan well and could guarantee that he did not have the guts even to touch a girl.

As planned I introduced Seema to Chintan and left them alone. As expected Chintan walked her around the college showing off and later asked her out. Seema agreed and our plan was on its way. That day when Chintan came back to the rooms all of us in the hostel pounced on him for details. He was so eager to share them that we did not have to try hard. It looked as if this was the first girl who had ever given him so much time and attention. Seema had also played her part of an easy to get date girl real well. Chintan was exited, and anxious. He was dressing up for the date at 5 itself when the time decided was 7. I advised him to put on a jacket for the evening and told him how he could share it with Seema if in the evening it started to rain or become cold. He liked the idea so much that he borrowed my steam iron to iron his leather jacket.

I did not want to miss Seema’s side of the story so I rushed to her hostel before Chintan. Seema was afraid of things going wrong and I had to first put her at easy making her laugh. I just had to tell her how exited Chintan was. After laughing our guts out I explained to her the plan for the evening. To play her part she would have to wear a sleeveless top and act as if she was conscious about the mistake she had made while choosing her top. If Chintan does not naturally oblige she would then ask for his jacket and enjoy the rest of the date in the jacket. In the end she should tell Chintan that she will meet him the next day in college and if he is so dumb to ask for his jacket back she should tell him she will return it on the next day as the hostel warden would suspect if she went back in the sleeveless top.

That evening I along with Syric followed Chintan and Seema. Chintan had a Bajaj FE Scooter and I had a Kinetic Honda. We ensured that we maintained a good distance from them so that we would not be noticed. Seema played her role real well. She stripped Chintan of his jacket within the first 15 mins of the date. The date ended in around 90 mins and Seema was back safely in her hostel by 9. I then went back to my hostel and waited for Chintan.

Chintan when he came back was so elated that he didn’t suspect us at all. We too pushed him for graphic details and like boys are he faked all the details. I used a dicta phone to record what he said as I knew this would be cannon fodder that could be used to ensure Seema gets angry enough.

I then went to Seema’s hostel mess on the pretext of dinning there. Boys were not allowed in that hostel but her warden – Lilly was a Catholic and a friend of Syric. I too had met Lilly a few times at the very few Sunday services I had attended. At the hostel, I played out the tape in my Dictaphone. Seema was furious on listening to the exploits and wanted revenge. I played out the tape again after explain what had happened to Lilly too. She too felt sorry for Seema and pledged her support to any plan that would bring revenge.

Now the plan was very simple: Seema would now bunk college for the next two days. Seema had done enough to ensure that Chintan would want to meet her again and if he does not meet her for a few days his anxiety would increase. We boys on our part too would have to ensure we keep asking Chintan about his date and when it would happen again. If for nothing Chintan would want his jacket back. 48 hours would be thus enough for us to drive Chintan believing unreasonable things.

That night when I went back at almost 12, Chintan was still bragging about his exploits to some fellow hostilities. The next day too in the morning his session started at 8. When we all reached college at 9, Chintan’s eyes were looking out for Seema. In the first recess Chintan almost jumped from the bench to go out and look out for Seema. By lunch time he was desperate. I casually told him to stand near the ladies loo as most girls in the college would visit the loo at least a few times a day. Poor Chintan bunked the rest of the day and stood close to the ladies loo hoping to get a glimpse of Seema whom he knew as Cyndi. At the end of the day he went around asking some of the juniors about Cyndi. They obviously did not have any idea who he was talking about.

That evening Chintan was in a real bad state. We at the hostel left no stone unturned to provoke him and I on my part constantly reminded him of the jacket. Frustrated and not knowing what to do, he came to me for help. Well he had approached others too and they had advised him to go to her hostel. Going to a girls’ hostel at such an unearthly hour and knowing his reputation was a daredevil act. Even if he smuggled himself in, once caught, none of the girls in the hostel would vouch for him. He could be handed over to the police. So when he came to me for help I advised him to wait for one day.

The next day too our Seema and his Cyndi did not come. Chintan bunked all his classes and loitered around the ladies loo the whole day. As soon as the classes were over he came over to me and requested me to help him with the entry in to the girls’ hostel. He knew I knew many girls there and they would help me. I asked him to go back to the room and wait patiently. I promised him I would help around 5 in the evening.

I then went straight to updated Seema and Lilly. After graphically describing Chintan’s anxiety and his picketing outside the ladies loo, I quickly got to business. I explained to Lilly the rest of the plan. Lilly would now meet Chintan when I bring him to the girls’ hostel. I instructed Lilly to start to put on an act of fear as soon as Chintan asks about Cindy Furtado. All Lilly had to fake was fear and tell him that Cindy Furtado was a hostel inmate long years ago but had died doing her course in dentistry. Lilly would also have to inform him that she is in fact buried right next to the college. I made her practice her part a few times and then took Chintan’s jacket from Seema and left.

On my way back from the girls’ hostel I went to the real Cindy Furtado’s grave and put Chintan’s jacket over one side of the cross. I then went back to my room and met an over exited Chintan. I left Syric there and he knew what he had to do.

At the hostel Lilly did a little bit of overacting but Chintan was awe struck and never realised the few giggles that uncontrollably erupted from Lilly. I knew Lilly could not put on the act for long so I quickly acted dumb and told Chintan if he knew of a grave yard near the college. He was a little surprised that I was acting this dumb and decided to show me the grave yard on our way back.

So on our way back when Chintan pointed out to the entrance of the grave yard, I suggested we go and check out the graves to see if we could find Cindy Furtado’s grave. At first he did not agree but when I assured him safety as it was not even 6, he agreed. I behaved I did not know the grave and wondered around in a direction opposite to Cindy Furtado’s grave. Chintan the sissy followed me and I realised that until I discover the grave there was no hope. I was afraid that my discovering the grave would look too obvious so I tried to lose Chintan behind me but it did not work. Finally I had to reach Cindy Furtado’s grave. I honestly cannot describe Chintan’s expression when he saw his jacket. On the one hand I thought he was happy to find it back but on the other he was frozen with fear. I took the jacket in my hand and asked Chintan a very dumb question. He was so scared by now that he wanted to run. As we turned around, my friend Syric had played his part to perfection. He had brought Seema right to the gate of the grave yard. She was standing there looking at us and laughing. Chintan almost collapsed. In a few seconds the rest of my class and the juniors descended in to the grave yard laughing out really loudly. Syric had used our information dissemination systems to perfection and ensued that all except Chintan knew about the practical joke being played on him while I was with Chintan at the girls’ hostel.

I put my arms around Chintan’s shoulders and started to laugh myself. Chintan had no clue until Seema walked towards him playing the Dictaphone in her hand. She gave the Dictaphone in Chintan’s hand and he with trembling hands took it close to his ears to listen from it. Seema in the mean while took position and gave one tight slap to Chintan as if to snap him out of the trans. Chintan soon realised the joke was on him.

For a few days Chintan was normal but then went back to his old ways again.