Phew!

If there was any lingering doubt about where I’m at, it’s been squashed! I’m at grad school :D

First impressions.

Yes, this is the adventure I’ve longed for the last two years. Moving out, living by myself, and trying to make my own life. People over the world always look at Indians and either say that we’re lucky to be living at home till we graduate and/or get married, or they say that we’re wusses. I’m not sure which one is right, but right now I’d like to think we’re lucky. I’m lucky that I got bed tea every morning; that I was given everything I wanted for 22 years of my life without ever having asked for it; that I was given life as I knew it. But today, two days after I’ve moved out, not just from home, but from a country and a continent, it feels right. It feels that this was the right time to move out. It’s time I got more responsibilities to take care of, and it’s time I got more responsible.

Well, anyway, first impressions of the new place. I’m staying in a dorm for a week till I find an apartment, and it’s not bad! I’ve never had to use a central common bathroom anywhere I’ve been, but it’s different, and it’s nice. It isn’t the most comfortable place I’ve lived in. Let’s face it, there are no pillows or blankets, and I have to make do with what I got for now. But it’s cool: in a different way : ).

I’ve been behaving like a complete tourist. I don’t know anyone in this city. And I had to be oversmart and arrive earlier than the rest of the guys joining the university. I’ve been walking around with multiple maps, peering around at restaurants, figuring out what is what, who serves what, what is good, and what I can afford! I think I walked about 15 miles this morning, walking straight into any apartment I saw was available, talking to realtors, and moving on. Yes, this is the adventure I always wanted, and I’m so thankful I didn’t book an apartment before I got here, cuz it’s oh-so-much easier to decide where you want to live by actually being in the place.

And the university campus? It is amazing! It’s not big. In fact, it’s not big at all. But it has such an amazing mix of old classic architecture of the University Center and Hamerschlag Hall combined with the ultra-modern design of the Gates and Hillman Centers that it feels like I’m finally at a university: a real university. Pittsburgh, you beauty. I’d love to call you home.

That place.

Location: Toys “R” Us
Scene: A little child looks longingly at this awesome toy he really wants, but can’t have.

Moving on…

There’s this place I’ve always wanted to be at. It’s the place where most cool things happen. It’s the place where something impressive happens almost as if everyday. It’s a place where rebelliousness is not just encouraged, it’s demanded.

It’s awe-inspiring. I’ve had it on my mind for I can’t remember how long. I will continue to have it on my mind for I don’t know how long. Twice I wanted to go to that place, but they sent me the nicest go-to-hell responses I’ve ever gotten: “We’re unable to have you here because of the unusually high blah blah blah.”

The little child is me, and that toy (i.e. that place) is Stanford. Respect.

A couple of weeks ago I met with my admissions counsellor of sorts, and he told me mincing no words, “I’m extremely sad you didn’t get into Stanford.” I responded, “Yeah, but do you think their admissions committee gives a rat’s ass about me?” :D

If I ever apply to grad schools again, I already know the first name on that list.

(This is something I should’ve written about long time ago, but forgot. piscianemperor’s latest post reminded me to finally do it.)

Bom… er, Mumbai.

I’ve finally made my peace with the name Mumbai. For a LONG time, I vowed to never ever call it Mumbai. Mostly in protest of the politics that caused the name change, and also because of the coolness factor associated with the name Bombay (don’t raise your eyebrows, I was a kid when the name-change happened!). Russell Peters once said in a show that if we really wanted to change the name of the city, we should’ve done it in 1947 the minute the British left. Of course, the way he said it was cruder and funnier.

Maybe the name Mumbai has grown on me, maybe talking about Sachin’s team has got me used to it, I’m not sure. There’s that spark in me when I go to Mumbai. I love the feeling the morning when I board the prestigious Deccan Queen. I love the feeling when I look across Marine Drive to the Mumbai skyline. I can just sit and watch. Something about the place is very, very special. People from all over the country simply make the chaos work. About 125 people packed in a local train carriage suited for 20 people squeeze together and make it work. You hop off a train at Churchgate station in the wee hours of the morning and you’re engulfed in a mass of people, not unlike the mass of rats in Ratatouille. When in other big cities you could end up feeling lost, there’s a sense in the mass that you’re not alone.

Make no mistake, I would never want to live in Mumbai. It’s too crowded, too big, and too corporate for my liking. But there’s something about the place that compels me to call it my own. It’s not home, but it sure feels like home : )

Torrentia.

So the last few weeks, I’ve completely ignored the blog. As I lie sleepy-headed and exhausted after one hell of a first exam, I’ll try to bring it back to life.

Who designs college classrooms? Desks, to be specific? Has anyone ever bothered to think of the heinous discomfort that tall people go through while sitting on one of those ingenious creations? One leg bent crooked one way, the other doing a somersault three feet away, giving the next person inadvertent kicks in the shin. Sometimes the next person gets scandalized, suspecting an apparent attempt at playing footsie. Of course, the simpler alternative is to mercilessly break the shelves under the desks. But breaking one a week is simply over-doing it a bit, no?

Is there a bigger thrill than whizzing by in the car in torrential rain at twilight, half-drenched and jaunty? I like NH 4, at least around the area when it winds through the greenish-yellow sun-bathed hillocks in the midst of the city. When you can see the entire city: young and old, skyscrapers (or our version of them) and the jhopadpattis, the GM showrooms and the Neerawallas, one contrast after another. Annoyed pedestrians who get sprayed from the brimming ‘streams’ on the roads. Nonchalant bikers who think they’re in a powerboat race. And then, just as fate would have it, ‘November Rain’ plays. Did I really just get out of an exam?

There is still nothing that beats the official onset of the monsoon. When it starts raining, look around. Five of every ten people you see are taking in the smell of the ‘oli maati’. Count. Build a probabilistic model if you like. Everyone just shuts up about their troubles, makes ‘gavati chaha’ and ‘bhaji’ and eats. I’m no psychic, but I swear I thought the monsoons would begin today. Of course, in hindsight, no one would believe me, and I’d have to rue the fact that I didn’t announce my premonition to anyone earlier.

Justice.

Ajmal Kasab is to be hung by the neck until dead. As India rejoices, I don’t.

On December 26th 2008, I felt uncontrollable anger like every other person in the world did. For 60 hours, 10 people held 1.1 billion people to ransom. Well, almost. Tried, convicted and sentenced to death in the Indian judicial system, the media claims this to be a victory for the judicial system and the Indian democracy.

I believe no one should rejoice death: and definitely not one that is meted out forcefully. However hardened a criminal he might be. I don’t believe anyone has a right to decide who should live and who shouldn’t: not terrorists, not the government, no one. What happened in Mumbai was despicable. I do not, in any way, condone 26/11. I believe Kasab is a rogue, blinded by faith. I believe he should be sentenced to rigorous imprisonment for life. Imprisonment for the next 40-50 years is harsher than death in a few minutes. I’m not a fan of the death penalty. I know the objection people have to this. What if another IC 814-kind incident happens? One, this is entirely hypothetical. Two, this is not a reason to kill anyone. And three, it shows the kind of confidence we have in our national security system.

I also believe Kasab is a puppet. The real problem is not him. The real problem lies in the governments of both countries. The other day, I was watching ‘The Big Fight’ on NDTV. One member of the audience pointed out that if Kasab should be hanged, so should Narendra Modi. I believe that in terms of barbarity, Narendra Modi = Ajmal Kasab. Only difference is that Modi is home-grown; Kasab is foreign. Vikram Chandra, the host (who is almost as annoying as Prannoy Roy and Sonia Verma Singh), did not let him speak. The media is so intertwined with shaping the mindset of the people that it’s impossible to get unbiased news today.

Yes, I agree that the families of 26/11 victims have suffered a LOT (this is an understatement). I can understand their urge to kill one of the men responsible for that. Let me also put forth stories of a few Muslim families in Kashmir, bludgeoned by the Indian army. Little kids at the age of four and five can identify by the mere sound of everyday explosions, whether it was an AK-47, a hand grenade, a bomb, or a pistol that caused it. The same kids, at the age of fourteen and fifteen, as they grow beards, are picked up by the army and thrown into jail over accusations of trying to collude with Pakistan. The army guarantees compensation for families who have had their kids killed in attacks. One Muslim family had their two-year old kid killed in an Indian army-sponsored attack in Kashmir. Two years on, the father goes to the local government office every single day for his compensation. He is driven away everyday, citing some ridiculous reason. What about those families’ sentiments? If neither of us stops, this will continue forever. One of us has to have humanity. One of us should stop. We’re sensible, and we should.

The real problem is not Ajmal Kasab. It is state-sponsored terrorism in India and Pakistan. Don’t kill him. Imprison him for life. Make sure he doesn’t escape. If another IC 814 happens, storm the plane and rescue the passengers. Show us how capable the Indian army really is. Stop killing people in Kashmir. Do justice to the people of the country: us.

Most of all.

Days are whooshing by at lightning speed. Grad school, here I come. I’m really, really excited now, and equally scared. I cannot even begin to fathom how much I’m going to miss all that I’m going to leave behind. And I don’t think I realize quite how much work I have ahead of me. Most of all, I still don’t know where I’m headed, though that really cold school in Pittsburgh beckons me with its icy, cold hand every now and then.

There is so much I want to do before I leave. I want to go to Shillong, just to eat. I want to trek in the Himalayas. I want to go boating in Kovalam and Thekkady. I want to be able to cook well. Ah, who am I kidding? I want to be able to cook. I want to do a solo of Coldplay’s Yellow. I want to watch a Sachin Tendulkar hundred live at the stadium (next week at Brabourne Stadium, maybe?). I want to reduce my laziness. But most of all? I want to finish my project.

The great little man.

Time: 3 pm.
Location: Room 123, Digital Image Processing lecture.
Me: What’s the score?
Rajasa: Whenever I ask my sister the score, we lose a wicket.
Me: Okay, then DON’T find out. God is batting.
Ishan: God? WHO?

Time: 4 pm.
Location: Canteen.
40 people sitting around the tiny TV in the canteen. I pull out a dirty looking chair to sit and watch. God: 83 not out. His hundred is greeted with claps (Quotidian stuff for him).

Time: 5:15 pm.
Location: Canteen.
40 people sitting, 20 standing, 4 of us move to the sill to look over everyone. God: 143 not out. Every boundary is cheered, clapped and screamed. People were already whispering 200 under their breaths.

Time: 6:10 pm.
Location: Still canteen.
40 people sitting, 60 standing on the floor, 60 on their shoulders, 70 standing on 7 tables (then one broke), 15 peeping in from windows outside the canteen, 8 standing on the sill, 2 watching from a hole in the wall at a height of 11 feet, 3 watching from behind the TV, upside down. God: 190 not out.
Dhoni’s every boundary is sworn at. Unflinchingly. Sachin’s every STEP is roared at. At the top of the lungs. I think this is the time I lost my voice.

Time 6:19 pm.
Location: India.
Mayhem. God: 200 not out.

Time: 6:31 pm.
Ishan: Dude, I’m a believer. You got me, he is God.

“Reducing the number of atheists in India since 1989, Sachin Tendulkar” – someone on Twitter. I rest my case. Also, I need my voice back.

Not the German bakery.

Not the place where people of all races, colors, languages and cultures went to. Not the place where everyone from Pune has been to, sometime or the other. Not the only place where you can get a really early morning breakfast after a night-out. Not the place where you got the best banana muffins ever. Not the place where a couple poor guys used to sell awesome bouquets made of wild flowers and forest leaves they randomly picked up while wandering about. Not the place that exemplifies everything North Main Road stands for. Not the place that peace in Pune stood for. No no no, not the German bakery.

Singapur.

A few days ago, as I stood in line at FotoFast to get my rather glum-looking passport-size photograph printed, this couple walked in to get pictures from what only seemed like their honeymoon, printed. The guy flung out an expensive looking USB stick, and smugly asked the shopgirl in a fake accent to copy pictures from an album he spelt as Singapur! Omg. He thought it was just like Nagpur or Jaipur or Jodhpur or Jabalpur.

Anyway, I’ve been away for a while. In the meantime, I’ve had my customary annual trip to Goa: definitely the last one now, as least for a while. I’ve built up a huge inspiration to learn astronomy for the next six months. I’ve gotten better at croaking (or so I think). I’ve won a MATLAB programming contest in bizarre circumstances with a colleague. I’ve learned that I can eat massive amounts when provoked or confronted with people wasting food. I’ve learned that if my foot size grows even an iota, I will not get shoes anywhere in the world. And I’ve learned that people only breathe through one nostril at a time. I feel enlightened!