CHEMPARUTHI - WHERE I BLOSSOMED...

When we were involved in a heated discussion to select the Electives for the fifth semester just some time back, it suddenly dawned upon me that half of my college life is about to get over in a matter of a fortnight (Mechanical Engineering has exhausted me to the core, so I don’t think I will be doing any PG), so here’s my account on my stay at the hostel during my first year.

Getting admitted in a college half way through a semester, according to me, would be the worst possible start ever to a course. It was a great relief for me personally to shift somehow from a prestigious institution in Coimbatore to my dream, CEG (There are people who opt for the place from where I came, or rather, fled. This is purely my opinion). This was through a process called FOC, which my mates confused with the Fundamentals Of Computing – one of the subjects in the first sem. Actually, FOC expands as Fifty percent Open quota Counselling. Explaining the criteria and inclusion of candidates for this process is beyond the context of this post.

After completing the formalities, it was time to get enrolled in a hostel. The man in-charge at the hostel office looked at me suspiciously as if I had escaped from a jail and was seeking temporary asylum at CEG. He then gave me three options. “You can take a room at the ground floor of J Block or one in the second floor of Chemparuthi or another in New Block. The choice is yours.” Apparently, these were the vacancies created due to the people who had kept engineering as their concubines temporarily till they met their true love - MEDICAL.

There was a bit of confusion. I slowed myself down and started thinking. On my way from the counselling hall to the hostel office, all the hostel blocks were incarnated in terms of flowers. Moreover, I reminisced one of my friends informing about him staying at a block named after some flower. And, that’s how I chose to enter CHEMPARUTHI!! I didn’t know then I would miss this hostel terribly after the mandatory shift to another block in the second year.

I was allotted Room No. 56. As dad accompanied me to help out arrange things in order (Ladies aren’t allowed inside. So, mom had to stay out), I was received by a pot – bellied, gigantic fellow, who introduced himself as IQBAL (I do not forget to thank the Almighty daily for introducing this guy). It was 2:00 P. M and most of the freshers had classes then. When enquired by dad, he stated very calmly, “Who cares to go to class daily, pa? It would suffice if one has 75% attendance. Never mind!” And, he was watching some intimate scenes in a hollywood movie. Something about that frank reply flattered me and I smiled secretly. On the flipside, fear gripped me because no dad would like this kind of first impression. Thankfully, my dad was not one among those and he gave a shy grin so as to remain neutral between admiring Iqbal’s guts and staying strict to me.

Due to this late admission, there were a lot of chores to be completed within a short span of time. Second internal assessments were commencing in a week and there was Agni, the intra – college culturals in between. (First internals had already been done with then) Lab experiments had to be completed and records signed. Adding to these painstaking works, I had to run from one extreme of the campus to the other for some petty stuff. It is worth noting here that CEG spans almost 220 acres. Due to these shortcomings, I was not able to interact with most of my first sem mates. Sadly, I miss this one particular aspect very badly because it hurts when you aren’t able to reciprocate someone’s greetings even after them mentioning that you were their batchmate (In the first sem, students from various departments mingle in several batches in order to facilitate communication breaking barriers).

Hostel was my reservoir of recreation after every excruciating day at labs and classes. Slowly, I got acquainted to the whole wing. Every room was meant for 4 people but that never happened. There would be just 2 people, or in the worst cases, none in a room, while another room would be brimming with 15 to 20 people. This metaphors the economic situation of India with wealth overflowing on a side and people begging for basic amenities on the other, eh?

Presence of all the four inmates of my room at the same time was a rare reality as VIKRAM would be omnipresent minus our room. The first semester went off in a whiz, with my roommates getting irritated very often on account of my switching the lights on at 6:30 A. M most of the time. Record works had to be completed!

In the second semester, there was the formation of this epic VMS (Varuthapadadha Maanavar Sangam), inspired by the Sivakarthikeyan – starrer, VVS. This made me closer to all friends of friends and we started enjoying each and every day. There would be games daily, with cards being the first preference. ASS was always the unequivocal choice and we targeted one guy routinely. Either the cards would be circulated in such a way that he got all the bullshit together or we made secret gestures to turn the tables on him.

Everyone had some distinguishable qualities that were worth imbibing. Iqbal was a cool guy, who stayed calm even during exams. He knew his limits and trusted his abilities. Marks never mattered even when he failed to score and he would just say serenely, “I did well. Let’s hope for the best in the next.”

Vikram was an inspiring guy who would do anything for his friends, no matter what the situation. He would gladly be at your side even on the day of examination, if you are ill. His mantra was and is, “Exams come and go; degrees and grades flow and pass; but, friendship stays.”

Shivaprakash was one who lived the life of a hermit, a modern one with a mobile and nothing else. I was always blown by the way he spent time only with that tiny gadget, staying static even for half day. His needs were limited and basic. He didn’t require hotel food on the days when mess itinerary was too bad; he never complained about anything. All he needed was porn.

Aadhil was a miraculously gifted guy with extraordinary photographic memory. Iqbal, being my first friend, introduced me to Aadhil as ‘The Man Who Missed State Rank in the Boards By A Whisker’. He was my mentor throughout the first year, be it solving the most intricate problems of Maths – I or the Greek and Latin programs of C. Making a count of the number of languages and dialects that exist in the world would be trivial if one goes through his mobile, which would contain movies of all languages – mostly classical ones.

Santhosh a.k.a Sandy was the most matured man of this gang. He was the one who knew when to stop even the most intriguing game of cards so that we slept at least for some time in the nights. If every gang should require a perfect planner, we had Sandy. His equality in treating a newbie as well as the close friend in the same way was the one thing that brought me to my feet.

Bharath was the alter ego of Aadhil. This should have stemmed, perhaps, from the fact that they were from the same school.

Vignesh was the one who always made everyone ready for dinner sharp at 7. No matter what, inspite of repeatedly being mocked and criticized for this activity, he continued this penance throughout the year.

Ezhil was one drop of the prick of fate, as he was forced to put up here due to his low age, despite being academically eligible for a seat in medicine. If Vignesh was the alarm for food, this guy was the one for play and Mahabharatha. He would take extreme pain in waking Iqbal up, as fatso would lie there in his bed after a full meal. An, whenever Iqbal felt lazy or sleepy, he would scold dutifully, “Why do you always want me to call everyone? Share the responsibilities rather than thrusting them wholly upon me.” Ezhil was secretly envied by all of us because he, assured of a medical seat the next year, was enjoying life at CEG thoroughly, with no need of studying or writing records. It would not be an exaggeration if I mention him as the Pioneer of Mahabharatha in Chemparuthi. First, he started watching, which attracted Iqbal and shortly, there were flocks of people yearning for the next episode. Proxy server helped them to track back old episodes and progress with the yet-to-be-telecast Tamil episodes by viewing the Hindi version. The sincerity Ezhil showed to write Shri Rama Jayam before each and every action can never be forgotten. He would call everyone for playing and then suddenly disappear into his room. We would later learn that he was writing the holy words.

For me and Vikram, the major pastime would be observing Iqbal’s way of speaking keenly. He would often mispronounce a word or name someone mistakenly that would become the topic of laughter the whole day. In fact, I was maintaining a separate notebook with accounts of all the new linguistic innovations of Iqbal, which, Vikram would playfully mention, would soon become a new dictionary of contemporary English. However, Iqbal was always our stress- buster. When we were bored with cards, Iqbal would call customer care and speak relentlessly for half – an – hour, all the while enquiring stuff that didn’t concern a mobile service provider. It would start like this: “Hello… Nalla irukingala, Sir? Enna oru madhiri pesuringa? Customer-a kandukama vada saapudringala?” (Hello.. How are you, Sir? Why do you talk strangely? Has eating vada become so important than attending to a customer?) The course of this conversation (mostly a monologue) would range from menu cards in hotels to mega serials in television. We would be laughing uncontrollably, forming a circle around him. I realized the magnificence of his brilliance only after my trial at a customer care number. They immediately sensed that I was a prank caller and disconnected the line. I admire him for creating so much of fun around here without them knowing that they are belittled.

Balaji soon joined in. He was more of a daily working guy in the first semester but got used to CEG life soon after. He brought business game into our list and we started playing it endlessly. During second semester examinations, there were three – or four – day gap between two subjects and mostly, we would rush everything in the last day or two only. So, our obvious focus would be on Business. Iqbal was always the banker, exhibiting clairvoyance with clarity in announcing bonuses and rate slashes. Apparently, this was due to his managing their shop during holidays.

VMS always made it a point to celebrate birthdays of its members with sheer grandeur and atrocity. The manner in which a treasury was maintained to collect funds from all its members to buy cakes and other common necessities like cards, chessboards, cricket bats, et al. was astounding. Vikram, as the boss, would always preside over things and Sandy was always his right hand.

There were always hassles when Vikram’s dad gave him some dinner, mostly parathas. He is a Government Bus driver, whose route covers the proximity of Chidambaram to Chennai. He would always notify Vikram regarding his coming and stop in momentarily at the bus stop near the University to hand him the treasure. That short sentimental looks exchanged between a loving father and a longing son would easily well my eyes. Everyone would be bustling for their bite, which would almost end up in nobody having anything, with the floor taking up the lion’s share, courtesy the spill-outs.

I could never forget the T20 World Cup matches watched in the TV Hall of Chemparuthi. The abuses on the opponents when they took a slight edge in an encounter, the angry remarks on our own players when they failed to fulfil their responsibilities, the pre – match and post – match discussions about the weather forecast to what could have been done to reverse the results in favour and many more are etched in my heart. That sound of Deeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii…. after each boundary scored and each wicket earned can never be forgotten.

One of the major highlights of Chemparuthi was that students could come in at any time illegally by climbing the corridors. There was a pipe outlet, which should have been constructed by a merciful human being, keeping in mind students’ thought process, because it served as the bridge between the ground and upper floors. This meant night shows were not a problem at all. The three movies (Endrendrum Punnagai, Biriyani and Dhoom 3)  I watched with my batchmates in a row on three nights were great fun, with us making a hell of a scene before boarding a cab, due to unavailability of buses late at night.

When Two States hit the screens, we were very eager to go to the theatre. But then, second semester exams were on and one of two balaadhkar kind of papers awaited. The night before English exam, Aadhil finally took the initiative for a night show along with me and Bharath. It was especially worthy (you know why) and I still remember going to the exam with insufficient sleep, in a kind of stupor, and writing Krish Malhotra and Ananya Swaminathan irrelevantly at many places.

It didn’t matter a great deal when we vacated the hostel after two semesters but now, as I sit here at my second year hostel and type the whole of this, demarcated by various departments and messes, something insinuates me and makes me yearn for a chance to stay there at that heaven for one more year with the same friends, same deck of cards, same customer care pranks and same friendship.

From a childish school-goer to a somewhat matured hosteller, from an eccentric nerd to an interactive fellow, from feeling homesick at hostel to feeling hostelsick at home, Chemparuthi has been my second home.

I MISS YOU, CHEMPARUTHI!! I WILL MISS YOU FOREVER!!!

SOMEWHERE I BELONG...

          Smile has become smiley; Wishes have been transformed to gives and takes; Wealth would soon be measured in terms of FB likes. Though I grumble, protest, resist and offend, I am forced to be a droplet in the flow. But, it hurts when mom and dad ‘requests’ me to be their friend.

“Fast. Quick. Soon” The Triumvirs of Present. He likes to be there. She longs to be there. People rush somewhere with no target. THE SENSE OF BELONGING! Internet. WiFi. The age of instant. Two days of sabbatical from Whatsapp and Facebook can earn the wrath of many. So, who are really friends?

Every Friday, this or that movie is released. Rants and gossips go on. Rating websites flash out the scores of their so – called experts. Fellow people review it further. Now, there’s no way other than watching. You can’t abstain because you’ve to BELONG…

When someone hassles with continuous stats about Football, a Tennis fanatic is pushed to watching FIFA.. No other go.. He has to BELONG there, showing his skills off.

Pizza. When a friend eats it and I deny, he gives a scorn. “You don’t eat pizza?” I would like to reply, “Yes, I don’t. How does it matter?” But, I take a piece. THE FEEL OF BELONGING! Elite society embraces someone eating pizza with coke. No more masal dosas.

I am tired of this. I board a bus. After traveling quite a distance, the modern camel halts. Abuses and quarrels ensue. Apparently, there is an accident. On-lookers scathe a man and I, impulsively, scold him, too. I don’t know who he is, what happened really, but I am buoyed to do something. This fret leads to verbal filth. Others are doing, so am I. MIND smiles, “Good. You BELONG here.”

Suddenly, I feel insecure. I have to publicize this. I post a status.

          “Road Accident. Two dead. WTF is happening to the people   these           days?” – feeling frustrated at NH 999

Within a minute, likes start pouring in. Nobody enquires. Nobody criticizes. Nobody thinks. No wish of well being. I wait for a text or call, asking, “Macha.. How are you? Is everything okay there?” None. One minute. Two minutes. No. Five minutes. Nope. I suddenly realize that even if this wait goes on forever, I would receive nothing.

Frustration gets added. Multiplied. Manifested. Transcended beyond limits. Galloping Inflation, economists say. I would rather frame it as Galloping Depression. I get down from the bus. With no other way, I start walking. Some kind of ire overflows, kindling an obscure fire within. A slow, peaceful saunter turns into a sweating run. I reach back to my hostel.

Thinking of sleeping, I just fall like a baggage cover forcefully on the bed. Have some rest and start studying, I tell myself. Just then, I hear noises outside. When I step out of my room, I see people roaming the corridors, mugging something. Exam fever! Postponing, or rather, cancelling my nap, I take out my book from the shelf. I’ve to BELONG here…

At the end of the day, I feel nauseated. Muddled. Filled with too many thoughts, but with no complete purpose. My phone rings. I have been waiting for this tone. “…Kaalaiyil Dhinamum Kan Vizhiththaal Naan Kai Thozhum Dhaevadhai Ammaa..” I answer hurriedly. The caller senses my anguish. “What’s up, kanna?” I elaborate and as I do, I feel myself getting light, free from all burdens. I feel like I have been able to pee freely after a day or two. Now, my SOUL says, “You actually BELONG here, child.”

THE HAVEN CALLED SALON...

          Homecoming. For a hosteler, this can be a delight for two reasons other than seeing mom and dad:

1)   How much ever clothes you bring, parents would never grumble to wash and rinse them carefully, caressing the collars and the interior of pockets.

2)   Food! Never ever forget this. Varieties at your table.

          These are our cravings. As every action has an equal reaction (Dynamics Professor has instructed not to write ‘equal and opposite reaction, because it is either a reaction or an opposite action), parent(s) expect(s) certain aspects from us, of which the chief one is, “GO AND CUT YOUR HAIR THE FIRST THING TOMORROW. WHAT NONSENSE IS THIS? AND, PEOPLE CALL IT STYLE.” And, the ramble goes on. Mute it!

          Though it irritates being asked to tonsure our hair, I love salons for too many reasons:

1)   First and foremost, an elderly man is there to obey your orders and take in your suggestions only here (“Keep the beard short; trim my mush slightly” et al)

2)   We can model our hair to any extent but shift the blame on the barber back at home, saying “I told him to cut some more. He said this would be fine.”

3)   Last but not the least, the Frequency Modulation. Okay! No Physics. FM!!

          I always am surprised in finding the etymology of the word, barber. Dad has once said that, during his childhood days, there was a claw – like thing, which was used to clasp the cluster of hair and take it off, resulting in him writhing in pain. Strangely odd enough, the Wordweb gives out several meanings for the term, barb, of which the first one happens to be “An aggressive remark directed at a person like a missile and intended to have a telling effect”. Another one states, “The pointed part of a wire” Both have their own share of relativity to barber. While the former scores in that it has a telling effect (Pain.. Believe me! Even today, it hurts a lot due to the effect of blades used to give final touches), the latter gets a nod because hairs are indeed pointed. So, barber is a perfect derivative of barb.

          Over to the salon, I like going there especially for the third point. (Sorry for the very long deviation. Scroll up to see what it is) I always have a grudging admiration for the Radio Jockies. How can someone blabber non – stop without a definite topic for almost half – an – hour (In some worst cases, this goes on for an hour, too) Of course, this scarcely seems a wonder because I have seen many of my mates (and some Profs) do this then and there. But, ILAYARAAJA!! This effect is of no words to express.

          Although I prefer ARR to this man, rare happenings often get etched deeply in heart. After hearing four or five songs repeatedly in almost all the variety shows and dance performances in various cultural festivals (Oh, you want the list? Here it is.. Velayilla Pattadhari Theme, where Anirudh shouts like he wants to squat and answer nature’s call; Kaththi – The Sword of Destiny, another Anirudh composition; Mangatha Theme, which energizes the crowd very easily; and Yennai Arindhaal, where Harris Jayaraj has used the electronic instruments in a good way), a breezy lullaby of Ilayaraaja is a soul – soothing one. In spite of the tabla repeating the same rhythm in most of his numbers without much energy, the tunes bring out the master.

          Imagine the public places. Marriage halls reverberate with Aambalaikum Pombalaikum Avasaram (Kazhugu) and Evan Di Unna Pethaan (Vaanam; lyrics penned by our ‘legendary’ Simbu); town buses and share autos blare Danga Maari, which effortlessly overtakes the noise of their horns. Ilayaraaja seems a necessity, eh? The sad thing is, from his countless tracks, only 100 are played in all FMs. They are enough, though! “Rasathi Unna Kanadha Nenju” and “Idhayam Oru Kovil” are the most frequented ones, followed by “Thooliyile Aada Vandha” (There can be Gangai Amaran involved in some or all tracks. I regret any discrepancy). Yet, they make up a blissful experience.

          A major part of salons have come up with an additional installation. The Television! They are played continuously throughout the day and the barbers, in the interest of watching their favorite program, perform awkward activities. There was one such man, who compellingly pushed my head down and made my eyes look in the direction of ground, and almost made the white flesh beyond my hair pop out, still revving the cutting machine, lost in some serial. Meanwhile, his apprentice was simply cutting the air rather than hair of another person, who watched in shock as the scissors approached his nose and even his mouth.

          And, these modern spas and parlors, announcing them to be the Numero Uno beauty salon, play some jarring English tracks, whose meaning neither they nor the customers can conceive. FASHION! If playing heavy metallic songs can make a salon modern and hippy, replace the barber with a stereo music system. Let the tools be there to symbolize, “Oh, this is a salon!”

          Coming to me, I always make it clear on how my hair has to be cut, where to use machine and how to shape my side hairs etc. “Seringa thambi. Kannadiya kazhati veinga.” (“Fine, brother. Remove your specs, please) And, that’s the end of my story. He would plow my head in a nasty way and I would either be sleeping, courtesy the Ilayaraaja effect, or would be blinking clueless, as my vision would be blurred sans glasses. Finally, he would be done and when I put on my glasses, someone else would be smiling from the mirror. When I try to quarrel (despite knowing it would be futile), he would either say, “This is how you mentioned” or “This is the latest trend.”

          Confused, I would return home. There is a better way to assess the worth of 60 bucks. If mom says, “What is this nonsense?”, voila! That is the hairstyle I want because mom would never feel happy unless I come home bald. On the contrary, if she says, “Good. This is the nice look”, it would imply that I should have to think of some bullet points to convince my mocking friends, who would go on a rampage with me at the center of attraction.

          Whatever it is, every time I come home from college, this ritual goes on, with rare positive results. But, I have reasons to prefer these annas over those hippy tonsures. Maybe their friendly gestures, maybe the cheap rates, or maybe ILAYARAAJA.

AN ODE TO A SOUL

          I won’t start with a hi or hello. This is for you, my friend. I won’t mention your name because that word doesn’t matter now. In fact, it didn’t mean much even when you were in your bodily form. But, I just want to ask you a question. “How can you leave me here and go somewhere, bastard?” People say you are dead. I don’t know. In fact, I can’t understand. Death means you are not here in this world. If it is true, how will I be sitting here typing this for you? Pat me now. Give me a thumbs up so I can continue.

          How ironic it is, indeed! What you said to me some time back has really happened. “I don’t know when we will get to see each other again. Anna University and affiliated college people have varying holidays.” I won’t cry, don’t worry. That’s how you wanted me to be. Ever – smiling… Jubilant… Ecstatic... I don’t know why my eyes get weary. Eye defect; maybe. I am a human being; of course. Or, are you really not around? I am confused. I mean, is that it? You are gone, eh? No. No. Nooo. How can that ever happen? Sometimes, this engineering mind tends to think crooked. So, you are somewhere here only. You should be. Else, how could I have gone to a treat at a posh hotel even after hearing you are gone? How could I have survived almost 50 hours? Don’t leave me like this. I feel like a boot without a pair. How much ever costly it can be, it doesn’t make sense. Come on, dude. Don’t try to play this game with me.

          People say I behave differently. Yeah, I agree. You wanted me to be different. But, this difference has another implication. My friends say these are bound to happen. I would have to walk alone in the sands of time with nobody near me some day. ‘Some day’ doesn’t mean this day, right? Is 19 the age to leave your body here? Hey, don’t create unnecessary waste here by leaving the flesh empty and futile. There are already enough garbage in the Earth. You were against pollution. So, how do you think the burning of your skin would never become a cause for it? At least now, come back. Fill in that 165 cm physique with your soul.

          So, you still don’t want to reveal yourself and come, face me. Don’t hide, you coward. I want to kick and beat you up severely for scaring me. Some darkness seems to surround me. Oh, that’s because of the shadow of the mountain. I run farther. The darkness comes with me, embraces and grips me. You don’t want your friend to be tormented, nah? You want me to be fine and rocking. So, why the hell do you delay? Come now.

          I don’t wish to enter into the waves of the beach the next time without you. Don’t dry up just like the splashes of water droplets in the body after coming out of the tides.

                   “Each second and minute goes by, on and on….

                    But, I don’t think you’re gone;

                   In search of you, my buddy, for that day

                   When you and me can join hands and play.”

          Allow me to sleep, pal. I need some rest. I am exhausted. Don’t disturb me always. I am selfish, at times. On one side, my rationalistic mind says, “Alas, you didn’t even see his final remains.” I reply, “Why should I? Nothing is final. He is bluffing. He loved to play hide and seek, fucker. Without knowing the seriousness, he is just kidding.”

          Don’t fail me. Come back. There are still movies to be watched, places to be toured, girls to be flirted with, matches to be watched, peaks to be reached. If you can’t accompany me in any of these, at least, make me believe that nothing happened two days back. You didn’t overspeed at the turning. You didn’t ram against the barricade. You didn’t fall off your vehicle. The lorry didn’t crush you…….

                   “Solitude and sorrow fill me to the core,

                    And, I find it hard to keep myself on track;

                   Treading the coarse sands of the shore,

                   I believe you will soon be back.”

CALLING IT A DAY...

          “Come home this weekend, at least. Else, don’t come even for the semester holidays. Neighbors would be asking who you are.” This was mom’s mock – anger in phone. To be frank, I wanted to get home at the earliest. But, the festivals kept on coming, as it is the case during even semesters and I didn’t want to miss anything.  For hostellers, getting back home becomes a prestigious issue. People who tend to go home every weekend are seen as toddlers usually. Hence, I also wanted to live up to it and controlled my curiosity. Over three to four weeks, this yearning continued to dwell and finally, I decided to go, telling my roommate, “Dude, I don’t want to get back there at all. It would be futile and boring. However, mom wants me to come. There’s no way out.”

          After a tiring bus travel, the dinner satisfied me. And, mom informed me that the next day (Saturday) was going to be her last working day at LIC, Cuddalore. Yeah, she had been promoted and was transferred to Vrudhachalam. She asked me to come to the farewell party the next day since dad wasn’t in a position to attend it due to his work commitments.

          In the morning, mom wore a new silk sari which her women colleagues had gifted her. She told they wanted her to wear it that day. Her words came out in a fancily emotional tone. She reminded me to come in the noon and left along with dad. I had my own agenda for the forenoon and went there at about 1:30. Mom was in a hurry without having any valid reason. She walked from one corner of the office to the other in a frantic pace. I could see the vehemence in her movements and she was constantly telling me, “Go and eat. Lunch is being served in the other room over there.” The usual calm woman in mom had disappeared and she became tensed unnecessarily for shortage of plates, which would have been handled in a placid way. To some of her mates, she asked more than thrice the same question. “Have you eaten? Was the menu okay?” Since it was a half – working day, customers had left by then and only the employees were present.

          Finally, when lunch session was over, the formal meeting started at around 2:15. There were almost 50 people gathered in the hall and one man started addressing them. Mom was seated at the centre but she seldom faced the people. Her trademark smile was missing and she kept seeing emptily towards the ground. Five or six spoke one by one, appreciating mom for her active involvement in multifarious activities. Mom’s usual broad grin in response to such kudos with some marked shyness was visibly absent. She was evidently controlling tears and her eyes were soaked in red as if applied with too much glycerin.

          Many people, from the range of mutual acquaintances to very close ones, gifted this or that to her. She had earlier asked me to take some photographs and as I focused the crowd, I could see an extra – ordinary calmness in there. Nobody stood, moved or conversed and some could be seen wiping their tears and trying to smile falsely for the photo. When all started praising her for the immense service she had done during Tsunami relief, I cursed myself for thinking her as a useless person wasting time in good – for – nothing activities.

          Finally, when mom spoke in acknowledgement, I came to know that she had joined duty in the year 1991. 24 years at the same place! Exactly the same period that Sachin Tendulkar was active in the cricket arena. “My life for 24 years between 22 yards, it’s hard to believe that that has come to an end”, echoed in me. The only difference was that was Sach’s retirement while this was mom’s relieving function. As mom uttered a line or two, one of the women sitting amongst the crowd, closed her mouth with a towel and left the place in a hurry. When she came back after 10 minutes or so, it was clear she had cried a lot. Her face was wrinkled badly and she seemed to have come out of continuous insomnia. By then, mom was crying even more. She pressed her teeth very hard so that the words came out in an effective manner and was thanking all her compatriots again and again.

          After the vote of thanks, there were some informal pictures to be snapped. When two ladies came near to congratulate mom one last time, they hugged each other and wept uncontrollably. They had become a family and the branch was mom’s home for almost half of her life till now. Mom apparently wished to prolong the sentimental day by distributing some old files and documents to the people concerned. She kept checking her bag repeatedly for something. She walked towards the place where lunch had been distributed and asked the peon to disburse the vessels to the catering people properly. He nodded, staring at me. She must have told him the same thing, I thought.

          In the present scenario of industrialization, globalization and so many other tions, is it possible to work with the same organization for more than 5 years? People want to belong to the society of elite and keep switching jobs every now and then. The end result would be luxury with loneliness and monetary benefits with mental problems. Can one gain this type of hug and emotional farewell in this corporate world?

          On the flipside, I thought about my college life. Almost half of it has flown by without me noticing the count of days. Mahn, two years have gone and in the next two years, I would have to leave CEG. I don’t know how it would be. A thought of getting debarred and starting afresh so as to enjoy it right from the beginning went through my mind. If one woman can arouse these many feelings, it’s going to be the parting of almost a thousand people at a time, on the same day. Tears fell of my eyes and I wanted to forget it. The only way of consolation is WHWEREVER WE GO, LET’S BE IN TOUCH.

SCHOOLING 'AUTO'MATED...

          I have always made it particular to go to my school premises whenever I come back to my hometown. Meeting the teachers, watchmen, canteen anna and sweeper aayaas always feels good. Especially when some daily wagers out there say, “Wherever you go, please take time to come here and see us”, tears tend to shed out. This is the school that taught me to be independent; that lifted my aspirations; that improved my social awareness; that transcended me to the next level. Most of the so – called schools of practical knowledge never allow students to think critically, expose themselves to competitive environment et al. For them, competition is nothing but scoring more marks than the compatriots. Oops, this school sentiment always affects me to such an extent that I speak more about it. Let’s shift to the topic now.

          For most of the school – goers in Cuddalore, auto is the primary mode of transportation. In my two years in Chennai, I have never seen jam – packed auto – rickshaws bustling their way towards the school campuses, let alone one or two, with the chatter of students overcoming the noise of roaring vehicles in the traffic signal. Those who haven’t traveled by auto and cycles have almost missed more than a half of their schooling.

          I studied my primary classes in St. Joseph’s Mat. Hr. Sec. School, which is in the adjacent street to my home. When my parents said they wanted me to write entrance examinations for another school, its full name infused some sort of fear in me – the Arcot Ramasamy Lakshmanasamy Mudaliar Mat.Hr. Sec. School, shortly ARLM. Of course, I cleared it with relative ease and was ready to enter a new world. But then, I didn’t know that friendships would affect me a lot and take a toll on me.

          An auto driver, who had the routine of taking students from Koothapakkam, my locality, to Manjakuppam, where my new school was located, agreed to take me along with some 10 - 12 others (!!) First of all, I didn’t like the notion of clinging on to a vehicle which had twice the usual load. Secondly, that school took the hell out of me with its strict restrictions of Spoken English, with secret spies being appointed to complain about the defaulters to the Vice – Principal. Thirdly, I missed my old school badly. There were some differences between those two – my old school gave me freedom to play tic – tac – toe in the playground and eat there, spilling and spreading all rice onto the sand; but, this was strictly restricted here. I didn’t have to board an auto and travel for almost 40 minutes; I could very well get ready at the last five minutes and run in no time.

          But in the course of time, I got used to the patterns of ARLM, mostly due to the bliss of traveling by auto. This three – wheeled vehicle became my home in motion for five entire classes from 6^th to 10^th. Prayer would commence sharply at 9:30 and we had to be there at least 15 minutes prior to that. I was the 4^th to get in to the auto at 8:35. As the others got in gradually, there would be this routine of fighting for a place at the front because those who sit at the back seats had the additional burden of carrying some kindergarten children on their laps. Then, there were this differences regarding the right and left seating at the front. While the left seat provided the elegant, comfortable posture, with the perk of no – load – on - lap, the right was meant to give a rough, rogue – kind of look, which is the ever – favorite way of getting a girl, as shown in movies. The person who sat at the right had some assigned duties to be taken care of. He had to see that the vehicle doesn’t ramble with another at signals; he had to horn during traffic; he had to run right – royally into the house to get another fellow if at the sound of the first horn, he/she is not there. And, he who is at left would have to start the auto by lifting that rod with great force so as to ignite the engine. Most importantly, only those at the two sides of the front got the flamboyant chance of getting down when the auto stays in motion. And, the throne was provided mostly to students only after their 8^th grade.

          Now, let’s see how an auto looks at its full strength. Four students would occupy the back seat with any two of them owning the responsibility of seating their juniors on their laps. There is an additional facility called the baby seat, which gives room for four other kindergarteners. Further, two at the front seat in addition to the driver himself would make it up. In addition, bags would be filled to the core at the small space provided for speakers. Some of which, which didn’t fit in there, would be placed near the starter, due to which the person at left would have some minor difficulty. Plus, there would be lunch bags near the foot of the back – seaters. Most of the on – lookers would curse the driver and our parents for not taking care of us, but then, they didn’t matter. It was the thrill, the joy that accounted.

          There were crazy nicknames for some people. One guy, who wanted the corner seat forever, made his mom speak with the driver. From then on, he was known as Piles, courtesy his inability to sit in the middle. The Piles Meme and one – liners became very famous in our school as his classmates began calling him with this new name. It went to such an extent that our Physical Education teacher warned me of suspension if I called him Piles. There were at least one soda putti in every auto, indicating the spectacled ones. In the course of time, that name became extinct as almost everyone started wearing glasses.

          There was another guy, who would always get the help of his uncle to place his bags inside, even after coming to the higher secondary classes. His uncle, unfortunately, didn’t get married, and there was a gossip that he didn’t want a lady to disturb his affection towards this guy. So, this chap was rightly named Chithapa (father’s younger bro). I was called Iyer, as I didn’t give room for any nicknames. I had to see that mom and dad didn’t seem to be too careful and loving towards me, at least in front of my auto mates.

          And, the last day of a particular class was fun – filled. I have muddled my last subject of annual examination mostly due to my imaginations and plan for the decoration of auto. There was this superiority in glossing the vehicle, which had carried us for the whole year, with balloons, ribbons, color papers and stickers. This would always result in a quarrel on which hero’s stickers had to be stuck in front. As inking others’ shirts and mock fights were strictly banned, we had to make sure that our secret equipments were hidden comfortably in order to escape the eagle’s view of the staff assigned with this duty. Moreover, this was the egoistic clash among the drivers, where prestige would be at stake. Some cautious drivers would not take their wards to the beach and they would become the centre of mockery that day by the other drivers and also students. And, the drivers got us hot bhajjis, yummy ice – creams, potato chips and so on. That one day eliminated the societal barrier between a driver and a student. We all came together as a single entity.

          Yesterday, after getting in conversation with the staff that shaped me, I went to the auto stand of the school in search of my beloved auto. I wanted to sit there at the front at least for a few minutes, blow that green horn that have out the ultrasonic baam – baam noise. Disappointed on not finding my auto, I didn’t wish to make my desires satisfied in some other vehicle. Surrogate mother won’t become mother at any cost, eh? I stood there simply for some time, noticing the happy students ready to enjoy the weekend climbing in. Drivers, however harsh they may be, are pure, poor souls that play the mediators between home and school. They are one of the responsibilities of students to come out with flying colors. They are stagnant for this noble cause while we go different places. Each time I wear my khaki for laboratory, I recollect that bald man with long, majestic mush, scolding me to get in soon so that it doesn’t get late to school.

GREEN IS GONE!!

          Anna University! One of the proudest landmarks of Chennai. Spreading about 200 acres, this plush red campus has history in each and every brick of its buildings. For the students at their last two years of school, this is the dream destination. Everyone has the right to step in to this magnificent campus but only a few have the privilege of studying here. I take pride in the fact that I am one of those few. But, this is not the story about me.

          When the +2 results came, I was delighted to be the topper. But, what enthralled me even more was the truth that I would be entering one of the premier engineering colleges of the country. On the day of counseling, a sense of awe dawned upon me as I set foot into the university. “This is one small step for a man, but one giant leap for mankind”, beamed Neil Armstrong in me. Love at First Sight attacked me in the form College of Engineering, Guindy (CEG) – the main campus of the Anna University. As I was directed towards the counseling venue, leaves flew under my legs and cold breeze whooshed past my ears. I first thought I had over – imagined the situation, thanks to the entry of protagonists in Tamil movies but these were happening truly. As I threw a look around the area, there were trees, plants and saplings of various sizes and aroma.

          After my counseling session was over, there were still health details to be taken from my body and I was asked to go to the Health Center, whose distance from the briefing hall staggered me. Despite that, the mesmerism that took control was in no mood to leave me just like that. Each and every step of my stroll towards the Health Center was followed by trees. Oh gosh, they were everywhere such that they seemed to overtake the huge mass crowding there for deciding their fate in Engineering. Canteen was quite nearby from where I started but within that short expanse, a large number of trees were nodding their branches and leaves like a kindergarten child singing rhymes taught by his/her teacher by shaking heads from left to right in a rhythmic manner. The umpteen voices of unknown birds were being heard everywhere, which seemed to welcome the freshers for a successful start.

          Just after the canteen, there were three ATMs, following which there were a row of green benches, which I later on learnt to be the place of romance for the so – called lovers. The spot was heavenly indeed with shady trees providing the perfect place of conversations between a boy and a girl and a 180 degree turn provided a glimpse of the playground. Just then, I noticed the corridors of the red building. When I walked through them, the right proportions of trees and pathways transformed the place into a botanical garden.

          The entrances of all departments were lined by trees, whose omnipresence stunned me. It should have been almost 35 degrees in Chennai that particular day but nowhere could that heat be felt. This was a different city, a different place altogether. I prepared my mind to say, “Anna University does not belong to Chennai. It is not in Chennai. Never! It is a demarcated universe” to whoever asked me the location of my place of study. The day was over and I was depressed by then because I didn’t belong there. I had got admission into some other college in some other city far away from Chennai. My final thought before sleep was. “I’ll get back here. Soon!”

          Sure! Fate and luck chose me as I was called in for a second round of counseling, especially meant for the OC people. (Let’s not discuss the politics involved in this quota system. That would divert the topic of interest) Hurray, I wanted to yell like a rock singer, tearing my vocal cord into a thousand pieces in fraction of seconds. First semester was a memorable one with the most enviable classroom being provided to us. There were six set of doors with one for the conventional entry and the other five for those who steal in and abscond during most of the classes after getting attendance. (Perhaps, this is called the lateral entry!) The professors had varying attendance timings – some would mark it at the beginning of the class and some others at the end. After knowing their templates, it became quite easy for our batch to make use of this rarest advantage. But more than this, the eternal plus of this particular room was the fresh air that freely entered through all the doors and sent us easily to a state of trance and hypnotism. Very often, being physically present and mentally absent was the state of us as the scented air often effected in yawns and snores, how much ever interesting the topic of discussion was. This, combined with the mingling of students from various departments, made the first semester memorable.

          At the end of my semester holidays, a sense of incompleteness loomed as the fact that we would be separated by the names of departments struck me. But, right in front of the proud Department of Mechanical Engineering stood a deep – rooted tree, whose trunk symbolized why they were named so. There were some benches for sitting and the mere tree was enough to comfort me. This would later on go to be the spot of assembly during the breaks for students to eat samosas and drink flavored juices.

          Suddenly now, all the luster looks like history. The beast, which provided shade to all budding Mechanical Engineers, is no more. Instead, there is a WiFi hub where some students, I don’t know how they manage, sit all day with their laptops browsing something (Though in most cases, it happens to be Facebook) There are several other WiFi ‘trees’ like this one. Thank God, some other trees are still alive to make our recess enjoyable but this is not a fact of relief because nobody can assure how long they would stay. Some trees near the main building have been cut down for ‘beautification’, many others for the construction of hostel blocks. I have personally seen some blocks not being occupied to the fullest but responsible people would have found an answer to this question by now.

          A subject called Environmental Science, shortly EVS, with equal credits as a core paper, has been included in the curriculum. What is the use of getting marks in that subject if we can’t stop the deforestation taking place right before our eyes? At this rate, the whole of flora in this old and prestigious region would narrow down to zero in no time. So, why then should we study the preventive measures against pollution and deforestation? Why mug the scientific names of various species of plants unnecessarily when we won’t be seeing them in a short span? In the next two or three years (or may be even the next year), students who come in for counseling would be suspicious if they had entered the right place. For, Anna University is not Anna University without the endless trees surrounding it.

          Even our national flag would become incomplete without green in it. Replace the saffron by red and it is Anna University. This red would become imperfect if there is no green.