Tribute to a Friend

It has frequently been described to me by wise veterans that, "college will be the best four years of a person's life." I recall one occasion of a peer who was on the receiving end of this same adage, given innocently enough. This student, whose first-hand experience had undoubtedly given him an entirely different opinion on the matter, fairly noted that if the veteran's statement was true, it implied that the said student should expect his life after college to consist predominantly of routine colonoscopies, and being run over by cars on a biweekly basis. I think the man got the point, because he walked away quietly.

The college veteran's words might be true, but I see my friend's point as well, clear as crystal. While college life certainly is a whole new epoch in a person's life, marked by freedom and independence, it is by no means easy. I personally had a monstrous time dealing with all the hurdles college life threw at me, and it threw hurdles like an episode of Takeshi's Castle. But however hard my first year was, it would have been a whole lot worse without a close friend of mine, who went the entire year being quite unappreciated. I intend this post as a tribute to him.

This friend was with me every step of the way, from the day I started packing up until the day I left. We walked shoulder-to-shoulder everyday, taking on challenges as they came. He was incredibly organized and trustworthy. He always knew exactly what we needed, and very often provided me with just the tools I needed to handle my work and day-to-day tasks. He was rarely ever a burden, and was always so comfortable to be around. No matter how much shit I gave him, he would always take it without complaint, only giving it back when I really asked for it. I always knew that no matter what, he had my back. And he knew, all along, that I was always supporting him too.

So, here's a toast. To my Wildcraft backpack, whose build quality, capacity, padding and sturdiness, all aided me in completing my first year of college, and hopefully, all the remaining years as well.

The big delivery

It was a big day for Subbu. His real name was Subramanian, but on those streets of Bombay where one dared not walk without a machete, he was known as Supplier Subbu. Originally from Chennai, Subbu was a gregarious man, and had incredible networking skills. He had moved to Bombay many years ago, for the opportunities, and he quickly found that networking was his forte. He knew so many people, in fact, that he had to buy a 16 GB pen drive just to store all his contacts from Maharashtra, Tamil Nadu and beyond.

Subbu, as evidenced by his street name, specialized in supply and delivery. People would call him from all sorts of places, asking for specific "products". Now, he was a middle-man. He would acquire these products from one of his contacts, and then have them delivered to his customer for a fair price. Subbu had contacts for everything, local or foreign, legal or illegal. From apples to alcohol, combs to cocaine, iron filings to ivory, Subbu knew more than a dozen people for each.

Just last week, Subbu had had a particularly difficult order to complete. The ringleader of a small newly-formed band of gundas had asked him for some weapons. Now, regular weapons were standard orders for Subbu. Quick calls to Talvar Tarun, Bandook Bhargava, and Goli Gopi (usually called 'Golgappa') pretty much covered any ordinary order that he might get. But for this order, he had been asked for something quite unorthodox: shurikens. Inspired by movies, these dilettantish gundas were naively convinced that shurikens (or, "ninja stars") were the ultimate weapons to rule the streets of Bombay. Naturally, they had made an order for 600 of them.

Subbu was never a man to discourage an order. He took it as a personal challenge to complete this delivery. Contacting various weaponry specialists, he explained his specific requirements. Many declined his request, some saying it was too difficult to manufacture, others saying it was an insult to their profession to make these "toys". He contacted connoisseurs of Japanese artifacts but they did not have shurikens in the quantity he required. Undeterred, Subbu kept trying. After being declined over a hundred times, he finally remembered a retired old friend of his, who owned metal milling machines. By coaxing his friend with monetary offers, and reminding him of old times, Subbu managed to get the man to manufacture 600 6-point ninja stars made of iron, within the week, but at a lofty price. The gundas then bought the exotic weapons from Subbu for double that price, faute de mieux. Subbu had dinner that night at The Oberoi.

But back to why it was a big day for Subbu. He was going to deliver the biggest order he had ever received. Subbu seldom did his own deliveries. He had subordinates to do them. But today, he could not risk that. He would be doing the job like he used to, in the inceptive years of his business.

The order was incredibly difficult, not only because the commodity asked was undoubtedly illegal, but also because it was widely considered a social taboo, and very few people dared to deal in the business. It made the shuriken order seem trivial. Subbu, himself, did his best to avoid the product. This time, however, a powerful connection was at stake. The man making the order was probably the most respected and feared gangster in the disreputable circles of Bombay. If Subbu could make this man his ally, it would immensely benefit both, his business, as well as his personal safety.

Fortunately, some years ago, Subbu had met a young man, Singham, who specialized in the product he currently required. Subbu had never expected to need to contact the man, but when he got this order, Singham was the first person that Subbu thought of. Singham was great at his job, and even better at hiding from the law, virtues that Subbu greatly valued in anyone he worked with. Subbu had visited the man a day before the day of his delivery. Singham had deftly packed the goods, and had kept it ready for Subbu. A large sum of money was exchanged for the recherche product and Subbu returned home with the large package, thinking about meeting his client the next day.

On the morning of the delivery, Subbu was pumped up. A bit of a masochist, Subbu stared at his ugly face in the mirror. He smiled and rehearsed what he would say to his client. Satisfied, he got ready and left. The meeting was to be held at a dilapidated, abandoned house. His client had not remained untouched by the law all these years without being a master of inconspicuousness.

Subbu found the address without issue, and as expected, saw it guarded by two enormous gundas, actual ones, not the fake, shuriken-carrying type. They took a step forward. One took the package and his precautionary dagger, which he volunteered forward, while the other frisked him for any other weapons. It had been a long time since Subbu had personally made a delivery, and even longer time since he had been frisked. He had developed a reputation for trustworthiness throughout Bombay. This deal, he knew, however, was too important for him to risk taking offense, so he allowed himself to be frisked by the hippopotamus. His package was returned to him, and he walked up the creaky stairs to meet the most feared gangster in Bombay. This was the moment.

He entered a room, and he noted there was already another guest there. A man was sitting in a chair, no, tied up in a chair, staring at a large fancy table that looked odd in the run-down house they were in. The man in the chair was trembling and whimpering, probably someone who had cheated or stolen from his captors. Subbu, in the line of work he was in, had seen many such incidents and was unperturbed. If there wasn't a more important job to do, Subbu may have been slightly curious as to what the tied-up man had done. But Subbu did have a more important job to do. He was looking at the man sitting at the fancy table, his client.

Detonation Sundaresan was an average-sized man with big biceps, and an enormous head. He wore a grey T-shirt and ostentatious jewelry all over his body. He sported a bushy French beard and two little pig tails were tied upwards on either side of his head. It occurred to Subbu what a striking resemblance he had to a spanner. 

Sundaresan stared dispassionately at the man in the chair. He seemed to be deciding what to do with him. Subbu knew where his client had got his name, and why people all over Bombay feared it; the stories were famous. At a young age, Sundaresan had developed a passion for bombs. He loved Diwali and quickly graduated from Bijlis to 'Hydrogen bombs'. By the time he was 13 he realized that recreational bombs were not enough, and he started learning how to make real ones. At the age of 15 he made a small dynamite, and used it to maim a barber for shaving off his precious sideburns. At 17, he made a potent TNT bomb. By the age of 21, Sundaresan could make 25 different kinds of bombs of varying intensities. This expertise helped him get rid of people he didn't like. He was notorious for converting his enemies into organic debris.

With a grenade in one hand, and a knife in the other, he sat at the table, his cold eyes staring at the man on the other side of the table. He finally spoke in a deep voice, "let him go." His subordinates, mildly surprised, cut the ropes. The trembling man managed a "thank you" before limping out of the room. Subbu allowed himself the raise of an eyebrow at this display of mercy. Sundaresan was in a good mood.

Sundaresan then looked at Subbu. He pointed to the chair where the man had just been tied. Subbu nervously sat down, but nobody touched him.

"Vanakkam, sir," said Subbu, to subtly reestablish that he and Sundaresan had common origins. "I have brought the product just as you requested. Very fresh, sir." he said, trying to maintain the perfect balance between acquiescence and confidence.

An assistant of sorts took the package from Subbu and handed it to his boss and went back to his designated spot. Sundaresan slowly unwrapped the package. He held the product to his nose, taking it in. In those long moments, Subbu empathized with MasterChef participants waiting for Gordon Ramsay's verdict, which would most probably be acrimonious. After what seemed like forever to Subbu, Sundaresan signaled to his assistant, who went to another room, brought a suitcase, handed it to Subbu and, again, went back to his original spot. Subbu knew better than to count the money, but from the weight of the suitcase he figured that he had been given more than was the deal. Subbu smiled.

"A little extra, for your troubles. Cocaine, Heroin and all are great, but as of late, this is so much harder to get. I have been waiting so long for this," he said smiling at the package. The boomerang assistant went to a different room, brought a plate, and went back to his spot. Like a dehydrated man coming upon a river, Detonation Sundaresan pulled a large juicy slice of beef from the package, onto his plate, and attacked it.

Once Sundaresan had had enough to satisfy his temporary gluttony, he looked up and asked Subbu, who had been watching awkwardly, where he had got the beef from.

"A young man named Singham, sir, Slaughter Singham. He owns a slaughterhouse. For the sake of his safety and privacy, I cannot reveal any more about the man."
Sundaresan seemed to find this fair, and told Subbu to give Singham his regards.

Subbu, perfunctorily asked about the quality of the meat, knowing fully well that Sundaresan had loved it. Upon getting a response, he announced that he was going to leave. With finesse, Subbu gave his card to Sundaresan and said, "for anything that you may need delivered, call Supplier Subbu, and consider it done." Detonation Sundaresan was visibly impressed. The alliance was made.

Baffled looks on the faces of some of my slower friends have shown me a need to add this explanation. If you are wondering, "why beef?", it's because I was alluding to the recent ban of beef in Maharashtra. 

The ball pit

He was placed in a strange world. It had walls, but you couldn't see them. They were just glass, but the boy didn't know that. The walls teased the little boy, showing him life-like images of his mother, smiling at him. But when he tried to go to her, the walls pushed him back like an invisible force-field. They forbade him from reaching her, from returning to her familiar arms where he had oft found solace. After a couple of tries, he came to see that the wall was relentless. He stared longingly at his mother, whose image just continued to smile at him as he tried reach her. It was no use, he realized. 

He turned around, suppressing his despair, remembering the last instructions his mother had given him. 
"I will have to leave you here for a little while. You must not cry." 
He examined the strange world again. It was like nothing he had ever seen. Although he had never experienced anything like those walls before, they weren't the most absurd thing in that world. No, it was the ground. The ground was not flat like the ones on which he normally walked. Rather, it was composed of large equally-sized spheres, each larger than his hands, which formed the undulating ground, like sand dunes in a desert. As he stood, his legs were sunken deep within these spheres. He could not see his toes, but it comforted him to know that he could pull his legs out if he wanted. The spheres were of various colors. He strained his mind, trying to remember all the different colors that had been to taught to him, but it was hard to think under these unfamiliar circumstances. After some tremendous mental effort, he remembered their names: red, blue, green, yellow and white. But the effort took a toll on his energy, and, feeling exhausted, he let his knees buckle and fell on the strange floor. 

The experience was like nothing he had ever felt. As he fell, the spheres seemed to be clearing the way so that he could sit comfortably. They tickled his legs as they squirmed and popped above the ground, while he fell down. He landed comfortably, pleasantly surprised at their politeness. These spheres were friendly creatures after all. Making himself comfortable, he decided to pick up one of his new comrades, and found they were light and pliant. He threw one a little distance from him, and within a second he forgot where it was, as it camouflaged with the rest of the ground. He picked up another and threw it further. Invigorated by this new experience he stood up again and threw another sphere. All thoughts of his mother had, for the moment, left his head, as he played with his round, colorful friends. He did not even realize how much he was smiling.

Just as he was going to throw what would have been his thirtieth sphere, he heard some movement on the other end of the world. A familiar female voice rung through the world, calling the boy by name. The world was not done giving the boy surprises. In one part of the world, the hand that belonged to the voice reached through a new gap in the wall, an exit, beckoning the boy. The boy had mixed feelings. He was relieved that the wall's power could be surmounted, but simultaneously extremely sad to be leaving this new place. It was a long time since he had been as happy as he was here. With great sorrow, he waded through the floor, clinging tightly to one blue friend in his hands. As he reached the world's exit, however, he was told to put the "ball" back. It was not his. He had to be told three times, before he put it back with stifled tears. Again, something he loved was being forced away from him. He bade farewell to his friends as he left. 
"Come on. Time to go back to the orphanage," said the orphanage matron, as she held the little boy's hand. 

The bane that is the benchmark

This was an essay I wrote for the following prompt:

Name one concept, idea, or invention that the world would be better off without and tell us why.

Certainly, the concept of a universal benchmark!  Let me explain.

Which of these is the coldest? Melted wax, campfire or lava? What is cold? It is simply the absence of heat. It is relative, because there is no ‘line’ that demarcates cold from hot. Everything in the world is relative and nothing is absolute. Also, which is the fastest, a fish, an eagle or a rabbit? It depends on where they are racing. There can be no absolute decision. When nothing is absolute, I do not see the point in taking these comparisons as seriously as we do.

Just as Usain Bolt’s speed can’t be compared with Michael Phelps’, neither can the ability / worth of any two people or organizations. They can only be contrasted if they have had the exact same opportunities, skill sets and preferences, and this is extremely rare. Therefore, there is no point in agonizing over whether someone is doing better than you.  It is far wiser to gauge your progress by comparing yourself to your own past performance and potential.

Mark Twain famously said, ‘Comparison is the death of joy’. So are benchmarks. A benchmark causes unnecessary pressure and discontent. People feel insecure because they are too short, or fat, or not rich enough, or good enough at something. A man who loses a kilogram in a week may feel upset that his neighbor lost two, and the ‘ideal weight’ is still twenty kilograms away. Why compare at all when, in reality, the two individuals’ bodies are different, and are not designed to lose weight at the same rate.  All that ought to matter is that the person was healthier than he was one week ago.

As a student, I know the pressures that my peers feel. I have seen friends become severely discouraged and demoralized simply because they did badly in an exam. Their worth was being gauged by comparing their grades vis-à-vis another’s. Why does it occur to people that they can use such a small parameter to gauge success and generalize the results? To quote Albert Einstein, “Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid”.

I dream of a world without a universal yardstick, where people are judged only on how far they have come from where they were. There, goals would be set sensibly taking their context into account, and progress measured only against these goals. You are your best and only touchstone, and your primary objective should be to continuously be better than yourself, not some external benchmark.

Familiar Waters

This was an Opinion/ Editorial piece that I had written in my first semester at Purdue.

Have you ever been thrown into a swimming pool and been told “Swim!”? My dad did something of that sort to me, which led to one of the greatest joys in my life. When I was 12, my father threw me into the metaphorical sea of the works of P G Wodehouse, leaving after giving me the elaborate instructions, “Read!” While I initially paddled about awkwardly through chapters, hanging onto my dictionary like a float, I slowly befriended these strange waters. It was only a matter of time before I became extremely attached to his writing style, and proclaimed this my favourite water body, an opinion that has not wavered despite years of reading other authors. Here, I shall try to explain my admiration for this writer.

Wodehouse was a 20th century British writer, who, as he mentions in some prologue, started writing at the age of 5. Wodehouse was no activist. He wrote not about wars and prevalent social evils (even though his era was that of the World Wars), but more about silly, droll lives of British aristocrats. His works were predominantly humorous, and his language and vocabulary were stunning.

Wodehouse was, I believe, a pioneer in humorous writing. Wodehouse had an incredible way of stringing and placing sentences together, which is what won him his audience. I enjoy how Wodehouse employed very subtle humour, seldom using innuendos or puns. His humour arose from his descriptions and dialogues, and the clever juxtaposition of words and images, that have never failed to make me giggle with glee. For example, to imply that a gentleman was standing very quietly, he described his comportment as “a perfect impersonation of someone who wasn't there.” Or to say that he came out of the room very fast, “He went in and came out so quickly that he nearly met himself going out." (Very Good, Jeeves)

Reading Wodehouse is a great way to work on your vocabulary, grammar and sentence structure. Each time I read a book of his, I learn some half a dozen phrases, many referring to English culture, and easily 20 to 30 new words, some including imbroglio, escutcheon, nolle prosequi, preux chevalier, and gruntled (“if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.”, Code of The Woosters). Also, the variety in the kind of sentences he used, and the way he changed his jargon and style of speech according to the character, is mind-blowing. In fact, I can guarantee that a new reader’s substantial improvement from reading just one of his books, will outdo that of an equal amount of time on any English textbook.

Wodehouse created an incredibly simple world where an Earl’s greatest problem in life could be that his pet pig is not fat enough for a fattest-pig contest. With an assortment of aunts, uncles, cousins, Dukes, impersonations of these people, policemen, policemen’s helmets, and unimaginable criss-crosses of lovers, Wodehouse sets the stage for extremely intricate, complex and hilarious plots, as seen in some of my favourites, Full Moon, Picadilly Jim and Uncle Freddie in Springtime. And, using the magical swish of turning a page, we read time and again of how he eliminates every single problem with a single blow, so that it’s win-win for everyone.

I would love to live in that world. I would, rather than worry about the various problems of life, deal with much sillier and happier problems. In Piccadilly Jim, he even features this Jim, who, due to a complicated series of circumstances, has to impersonate himself! In a world currently diseased with a billion problems, are we not, to quote Stephen Fry, “in need of this remarkable healing spirit, this balm for hurt minds?” Undeniably so, I say. And if we cannot ourselves live in that utopian world, we can very well experience it by burying our noses in his works, and living it vicariously through his splendid characters.

On the whole, I find huddling up with a Wodehouse to be one of the ultimate mood-lighteners. I strongly advise anyone with even a fleeting desire to be happy to pick up any one of his books; they will not be disappointed.

To put it simply, there are 2 types of people in the world: those who like Wodehouse and those who have not read his works, and I can say this with unflinching confidence. After all, he was regarded by some as merely the greatest writer of his time, and by others, the one true master of the English Language.