Ode to an Academic Maestro

A tribute to Professor DB Phatak, on the occasion of his felicitation, by the students of IIT, Bombay, on him being conferred with the Padma Shri by the Government of India; he's undoubtedly, one of the very best to have 'educated' me (Class of 97, MTech, EE).

Two unique aspects separated out the profoundly knowledgeable Prof's classes from that of the rest of the faculty. One - most MTech classes had a student strength of between 8-15; Prof Phatak's had a whopping 78. This entailed that we use the conference hall in the Computer Science Department as the classroom, since no other room could squeeze in so many enthused souls. For a majority of his students, the extraordinary popularity of the course stemmed from the fact that Prof Phatak had a distinctive and engaging style of pedagogy (he may not like the use of that word, though!), flirting from a core academic concept to the hard-nosed practicality of its application, that ensured there were no snores during the class; rather his utterings were so riveting that the wide-eyed audience, with rapt attention, would cling on to every word that slipped from the intellectual's mouth, lest one missed out on some esoteric fundas! For the miniscule minority (that comprised the lazybones, who too, never missed Prof Phatak's classes!), the Prof's acceptability was attributed to his propensity for a liberal marking scheme that ensured 'flying colours', post the exams.

The second USP of the Prof's classes - shock and awe! While the rest of the faculty used to engage classes during the normal working hours, Prof Phatak announced during his first class that he preferred the graveyard shift. Thus, began the unique experience of classes from 2100 to 2230 hrs, twice a week, on Wednesdays and Fridays (to compensate for three lectures a week of one hour each). More often than not, these classes would commence as late as 2130 hrs, when the Prof got finally free from his myriad engagements (he was also the Dean (R&D) at that time, if memory serves me right). With manadtory 'fag' breaks that endeared him to the smokers in our midst, the classes would often continue well into the wee hours of the next morn! On one occasion, he chaperoned the entire class, at around 2200 hrs, to cheer a few spunky students who were out to gate-crash into the Limca book of records, by their bravado of attempting to stay in water for more than 72 hours in the Institute swimming pool.

The Prof's evaluation schema too were rather avant garde. At a time when the internet/intranet had not yet pervaded our lives, he used to send out assignments on the Institute intranet. Since we weren't connected all the time (as we are now!), this would surprise many a student, leading to submissions well past the 'use by' dates. I guess, the benevolence of the Prof would see these guys through!

On a personal front, I had the privilege of meeting Prof Phatak, after several years, when my organisation, WESEE, celebrated its silver jubilee in 2004, where he was one of the key note speakers. More recently, last year, I could demonstrate to him some of the pioneering work in cryptographic security engineering and network hardening that the Navy has been progressing to secure its applications and enterprise network. Hats off to you Sir, for having sown the seeds of inquisition, research and delivery that has allowed me to do what I do.

The Padma Shri is indeed a rare honour and recognition of your yeoman services to the nation, and all your students would undoubtedly exult at the accolade accorded to you. However, I, as indeed my fellow classmates at IIT Powai, and a legion of your students, are certain in our belief that you are cut out for greater things in life (a Nobel perhaps, why not!?) As you celebrate the honour bestowed on you, I take this opportunity to congratulate your family and wish you all the very best in the times to come; or as we in the Navy say - Fair weather and God speed to you, Sir.

College Silver Jubilee Reunion - Bald pates, salt-n-pepper, beer bellies, love handles, and loads of back slaps, hugs & nostalgia!

It's been a long time away, therefore a longish piece. This was penned to commemorate the Silver Jubilee Reunion of NIT Raipur, my alma mater, and the first home away from home, as the title suggests.

VIGNETTES FROM THE FIRST ‘HOME AWAY FROM HOME’

Tribute to a stellar alma mater, its talented faculty, and a remarkable set of chums, all of whom, have wittingly or unwittingly shaped the author’s life

Here I was, on a dull and humid July morning of 2012, attending the counseling session for my elder son’s admission to the Delhi College of Engineering, when I got a call from Bidyut (Mazumdar) regarding the Silver Jubilee Reunion (SJR) of the Class of 87. The enormity of the coincidence didn’t escape me! It was a similar dull and humid July morning, a score and a decade back (in the year of the lord - 1982), when I stepped tentatively, for the very first time, into the hallowed portals of what was then interchangeably referred to as the Government Engineering College (GEC), Raipur and/or the Government College of Engineering and Technology (GCET), Raipur*. Having being informed by the morning newspaper (Navbharat Times, Hindi edition, Raipur) of the momentous event of qualifying the Pre-Engineering Test (PET), the reason for my pilgrimage was to ascertain the veracity of the information (newspapers those days, as today, were rather notorious for typographical errors that could have earth-shattering consequences!), and if possible, determine which engineering institute beckoned me with an offer. I had just finished schooling from Bhilai, and Raipur, being the closest city (to my town) with an engineering institute, it was presumed that all such inputs would be offered on a platter there.

So off I went, to board the Jharsguda-Dongargarh passenger train (popularly known by its iconic acronym JD, with which, later, I was to have an extended romantic association for five long years!), in what was the maiden journey from Bhilai Railway Station to the unofficial Engineering College Station (the authorized Saraswati Nagar Station came much later, as we passing out from the institute). If I remember correctly, I had Sagar (Mohbe), Mantha (Vishwanath) and G Srinivas (Rao) for company that day, among others.

Getting back to the business on hand, Ek who din tha, aur ek aaj ka din hai! The institution has never disappointed. For, pasted on the walls of the imposing foyer of the institute, were computer print-outs, on stationery now reminiscent of a bygone era – papers with holes on the sides, to accommodate the pins on the spools of dot-matrix printers prevalent those days – neatly displaying the results of the PET. Having established that one had indeed figured in the merit list, my young and imaginative mind leapt with joy, and drummed up a flight of fantasy, that of leading an independent life, sans the constraints imposed at ones abode.

Eventually, I did land up at GEC Raipur, spent five eventful years in its precincts, and grabbed a degree in Electrical Engineering. But, that statement is too simplistic and bland to encompass the trials and tribulations, the welter of emotions, and the whale of a time that I had, while there. How do I capture for instance, the excitement of the first taste of freedom, the first General Goal (GG), the first swig of beer, and several other firsts that would remain in the nooks and crannies of my mind as long as I am alive (Alzheimer’s notwithstanding)? And, what, of the exhilaration and hullabaloo at the annual events like the College day, Elections, Hostel day etc.?

While I don’t intend dispensing justice to each and every event that stood out during the extraordinarily life-changing existence at GEC (R), I guess, I do have the liberty of recounting some, that would capture uss samay ka maahaul. So, fasten your seat-belts, ladies and gentlemen, and ready yourself for a roller-coaster ride, as I navigate you through a trip down memory lane, in random alphabetical order. Bon voyage!

J – JD. JD was the lifeline for home-to-college commute, for the five long years that I spent at Raipur. The journey, per se, was a learning experience. For instance, JD exposed me to Keynesian economics in all its glory, through first-hand enlightenment on abstruse concepts like the “social welfare state”. What else would you call a dispensation that, day in and day out, for years at a stretch, permits the practice of allowing students to travel free of charge (ticketless) for pursuing the sublime cause of education? Also, thanks to brilliant tutors like Burman (senior by a year) and Bidyut, one picked up the art of getting the train to screech to a halt at precise locations (through manoeuvres that went by the arcane names of pipe marna and key kholna), with an accuracy, which could give the trained drivers, a run for their money.

T – Teeter. Much before PETA entered Page 3 vocabulary, and a wide variety of birds were declared endangered, making it unlawful to hunt them, teeter (partridge) meat was a delicacy. It was savored once in a blue moon (read once a year), at the end of all examinations of the year, and just before one proceeded back home for vacations. Guys with vehicles were in great demand, and could often wheedle a free treat in exchange for ferrying the less fortunate to the venue (a Dhaba), which if I recall correctly, was quite some distance off, on the National Highway.

A – Akhand Bakar. More popularly known by the addition of a colourful expletive at the end of the second term (Bakar). While my pyaare dost aur sahapathi would need no prodding, I refrain from disclosing the expletive, since this piece is meant for the consumption of a family audience. Akhand Bakar… (AB), refers to the ritual of unending chat sessions, on anything and everything under the sun (girls, of course, being the most favoured), that often stretched into the wee hours of the morning. It was religiously practiced, on the night after every examination. AB would commence at several hotspots, almost simultaneously. Most preferred destinations were the terraces of the hostels, since mattresses were spread permanently here during the summer (to beat the heat while sleeping in the night), and one could crash immediately at the end of AB, or as and when nidra would strike. Veterans in this trade included (in no particular order) Amol Athawle, Devendra Verma, Pravesh Sharma, Madhu Babu, Bhupinder Singh, Sanjay Khare, Sarjeet Pathak, Jitendra Vikram Singh Gaur, Rajeev Singh, Sanjeev Kasliwal, et al. (to name a (very) few).

N – Netas. Mention netas, and the names of Yogesh Sharma, Inderjit Dhillon, Shaji Philip, et al., pop up. So too, do names like Devvrat Taran, Subhash Gupta and Simon Eipe, though they don’t belong here. The netagiri of these netas would be in full flow during college elections, those jamborees, when classes would be the last thing on ones mind, and ‘kidnapping’ and intimidation of the ‘opposition’ the order of the day! With amazing alacrity, the netas would organise free booze (for those so inclined) and movies (that one wouldn’t dare view in the company of respectable persons!), to wean the electorate into their fold.

S – Strikes. The punctuations, often welcome to the students at large, in an otherwise serene (boring?) state of affairs at college. It could be induced for a variety of bona fide, honourable reasons, for instance, to prove a point, to extend the vacations, to assuage a hurt ego, to postpone the exams, because Pappu hit Kallu, Hostel ‘B’ lost a cricket Match,…. I guess you get the drift! The modus operandi of precipitating a strike usually involved an ST Bus (thanks to its constant availability in close proximity at the ST Bus Depot, contiguous to the college boundary), and would range from the mundane (stoning an ST Bus), to the bizarre and dramatic (making a bonfire of an ST Bus).

H – Hostel. The hostel is ones first exposure to a live-in relationship; sadly they permit only members of the same gender to experiment! Be that as it may, it teaches you the impossible art of sharing, and caring for a bum chum (wrong choice of phrase there, can’t help that!).

Life in the hostel is one of devil-may-care existence. No fixed timings here for waking up, having a bath, going to the loo, eating food, or hitting the sack. In fact, a day in the life of a typical hosteller, is a succession of disjointed events. But, there is a method in that madness. For, despite all the foot-loose mannerisms, the hosteller eventually does learn valuable lessons in independent living.

In our case, as with any other hostel, there were all kinds of inmates. Allow me to offer a sample (my perception, entirely). The padhaakoos (dedicated to the cause of knowledge attainment – Ajay Duggad, Abhay Salpekar, Kinshuk Roy, et al.), the intelligent types (never needed to touch their books, but always came out with flying colours in the exams – Madhu Babu, Navin Shetty, Pradeep Singh Raghav), the erudite (professorial types – Alok Singh, Deepak Deore, Samir Bajpai, Manoj Arora – surprisingly all Civil Es!)), the irreverent (pooh-poohing all doctrines and philosophies – Satish Sharma, Gautam Moitra), radical, left-wing socialist ideologues (US baiter P Lalu, with his Das Kapital/ Paul Samuelson in tow), the entrepreneurial variety (never one to let go of a business opportunity – Bidyut Mazumdar, Paul Koshy), the arty types (mostly in a world of their own – Saket Shrivastava), the gyaanis (who disbursed gyaan irrespective of whether the receiving end was tuned-in or not – Deepak Pandya, Ashok Dixit, Jaideep Mukherjee, et al.), the patriotic types (who watched war movies and imagined joining the Fauj – Sriramakrishnan, Sanjay Sharma), the sincere kind (always prim-n-propah in behavior and etiquette – Rajesh Bharadwaj, PK Swain, Devendra Patel), the tensed types (stressing out their buddies as well – Vineet Thakur, Harjeet Gill), the nonchalant, happy-go-lucky types (completely indifferent to stressful situations – Kuldip Mathur, Raman Marwaha), and what have you. There were also the suave debonairs (well-dressed and given to smooth-talking!), and the nocturnal types (raat ke humsafar, they would only be seen and heard after sunset!), and I will leave it to the imagination of my friends to conjure up names for these categories. The best part was that while the differences were debated, it was also celebrated.

R – Ragging. That dreaded college initiation rite, purportedly to loosen fresh-from-home prudes. While there exist many hilarious episodes amongst our classmates, the one that stands out in my experience relates to six of us viz. Indranil (Mukherjee), Sagar (Mohbe), Kuldip (Mathur), Shaji (Ravindranath), R Ajayan, and yours truly (quite an eclectic group there!). At the risk of earning the wrath of the other five, let me narrate the story that the world needs to know. The setting – an apartment in Samta Colony, close to one that the six of us had rented in our 1st year; the time – close to 2300 hrs; the occasion – our first meeting with one of the most fearsome and dreaded seniors, Sunil Mohre [3rd Year Civil/Chemical(?)], as part of an all-night ragging session; the outcome – anti-climax at its rip-roaring best! Now, the narrative. Each of us was expected to start with a song, as a way of introducing ourselves. Thanks to a palatable vocal chord, I finished off uneventfully. Next, it was the turn of Kuldip. Though melody wasn’t his forte, he was a master of lyrics and went through a full song, without batting an eyelid. The baton was then taken up by Sagar, who, in his inimitable style, managed to pass muster. The trouble started with Ajayan’s performance. Our man (Sunil Mohre), by this point in time, had realized that things were not going along expected lines, and was starting to get unsettled. By the time Shaji picked up the cue for his song, one could fathom that Mohre hadn’t bargained for this kind of an assault on his senses. Indranil’s rendition was the last straw on the proverbial camel’s back. It ruined Mohre completely! He was never the same again. In the face of such an onslaught, he bade us goodbye, and beat a hasty retreat! The session that was supposed to be an all-nighter, was over in a trice. The next day, we were heralded as victorious champs, the intrepid guys who had survived an experience that was expected to be worse than a four-hour Bollywood balderdash starring Zayed Khan and Dino Morea in the lead, ably(?!) supported by Arjun Rampal and Himesh Reshamiya. However, we too, suffered collateral damage. The emotional strain and suspense broke Ajayan and Shaji. They retracted from our apartment, never to come back. That prompted the move of the remaining four of us, to a rented accommodation in Tatibandh. But, that’s another story.

D – Dirty Jokes, also Day Scholars. What’s college life without dirty jokes! What amazes you however is the sheer inventiveness and creativity of the jokes. As for the depravity of content, the less said the better! There used to be an unending stream of these from some stalwarts like T Paul Koshy, Nirmal (TNS Plaha), Dhillon, Anurag Rajvanshi, et al., who could rattle them non-stop! Wonder what their source was!

Day scholars were a different kettle of fish. There was a love-hate relationship, a tacit war of sorts, always on, between the hostlers and day scholars. It used to reach a crescendo when haggling for a General Goal (GG - see entry above), the latter’s crib being that having travelled all the way from their homes to the college, it was unkind of the former to inveigle them to cut classes. The love part of the relationship stemmed from the fact that the day-scholars were quite liberal in passing up goodies that they brought from home, to the perpetually starved hostlers. Should add the fact that I shared some great vibes with this breed including (in alphabetical order) Abhay Tarnekar, Ajay Bangad, Dipen Shah, Prashant Shrivastava, Sajeet George, Santosh Surana, Shailesh Chandak, (to name, but a few).

U – Uniform. The white-black combo of upper and lower garments inflicted on the first year students, so that they stood out for special treatment from the seniors.

E – Educational Tours. Those carefully camouflaged visits to tourist destinations. For what would you expect to be educated on, at such exotic locales as the Sun Temple, Konark (3rd year educational tour, purportedly to the Hirakud Dam Hydel Power Station), or to Goa and Bombay (4th year, apparently to visit Goa Capacitors, and Crompton Greaves Fan factory at Mumbai).

Personally, the Sun Temple educated me, through its explicit carvings, on the convoluted preferences of our ancestors in matters physical/sensual, and corroborated the fact that my tastes and likings on the subject were far from deviant. As regards Goa, there are dime a dozen anecdotes, including that involving Paul and Bhatia, when I first understood the term “p**s drunk”. The night that I, Verma, Paul, Moitra (I forget the rest) spent at a bus stop, having missed the last ferry to our hotel, is indeed unforgettable. Goa also gave me my very first experience of Pina Colada, Fish Pomfret, Kaju Feni, and ‘Sex on the Beach’ (I refer of course, to the Vodka and Peach Schnapps based drink, you perverted souls!).

G – General Goal (GG). Bunking classes en masse. While it is the most enjoyable event in the lifetime of most students at GEC (R), the effort involved in convincing the girls (and a few day-scholars) about the virtues of GG could be herculean. Some (like Paul, Bidyut, etc.), had perfected the art of influencing people to such an extent that they could offer Dale Carnegie and his tribe, tutorials in their core competence.

B – Babulal Gali. For those in the know, it needs no introduction; for those who don’t, it’s too late to know, and therefore, I prefer to leave it at that!

P – Project (Final Year). Ajay (Duggad), Anupam (Pandit), and I were the teammates for the final year project titled “Thyristor–based Speed Control of Motors”. Having finished with the literature survey and simulation exercises, it was time now for the Real McCoy – the Demo. The components were rigged on a breadboard in the Electronics Lab, and the Guide was invited to view the functional prototype. Duggad was the most enlightened amongst our project team in these aspects, and he was therefore offered the privilege of choreographing the show. Having ascertained that everything was in order, the system was switched on with a prayer in our hearts and fingers crossed. And lo and behold!, the whole contraption went kaput! It was preceded by a flash of lightning on the thyristors, and succeeded by the familiar smell of burning copper, a sure-fire indication that the thyristors were beyond redemption. As luck would have it, despite the presence of four electrical engineers (that included our erudite Guide), no one noticed that the feed to the board was supplied directly from the mains, instead of through a stepped-down, rectified supply. Two extenuating factors absolved us from the crime, and the need to set up an alternate prototype; (a) the fact that the incident happened right under the nose of our venerable Guide, and (b) that it was the fag end of the academic session, leaving us with no room for a repeat fabrication.

F – Faculty. Well, how does one even begin to thank a breed of ladies and gentlemen who made you, what you are today! We were indeed blessed to have been accorded the privilege of everlasting contribution from a gamut of exceptional individuals who comprised the faculty. I have had the good fortune, later in life, of being taught by some really illustrious intellectuals at IIT, Bombay (during MTech) and at IIM, Lucknow (while pursuing Executive MBA). However, I can state with complete conviction that the untiring, selfless, passionate approach to pedagogy of our instructors at GEC (R), compensated for whatever lack of pedigree (if any!), they suffered vis-à-vis the high-brow academic blue-bloods at IIT (B) and IIM (L).

I am sure I would be forgiven for rendering this section, a tad too lengthy. Also, I run the risk of being labeled as biased and unjust, if I name only a few of the faculty in a piece such as this. However, I feel the transgression would be graver if I fail to honour, at least some of them, who have left indelible impressions on our lives. So, off I go! The first and second years at the college are a haze, but peeping out of that misty fog are the visages of three outstanding educators. The first, that of a ruffled gent, with the unmistakable demeanour of a man on a mission – Prof Babu Lal Gupta, the Maths teacher. With his disheveled hair, loose, ill-fitting attire and, if I remember correctly, a propensity to chew paan (or was it the famed gutka?), he would have been a caricaturist’s delight. But, give him a chalk and a blackboard, and he was a wizard non pareil. The toughest of the problems in the Engineering Mathematics text-book (BS Gerewal, was it?) would be reduced to putty in his hands. We would be ever thankful to the maestro for having laid the foundations of a subject that is the mainstay of engineering. Hats off to you, Sir!

Next, it’s the deadpan, impassive demeanour of the (then) Head of Electrical Engineering (EE) faculty – Dr. Nigam. That he took upon himself the task of exposing the rudiments of EE to 2nd year students, speaks volumes of his vision and strategy of ‘tapping them young’. Of course, the fact that Deepshikha, his daughter was in our course, may have influenced his decision. However, if his intent was to motivate students into opting for EE, post the 2nd year, I guess, it was achieved in ample measure. Many a hard-core Mech/Civil/Met/Min/Chem guys were impressed by EE, and influenced enough, to take to bijli as a career option.

Finally, who can forget the calm disposition of the exceptionally talented Prof. ML Dewangan, as he painstakingly explained to the Applied Mechanics class, the tricky nuances of Statics and Dynamics. It’s an image that would stay till eternity.

As for the EE faculty, Dr. Khandelwal (Head of Faculty) was awe-inspiring for his sheer breadth of knowledge. Whether it was Circuit Theory or Control Systems, he could pontificate with ease on the concepts and aspects of the subject under discussion. He had the calibre to instill a fire in you to ignite your imagination. He also had the calibre for extended, interminable class sessions that could evoke a sense of resignation at the inevitable! Then, there was the flamboyant Dr. Zadgaonkar, a man for all seasons. He could preach any subject with the practiced ease of an upcountry salesman. Prof Thoke was as inscrutable as they come; if you could follow him, you could follow the Upanishads, in Sanskrit at that! Prof Gune, Prof Baghel, et al., were invaluable cogs in the wheel of education who have helped uplift us from the morass of ignorance, and placed us on the pedestal of the civilised and the cultivated. Last but not least, Prof. Kale (God bless his soul!) He was intelligence personified. Blessed with poise, impeccable manners and a great sense of humour, he was quite clearly ahead of his times. By establishing the very first Computer Lab in our college when we were in the 3rd year, and guiding a few (misguided) souls like me into the (then) esoteric art of computing sciences, he taught us how to embrace change. Thank you, Sir, for having sown the seeds of interest in a domain that is now my profession, and giving us our first lessons in Change Management, long before it became a corporate mantra, or “Who Moved My Cheese” became a runaway best-seller, and the Harvards, the Yales and the Whartons institutionalized and structured it into their curriculum.

V – Vachchani Dr.. That dapper Principal we had for a short stint. I guess, we were in the second year when he took over. A natty dresser, he was never without a tie, in an age and place where wearing one could have reduced you to a laughing stock, if you didn’t have the panache to carry it off. He was also a holy terror, as he prowled the corridors sniffing out, up-to-no-good mischief-mongers.

I – Imtihaan. The dreaded annual event that evoked cold sweat and terror in the hearts of even the most prepared for the event. As for the less (or not) prepared, there was always “The Ventures“ thematic super-hit from the eponymous movie – ‘Come September’

X – XXL. The size of the heart (collectively and individually) of the Class of 87, GEC (R), and the reason why we would be there, in large numbers at the SJR.

C – Campus. Nestled in an area of (round about) 70 acres, the campus was encircled by the railway line to its North, the National Highway to its South, and the ST Bus depot to its West. The cluster that called itself the Choubey Colony, boxed it from the East. There was nothing remarkable about the campus; at the same time there was something to it that captivated us. To be fair, several campuses, both within the country and outside, that I have had the privilege of visiting, or being a part of (later in life) have their USP. Some stand out for its expanse (IIT, Bombay for instance), others have far more history (IISc Bangalore, ISI Kolkata, take your pick!), or are far more picturesque (the one at Santa Barbara in Los Angeles takes the cake). But thank you, Ivy League; nothing like our good old GEC (R) campus. Maybe it’s the length of the time that one spent there that tethers it closely, maybe it’s the company that one had there, that reminds you of the good times. Whatever it be, the campus had a certain vibrancy to it, a vivacity beyond what you would imagine an inanimate patch of land, with its infrastructure would be expected to have, a kind of life produced by a heart-beat, as it were.

W – Workshop. Located in the aft section of the institute, this is where one learnt the rudiments of Machining, Fitting, Welding, Carpentry, Moulding, Blacksmithy, etc. - the core trade skills that sends your adrenalin pumping, the first time you wield the tools, since you believe (at that tender age that), that’s what engineering is all about. Soon, however, zest gives over to fatigue, and zeal to lethargy, as every arduous lift of the hammer, to hit the puny piece of heat-reddened metal on the anvil, breaks your back, bit by wee little bit.

M – Masterji. The Rajesh Khanna-Sridevi starrer released while we were in the 3rd (?) year, that prompted a GG (see entry for GG), and en masse attendance by the “Electricals” at its screening; the pitch being that such a move would be entirely noble, since it was our way of paying tribute to our Gurus in college. It’s another matter that far from being anything remotely close to a tribute, the movie was an explicit display of the lead heroine’s oomph. Guess, the guy who suggested the idea (T Paul Koshy, Rajeev Puri, Sanjeev Bhatia, Srinivas, - take your pick), had an inkling of what was in store!

Well, guys, that brings us to “The End”. Some alphabets have been left out, not for want of anecdotes, but owing to the imposition of time and space; ‘time’, that I had, to complete this “assignment” (that term is a grim reminder of college), and the ‘space’, allowed to me in the Souvenir by the Editor(s). Also, while no effort has been spared to capture the factual parts of the narrative correctly, poetic license has been resorted to, at places, to fill in details that have been erased from the author’s memory, partly due to an early case of senile dementia, and largely due to the vintage of events. Finally, my heartfelt apologies to the girls of the Class of 87; they have been given a short shrift in this piece. It is a sign of the times that we grew up in. Despite their presence hanging on in the campus like the proverbial will-o’-the-wisp, interactions with them were not really as close, and as often enough, as one would have liked it to be, to capture the spirit of their existence in college. If it’s any consolation, here’s a collective confession from the boys of the Class of 87 (with due apologies to Elvis Presley and Pet Shop Boys) – you were Always on our Minds!

Celebrities as Role Models - A Myth?

Movie stars sure attract eyeballs. It’s always great to have them to bring attention to important environmental issues. However, even if we concede for a moment that they do add the oomph factor to environmental issues, how does one excuse their profligate and extravagant lifestyles that stand in stark contrast to the cause that they try to espouse? Is it the right metaphor for simple living and high thinking?

Ladies and gentlemen, today I am in the mood to demolish some well-cultivated myths associated with celebrity endorsements of conservation and environment.

There is no dearth of “eco-celebs” routinely partnering with NGOs to generate buzz for a specific campaign or benefit. Actor Harrison Ford calls for stopping deforestation on a Conservation International public service announcement. Leonardo Di Caprio and yesteryear's Hollywood super-star Robert Redford sit on the Board of Trustees of Natural Resources Defence Council, one of the most potent environmental action organisations in the USA. In our own backyard, we have the likes of Shabana Azmi, that dare-devil diva who took on the might of the Mumbai administration and brought to a halt, the eviction of slum-dwellers in Colaba in South Mumbai.

What however, calls their bluff is the janus-faced, unbridled display of wanton consumerism. On the one hand they collaborate with nature conservancy to promote sustainable materials in the clothing industry, while on the other, without batting a made-up fake eyelash, they endorse a Jimmy Choo tote in authentic crocodile leather. What price green endorsement?

Who hasn’t heard about the misdemeanors of that iconic star, Salman Khan? If he isn’t killing black bucks - an endangered species in Jodhpur - you can find him hunting chinkaras - endangered species again - in Ranthambore. And we have mindless followers root for him and his ilk, as a role model. I can only pity their misguided sense of hero-worship!

A role model ideally represents a person whose behavior, habits or attitudes are imitated by other people, especially the younger generation. The role model should lend herself or himself for easy adoption of lifestyle as the impressionable youngsters tend to absorb and adapt for their lives, many images received of the role model through the mass media. This is a sort of shortcut, an easier way than setting up their own way of act or living. But, when the role starts slipping away from the model, and the make-up starts wearing off, you find them donning their true colours. That, is a reality show worse than Bigg Boss. No amount of grease and paint can hide the ugly underbelly of star behaviour, and the less the aping generation is exposed to that unglorified life-style, the better.

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY & OTHER REMINISCENCES

(This piece was penned to commemorate the Silver Jubilee celebrations of passing out from school (SSSSX))

For a change, I ignored my wife’s advice (Before you jump to the (obvious!) conclusion and arraign me for being a plump, middle-aged, paunchy, bald, grotesque-looking henpecked specimen of a husband, let me hasten to explain; I am not – any of the above that is!). I am all ears, all the time, to my good lady, since she is nonpareil when it comes to indulging me, whether it is that ‘sex on the beach’ (the vodka based drink, you randied, perverted souls!) at the social do, or the more than occasional stag parties with the boys, that seeps well into the wee hours of the following morn. Why, she even overlooks (with a fashionable brush of her Chanel nail-polished fingers) the stockpiling of memorabilia - a la Pakistan on nuclear arms - a passion of mine (not to forget Pakistan’s) that borders on the irrational (psychotic?). But this time round, she would have none of the nonsense. There was a school reunion of hers (at Mumbai) around the time that we were planning ours. And, she wanted me to accompany her - no doubt, to show off her ‘prized catch’ to her peers - and hobnob with a dozen (or two) odd guys-n-gals, whom I knew as much as Mother Teresa would Julian Assange! Ergo, I had to put my foot down (a trifle too harshly, I admit – so, if you see me limping at the reunion, you know the reason!) and decide, once and for all, who wears the vest in the house (since we both wear trousers, I didn’t have the luxury of using that garment as a metaphor for discrimination). So, here I am folks, off to the grand reunion of the Class of 82 at Bhilai, while my better half proceeds to hers in ‘aamchi Mumbai”. Will I hit pay dirt, or will she have the last laugh. Well only time, I guess, will tell.

On to more serious issues now. Let me begin with an enigmatic poser – what is it with reunions, that throws up such a groundswell of kaleidoscopic emotions? Is it a vicarious desire to turn the clock back by a couple of decades and push back the straining seams of our trousers at the waist (as I had alluded to earlier, since the apparel is worn by members of either sex, I am acknowledging both male and female classmates here), “de-thin” and “de-grey” our hairs, and hark back to an age of simplicity? Or is it a nostalgic wish-list of traveling in a time capsule to revisit us, as we were, during the times that we lived in? Going by the “goings-on” on the twin group-sites that we have, that would seem the obvious answer. However, the obvious, as they, say hides facts that are not so apparent.

Aroon Purie, that living legend at Living Media (the India Today Group), had famously remarked that the best advice that he ever got was this: “If God wanted you to look back, he would have given you eyes at the back of the head”. I would beg to disagree. One does need to look back once in a while (pardon me, my Good Lord!). For, it allows one to mark the passage of time, that inexorable entity, that has a habit of running out of our grasp. The ‘look-back’ helps us to contrive our memories and build a monument with the otherwise fickle running sands of time.

A reunion is nostalgia time, big time! No reasons to hide those sepia tinted, often, mushy memories. All those nicknames and sobriquets with unbelievable histories - Gulati (Anupam), Kerli (Prabhakar), Malli (CK James), Barganda (the venerable and decidedly dangerous Chemistry teacher, Shri MC Verma), London (the math teacher Shri Mishra) - come tumbling out of nooks and crannies where they remained embedded and sealed, like a Glenfiddich 15, to be opened and savoured at such an occasion. And, what of the school-boy crushes that bordered on neurotic fantasy, the jokes that were never funny, or the legends about people that never die - who, for instance, hadn’t heard of the boxing prowess of the redoubtable Shri Rizvi (the Princi), or the power (and pain!) that Shri Paul (History teacher?) packs in his whack, or, for that matter, the meticulous mind of the very erudite, yet humble, Shri Chandwani? It’s time, ladies and gentlemen, to re-reveal all of these and more, all over again!

I guess, I can steal this opportunity to offer an ode to our respected (and respectable) teachers. More than our schools (which are but dispassionate edifices), it was our schooling, shorn off rocket science and “how to …” advices, that have put all of us on the track to where we have reached. From the sublime to the practical to the preposterous, we have had pedagogues who have shaped every moment of our lives. On a philosophical note, the compass bearings, and the exalted value standards set by many a mentor, have allowed us to resolve moral conflicts and retain our sanity in an otherwise maddening medley called life. I doff my hat to all of you, Sirs and Madams (Misses!), for having steadied our boats as they rocked to-and-fro during our formative years

A trip down memory lane does wonders to your ego, besides being a cathartic experience. A reunion satisfies a “Maslow Level Three” human need, one of belongingness to a group. As we excavate our past, it instills a sense of oneness with guys with whom we spent some of the most memorable times of our lives. It brings forth a warm sense of communion, and I, for one, would love to wade, and be engulfed in the lambent luminosity of the grand reunion of the Class of 82. Look forward to the event, to let my hair down, behave as I did 28 years ago, listen to old numbers, re-tell the same jokes, and pretend that we were back in time and space, to the corridors and rooms that we infested in a bygone era, living the lives that we have led before. See you at the reunion!

PS. One would wonder (and rightly so), what the title of the passage has to do with the narrative. Well, good things are made better (best?!) with a modicum of wait – just like Dom Perignon Vintage 1961, or the famed Indian pickle! So hold on to your collective breaths till the next reunion, where I promise to unleash the best kept secret of the last 28 years. That, is a soldier’s word.

PPS. This piece has been the effort of a stringent timeline set by the curt telephonic message from Dinesh. His order was loud and clear - deliver in a day, or perish! Given the potential for deterioration in the state of my dental health, and the complimentary services that I hope to wheedle from the gent in question, I was left with no options.

PPSS. The author, a proud alumni of SSSS-X (of the Class of 82), is a second-generation Bhilaiian, who has migrated to a different pasture in response to the calling of his profession. But, heart-of-hearts, he is an out-and-out Bhilaiian. He currently lives at Delhi with his wife and two sons. A music aficionado and a wannabe violinist, he is a gourmet of fine wines, and enjoys his plain-vanilla ice-cream with a tinge of chocolate and a dash of Single Malt Scotch whisky.

Wonder-struck by the wonderful wonder of the wondrous number 7 (and wondering why)!

The number 7 has always had a strange, magnetic charm on me. For some wild reason, time and again, I come up against it, in its myriad, mysterious ways in my day-to-day affairs. Wonder whether you share my experience. Let me explain.

As a growing child, while memorising the names of the 7 seas (Mediterranean, Adriatic, Arabian, Black, Red, Caspian, Persian) or the 7 SI base units (metre, kilogram, kelvin, second, mole, ampere, candela) was not what one relished, it was fascinating to dig into the escapades of the Secret 7. Exposure to the delights of the Magnificent 7, in 7(0) mm. was even more electrifying!

One had also been told that the "surs" (Sa, re ga ma, pa, dha, ni) are 7 in number. Ditto for the colours of the rainbow (no self-respecting parent would have failed to grill/drill that famous acronym - VIBGYOR - down the nut of her/his hapless kid, so that the kid can in turn, in good time, perpetuate the fraud further down the generations, till it prevails ad infinitum!). On a comparative note, the scales followed by the western stream of music too would amount to 7 (whether it be the A, B, C, D, E, F, G - preferred by the supercilious classical musician or the more down-to-earth Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, si - practised by her not so polished cousin).

But, have you ever asked, as to why for godsake, the wonders of the world have to be 7? Or for that matter why Snowwhite had to be saddled with 7 dwarfs? If that defies imagination, why does the habits of effective people have to be, of all numbers, 7?

Even the Gods in heaven are not spared. We therefore have, arranged rather systematically, the wisdom of the 7 rishis (sapta rishis), or the divine pleasure of wallowing in the fantasies of 7 damsels (sapta sundaries), so picturesquely portrayed by the pen of the mythological bard.

Then of course, Hindus have the 7 rounds around the holy fire, as the husband and wife solemnly tie each other into an everlasting bond. This is inevitably followed by them experiencing the 7th heaven, 7 days a week, during their honeymoon (possibly!) to the 7 sisters of North-east India. A little while later however (to be more precise, at the end of 7 years), they accost the itch, which, it has empirically been proved, befalls all couples sooner rather than later! This may of course be precipitated by regular infliction of the 7 cup (sweetmeat) by the good lady on the hubby. In between, the couple may (or may not, depending on their combined profligacy quotient!) fall for the 7 deadly sins. To overcome the ill-effects of the sins, and to cleanse oneself, one (or both of them) may decide to practise meditation that would involve a convoluted methodology of 7 chakras.


If the mundane and the mythological are held hostage to the tyranny of 7 can medicine or mystics be spared? We are told that there are 7 layers to our existence comprising the body, breath, mind, intellect, memory, ego and self. As for medicine, it evolves around 7 key steps of healing viz. patient, doctor, caregiver, drugs, environment, sleep and spirituality.

Technology, as always, the last refuge of the rationalist, is also sucked in by the mysterious beauty of the number 7. The network (as in the hardware of computers - and not as in social networks) has a 7 layer stack (for the curious, the layers are respectively the application, presentation, session, transport, network, datalink, and physical), and is the reason why this blog travelled all the way to your home, and you are able to read on your computer, the drivel that I wrote on mine.

With so much to go for the number 7, is it any wonder that the most dashing and romantic of all heroes (with the most memorable name to boot - the name is Bond ....!) has been pushing his luck with the number (00)7? And, no marks for guessing why that 7 was so elusive on the throw of dice in that charming game of "Lucky 7"?