This is no longer my autobiography...

Hey, if you're looking for that, it's here...in case you cannot access it, please do mail me at bikramsnehi@gmail.com so I can do the needful...

Prelude

More difficult than the evening, perhaps, is the morning after. Even for me, sleep was hard to come by and after having tossed and turned all night, cursing myself with the choicest of abuses, feeling jaded, waking up to the sight of my mum setting up breakfast despite it all, was the most difficult day that I have ever woken up to. I guess I should’ve expected something like this, after all, it’s been a life-long pursuit of mine, shooting myself in the foot…to make matters worse, I opened my eyes to my dad sitting in my room reading the newspaper the way dads do, reading glasses half way down the nose, sitting in the warmth of the morning sunlight trickling through the window. I could only imagine the concern going through his mind for me. After lounging in bed for as long as I could feigning sleep, I finally relented and mustered up enough courage to sit up in bed.

“Good morning son, mumma’s made noodles for breakfast, freshen up soon.” Trust him to break the ice with nonchalance!

Well, at least my dad was taking this well. I replied with the necessary formalities and forced myself to get into the bathroom. I’d find solitude on the pot for the a little while at least, contemplating on my next step, weighing the options I had left out open to me. Not too many things left in hand for me admittedly, at least none of the choices I had planned for myself over the past couple of months. On the other hand, with things so bad down the hill, it could only get better…perhaps now I could devote my energies in pursuing some of those wild dreams of mine…maybe be the maverick and push myself to new limits. Maybe even…hmmm…maybe I oughta get off the pot and face my parents…

“Good morning mumma…”

“Good morning beta…don’t worry about anything alright, we’ll see what is to be done. It’s just a road bump, there’ll be something new to come from all of this. Keep your spirits high…I made you hakka noodles to cheer you up…the way you like ‘em!”

Trust mom to be subtle!

Oh well! So that leaves me glum at the breakfast table with dad in all his nonchalance and mom with all her subtlety. And the million calls from all those friends asking for updates…well, at least the calls gave me an opportunity to run away into my room.

69.7% was what the deal was…that’s what I scored in the HSC examinations. Whilst everyone boasted of their fabulous marks I sulked…felt like an idiot and out of place. When you’re in 12^th in Poona, there are two dreams most people have – engineering or medicine. To be in the fray for either in a half decent college, you need at least 85% which considering the fact that I was 15.3% short of, made both options seem distant and delusional. Guess I had no one but myself to blame.

Took me a day to come to terms with the situation and the next day, I was out filling forms for B.Sc. at Fergi. It was the whole gang basically so I thought this should be fun for a few days at least. College began a week later and I was back to being myself. The time at Fergi was fun…the classes were scheduled in the afternoons at 2:30 and the basketball courts opened at 4. We pretty much settled in the schedule and attended the first lecture till 3:30, bunking the classes after to head out and play basketball.

It was during this time, that I began toying with the idea of pursuing a career in media, more specifically in written journalism. I was encouraged further by the lectures in psychology in the Arts department that I sneaked into. I decided after much deliberation with myself to pursue Arts. I bought the form and filled it up and well, obviously it needed my parents consent. I discussed it out with dad and he said as long as I knew what I was doing and if I really thought it was something I could do I was free to pursue it. He took his pen and was about to give his consent in ink when mom walked in to the room. She asked me what it was about and when I informed her it was the form for Arts, she came over, had a glance at it, tore it in half and handed it back to me. Not a word said, not a word heard…

~Sigh~ Here’s the deal. My grandma was a doctor, the rest of my family had pretty much followed suit. My mom would be damned if she’d let any of her kids pursue any stream of education that did not have something to do with science. That was the day it was deemed I was pursuing engineering…with my marks and more by some grace I managed a seat in a half decent college…the rest…well, it isn’t history yet but I reckon it should be!

Fate and moms…who can fight them?

The First Time

It’s been the usual morning more or less…at least after a gap of almost a month of waking up and living the military regimen. Getting through the Naval Academy/NDA written tests is good, getting recommended by the SSB thence even better but being told you cannot serve in the Navy for want of a better eyesight after having spent a month at Bangalore for your medicals absolutely sucks. It’s difficult to convince yourself to serve in the Army after having known you were that close to being able to fly a jet in the Indian Navy…it’s even worse though to come back to the drudgery of attending an engineering college.

Well, needless to say, I was returning from Bangalore on the back of a month long regimen of experiencing up close and personal what a life in the armed forces might be like. Worse, feeling a tad disappointed at the fact that I missed out and would have to settle for the life in the slow lane. I was definitely gonna miss being woken up in the mornings at 5 a.m. with the chant of “Utho…Utho…Utho…OOOOTHO, OOOOOTHHOOO, OOOOOOTTTHHHHOOOOOO!” Then having a fabulous English breakfast and then being briefed on the schedule for the day. Well, I reckon it wouldn’t be right to divulge the other details of what happens in there on a public forum. So, in short to sum it all up, it was a fantabulous experience that was gonna be etched in the memory for a lifetime to come…I’d be proudly telling my grandkids these tales for sure!

Anyhow, coming back to Poona was a mixed bag of emotions. I have to date never been as sad going back to my hometown than I was on that trip back home. And for more reasons than just having missed the bus to the Naval Academy (or should I say the jet?) I was travelling in the 3^rd class of the Indian Railways for the first time in my lifetime! I had initially thought it would be quite an experience but when I got there to get into the train, my expectations took a major downward revision. The platform was already filled with foul-mouthed folk, speaking languages I could only make a guess of and even before the train had docked in at the station, arguments and fights were rife. A few gentlemen had already reached a boiling point and were inches short of landing blows at each other. This was surely looking up already.

I stood there looking bemusedly at the crowd of people that were flocking to get into the coach wondering how I was gonna manage a seat for myself. I guess the coolies have an eye for easy prey or perhaps they have a good idea that a boy wearing cargos, a denim jacket and carrying a Reebok haversack doesn’t really use the 3^rd class very often, so making me the beneficiary of an offer to ‘buy’ myself a seat for a 100 bucks (with my bargaining prowess, I was able to bring down the ransom from this offer of a 100 bucks to…a 100 bucks!) What the heck, atleast I’d get to sit, and with a window seat was what I was told. Well, so I paid him 50 bucks as advance and towed myself in line with him waiting where he told me to wait. After the coaches were opened to the public, I saw my coolie jump in with lithe agility seen in panthers and inspired by him (added with the arrogance of having proven myself as ‘almost’ one of the best of the youth of this nation) I took the leap of faith too. It wasn’t as difficult as I’d imagined it to be and without his help, I was able to land myself a window seat. My coolie took one of the two seats at the side and I took the one opposite him. He was more than surprised to see me sit opposite him and the opportunist in him sold that one to another gentleman for the same price he had quoted to me. He didn’t ask me for the other 50 bucks but I am sure he was just glad I didn’t ask him to gimme back what he’d already received.

The rest of the journey was just as nondescript. I slept through the night with my bag on one side as a pillow-cum-mattress, tightly snuggled in my jacket, constantly being prodded by someone or the other to allow them to share my seat. The humane side in me wanted to let ‘em sit but my butt was sore enough from sitting on the unpadded seat to tell my mind to refuse the honest intentions of my generous conscience. Having been used to waking up at 5 a.m. by now, I was obviously expected to wake up at the said time. However, I am a tough cookie and after all, bad habits die hard. Not even those guys could mend my strong will and I still managed to wake up at 11 a.m. unaffected by all the commotion and shouting around me. I had slept for an unbelievable 14 hours straight in conditions that would at best be described as hostile. Sleeping for 14 hours in the most uncomfortable seats available in the Indian Railway System does have it’s side-effects though, commonly manifesting themselves as a really sore back and a butt that is so numb, it refuses to be identified as yours. As a consideration for my sore arse and as pity for my poor back, I decided to give up my throne for the remnant part of the journey, which in my case stood translated as an hour and a half, and decided to travel on the footboard (which in hindsight was a bad decision as the footboard already had more humans squeezed on it than were geometrically possible) I freshened up at the next station, got myself some Omlettes and transferred myself into the sleeper-class bogie. I travelled the remnant part sharing a seat with an elderly couple who made for quite a conversation.

Next morning I was in the college bus on my way to attend the first day after a gap of a month. The people in the bus had already erased all memory of me or at least did not take cognizance of my presence on board the bus. My sole source of comfort would’ve been R had he been in the bus…since he wasn’t, I was left to entertain myself with the sights and sounds of early morning traffic through the streets of Poona. At least when I walked into class, I had SA who welcomed me with an open embrace. Well at least someone still remembered who I was! The next two lectures were good fun, especially since the first was the Maths lecture and the teach, Mrs. K, a favourite with both me and SA. It didn’t take her long to notice my presence and what followed was a half an hour long interrogation of where I had been and how the trip was culminating into the inevitable question of how I intended to cover up for all the progress that had been made academically in my absence! ~Sigh~ Academics! The next lecture wasn’t bad either, it was the Chemistry prof that walked in. The same script played out again and I was duly informed that I’d have to meet the vice-principal at the earliest. I decided to walk out of class right then rather than be subject to further questioning of my whereabouts. I found the vice-principal, Prof. J in the staff room and spent the next hour answering a gazillion questions from the entire staff. For the first time, I was able to fully appreciate the term “Saved by the bell” as the recess bell came to my rescue and I was permitted to leave as the staff left for tea.

As soon as I had stepped out, I walked into R who immediately engulfed me into his, ummm…, for want of a better word, R-ey embrace. “Ssup homey! New division opened for new admissions since your departure, wanna check the women out?” was the first thing outta his mouth…ah…some things thankfully never change! Expecting much the disappointment that I had come to associate with the crowd in college, I consented. As we walked upstairs along the corridor cracking sarcastic jokes, women being just an excuse to take a walk and catch up on lost time, I began narrating the adventures of my time at Bangalore. Smack in the middle of describing the English breakfast, I looked up into the classroom and saw her standing there with a bunch of other nondescript women. She looked at me, smiled a knowing smile that said “Me too” and returned my gaze. I can still close my eyes and recollect that moment to every single detail - the green door, the green benches,the sunlight at the end of the corridor, the three women around her, R saying some crap to the tune of ‘Dude, you with me?’ but more importantly, her. Her curly hair left to hang open around her shoulders, a white and black tank top, blue denims, a thick white belt around her waist, and most importantly, her smile and those brown henna colored eyes that had me hypnotized. I don’t know how long I stood there without uttering a word simply staring back at her. Maybe a moment, maybe an eternity but surely, my life condensed in whatever is that frame. I guess I knew even back then, that first time that I had seen her,

‘It would not be the moments of joy,

Nor the moments of strife,

It would be the moments I’d spend with her,

In which I’d live my life…’

A Farewell

                I had been living in the college hostel for a fairly long time before my parents actually left Poona because it was a little too much of a distance to travel from home every day. Moreover, dad thought that it is essential for all of us to grow up outside home and start learning life’s lessons (most the hard way as I soon found out!) Hostel life was a bundle of fun and I had the best of both worlds because whenever I felt like it, I could simply catch a bus and head home. The food at the hostel canteen was pathetic ( to be kind to the contractor!) The rotis were more like papads and the papads were more like rotis! Nonetheless, when things got unbearable, I simply headed back home and spent a few days with my folks before getting back to hostel life.

                I was more than happy with the set-up and at the time hadn’t put too much thought into what it might actually be like to be a hostelite full-time! When dad said he was switching jobs and was moving to Ludhiana, I was rather indifferent to it altogether. I assumed I was fairly accustomed to living away from home so wouldn’t have too much of a problem with adjusting to life without my folks in the same city. Moreover, I had some really close friends at the hostel and was having a great time. Studies had already taken a back-seat and all other activities, more so getting into trouble with the authority was already a forte! Even before my folks had left, I had already built what might be called a foster family at the hostel. In fact, if I may confess, I was looking forward to the experience of being able to live away from my folks. I thought I might actually be a tad better off without having mum around to constantly hound me with so many questions and restrictions. As is the case with most 18 year olds, I was arrogant and a rebel without a cause. I couldn’t see eye-to-eye with my folks on a number of matters including politics, religion and more importantly my lifestyle. I ached at times to be independent and live the way everyone else did at the hostel, without too much supervision or inspection. I hoped and assumed that a life at the hostel would be truly fantastic for me.

                As the day of my folks’ departure dawned closer, mom obviously started getting very sentimental and possessive and being the pseudo-man that I had just been developing into, was rather arrogant and considered her show of emotions both naïve and a little too girly for my tastes. Mum would often be hurt at my show of relative indifference and my subsequent arrogance. I thought myself to be stronger and much wiser than my mum at the time. My bro (he is 9 years younger than I) was at an age where he considered me to be the ideal to emulate (a view I am glad he has since grown out of and is very much his own individual) and so reciprocated a relatively stronger emotional outlook, even if it was just an emulation of me. Yet, as the days grew thinner, he began sharing mum’s views and was growing increasingly reluctant of leaving the town he had grown up in. I was growing increasingly impatient with the two of them and often lectured them to be a little more understanding about life. It was a natural thing for us as humans to migrate and relocate from one region to another. Each place had it’s own charm and sooner or later, we’d discover the charm of Ludhiana too.

                The day they were supposed to leave, I spent the day at home packing everything and checking the lists to check if there was anything left behind. I sat around tagging everything, counting and cross-checking, labeling all the cartons and all the bundles and ensuring everything was in order. When we reached the station, quite a few of dad’s old friends were there to bid him a final farewell. I was standing among them and laughing and cracking jokes when dad suggested I should go and sit with mum. I went inside and put a shoulder around my mum and my bro. Needless to say, mum was crying all the while and giving me instructions on what I should and shouldn’t do. I was a little cheesed off cause she was treating me like a kid. I wished she wouldn’t, I was an adult now after all. Eventually, it was time for the train to leave and got off. I was standing at the window and mum held my hand. As the train started moving, I started walking along with it. Mum was still sobbing and her tears were now flowing a lot faster. I broke into a jog as the train picked up speed and I tried letting go of mum’s hand but she held on. Then she loosened her grip and let go. I still ran along with the train for a short distance before slowing down. Then I stopped and I saw my mum still with her hand out waving to me, eyes overflowing with tears and all red, my dad and my bro standing in the door and waving at me, both looking rather somber.

                One of my strongest and most emotional memories to this day, has been that last view of the train leaving the platform and my folks waving out at me. After all my long lectures about being strong and all my non-sensical talk about life, something ticked off inside me. I suddenly felt empty inside, I suddenly realized I wasn’t gonna see them for four months and suddenly I wished I could speak to my mom again… I reached back at the hostel and the rest of the evening was pretty much uneventful. When I went to bed, I couldn’t sleep all night. Honestly, to confess, I cried all night long…

THE DAY WE RACED A TRAIN

S and me have had several adventures in our time together. I guess it was inevitable when two individuals as impulsive as us were to come together. Neither of us has ever planned out anything in life and both of us have lived each day as it comes (or at least back then we did!) Times change and so do people I suppose. Well anyways, the two of us could never plan anything in advance perhaps more so because no matter how well we’d plan, the best laid plans always had a way of coming unstuck for us. The best way forward for us hence, was always enacting everything on an impulse.

It could start off with a simple meet for what wasn’t supposed to be more than ten minutes. Somehow in all those years, we never ran out of anything to talk about. In all those years, the conversations never ran dry and we spoke about everything and sometimes nothing but we never ran out of a conversation. As would be expected, the ten minutes were never adhered to and often ended up being longer, more often than not culminating into long drives with no direction or destination. I think the both of us loved my bike to bits and perhaps that is why we were always all over town (and beyond!) We always wanted to make one trip between Bombay and Pune on the bike but that is the one big adventure that never happened, perhaps because we’d been planning it for long! I think it would’ve been better if we would have thrown caution to the wind and just headed off some day.

She being from Bombay, would occasionally make trips to her hometown and if she weren’t being seen off by one of her relatives, I would be the one to see her off. Unfortunately, her relatives are more planned and organized than both of us put together and so she never missed her trains that way. With me, the story would be slightly different. Although I was punctual, she was not. Neither was I one to encourage her to even try to be punctual. “All in good time” was my motto! Needless to say, we only caught the trains in a mad rush and only just by the skin of our teeth. Obviously in due course there was going to be an occasion when we wouldn’t be as lucky and would miss the train. And that did happen.

I thought about making it the day we make our great adventure but I wasn’t up for it that day, college work bogging me down. The only other option left to her was the bus. S isn’t particularly fond of travelling between Bombay and Pune in the bus and I wouldn’t blame her for that, I prefer travelling by train too. We had only just missed the train and I wasn’t gonna let her suffer a bus journey. I suggested we race the train to the next station about half an hour from where we were. She refused flatly. The two of us have always had trouble listening to the voice of reason and she was the voice of reason that day.

So, we straddled up and I revved the bike. For all those who know I can drive a two-wheeler like a maniac, they will also tell you I drive rather slow and safe when I have someone riding pillion. Not that day though. I think that was the best display of driving at top speed on a 100cc motorbike that anyone must’ve ever seen. Not once did I drive recklessly (for once in my life!) and it was a perfect drive! Had anyone been scouting for a replacement rider for Yamaha’s MotoGP team, I bet I would’ve made the cut on that day’s display… (ok, ok… so I am being optimistic but it’s my book, let me have that much freedom to exaggerate!) I think what helped was the fact that both of us are feather weights, that she wasn’t carrying much of luggage on her (which I must tell you was shocking! I always expected women to be elaborate in their packing and carry their whole world with them wherever they went. She was different. Her bags would always be light as if there was nothing inside! The same was the case with her purses which were always tiny.) and of course the fact that helped most was that she had tremendous trust in me. Not once in that whole drive did she ever squirm or complain. I think she was actually enjoying the drive! It was (and also still is) the only half an hour that we spent together without speaking a word to each other!

I think twenty seven minutes later, we had traversed 43 kms on a 100cc bike with a top speed of 90kmph. If that isn’t proof of brilliant driving I don’t know what else would be! (Alright I’ll stop messaging my ego now!) and yes, we reached five whole minutes before the train arrived. I think if I tried that again, I would perhaps not be successful firstly because the bike is a lot older now and secondly because I don’t seem to have that spark in me anymore. I never asked her how it felt on the drive and what she was thinking and I don’t know if she still remembers that day. But for me, that one day will perhaps stay forever. The day I raced a train…and won!

A poet made a friend…and a friend made a poet!

I reckon I first started writing meaningful poetry back in the first year of engineering. I think it had something to do with drab and boring lectures and sitting at the back of the class. To be blunt and honest, the first time that I ever slept in a lecture (literally and metaphorically) was in engineering. I had never been so bored by a monotonous lecture ever before in all my years of education! I cannot imagine where the professors learn to teach like they do, two cups of coffee couldn’t keep me awake sometimes! (Though I suspect staying up all night might just have had a small role to play but I bet that was rather insignificant!) Sitting on the last benches, I remember having snacks and sometimes even an entire 7 course lunch, playing hangman, cross and noughts, join the dots, Sudoku, reading books like the Da Vinci code, learning to write backwards, reading up and understanding things like six-stroke engines, planning out how to go about making a hover-craft, creating a poll-of-the-day (which might I add, was sometimes the highlight of the day, much obliged to JD for all those wild thoughts!) messaging friends, flirting with women over texts (umm…ok so there wasn’t much of that but lemme say it here, it’ll make me a little happier!) and of course, writing poems…scores of poems.

But to be honest, I never thought my poems were any good (heck I would still say so! I think it’s only the fact that some others seem to think otherwise that keeps me going!) I think I wrote a poem a day on an average about anything, everything and nothing! Random thoughts as ever! I do think I lack self-confidence when it comes to what I am writing. To me, all that I write never seems to be good enough and everytime I read something I have written, I always want to revisit it and redo it all over again. It was something that one of my friends had once noticed, she said it was frightening how I could be confident about anything, sometimes even things that I was terrible at and manage to pull it off like the greatest heist of the century and yet when it came to the one thing that I excelled at (I am not praising myself here…it wasn’t me that said it in the first place! Although I am a bit of a ham sometimes!) I was surprisingly doubtful of my own abilities! I still think her opinions were a little too flattering but heck, why should I complain about getting praised right? I think I’ll let her views stand!

Well anyways, the poems I wrote through most of the first semester always found their way to the dust-bin as soon as they materialized on paper. I always thought they were terrible. Well, I was studying in the library with (someone who was more of an acquaintance than a friend back then) when I had one of my moments and I phased out into my own little world to start penning down my thoughts in a rhyme. It was about friendship and something on those lines. As usual, I wrote it down and then threw it away. She saw the poem whilst I was writing it and when I had thrown it away in the dust-bin, she picked up the torn pieces from that pile. She went through the trouble of actually figuring out the jig-saw puzzle, gluing all the pieces onto another paper and gifting them to me the next day! She convinced me to write and we struck a deal wherein she lay claim to all my poems and I was never to destroy any of my works, bound by a contract! (Yeah I know! Women!) I think that was the first step in a friendship that has stood the test of time (touchwood!) I guess I will always remember that as the day a friend made a poet and a poet made a friend!

MAGGI

As engineers who have graduated they way engineers should, most of us hostelites did most (if not all) of the studying in a mad-rush at the fag end of the semester at a time more famously known as the PLs. For most, it means studying 5 subjects from scratch and attaining a level of understanding which would stand us good years down the line in our careers when we least expect to use all that knowledge! (Most of us are surprised by the fact that we are able to recall those complex concepts and those lengthy formulae to bail us out of a jam!) After all, reading engineering history that has taken hundreds of years to develop and arguably the greatest minds humanity has borne witness to, encompassed in a matter of 400 odd pages per subject, in a matter of a couple of days and still being able to make sense of it all is no mean task! Yet, thousands of young minds traverse the journey successfully every year and are awarded the title of “ENGINEER.” I am pretty sure doctors slog it out throughout their academic stint and are worthy of the honour bestowed when they are permitted to add the suffix “Dr.” in front of their names but I reckon us engineers haven’t quite taken a less perilous journey as we navigate through the 8 semesters and should be given a suffix too, like “Er.” maybe. Then I would call myself Er. Bikram Snehi. That would be funny though. Imagine the situation when someone is calling my name, “Er. Bikram, would you please care to be seated?” Sounds like a stutter, “er…may I help you?” So everytime someone stutters, all engineers would be looking over our shoulders to see if we are being addressed to! (Although with the number of engineers my beloved nation is producing, the title would be redundant anyways.)

Well, anyways…getting back to the point here. PLs were a time when we spent all day and all night watching movies and catching up with other such pleasures that we might have missed out on, on account of having had worked hard finishing the assignments, projects and the sort. (Oh, damn! I was supposed to have said that the time was spent studying… ah well, too much trouble to go back and edit so I guess I’ll let it stand!) Now you know the truth so I wouldn’t lie to you. For a majority of us, that was the norm. Not for all though. There were those among us who made good use of the time and did actually spend the time studying.

Ap would famously lock herself up in her room and not let anyone disturb her for the period. I guess she had a reserve of energy somewhere which meant that she hardly if ever ventured outside for anything. Dinner, lunch and breakfast were times when you saw everyone at the canteen except dear Ap. It was always a pleasure to catch her whenever I could, she was a sight for sore eyes. For all I’ve been through, I’m glad I had her around to counsel. Exam time was frenzied for her though. She spent all her time with the books. I can’t even imagine the sight of her drowned in books because she is meticulously neat! Ani was another zealot. When he sat down to study, he didn’t move at all. In fact, the PLs were a time when he invariably got insomniac and would wash clothes at 3 in the morning/night (I really dunno what to classify that time as!) just to make sure he wasn’t wasting time doing anything inconsequential. He had once challenged our chemistry teacher saying he would get the highest marks in college in her subject. Free-spirited as he has always been, he spent a lot of time in her class pulling her leg and generally fooling about. I remember one particular incident. Our teach wasn’t particularly good at diagrams, especially when it came to making them up on the blackboard. To her credit though she got the basic idea across most of the time. (Not that Ani was any good at diagrams either but we’ll let that pass for now.) As I was saying, she drew the diagram for a distillation tower and well, with the artistic liberty that she exercised, drew it tilted towards one side. Ani in all innocence (remains a contentious issue to this day!) replicated the diagram, albeit with a little more tilt to it. When she saw the diagram, (needless to say but I’ll say it anyway) she was flabbergasted! To her credit though, she laughed about it with us years down when we met her at one of the alumni meets. Well the point being, after all that and more, he had challenged her and did obtain the highest marks in college in chemistry! Kudos to the man to have been able to do that! And then there was Ra. The man followed quite a routine. Got up by 730, was studying by 830, studied on till 1 when he took a lunch break and then occasionally caught an afternoon nap but mostly spent the rest of the day studying till about 9 whence it was dinner time. Phenomenal! (Would you believe I actually gave that man an earful and counseled him into studying? Well, I can’t believe it myself!) Just for the record, his grades in engineering are stuff dreams are made of!

Where was I again?( Do I ramble so much? Unbelievable! And people tell me I don’t talk enough!) Right the PLs. I spent most of the PLs socializing and bonding with friends, catching movies at odd hours, riding away to obscure places unheard of and unexplored by the rest of humanity at Pune. But most of all, the PLs were memorable for all those wonderful moments I spent with Sa, Ro, Ab, Vi, Ani, Pr and the other chaps at the boys hostel. The most memorable of those times are the nights. As you might expect, the last couple of weeks were spent burning the midnight oil albeit for a completely different reason. At about 2 in the morning/night (whatever) at least one of us had to have Maggi cause we got hungry. So at those wee hours, stealthily in some room, someone would inevitably take up the task of making Maggi! Unfortunately (for the cook, not for the rest of us) the whiff would be in the air and we only had to follow our noses to the source. Hungry young men with forks in their hands went on a rampage trying to gulp down as much of the noodles as they could. Tongues scalding and lips smacking, the bowl would be empty before long. I know people who stayed up till those wee hours only so that they could lay their hands on those noodles! I for one was a part of that band. Heck, if it weren’t for Maggi, I wouldn’t have cleared my exams! Damn, anyone wanna cook me some Maggi? Come on… please?