Author: Tejas Rao

Dear Big Tata,

As I grew older, I often wondered why I called you that, and why my brain always used an adjective to refer to my grandparents.

Dear Big Tata,

When I was born, you were 81 years old. At 81, your family saw 4 generations co-exist, albeit a few kilometers apart.

Dear Big Tata,

I visited all but one of the houses, nay, homes, you’ve stayed at since I’ve been born. And despite the change in scenery, you managed your routine. Your morning walk, your evening walk, your filter coffee, your newspaper, your cricket.

Dear Big Tata,

As an NRI child, your crisp English astounded me. I later grew to detest British colonialism, but I loved your diction: commanding, yet soothing. It amazed me that the words out of your tongue came from a different History, one that commanded respect.

I had few hopes of India as an NRI child. Everything I saw around me was rain, dirt, poverty, so to hear you speak English with that glorious accent made you relatable, Big Tata. More so, because people in the city I vacationed in spoke in a tongue I barely understood.

Dear Big Tata,

I inherited your love for cricket, and you were a Gentleman observing the Gentleman’s Game. I recall a conversation we had about the India-Pakistan series, and one about the Ashes. We watched all of the cricket, and in my two months in India each year, I learnt more about commentary and observation and patience than I ever did before.

And then we grew, ever so slightly.

Dear Big Tata,

I came to India in the 6th Grade, an NRI child not-so-NRI anymore. I grew to appreciate and love our native tongues, our land, our people and our stories.

I learnt about our family’s roots, Chikmagalur, the Coffee Works, and our extended family.

I learnt about you, heard about you as a Man, and you as a Boy.

Dear Big Tata,

We grew some more, and this one time I came over, I remember you describing your hearing aid, one of the first you had gotten. You dismissed it, citing that your other ear was fine, cracking a joke about it even, but you accepted its use, and you used it.

 

 

 

Dear Big Tata,

I was in the 9th Grade when I first contemplated studying the Law, and everyone pointed me to you and Big Ajji, and how you read the paper daily. They cracked jokes about how Law was in my blood. I never felt it then, but I do now.

It confounded me that every time I came over you asked about my health and my ambitions.

Only later did I realized how those two intertwined, and how they were all that mattered.

Dear Big Tata,

Things changed. I moved cities. I met you less often. 4-5 months between a visit.

I saw photos of you playing with my cousins on WhatsApp groups. They never failed to make me smile.

The last to last time I came down to namma ooru, my parents told me that you might not be able to recognize me.

Yet you did. And we made conversation about the Law, the Rule of the Law, and Oxford University. You remembered I had applied there, and I loved that, Big Tata, I really did.

Dear Big Tata,

I complained to my mother once about the troubles of being a Man and having facial hair to shave off and groom. She chided me.

Look at Big Tata, she said. He shaves everyday, still, she said.

 

In that instant I felt like a mockery of a person. To complain about personal grooming? Ridiculous.

Dear Big Tata,

Recently I was sent a photo of you with my youngest cousin. You had a stubble, a goatee of sorts.

That’s when I knew things had changed a little.

It unsettled me, but I chose to hide these feelings.

In subsequent photos, your body size shrunk. 1,519 kms away from the place you now called home, I could feel you crying out for your walks.

The last time I met you, I bowed down to seek your blessings. You said a prayer and patted my back, Big Tata, and that comforted me.

Yesterday, I found out you were unwell, Big Tata, and I wasn’t sure what it meant.

I didn’t know what you were going through, what to expect.

I prayed hard that you would recover.

Big Tata,

This evening you breathed your last.

And I’m not sure what that means.

I’m not sure what that means because I wish I could have taken you on one of your walks someday.

I’m not sure what that means because of the zeal you had, your enthusiasm, and the jokes you cracked, both, in Kannada and in English.

I’m not sure what that means because I saw the passion for life in your eyes, Big Tata and that wowed me.

I’m not sure what that means, but in the last 9 hours, I’ve tried to understand.

And I will continue to try to understand. But I will miss you the next time India plays Pakistan in a Test Match. Or when I taste filter coffee.

And I will miss you when I think about my ambitions. Only because you taught me their value, in that one conversation we had about Law.

May your soul Rest in Peace.

 

 

 

 

 

I’m struggling to come up with creative titles, so this will have to do.

Day two of my writing project. Here we go.

Today I discovered the beauty of friendship. I told my friend I needed my kettle around dinnertime. I returned from the library and walked across to his side of the hostel to get my kettle. To my disdain, there was a lock on his door.

I called him, no response.

I rang up his roommate, no response.

I was in dire need of my kettle, so my brain was calculating the time and effort it would take to procure another batchmate’s kettle, or to perhaps go in search of this friend.In a hostel atmosphere, neither of these options are efficient.

Finding someone takes ages. Finding an object takes even more.

You’re possibly better off without the kettle, I told myself.

I walked back in despair, in the darkness to my hostel room.

“Eyy” I heard.

I looked up. First I saw boxers, then I saw my kettle, and then my friend.

The hostel is a fun place.

We walked back to my room together. Me, glad to have my kettle. Him, giving me company.

It was a beautiful moment.

In addition, my Economics test has been advanced to Wednesday, I have a Jurisprudence test on Thursday, and the GNLU Debate starts on Friday.

What a week I’m in for.

Thanks, Monday.

Curd Rice, out.

I’ve decided that I’ll be posting things every day from now on. 15 words, 20 words, 200 words, whatever it may be. I can’t be apologizing to my future fans every time I post something on this little space I hold so dear.

I’m hoping this also allows me to track back on the things I experience in University. (not college) – day in, day out. Like a diary. A rather public one.

Coming to what happened today.

I missed my father.

Since I’ve been born, my haircut/hairstyle has been my father’s domain. He’s figured out which barber to take me to, and because our hair is the same type, he’s got me haircuts that won’t look horrible on me. For the most part (I still remember the mushroom, Appa).

My dad took care of this haircut business. He used to tell the barber exactly what to do, gaze at him with steely eyes as the haircut took place, and ensure I walked out of the barber shop feeling light-headed (see what I did there?) but with all of my God-given looks intact. All I had to do was sit in a chair, try not to fall asleep, and move my head around as I was instructed.

I’ve shared a special relationship with my Barber, Bob Uncle. He’s been a very important part of my life – I picked up my first words of Hindi from him. When we moved to India, my dad and I struggled to find someone like him. We didn’t succeed, but my dad managed to explain the haircut we needed to the new barber.

I was terrified about destroying the way I looked every time I sat in the chair. I prayed that I didn’t get a mushroom cut and reminded myself that my hair would grow back. My prayers worked and I never switched barbers till I moved to Gandhinagar.

My barber here is a chiller. He runs the only A/C saloon, yes. Saloon, in Bhaijipura. He has a TV which plays Taarak Mehta ka Oolta Chashma on repeat, and he experiments with his hair more than Paul Pogba does. He’s a star.

I’ve visited him 9 times now – once a month when I’m in Gujarat. He never messed up. Not once. My broken Hindi and my “combing” action did the charm.

Till today.

I asked for a medium-short haircut.

Unshaved, I now look older than I really am.

Clean shaven, I look like a champu.

What are these extremes.

Time to oil my hair furiously.

 

 

 

 

Committing yourself to blogging is a difficult thing, as I have recently found out. In the time I have been the most free in 2016, I have written a grand total of one blog post.

I know, I know. I can hear the gasps from my chair here in Gandhinagar.

Yes, I’m back at University (not College). Yes, this does mean I’ve completed a year of Law School, albeit without giving four exams (much to the dismay of my grandmother). I shall be giving these exams now, which means studying when pretty much no one else on campus is.

It’s quite strange to think how time flies. 26^th June last year, I flew to Bhubaneshwar to complete admission formalities at the National Law University, Orissa. I still remember being extremely skeptical about the place. It was Rath Yatra and some violence had broken out in Orissa, so there was a complete bandh. My mum and I spent the entire day at the Bhubaneshwar Airport, making incredibly fun conversation and sipping tea with cardamom (best tea I’ve had). Being the social being she is, she even got the Airport staff to make an announcement on the PA system, calling out for other students seeking admission at NLU-O, so I could make some friends before University began.

One year later, I’m very grateful nobody showed up.

When we finally managed to get out of the airport, (at 5 pm, after landing at 8:30 am), Orissa was a breath of fresh air. I think there are a lot of misconceptions in India about what other States are like, and down South, there’s a very tainted image about the East. The roads in Bhubaneshwar (looking at you, Expressway) were infinitely better than the roads in Bangalore. What I loved about Bhubaneshwar was how fantastic the cement to nature ratio was maintained – there was a fantastic amount of greenery. When we got to Cuttack, we were shocked at how well the campus had come up. Our surprise was aided by the low expectations we had set for ourselves.

My admissions process involved a lot more running around, and if Indigo had a frequent flyer program, I would have been in the Gold tier within the 3 weeks I spent at Cuttack. I flew Bhubaneshwar-Mumbai-Ahmedabad and my mom flew Bangalore-Ahmedabad some 6 times before I settled into Gandhinagar on 28^th July.

Good times.

It was mere coincidence that I left home for second year on 26^th June 2016, which bought back a flood of memories on the flight.

As a first year in Cuttack, I managed to order Dominos to campus within two weeks of being there (with three other co-conspirators). Yes, I had a bit of aukaat.

Coming back here for second year doesn’t feel too different. Not much has changed around the place, except for the mirrors in the common washrooms. It feels like I was away for a week, or two, at most. Which, last night, was a fantastic thing – I got to sleep without feeling homesick.

On reflection though, it’s a bit bittersweet. Familiarity in Gandhinagar means that my body has grown to call this place home.

Which is odd for me, considering how attached I am to things and places.

Nonetheless. I’m very excited for what second year has in store.

Once I finish my four exams.

Which I should probably study for.

Instead of blogging.

Curd rice, out.

 

World, hello.

Roughly a month has elapsed since I last posted on this blog, and I shall apologize again. Readers of the future, you might wonder what prevented young Tejas from blogging about his life. I’ve been busy writing a few (not all) of my exams and completing the moot I first blogged about in January. The exams were so-so, the moot was a fabulous experience (out of this world), and my first year came to an end.

Tragic, I know. (Not so much.)

There are a plethora of things I wish to write about. This post, however, will focus on my 18th birthday.

My mother asked me to blog about this. I’ve erased multiple drafts of this post over the last week, simply because none of them felt like they did justice to everything that happened on the 11th of May, 2016. I’m going to write about this at great length, and, parents, regardless of how enthusiastic and emotional this post might turn out to be, I am truly overwhelmed and grateful.

 

Again, I shall give you the context you need to grasp my gratitude. Over the past three years, I’ve celebrated my board exams spending birthdays. Conversely, rather, I’ve spent my board exams celebrating my birthday. This meant impeccably timed breaks to cut a small home-baked cake, a familial gathering for a few (2) hours, and lots of studying. Past papers, to be precise. I even spent 11th May 2015, writing my Chemistry Paper 4 exam.

Who wouldn’t want to answer 100 marks of something organic, inorganic, periodic, and physical? What made it more fun was that on 10th May, I had written CLAT, and on 12th May, I had my Mathematics Paper 5. Basically, my birthday in 2015, was 2, maybe 3 hours of sleep, 1 hour cutting and eating cake, and well, 20 hours doing academic related activities.

Not studying felt like a waste of my birthday.

Prior to when Cambridge International Examinations was the protagonist of my life, and my Chrome Homepages were XtremePapers and FreeExamPapers, my birthdays were memorable and fun. Each of those 14 times.

My parents are perfectionists. And neither of them are lazy. Which is problematic and lovely. See, it’s problematic for me because I like sleep (despite the fact that I don’t get much at college). I presume it’s lovely for them, because everything they plan is perfectly executed. Including birthdays.

Most of it comes from the fact that my parents are big children themselves. My mom’s the younger one, I mean, look at her, craving for attention on a public platform. They get excited about the smallest things (something I’ve inherited).

They planned a birthday at Fuddruckers, with the best clown, play area, potato wedges, and onion rings.

OH AND A WINNIE THE POOH CAKE.

They planned a birthday at Al Bustan Center, with the most enjoyable Arcade Games and Entertainment.

AND A CRICKET CAKE.

And before we left for India, they planned a wonderful birthday party at a park, renting out a massive area for all my friends and I. There was no concept of hatred or disliking people when we were younger, right? Which meant that everyone in class was invited for everyone’s birthday party. Which meant that the crowd was pretty big. And loud. Mix this with some aerated drinks, food, and games, and you have a recipe for the most energy you have ever seen in your life. We wouldn’t need that reusable SolAero stuff to power any of our rockets in India if you could convert this energy to the sort of fuel ISRO needed.

It was a racket.

This was in addition to all of the “normal” birthday things that happened at school: cakes in class, candy for everybody, candy for self, new clothes and the best part, fancy hair (my fancy hair was my normal hair + hair gel, but it was exciting, nonetheless).

IN 5TH GRADE WE WROTE CERTIFICATES FOR MY TEACHERS FOR BEING GOOD TEACHERS BECAUSE I WAS LEAVING AND WE GAVE IT TO THEM ON MY BIRTHDAY BECAUSE I WAS LEAVING SCHOOL.

THESE WERE PRINTED CERTIFICATES WITH MY UBER-COOL SIGNATURE (Read: Autograph) ON THEM.

My mom even planned her own 40th Birthday Party. Featuring me + dad.

As I grew older, birthdays became fancy lunches with friends and family. The sentiment and the planning was retained, and there always remained an element of surprise.

It was always Cake. But the flavour and design were always a surprise. And they were delicious surprises.

I like Cake.

Basically, my parents were more excited than I was for my birthdays. Even when board exams (flouted as the “most important”, “decisive”, “employers will look at your marks”, “colleges will look at your marks”, “potential spouse’s parents will ask for your marks”, “kid will ask for your marks”, “kid will laugh at your marks”, “aunty’s friend’s sister’s uncle’s son will get better marks” type exams in India) were going on.

For the first time in 3 years, I didn’t have anything consequential to think about on my birthday.

So my parents told me they wanted me to come to Dubai. After a year or so.

I got here on May 10th and spent the entire evening with both my parents, talking about life and everything.

I stayed up past 12, counting down to my birthday like Harry Potter in the first book (in a way more loving, comfortable environment), and went to sleep.

I woke up around 7:30 to use the washroom. I was half-dazed, my eyes were not open, so I was pretty oblivious to everything around me, but I heard sounds of tape.

I didn’t care much. I walked back and went back to sleep.

My mother screeched wake up calls into my ear with my father watching. I imagine that the man felt sympathy for me. Appa, the screech. You could have stopped it. I felt betrayed. But so loved, nonetheless. I knew you wanted me awake too.

She then lied to me. She told me it was 10.30. So I jolted awake (basically my eyes opened and I reached for my glasses). Glasses are magical things. The clock showed 9 AM so I moaned and groaned, only to be greeted by a hug. Two hugs. Because it was 10.30 in India.

Which is not the clock my body was on, but hey.

One of those hugs was this warm bear hug that only my dad and I can share. The same warm hug that greets me at airports and at home. Magnified by two bears. Or more bears.

I got up (rolled out of my blanket), brushed my teeth and things, and looked around. Our curtains had those cute party “Happy Birthday” banners on them. To my right was this huge, yellow, photo banner, with all of these photos through the ages. I never realized how much I had actually changed over the years until I looked at the photos (minus the hair. It’s been the same).Photos as recent as March were in this chronologically arranged, perfect banner. It was very sentimental.

In front of me was a chocolate banner. Which used chocolates to write out a delightful message about life and things. And used “Mega Big Babool” to describe me. It had space jokes too (because of my moot), which provided quite a chuckle (they used Orbit and Galaxy creatively).

And then came the whammy. The double whammy. The triple whammy. The quadruple whammy. The quintuple whammy. Till 18 whammies.

It started with a limerick. Crafted by my aunt (who loves riddles and puzzles and knows the way my brain works), it contained the names of 18 gifts hidden around our house. I couldn’t crack it.

I got 14. I blame this on my sleepy state. It took me 20 minutes. And I needed extra help.

I was still sleepy, but there was more activity in store.

My mom came out of kitchen holding 4 clues in her hand. Each clue represented an area of our house (bedroom, lobby, kitchen, living room),  and I had to use the clues, match them to my list, and find the gifts. It was a treasure hunt of epic proportions designed for a non-sleep deprived adult given to a sleep-deprived adult.

I took 1 hour to find the gifts and crack the clues. And they were all so easy, looking back.

BUT THE GIFTS, O THE GIFTS.

There’s a customized mug, with a funny quote, a customized shirt that says “Legend, since 1998”, a pillow-cover that says “Today Has Been Cancelled, Go Back To Sleep”, a book called Manual to Manhood – where the first chapter is Women & Dating, and the second is Social Skills and Manners (thanks mom). There’s a survival kit with emergency money, a deck of cards with 52 sentimental reasons they love me.

There’s also a scrapbook. A scrapbook with these heart-warming messages from the most wonderful people I have ever interacted with. I don’t know how my mother got in touch with my friends (how, ma?) and coaxed them into putting effort into writing down sentimental thoughts about me. Largely because this enthusiasm my mom has isn’t as infectious through social media, and, most of my friends were writing exams. It was so cool to see how much work she put into all of this.

Every single gift has 18 years worth of memories inside of it. Memories that they have of each of those years. I could map them to the photo banner and show you different stages of Tejas when each memory was created.

They even bought me a domain. A domain of my own! I can’t wait to customize it, and you’ll see this blog there, soon enough.

While all of this shows how much they love me, I was just at a complete loss for words and expressions. I didn’t know what to do, or say.

I was welcomed into the world of adulthood while being pampered like a little baby. How lovely.

I can only hope to emulate this when I’m in their shoes. My mom’s creativity brought my parents love for me to a tangible form. It’s very inappropriate to just say “Thank You” for all of that.

We need more English words to express love. Maybe I’ll coin a few some day. Not tonight.

Then we went to the Temple and stuff.

I ate curd rice for lunch. Homemade. Straight up Sona Masoori, with Almarai set curd. Full cream. Full fat.

We went out for dinner to this lovely restaurant called Feast, at the Sheraton Grand, which my dad picked out specifically because it had a delicious, delicious buffet with a lovely Italian and dessert section.

And just after we had admired the beautiful view it presented and sat down, I was surprised by my best friend and his family. This guy had his board exams going on, and I wasn’t sure when I’d meet him. And he took time off to come to dinner. We hadn’t met in a year or so, and we hadn’t spent either of our birthdays together in 8 years. As compared to when we were children and were inseparable at all parties. Except when dancing was the activity at hand. He was a rockstar. I was a potato. Distance from all cameras was my only goal.

The food was delicious, the conversation was lovely.

And yes, there was cake. Tiramisu cake. The best Tiramisu cake I have ever had.

That’s how I celebrated getting voting rights. My age now tells you I’m an adult. Nothing feels like it’s changed, though. I haven’t grown a tail or anything.

Maybe I’ll feel different once the responsibilities come my way.

Curd Rice, out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why do I always decide to write when I have far more important things to do?

Today is legitimately the first day I had minimal conversation with my parents.

Reading that sentence makes me feel like a horrible human being. You need context. Let’s provide some.

I’ve spoken to my parents every single day after moving to college. This isn’t some nonsense pangs of separation type of thing. It’s more about what they mean to me, type of thing. We’ve had a very open relationship as a family, over the years. I reckon, especially closer to boards, I spoke to my parents more than I spoke to any of my friends. To surmise, I got closer to my parents than ever before, the month before I left home for college.

Minimal, is hence defined as a call lasting sub-one minute & a few messages.

Life gets tough sometimes. I went through a painful examination schedule in the 12th, with board examinations & entrance examinations in the same month, back-to-back. It was a horrid time, because I grappled with my fear of the unknown (What college? What marks? What studies? What city? What life?) every single day.I woke up knowing that there existed an uncertainty in my life. This was compounded by the fact that my friends’ lives gained clarity day by day, in terms of answers to the above questions. Which is why I relied on my parents very heavily. I must add, however, that I rejected any explanation/solution they had to offer me. I was the stubbornest in the month of May, because the uncertainty was too much for me to bear.

This begins the first of three (maybe four?) apologies this blog post has.

Sorry, guys.

You don’t know what your support meant to me & words cannot explain the same. I will, however, try providing something for the audience of this blog (currently, 3 identifiable souls – hey, Ajji!) to understand. Let’s take the India v. West Indies match. Just the first innings (no trauma, please). If I consider my entire work toward colleges to be the Indian batting line-up, I was initially the opening batsmen. I got good starts & failed to capitalize. At one stage I became Yuvraj Singh, who played well, but got a little carried away & began to take risks. You guys nailed it though. You were MS Dhoni (not Virat Kohli). Here’s why. You calmed me down & made me sprint at the right time. You made me run the singles, the twos, only to keep the scoreboard ticking. You told me my hard work would pay off. I could become Virat Kohli blitzkrieg-ing toward the end because you were MS Dhoni.You even took strike, covering for me when I needed to be sheltered, because you understood me so well.  You guys were pivotal to the entire innings, the entire project.

Which is what made it tough to leave home, like MS Dhoni retiring from Test Cricket. It came all of a sudden, out of nowhere & it hit me pretty hard. I was the captain of my own ship, the captain of my own cause. I remember calling you guys numerous times over the first semester for the pettiest of things, like Virat calling up Dhoni to understand when to take the new ball. I called you to figure out whether to buy something, whether to go out for lunch. I even remember calling you to ask if I could bunk. My friends at college give me hell for it, but I couldn’t make that decision. I didn’t fully understand any of it, and needed your help and you were there. A call at 10 AM, during one of your meetings, or between some of your presentations. It didn’t matter. You saw “Tejas” flash across your caller ID and picked up instantly.

You replied to my messages faster than Gangnam Style confused people (Info slide/link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bZkp7q19f0).

Because you missed me too.

Then I came home. Relived every memory from first semester.

And came back to college.

Suddenly I had experience.

I began to take decisions independently. I started being more confident, inspired by this experience.

I stopped calling Home for small things.

But I spoke to you everyday, without fail. Because I missed you and I needed to know I still had your support. It was like Virat Kohli bowing down to Sachin after hitting that 50. It felt good to hear your thoughts and remember I had your support, after I made a particular decision.

Today, I failed to message after classes, or tell you I’d be busy post-dinner.

That may have worried you. I know it worried you, because I got two calls in the span of five minutes (unnatural, in our household; denotes urgency). I even missed calls from family (again, hello, Ajji!), which may have led to some panic.

Again, Sorry guys.

I picked up the second call and told you I’d call back. Dad had an excellent day and I was looking forward to hearing all about it, but I got busy and I forgot to call back.

I wanted to hear everything about Dad’s day and everything about yours, because I loved the photos you sent me of the food you had made and the experience you had had. I thought about the last time I had received such awesome photos from both of you and figured I’d call you back when I got to my room. Again, without intimating you.

Half an hour passed.

I can imagine you waited, as you always do, for a message, from me. To reply, to speak.

And yet, I felt I was busy.

I finished my work and got to my room. Opened my phone, and read:

Amma: Tejas – crashing now, we will speak tomorrow, good night

And then it hit me, like a wave, all at once.

I missed an important day. I missed the one day where you wanted to tell me things, and I can hear you, even now, at 2:10 AM, telling me about them. About how wonderful your day was, and the marvelous things you did. I can hear myself passing a comment and making Dad giggle, definitely at the expense of Amma. I can feel the happiness floating through the telecommunication device I hold to my left ear, as I listen to you both talk about your day. I can feel the comfort returning to my system, as I live in a place far from my comfort zone.

And I feel sad. I feel sad because I don’t want to miss these days, these days which are so incredible, which we experience once in a while.

I missed a day that was more ‘happening’ for you, than it was for me. A rare day where I had less to tell you and more to hear. More, that trust me, I really wanted to hear.

It was like I had caused MS Dhoni to be run out.

For the third time, I’m sorry.

And I can hear your reactions, your thoughts as you read this.

‘Why are you apologizing, Tejas?’, you will ask.

‘We were just worried’, you will say.

I’m sorry because I messed up.

I had had a good day, too. I ate chola puri, I ate fruit custard. I did things I know you would have asked me questions  about. Things I would have loved answering.

‘How do they serve the fruit custard?’, I know, you’ll ask.

And for these things, passed by, unsaid, and all these unasked questions, left unanswered,

I’m sorry.

Shall call you in the morning.

Happy Ugadi, folks!

Curd rice, out.

 

 

 

 

 

I’m writing this post as a break from a Political Thought/Theory assignment. Mind you, this doesn’t mean that my project/assignment has begun to bore me. I was unable to focus, and that is all.

I’m quite against a hierarchy system with respect to universities & colleges. Especially if people consider the university you study at as a measure of your intellect – specifically if they believe the higher the quality of the institution and/or the tougher the exam, the smarter you are, for studying there.

Indian families are gross propounders of such a baseless claim. An IIT-Bombay student is considered a genius, while an IIT-Guwahati student, less so. The question from your families is never, why IIT-Guwahati, but rather, why not IIT-Bombay? And then with a sheepish expression, you’ll respond with “Rank didn’t work out” or a string of words that resemble what I’ve just said.

Imagine if college essays for KCL asked you, Why not Oxford?

What would you write?

That’s exactly what’s wrong with our system. We don’t respect the ability of a given university to offer it’s own unique experience to a student. We don’t appreciate the concept of specialities at the undergraduate level. Maybe Mech Engg. is better at IIT-B, maybe Chem Engg. is better at IIT-G. I’m just hypothesizing, but it serves the purpose, doesn’t it?

I understand the fallacies inherent to my offered comparison. Oxford doesn’t use a rank system to filter students, there’s no “Oxford family”, etc. But what if it did? What if you were allotted a college within the University based on a rank on an entrance examination – based on some weird ranking of colleges. What if I told you that the ranking would stay constant – rather, the perceived rank would stay constant – embedded in students’ minds, even if the real ranks changed?

That’s exactly how entrances are in India. Especially with Law.

The disgusting part about such a claim is that students are labelled prior to attending university. It’s like the Enlightenment phase all over again. Science was supposed to be emancipatory, but ended up becoming dogmatic. Students go to college to discover themselves, but we prevent them from doing so by classifying and labeling their abilities. It’s a sick, sick notion. One we need to dispel.

The above might appear to come off as “sore-loser”ish to some. “He didn’t get NLSIU, so he writes these things from behind a 15.6″ computer screen.”

That’s absurd. I don’t doubt the hard work the people who got into NLS via CLAT put in prior to the exam. Nor do I discount the sheer brilliance of the institution that is the NLSIU.

I am, however, of the opinion that my college has things to offer, which perhaps the NLS doesn’t. Things that people should factor in, very carefully, even while they write the exam & choose their preferences. The notion that there exists a hierarchy of schools which provide you a similar education is ridiculous when it is based on arbitrary grounds like “age” of the institution, and “reputation”. You need to realize that the older universities will, inherently possess a better reputation (why? Think of Hardik Pandya bowling that last over against Bangladesh. Now think about Zaheer Khan bowling that same over. Who’d you have more faith in?). They would, also have a better alumni base.

But new institutions have their strengths, and I think it’s time we give credit where credit is due. Especially within society.

And those dumb ranks.

Anyway. This was merely for context.I’m going to pretty much contradict the entire stance I took above.

I’m against the hierarchy culture, but prior to joining a university, I revered the National Law School of India University, Bangalore. I had visited the campus sufficient times to be smitten by it’s coziness, and to be enthralled by the wisdom the inhabitants possessed.

It’s true. It’s what made me think about studying Law.

I am forever amazed by the story and the tradition of the NLSIU. The marvel of Prof. N.R. Madhava Menon, the thought of sitting where Rhodes Scholars, eminent senior counsels and advocates, and some incredible professors sat, and being taught by the same faculty. It was, and is, something else.

I’m attracted to tradition and legacy. I love places with stories, because all places have stories, but a documentation of such a story entices me more.

NLS is one such place.

You can imagine what I felt when I found out Prof. V.S. Mallar would deliver a lecture here at college. I was as excited as I was when India won the 2011 World Cup. More, maybe.

Okay, not more.

But maybe the same amount.

Definitely the same amount.

He delivered a fabulous lecture. A wonderful discourse on Fundamental Rights and Directive Principles of State Policy. His lecture was perfect. Structured, perfectly paced, methodically explained and dissected, with some hilarious anecdotes from his own past.

If you have parents like mine, you’d know what their professors at college looked and spoke like. Maybe a checked formal shirt, or even a plain formal shirt, button down, with brown/fading black trousers. Maybe with a watch on one hand. Maybe wearing chappals with the toe-holder that screams out “1990’s Bata”. Maybe with those square-rimmed glasses (that look “Hep”) and a single sheet, from which they read.

That was Prof. V.S. Mallar.

He looked like a simpleton. I could imagine him reading a folded up paper with a small glass tumbler filled with tea or filter coffee.

He spoke like the genius he is.

He inspired me today.

And I think that’s one of the fundamental reasons to appreciate the older institutions. The fact that faculty there are so, so experienced. You’re bound to be inspired.

I’m lucky to study in one of these older institutions. I’m privileged to be inspired by Professors & Guest lecturers.

Prof V.S. Mallar, I’m in awe, sir. Thank you.

Must get back to that project now.

Curd rice, out.

 

 

 

You must understand, if you’ve been reading, that the past month has not witnessed any tid-bits of my life magically popping up in your inbox. Nor have I posted any. This is inexcusable.

That’s a mere caveat assuming I have loyal followers. My fanbase, I assure you, if you’re reading this in the future, you know I post regularly now, and that my life isn’t really half as interesting as I make it sound. I assure you, I’m not half as humerus in person (smart joke, huh?).

I think I should explain that. Humerus is a bone, I’m not half the bone. You get what I mean.

Creative flow, friends.

My writing is difficult to explain. I hope it isn’t half as difficult to read.

This post is a life update.

The 29 days of February were essentially the most stressful days I have had since I’ve come to Gujarat. I went to the hospital once, got wounds dressed repeatedly, faced mobility issues, worked on my moot, took exams, did a certificate course, played for Pro-Nite on Pentagram, and a whole lot of other things.

Except blogging. It’s very sad. I promised myself I would attempt to get back to writing and expressing my views, but I gave up in February. Why? Priorities.

Psh. Ridiculous.

I also lost touch with friends. Something I realized today when I didn’t notice the clock struck 12, and forgot to wish someone for their birthday. Someone who means a whole deal to me for the sheer impact they have had on my life, with bits of knowledge, lots of conversation, and being an incredible person.

Friend, I apologize. Will make it up to you, I promise. I’m really, truly sorry. (Wouldn’t write about it otherwise).

To all my other friends, if I’ve missed on significant portions of your life, please message or call me at the earliest. Let’s talk. Or Skype. Save some money, eh?

I’d like to rephrase that. If I haven’t annoyed you in a week with a “What’s up?” or a “How’s life?”, or basically any generic question which would irritate you, but would help me keep in touch with you, message me.

Else, know that I will message you, soon.

Also, please know that if I’ve been around, in some capacity, to listen to you in the past, I will be around, at any time, to listen to what you have to say. This distance argument is invalid. Gujarat is not that far.

(Yes amma, I have friends)

All my college dosts, thanks for updating me and helping me catch up with your lives. I believe 3 treats are due (over-due), and we may have 4 or 5, if (when) the next 10 days are awesome.

You all are my Hobbes. Not the Leviathan Hobbes. The true Hobbes. Let me illustrate.

I digress a lot.

Anyway, I write this now in the earnest hope and belief that I will continue to write as much as possible. For, even if you’re not reading this, this entire space on the interweb, this URL belongs to me. It’s the one place I can express what I’m thinking behind the security of a keyboard and an IP address that will throw people off. (Psiphon for the win)

For those of you who don’t have it, download Psiphon. It’ll be useful. I assure you.

In other news, I’m attending an MUN in a day. The last time I was a delegate was back in 2014. Ahh, HMUN India, how I miss you so.

Now I shall sleep.

Goodnight, world. Curd rice, out.

I don’t know how long this post will be or what sentiment it will ultimately convey. All I do know, as I begin to write this post is that I haven’t written in quite some time, which is quite disheartening. I believe my last post was on 1st of February.

College is passing by really quickly. To be very frank, this doesn’t perturb me. Largely because it’s helped me appreciate one of several fundamental differences between school and college. In school, as you grew older, and became a senior, time seemed to slow down when you did not have responsibilities or activities to do. Being studious and academic was an option left to explore. Time slowed down to allow you to enjoy every moment, every event taking place at school. Considering my school wasn’t a residential one, there were limitations on the amount of work a student could carry out for an event hosted on campus. In addition, faculty were always there to direct you and pick up slack if you forgot about something. That direction is invaluable.

College is different. Time doesn’t care if you’re bored. You could be doing absolutely nothing, but sleep will take up your time (and you will not get an opportunity to sleep, so you will utilize it to the maximum). Time doesn’t stop because you’re tired. Time doesn’t stop or slow down because you have too many things on your plate. People will not worry if you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. They will hand tasks over to you, and it is completely, entirely upon you to make it work. To finish those tasks, to finish that work. College is non-stop.

College is hectic. College is residential, so people will work day and night. People will work 24×7. People will be awake setting up for a concert at 1:30 AM, and hostel lights will be on at 4:00 AM because people are awake working on a moot. People will lose sleep. People will not be lazy and slack. People will work.

The hierarchy at college is pretty straightforward. Work is meant to be done by the students, the nature of which is determined by the year you are in. The workload varies, but the fact that time is insufficient, never does.

College can be counted by this lack of time. Or time, in general. College can be characterized by the amount of sleep you get. College can be broken down into weeks, days, hours, and even minutes. College can become scheduled.

But college can never be repetitive.

College can never be monotonous.

College can never, not be exciting.

College can never slow down.

College will never stop.

And that, is the beauty of it all.

My grandmother got worried and told me not to stress out about things. The last few weeks, and the next few weeks are quite “busy”. Stress isn’t optional. Stress is a permanent condition here.

But the stress is beautiful. It comes from working on things you are so committed to, and so passionate about.

You will never lose sleep for things you don’t love doing (like me writing this post at 2:30 AM)

You will never not have time to pursue passions, make memories with friends, stay in touch with old ones.

This is precisely why I love it.

I love college because I’m finding things I enjoy doing. Things I will never shy away from. And my earnest hope is that this continues for the next 4 years.

All this has come out of an immensely work-heavy past few weeks.

Curd rice out. (But still awake because work)

This post is inspired by events of last night (i.e. Freshers’) and today (i.e. GNLU WINNING INDIA JESSUP OHMYGOD).

Yes, I’m very excited. If you know me personally, you know that I get excited and buzzed and enthusiastic about things very easily. You know that I love college (everything about college) and I love classes and everything. I am your quintessential nerd, and I’m very proud to be one. Note to young Tejas, it isn’t a derogatory term, don’t take offense.

Anyway, seniors. How do you write about people who make your first days extremely nerve-wracking and take your introductions and indulge in positive interactions? Especially when they make you miss home a little less by welcoming you into their fold and accepting you as the youngest member of a massive family? Lots of questions, and hopefully this is an answer.

My first brush with a senior from college came when I interned in the 11th Grade. There was a third-year from GNLU who was interning at the same place (his internship was more serious, of course), and he gave me a breakdown of the college. I was sold. I was pretty determined to do Law, and after multiple conversations with him over lunch & during breaks from work, I knew I would go to GNLU if given a chance. He told me the bad bits too, but the positive side of things were far too many to discount.

My second brush with a senior from college came on the CLATGyan group, where I saw a frustrated A Level student complaining about boards. As a frustrated AS (soon to be A) Level student myself, I got in touch with her, and she gave me further insight into what life at GNLU was like. I asked her my questions, asked her about classes & professors, and got myself prepped and enthu’fied for the entrance exam. I loved GNLU, with it’s lack of painted exteriors (as I had been told).

As is obvious, my next brush with seniors was on my first day, when a second-year kindly helped me with my bags on a rainy day to my room (thank you!).

And then came the positive interactions. I had already had one set at Odisha so it was quite weird to undergo again, but I tried taking it in the spirit of things. Made me a little homesick at times, and that showed in my demeanour.

At least it must have. A neighbouring senior called me to his room after I delivered his night mess order and told me to smile a little more, stand a little straight and enjoy myself. That pep talk was incredible. My mother still notices a difference in my posture, weird as it may sound.

I have met seniors I had merely heard of from classmates (and now did client counseling with), seniors I debated against when I was in school (and now debated with on the same team), and seniors I’ve had incredibly profound life discussions with. Seniors who grilled me and my friends all through the night & helped us draft our first-ever memorial by reading multiple shoddy drafts and pointing out errors.

I’ve gotten to interact with super-seniors who have judged me during moot intras. This is the weirdest connect, simply because a couple of years ago, they’ve stood exactly where you stand, and done everything you’ve done.

And I’ve gotten to interact with the team that won Jessup India and are going to D.C. (a first in college).

If you know me, I’ve probably told you about Jessup. I’ve wanted to study Law since the 9th Grade, so it’s pretty incredible that it’s finally happened (as in, I’m studying Law). I googled & Facebooked Raag Yadava like a creep when NLSIU won Jessup Worlds & he became a Rhodes scholar, simply because he had been to D.C. I remember being appalled with the incredible things he had accomplished and saying “Woah, such incredible people exist?”

Note to young Tejas, they do. They really do.

I’m new to this place, and clearly haven’t interacted with these seniors a lot. But I’ve heard the tales. They’re not overhyped.

One of them is leading the charge with the GNLUMUN (DO COME, SERIOUSLY), and one of them helped lead the charge with the GNLU Debate. The other grilled me for my second intra rounds even though he didn’t know me, and one of them has been super helpful with my moot endeavour. I feel very peevish that I have to blog about the fact that I have not interacted at all (apart from an awkward hello as he walked in the corridor) with the last member, but I have heard SO MUCH about him. I am star struck.

They are legends of this institution of learning and exemplars of the institution of Law.

My friend & I got so pumped when we heard. We cried tears of joy, screamed (read: squealed like babies), high-fived, and I hate to say this, but we said “we did it”, even though we didn’t really do anything.

My debate senior thought I would need a tranquilizer gun. I was that excited when they won.

We used to speak among ourselves about the Jessup team & how hard they were working. We felt pumped to see them go for the tournament, and bragged to all our friends when we spotted them all together.

I love college. I love seniors. I love Jessup.

These people have bought happiness to everyone on campus.

And so many more off it. I saw a post by a super-senior with congratulations, followed by a trail of posts from super seniors reflecting about their Jessup journey, and how it was a burden off their shoulders.

College is a happy place. Seniors help keep it a happy place.

Thank you, seniors.

AND CONGRATULATIONS OHMYGOD JESSUP INDIA CHAMPIONS WOOT WOOT WOOT. I PUBLICLY APOLOGIZE IF I HAVE EMBARASSED MYSELF AND/OR ANY OF MY FRIENDS BUT YOU KNOW IT’S TRUE, WE’RE ALL VERY EXCITED AND WILL BE BEHAVING LIKE FANBOYS/GIRLS.

Sorry, I had to.

Congratulations, Team Jessup. As a first-year, you’ve made me extremely proud to be a GNLUite, and you’ve given me an extra dose of motivation for my own moot.

Thank you, seniors.

This post would be amiss if I didn’t mention Freshers’. Mad party they organized for us. Really made us feel like we were officially a part of this college. Shoutout to my date for being awesome!

Haven’t blogged for a while, largely because I had repeat exams & am now extremely determined to utilize my time working on my moot. Also, because I haven’t done anything worthy of a blog post or the time I take in writing one.

Today’s post is dedicated to Music. The post comes out of listening to this (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cAQynQk_qhM&feature=youtu.be). No, the creator of that video has not requested me for an endorsement, but I’m obligated to give you something to connect to what I’m feeling right now.

Watch the video. You won’t understand much in furtherance of your attempt to understand my blog, but you’ll get something to go on.

The boy in that video is a classmate of mine from the 5th Grade. Way back then, when I was in Dubai, Haider & I used to be pretty good friends. We had pretty much the same interest in music, and he was on my bus route. Pretty fun.

This may be difficult to believe if you know what I sound like now, but prior to the cracking of my voice, I had the ability to sing. I attended Carnatic lessons for a while & loved Western music. My voice was pretty high-pitched, and Haider and I used to be invited/forced by our class teacher to sing for the class at times.

My school used to do this pretty awesome thing where each Grade put up an annual concert. As fate would have it, I used to end up being the narrator of said concert every time. I even danced at this Rock Challenge thing (not joking, dressed as a Dalmatian) where I ended up having to answer judge’s questions (the dance had to reflect a social cause).

Conversations with Haider make me pretty nostalgic haha. In the 5th, we did our annual concert inspired by the Beatles. He was Paul McCartney as far I can remember, and I was narrator+choir member. I sang vocals for Strawberry Fields Forever, the Yellow Submarine, Help!, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds & more. The trauma I would cause people by singing these songs now (I mean, with my current voice), would be immeasurable.

Haider, on the other hand, has grown so much as a musician. His voice cracked more beautifully, if I can put it that way. Some of his originals are absolutely marvelous, and all of his covers do such justice to the original songs.

I might have gone out of the singing business, but my parents ensured/forced me to learn the piano. This started when my uncle bought me a keyboard way back when I was in the 2nd Grade. I used to mess around with the Presets – including My Heart Will Go On & such fun things, and they used to get very excited that I knew how to play it. Dad, Mom, these were presets. Sorry if I lied to you guys.

I switched out of piano classes faster that Usain Bolt finished the 100m race in London.

That’s pushing it, but I did switch out of classes often. This meant that I was constantly un-learning. That is, unlearning the method a previous instructor had taught me, to latch onto a new instructor’s method. Plus, I never really loved my instrument, so I didn’t practice or anything.

That was until Glen Perry. His academy was awesome. My mum drove me till Karama every Saturday, sitting in the sweltering heat for one hour as I learnt bits and pieces of the keyboard without thinking about the plethora of things she could accomplish in that time. (Thanks Amma). That allowed me to love the keyboard.

When we moved to India, I didn’t play for a year (outside of Music classes at school). I began to detest the piano/keyboard because it wasn’t as mobile as a guitar (an instrument ALL my friends could play). We spent one year looking for an instructor who taught well & came all the way till Whitefield. And when we finally did, it was incredible.

He taught me everything I know (not that I know a lot). More than anything, he taught me to be methodical in learning. He went by the book, so I didn’t learn pieces I wanted to learn, but I did develop some discipline, which helped a lot with exams & things. His classes allowed me to develop a love for music.

I discovered Torrents around the same time, which fuelled the aforementioned love.

That’s the story of my relationship with music. There’s a whole lot more, but I have work to do.

Haider, your passion for music is commendable, buddy. I mean, you’re in Prague, studying medicine. You recorded that clip after studying for 12 hours. That’s crazy, buddy. (In a good way, of course).

You can be a mender of hearts (cardio specialist) and a mender of souls (with that guitar).

Life update. We got 1500 Rupees from White Collar by means of a really fancy cheque (massive shout-out to Amma for orchestrating the whole deal) & my health is back to normal (almost).

I’ve had a pretty sweet day. Woke up, had a clean stall to dump in, got super hot water for my bucket bath, had an awesome “alu muter” sandwich for breakfast, and a set of swell classes. Followed by an incredible lunch. I will accept that Rajma Chawal is a thing, although I appreciate it with Roti more. Sorry not sorry.

In other news, I haven’t eaten curd in nearly 3 days. My body has been deprived of the dairy I love, and I’m not sure it’s responding very well. The totem of my existence has been served for lunch & dinner everyday that I’ve been ill, and I won’t lie, I’ve shed some tears as I’ve walked past the delicious Gujarat curd. My batchmates have sympathized, and one even offered me her curd – a gesture I applaud, and condemn at the same time. (Rule #1 – Curd is not meant to be shared). You have much to learn, young padawan.

Anyway. Awesome set of classes. Our Economics prof. is the most chill lecturer I have seen. We “focus on our breathing” (to be read as sleep & not to be confused with meditation) while he takes attendance, which he does in the most stunning raga I have heard. There’s a subtlety to his tone on syllables. The man could’ve been a good singer, methinks. After 45 minutes of fun, we had Political Thought.

I have the best Political Thought professor on the planet. This is my opinion. (was. Read on)

He’s such a passionate man. He’ll make you believe anything, just because he’s so passionate about teaching. And his subject. Although his subject is literally about not believing anything at all. We’re still doing Introductory Modules and as first-years, we’re constantly reminded how little we know about things. Exactly what today’s class did.

I’m very intrigued by Political Theory, Thought, Philosophy, Science & all of the multiple perspectives/subjects you can attach at the end of “Political” or “Politics”. Yes, they’re different things. No, I will not elaborate.

P.S.: As you read, it’s okay to be very confused. I am too. I’m new to this whole blogging thing, so my writing may be scratchy. Sorry.

I appreciate the subject only because I’m fascinated by understanding what fancy words mean. That’s a really weird way of phrasing it, so I shall explain. I’m fascinated to know what “Marxism”, or “Liberty”, or “Justice” stands for, largely because I feel like most of us use the words very incorrectly. Starting from the government, to the media, to common parlance. We throw around these big words because of the power we have to sway people in their emotions & thoughts without realizing the connotations they really do possess. That’s the sort of clarity I’m looking for from the course. And while the semester may confuse me even more, it’ll give me perspective on the stuff I read, which I really appreciate.

Enough of explanation, back to reality.

Well, an introductory module in Political blah (I cannot type out the whole thing), basically entails debate on what words mean. Just the other day, we spent a class debating the difference between Philosophy and Thought (I always thought Philosophy was abstract thought). Today’s class was another Philosophical discourse.

Basically, we spent time discussing Ontology. And the two schools of Ontology – the Materialistic & the Idealistic. Fancy words, fancier meanings. Ontology questions existence and reality. There’s a subject devoted to the existential crisis, guys. 

Literally, the subject & its approaches question whether reality is a construct and whether it actually exists. We even took the debate to religion, which I always love talking about, scientifically. We went on to speak about Plato’s idea of opinions, beliefs, and knowledge. And how nobody really attains knowledge. That we all just gain information.

The conclusion was that nobody experiences knowledge.

There go my dreams of being intellectual and fancy.

What intellectual and fancy. I’m a guy with a blog called Curd Rice Daily. Pshh.

I’m already intellectual and fancy. (Yup)

At this point I’d like to rephrase something I typed earlier.

I have a Political Thought professor.

He’s incredible.

But I can no longer say he’s the best.
(a) Because I have no one to compare him with
(b) Because my reality comes from my experience & therefore it would too much of a value judgement without much empirical analysis
(c) Because saying he’s the best would constitute knowledge. Not an opinion.

And no one gains knowledge.

Let that sink in.

Just because I’ve introduced this idea to you guys, I want you guys to think about this for a bit.

If a tree falls in a forest which is empty, and nobody witnesses the tree falling from afar:

(a) Do the leaves rustle?
(b) Does is produce a sound?

Yes.

I’m fancy.

Massive props to my Political blah professor.

Curd Rice, out.