So long and thanks for all the fish.

This is going to be the last one for the foreseeable future. If there's one thing that Gokhale's taught me, it's to never say never. So hopefully, at some point in time, I'll be updating this space.
But right now, I don't want to.

Man treasures the most those parts of the world around him that resonate the most with what he holds dearest within himself.

Yes, yes, I know. Read it a couple of times. I suspect you'll find yourself in agreement.

And therefore, Gokhale has been the single greatest influence on my life. All that I am today is certainly not due to Gokhale alone, but all that I hold dearest within me has been shaped, irrevocably so, by that Institute in Deccan Gymkhana, Pune.

Most of the people dearest to me have been encountered in Gokhale, most of my fondest memories are centered around Gokhale, almost all of life's invaluable lessons, or whatever it is that self help books are calling bamboos up the ass nowadays, have been connected in some way or the other to Gokhale.

And leaving it all is the most painful thing that I've ever had to do. Letting go of something as dear as Gokhale has come to be… which essentially means letting go of people who've come to mean as much as they do… is no easy task.

But clinging on to the vestiges of the past, onto a memory that clouds the present is no solution. And therefore say adieu I must.

Coming back to life and all that.

To Mav, Boshu, GT, Soumya and Milind in the first year, and to Boshu, Jacob and Milind in the second: you guys in many ways, defined all that was Gokhale. You were there through thick and thin. You gave help whenever I asked, and you reprimanded me whenever I needed it, and there can be no greater compliment I can give.

To all of the others, you've become family in a way that I needn't describe. You've been there whenever I've asked of you, and I can only hope that I've been able to return the favour.

What's above isn't necessarily corny or overtly emotional. It is, I suspect, stuff that each of feels, but won't say until Bacchus rings in merry hell. If it isn't stuff that you feel, well, dude, sorry and all, but you're missing out on something here.

Maybe one day it won't pain quite as much. And maybe one day I'll write out here again. I hope so.

But I have my reasons, some of which all of you know, and all of which some of you know, to say au revoir for the moment.

In the fervent hope that I'm bullshitting,

Cheers,

Ashish.

Bhaisaab Phancy Dress!

People who keep themselves abreast with the postings on this blog, bright people that they are… bright because they keep coming back here… must have figured out by now that Gokhaleites are a somewhat different breed.
Darwin probably had us in mind when he spoke of the survival of the fittest.
Be that as it may, this posting is about language. All great civilizations have developed their own culture, their own rituals, their own traditions, and their own language. Enough has been said about the highly advanced rituals followed at Gokhale, but a word is now in order about our very own vernacular.
Like I said earlier, we Gokhaleites are made of stuff that is inherently different from the majority. We do things differently, and given we are who we are, we do them better.
So when we got around to figuring that we need to develop a language of our own, we went and plagiarized most of it.
The original committee that sat in on the deliberations whenever they happened in Gokhale… there is a committee for everything in Gokhale – I’m amazed we don’t have a Blog Committee yet… ran a couple of regressions, took a couple of surveys, drank a couple of bottles of beer each and decided that Gokhalese must have as it’s base a mixture of English and Hindi.
They quarreled after that, and didn’t speak to each other for two months, like all good committee members should, but they got that one bit right.
Ever since then, Gokhalese has been a loose mixture of English and Hindi.
Don’t, for even a nonce, think of ringing in a protest about how that is true of every place in India. We, dear reader, we do things differently.
You see, most of the people who make Gokhale their abode are admirably equipped in either one of the two languages that make up Gokhalese. Very rarely do you find somebody who can get by equally well in both tongues.
And that, in as insane a place as Gokhale, is a recipe for disaster.
Consider, for example, the following:
Anil Jacob Abraham, one of the stalwarts from my batch, was once reprimanded by somebody. He was told in no uncertain terms, sans a couple of expletives: “Jacobe, keede mat kar!”
All perfectly clear, right? We’re on the level here?
So somebody asks him to repeat whatever it was that was said to him.
In Hindi.
Big mistake.
The Good Lord, you see, has equipped Mals with most things in life. But the most rudimentary understanding of Hindi… that, somehow, cannot be retrofitted onto the Mal DNA code. So Jacob came up with the following:
“He said ‘Don’t do insects’”.
Be kind to him. Don’t laugh too hard. Factually, our man is on solid ground.
In a nutshell though, that is how we’ve built up our language here at Gokhale.
Words, phrases, idioms have been painstakingly collected over booze parties, quarrels, conversations and lectures, and over time, assimilated into the linguistic joy that is Gokhale.
Particular instances are too many to mention, and it pains to leave out some of them, so I won’t treat you to a linguistic tour-de-force of our tongue, but I must conclude with a word that has grown into a symbol here at Gokhale. I’ve heard of it’s usage in other places, and I do not claim originality, but it’s a word that is dear to me.
So balls.
Read on.
Because.
What a fantastic word. What an awesome reply. What a riposte.
It covers anything and everything. Whenever you’re confronted with an insurmountable problem, whenever bamboos start queuing up outside your derriere, whenever you seem to have the weight of the world upon your shoulders… all you do is shrug philosophically, smile a wintry smile and say in response to that painful “Why?”… “Because.”
It must be said properly, people. It must have an air of finality around it, and yet be without reproach. It can’t have cynicism, and it can’t sound bitter. Say it quietly, confidently, and the true meaning shall reveal itself.
“Because.”
The usual caveat applies.
The true meaning is revealed far quicker if a chilled pint of Mallya’s best is used in conjunction.

Places on Campus

The drums have started rolling and they're building up to the final crescendo. Less than a month to go, and the curtain has started falling on what have been the two most fantastic years of my life.

More as a bookmark for myself than for your perusal (although something tells me you aren't complaining either), this posting is about my favourite places in the campus.

As is always the case, there are far too many to mention, so I'll either write a sequel to this one, or… and this is far more likely, I'll end up mentioning only some of them for all time to come.

Close your eyes, and picture the campus of the Institute. Picture yourself walking in through the main gate, towards the old library building. Turn in at the small lane and climb the stairs that lead on to the verandah. Now take a left and go park yourself under the stairs that lead to the first floor.

Now for the ambience. Picture a dark gloomy sky at around four in the afternoon, the kind of weather that old English authors would have described as inclement. The trees look unnaturally green, people are hurrying along on the road, all too aware that its going to pour, leaves are being whirled along by an angry wind, leaving scurrying trails of dust in their wake. OK? Stay with the moment for a minute.

Now, you're under the stairs with a couple of friends of yours, with a laptop for company, when it begins to pour. Like the dickens. There's thunder, lightning, sheets of rain, and a cold wind that blows all around you. Little drops of water drip from the culvert of the building you're under, forming a transient curtain between you and the torrent outside. The laptop is playing all the monsoon songs it has. Please tell me you know what monsoon songs are.

And then the rain stops, first slowing to a drizzle, then stopping altogether. Little rivulets of water run down slopes that you hadn't noticed all around the campus.

The smell of wet earth, that wonderful, ravishing sensation, rises all around you.

A rainbow appears over the trees that border the road outside, and the temperature drops to a very, very comfortable degree of coolness.

And Shiva walks in with cups of hot steaming tea.

All to the good, yes?

All classes are, of course, conducted in the seminar room now. It's been done up very well, has air-conditioning, comfortable chairs, and all in all, is a very nice place. But I am in unabashed, permanent love with the last benches of the M.A. classroom.

The professor doesn't really matter. It could be anybody up there on the podium, talking about a subject that we shan't really focus on until three hours before the tutorial.

After the roll call has been taken, the class settles down for an hour or so of tedium. There are a select few, bless them, who shall listen, assimilate, and prepare notes. There are some who shall practice Zen Buddhism, the art of nothingness.

And there are those at the back, who shall look around, and carefully slide out Pune Times from the bags.

Folding a newspaper into a shape so that only the crossword is visible, under a bench in front of which you happen to be sitting, without making any noise at all is an art form that hasn't got the appreciation it deserves. It isn't easy at all, and if you think about it, doing that alone accounts for about five minutes in an hour that you must while away somehow.

And then you start in on the crosswords. There are around five or so of us cruciverbalists, who shall surreptitiously exchange answers, peer at each others squares, and in an hour's time manage to complete the crossword, leave a few clues here and there.

On that rare and wonderful occasion when one of us battle hardened veterans manage to complete the whole thing, we treat ourselves to chai from the tapri.

Of course, it's not as if we don't drink that chai on other days, but it used to taste better when the crossword was completed.

Hour over, battle won… and we live in the comfortable knowledge that tomorrow, another war must be fought.

All to the better, yes?

It's night time, and it happens to be a full moon night. We'll pick a night sometime in November, because we want a night that's cool without being cold, and a night that's still without being muggy. You've spent the evening in the hostel, either playing TT, or whiling away the hours in somebody's room.

Let's say it's Saturday. So you've gone out for dinner, had a good time, and without semblance of hurry, you've made your way back to the hostel. Spent time on the bench outside the Boy's Hostel, exchanging the odd word with everybody who comes back from wherever they've had dinner, and then gone on to the terrace. Sat there with your gang, at peace with the world, watching contentedly as some other people join you there, talking about nothing in particular.

After a couple of hours… and believe you me, those two hours are gone in a flash… the moon rises over the trees at the far end of the terrace, bathing the entire terrace in that wonderful soft moonlight. And then, without realizing it, you nod off.

Sometime later, somebody shakes you awake, and you stumble into your room, falling asleep on the bed as soon as you fall upon it.

All to the best, yes?