How else would a Gokhaleite end it?

To walk in again.
Under the arch, from the lane.

To enter my universe once more.
My college, from fabled folklore.

To revisit the katta of days gone by,
Sip at chipped, dirty glasses of chai.

To attend lectures ponderous,
And have fifty pairs of eyes slumberous.

To attack tomes incomprehensible,
And find every page resolutely unreadable.

To go through the wringer four times every semester,
And that's for each and every paper.

Assuming of course that you clear it at first go,
Or it's another run through the inferno!

...The very many lazy days at the hostel,
Where sloth is of a degree nonpareil.

To drink again huge tributes to Bacchus,
To render oneself blissfully unconscious.

To spend examination eves playing TT,
The joyful, effortless choice of pleasure over duty.

To tears of laughters and to tears,
To live through life's untrammeled fears.

To be once again in Gokhale...
Dream phinis, ab uth ja saale!

T for TT

Start of Quote:

"Coase argues that the size of a firm (as measured by how many contractual relations are "internal" to the firm and how many "external") is a result of finding an optimal balance between the competing tendencies of the costs outlined above. In general, making the firm larger will initially be advantageous, but the decreasing returns indicated above will eventually kick in, preventing the firm from growing indefinitely."

End of Quote.

And about thirty other pages of this.

Lying awake in Room No. 11, spread on the mattress while the incumbent owner of the room lies comatose with his own personal copy of hell on the bed. Nearing midnight, and a tutorial at nine in the morning tomorrow.

Sigh.

A knock on the door. The door ajar, self and room owner eye it with suddenly awakened interest. A curly haired head pops around. Grin on face, it raises eyebrows and asks a question.

Three people traipse out to the common room.

One of the bulbs - the one near the TV room, is not working. The tubelight towards the side of the TV room is not working either. There are cake crumbs on the floor towards the side of the water cooler.

There is one good racket, and all the others are screwed up. Some have peeled off scotch tape at the bottom, others have the rubber chipped off at places, still others have wobbly handles. Through a long drawn out process of checking each one exhaustively, the preferred weapon is drawn out.

There is no ball.

The Sports Secy. is woken up, the ball taken.

Game on.

Loser leaves, but no guy can play more than two games consecutively. Games of 21, one after the other. Occasional breaks to go the the water-cooler, occasional breaks for the odd sutta. Drop shots and smashes, intricate rallies and awesome winners. Balls that kiss the net and fall now on this side, now the other. Balls that land on the very edge and trickle down, retrieves that draw applause. Heavy topspin, and wicked serves. Deuce after deuce in some of the games, and love games dealt out in others.

Quick check of watch shows it to be nearly four in the morning. Tired and sweaty, beat but awake, they clamber onto the bikes and head off to Nal Stop.

Kanda pohe and upma. Sheera and sabudana khichadi. Hot cups of chai and another sutta.

Newspaper vendors arrange their delivery lots and the occasional police jeep passes by. One last cup of chai, and the ride back up Law College road to the hostel. Entry by the gate at the back - the pale yellow light of the sulphur lamp.

Back to the room.

Start of quote:

"Coase argues that the size of a firm (as measured by how many contractual relations are "internal" to the firm and how many "external")..."

F*** it. Good night.

Amen.

Reunion Time at Gokhale, Peoples!

Reunion Time at Gokhale, Peoples!

Boys and Dear Girls,

There be a reunion of all things glorious in Gokhale, in August, 2007. One knows not if one may be there, since one may be off to Amreeka, but one encourages all other numbers to turn up in numbers to make up the numbers.
If there be any Gokhaleites reading this, rush and hurry and run and get yourself registered.
If there be any non-Gokhaleites reading this, rush and hurry and run and tell all the Gokhaleites you know.
Cheers, All.

Arre but.
Bhaat happened?

The roots of this post lie in the other blog, but this is the only blog where this post might justifiably be placed.

Well, lifeISgokhale.blogspot.com, maybe, but Soumya Mahapatra hasn't started that one yet.

Down the myriad paths of time, in the decades to come, when some intrepid biographer finally decides to take upon himself the frightening task of describing Soumya's life for future generations, he will have two choices.

One, he can describe it as it happened, and there is much to describe. Much that is fun, much that is scary, much that is wild, and much that is downright unprintable, on grounds of utter complete insanity.

Or, and this would be far simpler, he might write her biography thus:

"She Loved Gokhale"

For although there are those who claim that they love Gokhale, and their claims are justifiable (hell, yours truly is one of them), there is no one who lives Gokhale the way this girl does.

And truly, this is all that can be written about the lady.

Soumya outside of those glorious confines in Deccan Gymkhana is like beer outside of me.

Not at home, if you get what I mean.

Some things are just meant to be, and Peter Pan hasn't a patch on the best of the Mahapatras. She was meant to be a Gokhaleite for the rest of her life, and that's what she's turning out to be. Sure she's been in Bombay since, and she's in Bangalore now. Sure she's moved on and out and beyond, and sure she's out of Gokhale now.

But that's not Soumya Mahapatra.

Soumya in GT's room, staring at me in complete exasperation, as GT and I shuffle out to play yet another game of TT. Exasperation because GT's got about fifteen papers left, starting in like 15 hours.

Soumya in the Common Room, 10 minutes after that last scene, smoking a cigarette, and promising herself, that she'll drag GT in to study... just after a couple of games.

Soumya in Apache, not fifteen minutes after that, banging the table in perfect rythm to Pearl Jam.

Soumya at the exam, pen in hand and frown on face, 15 hours after that, and doing a damn good job.

GT and I? Paper scratched.

Soumya Mahapatra? 60% and an A grade, thank you very much.

Soumya on the terrace, glass of rum in hand, singing Sutta for all she's worth.

Soumya at Manas, bawling her heart out, and hugging every moving thing.

Soumya at the tapri, smoking a cigarette and yelling at whoever happens to be nearby. And if it happens to be Sush, it's that much more sweeter.

Soumya in Kale hall, lambasting a certain somebody, for reasons that are still unclear. And if you ask "Why?" your surname must be Sethi.

Soumya outside the M.A. classroom, clutching that guy's collar. He wasn't thinking of calling the police then, no siree.

Soumya on the bench outside the boy's hostel, just sitting.

Soumya playing Baddy at some random hour at night.

Soumya sitting on the katta, sipping on chai.

Soumya arguing about Romanian currency. Or something equally arcane. The specifics don't matter. The arguing does.

Soumya at Naani House. Drunk.

Soumya at Wasoo Mama's place. Drunker.

Soumya at the hostel. Drunkest.

Soumya on GT's bike.

Soumya, completely drunk, hugging me for all she's worth.

Soumya, crying at the accursed bus stop on J.M. Road.

And all that ain't Soumya Mahapatra either.

I could go on trying, but it wouldn't work.

Because when you think of Gokhale, you must think of that girl, Soumya Mahapatra.

And that pretty much sums it up, innit, girl?

You are Gokhale.

Here's to yet another bottle of Old Monk in Gtya's room, and may the last one never be opened.

Cheers, babe.

Two thirty in the afternoon.

Lunch at the mess done, maybe a couple of games of TT to shake off the lingering sleepiness.

The long walk to the Insti, all the way from the hostel. Yeah, yeah, yeah... it isn't a long walk by any stretch of the imagination, but to a Gokhaleite, and that too a Gokhaleite in the afternoon, moving your right leg in front of your left is practically a trek up Mt. Everest, so there.

Or left in front of right. Either ways.

The climb up the flight of stairs that leads you to the Seminar Room. The mad rush for seats at the back. The curtains drawn, the fans switched on, and the AC kicks in.

And some poor misguided soul walks in to talk about

Y = C + I + G + X - M

Or something equally ghastly. The particulars matter little.

And the lecturer drones on and on and on and on and on.

And on.

Amaron battery and all.

You try half hearted games of Cross and Naughts. You try kicking the guy sitting in front of you. You whistle aimlessly. You sing, sotto voce. You grin, scratch your ear, tightly screw up your eyes, drum the armrest of your chair, fidget in your seat, yawn, burp and wiggle your toes. You try and think of what you plan to do on the weekend. You imagine yourself riding a Hayabusa with Pamela sitting behind you. She of the Anderson fame. Preferably with nothing on. You make clicking noises with your tongue. And then you finally look at your watch.




Something like that, yeah.

Despondency all round.

And then you straighten up, sit upright, and look around with purposeful look in eye. Spot Ruchi and her bottle of water.

Whisper out to her.

Get the bottle.

Stand up, stretch.

Slide your way past everybody, traipse down the stairs.

Out of the door, and out of the building.

Out onto the lawns. One cup of tea, heaven in a chipped glass at three rupees a pop.

The droning of the bees and the humming of the birds.

The gentle lull and the heavy eyelids.

The slow slide into the prone position.

The curling up and the blissful sigh.

The good night.

Umm.
Heh heh.
Reichenbach Falls and all that. Maaf kar dena, Doyle Sa'ab.
The scourge of all that is sane and normal at Gokhale is back, Ladies and Ledas.
And if you be complaining, you plis to be middle phingering off.
Yeah maan.
Damn, but it feels good to be back.
I'm taking guard, peoples. The second inning's under way.
Gokhale lives.



P.S. With special thanks to S.M. for more than a couple of well aimed kicks at my butt.