Random Rangan Read

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The conference lived up to our expectations. It was dull and full of short-haired people gasping with important things to say. There was also the mandatory clan from Kerala that turned up to receive certificates and informed the world once again that we don't care about vowels. N and I were practically the only geniuses around. Really. After we presented our respective papers, a host of professors congratulated us and advised that we register for PhDs at once. But the more PhD people I meet, the more disillusioned I become. Long long ago, when I was starry-eyed and pigtailed, PhD was a faraway land where intelligent people lived. I really did believe that to do a PhD, the first thing you needed to have was a brain. But life, ah life, how much you unlearn as the years go by! The well-meaning professors told us that we would be able to 'contribute' to the academia a great deal with our 'analytical skills'. That might be true, but I truly do not want to contribute to the academia. There will always be conferences and sad teas and earnest student volunteers, whichever century we wake up in. There will always be polysyllabic people. I could spew analysis with formidable regularity and get introduced as Dr.Gounder Brownie, the prolific literary critic and winner of the Dusty Award for Unwashed Hair; I could get tea in a special cup while the academic plebians drink theirs in plastic cups; I could, pleasures of all pleasures, listen to safari-suited Vice Chancellors make endless speeches from handouts I wrote. I could do all of this and there would still be children reading trash. Because who cares about your powerpoint presentations with headline animation really?

It is true that I learned a lot from papers I read during my college days, but it does seem a little sad that I did all of that only so I could write more such papers. Much better doing something that puts all of my polsyllables into practice.

We went to see the Taj. And ate dinner at Leopold Cafe. The bullet holes are still there and so are the crowds. Leopold has 3 three bored security men with rifles. They did not check our bags when we entered. I am very glad that they did not. This chaos, this noise, this unruly dash of colour, this madness, this chessboard of skin shades- none of this will submit to orderly security checks. One day, one week at the most. It cannot, simply cannot, last forever in this big-hearted country of too-many-people.

N and I met T today for lunch. T is our professor from college- she must be 5-6 years older to us. T used to be terrified of our class in the good old days because we were a fastidious bunch of snobs. She taught us Romantic Poetry in our second year. We'd successfully scared the junior profs who taught us in our first year and T had heard enough about our elite group that showed no mercy. Understandably then, T nearly passed out when all of us signed up for her MO (Major Optional). She'd hide behind her large book of notes while handling our class and we used to get phenomenonally annoyed that she was killing Keats for us. But slowly, we warmed up to her. I mean, her classes did not get any better; she was too nervous, read out poetry badly, and gave us way too much notes (biography is a bore). But she gave us a lot of freedom to do what we wanted to do- not because she was scared but because she understood and recognised the fact that much of our bad behaviour stemmed from a true love for literature. That we were acting like pigs because we were frustrated by boring lectures. That we were at an age when expounding theories in class made us stars in our own universe. And that this confidence that grew from all the fire-in-the-belly speechifying we did would make us self-assured individuals who are not scared to express an opinion. Somewhere in our hot-headed, juvenile heads, we saw her kindness and were grateful in an undemonstrative way.

At lunch today, T told us that we were the best batch ever and that she's never felt the same about teaching any other class. It feels good to have been the Golden Age in Stella Marian history.

We went for the official office picnic yesterday (MGM was only for 'youth'). We went to Pulicat Lake. It's a very beautiful place and I request all of you not to visit. The fishermen and the flamingos would do well without tourists littering the place with plastic. I spent hours floating in the water pretending to be dead.

I wish people would shut up about Slumdog Millionaire not deserving an Oscar nomination. I'm sure they've all seen forty thousand movies that are way better. But for once, can everyone just shut up and be happy? And as for people who are cribbing about the fact that the movie shows India in 'poor light' in the 'West', please learn to look at a slum without averting your eyes. We are all pretty much Slumdog Millionaires in the universities we go study in. India is a poor country and there's a lot to be ashamed about (for not doing anything about it, to start with), but there's also tonnes to be proud about, and I don't mean it in the India-Shining way. Be proud about the fact that a packed to capacity 29 C always expands enough to take in 1 more person. That you can dump your heavy bag on a seated passenger without making any request. That you can feel a little holy every time you hear church bells ring while you are editing the Ramayana at work. That children who don't speak your language write emails to you about your stories. Some from as far as Assam. That depite Narendra Modi, your van driver who is Muslim can be a beloved 'bhai' to everyone. That you can use phrases like 'quick gun murugun' without being conscious of the fact that two of those words are from the English language. That we have dead-body dances that block the roads. And no matter how big a hurry you are in, it is difficult not to let your foot tap and enjoy the moment. That nobody gets off the car and shouts at the mourners that they have no civic sense. That we have marwadi weddings with horses in Madras. That we are home to so many refugees. That we worship our cricketers and will miss trains and flights to watch an Indian victory. That though many of us sing Jana Gana Mana with the wrong words, it's hard to sing it without getting goosebumps. For this much and more, shut up and watch the Oscars. Also, everyone knows Slumdog isn't Rahman's best. We've grown up on his songs and we know we've heard better. But do shut up because whether or not Slumdog deserves an Oscar, Rahman does.

Happy Republic Day, everybody!!