Kapeesh Saraf

Here’s an old story that I re-heard a few days back. It’s quite a common one, but made an impression this second time around. I’ve since been trying to practise it as best I can. It goes as follows :

————-

There is a Taoist story of an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came to visit.

“Such bad luck,” they said sympathetically.

“We’ll see,” the farmer replied.

The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses.

“How wonderful,” the neighbors exclaimed.

“We’ll see,” replied the old man.

The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune.

“We’ll see,” answered the farmer.

The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out.

“We’ll see” said the farmer.

—-

How long will I be able to practice the message?

We’ll see.

If all goes as planned, then come September 2008, I will begin studies at Stanford University towards pursuing an MS Degree in Management Science & Engineering. Studying at Stanford and living in California and the Silicon Valley have been on my list of “Things to do before I die” for a few years. Naturally, I am quite excited and look forward to the experience.

Stanford is a great brand name and an education there (or any other place of repute) is an insurance policy of sorts. There is a tendency among students at prestigious schools – IITs, IIMs, Harvard, MIT & Stanford among others- to use the brand name as a crutch; using the institute brand and the fact that they made it through the punishing admissions routine as a substitute for real academic rigour and achievement. In only 2 weeks, I have myself been tempted to do this on a few occasions. This however owes itself mostly to the euphoria of making the cut. I hope I’m able to enhance my abilities and skill-sets at Stanford rather than turn into a cripple needing permanent support from a crutch.

I have also been worrying myself silly over the tremendous cost of a Stanford education without financial aid. The 2 years will be spent in near penury. I will soon be joining the ranks of the PIGS* -Poor Indian Graduate Students

While there’s another year of college to go before our batch of COEP engineers graduates, most people have busied themselves with thinking and planning ( and even preparing) for the future. “Lets just get done with engineering and move on” is the most common sentiment on campus. With moving on, of course, comes a sense of uncertainty and insecurity about the future. I, for one, have had this latent insecurity/uncertainty for a while. While I’ve resigned myself to the fact that uncertainty is a part of adult life in modern times and will never go away, this book by Dr. Seuss sure adds to the “feel-good factor”.

I am a man who walks alone
And when I’m walking a dark road
At night or strolling through the park

When the light begins to change
I sometimes feel a little strange
A little anxious when it’s ‘bout dogs.

Fear of the dog, fear of the dog
I have a constant fear that a dog’s always near.
Fear of the dog, fear of the dog
I have a phobia that a dog’s always there.

(those wondering where these corny lines came from perhaps need to acquaint themselves with
Iron Maiden’s brilliant masterpiece.)

Ever since I can remember, I’ve suffered from a great dislike of dogs. Now, I think dogs are pretty decent chaps most of the times since all the talk about dogs being a man’s (or woman’s) best friend obviously cannot be a load of drivel. It’s certainly not the look of dogs that I find particularly repugnant or nauseating, rather I might, on the rare occasion when I’ve donned the rose-tinted glasses or have generally lost it ( as I am wont to do), go to the extreme of finding a dog cute.

But my attitude of indifference towards dogs is, unfortunately, not met with reciprocation from the canine species. My earliest memories of an encounter with a dog comprise of a ghastly vision of a monstrous Doberman-pinscher chasing me with the vigour that he would a female of the canine species at the height of the mating season on a day it was feeling particularly ….ahem.

I have often been complimented that my face and demeanor bear a striking resemblance to a piece of dog’s turds, but I was convinced then, as I am convinced now, that dogs and their poop have little similarity by way of appearance and if people’s heartfelt compliments were anything to go by, then the innocent little kid in ravaged chaddis looked nothing like what a particularly aroused (or even otherwise) dog would espouse such interest in.

The aforementioned chase thankfully ended with the intervention of the ghastly creature’s owner and without much too much harm to myself but it formed in my mind two beliefs that I have held with the strongest conviction ever since.
Belief A- dogs aren’t particularly fond of their turds walking all over the place. Hence, they aren’t particularly fond of me.
Belief B- At the root of all the trouble, conflict, pain and evil in the world, lies a woman.

Of belief B, enough has been said already by a whole lot of wise men, so inspite of my having plenty to add to what has already been said, I’ll talk a little about Belief A.

The incident I just mentioned was just one of many such chases that I have had the fortune of being part of right through my childhood and even early teens.
It wouldn’t be too hard for you to guess then that I prefer to keep a safe distance from our canine brethren and the woof of a dog isn’t exactly the sweetest sound that could possibly fall upon my ears. Rather, every time a dog barks I have a feeling like I’m being told-

“Watch it, ugly kid. I don’t like you. And if you don’t behave, I’m gonna chew your ass off.”

A continued and prolonged barking generally means-
“ You know what? I really don’t like you. And no matter whether you behave yourself or not, I still plan to chew off your arse. And more.”

There you have it then, the mere mention, sight or sound of a dog conjures up in my mind ( obviously, I can’t conjure images up in my pancreas, can I?) of having my ass (and more) chewed off in a not-so-pleasant manner. Obviously then, I am at a loss when confronted with dogs and find myself recoiling with horror/becoming nau do gyarah/wanting to yell hysterically but at the same time trying ( rather unsuccessfully) to act cool and unruffled.

I’m sure I’m not the only guy out there who’s afraid/not too fond of dogs. But some rather (un)fortunate developments in the recent past have meant that my fear of dogs has come to occupy a rather prominent position in the conversations of my peers causing me great embarrassment and making me the butt of a few jokes.

On that note, dear reader, I must flee for I hear a rather sinister bark fast approaching.

Childhood can be likened to being locked in a little room, protected and secure from the wicked and prying eyes of the world (at least for us fortunate people). You can watch the world through a little window and form whatever impression of it that the limited vista and your little understanding allow you to, but you cannot, however strongly you may so desire to, open the door and go forth. Family, school teachers and society in general protects you till they deem you fit enough or you become too much of a pain ( they call it teenage, don’t they?).

So we all grow up in protected worlds and form our own unique parochial impressions of how the world functions and how we are expected to behave as grown-ups.

And then finally, slowly but surely, the door opens and we are let out into the world all too eager to sample and savor all the beautiful sights and sounds that we were hitherto forbidden from. Eager and expectant we set forth, ready to blaze our way through the world and take our rightful position of honour and respect ‘midst the ranks of society.

Only to be caught in the violent and turbulent maelstrom called reality. Idealistic notions are challenged at every step, we soon learn that compromise is the name of the game, that what we saw through our windows was a mere mirage. Utopian dreams soon turn to dystopian delusions. But smart as we are, we soon adjust to the blinding lights and, having made our peace with reality, continue walking down that long and winding road they call life.

I’ve had to go through all of the above and it has been a rather painful experience. Every day I wake up to find yet another one of my ideals lay shattered, another one of my notions busted , another one of my paradigms turn out to be vastly skewed and the world turning out to be a place vastly different from what my innocent eyes had once envisaged it to be.

To begin with, I always thought that beer was sweet. I thought that it was just a lighter shade of coke that grown-ups drank to separate the boys from the men. Imagine my dismay then, when I found out that it actually was bitter. Yikes! I thought, the price grown ups had to pay. But I soon realized that even beer was a wuss thing and scotch was the real man-thing. However, time heals all wounds and as it passed, I overcame my dismay. However, compulsions of economy mean that vodka is the poison I favor to hasten my walk to the grave.

Then, I always thought that condoms were tablets that men consumed to prevent the stork from calling (But I was really small, and you’ll have to admit, not completely off the mark). That my parents refused to enlighten me despite repeated requests (I was a rather inquisitive kid) didn’t help. But knowledgeable friends ( what would I have done without them) ever so eager as they always are, enlightened me and my little gender confusion as regards contraceptives was over.

Then, of course, there’s the whole thing about the birds and bees. However, this probably was the only instance where learning about the facts did not leave me with a disappointing feeling. Instead, it opened up a whole new world for me. I also need to thank my sixth standard geography teacher for enlightening our entire class with all the real dope about the birds and bees ( that ours was a co-ed school and the fact that she happened to be the errr…hottest teacher in school, only added to the redness of our chubby little cheeks ).

I always thought that watching porn and smoking hash were the keys to nirvana and notoriety. Imagine my dismay then, when I found that starring in my own MMS clips and being a drug peddler were the really cool things to do.

As a child, I always thought that as a grown up all I would have to do was to sit in my living room ( preferably someone else’s ) with a few friends and criticize the government and almost everything else between swallowing mouthfuls of beer ( remember I thought it was sweet.) and earning myself a beer belly, which I thought was the sign of a real man. You ain’t no man ‘less you got a belly, a beer belly. Nobody f*cking told me about engineering submissions and that beer wasn’t as cheap as coke. And that I needn’t have a party to be able to criticize everything. Doing the same on my blog could even earn me some fame and respect. Minus the belly ( which I now know, isn’t such a great asset to possess.)

I once thought Aqua was the world’s greatest band and that Barbie Girl was the coolest song in the world. Of course, now I know that it’s actually Bappi Lahiri and Gutur gutur, gutur gutur.

I thought women actually meant it when they said that intelligence was what they looked for in their men. Now of course I know that they generally never mean anything they say.

Sob.

As a kid, I thought that all smart men did was to criticize everything the government did without actually doing anything. The really smart men took advantage of this, entered the government and made loads of money for doing the same thing, Nothing. Of course now….

Gees ma! I got that right. And you always thought I was no good.

Sob sob.

Such is life.

I climbed up one this afternoon after a period of maybe almost nine to ten years and it brought back a flood of childhood memories, mainly centering around summer vacations and mango trees.

So, as is my wont, instead of studying for the impending exams that hang over my head like the proverbial sword of Damocles, I spent the remaining bit of the afternoon reminiscing those leisurely summer afternoons many eons ago, that I spent perched atop the mango tree in my garden with my friends , relishing kairies and the like, with the only worry being my mother coming out of the house to spoil my little party.

All that reminiscing surely brought a rather wide smile on my face, as I felt both amazed and amused. Amazed by the fact that those memories were so vivid and amused I was by the innocent mischief and foolishness of my childhood. ( Kindly do not comment on the foolishness of my teenage.) Of the numerous incidents and anecdotes that came to my mind, one stands out in particular, and that, I’ll share with you here.

Exactly when, I remember not, but we seemed to have, as part of our curriculum, the stories of Shivaji Maharaj and his mavalas or Maharana Pratap and his brave men.
So one sultry summer afternoon a few of us decided to engage in a little role-playing game ( as kids are prone to do) and we imagined ourselves to be the young and fierce soldiers of Shivaji, obsessed with the idea of Swaraj. The mango tree in my yard served as our hideout and we spent many hours conspiring against the rule of the Adilshah.
So engrossed were we, that the sun set and went to sleep but our little game continued
cxntinued till I clung onto a branch that wasn’t really there and had a rather (un)pleasant fall. My haap-pant apparently got entangled with a little stump protruding from the trunk, the result of a branch having been recently axed out.

Intelligent reader, I think you can now guess what happened thereafter. The velocity of my fall was tremendous and my haap-pant had become more like a haap-skirt, and there were a few bruises on my leg, besides of course a sprained ankle and some sore joints etc.
But I, dear reader, was a brave soldier of the Maratha kingdom that day. I didn’t shed a tear. Heck, I didn’t so much as let a sigh. I wanted to prove to my friends that I was the strongest of the lot. I just looked up to the heavens and smiled.

I had just escaped losing my manhood ( which I was just beginning to discover) by a cat’s whisker.

THAT evening, the realization hit me. There IS a GOD. And he loves me.

That alas, was also my last arboreal adventure. Mango-eating has been a much more civilized affair ever since.
The tree soon succumbed to whatever it is that trees succumb to.
But a new tree has now grown in its place and plucking the first fruit off it turned out to be a fun affair.
So much for the little pleasures of bachpan.

What, You never climbed up a tree? What a pity…. 

(The above incident actually occurred a couple of weeks back, before my exams. But since my made-in-1986 brain has a very modest 16 MB of RAM, there’s only so much cerebration that it can handle without crashing. So I chose to deal with Mr. Damocles first and am writing this post now, when the seas are calmer and the demands on the RAM are rather few.)