Sunday, April 19, 2009

SIMC Prayer

Karmanye Vadhikarasthe Maa Phaleshu Kadachana

MEANS

Do your duty, Don't expect fruits

Hmm.. Pun intended ???

Long back, Krishna told Arjun on the battlefield,

“Dude, listen ... What are you waiting for ? Just shut up, fill it and forget it. Fruits will come one day.."

Placement forms?

Nahi re... Woh Mitin ka Pulsar.

Ohh k. Fill it, shut it, forget it , kinda caption from ZERO BONDA.

Arjuna waited and waited. 2009 passed away...err.. passed out ! Analogous to SIMC 2010's state now. They too waited, waited and then when patience became impatient, they decided unanimously - Let's wait for some more time.

But the glimmer of hope smiled. They heaved a sigh of relief. There came Rahul with Water-melons and Chikkus in the two hands that were gifted.

So, the wait bore fruits !

Yes, Finally they did come, though in a mess.

Beep Beep. Smiling Assassin calling !!! Wrong Grammar.

?

Kotha !

No Man, don't panic. This is not the inflated question mark. Genuine question mark hein.

Read it as: Finally the wait bore fruits ! In the mess.

Ahem ! Ahem ! Yes Sir.

Btw what about the All Time Mess????

ohhh !! You mean the Indian Bank's ATM ?

It's still strategically positioned near the mess, to suit its nomenclature, ALL TIME MESS - aka ATM !

You feed the loveliest of ATM cards, added with the maximum cash balance, also with the platinum status.

Then what?

The AllTimeMess is hungry.

Darpan ??

Not the Mirror Majumdar boss ! The original ATM. No qualms, maybe because he too is as frustrated as SIMC 2010. you insert the card and a variety of sound effects, unknown to even Sanjay Kadam is heard ! Av-ians perch on the lowest branch. Ad-dicts are subtracted. PReacher's lie down in PRayer. Journo's converge in UKCion...err..Unision.

No effect ?!!!

There is a lull after the storm.

Where is my card ???????????????? - 2011 shrieks.

Out of rage or hunger, the messed up ATM gorged on it sumptuously.


Any explanation Indian Bank ?

Lavalianwaala Mess-acre's !

First phase over. Seniors knocked out unconscious by convergent canons pouring out BLAH !

THE SAGA CONTINUES ...FROM 2009 to 2010 to 2011. THE LEGACY OF SOME LOST TRAVELLERS WRITTEN IN DROPS OF TOIL AND SWEAT.

We will succeed. That is for sure ! Recession, recession murdabad !

Friday, April 17, 2009

Hangover of an events manager from SIMC

Finally Rejil is about to get married to the girl his mom liked :P . Even without any proposals from the great RK, the girl agrees.

How and Why!!!

Ahem! I knew that you will have this lingering doubt.

The answer remains as simple because her parents threatened her with dire consequences, if she didn’t agree to tie the ultimate knot with Mr. Rejil.

That’s just a summary ;)

Even after SIMC, the ex-president’s thought process always went as if everything is a major event.

So when the proposal came and the date was fixed, the first thing Rejil thought was about an e-brochure.

Rejil: Dad, E brochure?

Dad realized the problem and said, “Beta, We need an invitation card, not an e-brochure.”

Rejil: Ohhhh, Ok, Ok

Hangover two.

Rejil: Dad, but who will sponsor our events?

Dad: Ohh, you Lallu ( Pet name )! This event is entirely sponsored by the families of the Bride and the Groom.

Rejil: So, where all will we position the flex for maximum visibility?

Dad keeps his hand over his head and tells mom to handle lallu

Rejil (continues full flow): Btw mom, which all media’s are we covering? Only newspapers or some local TV channels too?

Mom takes over and explains that two newspapers will have the couple's picture the day before.

Ohh ! Pre-event press release ok ! , but do ensure maximum post event coverage too. If you got any problems with the coverage, I will inform the SIMC director to give an assignment to the students. All the first 4 pages of Google search will be thus ensured. Else contact the median head, an intelligent Deep rooted festival of Dilli lights !

Mom stands quizzed at the bizarre turn of events. Somehow the wedding day comes.

Guests start trickling in.

The ex-president rushes in from nowhere and poses a question, “where is your ticket?”

The guest stands flabbergasted and gives the wedding invitation in answer.

Rejil: Hmmm… where is the perforation for the counterfoil?

The guest makes the same face that an SIMCian makes after biting the Brinjal from some innovative baaji from Rahul’s mess at Symbiosis, Lavale.

As the next guest comes, Rejil arranges a pen, notepad and jots the event details on it and gives it.

Rejil: Sir, please come in. Be seated on the left, front row and ensure that we get maximum coverage.

Guest: You mean blessings?

Rejil: No sir, just some post event stories about me and her, the latest couple in town.

The second guest escapes.

And then Rejil shouts after a while – “Free food, free food, all are invited. Food sponsored by Groom’s family. And NO alcohol since it is not approved by SIU" ..err.. SIU means Shaadi’s International Union...

Aakriti speakers and Akashi mikes helped save a lot on mikes and projec… err.. no, no.. not projectors or projections for sure !!! Prakash equals lights is the special invite acting as the cameraman. Also Videography is sponsored by Poonam fashions and Co.
All councilaaaya Namaha...

The only missing was the vote of thanks, supposedly an essay virtually made a novel by the great event conductor in Uno journo kr.

And Lo! The Ex-president realized that the event is ghareloo.

By the time, the bride and her fly had flown away.

Still single, the Ex-president waits for the girl he loves so much, hoping against hope for her to realize that the beach in the sand is finite compared to the love he treasures for her.

Post event scoops?! Ice cream available in scoops... Have it instead…

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

The viva vampire

A team at Symbiosis International University has discovered how to create a question bank to attract an invasive species of fish out of the journalism Lakes in Lavale.

Originally from Chennai, the 'Aishwise' species is usually considered a question mark in itself. But in the Journalism lakes it has achieved the status of a predator. Wherever a question is found, Aiswise pounces on and sups on it at length.

Researcher Regal krish krish says the fish still has big plans like in the past eight months to kill other large predator species and wants to "completely change the ecosystem" of studies in Lavale.

Aishwise use their question-answer mouths to blah blah the nearby fish and feed off their marks.

An example of how it happens.

Teacher: Good Morning Nerd.

Nerd: My name is Aishwise.

Teacher asks a few questions. Aishwise answers confidently and correctly.

Teacher: Good. Now you can leave.

Aishwise: No , I won’t. You haven't satisfied my thirst for answers. In this summer of April, I sat throughout the night grinding, churning, pulping my notes and texts, newspapers, supplements, crosswords, sudoku’s, jumbles, crosswords, cartoons, zodiac, and you did not ask anything to satisfy my hunger for gorging on the answers...

Teacher stands stunned, flabbergasted, surprised, lost, gained, and flattened.

Teacher: OK, Who is peter vidal?

Nerd: I read only THE HINDU, I don’t answer the Indian express.

Teacher: Ok, Ok, Sorry, but who won the Miss India crown?

Nerd: I don't like beautiful & intelligent women... sorry

Teacher: OK. So you may go.

Nerd: No, ask me questions.

Teacher: Please leave me alone. You are the topper.

Thus the balanced GPA ecosystem is changed.

Aishwise goes a contended journalist, a lingering belief of topping the list envelopes the air around her. But alas ! The mystic magic loses steam as the halo evaporates in the real hot truth of the day.

TO ALL: Working hard doesn't give the best results. Work smart too is the daily mantra in todays corporate environment. Change yourself. Change the way you work. Win accolades. Maintain competition, but YES ! A healthy competition.

Friday, April 3, 2009

NEWSance

PrateeQure

Communication scientists of Lavale land found a unique medicine to cure people afflicted with PR diseases. The medicine whose composition is a very special PRQR, spelt as ‘Pyarcure’ is being launched by the big fat factory called PRateeQ? The Q also known as Quon is the first question mark of Symbiosis, Lavale.

Operation VP

This operation VP was conducted today in a local hospital with local anesthesia at Pune. Official sources informed the formation of a cyst of growing magnitude, as per the stature of the person involved.

Communication RIP

The last days of communication in MBA as well as MMC came to a grinding halt when Values and Valves were decided to be the same by the DM’s of communication. Second semester communication rests in peace in one of the local morgues, unclaimed and unwanted because of the putrid content it had and the stench it emanated.

How the Snake charmer won the Cheeku juice

This 5 volume thriller series, where the snake charmer woos a rabbit into drinking cheeku juice from the mellifluous instrument is awaiting release. This movie will be premiered in Room no 458 and subsequently in all the rooms of the boys as well as girls hostels. The HSCWC's director Mr. Action Bridge Crushan or ABC, as known to folks, explains the incident to be an accident, where the practice of apparently hypnotizing a snake ends up in the rabbit drinking cheeku juice.

Though the chances to win an Oscar are less, the local and colloquial SIMCCar awards are already won by the duo.

( A bigger story, like a film-review can be expected soon )

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Monsoons...

Monsoon was at its pompous best. Celebrating the onset it poured. The little dry patches of earth bathed in the shower. Droplets on the cement floor danced and jumped as if their butts got hurt on impact. The dimples drank to its tummy full and collected the rest for a rainy day. Little ants scampered in thousand different directions in search to close in on the opening. Green bathed and glistened in its new attire. Dust swam in the suntanned saturations of the umpteen puddles. Little paths got streamlined. Water gushed at its molecular best, meandering their respective routes to reach the paddy fields.

She tried to follow the smile. The incessant downpour clad in the whitest of the gowns mesmerized her. Winds too had fallen for the rains. Deep inside her heart even the smile ached to smile. The windy old monsoons, vigorous than their precedents or is it the same old chap never devoid of energy. Ominous clouds hovered behind the horizon. She looked through her window. The heat intensified. Mamma’s warning reverberated in her ears- “ Don’t forget the umbrella ”. Still she purposefully forgot it. She longed to cuddle under his umbrella forever.

Another heavy shower drenched her unawares. Shivering like the crow perched on an electric line, she hurried to the thatched bus shelter. The midriffs had given away, and water seeped in like a gardener’s hose watering his orchids. She squeezed her hair dry. No auto-rickshaws pitied her. Another thunderous applause made the quivering lamppost go blind. And so did the flicker of courage in her. The whole post crashed in a loud rumble with the wind that followed suit. She was deaf, blind and pale at the same instant. A white and white clad emerged from the lucid rains. He neared her faster than her thoughts. Her heart sank to think. Dusk was at its doorsteps like a venerated genius ready for exit. Night waited for the batons to be handed over. Vacuous looks encircled her. The shiver of cold and fright positioned itself in a masquerade, unidentified. The man stood silent near, the black big umbrella still unfolded. Time sizzled past. Night was decorated beautiful. Lightning for the illumination, thunder for the music, the stage felt set for a marriage of the moon and a distant star. Lost in imaginations she didn’t notice the distant light.

He held out his hand and the rickshaw stopped. She missed a beat. She gulped. “What if he leaves?” The stranger by now had made her unknowingly secure, abating the redundant metaphors like the unruffled water in the temple pool.

She couldn’t garner enough courage to request him.

‘ Market square’-The stranger commanded. She too had to go the same route. She expected him to ask her to accompany at least at the last moment.

‘100 rupees’ – the driver didn’t relent for anything less. ‘75?’ – He enquired.

“No, the rains have battered my wheels, share if u get a co- passenger” – The drivers offensive words were but snow under the warm sun for her. Without losing a second she volunteered. 7:00 pm, the engines roared…

The journey was silent except for the occasional bumps and ditches that jostled her towards his warm shoulders. The sorry’ made him smile. She saw the crease developing more frequently. She kept her distance.

“Your name? “. “Sweetie “ – she lied. He didn’t enquire more for she didn’t face him anymore. Water splashed on the sides as the torpedo cut across at full throttle. 7: 45, night grew darker, the destination nearer. No more discussions ensued. The lamps were blind at the square too. Two minutes and she would be home. But the rain was ruder than ever consciously keeping her aware that dragging in the surge is impossible.

The rustling curtains brought her back. The cloth smothered his face in a sweet embrace. Her unrestrained steps rushed to help. She sat near watching his glassy green eyes. He had been motionless for long. Only a tear teasingly tickled his cheeks and she knew not if it was pain, happiness or hurt that stood unexpressed. Love and hatred stood detached in the indoors of stillness. His comatose alone knew the meaning of every tear. The vegetative state where death in life breathes like a ghost.

The next thunder prodded her to the past realities. The flood was getting fiery. The auto wouldn’t go further. Getting down, he opened the umbrella. Drops of water remaining on the black imported polyester splattered into the raining air.

“ Should I drop you home?” Just before the steps moved forward he offered her the cozy space under his umbrella. From nowhere came her quick affirmative. Maybe the confidence she delved in or the fear to be alone in wet darkness. They walked slowly wading in knee-deep waters. Lightning and followed it a deafening thunder. She screamed and hugged him tight like a kid to its dad. The guardian he was for her, if at all temporarily. The import of the brave act brought meaning only after she was back to her senses. She felt shy to look at his astonishment. The inviting steps of her house were meters ahead. Before reaching her mom’s worried waiting eyes, she bid him a thankful adieu.

“Am not Sweetie” The answer made him turn, the same smile creasing his lips. He didn’t clarify what her name is. She stood guilty like a criminal, cursing herself over a 100 times for her over smartness, for doubting his integrity and something more, impressively inexplicable.

At some focal points in life they met again. She wordlessly opened her heart under his umbrella. They walked together. How many more monsoons went past? She lost count. The time machine stood a testimony to the never exchanged feelings. The tough man in him wrote paeans of praise to woo her. The silence remained muted. He was a lyricist, a poet, and a man above intellect.

The warm Sunday morning. Easter .At the church the Sunday mass emptied and so did the Holy Communion. Kids playfully ran around oblivious of the heartbeats in the proximity. It wasn’t raining. Yet he opened the umbrella. She came under the shady shelter of his shadows & into the umbrella. His eyes reflected only her in the pupils. He kneeled down and looked up at her. She stood in awe surprised at the events of the moment. A red red, deep red rose popped from the secret behind. He professed with a handwritten poem. She didn’t know why…she could mumble only a faint NO… It drizzled. No applause. No illumination. She walked away drenched. His umbrella folded. The bemused face stood bewildered at his error in judgment. The ink of his poem jelled with a poetic grace in god’s showers. His tears veiled in the sprinkle and flowed along the cheeks, touching the chin and dripping unseen, for the dry earth to quench a greedy thirst. He drove the car at the frenzied pace.

The FM hummed his lyrics in a famous voice…

‘ Saw I the maiden of my dreams…. Had she me with her smile enthralled…

Yet another of his passionate composition dedicated to the lovely love in her.

Another hot tear slid down her dimpled cheeks. So did from his. The cheeks stolen of the chubbiness, wrinkled in all the wrong corners of a smile. She moved towards and placed a silent kiss on his lips. Dry and parched. The kiss devoid of passion, but occupied with compassion. The cotton dipped her fingers too in the glass of empathy and wet his lips. His gazes were set apart. The same emptiness from a bottomless pool. She prayed with her heart so sullen. “ Oh God. Let me hear the charming three words from him, I swear I LOVE YOU too dear with all my heart...” – the lonely spirit wept.

A finger moved, twitches sometimes surprised her, but devoid of the warmth she yearned for... She regrets for time had flown from her hands to amass the love he treasured for her. The vicious circle of life left her increasingly & incompletely viscous...