Once upon a time, when we were Freshmen!

Do you remember your college counselling?
Do you remember walking into that auditorium, with so many people, kids like you and their parents, some anxious, some disinterested, others nervously excited. The seats kept filling up, while you waited with all your forms and your certificates, all the proof they wanted to let you get into that college (and you did not even really want to get into that college, did you?)...all your achievements, or lack thereof, laid bare, scrutinized...

Do you remember your first day?
Do you remember seeing so many new people...strange people, people who you thought you'd never be able to get along with. Do you remember noting down that first semester time table? Do you remember your very first lecture? Do you remember finding a familiar face in your class, perhaps someone you met during counselling, perhaps someone from your old school, perhaps your new roommate... You sat close to people you barely even recognized from the day before.

Do you remember that ugly, ugly teacher who took your first class?
'Aise teacher hain yahan?'
Do you remember hanging on to every word that ugly, ugly teacher said? It seemed important then.
Do you remember getting lost in the labyrinth of corridors, nervously asking people who you assumed were seniors (they looked happy!) for directions.
'First year?' they usually asked, an evil grin crossing their face. You nervously nodded, and went about your way.

Do you remember your first weekend? How perfectly wonderful it felt to not have classes! You hung out with your new friends, still trying to get to know them. You saw that pretty girl/cute boy from your class outside college for the first time, buying hot chocolate fudge from Sahni's.
Do you remember the first time a teacher scolded you in college? It was infuriating! You're in college! You're not supposed to be talked to like that anymore! Do you remember how naive you were?

Do you remember talking to your old school friends over the phone, sharing some of the same experiences elsewhere...do you remember telling them how you missed them, and wished you were still together? Do you remember that girl/guy you fell in love with in school, who you couldn't see anymore...do you perhaps remember how hard it was to be in a long-distance relationship for the first time?

Do you remember the cliques that started to form by the end of the first month? Those groups of five, maybe ten, sometimes fifteen twenty people that always, always hung out together. Do you remember your own group? Those same people you sat down with each day after classes, at Jaggi, or somewhere else...D block perhaps...oh, do you remember D block? Do you remember doing really stupid stuff with these people? Really stupid stuff...juvenile!

Do you remember your first mid-sems? Do you remember thinking, 'I'm definitely failing!' and then managing to scrape a passing grade somehow, although if you had these kind of marks in school, your parents would probably have disowned you? Do you remember finding out for the first time who was the guy/girl to get notes from for your end-sem? Bloody chussus...Do you remember when you used that term for the first time?

Do you remember your first Aranya?
Do you remember Jal? Do you remember thinking, 'this is the awesomest thing EVAR!'? Do you remember that that was the fest where you had the most fun ever (maybe simply because it was your first!) Do you even remember the number of photographs you took/were part of?

Do you remember your attendance almost never falling below 80% in any subject? Yes, you bunked classes, but even bunking one a day seemed like an adventure! Do you remember not worrying at all about your attendance?

Do you remember making the best friends of your lives? Your classmates, maybe your roommates, boys and girls who you spent all day with, who you cracked the stupidest jokes around... do you remember all the fun you had?
Do you remember the first time you visited 'the canal'? It was so absolutely thrilling! Do you remember the times you lied to your parents about where you were?

Do you remember your first CGPA? Some of you were horrified, like I was, some of you (bloody chussus) were not!

Do you remember going home for the winter, and then thinking you couldn't wait to get back! Do you remember feeling at home in that second semester? Do you remember hearing about the first few 'couples' in first year? Do you remember liking somebody yourself, and telling your friends about him/her, wondering if it would be wise to ask them out.

Do you remember Saturnalia?
Do you remember feeling for the first time, you should be careful about your attendance?

Do you remember thinking how it would be really sad when next year, you'd be split up from a lot of your friends, some of your best friends...do you remember thinking how unfair it all was?
Do you remember promising to stay in touch, when you left for the summer, and actually doing it? Do you remember promising to still meet everyday next semester, when you'd be in different classes?

Do you remember how, at the end of that first year, you realized that the last twelve months were the best, and definitely the most fun twelve months you've ever spent in your entire life?

I remember...

Graduating college in 4 years is like leaving a party at 10.30...

MY LIST OF EPIC THINGS!

(or) EPIC LIST IS EPIC!

Epic –adj (ep-ik)

Heroic, or impressive in quality.

I was sitting in class a few days ago, bored out of my mind of course, when I decided that a constructive use of this time would be to think up my new blog post, which has been delayed for so, so long. It’s been two months since I last posted, I think.

Anyway, this is what I came up with – listed below are things that I consider…EPIC! Yes, I realize that some people are quite irritated by the use of that word in this fashion, but I rather like it.

EPIC!

These are the things that have epic epicicity (oh go cry somewhere else, lexico-nazis) ->

• The cover of NIN’s ‘Hurt’ by Johnny Cash.
  
  
• Driving the eight something kilometers of the Panipat by-pass on NH1.
• The final four hours of the gameplay of  Crysis 2.
• LOST.
• The guitar solo at the end of ‘Comfortably Numb’.
• ‘Jal night’ at Aranya ’08.
• The Shelby GT500 Super-Snake aka Eleanor.
  
• Subway.
• Heath Ledger’s ‘Joker’.
• Yuvraj’s six sixes against England, back in the day.
• LoTR. (well, literally)
• Maggi at one in the morning.
• My mom’s ‘Masala Paneer’ recipe.
• South Goa’s beaches.
• The trek to Hemkunt Sahib.
• Sir Alex Ferguson’s managerial career.
• Alienware M17X.
• The sound of a Toyota Supra’s engine.
• The book ‘American Psycho’ by Bret Easton Ellis.

Ah, well, that’s all I could think of right now.

What’s on your epic list?

Your Story

Here's what I want you to do.
I want you to read this post as slow as possible.
Ten minute read, I'd say.
Let me take you somewhere nice.
And no, don't turn off the music. In fact, let it buffer if it's stopping in between. Don't read this without the music, please.


This is not you reading something I wrote. This is you reading, and imagining events of your own life. This is a movie playing in your head. This is your life.

Okay.

It's ten years from now, you've just come home from a long day's work. You don't want to do anything; you're so exhausted you just want to sit in that comfortable chair, dim the lights and think...just think...remember.
You're suddenly remembering this chapter of your life, when everything was new. Maybe it was the start of college, maybe you'd joined a new school, perhaps you'd started work somewhere.
You'd started, and felt out of place...you knew no one, no one knew you. The first few weeks were hard, not fun.
Then you got the hang of it, you made friends, you started living. You were enjoying yourself.
You remember a particularly fun day, maybe after working hours, you were just hanging around with your friends, laughing, being stupid.
And it was then that you saw her for the first time.
Who is she, you thought, she's beautiful.
You pointed her out to your friends. You asked them if anyone knew her name.
You wanted to know her name. You must have her name, you thought.
You thought about her before you slept that night. Then you didn't think about her for a while.
A few days later, you saw her again. You remembered the effect she'd had on you the last time you'd seen her. If only you had the guts to go up to her and talk.
You kept seeing her from time to time, always in a crowd, always from afar.
You found out her name. You sometimes stared at her long enough to have her look back at you. Your friends told you you should go and talk to her.
Naaa, you thought, I don't do things like that.
You asked about her from a few friends who knew friends of her's.
Is she seeing anyone?
No?
...
Okay, so what's she like?

Yeah, you talked about her a lot. And your friends, those idiots, they put ideas into your head.
Dude, she was looking at you today.
You should totally go and talk to her, man.

At night, before you sleep you fantasize about actually having the balls to go up to her and say, 'Hi, I'm...'
You fantasized about you two talking, and going out, being in a relationship, having the best time of your lives, making each other the happiest people alive. You fantasized about making her feel like the most special girl in the world, doing something for her on her birthday. Talking to her on the phone before you sleep each night.
You fantasized...
Then you started making all these plans in your head about how you're actually going to do it. About how you're actually going to go up to her soon and say, 'Hi, I'm...'
You thought to yourself, this is entirely plausible, I could do this. You felt that weird excitement when you thought this.
Plans turned into targets. You were going to do this that very week.
The week's about to end, it's Friday, people are excited about the weekend.
You have to do it today, your friends tell you.
She knows you like her, man!
Dude, she was totally checking you out.
Go fucking talk to her, you pussy!

You see her across the crowd, standing with her friends.
It's a perfect evening, the breeze is beginning to pick up. It's cool.
You're suddenly very aware you have these huge arms hanging at your side. You run a hand through your hair.
You need to go and talk to her, man, they say.
Man up!

You suddenly say 'screw this!' and now you're walking towards her.
Time suddenly slows down, and each step you take takes so much more time than usual. All this while, you're looking at her...as you walk.
You see everything in slow motion. The wind is making her hair sway. It's so bloody brilliant!
She flicks a strand off her face. You're three feet away now.
You're still walking.
You're almost next to her now.
You're still walking.
You've reached her.
She suddenly realizes you're standing next to her. You extend your hand forward and say, 'Hi I'm...'

Yes, you know what I'm talking about.

This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time...

Francisco D'Anconia's Speech to Hank Rearden from 'Atlas Shrugged'

Atlas Shrugged is a strange book. Full of extreme ideas, some which perhaps do not appeal to most people. That's the reason it is so criticized. I'm not here to judge, hell I haven't even read all of it yet.
There's this passage though, about three pages long, which is, to me, the most moving part of this book yet, and there have been many.
For those who have already read it, you're free to tread the web elsewhere, but those who have not, I implore you to read this passage first, and then try and read the book.

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“Do you remember what I said about money and about the men who seek to reverse the law of cause and effect? The men who try to replace the mind by seizing the products of the mind? Well, the man who despises himself tries to gain self- esteem from sexual adventures–which can’t be done, because sex is not the cause, but an effect and an expression of a man’s sense of his own value.”

“You’d better explain that.”

“Did it ever occur to you that it’s the same issue? The men who think that wealth comes from the material resources and has no intellectual root or meaning, are the men who think–for the same reason–that sex is a physical capacity which functions independently of ones mind, choice or code of values. They think that your body creates a desire and makes a choice for you just about in some such way as if iron ore transformed itself into railroad rails of its own volition. Love is blind, they say; sex is impervious to reason and mocks the power of all philosophers. But, in fact, a man’s sexual choice is the result and the sum of his fundamental convictions. Tell me what a man finds sexually attractive and I will tell you his entire philosophy on life. Show me the woman he sleeps with and I will tell you his valuation of himself. No matter what corruption he’s taught about the virtue of selflessness, sex is the most profoundly selfish of all acts, an act which he cannot perform for any motive but his own enjoyment–just try to think of performing it in a spirit of selfless charity!–an act which is not possible in self-abasement, only in self-exaltation, only in confidence of being desired and being worthy of desire. It is an act that forces him to stand naked in spirit, as well as in body, and to accept his real ego as his standard of value. He will always be attracted to the woman who reflects his deepest vision of himself, the woman whose surrender permits him to experience–or to fake–a sense of self-esteem. The man who is proudly certain of his own value, will want the highest type of woman he can find, the woman he admires, the strongest, the hardest to conquer — because only the possession of a heroine will give him the sense of an achievement, not the possession of a brainless slut. He does not seek to . . . what’s the matter?” he asked, seeing the look on Rearden’s face, a look of intensity much beyond mere interest in an abstract discussion.

“Go on,” said Rearden tensely.

“He does not seek to gain his value, he seeks to express it. There is no conflict between the standards of his mind and the desires of his body. But the man who is convinced of his own worthlessness will be drawn to a woman he despises–because she will reflect his own secret self, she will release him from that objective reality in which he is a fraud, she will give him a momentary illusion of his own value and a momentary escape from the morel code that damns him. Observe the ugly mess which most men make of their sex lives–and observe the mess of contradictions which they hold as their moral philosophy. One proceeds from the other. Love is our response to our highest values–and can be nothing else. Let a man corrupt his values and his view of existence, let him profess that love is not self-enjoyment but self-denial, that virtue consists, not of pride, but of pity or pain or weakness or sacrifice, that the noblest love is born, not of admiration, but of charity, not in response to values, but in response to flaws–and he will have cut himself in two. His body will not obey him, it will not respond, it will make him impotent toward the woman he professes to love and draw him to the lowest type of whore he can find. His body will always follow the ultimate logic of his deepest convictions; if he believes that flaws are values, he has damned existence as evil and only the evil will attract him. He has damned himself and he will feel that depravity is all he is worthy of enjoying. He has equated virtue with pain and he will feel that vice is the only realm of pleasure. Then he will scream that his body has vicious desires of its own which his mind cannot conquer, that sex is sin, that true love is a pure emotion of the spirit. And then he will wonder why love brings him nothing but boredom, and sex–nothing but shame.”

Rearden said slowly, looking off, not realizing that he was thinking aloud, “At least . . . I’ve never accepted that other tenet . . . I’ve never felt guilty about making money.”

Francisco missed the significance of the first two words; he smiled and said eagerly, “You do see that it’s the same issue? No, you’d never accept any part of their vicious creed. You wouldn’t be able to force it upon yourself. If you tried to damn sex as evil, you’d still find yourself, against your will, acting on the proper moral premise. You’d be attracted to the highest woman you met. You’d always want a heroine. You’d be incapable of self-contempt. You’d be unable to believe that existence is evil and that you’re a helpless creature caught in an impossible universe. You’re the man who’s spent his life shaping matter to the purpose of his mind. You’re the man who would know that just as an idea unexpressed in physical action is contemptible hypocrisy, so is platonic love–and just as physical action unguided by an idea is a fool’s self-fraud, so is sex when cut off from one’s code of values. Its’ the same issue, and you would know it. Your inviolate sense of self-esteem would know it. You would be incapable of desire for a woman you despised. Only the man who extols the purity of a love devoid of desire, is capable of the depravity of a desire devoid of love. But observe that most people are creatures cut in half who keep swinging desperately to one side or to the other. One kind of half is the man who despises money, factories, skyscrapers and his own body. He holds undefined emotions about non-conceivable subjects as the meaning of life and his claim of virtue. And he cries with despair, because he can feel nothing for the woman he respects, but finds himself in bondage to an irresistible passion for a slut from the gutter. He is the man whom people call an idealist. The other kind of half is the man whom people call practical, the man who despises principles, abstractions, art, philosophy and his own mind. He regards the acquisition of material objects as the only goal of existence– and he laughs at the need to consider their purpose or their source. He expects them to give him pleasure– and he wonders why the more he gets, the less he feels. He is the man who spends his time chasing women. Observe the triple fraud which he perpetrates upon himself. He will not acknowledge his need of self-esteem, since he scoffs at such a concept as moral values; yet he feels the profound self-contempt which comes from believing that he is a piece of meat. He will not acknowledge, but he knows that sex is the physical expression of a tribute to personal values. So he tries, by going through the motions of the effect, to acquire that which should have been the cause. He tries to gain a sense of his own value from the women who surrender to him– and he forgets that the women he picks have neither character nor judgment nor standard of value. he tells himself that all he’s after is physical pleasure– but observe that he tires of his woman in a week or a night, that he despises professional whores and that he loves to imagine he is seducing virtuous girls who make a great exception for his sake. It is the feeling of achievement that he seeks and never finds. What glory can there be in the conquest of a mindless body? Now that is your woman chaser. Does the description fit me?

“God, no!”

“Then you can judge, without asking my word for it, how much chasing of women I’ve done in my life.”