Pompous Ass

Yes, you heard it right. I finally used a profanity in my blog. But to be very honest, today something happened that made me look back at my own self 9 years back in October 2002 and I started laughing. If anyone had peeped in through my window, they would no doubt think that this guy has gone crazy. Lying on his back on his well flattened bean bag, he is laughing away as he reads intently through something that looks like a magazine.

9 years back I was a pompous ass and it took me all these years to finally get it.

(If you are interested in something called Cactus Flower, dear reader, then go on. Else accept the fact that I have acknowledged my shortcomings and hope you come back for the next post)

Believe me, normally I am not one. Not even when I manage to win a game of Ludo against my sister or burn 402 calories in the occasional trips to the gym. But there was this one instance in my life when I had to be one, to uphold the dignity of something I treasure to this date, to survive.

Every college magazine goes through a cycle which I have termed the Rise and Fall of Pompeii. It reaches its zenith in terms of quality and brilliance of the individual and the collective till the team that guides the magazine becomes more and more estranged from the populace they are about to serve. They glorify their False Gods, they begin to believe in their invincibility till one day suddenly a hand, often that of the masses they have begun to despise, destroys their high pedestal and all that’s left is dust. The worst part? They don’t even realize it.

The task of rebuilding is painful. I know it. Getting trust back in an institution is something that requires major sacrifices, but more importantly it requires time and a proof of the right intent. Humble steps are made till all lessons are forgotten till History repeats itself and once again the mighty Hand comes crushing down. The eeriness with which this pattern plays itself out is unbelievable and yet we don’t learn as human beings are weak in nature and in memory.

2010 and 2003 were similar in many aspects. The Mother Ship was agitated with the nonchalance of one of its most important arms. The stewards of Gondor had come to believe that they were the true heirs to the Thorne of the Great Kings. And Boromir had left them. The Mother Ship could easily cut off the arm.

Gondor, the last refuge of sanity, the last bastion of truth was left to defend for itself and it was left to the sanity of Faramir to protect Gondor.

And Middle Earth will never know but Gandalf knows what the cost of resurrection was. And Gandalf felt proud.

Anyway, coming back to the story – a little girl called Hema one day met an old man called Banjo. They were separated by years. She wasn’t even born when Maradona scored the Hand of God, yet as fate would have it, in the small niche of a group of men and women called Cactus Flower Editors, she was the newest flag bearer. Nothing connected them except a crazy ManU fan and a dusty old magazine which has the immense grit and determination to survive. The moment had come again. My gushing emotions on seeing a previous edition was short lived. I had posted on this very blog how delighted I was with what I thought was one of the better efforts in recent years. What I did not say was the path at the peak was the most slippery. 

And slip it did, 3 years later.

When I had sat down to write my editorial in 2003, I was a changed man, perhaps a little bitter with the entire experience and it had poured out straight from the heart – for two pages and then one page of Epilogue! And since then, true to ancient traditions, thereafter broken with a vengeance by the New Age, I had never written anything for the magazine.

And here was another young comrade, facing the same crisis, perhaps worse, coming out victorious and yet all that she says while paying her tribute is, “the eras go by and we, so often, overlook their passing.”

I felt a little ashamed and that’s when I realized I had done the task I was assigned but I could not rise above it. That’s what being a pompous ass is.

I leafed through the magazine that was delivered at my office desk in an extremely busy evening. I knew it had to wait. It was late by the time I was back but I read through the pages in one go. The brilliance of language was still evident but so were the paucity of ideas, the glitter of individual talent was dazzling and so was the dearth in quantity of that talent. It had tried going back to its roots, talking to people who mattered about the things that mattered. All in all, it was a magazine that seemed to reflect what my alma mater was and it does not matter if I subscribe to what it now upholds as its spirit.

After all, the definition of spirit does change with the ages. What does not change is the Truth.

There are a few things that remain eternal and it is their ethereal magnificence which ensures that whenever trouble looms, a steward will come again to hold the reins and keep Gondor safe.

I was about to turn to the last page and cringe at the random words that seem to have been a part of every edition since 2005. It’s like an internal joke of the team but what people fail to realize is that those random set of words destroy a year’s worth of quality literary efforts at one go. And then suddenly I realized the last article was what I would have called an epilogue! And that’s where the Editor became a mortal like a few before her. In an article extremely human, straight from the heart, she prays for remembrance if not for immortality. And that makes her endearing to all who walked before her.

And yeah, that article shows a glimpse of her being a pompous ass as well.

Here’s what best resembles all that we feel every year. The last 15 minutes of Toy Story III.

Here’s to memories, here’s to travelling back thousands of kilometres in a matter of hours. Here’s to hope. Here’s to eternity. Here’s to immortality – not for ourselves but all that we have lived for.

(PS: Thanks to Google. The almost right picture came up)

The Chronicler

Sometimes your past hunts you down and stares at you. A few days back, it was exactly that and so much more. I have always felt a kind of bohemianism in me, never wanting to be tied down and even if I was neck deep in the day to day drudgery, I would like to believe that I was as free as the eagle, high up on the sky. Nothing could tie me down. Ever. Along all these years, if there has been one thing that had completely dominated my existence for more than a year, it was a college magazine and since then I have considered it my nemesis.

I have this habit of researching into the past. I guess I would have made a good historian or an archaeologist, maybe not as handsome as Nicholas Cage, but then a good one. Anyway, when I took over the magazine, I researched on it. I went back as far in time as I could, which unfortunately could only be till 1991. So, from 1991 to 2003 I knew everything that happened with the magazine. I found out how the magazine changed, evolved and retraced its step again and again. As I graduated out of BITS, I knew my romance with the magazine would come to an end. And then, finally the boy I had seen step into my room as I was preparing to graduate sent me the magazine he edited and then I knew that I had to finally move on. Like most of us, I grew older. Things changed. Times changed. And the magazine changed. Again.

The old order demanded that the Editor is never associated with any future magazines. It was one of those old, romanticized ideas which of course were trashed without mercy later, perhaps rightly so. I walked out of the magazine but I couldn’t let go so easily and thus I became The Chronicler and carried within me, umpteen stories, of dreams, heartbreaks, friendship, jealousy and sleepless nights, safe and secure so that till I die at least someone knows the stories.

I think I am lucky to be able to let go of power and position completely anytime in life. (OK, I am no great soul. It's just that I have hated interfering when my juniors have taken over. So it is not like I am some reincarnation of Buddha. Like most Indians, I have imagined myself to have power rather than have it I guess :) ) I have seen people cling on to their past associations and past glories, never realizing that it was time to move on. Yet, these might not be the ones most passionate about the task at hand.

For two years, life went on as usual till one day I stared back at myself, years into the future. In front of me was the Editor of the same magazine 8 years down the line, holding out for me a magazine 7 years past my days.

Have you ever smelled a new book? I find the smell intoxicating. I lost myself that night in its pages. I may have grown older but some things remain constant. Authors of articles in college magazines still write in English that is found only in dictionaries. The proverbial twist in the tale can always be anticipated. Writers faced with lack of new themes re interpret classics and epics. And like always it speaks about the mood of the students.

And I knew, I was The Chronicler, even if for one last year.

This is something I wrote in early 2003 as the opening page of the first ever (and the last till date) E-edition of our magazine. The first line will be enough proof to show you what I meant by English found only in dictionaries.

There are times in every student's life when he feels the urge to express himself, realizes the need to make his voice felt above the babble of trite existence. For BITSians, respite comes in the form of CACTUS FLOWER, the annual magazine that is truly of the students, by the students and for the students. Perhaps it is one of those very few college magazines in the world that has its Editorial Board comprised solely of students drawn from all the years. They owe allegiance to none, for a CF team member has to maintain the highest levels of impartiality and independence. Exactly when and how it came into existence is now lost in the memories of the past but over the years it has become an institution in itself, surpassed in grandeur and importance only perhaps by the Clock Tower.

The Flower in the Desert

This is perhaps the most difficult post in this blog till date. Not because it discusses anything world-changing but because this post is about something that once defined who I was; who I would become. This post is about a magazine.

Today afternoon, as I spent a lonely Diwali, a knock on the door delivered a courier to me from a village in Rajasthan. Inside it was my college, packed in the form of a magazine – Cactus Flower 2007. Once it was a tradition for the person holding the post to send a copy to the previous Chief Editors if they had been acquainted. But then things had changed and it was really a pleasant afternoon surprise. Unexpected calls and unexpected couriers often cheer you up.

Quite a few things in BITS had required a large part of my time and attention. But none matched the passion that a magazine had instilled in me. I still remember the day I took over the responsibility, green-horned and untested. It was a terrifying night; never had been a Chief Editor been from the Second Year. Yet, I knew this was my destiny and this would be my nemesis. I had inherited a magazine steeped in controversy, a magazine falling foul of both the administration and the Students’ Union. What followed was a year of scrounging, saving every penny to plough it back into the magazine, fighting tooth and nail for retaining its autonomy. All along I had just one conviction. A magazine is a mirror to the world that we live in and it must stay true to itself. I had to take a lot of decisions that under other circumstances I would not have taken. I imposed strict self-censorship. I let go of my dreams to have an all colour magazine to keep the budgets under control. I lost my temper and fought with the person who perhaps had designed the best cover for any magazine in the world ever, as a result of which our months of effort over summer holidays at his house and over the phone never saw the light of the day. (It was a time when I had to sacrifice quality for equality and every single day I have wondered if the decision was correct) I, for perhaps the only time in my life, kept my dreams under reins.

I had always believed that the Editors of Yesteryears spoke to me through their magazines and it was an old order, facing the tests of time. I was the last torch-bearer. And that made me more responsible towards the cause. I knew a change would be inevitable, hollow idealism would give away to practicalities and just to ensure that one day a new order would come up, my main task would be to keep the hope alive.

Thus was born Cactus Flower, 2003.

Whether the magazine I created, with one of the most dedicated teams I have ever worked with, was any good is perhaps of little consequence to you. What matters is that it rooted out criticism. The magazine was safe and my task was done.

Since then, the magazine became like a stranger to me. The winds of change blew everywhere. I was there like the old willow facing the winds and offering shade to whoever wanted to rest. But then the world was speeding past.

In my final semester at college, the winds of change continued to blow. But this time I felt a fresh breeze of hope. The people coming in had the zeal I had found missing in myself at that point of time, people ready to take on any challenges. One of them would become Chief Editor, Cactus Flower three years down the line.

As I opened the pages of this edition of our magazine, my mind travelled back ages to see Auro, Saha, Magdum and myself waiting breathlessly at the printer to have our first glimpse of the magazine. Shaking off memories, I read through the magazine, page by page, line by line, word by word. I have always believed that the quality of content reflects the age that we live in rather than the capability of the Editor. Where the Editor can make a difference is in its presentation and in delivering the main objective of the Magazine – making it a storehouse of the aspirations of the entire student community. And then it struck me.

The old order was back, in a new avatar. The man behind CF 2007 could any day have donned the hat of an Editor, even in the Brilliant 90s. I could see myself as a BITSian in each of its pages; I could feel as the Editor what he felt as he worked on his drafts late into the night. I could see the unabashed way in which he asserted himself in each of the pages, I could see his scrutiny on every word and I think I know exactly the errors he would come across a year or so from now and hate himself for having overlooked them before the blueprint was finalized.

I could sense myself making CF all over again.

Why is CF 2007 so special to me? I think it’s because it tells me of the immense talent in BITSians that still lingers on. It tells me that the Editor is proud again, proud of being the Editor. This pride reflects in his work, for this pride is borne out of love for a magazine, for an ideal, for a concept. CF is once again unapologetic, it is no longer scared to spell out what the students feel, without resorting to symbolism, without subtlety meant to safeguard ones back against administration. It is contemporary, yet it upholds all ideals that a great magazine must have. It makes the same ‘mistakes’ that makes a magazine, a magazine for everyone and not a Kubrick movie for the ‘elite’. CF 2007, it showcases the dreams that I had reined in 4 long years back.

Mr. Chief Editor Sir, I, Madhurjya Banerjee would have considered myself honoured if I had brought out this baby of yours.

As perhaps the last believer of an era gone by, I bow to the Cactus Flower Team, 2007, for having strengthened my conviction that what’s true is eternal. It just keeps coming back to us in new forms. They say some flowers in Rajasthan bloom every four years. Today, I saw a Flower bloom again.

I think this is what is called The Circle of Life.

A Trip Down Memory Lane IV – The BITSians

I am one of the new breeds of Global Indian. Agreed. But after that the second spot is very confused. Am I a Calcuttan having spent my years of growing up? Am I a Bosconian with the strong influence of my basic education? Am I an IIMBian, the identity that’s perhaps my latest and most important as it defines my future steps? Or am I a BITSian having grown from a child to a thinking teen and having the courage to bet all to move to where my heart led? The answer is complicated. Perhaps I am a combination of all of them but this post is for the BITSian, a group of people that shall always be a class apart.

Whenever a person takes a trip back, he knows there will be two sets of people, some of whom he would have met earlier, others whom he would not have. And I think it’s the second class of people who make the trip a memorable one. The new faces of my department, who had no reason to come and meet a heap of old bones, people who had just read my articles and had never seen me, juniors who could as easily ask for a treat as could their seniors after my placements, these were the people who showed me the real meaning of camaraderie of one’s alma mater. After all, where else would you find a junior missing classes in the mornings to accompany you to Profs’ houses, where else will someone sheepishly knock on a psentisemite’s door and ask, “Are you Madhurjyada?”, where else will a guy start laughing in a class seeing my SMS, where else can I sit with a multi-talented guy and discuss his theories at 3 in the night, or sit with another equally talented guy and be offered the best of Anjan Dutta’s music?

But the one thing that’s most amazing is to stand aside and see your juniors perform on stage, alone, without your help, and pull off the show with easy brilliance. This trip showed me this one scene which I always wanted to see. I have seen batches from 1997 to 2004 and I have met some amazing people but the 2003 batch is undoubtedly the one that has produced an amazing set of people across clubs, departments and associations. If I have to choose one single BITSian batch apart from my own, I would any day choose the 2003 batch. Living in a psentisemite’s room has an advantage. He cleans up the room because I’m coming; his sidie puts it up as his status message and life begins afresh for me. And it feels nice that even now they want to create something new and want to give back something to their college before they leave. And last I heard they were immensely successful. The DOPY BOSM coord comes sauntering into sky and arranges for a meet; only yesterday he was ushering in the cell phone revolution at DOPY and BITS arranging batch meets through his cell phone. Two of them stay with me all through till I leave C’not for one last time, my pseudo-ju doesn’t care about her last set of CDCs.

I know it’s not possible to talk about all the amazing moments I had meeting my juniors in Pilani and seeing them as adults and in control. In my last trip back to school, the seniors had said, “It’s your school.” I had said, “No now it’s yours. Take good care of it.” My juniors at Pilani have done the same. They have taken good care of my college. I am an old fashioned guy in many aspects. Though I call people juniors, they have been more than friends to me, yet till they graduate I would continue to introduce them as my juniors. Come on. Give a little leeway to my innocent idiosyncrasies.

There had always been a sense of guilt whenever Instrumentation Forum comes into the picture. Of my innumerable clubs and departments, it has received a little less attention. I have always been there to help out but never submitted an individual project. That’s what always pained me. As a result, even though I almost stopped writing after Pilani, I have never turned down an Instru Mag Editor. So this year too when the Editor, who has never met me, asked for an article, I could not say no. Don’t know whether it will be published, but it does feel nice, more so as the Ed gives the insignificant me a personal audience. J

But this post would not be complete without three people. First, my little sister, just the other day a school going kid, sulking at why I don’t come more often to meet her will be the next Moruchaya President. We had seen a total strength of 50 in Moruchaya. She’ll have 50 coming in every year. Second, the next DOPY OASIS coord, a guy whose love for the department surpasses even mine and if I am asked I would put him on the same pedestal with VJ and Setty. Coming from me that’s something. He has a tough job ahead of him. Maybe he’ll be the one during whose time the future of the Department will be redrawn. I wish him well. But I know he’ll be an amazing co-ord. And yes, he'll definitely mail us all about it.

And finally, his wingmate of my psentisem, the Editor in Chief, Cactus Flower, 2007. Ever since CF 2003 was published, I slowly distanced myself from my most beloved thing in Pilani. The Old School of Life had taught me not to interfere in other Ed’s matters. (I never refused to help with technicalities though.) I could feel the winds of change that swept through. People told me about it, but I never judged. Let the future decide which path was right. Maybe both were. Anyway, the point is as I spoke to the CF Ed I could feel the same sense of pride that had differentiated the Eds of yesteryear. We took pride in our task, in our responsibility. And my resolve to never look at a blueprint again fell down like a sand wall. In front of me was a guy who could very well have been from an era a decade back. In front of me was a draft that looked fresh, yet traditional. Whether he was a good Ed only his team can tell, whether it is a good CF, BITSians and Time will judge, but time spent with him during my last few hours at Pilani was worth the self imposed exile.

An excerpt from Cf 2003,

After all “in this mortal world everything perished and will perish, but ideas ideals and dreams do not.”
That is all and all that I ever needed to know.