Amaar XL

I was on my way to the city of joy, when a wheel like logo on a black T shirt caught my eye at the Chennai airport. And then I heard some familiar course names. And then some noise and chatter. And then some committee names. And then some talk about nuns and monks. Unmistakably XL.

One woman and the rest men - some salt and pepper, some balding. I wondered when they might have passed out of XL. Cries of excitement, pats on the back, old jokes, tears from laughing hard, complaints about old age, worrying about children, disucssing old crushes and bad behaviour on campus...

I have never actually missed XL. However, watching them actually made me think - maybe I have never actually found the time to miss XL. I landed in the Kolkata airport -it was like homecoming! That sad airport, the same laaaame shops that sell terrible burgers at unbelievable prices, that rickety Airtel stall where I finished my MCCD assignement, long queues at the pre paid taxi counter, Ahalya and I straining to listen to movie dialogues in an airport that had the sights and sounds of a railway station - the memories came rushing back, and with it a warmth that I hadn't felt in a long time.

PPO : comPlete Personality makeOver

“PPO !!!” – the much awaited clarion call of any final year B School student. Embedded in these letters is a world of freedom – freedom from the mundane procedure of attending class, freedom from DCP, freedom from the gruel of the placement process, the welcome whiff of worry free FRAX… the list could go on.

However, my PPO has brought in its wake, something more than the relief factor – it is the desire to “actually” learn. It has been just one class into the sixth term of my course and its effect is so evident. For the first time, I sat in class, unperturbed about Lag Indicators (see, I am already using jargon that I learnt!!!) like division of marks, CQ, attendance, CP etc. Disappointed at an empty class, the professor requested a few of us to move to the much detested “first few benches” of class, and I hurriedly gathered my belongings to do so, till I was tugged back to my “roots” by a rather amused friend.

I am surprised at the spontaneity and innateness of the complete makeover of my learning orientations. For every single concept that the professor talked of today, I subconsciously mapped it with millions of examples that I have come across, my internship experience and other related concepts. The intense activity in my brain made me go dizzy. Rather than mentally making a note of the deadlines for assignment submissions, I made a note of the books that I had to read before I got out of XL. I know for a fact that no newspaper will go unread to the raddiwala this term. I have to get back to gymming and I have to learn a language in the next two months here.

As I reflect on this nebulous reincarnation of myself, I wonder – is this not supposed to be the essence of any learning system? The much harangued topic of discussion on the faulty system of Indian education flashed across my mind. For the first time, I actually knew what the word “learning value” meant. Was I not supposed to internalize this at the very beginning of my tryst with MBA? I remember the steely (seldom empty) resolves that I took in my initial euphoria of being admitted into the “Best School in Asia Pacific for HR”. I would not say they have all melted away, some of them have just been… well… redefined.

Varying interests, the discovery that actual outcomes of courses do not match expectations, the inherent human tendency to normalize one’s behavior with respect to environmental variables - all play their part.

Another eye opening incident was my recent participation in an inter B School event. I was appalled at the way some of the “top” B Schools in the country made their presentations - unprofessional would be an understatement. It was then that I realized how the courses that I arrogantly dismissed as “gassy” or “no learning value” contribute to the making of a well honed professional. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner rung in my ears, and I felt an albatross around my neck.

I know I am at the potential threat of being christened a Ghissu, nevertheless, no one can run away from the truth of the situation!

Furnunculus!

Makes the victim's body break out in boils.

This is not the first time that I am the target of nasty comments by virtue of my sex, and this is not the first time it is happening on the basketball court. I have always been very tolerant of remarks and it has always worked – it invariably dies down. But today I reacted rather differently probably because the nature of abuse was quite different.

I come form an engineering college in Tamil Nadu where half the college thinks the girl is bad if she plays sports, a bitch if she is the sports secretary and a slut if she wears shorts while playing. I have been a forerunner as a subject of all three schools of thought. Having faced issues like that, I thought I was seasoned enough to handle any kind of comment, so much so Ratanjee was a cake walk.

What hit me today was the attitude towards women that men show. If I could conjure magic, I would have casted a Furnunculus! at them. A couple of local boys play in the XL court. Superb players, shallow morals. No sexually explicit abuse, but just the attitude that a woman cannot play as well as a man does. Lecherous onlookers or the spate of frustrated words have never swayed my concentration in the game. But when players on court throw attitude at your face that says. “Come you bitch, let’s see what you can do…” it hurts my ego. I hate to admit it, but it does. They had a little joke running amongst themselves, dangerously flirting with the limits of sexual abuse; the poor bastards thought I didn’t know Hindi. It might have been different had it been a girl who said it. I would have fought it out fair and square. But the “ghaati”ness (as adi would put it) of these local bastards intimidates me because I know that I just cannot do anything to prove my basketball skills against the physical prowess of a guy.

A Freudian slip, or parapraxis, is an error in speech, memory or physical action that is believed to be caused by the unconscious mind. I played a terrible game today… let every pass go, every basket was an air ball and I am supposed to be the basketball captain.

The healthy, mature ego translates the demands of both the id and the super-ego into terms which allow admission of them without destruction. This is constructive acceptance. But what happens when the ego breaks? A Freudian slip is it?