Family Matters at Flora Fountain

Like all good stories, this one too is based in Mumbai; a city, that I have come to believe, has two particular things in great abundance: pace and populace. Yesterday, I realized that there are, in fact, three.

Again, a state of abject nothingness allows a man the freedom to do certain things. Going for the WAT PI (Written Assessment Test and Personal Interview) process of a certain B school is one of them. This was the third trip to Mumbai for the purpose of some selection process. The number of times I have been to this city is a woefully small number, and every single time, for one reason or the other, hadn't been able to go to Flora Fountain and check out the famed second-hand book market there; till yesterday, that is.

The venue for the WAT PI process was near Dadar station. Very few of the total number of people called for the process actually turned up, and I was 3^rd in the list of interviewees allotted to one panel. I was free by 4:30 pm. It had to be today, I thought, for it’ll be a while before I get a chance to visit Mumbai again. And thankfully, unlike the morning, it wasn’t raining. I walked briskly to the Dadar station, bought a ‘Churchgate return’ ticket and boarded the 04:58pm slow local. By usual standards, the train was near empty and one actually had a number of seats to choose from. But then, this was expected; there’s hardly any traffic towards Churchgate in the evenings. Soon, the many offices there will call it a day, and an enormous number of tired human beings will swell into the trains from Churchgate.

The train pulled up in the vast Churchgate station at around 05:15 pm, and already, there was a steady stream of people marching towards the outgoing trains. I walked to the exit and stopped dead in my tracks. Yes, there was a little drizzle at number of places along the route to Churchgate, but here, it was a full-blown downpour. The skies were grey and gloomy, and the rain came down in sheets. 

Damn, confusing the Bernoulli's principle with the Archimedes' one in the PI was bad, but this was far worse. Standing under a shade near the station exit, I waited, desperately hoping that the clouds run out of steam, or water in this case. 

As ceaseless as the rains, if not more, was a bulging stream of people walking towards the station; each one of them carrying an umbrella. No sooner did they enter the shade than they turned, and closed their umbrella with one smooth stroke, and shot off in the direction of their trains. The collective uniformity of their actions was unmistakable. It almost looked like a disciplined parade at an army school.  

I neither had an umbrella nor an extra pair of dry clothes. I internally debated whether this was a good time to leave and return. I had been forewarned; the numbers would rise to humongous proportions as the evening progressed, and it would be utterly terrifying for a novice like me to board a train.  

Meanwhile, the downpour continued unabated and a growing number of people were now waiting under the shade. Nearby stood a newspaper seller, his stand full of the remaining copies of The Times of India, The Economic Times, Midday and Saamna. I went to him and inquired where exactly this book market near Flora Fountain was. He explained. Then I asked if the vendors would still be there, given the rains. He nodded, saying that they covered all their books underneath plastic sheets. 

There was an underground walkway towards the right. I had to go to the other side through the walkway. In order to somehow minimize the effect of rain, I ran from under the shade to the walkway, which again was teeming with people. Both its sides were lined with hawkers vociferously selling toys, cheap shirts, handkerchiefs, umbrellas, fruits, flowers, and vegetables. Again, near the exit, were gathered a bunch of people reluctant to venture out, and a steady stream of people walking in, closing their umbrellas in one smooth stroke the moment they entered.

I stood here for a while, still undecided whether to go ahead or return. The clouds were relentless, and the book market was quite some distance away. 

Hell, I slung my bag to my front (everyone else wears it that way in Mumbai) and dashed for Flora Fountain. Such was the downpour that within moments, I was soaked to the skin. But it hardly mattered now. I continued to run on the pavement, jostling for space and making my way through the seemingly endless stream of umbrella-bearing people walking towards the station. Finally, after crossing two signals, as the newspaper guy had mentioned, I was at Flora Fountain. To the left, there was a book stall. Well, it wasn't exactly a stall, and the books were stacked in neat columns on the pavement, sheltered from the rains under a massive blue tarpaulin sheet. 

Wiping the droplets off my glasses, I looked. It was a huge collection, and one high column was entirely of Chetan Bhagat books, his recent 'What Young India Wants' at the top. "Family Matters hai?" I asked a guy standing behind one stack. "Rohinton Mistri?" one guy to the left inquired, to my great delight. I nodded, thrilled. 

This question "Family Matters hai?" or "Family Matters che?" had been asked countless number of times to several roadside vendors in Baroda. But no one 'haid' it. Worse, they hadn't even heard of Rohinton Mistry, and when one pointed at a copy of 'A Fine Balance' or 'Such A Long Journey' gathering dust in some corner of his stall, they would say "Oh woh, nai woh author ka toh yehi book hai". Even the loaded Hansa Mehta library that had a number of yellowing, hard-bound versions of 'A Fine Balance' and 'Such A Long Journey' didn't have a single Rohinton Mistry's 'Family Matters'. The numerous "great book sales" held periodically in the city had disappointed as well. 

The guy at the stall was now rummaging through several stacks of books, and after a brief, quick search, he shook his head. They didn't have it. From behind one of the stacks, he drew a copy of 'Tales from Ferozshabaag' and dropped it in front of me. "Yeh hai" he said. "Yeh hai mere paas" I replied. Utter disappointment was beginning to gnaw at the insides. I turned, and looked around. The stall on the left was selling clothes and the one left to it bags. I wondered. Just one book stall... Everyone said there was a market? 

"Yahaan par aur koi books ka dukaan nai hai kya?" I asked the stall guy. "Hai na" he said and pointed towards the opposite side of the road. Again wiping the damned droplets off my glasses with a wet sleeve, I peered at the other side of the road, and I was stunned. There it was, the book market. 

The entire length of the pavement running parallel to the road was lined with stacks after stacks, columns after columns of books, nestled in long translucent plastic sheets, with equally long blue tarpaulin sheets sheltering them from above.

It was surreal.

The pedestrian crossing sign turned green, and I was at the other side of the road. "Family Matters hai?" I inquired at the first stall I came across. And almost at the same instant, a guy at the stall drew out a slightly old looking, red coloured hard-bound book. There was nothing written at its front cover. I took the book and turned it around. Nothing was written at its back cover as well; neither the gist of the book nor the praises.

The spine! 

There, on the spine of the book, was imprinted, exquisitely in golden letters: 'FAMILY MATTERS ROHINTON MISTRY KNOPF' and I was stunned again.
  

True, a good book might be priceless, but it needs to be bought all the same.

"Kitne ka?" I asked the guy. He was probably reading my face as I was checking out the book. He flashed four fingers of his left hand. "400!" I said disbelievingly, and  immediately handed over the book to him.

"400 se kam nai hoga, yeh book ka baut value hai" he said.

Dead right man, I thought.

"Value ka kya karu mai? Simple paperback nai hai kya? Woh bhi chalega".

"Nai, yehi hai"   

There were far too many stalls there. Surely one of them had a more affordable second-hand paperback? I started walking away from the stall.

"Tum kitne me lega?" the guy shouted.

I flashed two fingers of my right hand at him.

He shook his head. "200 kaafi kum hai..300 de do".

This time I shook my head. "200 hi hai mere paas yaar. Itni baarish me book lene ke liye aaya hoon baahar se".

He called me back. "Accha 250 de do, final".

"tch. 200 hi hai" I said and again, slowly began to walk away, madly wishing that the guy would relent.

Two more guys were manning the stall. They had been quietly observing all the while. One of them finally spoke. "De de" he said, and the second guy nodded.

Done. The deal was sealed. The quest was over. Best use of 200 bucks ever.

I handed him a couple of 100 rupee notes, put the book in my bag, and joined the stream of people heading towards the station; walking along with them for the first time that evening.

Mumbai. The city that has three particular things in great abundance: pace, populace, and books.

Dance of Democracy, at FTE

One of these days, if you ask me 'Hey, what's up?' and I say 'Nothing', I mean it. This post is just the kind of thing abject nothingness leads a man to do. Read on.

Now, if you were so unlucky as to not study at one of the many faculties of the once-famous-now-infamous The Maharaja Sayajirao University of Baroda, you probably know little more about its MSUSU (Maharaja Sayajirao University Student Union) polls than the page 2 of The Times of India tells you: images of fresh-out-of-a-mandir candidates flashing unsure smiles and V signs, reports of bust ups between the ever-warring factions BVP (Bhartiya Vidyarthi Parishad) and SUI (Students Union of India) and subsequent filing of FIR's at Sayajigunj police station. Then, prior to the election day, reports of  heavy police bandobast at the volatile Science Faculty and a Vice Chancellor quote that goes 'Adequate measures have been taken to ensure a fair and safe election process across faculties', and then, post the E day, images of winners, now atop shoulders, again flashing unsure smiles and V signs amid mass frenzy (drums beating, gulal flying and all). There's also, invariably, a report somewhere on the same page about the losing party accusing the winning one of unspeakable electoral malpractices, appealing the VC for re-elections, and the students to sit on an indefinite dharna next day onwards.

Exhaustive and detailed, yes, but still only an outsider's account.

Following is a riveting, if not scholarly, insider account of the MSUSU polls as witnessed and experienced firsthand at a faculty with brilliant domes and smelly corridors; a faculty that has produced, in addition to countless engineering virtuosi and enormous revenue for T.I.M.E Baroda, the co-founder of USB, the chairman of National Innovation Council, and a future Man Booker.

Ah, The Faculty of Technology and Engineering. How I miss its brilliant domes and smelly corridors.

*wipes tears*

So, there are 5 posts on offer: University General Secretary (UGS), Vice President (VP. Reserved unreservedly for females), Faculty General Secretary (FGS), Faculty Representative (FR. 2 posts), and last and most certainly the least, Department Representative (DR).

It all starts in early August. The incumbent candidates have long since relinquished their apparent duties; they wander about lazily like an aam student, minus the pretending-to-be-busy swagger. In canteen, at Nescafe, or under the tree near Koko, huddled groups start talking about the elections looming large. Plenty think about contesting; few weather the potent storms of hesitation and self doubt, and come forth. There will be clandestine meetings with top brass of student outfits, prospects will be discussed, abilities (financial and otherwise) will be gauged, plan of action charted, and thus, alliances forged; except, at FTE, there's only one outfit: BVP.

Year after year, the BVP kicks anti-incumbency's arse to win the post of FGS, the supreme post at faculty level. Heck, there's no anti-incumbency at all, for the candidate of BVP becomes FGS unanimously, uncontested, year after year. Anyone with the temerity to contest for FGS at FTE on an SUI ticket is, in Don Corleone's parlance, taken care of. Such is the iron grip of BVP over FTE. It is, in a sense, the Maninagar of Narendra Modi, the Raebareli of Sonia Gandhi, the very Maharashtra Home Ministry of R. R Patil. 

And rightly so, for legend has it that it was BVP that helped expedite the commissioning of a machine worth crores of rupees into some lab of the Mechanical Engineering Department for students' practicals and research work. If it had not been for BVP, the proposal would still be rotting in the mouth of the giant bureaucratic snail that is the MSU administration. This is just one example. Over the years, BVP has done many things for FTE that civilian student folk (you, that is) needn't know. 

That's why, for all contesting for the posts at FTE, BVP it is.

Soon, it'll be time for the candidates to start preparing. Once the candidates submit duly filled nomination forms, they'll be assigned a unique number. This number is like symbols given to political parties. Then they'll call up their parents for a substantial fiscal stimulus, and once the money arrives, they'll line up at photo studios, clean shaven and serious looking, for close up shots that'll appear in their posters. They'll purchase numerous sim cards with free bulk messaging schemes. They'll prepare a huge database of students with their names and phone numbers. They'll register on way2sms and 160by2 websites. They'll swarm around Saffron Complex, placing massive printing orders for posters and handouts. They'll buy new, shiny clothes. They'll gather a bunch of cronies, and then, they'll start working on the most important thing of them all: the speech.

The scale of the preparations increases proportionally from DR to UGS.

About a couple of weeks from the E Day, it'll be time for campaigning in the classes. As the lecture goes on, one could see the candidates and their cronies peeping nervously through glass windows to see who is teaching; such pre-empting is important, for there are essentially three types of reactions of a lecturer to such interruption: relief, scorn and outright disapproval. Exactly 3 seconds later, much to the students' collective delight, the candidate will poke his head through a part-open door and ask the lecturer for permission. Upon a slight nod of the  lecturer's head, he'll take the stage as 4 of his cronies dart towards the rows, each with a handful of small rectangular pieces of paper bearing the name, mobile number and election number of the candidate in shabby orange ink.  They'll try and push those miniature handouts in every student's hand. Few of them will take it, few will take it only to fling it away right in front of the cronies, few will push their hands into their pockets and still others, who wish to kill off the remaining minutes of the lecture, will fashion tiny models of planes and boats out of the chits.

Meanwhile, the candidate is on the stage, where moments ago the lecturer stood. He has now either left the room or is staring out of some window, playing with a piece of chalk. The candidate prepares to deliver his speech. Any FTE student or graduate worth his salt will tell you that it is the speech that seals a candidate's fate; a confident forceful one is sure to manifest into votes, a fumbling one wouldn't even register. 

 'HELLO FRIENDS!' he'll shout. The class stares in silence. 'I SAID HELLO FRIENDS!' he'll try again. Still silence, and scattered chuckles. 'Myself Dhagash Desai, I am contesting...for the post of FR...from BVP panel. My number 4, number 4...SO FRIENDS! Please what for me, thanks' - goes the average speech of an FR candidate; for a couple of posts, there are laughably many in the fray. Hence their efforts half-hearted, the student reaction cold. 

Business begins when the biggie's arrive on the campus; those in running for the posts of UGS and VP. First ones to come will be the candidates from the Independent Students Union Organization (ISUO). These blokes, apparently without affiliations with any national political party, are like the 'Others' in a state or central election; they hardly get any votes besides their own. 

Next will be the guys from SUI. They will walk into classes quietly, deliver short, succinct speeches and get the hell out  of the campus. 

It's FTE boss, they don't have an option. 

Then, it'll be time for the stars to descend on the campus - the BVP candidates for UGS and VP. 

If in the dead of the afternoon, somewhere near Dandia Bazaar, you hear loud drums and louder slogans, know that the BVP candidates have arrived at FTE. They come in large numbers, amid great fanfare. Led by the FGS in waiting, their big numbers swell into classes, and  the UGS and VP hopefuls deliver their well-rehearsed speeches. Once both are done, the FGS takes over - inevitably the best orator. 

His will be an impassioned speech appealing every single student to come on election day, vote for BVP and thus honour the legendary 'techo spirit', just like batches upon batches of seniors have done before them. He'll then proceed to give a lengthy, illustrative explanation on the correct method of voting: 'Once you have put the stamp, be very sure that you fold your slip vertically. Do it horizontally, and your precious vote will be discarded'. All the while doing the said maneuver on a dummy slip of paper held over his head, looking like an air-hostess. He'll end with another warning. 'Those SUI buggers have a reputation of fielding dummy candidates whose names are quite similar to those of our BVP candidates. A cowardly strategy to confuse the voters and eat into the votes meant for our genuine candidates. That's why I ask you to memorize the numbers, don't forget: UGS 2, VP 2'. 

In accordance with the rules, the campaigning stops 48 hours prior to the E Day, and after a fortnight of frantic activity, the campus wears a dull, forlorn look. There are posters of candidates in fluorescent orange and green, occupying every single inch of available space on the walls of the classrooms, canteen, stairways, and toilets alike. And, on the ground, lay scattered thousands of those small rectangular chits in orange print, adding generously to the sweeper's woes. Every corner of the campus screams elections, but there's no noise. 

Nevertheless, the wily candidates make good use of the two days by continuing their promotions on electronic media. The phone will receive texts upon texts from different candidates at all hours making last ditch efforts to garner as many votes as possible.  


But the beauty of elections is that it all boils down to the one day, the one moment when a voter is alone at the ballot, with his voting slips and a swastik stamp. No amount of cajoling, prodding or arm twisting can either affect or change the vote he chooses to cast here. 

The Election Day at FTE, one of those rare days when the Sanjay Drawing Stores is open, but the faculty gates are closed, is a special day indeed, and deserves a lengthy mention. 

But the post is already too long, no?

Yes, so one last thought: With strict checking of college ID cards at the gate, students waiting in long queues to cast their vote, flying squads, and swivelling CCTV cameras, the Election Day is perhaps the most disciplined day at FTE in all year. Only the Lyngdoh Committee rules are flouted. 

Of Gutka and its Addicts

Just today, as i was walking along a road, the driver of an approaching car poked his head out of the window and spat a huge mouthful of chewed-and-battered contents of Gutka in thick red juice. A few tiny particles of his spit, too light to fall on the ground, wafted onto my face with the wind. The copious spit was still wet on the road as i passed by. The splash of  red liquid landing on the road from a considerable height had made a brilliant pattern, and I stood there for a moment to appreciate the man's impromptu piece of art on the surface of a road. Soon, with the sun beating down on it, it'll begin to lose its wetness and then, gradually, its redness. Soon, only a  yellowish-orange blot shall remain till it is washed away by rain or is eclipsed by a redder discharge from the mouth of another man on another vehicle, whichever is first.

I thought about the addicts.

Fascinating bunch of people are the gutka loving folk. With their mouths stuffed to the brim for large parts of the day, they speak less, talk less, listen more, observe more, think more, and thus, inevitably, have better stories to share, greater wisdom to part.

Consider this workshop assistant in the Mechanical Engineering Department of one engineering college.

Years upon years of relentless Gutka chewing meant his mouth looked like a war-torn city. Teeth that weren't already missing from their roots were half their supposed size. Around such stained and utterly tattered teeth, he possessed a thundering voice, a towering frame, and a temper that flared at the slightest nudge. He loved his tea as much as his gutka, if not more. With a mouth stuffed to the brim, he could be seen walking around the department doing his work, and getting work done; Often, He could be heard hurling choicest of expletives at fellow workers working inefficiently - something he had no patience with. This part, I know too well.

I was in one of the shops trying to cut a hollow cylindrical steel rod clamped onto a bench vice with a hack saw. He was sitting in the shop, mouth full, legs stretched over the desk. He observed. Minutes passed and i had barely made a few scratches. Suddenly, he got up, went to the dust bin and spat with a hint of disgust. He came to the bench, pushed me aside saying "su chakla chodya kare che" and started at the rod with furious, heavy strokes. Obviously, the rod was hacked within a minute.  

Make no mistake, He wasn't just brawns. His tumultuous head housed a sharp brain, one that churned out quick solutions to little mechanical problems in student projects and lab equipments. His solutions could be unorthodox, but they worked nonetheless. As the tech fest or project submissions drew nearer, confused students would go to him for help, and help he would. Mumbling solutions through stuffed mouth or spitting out the contents and explaining if the problem was grave.

In a department with disproportionate male population, He was the man.

This 15th August, as India celebrated 65 years of Independence, somewhere in Gujarat, the Chief Minister Narendra Modi declared a state-wide ban on Gutka, to be effective from September 11. The motive is to discourage the youth from falling for the habit of chewing tobacco, which could ultimately lead to oral cancer. "In money terms, gutka consumption is more expensive than eating almonds" He said. An observation worth noting. Almonds, for one, are quite expensive and are known to be memory boosters. Given the sheer magnitude of stuff students need to memorize in order to do well in Gujarat Board, swapping gutka for almonds could well be the game changer.

Whether addicts spit out the ban or the ban spits out addiction, remains to be seen.

Religiously Addicted

It is 5:30 am in the morning of 30^th March. Somewhere in the A1 coach of the Muzaffarpur bound Awadh Express, two men – uncle and nephew in relation – are seated leisurely on their berth. Influential, one could guess, for they had reserved their tickets through VIP quota. The nephew, a man in his early thirties, was dressed in a long, spotless white kurta type shirt and loose pyjama. He wore those planetary rings in almost all the fingers of his right hand, and the little finger nail hadn’t been cut for months. All this, a thick kada on the wrists and hair neatly parted from the middle gave him a menacing look. In contrast, the uncle looked comfortingly normal in his checked shirt and cotton trousers. Nonetheless, there was an unmistakable similarity in their appearances. The impeccable tilak on their foreheads – a yellow U with a small red circle in its lower half – left little doubt. They were devout members of the Swaminarayan sect.

It was poonam in a couple of days, and they were traveling to Chhapaiya, a village in Uttar Pradesh believed to be the birthplace of Lord Swaminarayan. For the nephew, visiting the mandir every poonam was a ritual. However, this poonam was extra special. It was the Lord’s birthday no less, and so there were about 200 more followers in the Sleeper coaches of the train, plus a distant friend in some 3AC coach who was to join them later for large parts of the journey.

With the passage of time, and some typical commuter-to-commuter small talk later, one realized the nephew wasn’t as menacing as his looks betrayed. Far from it, he was quite a fun guy as he waxed eloquent about his frequent visits on this very train, the murky politics at the mandir, and how he got a facebook-addict-CA-aspirant young cousin to take sankalp of visiting Chhapaiya every third poonam if the Lord helps him clear the CA finals. While talking, he would break into hearty laughter at little jokes, often his own. 

From the frequent phone calls he received and made (every single one of which started and ended with a “Jai..Swami..Narayan!”), the talk about whether Finance Minister Pranab Mukherjee would relent to demands of striking jewelers, and an impassioned debate with his uncle about the repercussions of the new budgetary policies, one could infer he was probably a commodities trader, trading in gold, silver and the like. Owing to the strike, the business was slow and he was looking forward to a peaceful fortnight in the Lord’s abode. 

Lunch time drew near, and they invited their distant friend from 3AC coach to join them. This distant friend, bespectacled and dyed black hair, had just retired from work and was going to Chhapaiya “after a long, long time”. He smiled, talked, nodded and smiled again like men of knowledge do. One peculiar characteristic was that he ended all his statements with a “hu?” – a rural Gujarati equivalent of “su” (“Aa athana nu tel feki aavu chu etle bagaad na thaay. hu?”) His battered teeth bore testimony to years and years of chewing gutkha, a habit he said he was trying to give up, albeit in vain.

He walked in with a small bag full of packaged foods, snacks and pickle he had picked up from a bustling eatery in Baroda. As he drew his wares out, the uncle and his nephew glared at him. “Bhai”, the uncle asked disbelievingly, “you eat OUTSIDE food?” Before this guy could reply, “Does that mean you also eat… onions… and garlic?” This friend shuddered and nodded woefully. “We won’t be eating anything of all this at all, so put it back in, you may eat with us”.

Devout with a capital D.

The uncle had never ever eaten ANYTHING but food cooked in his own home, and his nephew’s, and was shocked at how these days followers loosely obeyed the principles of the sect. The nephew who too had never eaten anything with onion or garlic, ever, nodded grimly and pulled out a huge bag from under the berth. The bag was full of boxes and containers of strictly home cooked food, diligently prepared without any traces of onion or garlic whatsoever, in a quantity that could last them for days.  They ate quietly in paper dishes and drank from water bottles they had carried from home.

In high spirits after the sumptuous meal, the nephew reached into his pocket and took out a packet of RMD gutkha, and holding it from its two corners, shook the pouch vigorously for a while. Then holding the pouch from one its corners in left hand, he repeatedly beat its contents with the forefinger of his right hand. The motions brought a smile to the friend’s face, and he asked “you eat?” “Oh yes” the nephew said “I used to smoke a lot when I was young… but was forced to kick the butt. Have been eating gutkha ever since… can’t go without eating 3-4 packets in a day” and neatly opened up the packet with his long thumb nail. The friend grinned at an all-too-familiar story “I too have been at it… but trying to give up… hardly have any these days”, he said sadly.

Sensing the man’s need, the nephew offered some gutkha to the friend, which he accepted, with part reluctance and part gladness. The packet’s remaining contents, the nephew emptied in his mouth, the way seasoned pros do. Happily chewing onto what he called  his dessert, the nephew revealed that he was carrying enough packets to last him the fortnight, for once you entered the state of Uttar Pradesh, there’s no way you can get RMD… or even Manikchand, and there they sold shitty brands like Dabangg Gutkha. The friend laughed and got up to leave for his seat. Once he was gone, the nephew sighed and took out another packet. This was uncharacteristic; his uncle frowned at him. “What? That old man ate half the packet” he said, and ripped open his packet instead of giving it the usual ceremonial opening, and filled his mouth to its rated capacity.

Just then, a loud bhajan started playing; it was the nephew’s phone. He brought to his ear and spoke through a mouthful of gutkha “Jai..Swami..Narayan, bol shu che, Gold?”

3 Hours of Pure Horror

And so it was, on the 19^th day of the month of April in the year of 2009, the Engineering Drawing 2 exam. For the fortunate ones who don’t know, Engineering Drawing 2 is the sequel to Engineering Drawing alias Engineering Graphics, the draconian subject that has been terrorizing thousands upon thousands of engineering fresher’s since time immemorial. Yes, the authorities might decide to call it Engineering Drawing “2”, but make no mistake; it is many times more difficult, more sinister, and more perilous than Engineering Drawing 1. Here, the lines and planes are replaced by SOLID objects. Heck, there are 5 kinds of the pyramid itself - from the docile triangular type to the menacing octagonal one. The notorious free hand drawings graduate from nuts and bolts to couplings and joints. Simply put, if ED 1 was Scarecrow, ED 2, my friend, is the Joker.

It was like any other exam day, albeit the tension in the air was intense and palpable. Quarter to 11, He, along with about a hundred others, walked into the gargantuan drawing hall with his drafter, drawing tools and a frightened soul. Settling into his assigned seat, he found a battered drawing board in front and a dysfunctional fan above.

Fuck, just what the doctor ordered.

But, assured that countless others in the room didn’t have anything better, he fixed his drafter, arranged the tools, clipped the drawing sheet and closed his eyes to pray to the Gods one last time, as the question papers were being distributed. Not one to waste any time in reading the question paper, he straightaway went to question 1, a problem on hexagonal pyramid (15 marks).

Just 15 marks for a hexagonal pyramid problem!

Ominous signs of impending danger. He counted the number of questions… 7! His heart beat faster, the exam had now begun. Trying hard to calm down, he picked up the pencil and focused all his attention on the question. Not too keen on making petty mistakes, he went over the question twice or thrice and underlined the important phrases and values, and began to draw… taking extra care of neatness and symmetry, and of course the solution to the problem. It was a type that never featured in those practice sums and assignments, the difficult type. But delving into the problem calmed him down and he patiently solved the problem, step by step, to the conclusion.

Phew, I think I have got it right.

Relieved, he glanced at his wrist watch, and realized, to his utter horror, that it was almost noon. A full hour in solving a question of 15 marks! Trouble. Again, his pulse shot up, and poignant memories of the ED 1 paper flooded back to his mind.

It was 29^th November 2008, final exam of first semester, and he believed he was well prepared, at least for section 1. The question paper too, in student parlance, was “easy” (5 questions in all). Buoyed, he had absolutely sailed through section 1, uncharacteristically confident about the correctness and neatness of his solutions. Section 2 had two questions – free hand drawings and orthographic drawing, 25 marks each, 1 hour to go. Ample time to do the orthographic drawing nicely and get all 25. Moreover, believe it or not, the orthographic problem was the same as the one given in an assignment. Jackpot! He happily chucked the free hand drawings (good for nothing fellows) and went all guns blazing on the orthographic, drawing more from memory than from looking. Done, 25 marks nailed. But, just then, a friend sitting a couple of rows back whispered to him and said “abe, X direction toh dekh! HELL, THE X DIRECTION IS… DIFFERENT! HOW COULD I MISS THAT! “Tune pura galat kar diya hai!” Pure Horror. For the uninitiated, changing the X direction turns the solution on its head, literally. What a brilliant move by the wily old prof. Around him, the invigilator had already started collecting the sheets and he had but a couple of minutes. Dazed, he picked up the eraser, pencil and the roller scale (to hell with the drafter) and furiously tried to make amends. But, a little is all he could do before it was time. 

Looks like this is going to be even worse.

 He was already on question 2 (15 marks); relatively easy but lengthy. However, his focus had began to whither, and he couldn’t help glancing at the watch every few minutes; the eraser came to be used more and more, the lines began to lose their sharpness and symmetry, and like it happens on most exam days, a random song started playing at the back of his mind. Sweating profusely, and desperately trying to keep the sweat beads from falling on the drawing sheet, he somehow scrambled to the finishing line on question 2. 12:50 pm.

2 hours, 30 marks. Ha, at least closing in on THE 40 mark.

Better part of the exam was over. An hour was all he had to salvage something out of this nightmare, and he moved onto the question 3. Focus continued to wither, and that random song played on incessantly as a part of his mind directed his hands in the development of a cone, and a part wandered back in time again to the first lecture of ED 1, to that spontaneous resolution he had made.

“Engineering drawing is not a subject; it is a language - a language of Mechanical Engineers. In future, if you want to communicate with the engineers in Germany or Japan or China, what will you do? Do you think they understand Hindi or Gujarati or English? No, but they will understand engineering drawing, they’ll understand what you tell them through your drawings” the veteran professor had said and smiled as his words of wisdom dawned upon his students, the mechanical engineers in the making, who listened with rapt attention.

I am going to MASTER engineering drawing.

Master? Yeah, right. There is no hope in hell.

 Horrified at the prospect of screwing up work with German and Japanese and Chinese engineers, he decided to step on the gas. There wasn’t any time for cuteness now. The swiftness of his strokes brought the battered board beneath to life, and the pencil’s fine lead occasionally punctured through the sheet as it traced the board’s own little peaks and valleys. Heat of the hour and heat of the moment triggered ceaseless sweating and several sweat beads from his head fell and made circular blobs on his sheet, on his solutions, bent over it as he was.

Can’t care lesser.

All the same, questions 3 and question 4 were done with, and with them Section 1 (50 marks). It was 1:45 pm, and the warning bell had just reverberated through the hall. 15 minutes was all he had to attempt something from section 2.

Fuck, there is NO other option.

 It was true; he didn’t have any other option than to go for the free hand drawings, his least favorite in all of ED syllabi. He absolutely detested the free hand drawings, for they had to be drawn with a free hand, something he outright sucked at. Nonetheless, he chose what he thought were the simplest from the choices and managed to draw a couple of things (3 marks each, only). Predictably, they didn’t look anything like they were meant to. Besides, not being able to recollect the exact dimensions, he labeled his drawings arbitrarily. Section 2 in his answer sheet was as good as blank.

Sharp at 2 pm, the bell launched into an exceeding long trrrriinnnnnggg, and on cue, the invigilators yelled “Stop writing!” “Please stop writing” as they scurried to collect the answer sheets from the students. “I TOLD YOU TO STOP WRITING!” roared one, a couple of rows in front.

If only this was about writing.

He smiled, unscrewed his drafter, straightened its rulers, and secured it in its special bag for good.