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[Enormous post alert]

JUDE BA admissions, ladies and gentlemen. The Greatest Show on earth, if only because it managed to sneak to the top for a few seconds while the list-makers weren't looking.

And a complete washout this year, the monsoon no-show notwithstanding.

Three years ago, I remember saying, "at JU, come admission test season, we have sheer, uncontrollable entertainment of the nerve-wrecking kind". We moaned and groaned about it, and justifiably so. Apart from the rush of sorting three thousand nervous prospective examinees--each armed with at least a Mummy or a Daddy--into their right buildings and right rooms, there were the 'human-interest' cases that provided fodder for addas weeks afterwards. Like this examinee who had been caught lurking in the men's loo in the Bangla department just before the exam began, and had to be dragged out of there loudly protesting. Yet he couldn't--or wouldn't--tell us what possible benefit his exam could derive from this little loo-retreat. There was that examphobic girl, who, when asked her name, forgot it in panic and had a complete breakdown, screaming her head off at Supchau and ADG. We've also had our fair share of imposters, fine moustachioed specimens of masculinity trying to pass themselves off as the delicate young flowers smiling up at us from the 4x4 picture box of the exam form (and vice versa).

My ever-memorable was the girl who was convinced we were trying to trick her out of sitting for the English entrance by sending her off to the Economics department.
"We simply cannot seat all of you in the English department," I tried to explain, but she waved it away like so much concocted excuse. After several minutes of struggle, I suddenly remembered the girl was from the West Bengal Higher Secondary board, and had what I thought was a stroke of genius.
"When you took your HS, did you take it in your own school?" I asked triumphantly.
"Oh no," said she, "I had to go to this school, you know, far away. It took a half an hour bus ride and then a rickshaw ride that took ten rupees--although the first day the man asked for fifteen, can you imagine, he thought I didn't know..."
"This is the same exact concept", I cut in hastily. "You want to get into the English department, so you must take your exam in the Economics department. All right?"
Her face lit up in comprehension, and I started walking away, totally patting myself on the back for this piece of absolute brilliance. Which was when I heard a sudden shocked gasp behind me.
"Yes?" I asked tersely, wondering what she could possibly have left to ask.
"So, if this is like the HS, and I should sit in a different department... then shouldn't I also be sitting in a different university? What university should I be at? What university? Tell me!"
At which point I ran away.

And then there were the parents. Always, always, there were the parents. For reasons we never fathomed, they were convinced that within the privacy of the exam-rooms, we were either ceremonially sacrificing their children, or extracting their entrails to dance upon. Or cunningly convincing them to snort cocaine. Or forcing them to perform the Kamasutra ("Performance as Text", eh?). Or inciting them to join the Sicilian mafia. Or encouraging them to become vegetarians and forswear biriyani. They were forever trying to break into the buildings, demanding to be "shown" that their children were all right. Most tried to strongarm their way in first (heh. We had five-people strong bouncer teams at every entrance for exactly such circs). That failing, they skulked in the building's shadows, trying to peek through the dirt-encrusted windows. Since the uni buildings are 'maintained' by government employees, the dirt has had fifty years to accumulate, making this an entirley pointless enterprise; but that's yet to deter determined parents, who enthusiastically make incomprehensible sign-language gestures in front of opaque sheets of glass. A smarter few actually manage to enter the building on the pretext of using the loo, and hide beneath ground-floor staircases waiting for the opportune moment when they can dash out and scramble up the stairs to where the exam rooms are. At least one examinee broke down into huge racking sobs when we firmly escorted her father down the stairs.

There was a reason BA admish. was called the annual disaster-management and damage-control day.

Then came Exam '09. Scorched in every previous year, we brought out the big guns. Entry had been divided up between three different gates. Crowd management teams were swarming all entry points. A large poster had been put up, warning stentoriously, "Abandon All Guardians, Ye Who Enter Here" [link=pic]. What we completely did not expect was that people would actually listen. A mild reproof was all it took for most mummy-daddy grandpa-grandmum pairs to back off, pushing the offspring forward with muttered blessings. The only case of slight resistance was handled masterfully (mistressfully?) by Supriyadi, when she insisted that a gentleman standing in queue for his daughter had to take the exam in her stead. "No no no!" said the nervous gentleman, backing away and waving his hands like windmills.
"Line e jokhon dariyechhen tokhon porikkha ditei hobe", said a firm Supriyadi, advancing. If you were found standing in the examinee's queue, you have to take the exam.

All in all, though, I'd like the unruly mob back. A few torn hairs and clutched collars makes the Entrance stew taste just right. In fact, if we run another deficit next year, I'm perfectly prepared to round up a few of my batchmates and start a loud fistfight in front of the main gate. Or we could intercept the lunch packets coming in from Milonda's and sell it to the starved parents milling about. Anything for a rousing chaos. Just say the word.

The "I" in Rimi

From summary of a link sent by a (suitably mischievous) Boston buddy:

"Hayden Panettiere got a new tattoo in Italian, spies Perez Hilton. Unfortunately for her, a word is misspelled. The saying "vivere senza rimipianti," which scrolls down the side of her body, supposedly means "to live without regret" -- but the correct spelling should be rimpianti,with no additional "i." Sounds like she may live to regret that."

"Ah", he adds, still mischievously, "the regrets of living without Rimi! The world is in sympathy with us".

He's lucky I've always found mischief delightfully endearing.

Lesson #1, or What Civilised People Eat

(It certainly isn't cheeseburgers, it isn't)

While still in Boston--which, despite all my pretend upturned noses, I have deep affection for--I made a list of things I would devour once I was back home, with preferred methods of cooking specified wherever applicable (I'm obsessive that way). Predictably, and aided by the subzero temps, my list began with biryani, and traversed kormas, koshas, rezalas, kalias, chNaaps, pulaos, and malaicurrys to reach the ultimate dessert: a rich, scrumptious, home-made pulir payesh--the pulis crisp with an outer layer of grated coconut and flour, but softened within by the gur (alas, no nolen gur this beastly time of the year) and a small amount of khoa kheer, garnished with slivered almonds and a few strands of saffron, so delicate they'd distintegrate around the neighbouring kishmish, plumped by the thin sweet milk under the thick kheer.

Plus I'd actually have proper Sunday breakfasts. Luchis, which I prefer soft and a golden-white as opposed to crispier and just turning golden-brown, and a basic but delcious alurdom, flavoured with tomatoes and garnished with dhone pata (which Americans call cilantro--quite a pleasing, if strange, name). Aluparathas without onions in the potato filling, and moglai parathas (my talent for killing a dish with words manifested itself once again when I called a moglai paratha "crisply fried thick paraths folded on itself in a triangle or a square to hold in a batter of eggs, salt, chopped onions and chopped chillies". My audience, who failed to realise frying the paratha cooks the batter too, went "Ewww! Gross!" in unison). And the deliciously deceptive koraishutir, hinger, or daaler kochuri--bloody time consuming to make and gobbled in a flash. I remember trying to describe the difference between hinger and daaler kochuri to someone on the local train once. "One is puri--the small puffs you get Indian restaurants?--with a filling of daal and asafoetida pasted together. The other is a puri filled with a different kind of daal paste cooked with slightly different spices". The lady kindly nodded her head, clearly not seeing the difference, and I feel like the sort of idiot whose head should be banged against a wall. Any wall. And then I did further damage by stating koraishutir kochuri's filling is made of a paste of "green peas and hot green chillies". I think I have put her off Bengali breakfasts forever.

Once I am done with that, I thought, I shall delve into the more mundane but no less heavenly alu-jhinga-posto, which I used to also inadequately translate as "potatoes and gourd in poppy-seed paste". And moog daal with aloo and begun bhaja. And I'd have prawns and diced pieces of chicken (marinated in garlic, a tiny bit of chopped ginger, salt, and lime juice) tossed and then simmered in chopped onions, chopped green chillies, and a few grated halves of tomatoes. Simple, but delicious. Then maybe a brief detour of Indian Chinese (chillie chicken, bless the US with thy presence!) before hitting the phuchkas, jhalmuris, egg-rolls, egg-chicken rolls, and mutton sami rolls (I really feel for this lady, the poor dear). And every time my sweet-tooth tickled, I could whip up a batch of malpoas in matter of minutes (give or take thirty).

However, what I've actually eaten in the last dizzyingly hot three days--bypassing the fragrant biryani and the payesh, awaiting my pleasure--is parboiled rice, mushur daal cooked the Bengali way (NO onions), pNuier dNata chochhori*, a light phulkopir daalna (no ghee, no tomatoes, and careful amounts of gorom moshla wonly), and the predictably Bengali machher jhol made with freshly-caught sweetwater (river) rui, and not aNshte bloody seafish, thank goodness! Breakfast, I've slept through, and have had chilled mangoes**, lichu and jamrul for dessert and general sustenance throughout the day.

And bigods, I've never felt this well-fed in a long, long time. Bless homecoming.

--
*pNui is possibly Malabar spinach, quite different from regular spinach. And chochhori is a slightly dry curry made of the spinach, the veins of the leaves, slices of potatoes, pumpkins, and sometimes a few pieces of brinjal. When cooked in summer, our cook+my mum+my aunts and greataunts convert the chochhori to a torkari, such that there is more gravy and less shallow frying of the vegetables.

** are lyangras is the market yet? Where I live we only get himshagor and other lesser variants, and himshagor is too sweet for me.

Conversations with Strange People

Reasoably attractive stranger to Rimi at Davis Square café: Uh, hi. Can I share this table with you? They [jabbing a finger towards the staff] say those tables are unavailable because they have to clean up a spill...
Rimi: please. Feel free.
Stranger: thanks!

After a while of general chitchat:

Stranger: so, I never actually introduced myself. Hi, I'm X (extends hand).
Rimi: hello. Rimi (shakes extended hand).
S: so... uh, are you British or just Indian?
R: just Indian, I am afraid.
S: 'cause you have this British accent. It's kinda cute.
R: I haven't really, but thank you.
S: (persistently) and you speak like English people too. All big words and "c-aa-nt", "d-aa-nce", "mum".
R: (laughing politely) well, at least we have the specifics now.
S: sorry?
R: "English" as opposed to the far-flung "British"?
S: you mean, like... the Irish accent?
R: I mean all the different countries and regions and local influences. There is quite a variety, I understand. And mine, of course, isn't one of them.

Just then three people enter with "Conserve Energy" leaflets and ask the proprietor/accountant/supervisor if they can leave a bunch next to the door. There is five minutes of putting up a couple of them on the wall, a cheerful "All the best with the rest!", and then the group leaves.

S: what is America coming to, huh?
R: (taken aback) good things, I hope.
S: do ya? With all this bullshit?
R: (looking around) which?
S: all this environment crap. You can't leave your lights on, you shouldn't take long showers, you should drive cheap little cars that supposedly use less gas... I mean, do I pay my taxes to be told what to do by a president I didn't event elect?
R: well. There is the little problem of diminishing resources, growing population, environmental damage...
S: oh, oh! Come on!
R:...and our leaders are expected to solve those for the 'greater common good'... I'm sorry, you were saying?
S: I agree with you! I agree that our "leaders", however they may have sneaked into office, have to solve these problems. But is that going to happen by going fascist on their own countrymen? It's like having a live-in mom!
R: I am all right with that, really. In my country we're quite used to the idea of living with our parents. We fight, we make up, we rebel, we concede... it's a viable enough model. The analogy certainly has precedence in political thought!
S: well yeah. I went to grad school at Harvard to study politics, I know all about the body politic and whatever. But this is a free country! It's the twenty first century! The government can't tell us what to do!
R: (dryly) I think you'll find it can, X.
S: in America it shouldn't, that's the whole point on which America was founded, Rimi. We are not a communist dictatorship.
R: I... do you really think so? Because America is a contemporary composite whole, you know? It's sort of not... not like India, for example, which has had a traditional system of integration and segregation between communities. America is sort of... homogenising, I think. Everybody is American first, so America cannot really -- I mean, this is what *I* think obviously, and I have no knowledge of the US constitution's history -- but I think even if the original framers of your constitution wanted minimum government interference, well...
S: because they were thoughtful people who were right.
R: very likely, but also because their approach to government was based on their own experiences with it. I mean, if you met an Indian girl when you were young, walking home from school, and she hit your and stole your lunch money and your watch and your new sneakers and hit you some more and ran away, I assume it would influence how you react to Indian girls. At least it would for most people, and that is an important thing to remember, don't you think? That was a stupid example and I'm not explaining this very well, but...
S: so... basically you're saying they were sorta right but also wrong?
R: (takes a deepish breath) I am saying that perhaps we should not simplify too much, and that we should always take evolving contexts into consideration.
S: well, I am not simplifying, and I am "taking context into consideration".
R: I'll have to take your word for it.
S: You know what, I hope you don't mind, but to be honest, I think you're being a little snooty. I think you're trying to tell me I don't understand the politics of my own country!
R: do you know, I rather think I am.

Fear Itself

Young Neelakantan, one of the current crop of JUDE ughhs (undergrads, for the uninitiated), has recently done one of those godawful Facebook survey/test things on fears. "Which of the 62 commonest fears do you have?", it asks intrusively, and then proceeds to list a set of fears that I am VERY hard pressed to believe are common at all (fear of silk; fear of "being myself" in company; fear of flowers). But this reminded me of a conversation I had with a an acquaintance--who, frankly, is a bit of an obnoxious prat--while walking back to our dorm from the local Mexican and Indian/Pakistani hub, Moody Street.

Rimi: oi, let's walk through this cemetary. It chops off a good twenty minutes.
Friend: What???
Rimi (raises voice slightly over evening traffic): Let us walk. Through. This cemetery.
Friend: are you mad! It is 11 at night! Cemetery!
R: But...what? Waitaminute, you'd rather walk uphill, downhill, then uphill again for twenty extra minutes because you're scared of walking through a cemetery?
F (emphatically): YES!
R: why?
F: I mean, I am not scared or anything. It's just not sensible.
R: common zombie precaution, you mean? On the same level as looking right, left, then right again before you cross the street?
F: (walks firmly past cemetery gate in steely silence)

After a few minutes of sulky silence, walking along the cemetery wall.

F: so you are not afraid of anything, eh?
R: plenty many things.
F: but they're all cool fears, I bet. Like being afraid of being kidnapped by aliens, because you're so special aliens would totally want to kidnap you.
R: (raises a silent eyebrow in the barely-lit darkness)
F: (not noticing eyebrow) or, or, maybe you're afraid of not getting an A in an exam. (flaps his hands) "Oh my god, I have got a B plus. Oh my god! What will I do!"
R (mildly): I'd probably go sit on a grave under the blood moon to feel better. Or jump from a fifty-feet cliff into a shark-infested lagoon. You never know with my kind.
F (moving away from a little): what do you mean, "my kind"? Are you... special... in any way?
R: (allows a moment's silence in fond remembrance of company that actually understands such basic irony)
R: I mean cool, fearless folks like me.
F: I bet you're afraid of cemeteries and darkness too.
R: I'm not.
F: so you would go into that house (points to empty ill-kept dark house overlooking the cemetery) all alone right now?
R: no.
F: aha!
R: because that would be trespassing.
F: would you at least do that jumping into shark-infested sea from a high cliff thing?
R: no.
F: hah!
R: because I am sensible, and I do not use that word as a euphemism for cowardice.
F: that's just...
R (calmly): but most importantly, because I have absolutely no need or desire to prove my assumed fearlessness to judgemental fools who measure bravery by idiocy. Goodnight.

I notice I am losing my temper oftener these days. Old age will out.