This post is cross-posted from the Tata Jagriti Yatra blog. I’d written the post during the yatra, and it was published in the blog, back then. Looking back at my archives, I thought this post is worth publishing. You may find the original post here. There’s another post of the same name in this blog – a post that dates four years back. Even it’s on the same lines. You might want to check it out here.

I’m no stud. Plagiarizing the title of Kiran Desai’s booker-winning piece wouldn’t make me one either. I’m that random guy you’d find on every other sleepy, small-town in India. I’d be sitting next to you on the public bus, sipping tea (aptly paid by a couple of borrowed one rupee coins) by a chawl, or even aimlessly roaming about on a crowded city road. “Another brick in the wall.” as you (a.k.a. ‘the stud’) might put it. You’re welcome; your gratitude for my praise is duly accepted and acknowledged. And before you brush my compliment off, dismissing me with the ‘brick-wall’ figure of speech, let me shed some more piece of info, buddy. I’m a tad different. I’ve this not one among these regular red bricks you see piled up by construction sites. I’ve a distinct shade of orange.

It took me a nation-wide train journey to fully comprehend the implications of my difference – A journey, which not only made me bankrupt and awakened me to the point of enlightenment. Bankrupt, because the organizers snubbed out my humble pleas for sponsorship and I had to bust my life’s savings for it. Enlightened, because even though I’m penniless, I’ve found my calling, and I’ve learned hundred times more than what they teach you at those B-schools.

Apologies for the digression and the hyperbole – but then again, you might’ve had an insight into the nuances of my simple mind. And allow me to get back to where I started off – the booker winning book’s title. I plagiarized the title because it was the phrase that made the most sense to me, given the chaotic circumstances. With your due permission, I shall elaborate on what actually transpired.

Okay, so to cut the human excreta, this train journey which instilled high hopes in me, not to mention romanticized notions of the country, was marked by the four letter word L-O-S-S. Materialistically speaking, I lost more than what I gained. Did you hear the song about a raspy-voiced guy singing about the things he’d lost in the past seven days? If not, shame on you. Feed yourself some staple food from your country’s watched movie industry, st-ude (st-ude = stud + dude, for further references). And since it’s been exactly seven days into this ‘Yatra’ and I’m sort-of maniacally-obsessed by the song, being the random movie-obsessed guy that I am, I thought I’d make the fact public, just like the raspy-voiced guy.

It all started on day 1, with an irreparable tear on my brand new Alen Solly shirt. Obnoxious optimism (with due regards to Mark Twain), made me attribute the primal loss to bad karma. With the smile back on my face, I leaped onto the train and set off. Then on, virtually, there was no looking back. Each day meant the loss of a new item. My favourite Nokia 3110c, my toothbrush, an unopened Reebok tee, an IIM Bangalore watch, my towel (lost to laundry), countless pens, medicines, and God-alone-knows-what. When I say the list is endless, it actually is.

It’s bad. Or rather, it’s *insert-expletive-here*. Each day, you wake up to check your purses, bags, and pockets, only to realize that you’ve another lost item. And the panic starts. You feel the trepidation in your arms, which is surprisingly infectious. Your arms, legs and your entire body, in that order, feel this blitzkrieg of adrenaline. And then, you start foraging. Your mind’s eye rushes through your memoirs of the past couple of (awake) hours, tracking your (invisible) footprints. And then, like the Na’avi from Avatar (watch the movie, if you haven’t), you leap off in pursuit. You overturn all the bags, books, blankets, soiled socks, stinky towels, and every other thing that blocks your line of sight. At first, your roommates are empathetic and willingly join-in. But with time, they realize that this is cest la vie for you. And then, you’re at the butt of ridicule. Progressively, you disappear into the ambiance as a lone maverick being, showing proof of your existence by making periodic appearances at the announcement desk beseeching the announcement of your latest loss.

If serious doubts about my optimist claim have started cropping up in your mind by now, chill. The sole reason why I never stop my search is because I know I’d find my stuff someday, somewhere. And yeah, I’ve already found most of them. Yet, each day beckons to a new loss, and I’d have to balance the pursuit of loss with the pursuit of inspiration, which I admit, is quite tasking. Yet, it’s no daunting task.

‘Cause if a brick like me can multitask, so can a stud like you! ☺

P.S.
If you find some of the items that I’ve mentioned anywhere around (not necessarily in the train), do give me a buzz. I’d certainly appreciate it, not just verbally.

Bottom Line

I actually ended up finding everything I lost on train, while plenty of others didn’t.

This friend of mine and her buddies were house-hunting in Hyderabad last weekend. Damn-serious they were, for,  the company they’d just joined would give the accommodation for just two weeks and one week was already over. They had to find a new place for themselves in a matter of two days. Not one, but two apartments actually: seperate flats for the guys and girls. Not that the guys had problems with sharing rooms – actually they unanimously proposed the idea earnestly, only to retract their statement after physical abuse by one among the feisty ladies.

Since the six of them were saving up for their downpayments – they chose to walk; and they did criss-cross half the city of Hyderabad on foot, in the brutal sun. Only, to rest on the steps of a defunct escalator at a ramshackle-mall, which they rushed into so as to escape the blinding heat. Haggard, exhausted, and dissapointed – the six of them aimless stared at the unfinished ceilings of the mall in despair – all their leads were bad, either the flat was too expensive, or the place was unclean, or the area was bad: Classic devil-deep-sea.

CC Credits: durai101

Shruti, gathering all her energy trudged herself to a nearby bookstore and returned with a copy of ‘The Hindu’, with its weekend edition of ‘Property Plus’. She’d bought the paper to ‘productively utilize’ her free time (the CAT classes showed). The Property Plus was a useful freebie; not for Shruti though. Tthe quintessential reader-chick, she opened the editorial page to confirm whether N. Ram shared her opinion on Maoists.  Meanwhile the others gobbled-up The Property Plus, marking eligible property ads for consideration.

Within a few minutes, Arun hit jackpot:

“Guys, check this one out!!”, he exclaimed. “You girls are going to love this one.”. The girls grabbed the paper and fought for eyeball-space. All except Shruti, who was still trying to date N. Ram. The girls seemed to share Arun’s opinion, if the ad were to be believed, the flat was truly above par. The deal-clinching part of the ad was: “Rents Negotiable.” Keerthi hooted with joy, involuntarily. Now, the hoot scared N. Ram away and Shruti glared at the girls from beneath the glasses. “Let me see.”, she snatched the paper from the girls. She took a moment to find the ad. Meanwhile, the girls had actually booked the flat in their minds and were eyeing Shruti expectantly- her ATM receipt showed a balance of 350,000 – the girls needed a coaxable-world-bank, all strings-attached.

“What the Fish?!”, Shruti’s croaky voice exclaimed. The girls leapt with joy; half the job’s done!

“Are you guys nuts?  Or are you just out of your senses?”

Okay, trouble.

“But, what’s wrong with this house? It’s so perfect, it’s  3BHK, it’s at a nice locality and has flexible rent. What more do you want? A bloody big palace, with your 350 grand bank balance huh?”, Rakhi retorted. This bitch had to lose it at the opportune moment, bugger.

“Didn’t you guys read this ad properly? Do you know a thing or two about Vaastu? !! Are you guys even living in India? A house needs to be built according to Vaastu rules, and if it isn’t – the occupants are doomed! This house lacks it – in fact, the owner has admitted in this ad that this house has Vaastu Complaints! Oh, probably the house was too good that you goodie-too-shoes fashonistas overlooked that bit!”, Shruti snapped angrily, pointing her fingers at the ‘Vaastu’ part of the obscurely-placed ad.

Rakhi leaned over and squinted to see that part of the ad. No sooner did she see the ad, her brazen expression shifted to a wide grin.

Soon, she Rakhi laughing uncontrollably, tears were coming out of her eyes and she was laughing too hard to talk, despite the best of her efforts! Puzzled, the others leaned over and took a good look at the ad. In a couple of moments’ time, they too joined in the laughter-spree. Shruti turned pink in anger.

“Is this some sort of new prank, assholes? Laugh, laugh! Bah, very funny!”

“Read… the… ad… <guffaws> … you… DUMBASS!” – Prithvi managed to gulp out just as much before he resumed laughing.

Shruti grabbed back the paper and took a better look at the ad:

Apartment Near High tech city.
3 BHK, 1026 sq.ft
Good Interiors, A/C, Vaastu Compliant
Negotiable Rent.

The girls booked the apartment the very next day – Shruti chipped in her share diligently. She doesn’t have any ‘compliants’, this time.

Oh btw, Shruti doesn’t flaunt her vocabulary and her CAT preparation a lot these days. All freshers in the company make it a point to offer their ‘compliants’ to Shruti, whenever they pass by.