Last night, I was pursuing some long procrastinated work. The job was quite tedious and I had to sit up late into the night to get it done. As always, Amarok was blaring my favourite songs through my Creative 4.1, while I worked away. I’m in love with the Amarok shuffle algorithm – it beats the shits out of every other audio player in the market, even iPod/iTunes player, for that matter. My recently acquired the habit of putting all songs on shuffle comes from using Amarok – the song selection is eclectic in the best possible way. Hats-off to the community for the brilliant work on the music player!

It was roughly 2 AM in the morning, and I still had miles to go before I sleep. Nevertheless, I saved my files, switched off the monitor and flopped onto my bed, with music still on – albeit in low volume. It was time to call it a day. The ending notes of “Wish you were here” were fading away, probably taking cue from my sleep-deprived eyes. I’d almost slipped away into the valley of deep slumber when the Floyd song had concluded.

That was when Amarok decided to do a back-flip.

The psychedelic notes of Floyd gradually crossfaded to early-nineties jazz beats – complete with trumpets. Any Floyd fan would die for an encore of the favourite track – hence, the crossfade proved jarring to my ears. Enraged, I woke up with a start and rushed to the keyboard to plus the “Ctrl+V” shortcut for the next song.

I stopped, midway.

The jazz beats gave strong deja vu. The trumpets, the generous use of nineties’-electronic guitar; it was one song I thought I’d never forget – yet, I couldn’t place it fully. I sat down on the bed, as my head lowered itself involuntarily, as my mind raced through the portals of my long-term memory, in search of the track. (I could easily have walked upto the monitor and switched it on to check the track out, but somehow, I didn’t.)  That was when the jazz beats paused momentarily, and a resounding male voice ensued.

The same voice that muttered “Aal izz well!” – the voice of Aamir Khan! I listened in silent recognition, involuntarily smiling in the process, as I listened to Aamir’s (famous) monologue from his debut-movie “Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak”:

Doston (Friends),

Aaj college ka aakhri din hai, (Today’s the last day of college)
aur aane waale zindagi ke liye sabhi ne kuch na kuch soch rakha hai. (And all of you would’ve thought what to do with the rest of your lives.)
Lekin maine apne liye kuch nahin socha hai! (But I haven’t done that!)
No, really I mean it.
Aur aaj, aaj mujhe baar baar, ek hi khayaal aa raha hai… (And today… Today, I this thought repeatedly comes back to my mind…)

As Udit Narayan‘s voice took over from Aamir to sing the rest of “Papa kehte hai bada naam karega…” (My dad’s told me that I’d be famous.) - I couldn’t help lip-sync and sing the entire song, prancing about the room – in elation and goosebumps!

As the song concluded, I realized that I was smiling incessantly. I felt so ironic and overjoyed. Turns out that even I’m at the fag end of my college life, and I’m still at crossroads regarding what to do with the rest of my life, while the people around me have more or less zeroed in on their futures.

And the best part is, there used to be a time, I emphasize, there USED TO be a time, when my ‘Papa’ used to constantly reassure me that I’d have a “bada naam” in life!

Not having a clue about life used to bug me big time – it used to inculcate this huge wave of depression in me. Having already chosen the wrong career option three years back, and struggling to escape from it, I couldn’t make another mistake with my life – this fact used to plague me badly. Constant thoughts about careers barraged my mind with needless anxiety and I was confused. Even though I’d reached an interim conclusion about the career that I’d (hopefully) be pursuing post-B.Tech, the daunting task of preparing myself for it still scares me – considering the fact that I’m a habitual procrastinator afflicted by the ‘lazybones-syndrome’.

But this song, made the confusion seem ‘fashionable’ and actually inspiring. The first stanza of the song literal translates to: “My dad reassures me that I’d do well in life, but I’ve no clue where I’d end up.” But unlike Aamir Khan, I don’t have an inspired, teary-eyed dad watching his happy-go-lucky son sing glory about his long lost father’s belief in his capabilities. In my case, well, circumstances (many of which were self-made) made my dad openly retract his assurances, which is the worst thing a dejected son/daughter could get. But the song kindled sweet, long-lost memories of doting-praise and patient, endearing-encouragement – I got my much-needed recharge!

Perhaps, my dad was watching at a singing-dancing me through my room door’s peephole, silently-inspired, with tears welling in his eyes!!

P.S.

Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life…
The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives,
Some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t.

- From Baz Luhrman‘s Sunscreen

Classrooms – the rightful abode of modern education, worldwide. The word brings in a plethora of assorted images to the mind of any adult who’s been through school/college. High aired ceilings, black/white boards, an assortment of educational aids and paraphernalia that includes ergonomically designed furniture with slant panels for easy writing and niches for bags .

Apart from these usual suspects, there is another entity common to all classrooms worldwide. It doesn’t show itself at the outset. You’ve to keep your eyes open to see it. But once you get a glimpse, the discreet quality of this item metamorphoses into a totally different one. Into something glaring and in-your-face.Your reaction would, essentially, be binary. Either you’d grope all about your torso, as you roll over the floor in in-suppressible laughter, or you’d find your face quell up all red, in deep anger. There’s a worst-case scenario – you could even be transmogrified into a living-breathing straight-face smiley!

True, the graffiti that adorns all our classrooms are universal paradigms of modern art, with oeuvres of shock-value to boot!

Image Courtesy: Good schools Pensylvania

The reasons behind such works of art are myriad, but the key lies firmly in the locks of youthful exuberance. The human mind, as they say, is a receptacle at its best, in the heydays of youth. From suppressed rage and existential angst to mind-numbing boredom rooted from lack of satiation, the causes are numerous. Kindled by the blitzkrieg of incomprehensible knowledge, imparted through droning voices, floodgates of inscrutable emotions are let loose. Having waited long for the cue, forearms bustling with raw talent transform, cheap ball-point ink into two dimensional objet d’ art. Ta dah!

There’s a strangely common feature among all such works of art. Despite the spontaneity, despite the supposedly-amateurish feel, there is an innate professionalism in these works. Hidden deep down in the most illegible of graffiti, there’s angst and passion, and that makes it original. Unlike toilet graffiti, which comes out of an urge to deface a public place, classroom graffiti has nobler intentions. It’s more of an outpour and rightful employment of the freedom of expression right enshrined in the constitution. Most graffiti are texts. Abuses top the list, followed by names, nick names, crushes, love-you lists and the like. Some even engrave rib-tickling jokes. The common writing instrument is the ubiquitous ball point pen (blue/black). Whiteners are also prefered for the exclusive ‘contrast’ effect they provide. In times of need, even pencils fill the void. Dividers and compasses serve the purpose with an irreversible ‘engrave’ effect.

The lesser minds (or higher authorities, as they so self-respectfully term themselves) aren’t quite enamored with such graphical brilliance. Their craniums fail to interpret the dexterity and the artful panache of such works of art. For them, the full blown proclamation of ‘mech-spirit’ emblazoned in stylish font is but gibberish. The spectacular curves of female anatomy magnificently compressing three astute dimensions in two, is pornography! Phone numbers, “call me” signs, email ids, nostalgic farewells, historic proclamations, in-your-face truths, defamation of lesser mortals, – all are absolute sacrilege! Once discovered, a red alert is sounded. Heads roll. Codes of conduct are imposed. Notices are read. The random victim is pulled up and grossly fined.  Inexperienced local painters, armed with low quality sandpapers and cheap, glossy distempers devastate hours of careful craft with pale, staid disfigurement. The entire room – benches, desks, walls, stare back at you with a pale blankness. An absence, a void, as if beseeching for more graffiti.

The nameless artist is never deterred  by such acts of forced-removal. He displays his wares in the classroom canvas, within days of the gagging act. Soon, many more are inspired, and normalcy is restored. The classroom is a full-fledged art gallery, once more. The lecturers, blissfully unaware of the art-gallery metamorphosis, due to the discrete nature of the act, go about doing their duties, until a very deviant artist portrays a rather outrageous piece of art (a laughably poignant piece, for the students) that suitably enrages the guru.

The cycle repeats itself, and hopefully will, for the rest of eternity!

P.S.

23 days without posts – yes, I had an eventual month. Very bloggable. BRB with a post on what actually transpired.