Bombay, circa 2007

The taxi ride from the grand Taj overlooking the imposing Gateway Of India was one of those melodramatic moments, a Bombay rain trickling down the window sill, a solitary passenger looking out as Nariman point, Marine Drive, and Haji Ali all pass by. It was a moment of introspection, as one of self consolation in wake of possible disappointment. I thought of all the things that I said and should not have, and the inscrutable looks on the face of those eminent personas. I don’t know how much of what I said actually stemmed from my beliefs and not from my education. I only know it wasn’t too substantial. ‘I didn’t deserve it to begin with,’ I thought, and to quote my favourite dictum, ‘in the grand cosmic scheme of things, nothing really matters.’

Shanko hadn’t changed one bit, except for a little flab reduced, probably. An opportunity to fleece another of my still salaried comrades. The coffee and the chhole bhature and all the bakwaas exchanged across the table did little to dull a numb sense of missing-ness in me. A passage of three months can mark a lot of changes in some, and yet freeze a few in time as you could never believe. I guess I’ve had the best and worst of both.

The ride back to Taj was even worse. A dull pain somewhere in the pit of the stomach with the same discomfort made the ride even more melancholy. By the time I reached, there was still hour and half to go for the function. I did not want the time to pass, did not want to dress up in formals again and walk down. My shoes were untidy, my shirt crushed. Although trying my hardest to brace myself for disappointment with a straight face, I was unsure I could execute as escape act so well.

Ballroom, Taj Colaba, 7:30pm. The time had arrived. I made my way down, still hoping for a mighty power failure and the lift to be stuck. The red carpet way to Ballroom looked ominous, almost bloody. I almost heaved myself up to the room. Some of the crowd was already present. Some looked happy, others composed, most straight-faced. A motley of emotions was already present. I needed two glasses of khas to keep my mind occupied on the Brownian motion of the seeds in the drink. ‘We have assembled’….’in the memory of Aditya Birla..’……’excellence, commitment’….’leaders of tomorrow’…. I was in a different world. ‘And now, for the roll of honour, and we will start with the students from IIMs….’ …. Again that same sinking feeling. I made sure to shoot a prayer and sincerely believe it when I thanked silently that whatever happened, I was just glad to have got so far. I didn’t think I deserved even this. ‘Anurag Agarwal’…. Applause… ‘Kaushik Saha’…. More applause…. ‘susha kaul’, dubbed the Kashmir ki kali, J first hit from Bangalore! (don’t know why, but I always knew she would make it)…. ‘shaveen garg’ (I knew it for my padosi as well).. ‘the applause seems to be getting lesser’… more applause this time.

‘Anshuman Sinha, IIM Bangalore’. WHAT! Who?? How?? Me??? Why?? What for?? Did I end up making lesser number of mistakes than others??? All the questions whisked in a matter of the two seconds which it took me to stand, steady myself, and adjust my coat buttons. I didn’t hear any applause, another look to the heavens, a stuttering walk to the podium. I must have been very awkward, for I don’t know how I greeted Mrs Birla up there, I might have smiled, but must have looked fairly stupid. I walked back to the smiling two predecessors from my college, and realized it is probably real. I looked up again. I didn’t know what to say. At the end of the day, IIM Calcutta had a 100% conversion, and IIM Ahmedabad none. We managed a respectable 66%.

A photography session followed, with hazzar adjustments here and there. Till then the daze had subsided, my guess is for everyone, and warm handshakes were being exchanged all around. I felt bad for my two batchmates who missed out. The evening could have been so much better, and could have felt so perfect. Café Mondegar became the venue for the viewership of the India-Australia encounter, and champagne and wine, the means for celebration. The evening was made sweeter with the victory, although a disappointed face dampened my spirits a little. I felt a bit sad. The last half hour of the day was spent overlooking the Arabian Sea standing next to the well-lit Gateway, with a strong sea breeze and an even stronger drizzle. I didn’t want to say anything, didn’t want to feel anything – except for the elements. I felt alive. A bit sad, but mostly good.

A perfect end to a day riddled with self doubts and imperfections. Yes, I was an Aditya Birla Scholar now.

16% an MBA

The first term at IIM Bangalore passed by before I even realized it did. More than anything, it was a humbling experience, and academically speaking, the term disaster, though a bit extreme, kind of sums it up. The discomfort with which it started never really subsided, and before there was time to realize the impact, the term was already over, and I was heading out to Bombay while my comrades were still struggling with their exams.

While being back in an academic setting felt good, something in the general atmosphere did not. I was never at home, and always had to make an extra attempt to keep up with everyone else. Quizzes and exams occurred with an unforgiving frequency, and my confidence ebbed with every single one of them. I badly wanted to prove that I was good, and not an aberration of a not-quite-perfect admission criterion. And whenever I tried too hard, which was most of the times, I slipped. My lack of success was not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t, and I wanted to right that every second time I got a chance. Success had once again become a steroid that I dearly needed.

ABS shortlist happened, and it felt Godsend, not because I desperately wanted it, but because I needed a shot of assurance that I had lost somewhere in the mad race. I couldn’t care less from where it came. God knows how badly I wanted that.

There is a week of vacations, a week of home, a week worth of recharge now, before I bring myself back to the grind. Further duels and rat races ensue, but those can be pushed off to October and beyond. If one blink can mark the passage from July to September, surely a more grueling and demanding next two months can do better. One term is over, and 1/6^th of MBA-ness as been unofficially accrued to me.

I wish I had written this blog just after the end of the term, and not after ABS. Most of what I was feeling on the evening of 20^th has ebbed away. Hopefully it should signal a better start for the next term, just as it signaled an all’s-well-that-ends-well for the first term.