Monday, December 31, 2007


I am a tourist in the city I grew up in.

Trivandrum is changing. There are new signs of prosperity everywhere, of course, but there is more as well. The whole culture is changing. Men's boutiques and male-only hair salons are springing up everywhere. Mallu men who used to think coconut oil was the best styling gel are now becoming metrosexuals. They strut about in tight jeans and colourful shirts, with coloured hair cut the right length - thinking they're on par with their counterparts in the big cities. And they are - some of them.

The old manor-houses of the city are being swallowed up by real-estate sharks, who spit back out perfectly symmetrical concrete cuboids. Previously, the rich used to live in old venerable houses set back from the road in vast grounds, with whitewashed walls growing green with moss and clay tiles turning black with time. Now, they've exchanged the beauty and the space and the greenery for sets of little squares with perfect plumbing, inside cuboids guarded by a 'security' in a uniform.

But who am I criticizing? The very apartment my parents are renting was built on the pyre of one such manor house. They were a set of three houses, my grandmother tells me, belonging to a man famous for his land and his wealth. He gave one house to each of his three daughters, and one of them (or more likely, her sons) sold out. I can see one of the surviving houses from here - it strives for privacy, trying to hide behind coconut leaves and mango trees, but to no avail.

I go to Palayam market, and barely recognize it. But I can't quite remember what it used to look like either, because the new place is so different - so open and so light. Then my mother reminds me of Good Morning Stores, and memory is triggered. I look around, and compare the image my mind has just come up with to the new reality, and draw a blank.

It used to be a narrow street, clogged with tiny shops (mostly 'Fancy Stores', the memory says - oh, the excitement that phrase still evokes). The vegetable market to the left was an unhygienic place, with a dirt floor and ex-vegetables strewn about everywhere. In the rainy season, one would go in and come back out with splattered clothes and shoes clogged with mud. And now - the vegetable remains are still there, but everything looks so hygienic. It's a vegetable market of the twenty-first century, with none of the dirt and squalor one used to be so familiar with. I'm not sure which one I prefer, though.

The main road has been cleared of the fancy stores, and is now a one-way. But while crossing, I still look both ways, out of habit. But there is so much light - it's hard to get used to. The pink mosque is still there, as is the stadium, with the addition of a decidedly ugly 'torch tower', whatever that may be. The Legislature building looks prettier, somehow.. I look at it in the light of the setting sun and suddenly I'm filled with - a sort of grief, is that it? I mourn for the lost me; the innocent me who didn't know anything of what was to come, who dreamt for one whole year of going to Delhi, not knowing what would happen to her, how the big city would change her and make her a cynic.

Vegetable shopping used to happen on Saturday evenings. The mosque would bugle out its prayer call at dusk, and the city would slowly darken, and then the street lights would come on and the silver Jesus, casting benevolence over the city from the top of the red church opposite the mosque, would be lit up. I would sit in the car, vegetable shopping done with and ice cream at Baskin & Robbins to look forward to, and look at Him, and at the Martyrs' Memorial, and dream. My city, my city, my city.
• • •

Monday, October 29, 2007

Missing Delhi - Again

I feel like going to Delhi. It will be so nice there just now - the beginning of winter, the faint chill in the morning, Diwali just around the corner. Yup, I'm going to miss Delhi much more in the winters than in the summers.

It's hard to realize that Delhi is still going on without me. Every day, people must be going about their humdrum Delhi lives like I used to - stand at the bus stops I used to stand at, wait for the buses I used to wait for, take the metro to college like I used to, curse the heat as I used to, make plans to meet friends at Dilli Haat or Priya or Anzal's, or go to Kamala Nagar or.. Gosh, there's that feeling in my stomach again, the one I love and hate at the same time, the bitter-sweetness of nostalgia.

I don't miss college: I promised myself that I wouldn't, and I don't. But I miss the Delhi atmosphere. Delhi was the first city I fell in love with, the first city I half-discovered for myself, the first city whose pulse I thought I knew, though I suppose I was aware even then that I was wrong: there are so many Delhi's that it's impossible to know even half of them.

The best thing about Delhi is that she will take in anyone. Anyone can find some spot for themselves, in some part of the city, in some community or the other. Delhi will not accept you easily; you will be made to go through her initiation rituals. Whether you find them rigorous or not depends upon you; God knows I went through a trial by fire. Strangely enough, each Delhi you discover requires you to go through a different ritual, but each of these Delhi's brings you closer to the core of the city, so it's like peeling away the onion skins one by one, only there's no end to this particular onion.

I just went through all my Delhi posts. Darn, now I really am nostalgic. I want to go back NOW. I want to do street-shopping. I want to eat at Wenger's. I want to travel on the Metro. I want to go Sunday shopping with my parents to C. P. I want to make plans to go for lunch to Noodle's or Momo Point in Kamala Nagar. I want to travel by DTC buses. I want to haggle with auto-wallahs. I want to peer into the fog for the morning U-special (Ah, U-specials!). I want to go to Deer Park for a walk. I want to feel the wind in my face while travelling by bus on the Delhi roads. I want to see the red stone of South Block; the President's House, India Gate. I want to do the college-home commute once more; no, many times more - once by U-special, once by the Metro, once only by bus. I want to spend an afternoon at Dilli Haat, watch the dusk come on, see the string of balloons going up into the sky, see the colours, hear the plaintive wail that guy with the musical instrument makes. I want to see kites being flown from roof tops. I want to lie on my bed and watch through the window as aeroplanes come in to land at the airport. I want to drink banta for five bucks at Sarojini. I want to see fruits and vegetables lit up by yellow light at street markets. I want to travel in a bus by night, watching the people outside. I want to return home from shopping, loaded with bags and bags of clothes. I want to relive the laughter, the jokes, the friendship.

Strange to realize that all these things are in my head, that all of them can never be again, that even if I go back, I will be a different person, so all of these things will be different. My house was emptied, someone else is probably staying there now. The sunlight will be the same, the wind, the noise from outside, but all those rooms are furnished that way only in my memory now. How strange.
• • •

Saturday, October 13, 2007

Sunrise at Dimna Lake

Nine bikes - one ride in the darkness, through narrow winding roads, braving potholes and speed breakers, to watch sunrise at Dimna Lake.

I'd been to Dimna Lake twice before. The first time, I slipped and fell in, and my mp3 player died on me. The second time, I spent an entire day inside it, and rediscovered the joy of being at ease in water, letting it take over my body. This time was different again.

There were nine bikes and sixteen riders. I was riding behind Ninja, which was good, because I'd ridden with him before, and I didn't worry as much as I would have with someone unknown. Though my biggest anxiety, I have to admit, was that I would fall asleep on the bike; we'd gone out for dinner the night before, and I'd slept at three, to wake up at four.

We started off at four-thirty, with the aim of making it to Dimna by sunrise. The whole ride took less than half an hour, even with stoppages, so the more experienced among us were dissatisfied. But for a novice rider like me, it was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life.

Out of the b-school, and off through the mostly empty roads of The 'City' to Mango Bridge. And then riding through the darkness of the winding roads, surrounded by trees on both sides, and the looming deeper black of hills half-seen, with only the blurred red lights of the bikes ahead to keep you company. There was wind, and cold, but I didn't feel it much, because of the sheer exhilaration of travelling at high speed in a bike through the darkness.

Dimna at dawn is an amazing sight. The lake and the surrounding hills are grey, and fog hangs heavy on top of the water. It curls around the trees on the surrounding hills, and makes them look like graveyards with tall grave-stones. When we reached, the light was just starting to flow in, and the grey lightened by the minute. There was a black irregular shadow on the water, under the fog, but I couldn't figure out what it was, and then someone enlightened me - it was the reflection of the hills above, black against the lightening sky.

We walked on to the dam, and I reminisced about my disastrous fall into the lake. The world was lightening slowly, but we wondered if we would see a proper sunrise, because of the fog. The sky was a multi-coloured haze, the red at the horizon fading into grey. It was beautiful. The fog was lifting slowly. Wisps of it were travelling about the water. Watching the phenomenon was a skin-crawling experience, because it looked like a purposeful battalion of newly-dead souls, passing over to the other side.

People kept taking pictures of everything, trying to capture the moment, the beauty of the place, but it was quite impossible, of course. And as an aside, I think they were so busy trying to capture the moment that they lost out on the actual enjoyment of it.

There were people practising yoga on benches by the path. We asked one of them to take a group pic. And just as the photo-taking session ended, Shivi looked up and said, "Ah, there's the sun. Finally!" And indeed, there it was, a pale orange thing wreathed in fog. But it slowly came up, and the orange deepened, until it looked like a blood red coin hanging in the sky. It was reflected in the water, too, twice over, so that there were three suns.

A few minutes of watching the sun and clicking pictures, and it was time to go back. The ride back home was faster, and scarier - more traffic, more people, more pot-holes. It didn't bring the same level of exhilaration as the night ride, but I'd enjoyed myself so thorougly that it didn't matter; I was content.

Here's a pic of the people who went, minus me and a classmate, because we were the ones clicking.

• • •

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

How It Feels

I walk on endlessly, along the lonely surface. All is quiet. The river beside me makes no noise as it flows along. Its depths are too deep, perhaps. The sand is silver, it rises gently to my right. I am alone. I have been alone many times before, yes, but not lonely. Not this lonely. Before, I knew of people who cared for me, who walked with me in spirit. Now - I am alone, truly alone, cut off from others. And I regret it, I regret it because I know that it was I who cut myself off. Others reached out for me, I ignored them. I hastened away, determined to not need them. And now they have turned away, they care no more. Even if I reached out now, even if I beseeched them, would they hear me? Would they want to?

The river beside me is so silent I do not know if it is flowing or not. I do not want to look into it, I know what I will see. Not the stars in the cloudless sky above, no. I will see faces, memories. I will see the people I cast off, the people I wish would surround me now. And they will invite me down, and I will go with them. I will drown in my memories. I must not.

There is no concept of time here. I do not know when I started walking, or when I shall stop. Perhaps I have stopped before, perhaps I have started again. There is no beginning here, no ending. My consciousness begins and ends with this desolate place, this silent river, these silver sands, this starry sky. I would be nothing if I were not here.

Nothing changes, how ever much I walk. I yearn for a friendly face, a call of greeting, but I am alone. No footprints on the sand, nothing to tell me that I am not alone. I wish I could be certain that there are people who know that I exist, that I am here, that I suffer. But if I could be certain of that, I wouldn't be in this place.

Powered by ScribeFire.
• • •

Saturday, June 09, 2007

Black and White, Inverted

Thiridon surged on ahead to the cliff edge and stood there with his arms spread wide open. "We can go back now, brother!" he turned back and shouted at me joyfully. I was similarly elated, but more mindful of the spears and stones following us. I stood there on the cliff top and looked out over the blue sea below. A spear whizzed by me. I turned back and smiled at the White Barbarians chasing us. Their faces were pink with exertion, and their eyes red with malevolence.

I turned back to the sea and took my tunic off. My wings, proud and black with steel grey glints, sprang forth and oh, what ecstasy it would be to be able to use them again. No more would my feet cut and bleed over sharp stones.

More spears and sticks passed by and fell down, down into the sea. Thiridon and I flexed our wings, and then sprang into the air. Oh, the joy of being in the air again! We flew for the clouds, and the White Barbarians gasped in amazement. Our black bodies glinted in the morning sunshine, and I enjoyed the contrast we made against the white fluffy clouds. All White need not be evil, after all.
• • •

Friday, May 25, 2007


I can't deal with the grief. It's as if my mind, travelling down a dark road, knocks against a giant stone of grief. It twists away and tries to go down lighter paths, to places where there is still sunshine, and birds, and flowers. But the light always turns to darkness, and the paths always return to the grief. And each time my mind knocks against it again, the knowledge, the implications, the pain is almost as bad as the first time. And again and again and again, my mind twists away and tries to escape, but it can't. Numbness is the only escape now.

I heard this in a song once - I wonder if I have done enough good deeds to be able to meet you in another lifetime. Fare thee well, friend.

Powered by ScribeFire.
• • •

Wednesday, May 02, 2007


I'd just put the stack of test papers on the table when the lights went off. Damn, I'd forgotten that the load-shedding was from seven to seven-thirty this week.

"Sharade!" I called. "Do you have the candles?"
"Yes, come out to the veranda. I've lit them here so that the children can study."

The test papers would have to wait. I went out to the veranda. Sharada had lit the two big candles and placed them on the half wall. The children were seated on either side, reading from their text-books. They both had exams the next day.

I hitched up my mundu and stepped out into the front yard. The moon was almost full, and cast a silvery shadow on everything. I paced the yard, from the veranda to the gate. Actually, I hadn't built a gate as yet - the house was separated from the unpaved public road only by a fence of tiny sticks. A gap in the fence was the entryway.

Our little yard was bright with the moonlight, but the road, tree-lined on both sides, was dark. I dared not go out there, for fear of stepping on a snake. Other families on our street were sitting outside too, to escape the heat. They fanned themselves with newspapers and talked of the day's happenings. I listened to the low murmur of their voices and wondered what they would do if the load-shedding suddenly stopped one day and they had no half-hour window in which to unwind.

The candles cast a flickering light on the children's faces as they studied. They slapped at the mosquitoes occasionally. Sharada sat on the other side of the half-wall, hugging her knees to her chest, staring at nothing. Her red nightie was blue in the moonlight. I wondered what she was thinking.

"Did you switch off the TV?" I asked.
"Yes, I think so," she replied automatically, not looking at me.

I sighed. Ever since we had moved here, she had done nothing but complain. She didn't like the house, she didn't like the village, she didn't like the neighbours. She didn't like the village school with its crumbling walls and its dodgy roof. She complained that having to move just before the exams would affect the children's performance.

"It's not like they're writing the SSLC exams this year!" I had shouted at her, exasperated. "What do you expect me to do, woman? I've been transferred and there's nothing I can do about it!"
She'd started crying then, and as usual, my anger had died in a flash and been replaced with helplessness.
"You could have done something about it. You could have looked the other way."
I had no answer. We had discussed this before.
"How many times, Renjith? How many times do you expect me to pack everything up and follow you?"
"As many times as.." I'd started, then stopped, unable to remember what I'd been about to say.
"As many times as it takes for your principles to erode," she had said cynically. "Because trust me, that will happen some time or the other."

I thought now of my principles. Because of them, my children had already studied in five different schools in five different cities. They had never quite learnt to call any place home. My wife had stopped unpacking anything except the essentials, because there was no point.

And now we had landed up here, in this peaceful little village. It was in the backwaters, and there were canals everywhere. The children went to school in the morning in a little boat. There were coconut trees and mango trees and jackfruit trees and neem trees and banyan trees. The people were nice and cared about you. The wind always carried the smell of cold water and when it rained, the raindrops played out a rhythmic orchestra on the banana leaves. It reminded me of my childhood home. I had been sent here on a 'punishment transfer,' but it felt like Heaven to me.

As for Sharada - I knew I could convince her. I would bribe her with the hope of a home. She was looking for stability, and I would offer her that. There couldn't be too many underhanded things going on in this tiny place. And even if there were - even if the local rich man mended the school roof so that his son could pass the exams with flying colours, or if the Principal was a bit careless with the school funds - well, one could always compromise. No compromise was too big if one got Heaven in exchange.

Powered by ScribeFire.
• • •

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Episode XXIII

There was no milk in the fridge. Sarala opened the window and shouted at Raju, "There's no milk. Shall I make the tea without milk?" "Hmmm," Raju replied, deep in his newspaper. She knew he hadn't heard a word of what she'd said, but she didn't want to go to the corner shop just to get milk for his morning tea. He certainly wouldn't dream of going.

She made the tea and took it out to him. Raju took one sip and spat it out.
"What kind of tea is this?" he asked furiously.
"There was no milk, so I thought.."
"Don't you know I don't like tea without milk?"
This wasn't true, he had drunk tea plenty of times without milk, but that had been before.
"I did ask you," she said defensively.
"Just now. I asked from the window."
"Don't lie! You just want to make my life living Hell!" Raju said. He threw the cup on the ground, where it broke into three pieces and lay like a fallen bird, bleeding the brown water into the earth. He gathered up his newspaper and strode furiously away.

Sarala stood there, blinking furiously in an effort to not cry in front of the neighbours, who would all be behind their twitching curtains watching this daily episode of the neighbourhood drama. After a while, she bent over and picked up the broken cup. It was white with blue flowers and a golden border, part of a set that had been gifted to her by her parents for her wedding. The tea set had survived the first eight years of her marriage unscathed, but not the last two. This had been the last cup.

Powered by ScribeFire.

• • •

Saturday, April 14, 2007

Giving In

They keep coming back, the demons in black. Their faces are disfigured, their hands are claws. They keep coming back. How can I make them stay away, how can I satisfy their hunger? Each time, I give them something, something precious to me, some bit of me that I shall have to learn to live without. Soon, I shall have nothing left to give, and then they shall take away the thing they want, the thing they keep coming back for. It's inevitable.

Each time they come, I struggle with the despair. Each time, I am tempted to end it, to give them what they seek. Each time, the part of me that is still alive, that can still remember the swaying trees of childhood and the scent of the sea wind, wins somehow. I don't know how long it can hold out. And it's pointless - a last battle in a war that has already been lost.

If I end it this time, I can escape the struggle. I can escape the despair, the gloom, the ennui of existence. Let me do it, God. Let my stubbornness seep away and let me give in. Let me give in.
• • •

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Red Day

It was going to be a red day. The sun rose early, bleeding over the city ruthlessly. The tops of buildings and trees and hills turned red and then yellow and then white. Everyone knew what was going to happen. Everyone waited breathlessly.

It began in the East, across the Yamuna. Screams and cries echoed over the water. Smoke curled up, dark and threatening, like an approaching thunderstorm. People looked to the East, eyes sheltered, and then retreated into whatever safety they thought they had found. The safety of their religion, the safety of their friends, the safety, perhaps, of violence.

It continued. Blood flowed down from the East to the West. Rumours would have flowered, except they could find no soil. No one spoke to one another. Neighbours had become possible foes, friends had become possible victims. Only family counted - family, and religion. Every other bond had broken down.

It ended at dusk. The sun turned red for the second time that day, but the city - the city had been red all along.

Powered by ScribeFire.

• • •

Sunday, April 08, 2007

Wind - II

It was misfortune. Yes, it was. Couldn't have happened otherwise. She slipped and fell. There was no earthly reason for her to - no, I won't think about it. She wouldn't have done that to me. To us. Look at him, sitting there. Why did we let her go? Knowing her, how careless she is, how she sometimes doesn't quite live in this world. She must have gone to the edge to look at the ocean. She must have seen it below her, blue and green and white. And then.

How could it have happened? Did God see her through a parting in the clouds? Did He see her standing there, a beautiful slender little thing on the edge of that black black cliff? Was there a ray of sunshine on her, making her hair golden and her eyes wistful? Did He suddenly want her back? Did He send a spurt of wind to bring her back to Him?

Or did she want to go back to Him?

Powered by ScribeFire.
• • •


She loves the wind. She loves the way it tugs at her hair. She loves that free-floating feeling it gives her. The wind brings with it the sound of sea gulls from the sea shore below. The smell of the salty sea as it breaks on the rocks. She wishes she could live on wind - eat it, drink it, float along with it. Maybe in the next life. She spreads her arms and leans forward and lets the wind take her.

• • •

Friday, February 16, 2007


Venue: IIFT Bhawan, Delhi.
Time: 15th Feb, 2006, 9:30 AM.

Gave my first proper interview of the season yesterday.

I got there at about a quarter past nine, feeling very grown-up in my brand new black Van Heusen suit, black 'formal' shoes and pearl earrings stolen from my mother. I was clutching a black folder with my meagre collection of certificates filed inside. My parents wished me 'Best of luck' and I walked in. The guard directed me to the building in front, and I went straight through. A series of people directed me to a room on the first floor (it was actually the second floor, but the ground floor is called basement for some reason.) where there were a whole lot of other people sitting in tense anticipation.

I took my seat, signed the attendance sheet and was given a sheet of paper for the essay. There were still ten-fifteen minutes to go for 9:30, so I looked around at my other competitors. Most were in suits. The handful of girls were all in black suits, I noticed, except for a girl in a salwar-kameez. The girl next to me smiled and asked my name. I replied, but we didn't speak much after that. The minutes ticked by, with more people coming in.

Finally, at nine-thirty, a Professor came in, told us what we would be judged on (content, clarity of thought, and language) and gave us the topic - "Transformation of Indian Cinema." Brilliant, I thought, now what do I do? Couldn't they have given us something like SEZ's or M&A's or something? Anyway, I managed to write something or the other. Covered both sides of the sheet at any rate. Wrote about the challenges facing Indian cinema today - how Bollywood is often considered synonymous with Indian cinema, and also about censorship. I wrote the last word a second before the twenty minutes ended, so didn't have much time to proof-read.

Afterwards, we went to the rooms where we were supposed to have the GD's. The topic was "The Indian electronic media is highlighting trivial issues." There were eleven people in the group, nine guys plus two girls, and each of us was supposed to speak for a minute and a half on the subject first. I thought this would the worst part, but I did well enough. Didn't manage to finish my points though, so my speech didn't have too much structure.

The discussion itself was pretty much a disaster. We could have discussed so much - TV, radio, the internet, mobile content - but no, we chose to restrict ourselves to TV, and that too, to news channels. Some people tried to bring in new angles, but they weren't taken up, and the discussion kept jumping from one place to another to another and then back. We kept bringing up the same examples again, despite the moderator having told us in the beginning, after having listened to our speeches, that he expected us to go beyond the topic itself and discuss improvements and so on.

I did contribute, but couldn't express myself well at all. I'm so angry with myself, because I didn't use the one advantage I had over the others, which was my comfort with English. I kept being short of words for some reason. I used such cliched expressions and awkward phrases, that thinking of them makes me wince even now.

Afterwards, the interview. I was fifth in line, so didn't have to wait too long, because they have ten-fifteen minute interviews at IIFT. Don't want to do a post-mortem of that, because I'm convinced that the interview didn't put me in a good enough light at all. The very first question was about my poor marks, and I wasn't able to justify my results properly.

So in the final analysis, I don't think I'll get though, because my interview and GD were both pretty average. There are about 90 seats on offer at IIFT Delhi, and around 1100 calls, so the whole thing would have had to be pretty exceptional for me to get a final call, and it wasn't.
• • •

Sunday, January 21, 2007

XAT results

If you think that this blog is turning into a place where I record all the calls I get - you're quite right! Cuz I have another! XAT results came out yesterday, and I got 99.67 percentile! Ha! Feline creatures of the world can go die for all I care!

Seriously, though - XAT was the best paper out of all the exams this year. CAT gave too much of an advantage to people good at quant, IIFT was a paper no one could make head or tail of, and SNAP was an insult to one's intelligence. XAT, on the other hand, was well-balanced and didn't give too much of an advantage to anyone. They even had a section on case studies, which I think is something a management exam should, ideally, have. Never mind that no one really attempted it. Also dude, they were giving out free coffee at my XAT centre! Just the thing on a cold winter morning. And the results were declared with in two weeks too! Unlike CAT which took a month and a half. And lest you think that this is sour grapes, I did get a call from IIFT and IIMA (a miracle, with 98.61 percentile) and I cleared the SIBM cutoff by twenty-three marks. (Good thing I didn't apply.)

Overall, the XAT results have left me quite content. Begone, feline monsters that told me I sucked at Verbal Ability! Begone, creatures that whispered that I couldn't do well just when it mattered!

As I posted on PagalGuy yesterday, if the way the institutes conduct their exams were a reflection of how good they are, God save the IIM's!
• • •

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

On Top of the World

If you'd asked me before November 19th, 2006 if I thought I would "bell" the CAT, I would have told you that I was confident of getting a ninety-nine percentile, but not of clearing all the sectional cut-offs.

Which goes to show why you must never ever think you "know" CAT. They removed the English Usage section, which was what used to get me a ninety-nine point whatever percentile, but the other sections went well, and I was hopeful, since no one seemed to be able to give the correct answer key for the English section.

I got a 98.6 percentile in CAT 2006. Cleared all the sectional cut-offs with above 96 in two sections and above 95 in one. I got to know the result yesterday, and I was absolutely down-in-the-dumps because it seemed to rule out the top three IIM's.

So today morning, my parents woke me up at six to check the IIMA call list. I got up reluctantly, because I "knew" that I wouldn't make it through. "Just tell us your registration number," they said. "We'll check it." Of course, I couldn't let them do that, and I checked it myself. But the page wasn't loading.

So I went to PagalGuy, to check what people were saying there. And on the IIMA call thread, I learnt that IIMA had mentioned the selection criteria (I suppose because they knew they would have to do it eventually, thanks to the RTI Act) - candidates whose percentile in each section was above 95.33 and who have an overall percentile above 98.3 have been called for the GD & PI. Oh man, I couldn't sit still after reading that!

But the page still wasn't loading! Ah, such agonizing minutes. But finally it did load, and I keyed in my number and date of birth, and TADA!

You have been short-listed for Group Discussion and Personal Interview for admission to PGP (2007-2009 batch), IIMA. You are requested to visit the website on or after January 10, 2007 to check for Interview date, time and venue.

You will receive our official letter soon.

Whee! Did I mention that I love the world? And all that's in it? Which includes you?

I don't care if I'm at a disadvantage among all those ninety-nine percentile engineers with work-ex. I'm a fresher and I got a call! 1,53,000 people wrote it, 608 people got calls in the General category, and I'm one of them. Damn, but this feels good.
• • •