The Masked Manager
My meandering mind, motionless for the minutest of moments, makes it maddeningly mandatory for me to make up a meaningful mantle for myself, so that I may, for the minutes and months to come, occupy a measurably major part in the memories of you, my merry men and maidens. Mortal I may be in marrow and muscle, but through the medium of mainframes and metadata, my words might translate into wisdom, making me mighty memorable. Much has been made of magnificent manifestations and majestic mutants from the pages of Marvel, but moved out of memory has the man in the mob, the monotone in the milieu, the maker of the microcosm. My aim is to magnify him, to the maximum of my mettle. My methods may be makeshift. My mannerisms may be misunderstood. Mirth is my middle name. Mystery is my moniker. Make no mistake however, that in my many messages to you, I shall make it my mission, while maintaining my mysteriousness, to mirror your mind-set and mesmerize you with minor manuscripts of my MBA-memoirs. Mademoiselles and Monsieurs, I am the Masked Manager- the mouth of Joka.
So now that we know each other, let’s talk about the matter at hand. Getting into an IIM, they say, is difficult enough, but getting out is no cakewalk either. It was keeping this in mind perhaps, that the founding fathers of our soon-to-be alma mater decided to lay the foundation stone at a spot some million kilometers away from what was then a metropolis. But a wise man has been known to remark- if Mohammed cannot go to the mountain, then the mountain must come to Mohammed. The managers decreed, the once-Metropolis agreed and Kolkata came to Joka to make the process of getting out both easy and enjoyable. Weekends amounted to double figures, Tantrics of old returned with venom and high spirits could be observed. It was somewhere along this point that we celebrated being in the City of Joy rather than a dry state. It was also somewhere along this point that the Masked Manager decided to leave low blows to the Joanie Laurers of this world.
I wish I could say that things were hunky dory, and they probably are, but being a self appointed guardian of the student community, the responsible voice of an elite fraternity etc, it becomes my duty to play the Devil’s Advocate and point out the clouds in the silver lining. Determined to take something away from the terrific nature of Joka, the powers that be conceived of a way to keep unbound celebration within imposed limits. Breaks between terms became a joke, true to the name of the place, and the entire process of beating off the exam blues, going crazy and getting the essential mental rest before the grind of the new term had to be accomplished within a week-end. Disappointed but unfazed, we managers shrug our shoulders, recall the words of the other (or was it the same) wise man who said that what cannot be cured, is not Raj Thackeray, and must be endured and hence made the most of those 48 hours.
On such a weekend, it becomes fairly impossible to tell any of the theatres in South City Mall from the lecture halls of nearly the same size. Park Street seems to become the diamond that we secretly harbour from the rest of the city. Unfortunate situations sometimes arise though, and even in the most red of states, there emerges a class difference between the blue-blooded or the haves, and the bourgeoisie. ‘Gents or Family?’ is the veiled question, ‘Are you a bunch of losers with the X and Y chromosomes equally divided or have you got substantial X-factor?’ is the undisguised one and haves stroll in, reminding us that even in this day and age, utopia is still far away. For the leftovers, things get a bit tricky. Peter’s Cat refuses to purr, Marco Polo is engrossed with King Khans and their Queens and Mocambo khush nahi hota.
Already deprived of the company of women, this particular lot turns to the only place which guarantees the best, well..’chick’en in Calcutta- KFC. Zingers, Hot and Crispy Buckets and Original Recipe helpings come to the rescue. Life, they say, is good. Finger licking good is what they forget to add.
And so begins term 3.
MM
December 30th, 2009 at 1:08 am
Awesome piece of writing. The start is rollicking with alliteration that actually makes sense. The subtle references have also been delightfully woven into the narrative. The only sad part is when you can write like that you deserve to take the mask off and take a bow!!!
~Kudos to MM
~Kudos to Joka Times
December 30th, 2009 at 9:32 am
What a wonderfully woven narrative !! Crisp and immensely enjoyable, has to be one of the best articles describing the life and experience that is Joka
~Lookin forward to more writings by MM
January 3rd, 2010 at 4:05 am
The Masked Manager leaves me with more than a mouthful. The mood stays mostly mauve and these musings that have been mispublished are just as meaningless as Monday mornings. As for the malliterations, they are as misleading as a melancholic muppet playing the mandolin on the metro at midday. Even though some of my remarks maybe misdirected, my method of vexation is not misplaced in the sense that no reference was made to the medicines for the madness including mojitos, marijuana or music even as minute as Moot The Hopple. Million apologies to mar your joyride on your menstrual cycle. May your misconceptions be met.
January 4th, 2010 at 4:33 am
good sense of humour
‘Are you a bunch of losers with the X and Y chromosomes equally divided or have you got substantial X-factor?’… LOL
January 6th, 2010 at 4:57 am
Awesome.. waiting to hear more from you, masked manager! Hope the quality doesn’t diminish in your subsequent ramblings..